experiencing to receive the closest and most unremitting human care and
supervision. In the Shaws breeding-kennels, for example, there would
always be at such times an abundance of fresh warm milk, clean, warm
bedding for the new arrivals and their mother, and every other sort of
comfort and attention which men-folk have devised for the benefit of the
aristocrats among dog-folk.

Thus, if the alliance between the Lady Desdemona and the great champion
of her race, Windle Hercules, had been consummated, a foster-mother
would have been held in readiness to share the task of nursing her
family when it came. Two or three pups would have been left with
Desdemona; the others would have been taught to derive their nutriment
and nursing from some plebeian little shepherd bitch, specially bereaved
of her own offspring for this purpose. But in the cave on the Downs, and
in the aftermath of the runaway match of Finn and Desdemona, no human
eye saw Desdemona's family, and no human care played any part in its
rearing. Now, since we are all, in greater or less measure, the product
of our respective environments, and as for centuries before her time
Desdemona's ancestors had been accustomed to the fostering care of
humankind, she and her family must have been profoundly affected by the
peculiar circumstances of her first maternal experiences.

It did not take long for Finn to realize that his mate attached more
importance than she ever had before to the food-supply question. It was
easy to bring her a bone from his own daily supply at Nuthill, though
that did involve carrying the bone over four or five miles of Downs.
But, as was natural, Desdemona wanted more than bones. It was not for
nothing that five little mouths (armed with teeth like pin-points)
tugged and pounded at her dugs by day and by night. Whenever Finn
thought of it, he would run down and kill a rabbit for his mate, and for