#apparently we've always liked telling people how naughty our dogs are

[cracks-and-chaos]

A Unique Chrysanthemum

Transcribed from Vogue Vol. 17, Issue 2 (Jan 10, 1901): xii

If you think this a paper on the newest species of the Japanese flower, you were never more in error, for it is all about a white dog, of whom we can never speak without prefacing the word dear. Just before his advent into our circle, we devoted a large garden space to cultivating chrysanthemums. In due season these decorative flowers were gathered to embellish the house on the occasion of grandmother’s golden wedding anniversary. 

A day or two previous to this festal occasion, a friend presented us with a little Maltese poodle. His soft white coat, like crinkled silk, fell over his eyes like a cascade, until one wondered that he could see anything. But nothing escaped his notice, and when his eyes failed, his acute sense of smell helped him out. Such sweetness of temper, such roguishness of action were rarely combined in such a small dog before.

The morning of the festival there was much ado in gathering the flowers. It was great fun to break the long stems, and stack the great round basket full of the glorious colors. When filled, the children took turns in carrying the basket into the house. No one enjoyed the bustle more than the dog. Such scampering and barking, and such fun dodging feet. The children had a hard time keeping the stems safe, for the dog would make little bounds into the air to try to seize them with his teeth. The last to be gathered were the great pearly whit chrysanthemums, and as we came to the basket, our arms full o the white crinkly petalled flowers the dog ran ahead, and jumping into the basket, sat looking at us with all the bravado possible. His little round head covered with the kinky wite hair, looking for all the world like a huge white chrysanthemum. The dog did not budge, and we stacked our flowers around him. He must have been tired out with his exertions of the morning, or he never would have sat still so long. Surrounded by an admiring group, he was carried with great glee to the house, and jumped out at Grandma’s feet. The children shrieked with delight to see Grandma’s start of surprise, for to her it seemed as if the chrysanthemums had suddenly been given life, and were hopping out of the basket to greet her on this great day of her life. From that hour the dog had a name, and though he is now old, and enjoying life mainly from the outlook of the sofa cushions, he still answers to the name of Chrysanthemum. 

He loved us all, but the four-year-old baby was his especial pet and favorite. Chrysanthemum learned many pretty tricks. He could beg and jump through a hoop, catch a bit of meat, and play dead to perfection, but it did not seem as if he had a thought in the world beyond the pure joy of living and being petted. We never dreamed as we watched him chasing butterflies in the spring or scampering around the heels of Star, our bay mare that he ever had a serious thought in his head or that to him we would soon owe almost everything in life that we held dear. 

Chrysanthemum’s worst deed was performed one windy day in April. We have long since forgiven him everything and only tell of his little peccadilloes to show his fun-loving nature. It was Monday and the clothes hung out on the line. A light wind was blowing the slightly swaying line, with its burden of flapping socks, dresses sheets table napery and what not, was too irresistible for Chrysanthemum’s buoyant nature. For some time I had been hearing little barks of joy, I supposed he was yapping at Sandy’s heels, a favorite pastime. Something at last drew me to the window and there I beheld Chrysanthemum with the end of a treasured tea-cloth in his mouth, rushing to and fro as the wind caught the sail-like cloth. Several tattered garments and sheets blew merrily in the wind as evidence of his play. Needless to say this delightful sport was abruptly ended. 

The Fourth of July was an inferno for poor Chrysanthemum. Every cracker that exploded caused him a nervous shudder and even the crack of a torpedo caused him a fright, while if any one pointed a toy pistol at him, he gave vent to the most melancholy howls. Toward evening he skulked away to a dark retreat, where the scorn of the children could not follow him. He was declared a coward and soon forgotten in the excitement of the beautiful fireworks which followed in the evening. Later we had reason to change our opinion, for during the night I was awakened by Chrysanthemum’s barking, to find that the house was afire. The household was awakened and the children, wrapped in the bedding, were carried out and seated on a garden bench with the nurse. 

The fire gained rapidly and as we emerged for the last time the stairs were well on fire. A frantic bark arrested us and there at the top of the stair we caught a glimpse of Chrysanthemum, barking wildly. His master ordered him to come down, but he only barked the louder, and if ever a dog tried to talk he did. A cloud of smoke passed over him, hiding him, which was too much for his master, who, seizing a great robe from the doorstep, rushed upstairs, burning as they were, and tried to seize the little dog, but Chrysanthemum grasped him by the trouser and tried to drag him down the hall. After a few agonizing moments I saw the master come running down the stairs, still clad in his great robe which I saw covering a bundle. As he rushed out of the house he flung the burning robe from him and there lay our precious four-year-old and--Chrysanthemum. 

The baby was unharmed, but Chrysanthemum’s white coat, the pride of his life, was scorched and blackened. He lay like one dead, and it was days before the little dog recovered and months before the silky hair resumed its glossy appearance. How it happened we could never explain, except that every one being absorbed in the fire did not notice the sleepy baby who thought bed was best and had wandered back up the stairs and into her bed. It was brave Chrysanthemum who found her missing and tracked her by his faithful little nose up the stairs and to the nursery. A larger dog would have rescued her himself, but our little hero was too small, and did the next best thing in barking for help. But for Chrysanthemum, we should all have been burned to death, and then escaping, we should have lost our darling wee one, but for him again.

Yesterday a coward, to-day a hero, as morning dawned, he lay limply on the soft cushion provided, and as we crowded around in loving admiration of the little dog’s courage, he feebly licked the baby’s hand, and his beautiful expressive eyes seemed to say, “You are all here; then I am happy.”