# The red book of animal stories/To the Memory of Squouncer

TO THE MEMORY OF SQUOUNCER
Squouncer was a dog by himself. Other dogs may boast of belonging to large families of collies, greyhounds, or dandies, with cousins as numerous as the sands of the sea; but there could only have been one Squouncer.
How did he get his name? Well, his master (before he became his master) saw the word Squouncer in a book he was reading, and thought it so delightful that he instantly made up his mind to search through the world till he could find a dog that would fit it.
And one day he found Squouncer. What was he like? He was what the French call a ‘Beau-laid’—‘beautiful-ugly.’ His ancestors may have been bull-dogs, and it is whispered that they gained their laurels in Spain. Squouncer was a middling-sized dog, with a golden-brown skin, much the colour of dark amber. And he had a broad face, and a nose which stuck out that gave him the air of what used to be known as a ‘fire-eater.’ Like another gentleman of a similar disposition, he might have been nick-named ‘fighting Bob’ if you had only gone by bis looks, but a milder-mannered dog never snorted when he breathed—as long as there was no food in sight. Then, all the lion in Squouncer’s forefathers rose up, and woe be to the person who came in his way.
It was just because he was so different from any other dog that ever was or ever will be that his master and mistress were so fond of him. Anybody who reads history ​or has his eyes open can see that it is not the good people or the handsome people that have really been loved most and remembered longest, but the people who have made us laugh! Why, even the most wicked and gloomiest kings had their jesters, and often the jesters were able to tell the kings very disagreeable truths, or to beg off some poor wretch condemned to death, when a word from any one else would simply have sent him to share the fate of the criminal.
Now it may be doubted whether, even if he had had two legs, and had lived in the palmy days of long ago, Squouncer would ever have interfered to snatch people from the gallows. He was not (except where his food was concerned) a very courageous dog, and he never could make up his mind what he wanted to do, what he ought to do—and no one that goes through life on these principles will ever be a hero. Sometimes his master and mistress used to amuse themselves with this weakness of his. They would sit at each end of a long room, and one would call ‘Squouncer.’ Squouncer, who had very early been taught to come when he was called, rose at once and started to obey. ‘Squouncer,’ said a voice behind him before he had got half way. He stopped, listened, and turned slowly round. ‘Squouncer’ was again repeated from the further corner; and poor Squouncer halted again, and looked piteously from one to the other, but never thought of doing the only sensible thing, which was to lie down before the fire and pay no attention to anybody.
One dreadful day, a young black retriever suddenly appeared in the house. There ought to have been nothing disturbing in this, as the animal was friendly and playful, and quite ready to be polite to Squouncer—who was an older dog than he. But Squouncer’s thoughts at once flew to dinner-time, and so did his master’s and mistress’s, and they determined to watch and see what would happen.
And what did happen was this. The two large tin plates were placed side by side in the tiled hall, each filled ​with a delicious mess enough to warm the heart of any dog. And not only his heart: for if you had once looked at Squouncer going to his dinner, you would have had no difficulty in understanding the expression ‘your eyes starting
out of your head.’ Well, Squouncer dashed straight at his plate—the biggest you may be sure, and the fullest—and gobbled up the contents so fast, and with such a disgusting noise, that the tin plate performed a kind of dance all ​round the hall, Squouncer’s tongue never leaving it as long as the tiniest scrap remained to eat. When it was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, he left it lying where it was, and pushing the retriever (who was taking his dinner in a polite and gentlemanly manner) rudely to one side, he began the same game over again. The retriever was so astonished at this behaviour that he meekly stood back, and before he had collected his senses, the second plate was as bare as the first. Then Squouncer’s master thought it was time to interfere, and took the retriever off to the kitchen, where he might eat his food in peace.
This success was very bad for Squouncer, for it made him despise his new companion, and think he could treat him as he chose. For several days he continued to swallow his own dinner with the same noise and indecent haste, so as to secure the best part of Negro’s. He did not even take the trouble to be pleasant to him between whiles, and when one afternoon, after a huge meal, Negro detected him secretly burying some pheasant bones under a tree till he should have recovered sufficient appetite to eat them, the retriever’s temper gave way, and he resolved he would stand this sort of thing no longer.
So the following day at two o’clock, when the plates were put out for dinner, and Squouncer’s tin plate was heard as usual rattling round the hall, pushed over the tiles by that long, greedy tongue, Negro cocked his ears and made ready for battle. Suddenly the noise ceased, and a second later he was almost thrown down by a violent push as Squouncer advanced to the charge. What occurred next was never clearly known to any one; but a frightful shriek brought every one into the hall, where a black and yellow ball was rolling about wildly. The black half was uppermost, and was hauled off by his master, and then Squouncer’s leg was found to be broken. Poor Squouncer! he never recovered the shock and the shame of that fight. He was so unhappy at the sight of ​his conqueror that his mistress took pity on him, and gave Negro to some friends. After a while the broken leg mended (though it left a limp behind), and Squouncer’s appetite was found as healthy as ever. He lived many years; and his death, in a good old age, left a blank in the house. A black Spanish bull-dog now reigns in his stead, which may have its virtues, but will never be half as good company on a wet day as Squouncer.