Tails to Wag by Nancy Butler

ever again see him alive? I might have known from the dog’s actions that something dreadful was about to happen.
    At length the hour for his return arrived, and there was John on his load. I took charge of the horses, vastly relieved, and with an air of assumed unconcern, asked, “All right?”
    â€œRight,” was the laconic answer.
    Who now can say that there is nothing in omens.
    And yet when, long afterward, I told this to one skilled in the occult, he looked grave, and said, “Bingo always turned to you in a crisis?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen do not smile. It was you that were in danger that day; he stayed and saved your life, though you never knew from what.”
    Â 
    IV
    Early in the spring I had begun Bingo’s education. Very shortly afterward he began mine.
    Midway on the two-mile stretch of prairie that lay between our shanty and the village of Carberry, was the corner-stake of the farm; it was a stout post in a low mound of earth, and was visible from afar.
    I soon noticed that Bingo never passed without minutely examining this mysterious post. Next I learned that it was also visited by the prairie wolves as well as by all the dogs in the neighborhood, and at length, with the aid of a telescope, I made a number of observations that helped me to an understanding of the matter and enabled me to enter more fully into Bingo’s private life.
    The post was by common agreement a registry of the canine tribes. Their exquisite sense of smell enabled each individual to tell at once by the track and trace what other had recently been at the post. When the snow came much more was revealed. I then discovered that this post was but one of a system that covered the country; that, in short, the entire region was laid out in signal stations at convenient intervals. These were marked by any conspicuous post, stone, buffalo skull, or other object that chanced to be in the desired locality, and extensive observation showed that it was a very complete system for getting and giving the news.
    Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at those stations that are near his line of travel to learn who has recently been there, just as a man calls at his club on returning to town and looks up the register.
    I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, examine the ground about, then growl, and with bristling mane and glowing eyes, scratch fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet, finally walking off very stiffly, glancing back from time to time. All of which, being interpreted, said:
    â€œ Grrrh! woof! there’s that dirty cur of McCarthy’s. Woof! I’ll ’tend to him tonight. Woof! woof! ”
    On another occasion, after the preliminaries, he became keenly interested and studied a coyote’s track that came and went, saying to himself, as I afterward learned:
    â€œA coyote track coming from the north, smelling of dead cow. Indeed? Pollworth’s old Brindle must be dead at last. This is worth looking into.”
    At other times he would wag his tail, trot about the vicinity and come again and again to make his own visit more evident, perhaps for the benefit of his brother Bill just back from Brandon! So that it was not by chance that one night Bill turned up at Bingo’s home and was taken to the hills, where a delicious dead horse afforded a chance to suitably celebrate the reunion.
    At other times he would be suddenly aroused by the news, take up the trail, and race to the next station for later information.
    Sometimes his inspection produced only an air of grave attention, as though he said to himself, “Dear me, who the deuce is this?” or “It seems to me I met that fellow at the Portage last summer.”
    One morning on approaching the post Bingo’s every hair stood on end, his tail dropped and quivered, and he gave proof that he was suddenly sick at the stomach, sure signs of terror. He showed no desire to follow up or know more of the matter, but