Evening star., 1935-07-14
By Randolph Roberts.

A GREATLY excited Washing
~ ton matron, living in the
~ Northwest section of the city,
picked up her telephone not
so long ago and said to the operator
Get me the District Pound and
make it snappy.'
Within a couple of seconds voice
at the other end of the wire said:
Good morning. This is w. R.
Smith, poundmaster. What can I do
for you?"
Plenty. Please rush one of your
men over here Immediately. A dog
just bit my little girl We captured
him. Something ought to be done
right away"
Very well, madam. I'll be at your
home within 10 minutes and look
into this myself
True to his word, Mr. Smith hoped
into his official bow-wow wagon and
sped to the scene of the crime.
Imagine his astonishment when the
canine criminal turned out to be a
puppy only about month old and SO
tiny that actually, when placed on
the palm of the hand, there was plenty
of room to spare.
nESPITE this weird situation, Mr.
Smith did his duty to the letter
of the law. He questioned the mother
and learned these facts: That the
little girl was sitting on her porch
when all at once the wee pup passed
by the house. He was such cute
looking doggie-a lovely yellowish tan
with creamy white breast and the
most wistful eyes imaginable-that
she couldn't resist the impulse to pet
him. Whereupon he bit her hand
OF course a physician was consulted
and, to the great relief of mother and
dad, said there was no danger OF
rabies.
Straightway Mr.. Smith realized
that really his new charge was just
a waif-more to be pitied than pun
ished. Nevertheless he escorted Half
Pint" as he nicknamed him, down to
the pound for the regulation 10 days
observation period. But it didn't take
that long to discover why the pup had
bit the girl. Actually it was all but
starving. However, sympathetic treat
ment and lots of rich milk-a quart
q day-accomplished wonders. Sc
that the little rascal became extreme
ly well behaved; an owner was found
for hipo-apd all uaS well
This anecdote is one of the pound
masters favorites. Just why, you can
not, of course, understand unless you
are privileged to meet him. And, by
the way, here's friendly suggestion
If YOU claim to be real lover OF
animals why don't you take a little
time off from your regular routine
some fine day and visit the pound:
Honestly, if you're willing to browse
around there for a couple OF hours
you'll positively be astonished.
The chances are that you will come
away with the conviction that If this
is the end of the road, the off1cia
start to canine heaven, then certain
ly it doesn't look the part. For al
practical purposes the pound is ar
orphan asylum, reformatory and
hospital rolled into one.
Its location is a scant five minutes
by motor from the heart of the city
at South Capitol and I streets south
west. On a corner lot the building
set up of red brick. completely walled
in, occupies about half of a city
square of ground. You notice small
door on I street, so you open it. Now
you're inside rather ancient-appear-
ing room, which obviously serves as
an Office. It is barely large enough
to house two small desks, a type
writer and two stuffed" or mounted
dogs.
CTRICTLY speaking, you're still
~ outside the Office proper. Facing
YOU is an enormous, Silver-colore6
screen door. 1t contains this sign:
"Sale hours of dogs-8:30 to
o am. and 2 to pm.
Saturdays-11:30 am. to 1890.
Dogs not sold on Sundays or
holidays. Sale papers executed on
the premises, without fee, by the
poundmaSter.
All sales are final. No refunds"
Suddenly you notice that man Il
sitting at one of the desks behind
the screen. He gets up to answer
the phone and you get good lool
at him. He is tiny chap, barely
over five feet tall, slightly built, wears
glasses, has sparse gray hair and ar
exceedingly friendly voice.