didn't care in the least how we took it. "With your mistress, you can do whatever you like. You can jump on her, and lick her face and hands. You can sleep beside her on the sofa. Your mistress will let you do this because she loves you. The master is silent as water, and you don't know what lies beneath, so don't ever disturb the water, my dear little dog, don't ever annoy the master, because your place here is to serve. But you're in a good home, as good as any could be, for a dog in an apartment." As for herself, she never gave orders, the animal understood her wishes without the need for words. By this time she had even given him a name. She called him Viola. The fact that he was a male dog didn't bother Emerence. Occasionally she didn't so much teach as train. "Sit down, Viola. Until you sit, no sugar. Sit down, SIT DOWN!"
When I first realised how she was rewarding him I reminded her, rather sharply, that the vet had said dogs were not to be given sugar. "The vet's an idiot," she replied, patting Viola's shoulder firmly. "Sit, boy, sit. If he sits, he gets something nice, something sweet. Sugar, the animal gets sugar. Sit, Viola, sit." And Viola sat, at first for the sugar, later by conditioned reflex and for nothing, as soon as he heard the trigger word.
Occasionally the old woman would ask if she could take him to guard her house, as she'd be out all day clearing snow. My husband consented willingly; at least then the dog wouldn't be hurling himself about and barking. I asked if she wasn't worried about her cat, as I'd heard she had one in the flat, but she said she wasn't at all concerned. She'd teach him to get on with other animals without harming them. Viola could be taught to do anything. If the dog did anything naughty she beat him horribly, despite my express prohibition and her own overwhelming love for him. Not once in the fourteen years of his life did he receive a beating from me. But then Emerence was his real mistress.
I would love to have witnessed the creature's first moments in the old woman's domain, that empire never before revealed to anyone, but the bar to entry remained. I gathered from the fleas he brought home that he had met the cat, and that thenceforth we could expect the pleasure of their company too. The first encounter can't have been uneventful. There was a wound on his nose and a deep scratch on his ear, and his general demeanour indicated that there had indeed been a battle in which he was the loser. Emerence had used drastic means to instil in him that "we don't annoy the cat". He didn't take it as a tragedy. He came home with his chubby adolescent jowls pushing against Emerence's knee every step of the way. After that there seemed to be no trouble. Whenever I took him for a walk I couldn't help noticing his behaviour. As the stray cats fled under balconies for refuge, he gazed on benignly, without a hint of anger or dismay, clearly baffled by their reaction when he meant them no harm.
Viola guarded Emerence's home all through the winter. I put a stop to it only after a certain Saturday night, when he came home drunk. When she brought him home, I couldn't believe my eyes. The dog was reeling, his belly was like a barrel, he was panting heavily and rolling his eyes. I couldn't even pick him up because he kept toppling over. I crouched down to examine him. He hiccuped, and I smelt the beer. "Emerence, the dog's drunk!" I gasped.
"We had a little drink," she replied calmly. "It won't kill him. He was thirsty. It did him good."
I stood up. "You're out of your mind, and you're not to take him again. That's final. After all we did to save his life, we're not going to kill him by turning him into an alcoholic."
"Because a little bit of beer is going to kill him," she said, with a bitterness that surprised me. "Oh yes, I'm sure, I shared the roast duck and the beer with him because he begged me —
he
asked for it — what was I supposed to do? He can tell me everything — he almost
When I first realised how she was rewarding him I reminded her, rather sharply, that the vet had said dogs were not to be given sugar. "The vet's an idiot," she replied, patting Viola's shoulder firmly. "Sit, boy, sit. If he sits, he gets something nice, something sweet. Sugar, the animal gets sugar. Sit, Viola, sit." And Viola sat, at first for the sugar, later by conditioned reflex and for nothing, as soon as he heard the trigger word.
Occasionally the old woman would ask if she could take him to guard her house, as she'd be out all day clearing snow. My husband consented willingly; at least then the dog wouldn't be hurling himself about and barking. I asked if she wasn't worried about her cat, as I'd heard she had one in the flat, but she said she wasn't at all concerned. She'd teach him to get on with other animals without harming them. Viola could be taught to do anything. If the dog did anything naughty she beat him horribly, despite my express prohibition and her own overwhelming love for him. Not once in the fourteen years of his life did he receive a beating from me. But then Emerence was his real mistress.
I would love to have witnessed the creature's first moments in the old woman's domain, that empire never before revealed to anyone, but the bar to entry remained. I gathered from the fleas he brought home that he had met the cat, and that thenceforth we could expect the pleasure of their company too. The first encounter can't have been uneventful. There was a wound on his nose and a deep scratch on his ear, and his general demeanour indicated that there had indeed been a battle in which he was the loser. Emerence had used drastic means to instil in him that "we don't annoy the cat". He didn't take it as a tragedy. He came home with his chubby adolescent jowls pushing against Emerence's knee every step of the way. After that there seemed to be no trouble. Whenever I took him for a walk I couldn't help noticing his behaviour. As the stray cats fled under balconies for refuge, he gazed on benignly, without a hint of anger or dismay, clearly baffled by their reaction when he meant them no harm.
Viola guarded Emerence's home all through the winter. I put a stop to it only after a certain Saturday night, when he came home drunk. When she brought him home, I couldn't believe my eyes. The dog was reeling, his belly was like a barrel, he was panting heavily and rolling his eyes. I couldn't even pick him up because he kept toppling over. I crouched down to examine him. He hiccuped, and I smelt the beer. "Emerence, the dog's drunk!" I gasped.
"We had a little drink," she replied calmly. "It won't kill him. He was thirsty. It did him good."
I stood up. "You're out of your mind, and you're not to take him again. That's final. After all we did to save his life, we're not going to kill him by turning him into an alcoholic."
"Because a little bit of beer is going to kill him," she said, with a bitterness that surprised me. "Oh yes, I'm sure, I shared the roast duck and the beer with him because he begged me —
he
asked for it — what was I supposed to do? He can tell me everything — he almost
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