I don't think the handlers treated me quite right that time, but
maybe they didn't know the Ottawa dog was dead. I did.
I learned my fighting from my mother when I was very young. We slept
in a lumber-yard on the river-front, and by day hunted for food along
the wharves. When we got it, the other tramp-dogs would try to take
it off us, and then it was wonderful to see mother fly at them, and
drive them away. All I know of fighting I learned from mother,
watching her picking the ash-heaps for me when I was too little to
fight for myself. No one ever was so good to me as mother. When it
snowed and the ice was in the St. Lawrence she used to hunt alone,
and bring me back new bones, and she'd sit and laugh to see me trying
to swallow 'em whole. I was just a puppy then, my teeth was falling
out. When I was able to fight we kept the whole river-range to
ourselves, I had the genuine long, "punishing" jaw, so mother said,
and there wasn't a man or a dog that dared worry us. Those were happy
days, those were; and we lived well, share and share alike, and when
we wanted a bit of fun, we chased the fat old wharf-rats. My! how
they would squeal!
Then the trouble came.
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