9 A Dog’s Tale, by Mark Twain

CHAPTER 9 A Dog's Tale, by Mark Twain My father was a St. Bernard dog. My mother was a collie. I'm a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me. I'm not quite sure what big words like that mean. But my mother liked to say them. She liked to see the looks of surprise and envy on the other dogs' faces. They wondered how she got so smart. But it was only for show. Mother liked to listen in on people conversations whenever our people had company. Mother also went to Sunday

school with the children, and she learned a lot of big words there. She would repeat words to herself, over and over. She would carry them around in her head like precious jewels. Then, when there was a big dog gathering, she would surprise everyone with a new big word. The dogs who knew her were proud of her vocabulary. The ones who didn't know her were always surprised by her big words. It made them feel small and embarrassed that they didn't understand what she said. When they asked her what the big words meant, she always had an answer.

The other dogs were so impressed with Mother's education, they never doubted what she told them. Perhaps it was because she spoke as though she were reading from the dictionary. Perhaps it was because they had no way of checking whether she was right or wrong. After all, she was the only educated dog they knew. I believed her, too. That was, until the week when she used the word "unintellectual" at eight different dog

gatherings. When asked what it meant, she gave eight different answers. I said nothing, of course. But it did make me doubt how educated Mother really was. There was one word she always used, like a life preserver. It was kind of an emergency word, for times when conversations took a turn for the terrible or someone dared to doubt her. Mother's emergency word was "synonymous." She could always count on this word to catch a new dog off guard and make him speechless. For example, if some curious dog asked Mother what something meant and she didn't want to tell him exactly, she would instead reply, "It's synonymous with supererogation." I don't know what it means, either. After speaking some long word like that, Mother would go about her business, dropping big words here and there. Then the curious dog would slink off, embarrassed,

while Mother's crowd of admirers would wag their tails and grin with joy. It was the same with phrases. Mother would drag home a whole phrase. If it had a grand sound, she would use it every day for six days, sometimes twice on Sundays. She would give it a different meaning every time she used it. Mother never cared about the true meanings of phrases. It just amused her to use them and have the other dogs ask her to explain. Mother went so far as to recount whole stories and jokes that she learned from people. The only problem was that Mother never got the whole thing quite right. As she told the story or joke, she would leave things out. The story never quite fit together. At the end of it, she would roll on the floor with laughter even if she couldn't remember why it was so funny. The other dogs would imitate her and roll on the floor with

laughter, too. But they were secretly ashamed of themselves for not understanding the joke or story. Little did they know that the fault was not with them but with Mother's bad storytelling. You can probably see by now that Mother was a bit proud and silly. She had her good points, though. She had a kind heart and gentle ways. She never held a grudge and forgave everyone easily. She taught her children to be kind. We also learned from her to be brave and quick. She showed us how to face danger, not only danger to us but also to friends and family. As you can see, there was more to Mother than just her education. My time with Mother, however, was not long enough. When I grew up, I was sold and moved away from her. She was brokenhearted. So was I. We cried and cried. She tried to comfort me as best she could.