1. Murphy
from “Dogs That Have Known Me”
How I Got to Be Perfect
by Jean Kerr
1 The
dog that gave us the most trouble was a beagle named Murphy. As
far
as I’m concerned, the first thing he did wrong was to
turn into a beagle. I had
seen him bounding around on the other
side of a pet-shop window, and I went
in and asked the man, “How
much is that adorable fox terrier in the window?”
Did he
say, “That adorable fox terrier is a beagle”? No, he
said, “Ten dollars,
lady.” Now, I don’t mean to
say one word against beagles. They have rights
just like other
people. But it is a bit of a shock when you bring home a small
ball of fluff in a shoebox, and three weeks later it’s as
long as the sofa.
2 Murphy
was the first dog I ever trained personally, and I was delighted
at the enthusiasm with which he
took to the newspaper. It was
sometime later that we discovered, to our horror, that—like
so many dogs—he
had grasped the letter but not the spirit of
the thing. Until the very end of his days he felt a real sense of
obligation whenever he saw a newspaper—any
newspaper—and it didn’t matter where it was. I can’t bring
myself
to
go into the details, except to mention that we were finally
compelled to keep all the papers in the
bottom of the icebox.
3 He
had another habit that used to leave us open to a certain amount of
criticism from our friends who were
not dogophiles. He never climbed
up on beds or chairs or sofas. But he always sat on top of the piano.
In the
beginning we used to try to pull him off of there. But after a
few noisy scuffles in which he knocked a picture
off the wall,
scratched the piano, and smashed a lamp, we just gave in—only
to discover that, left to his own
devices, he hopped up and down as
delicately as a ballet dancer.
4 It’s
not just our own dogs that bother me. The dogs I meet at parties are
even worse. I don’t know what
I’ve got that attracts
them; it just doesn’t bear thought. My husband swears I rub
chopped meat on my ankles.
But at every party it’s the same
thing. I am sitting with a group in front of the fire when all of a
sudden the
large mutt of the host appears in the archway. Then,
without a single bark of warning, he hurls himself upon
me. He
settles down peacefully on my lap. I blow out such quantities of hair
as I haven’t swallowed and
glance at my host, expecting to be
rescued. He murmurs, “Isn’t that wonderful? You know,
Brucie is usually
so distant with strangers.”
5 At
a dinner party last week, after I had been mugged by a large
sheepdog, I announced quite piteously,
“Oh dear, he seems to
have swallowed one of my earrings.” The hostess looked really
distressed for a
moment, until she examined the remaining earring.
Then she said, “Oh, I think it will be all right. It’s
small
and round.”
6 Nowadays
if I go anywhere I just ask if they have a dog. If they do, I say,
“Maybe I’d better keep away
from him—I have this
bad allergy.” This does not really charm the lady of the house.
In fact, she behaves
rather as though she’d just discovered
that I was back in analysis for my kleptomania. But it is safer. It
really is. In
paragraph 3 of the essay, the setting is important because it helps
the reader understand