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I don't mind at all being
called Smudgepot by her"
bill. He had an appointment with a photographer, Jack Freeman, and he took me along. Jack and I liked each other and so my benefactor presented me to Jack.
For a week I lay peevishly in the middle of his studio floor, tripping my share of clients. On the seventh day someone stumbled over me and said, "Jack, what's that old smudgepot doing in the middle of the floor?"
I liked the voice immediately and stood up, since I was taught never to greet a lady while lying down.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," the voice said. A blonde head with bright blue eyes came down to my level. "Did I insult you? Please forgive me."
I gave her my paw. I wanted to assure her that Chevalier Noir du Lac would not mind at all being called a smudgepot by her.
"I'm Doris Day," she said, and I must admit that I forgot my dignity just enough to wag my tail. In fact, in that one moment I knew I had acquired a mistress and no master would ever do for me. I gathered all of Jack's discarded flash bulbs and brought them to her.
She must have felt the same way, because she took me home. When we walked into the kitchen, my mistress' mother screamed and dropped a plate of spaghetti sauce on my head. My mistress' mother, unfortunately, had not had the pleasure of seeing a French poodle before. I licked the spaghetti sauce, discovered that she was a wonderful cook, and we were friends.
It was a nice life. That first year I considered myself the man of the house and I patroled the grounds every morning and evening, picking up anything my mistress might have left in the yard and making sure that no stranger was around.
At six o'clock each night I stood at the front gate, with a present for my mistress wrapped between my teeth. I liked to surprise her so sometimes I brought a bone, sometimes a pretty rock, sometimes an attractive geometric shape from the rubbish pile. She was always properly grateful and surprised. We would walk together into the living-room; then she would kick off her shoes and relax. It was my job to take them upstairs for her.
After supper we would rehearse. She would go over her script for me while I listened with a critical ear. Later, when I had curled up on the foot of her bed for the night, she told me any problems she had had during the day. Naturally, I was always on her side. It is a dog's privilege, you know, not to consider right and wrong, and my sympathy always seemed to help.
It was a good life, and only one thing worried me. 1 could not be sure that she loved me as much as I loved her. I found out quite dramatically.
I was sunning myself on the porch when my mistress' mother decided to back the car into the driveway. I assisted. When we had backed the car to my satisfaction, the telephone rang. My mistress' mother ran to the house, leaving me in the car.
I prepared to wait (she sometimes talked for an hour or more). But this time, three hours passed and she still hadn't returned. (I learned (Continued on page 52)
A FAST GAME of catch (i always retrieve the balls) often plays havoc with Doris' pedal pushers but Marty comes to the rescue.
5!