My Dog Tulip by J.R. Ackerley Page B

a chain. A boy walked at his side. To let such a man pass at such a moment would have been to fly in the face of providence, and I accosted him. He was readily conversable. Yes, he knew all about Alsatians, he bred them as a sideline to his work, and these two splendid young dogs who were trying to get at Tulip, had been reared by him. Craving his indulgence, I described my perplexities and requested his valuable advice. He studied Tulip with a beady eye.
    â€œI wouldn’t be surprised,” he then remarked darkly, “if she’s a barren bitch.”
    â€œBarren!” I cried. “How can you tell?”
    â€œAh, I’m not laying it down, but that’d be my guess. Too nervous and ’ighly strung for my liking. But if you showed me ’er pedigree I could tell from that.”
    â€œI haven’t got it on me,” I said dejectedly.
    â€œWell, you could fetch it along some other time. Any road, I reckon ’
e
wouldn’t stand much chance with ’er,” he continued, casting at Chum a disparaging glance. “Too young and flimsy, if you take my meaning. Now if it ’adn’t been a Sunday and so many people about and me ’aving the young lad with me an’ all, I wouldn’t ’ave minded unleashing one of me own dogs on ’er, ’ere and now. They’d soon find out if she was a barren bitch or not!”
    â€œBut isn’t it too late in her season? It must be her fourteenth or fifteenth day.”
    â€œSeeing as ’ow she’s carrying on with that there mongrel,” he replied, “I’d say she could still be done. And if I was you, I’d watch out!”
    â€œTulip!” I said reproachfully.
    We had been followed for some time by a small dog, one of those smooth, tight-skinned, busy and bouncing little creatures who, if dogs wore hats, would certainly have worn a bowler. He had attached himself to Tulip in very nearly the closest sense of the word, and was receiving from her all those marks of favor which she had declined to bestow upon Max or Chum. Indeed, she was clearly vastly amused by this artful little dodger, who was making repeated attempts to jump her, an ambition which I had already been pondering whether he was too small to achieve, and although she skipped her bottom from side to side when I admonished her, she was accepting from him, with an appearance of absent-mindedness, a shameful amount of familiarity. Our oracle observed all this with interest.
    â€œAye,” said he, “I believe she’d stand for that little bloke where she wouldn’t stand for Chum; and if she’d stand for ’
im
, she wouldn’t get away from
my
dogs once they’d got a grip on ’er.”
    All this was extremely tantalizing.
    â€œThere aren’t really many people about,” I said. “Can’t we go over into those bushes? No one would see us there.”
    â€œI’m right sorry to disoblige you. I’d ’ave been pleased to try; but I couldn’t do that, not in front of the young lad.” Then, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he asked: “Did you give ’er a lead at all? You know, prompt ’er, like? There’s ways of stimulating ’em up.”
    â€œVaseline?” I murmured.
    â€œAh, you knew about that,” said our bruiser disappointedly, and turned to Mr. Plum. “You can stimulate Chum up, too. Did you know? In case you’re thinking of putting them together again next time.” Chum had never seemed to me in need of stimulation, but Mr. Plum assumed a suitably vacant expression and shook his head. “That’s a pity. It’s simple, but it’s quite a tip. And I wouldn’t ’ave minded demonstrating it on one of me own dogs, if it ’adn’t been for the presence of the young lad.”
    I had by now conceived so intense a dislike for this sickly-faced youth who, with his yellow complexion and puffy eyes,