# The Convalescent (Willis)/Letter V

Use of Love for Dumb Animals—Quinty and his Doom—A stray Dog and his Habits—His death—Dog Insanity, etc.
                                                                February, 1855.
For those whose destiny it is to die with love or money unspent (my case), there is a certain "small change," of affectionateness which can only be expended, I find, on dumb animals. Hence my perhaps too frequent call upon you to be interested in the quadrupeds of Idlewild—these recipients of what is left over of victuals and tenderness, forming a part (more or less) of the life I endeavor to describe to you. I appealed to your sympathy last week for our newly domesticated 'possum. In the letter before me I must mention another "varmint" or two—quadruped event, just now, being our principal news and stir. You have human event enough to occupy you, I know. But the basement story of your heart (intended for the brute creation and kept closed in city life), requires airing now and then. So come down from "high humanity," and un-shutter to us, for a minute or two, on the ground floor. It will rest you.
Half-past ten, January 30, and a bitter bright, night—but, before narrating to you the death in the moonlight (which I have hard work not to turn into a poem, by the way), I should explain why our sensibilities, that night, were somewhat more than usual on the alert.
Our "pup," Quinty (Quintessence-of-ugliness being his name, but Quinty for shortness), had been for several days missing. We had not felt altogether comfortable about it, aside from his loss as a play-fellow—for there was a possibility that our family discipline (to make sure of his letting alone "that 'possum"), had exceeded the bounds of reason. I had, myself, a reproachful misgiving or two, and the children took Quinty's part altogether—though he was a terrier, "worst kind," and I had done it with a conscientious look at his "ugly mug," and a far reaching view of the temptation after dark, and his probably forgetfulness of himself and his obligations, in a tête-à-tête. At any rate, after being whipped prospectively, at the door of the 'possum's house—merely to establish the connection in his mind between whip and 'possum—the pup had "quit." Search through the neighborhood was in vain, and he had been gone, now three days, mournfully justified and regretted.
But, to proceed with the narrative.
Half-past ten, and we were sitting over the embers of the dining-room fire, a slice or two of boiled turkey on the table, and the cares of the day behind us. There was a moan outside. We ran each to a window, and looked out—clear as noon day it seemed to be, in the intense brilliancy of the moon, and the frozen ground sparkling in the light—but nothing to be seen. We had concluded it must be the fat cook with her nightmare, or my own mare dreaming in the stable, and had returned to the fire, picturing how Quinty might come home at midnight—bleeding and hungry from the cold world to whose mercy he had mistakenly appealed—when up rose the plaintive moan again, with quick repetition—some creature in agony, beyond a doubt—and, seizing my hat, I rushed out, with a whistle of penitent vehemence, and stood listening upon the lawn. All still again.
After a look about among the sharp-edged shadows of the hemlocks, I was turning to the door for a great coat, to make a more leisurely patrol around the premises, when the sound reached me once more, coming evidently from the hill-slope above the stables. I rushed to the spot, and there lay—stretched out and moaning beneath the glaring moon—not Quinty, but the dog of all canine-ity that I had wished most dead—neighbor Currie's spotted fox-hound, that kills all our rabbits. Hatred and pity struggled in my breast. I saw in a moment (for I had heard his yelp, at intervals, all day, coming up from the inaccessible remoteness of the glen), that he had chased my innocents till he had run himself to death (as is the nature of the breed), struggling only to reach human succor in his dying hour. There he lay—his head flung back and his eyes glazed—the open mouth just moving with his moan, and his limbs quivering and extended—and, sympathy apart, I should have preferred, of course, that he would die immediately. But, no.
I was at his side in another moment, with a handful of slices of cold turkey which I had snatched from the table—mine enemy forgiven in his extremity, and the delicate meat shoved down into his open throat with eager and trusting finger. No recognition of meat or me! I felt his shrunk loins. They were still slightly warm. But there lay the white meat, unstirred between his loosened jaws, and he was a dog past turkey, it was clear. Poor fellow! Was he conscious and suffering, while he could still struggle and moan?
As I stood looking at the dying creature, wondering at the scene of death under that solemn sky, and admiring the nature that could so pursue its game to the dying gasp, it occurred to me that a dash of cold water, and then the warmth of the kitchen fire, might startle life back into his veins. My man George came up at the moment, and, while he ran for his stable-bucket, I held up the dying dog by the tail, to make it down-hill to his heart and brain; but neither the change of posture nor the dash of water was of any avail. His moan stopped. There was a convulsive movement only in his legs, the spasm of their just exhausted swiftness. George though he "ought to be put out of misery." And so thought I. But, of the knocking on the head I did not like to remain and be a spectator.
Whither, upon the moonlight, sped that released energy—that self-sacrificing, single-thoughted devotion! Its toil—its forgetfulness of cold and hunger—had been for another's food. The caught game was left untouched for his master. Did so brave a spirit stop there? I will put a head-stone to the grave where he is left behind—since we must pray for worse company to Heaven.
I was in at my friend the blacksmith's, a day or two after, and Torrey rather favored my idea of dog existence lapping over upon man's immortality—(here and there a dog that was better worth saving than some men, that is to say)—mentioning insanity in the animal as a peculiarity which it shared with our species. He said, however, that a wolf had been killed a few nights before, just outside the village; and, by its actions, and a swelling over its brain from some previous blow or bruise, he believed that animal also was insane. The talk ended in our agreement to walk over to neighbor Clark's farm, under the mountain, the next day, and have a look at the fur and phrenology of the "wild critter"—taking our mutual crony, Chatfield the tanner, along with us, to see whether we could bring home the skin and have it dressed for a relic.