His Athletic Interests
Raggety is not built for an athlete. His general proportions are those of a very fat sausage mounted on four tooth-picks, “with a head on before and a tail on behind” (see rhapsody entitled “The Mintie”). Nevertheless like many a man of athletic instinct and corporate incapacity, he considers himself “an all-round one,” which perhaps is as true as it sounds!
First of all, he loves to walk. The mere fact that you are a biped and can walk wins Raggety’s interest. He even knows the word “walk” in a general conversation and the magic of it waves his tail. Oh, me! oh, my! what walks we have had together!
Then The Riding Lady once took him on horseback and from time to time sincehe has ridden his horse. This is the way he rides with The Riding Lady: he sits on the saddle-bow (is that the right name? I hope it is for it sounds so nice and mediæval!) and puts a paw on each of her arms, and when the horse trots he gently bounces up and down and looks to right and left with a most knowing air.
One of his chiefest delights out-of-doors is swimming. Never can I forget the first time he showed me that he could swim. We were living in Portland, Maine, and below State Street Hill lie beautiful Deerings Oaks, earlier celebrated by the poet Longfellow. I took Raggety to walk in Deerings Oaks and he discovered the pond! Ducks swam in the pond and lived in a wonderful little house on a tiny island in the middle of the pond. He went down to the muddy bank, tasted the water, found it good, in went fore-legs, body, hind-legs, tail; just that yellow head and ears above the surface,and how fast those four legs moved underneath! But that is not the worst of it! He saw the ducks and made towards them, off they started quacking furiously, fast the yellow head followed, barking. Round and round and round the pond they went, and my whistles and calls were utterly unavailing. Visions of duck-keepers, police, fines flitted through my head! He landed on the ducks’ island, inspected their house, roused to activity any sitting mother-ducks and having stirred the whole duckdom to hysterical agitation, came swimming over to me, emerging more like a drowned rat rather than a fluffy yellow dog! He rolled on the warm dry grass, then shook himself as who would say, “There, those old ducks needn’t think they own that pond!”
One instinct born in every terrier’s blood is a love of the chase. Naturally small game is appropriate, so mice, rats, moles, squirrels, or a stray rabbit fillRaggety’s hunting soul with joy. To-day he is too fat, too much petted, too old to have the ardor of his earlier years, but recently I saw him dig a mole, seize it, crack its neck with a celerity and dexterity which made me more than glad I was not a mole burrowing under Raggety’s path. Squirrels are an endless source of interest. You never catch one. I do not know whether secretly you ever hope to catch one, but like the pursuit of virtue it shows off your style to interested onlookers, and stirs your system to a healthy vigor. And you can always trot back and say, “My! But he’s a swift one! I did my best and you see how well I look in action.” Not alone the attainment, but the pursuit of virtue ennobles!