Uncle Dick's Rolf 2/2
The second part of the thirty-ninth tale from The Animal Book
You know that I had my gun close at hand, and in the whole course of my life I never was so glad to have my gun beside me. It was loaded, too, as well as my revolver. I caught it up and fired into the water. I fired three times, and two of the shots went into the brute’s head. One missed him, and the first seemed not to harm him much, but the third hit him in some vital place—some sensitive place, at any rate, for the hideous jaws started wide. Then, with my gun in my hand still, I began with all my might to shout out, “Rolf!”
I couldn’t leave my post, for the brute, though he had let Rolf go and had dived for a moment, might make another spring, and I didn’t dare to take my eyes off the spot where he had gone down, but I called to my wounded beast with all my might, and when he had struggled through the water and gained a moment’s hold of the rock, I jumped down, and caught him, and somehow—I don’t know how—half carried and half dragged him up the little bit of steep ascent till we were safe on the top—on the dry land again.
And then, upon my word, I don’t know what I did next, only I think, as I looked at my darling’s poor crushed limbs, with the blood oozing from them, and heard his choking gasps for breath, I– I forgot for a moment or two that I was a man at all and burst out crying like a child.
Boys, you don’t know what it is to feel that a living creature has tried to give up his life for you, even though the creature is only a soulless dog. Do you think I had another friend in the world who would have done what Rolf had done for me? If I had, I did not know it. And then when I thought that it was while he had been trying to save my life that I had taken up my gun and struck him!
There are some things, my lads, that a man does without meaning any harm by them, yet which, when he sees them by the light of after events, he can never bear to look back upon without a sort of agony, and those blows I gave to Rolf are of that sort. He forgave them—my noble dog—but I have never forgiven myself for them to this hour. When I saw him lying before me with his blood trickling out upon the sand, I think I would have given my right hand to save his life. And well I might, too, for he had done ten times more than that to save mine.
He licked the tears off my cheeks, my poor old fellow; I remember that. We looked a strange pair, I dare say, as we lay on the ground together with our heads side by side. It’s a noble old head still, isn’t it, boys? (I don’t mean mine, but this big one down here. All right, Rolf! We’re only talking of your beauty, my lad.) It’s as grand a head as ever a dog had.
I had his picture taken after I came home. I’ve had him painted more than once, but somehow I don’t think the painters have ever seen quite into the bottom of his heart. At least, I fancy that if I were a painter, I could make something better of him than any of them have done yet. Perhaps it’s only a notion of mine, but to tell the truth, I’ve only a dozen times or so in my life seen a painting of a grand dog that looks quite right. But I’m wandering from my story, though, indeed, my story is almost at an end.
When I had come to my senses a little, I had to try to get my poor Rolf moved. We were a long way from any house, and the creature couldn’t walk a step. I tore up my shirt, and bound his wounds as well as I could, and then I got my clothes on, and called to my horse, and in some way, as gently as I could—though it was no easy thing to do it—I got him and myself together upon the horse’s back, and we began our ride.
There was a village about four or five miles off, and I made for that. It was a long, hard jolt for a poor fellow with both his hind legs broken, but he bore it as patiently as if he had been a Christian. I never spoke to him but, panting as he was, he was ready to lick my hands and look lovingly up into my face.
I’ve wondered since, many a time, what he could have thought about it all, and the only thing I am sure of is that he never thought much of the thing that he himself had done. That seemed, I know, all natural and simple to him. I don’t believe that he has ever understood to this day what anybody wondered at in it or made a hero of him for. For the noblest people are the people who are noble without knowing it, and the same rule, I fancy, holds good for dogs.
I got him to a resting place at last, after a weary ride, and then I had his wounds dressed, but it was weeks before he could stand upon his feet again, and when at last he began to walk, he limped, and he has gone on limping ever since. The bone of one leg was so crushed that it couldn’t be set properly, and so that limb is shorter than the other three. He doesn’t mind it much, I dare say—I don’t think he ever did—but it has been a pathetic lameness to me, boys.
“It’s all an old story now, you know,” said Uncle Dick, abruptly, “but it’s one of those things that a man doesn’t forget, that it would be a shame to him if he ever could forget as long as his life lasts.”
Uncle Dick stooped down again as he ceased to speak, and Rolf, disturbed by the silence, raised his head to look about him. As his master had said, it was a grand old head still, though the eyes were growing dim now with age. Uncle Dick laid his hand upon it, and the bushy tail began to wag. It had wagged at the touch of that hand for many a long day.
“We’ve been together for fifteen years. He’s getting old now,” said Uncle Dick.
The End