I am very unwilling to say much about my early life. I have lived
so long in a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and
where no one thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything; that it
seems almost wrong even to think or speak of such a matter as
hurting a poor dumb beast.

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse
and three cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his
milk cans in. I don't think there can be a worse man in the world
than that milkman. It makes me shudder now to think of him. His
name was Jenkins, and I am glad to think that he is getting
punished now for his cruelty to poor dumb animals and to human
beings. If you think it is wrong that I am glad, you must remember
that I am only a dog.

The first notice that he took of me when I was a little puppy, just
able to stagger about, was to give me a kick that sent me into a
corner of the stable. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have
seen him use his heavy whip to punish her till her body was
covered with blood. When I got older I asked her why she did not
run away. She said she did not wish to; but I soon found out that
the reason she did not run away, was because she loved Jenkins.
Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she
would have laid down her life for him.

Now that I am old, I know that there are more men in the world
like Jenkins. They are not crazy, they are not drunkards; they
simply seem to be possessed with a spirit of wickedness. There are
well-to-do people, yes, and rich people, who will treat animals,
and even little children, with such terrible cruelty, that one cannot