Bernard, my mother was a collie,
but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother
told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself.
To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing.
My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say
them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious,
as wondering how she got so much education.
But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only
show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room
and drawing-room when there was company, and by going
with the children to Sunday-school and listening there;
and whenever she heard a large word she said it over
to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until
there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood,
then she would get it off, and surprise and distress
them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded
her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger
he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got
his breath again he would ask her what it meant.
And she always told him. He was never expecting
this but thought he would catch her; so when she told
him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he
had thought it was going to be she. The others
were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud
of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because
they had had experience. When she told the meaning
of a big word they were all so taken up with admiration
that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was
the right one; and that was natural, because, for
one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed
like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing,
where could they find out whether it was right or not?
for she was the only cultivated dog there was.
By and by, when I was older, she brought home the
word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty
hard all the week at different gatherings, making
much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this
time that I noticed that during that week she was
asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages,
and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which
showed me that she had more presence of mind than
culture, though I said nothing, of course. She
had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready,
like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency word to
strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard
in a sudden way—that was the word Synonymous.
When she happened to fetch out a long word which
had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings
gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there
of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes,
then he would come to, and by that time she would
be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting
anything; so when he’d hail and ask her to cash
in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could
see her canvas flicker a moment—but only
just a moment—then it would belly out taut
and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer’s
day, “It’s synonymous with supererogation,”
or some godless long reptile of a word like that,
and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack,
perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger
looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated
slatting the floor with their tails in unison and
their faces transfigured with a holy joy.
Copyrights
A Dog's Tale from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
