Further, although Jerry did not know it and Tom Haggin did, Terrence was a royal lover and a devoted spouse.  Jerry, from his earliest impressions, could remember the way Terrence had of running with Biddy, miles and miles along the beaches or through the avenues of cocoanuts, side by side with her, both with laughing mouths of sheer delight.  As these were the only dogs, besides his brothers and sisters and the several eruptions of strange bush-dogs that Jerry knew, it did not enter his head otherwise than that this was the way of dogs, male and female, wedded and faithful.  But Tom Haggin knew its unusualness.  “Proper affinities,” he declared, and repeatedly declared, with warm voice and moist eyes of appreciation.  “A gentleman, that Terrence, and a four-legged proper man.  A man-dog, if there ever was one, four-square as the legs on the four corners of him.  And prepotent!  My word!  His blood’d breed true for a thousand generations, and the cool head and the kindly brave heart of him.”

Terrence did not voice his sorrow, if sorrow he had; but his hovering about Biddy tokened his anxiety for her.  Michael, however, yielding to the contagion, sat beside his mother and barked angrily out across the increasing stretch of water as he would have barked at any danger that crept and rustled in the jungle.  This, too, sank to Jerry’s heart, adding weight to his sure intuition that dire fate, he knew not what, was upon him.

For his six months of life, Jerry knew a great deal and knew very little.  He knew, without thinking about it, without knowing that he knew, why Biddy, the wise as well as the brave, did not act upon all the message that her heart voiced to him, and spring into the water and swim after him.  She had protected him like a lioness when the big puarka (which, in Jerry’s vocabulary, along with grunts and squeals, was the combination of sound, or word, for “pig”) had tried to devour him where he was cornered under the high-piled plantation house.  Like a lioness, when the cook-boy had struck him with a stick to drive him out of the kitchen, had Biddy sprung upon the black, receiving without wince or whimper one straight blow from the stick, and then downing him and mauling him among his pots and pans until dragged (for the first time snarling) away by the unchiding Mister Haggin, who; however, administered sharp words to the cook-boy for daring to lift hand against a four-legged dog belonging to a god.

Jerry knew why his mother did not plunge into the water after him.  The salt sea, as well as the lagoons that led out of the salt sea, were taboo.  “Taboo,” as word or sound, had no place in Jerry’s vocabulary.  But its definition, or significance, was there in the quickest part of his consciousness.  He possessed a dim, vague, imperative knowingness that it was not merely not good, but supremely disastrous, leading to the mistily glimpsed sense of utter endingness for a dog, for any dog, to go into the water where slipped and slid and noiselessly paddled, sometimes on top, sometimes emerging from the depths, great scaly monsters, huge-jawed and horribly-toothed, that snapped down and engulfed a dog in an instant just as the fowls of Mister Haggin snapped and engulfed grains of corn.