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once estimated, after careful work with a pencil, that he was bitten on an average of every six houses. He added that the figures were misleading, since only one out of every five or six houses harbored a dog. Dogs would knock off their dinners, taking chances of losing bones to transients, and cross the street to bite him. They would detour around people vastly more substantial in order to fall upon the boy. Alva Johnston, in his profile on Fields in The New Yorker, offered what is undoubtedly the accurate explanation of this prejudicial treatment. "Fields can give the impression to men that he is a highly respectable fellow," Johnston said, "but he cannot give that impression to dogs. Once a tramp always a tramp, as far as dogs are concerned. Looking right through his fine clothes and synthetic dignity, they see the former hobo."
Fields made a studied attempt to cultivate dogs, largely in the interest of self-preservation, but it failed miserably. He tried every known method to avoid irritating them. He let sleeping dogs lie, but they bit him during bad dreams. He ignored barking dogs, and they bit him in the middle of sentences. He found dogs with bad names consistently dangerous. Dogs picked on Fields throughout his life, but he never gave up hope of an understanding. One time, when he was in a California sanitarium and vastly bored, he read a newspaper item about a dog that had been "arrested" for drunkenness. The pet lived in the back end of a saloon and, prompted by some frantically whimsical customers, had fallen into careless habits. One evening, after the dog had been hitting it up, a customer, for a lark, called a patrolman, who led it off to jail. Fields phoned the saloon and expressed concern over the dog's plight. "Bring it out here to the sanitarium," he said to the saloon owner. "I want to enroll the poor fellow in Alcoholics Anonymous." When the owner and the dog arrived, several reporters and a Life photographer were in attendance. After down
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