Bruce | Page 4

been faultless.
These "seconds" are as good to look at, from a layman's view, as is any
international champion. And their offspring are sometimes as perfect as
are those of the finest specimens. But, lacking the arbitrary "points"
demanded by show-judges, the "seconds" are condemned to obscurity,
and to sell as pets.
If Lass had been a male dog, her beauty and sense and lovableness
would have found a ready purchaser for her. For nine pet collies out of
ten are "seconds"; and splendid pets they make for the most part.
But Lass, at the very start, had committed the unforgivable sin of being
born a female. Therefore, no pet-seeker wanted to buy her. Even when
she was offered for sale at half the sum asked for her less handsome
brothers, no one wanted her.
A mare--or the female of nearly any species except the canine-- brings

as high and as ready a price as does the male. But never the female dog.
Except for breeding, she is not wanted.
This prejudice had its start in Crusader days, some thousand years ago.
Up to that time, all through the civilized world, a female dog had been
more popular as a pet than a male. The Mohammedans (to whom, by
creed, all dogs are unclean) gave their European foes the first hint that a
female dog was the lowest thing on earth.
The Saracens despised her, as the potential mother of future dogs. And
they loathed her accordingly. Back to Europe came the Crusaders,
bearing only three lasting memorials of their contact with the Moslems.
One of the three was a sneering contempt for all female dogs.
There is no other pet as loving, as quick of wit, as loyal, as staunchly
brave and as companionable as the female collie. She has all the male's
best traits and none of his worst. She has more in common, too, with
the highest type of woman than has any other animal alive. (This, with
all due respect to womanhood.)
Prejudice has robbed countless dog-lovers of the joy of owning such a
pal. In England the female pet dog has at last begun to come into her
own. Here she has not. The loss is ours.
And so back to Lass.
When would-be purchasers were conducted to the puppy-run at the
Rothsay kennels, Lass and her six brethren and sisters were wont to
come galloping to the gate to welcome the strangers. For the pups were
only three months old--an age when every event is thrillingly
interesting, and everybody is a friend. Three times out of five, the
buyer's eye would single Lass from the rollicking and fluffy mass of
puppyhood.
She was so pretty, so wistfully appealing, so free from fear (and from
bumptiousness as well) and carried herself so daintily, that one's heart
warmed to her. The visitor would point her out. The kennel-man would
reply, flatteringly--

"Yes, she sure is one fine pup!"
The purchaser never waited to hear the end of the sentence, before
turning to some other puppy. The pronoun, "she," had killed forever his
dawning fancy for the little beauty.
The four males of the litter were soon sold; for there is a brisk and a
steady market for good collie pups. One of the two other females died.
Lass's remaining sister began to "shape up" with show-possibilities, and
was bought by the owner of another kennel. Thus, by the time she was
five months old, Lass was left alone in the puppy-run.
She mourned her playmates. It was cold, at night, with no other cuddly
little fur-ball to snuggle down to. It was stupid, with no one to help her
work off her five-months spirits in a romp. And Lass missed the dozens
of visitors that of old had come to the run.
The kennel-men felt not the slightest interest in her. Lass meant nothing
to them, except the work of feeding her and of keeping an extra run in
order. She was a liability, a nuisance.
Lass used to watch with pitiful eagerness for the attendants' duty-visits
to the run. She would gallop joyously up to them, begging for a word or
a caress, trying to tempt them into a romp, bringing them
peaceofferings in the shape of treasured bones she had buried for her
own future use. But all this gained her nothing.
A careless word at best--a grunt or a shove at worst were her only
rewards. For the most part, the men with the feed-trough or the
water-pail ignored her bounding and wrigglingly eager welcome as
completely as though she were a part of the kennel furnishings. Her
short daily "exercise scamper" in the open was her nearest approach to
a good time.
Then came a day when again a visitor stopped in front of