A WORD FOR THE DOG

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume 77, 2 September 1942, Page 6

A WORD FOR THE DOG

(To the Editor) Sir, —The recent letters appearing in "The Mail” about the dogs in our streets, seem to me rather one-sided. All admit they are a nuisance, but so are husbands and wives, children, yuppies and kittens, and other delightful encumbrances that give life zest and interest, and make it worth living. Surely "Cave Canem's” strictures about the "shocking menace” of these "ravaging animals” making our "Garden City a city of dogs,” errs in the opposite direction?

I confess to being a rebel to many modern ideas. It was the easy going lack of hurry among the people, and the dogs playing in the streets, that first* attracted me to Nelson, and led to my settling here 16 years ago. I dislike over-neat, meticulously laid out, public and private gardens. They depress me with their notices and restrictions, and make me feel my own slackness and untidiness. I hate straight speedtracks, replacing the winding scentladen roads and lanes of our countryside. My idea of a garden is a rambling, tree-grown, flower-strewn retreat, laid out for children and grown ups to play in and enjoy, and not a wonder of order and neatness. I find our Nelson streets, with their pavements blocked with superfine prams and overdressed and over-made-up women, extremely dull and uninteresting in comparison with those of my young days, when they were more of a meeting place. The weekly market held in the West Street of my native town in Somerset, meant an inrush of jolly farmers and their wives, with cattle, sheep, calves, pigs, and dogs, driven in all directions through the streets. It was a neverending entertainment which all enjoyed and which cost nothing. What a roaring trade was done in the inns with cider at one penny a pint! What a meal could be obtained at one-quarter the present cost! I myself regularly took out my hoop in our daily walks, and well I remember the great occasion when I discarded my girl’s wooden hoop, for the more masculine, noisy, iron one. my mother gave me. I can’t say I remember any trouble occurring except when I tried driving two at once along the pavements. Who can say that our present vaunted civilisation is a success? In much it is a ghastly failure, and the sad and disturbing feature about it is that all are copying and driving in one direction largely on the American pattern, replacing those other and ancient civilisations scattered as they are in all parts of the world. These until recently retained their beauty, interest and individuality, until replaced by what we seem to specialise in, which consists largely in refinements in contraceptions for the restrictions of families, the worship of comfort, acquired by mass production with its debasing effects on character, and the most devastating methods in the destruction of life and property, the outstanding feature of this century. Apart from the arts, where we have really succeeded, is in our domestication and treatment of animals. Among these the dog probably holds first place in our affections. One I lost recently was infinitely my superior in two at least of his virtues, those of faithfulness, unselfishness and affection. I mourned his death as that of a child of my own. Perhaps you would publish the enclosed little poem which I have picked out from my collection of literary gems, and which appeared in the "Spectator” of 10th October. 1903. It is the poets that touch our heart-strings, and these lines may possibly reach those of "Cave Canem” and his like. It is good to know that he is a lover of flowers. —I *im, etc., H G. FOSTER BARHAM. Nelson, 31st Aug. (Enclosure) TO •'MODIE',” a fox terrier Not strange perhaps, that on her beat, Nature should hush by one wide law, The patter of four fitful feet, The scrape of a persistent paw. And yet the house is changed and still, Waiting to echo as before, Hot bursts of purpose hard to chill And indignations at the door. No friendly task he left unplied To speed the hour or while the days, The grief that mourned him when he died Spelt out his little meed of praise. They say he only thought in dreams, What matter! Lay the silken head Throbbing with half a world of schemes Under the silent flowers instead.

The spring winds in the lilacs play Beside the old wall where he lies, The ivies murmur night and day Their tiny lisping lullabies.

They ask not if he wakes again, He meddles not in things too deep; And Nature after joy or pain. Gives nothing half so kind as sleep. —G.W.F.G.