Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

way, and it seemed to me that this was where I got it. And I liked the boy. He was the right sort.

The nurse, a very unpleasant woman, had to make objections.

“Master Peter! You can’t take him home, a great, rough, fierce, common dog! What would your mother say?”

“I’m going to take him home,” repeated the child, with a determination which I heartily admired, “and he’s going to be my dog. I shall call him Fido.”

There’s always a catch in these good things. Fido is a name I particularly detest. All dogs do. There was a dog called that that I knew once, and he used to get awfully sick when we shouted it out after him in the street. No doubt there have been respectable dogs called Fido, but to my mind it is a name like Aubrey or Clarence. You may be able to live it down, but you start handicapped. However, one must take the rough with the smooth, and I was prepared to yield the point.

“If you wait, Master Peter, your father will buy you a beautiful, lovely dog.⁠ ⁠…”

“I don’t want a beautiful, lovely dog. I want this dog.”

The slur did not wound me. I have no illusions about my looks. Mine is an honest, but not a beautiful, face.

“It’s no use talking,” said the chauffeur, grinning. “He means to have him. Shove him in, and let’s be getting back, or they’ll be thinking His Nibs has been kidnapped.”

So I was carried to the car. I could have walked, but I had an idea that I had better not. I had made my hit as a crippled dog, and a crippled dog I intended to remain till things got more settled down.

The chauffeur started the car off again. What with the shock I had had and the luxury of riding in a motorcar, I was a little distrait, and I could not say how far we went. But it must have been miles and miles, for it seemed a long time afterwards that we stopped at the biggest house I have ever seen. There were smooth lawns and flowerbeds, and men in overalls, and fountains and trees, and, away to the right, kennels with about a million dogs in them, all pushing their noses through the bars and shouting. They all wanted to know who I was and what prizes I had won, and then I realized that I was moving in high society.

I let the small boy pick me up and carry me into the house, though it was all he could do, poor kid, for I was some weight. He staggered up the steps and along a great hall, and then let me flop on the carpet of the most beautiful room you ever saw. The carpet was a yard thick.

There was a woman sitting in a chair, and as soon as she saw me she gave a shriek.

“I told Master Peter you would not be pleased, m’lady,” said the nurse, who seemed to have taken a positive dislike to me, “but he would bring the nasty brute home.”

“He’s not a nasty brute, mother. He’s my dog, and his name’s Fido. John ran over him in the car, and I brought him home to live with us. I love him.”

This seemed to make an impression. Peter’s mother looked as if she were weakening.

“But, Peter, dear, I don’t know what your father will say. He’s so particular about dogs. All his dogs are prize-winners, pedigree dogs. This is such a mongrel.”

“A nasty, rough, ugly, common dog, m’lady,” said the nurse, sticking her oar in in an absolutely uncalled-for way.

Just then a man came into the room.

“What on earth?” he said, catching sight of me.

“It’s a dog Peter has brought home. He says he wants to keep him.”

“I’m going to keep him,” corrected Peter firmly.

I do like a child that knows his own mind. I was getting fonder of Peter every minute. I reached up and licked his hand.

“See! He knows he’s my dog, don’t you, Fido? He licked me.”

“But, Peter, he looks so fierce.” This, unfortunately, is true. I do look fierce. It is rather a misfortune for a perfectly peaceful dog. “I’m sure it’s not safe your having him.”

“He’s my dog, and his name’s Fido. I am going to tell cook to give him a bone.”

His mother looked at his father, who gave rather a nasty laugh.

“My dear Helen,” he said, “ever since Peter was born, ten years ago, he has not asked for a single thing, to the best of my recollection, which he has not got. Let us be consistent. I don’t approve of this caricature of a dog, but if Peter wants him, I suppose he must have him.”

“Very well. But the first sign of viciousness he shows, he shall be shot. He makes me nervous.”

So they left it at that, and I went off with Peter to get my bone.

After lunch, he took me to the kennels to introduce me to the other dogs. I had to go, but I knew it would not be pleasant, and it wasn’t. Any dog will tell you what these prize-ribbon dogs are like. Their heads are so swelled they have to go into their kennels backwards.

It was just as I had expected. There were mastiffs, terriers, poodles, spaniels, bulldogs, sheepdogs, and every other kind of dog you can imagine, all prize-winners at a hundred shows, and every single dog in the place just shoved his head back and laughed himself sick. I never felt so small in my life, and I was glad when it was over and Peter took me off to the stables.

I was just feeling that I never wanted to see another dog in my life, when a terrier ran out, shouting. As soon as he saw me, he came up inquiringly, walking very stiff-legged, as terriers do when they see a stranger.

“Well,” I said, “and what particular sort of a prize-winner are you? Tell me all about the ribbons