A DOG'S TALE

by Mark Twain




CHAPTER I

My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a
Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice
distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning
nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and
see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so
much education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only
show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room
when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school
and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over
to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a
dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and
surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which
rewarded her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly
sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her
what it meant. And she always told him. He was never expecting this but
thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that
looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The
others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for
they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience.
When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with
admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right