ONLY A CUR

My name is Beautiful Joe, and I am a brown dog of medium size.  I am not called Beautiful Joe because I am a beauty.  Mr. Morris, the clergyman, in whose family I have lived for the last twelve years, says that he thinks I must be called Beautiful Joe for the same reason that his grandfather, down South, called a very ugly colored slave-lad Cupid, and his mother Venus.

I do not know what he means by that, but when he says it people always look at me and smile.  I know that I am not beautiful, and I know that I am not a thoroughbred.  I am only a cur.

When my mistress went every year to register me and pay my tax, and the man in the office asked what breed I was, she said part fox-terrier and part bull-terrier; but he always put me down a cur.  I don’t think she liked having him call me a cur; still, I have heard her say that she preferred curs, for they have more character than well-bred dogs.  Her father said that she liked ugly dogs for the same reason that a nobleman at the court of a certain king did—­namely, that no one else would.

I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to write, the story of my life.  I have seen my mistress laughing and crying over a little book that she says is a story of a horse’s life, and sometimes she puts the book down close to my nose to let me see the pictures.

I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her better than any one else in the world; and I think it will please her if I write the story of a dog’s life.  She loves dumb animals, and it always grieves her to see them treated cruelly.

I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were to rise up and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals, they could put a stop to it.  Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a story.  I am fond of boys and girls, and though I have seen many cruel men and women, I have seen few cruel children.  I think the more stories there are written about dumb animals, the better it will be for us.

In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come right on to the end.  I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town in Maine called Fairport.  The first thing I remember was lying close to my mother and being very snug and warm.  The next thing I remember was being always hungry.  I had a number of brothers and sisters—­six in all—­and my mother never had enough milk for us.  She was always half starved herself, so she could not feed us properly.

I am very unwilling to say much about my early life, I have lived so long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything, that it seems almost wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb beast.

The man that owned my mother was a milkman.  He kept one horse and three cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk cans in.  I don’t think there can be a worse man in the world than that milkman.  It makes me shudder now to think of him.  His name was Jenkins, and I am glad to think that he is getting punished now for his cruelty to poor dumb animals and to human beings.  If you think it is wrong that I am glad, you must remember that I am only a dog.