A Yellow Dog
by Bret Harte
I never knew why in the Western States of America a yellow dog should be
proverbially considered the acme of canine degradation and incompetency,
nor why the possession of one should seriously affect the social standing
of its possessor. But the fact being established, I think we accepted it
at Rattlers Ridge without question. The matter of ownership was more
difficult to settle; and although the dog I have in my mind at the present
writing attached himself impartially and equally to everyone in camp, no
one ventured to exclusively claim him; while, after the perpetration of
any canine atrocity, everybody repudiated him with indecent haste.
"Well, I can swear he hasn't been near our shanty for weeks," or the
retort, "He was last seen comin' out of YOUR cabin," expressed the
eagerness with which Rattlers Ridge washed its hands of any
responsibility. Yet he was by no means a common dog, nor even an
unhandsome dog; and it was a singular fact that his severest critics vied
with each other in narrating instances of his sagacity, insight, and
agility which they themselves had witnessed.
He had been seen crossing the "flume" that spanned Grizzly Canyon at a
height of nine hundred feet, on a plank six inches wide. He had tumbled
down the "shoot" to the South Fork, a thousand feet below, and was found
sitting on the riverbank "without a scratch, 'cept that he was lazily
givin' himself with his off hind paw." He had been forgotten in a
snowdrift on a Sierran shelf, and had come home in the early spring with
the conceited complacency of an Alpine traveler and a plumpness alleged to
have been the result of an exclusive diet of buried mail bags and their
contents. He was generally believed to read the advance election posters,
and disappear a day or two before the candidates and the brass band—which
he hated—came to the Ridge. He was suspected of having overlooked
Colonel Johnson's hand at poker, and of having conveyed to the Colonel's
adversary, by a succession of barks, the danger of betting against four
While these statements were supplied by wholly unsupported witnesses, it
was a very human weakness of Rattlers Ridge that the responsibility of
corroboration was passed to the dog himself, and HE was looked upon as a
"Snoopin' round yere, and CALLIN' yourself a poker sharp, are ye! Scoot,
you yaller pizin!" was a common adjuration whenever the unfortunate animal
intruded upon a card party. "Ef thar was a spark, an ATOM of truth in THAT
DOG, I'd believe my own eyes that I saw him sittin' up and trying to
magnetize a jay bird off a tree. But wot are ye goin' to do with a yaller
equivocator like that?"
I have said that he was yellow—or, to use the ordinary expression,
"yaller." Indeed, I am inclined to believe that much of the ignominy
attached to the epithet lay in this favorite pronunciation. Men who
habitually spoke of a "YELLOW bird," a "YELLOW-hammer," a "YELLOW leaf,"
always alluded to him as a "YALLER dog."
He certainly WAS yellow. After a bath—usually compulsory—he
presented a decided gamboge streak down his back, from the top of his
forehead to the stump of his tail, fading in his sides and flank to a
delicate straw color. His breast, legs, and feet—when not reddened
by "slumgullion," in which he was fond of wading—were white. A few
attempts at ornamental decoration from the India-ink pot of the
storekeeper failed, partly through the yellow dog's excessive agility,
which would never give the paint time to dry on him, and partly through
his success in transferring his markings to the trousers and blankets of
The size and shape of his tail—which had been cut off before his
introduction to Rattlers Ridge—were favorite sources of speculation
to the miners, as determining both his breed and his moral responsibility
in coming into camp in that defective condition. There was a general
opinion that he couldn't have looked worse with a tail, and its removal
was therefore a gratuitous effrontery.
His best feature was his eyes, which were a lustrous Vandyke brown, and
sparkling with intelligence; but here again he suffered from evolution
through environment, and their original trustful openness was marred by
the experience of watching for flying stones, sods, and passing kicks from
the rear, so that the pupils were continually reverting to the outer angle
of the eyelid.
Nevertheless, none of these characteristics decided the vexed question of
his BREED. His speed and scent pointed to a "hound," and it is related
that on one occasion he was laid on the trail of a wildcat with such
success that he followed it apparently out of the State, returning at the
end of two weeks footsore, but blandly contented.
Attaching himself to a prospecting party, he was sent under the same
belief, "into the brush" to drive off a bear, who was supposed to be
haunting the campfire. He returned in a few minutes WITH the bear, DRIVING
IT INTO the unarmed circle and scattering the whole party. After this the
theory of his being a hunting dog was abandoned. Yet it was said—on
the usual uncorroborated evidence—that he had "put up" a quail; and
his qualities as a retriever were for a long time accepted, until, during
a shooting expedition for wild ducks, it was discovered that the one he
had brought back had never been shot, and the party were obliged to
compound damages with an adjacent settler.
His fondness for paddling in the ditches and "slumgullion" at one time
suggested a water spaniel. He could swim, and would occasionally bring out
of the river sticks and pieces of bark that had been thrown in; but as HE
always had to be thrown in with them, and was a good-sized dog, his
aquatic reputation faded also. He remained simply "a yaller dog." What
more could be said? His actual name was "Bones"—given to him, no
doubt, through the provincial custom of confounding the occupation of the
individual with his quality, for which it was pointed out precedent could
be found in some old English family names.
But if Bones generally exhibited no preference for any particular
individual in camp, he always made an exception in favor of drunkards.
Even an ordinary roistering bacchanalian party brought him out from under
a tree or a shed in the keenest satisfaction. He would accompany them
through the long straggling street of the settlement, barking his delight
at every step or misstep of the revelers, and exhibiting none of that
mistrust of eye which marked his attendance upon the sane and the
respectable. He accepted even their uncouth play without a snarl or a
yelp, hypocritically pretending even to like it; and I conscientiously
believe would have allowed a tin can to be attached to his tail if the
hand that tied it on were only unsteady, and the voice that bade him "lie
still" were husky with liquor. He would "see" the party cheerfully into a
saloon, wait outside the door—his tongue fairly lolling from his
mouth in enjoyment—until they reappeared, permit them even to tumble
over him with pleasure, and then gambol away before them, heedless of
awkwardly projected stones and epithets. He would afterward accompany them
separately home, or lie with them at crossroads until they were assisted
to their cabins. Then he would trot rakishly to his own haunt by the
saloon stove, with the slightly conscious air of having been a bad dog,
yet of having had a good time.
We never could satisfy ourselves whether his enjoyment arose from some
merely selfish conviction that he was more SECURE with the physically and
mentally incompetent, from some active sympathy with active wickedness, or
from a grim sense of his own mental superiority at such moments. But the
general belief leant toward his kindred sympathy as a "yaller dog" with
all that was disreputable. And this was supported by another very singular
canine manifestation—the "sincere flattery" of simulation or
"Uncle Billy" Riley for a short time enjoyed the position of being the
camp drunkard, and at once became an object of Bones' greatest solicitude.
He not only accompanied him everywhere, curled at his feet or head
according to Uncle Billy's attitude at the moment, but, it was noticed,
began presently to undergo a singular alteration in his own habits and
appearance. From being an active, tireless scout and forager, a bold and
unovertakable marauder, he became lazy and apathetic; allowed gophers to
burrow under him without endeavoring to undermine the settlement in his
frantic endeavors to dig them out, permitted squirrels to flash their
tails at him a hundred yards away, forgot his usual caches, and left his
favorite bones unburied and bleaching in the sun. His eyes grew dull, his
coat lusterless, in proportion as his companion became blear-eyed and
ragged; in running, his usual arrowlike directness began to deviate, and
it was not unusual to meet the pair together, zigzagging up the hill.
Indeed, Uncle Billy's condition could be predetermined by Bones'
appearance at times when his temporary master was invisible. "The old man
must have an awful jag on today," was casually remarked when an extra
fluffiness and imbecility was noticeable in the passing Bones. At first it
was believed that he drank also, but when careful investigation proved
this hypothesis untenable, he was freely called a "derned time-servin',
yaller hypocrite." Not a few advanced the opinion that if Bones did not
actually lead Uncle Billy astray, he at least "slavered him over and
coddled him until the old man got conceited in his wickedness." This
undoubtedly led to a compulsory divorce between them, and Uncle Billy was
happily dispatched to a neighboring town and a doctor.
Bones seemed to miss him greatly, ran away for two days, and was supposed
to have visited him, to have been shocked at his convalescence, and to
have been "cut" by Uncle Billy in his reformed character; and he returned
to his old active life again, and buried his past with his forgotten
bones. It was said that he was afterward detected in trying to lead an
intoxicated tramp into camp after the methods employed by a blind man's
dog, but was discovered in time by the—of course—uncorroborated
I should be tempted to leave him thus in his original and picturesque sin,
but the same veracity which compelled me to transcribe his faults and
iniquities obliges me to describe his ultimate and somewhat monotonous
reformation, which came from no fault of his own.
It was a joyous day at Rattlers Ridge that was equally the advent of his
change of heart and the first stagecoach that had been induced to diverge
from the highroad and stop regularly at our settlement. Flags were flying
from the post office and Polka saloon, and Bones was flying before the
brass band that he detested, when the sweetest girl in the county—Pinkey
Preston—daughter of the county judge and hopelessly beloved by all
Rattlers Ridge, stepped from the coach which she had glorified by
occupying as an invited guest.
"What makes him run away?" she asked quickly, opening her lovely eyes in a
possibly innocent wonder that anything could be found to run away from
"He don't like the brass band," we explained eagerly.
"How funny," murmured the girl; "is it as out of tune as all that?"
This irresistible witticism alone would have been enough to satisfy us—we
did nothing but repeat it to each other all the next day—but we were
positively transported when we saw her suddenly gather her dainty skirts
in one hand and trip off through the red dust toward Bones, who, with his
eyes over his yellow shoulder, had halted in the road, and half-turned in
mingled disgust and rage at the spectacle of the descending trombone. We
held our breath as she approached him. Would Bones evade her as he did us
at such moments, or would he save our reputation, and consent, for the
moment, to accept her as a new kind of inebriate? She came nearer; he saw
her; he began to slowly quiver with excitement—his stump of a tail
vibrating with such rapidity that the loss of the missing portion was
scarcely noticeable. Suddenly she stopped before him, took his yellow head
between her little hands, lifted it, and looked down in his handsome brown
eyes with her two lovely blue ones. What passed between them in that
magnetic glance no one ever knew. She returned with him; said to him
casually: "We're not afraid of brass bands, are we?" to which he
apparently acquiesced, at least stifling his disgust of them while he was
near her—which was nearly all the time.
During the speechmaking her gloved hand and his yellow head were always
near together, and at the crowning ceremony—her public checking of
Yuba Bill's "waybill" on behalf of the township, with a gold pencil
presented to her by the Stage Company—Bones' joy, far from knowing
no bounds, seemed to know nothing but them, and he witnessed it apparently
in the air. No one dared to interfere. For the first time a local pride in
Bones sprang up in our hearts—and we lied to each other in his
praises openly and shamelessly.
Then the time came for parting. We were standing by the door of the coach,
hats in hand, as Miss Pinkey was about to step into it; Bones was waiting
by her side, confidently looking into the interior, and apparently
selecting his own seat on the lap of Judge Preston in the corner, when
Miss Pinkey held up the sweetest of admonitory fingers. Then, taking his
head between her two hands, she again looked into his brimming eyes, and
said, simply, "GOOD dog," with the gentlest of emphasis on the adjective,
and popped into the coach.
The six bay horses started as one, the gorgeous green and gold vehicle
bounded forward, the red dust rose behind, and the yellow dog danced in
and out of it to the very outskirts of the settlement. And then he soberly
A day or two later he was missed—but the fact was afterward known
that he was at Spring Valley, the county town where Miss Preston lived,
and he was forgiven. A week afterward he was missed again, but this time
for a longer period, and then a pathetic letter arrived from Sacramento
for the storekeeper's wife.
"Would you mind," wrote Miss Pinkey Preston, "asking some of your boys to
come over here to Sacramento and bring back Bones? I don't mind having the
dear dog walk out with me at Spring Valley, where everyone knows me; but
here he DOES make one so noticeable, on account of HIS COLOR. I've got
scarcely a frock that he agrees with. He don't go with my pink muslin, and
that lovely buff tint he makes three shades lighter. You know yellow is SO
A consultation was quickly held by the whole settlement, and a deputation
sent to Sacramento to relieve the unfortunate girl. We were all quite
indignant with Bones—but, oddly enough, I think it was greatly
tempered with our new pride in him. While he was with us alone, his
peculiarities had been scarcely appreciated, but the recurrent phrase
"that yellow dog that they keep at the Rattlers" gave us a mysterious
importance along the countryside, as if we had secured a "mascot" in some
This was further indicated by a singular occurrence. A new church had been
built at the crossroads, and an eminent divine had come from San Francisco
to preach the opening sermon. After a careful examination of the camp's
wardrobe, and some felicitous exchange of apparel, a few of us were
deputed to represent "Rattlers" at the Sunday service. In our white ducks,
straw hats, and flannel blouses, we were sufficiently picturesque and
distinctive as "honest miners" to be shown off in one of the front pews.
Seated near the prettiest girls, who offered us their hymn books—in
the cleanly odor of fresh pine shavings, and ironed muslin, and blown over
by the spices of our own woods through the open windows, a deep sense of
the abiding peace of Christian communion settled upon us. At this supreme
moment someone murmured in an awe-stricken whisper:
"WILL you look at Bones?"
We looked. Bones had entered the church and gone up in the gallery through
a pardonable ignorance and modesty; but, perceiving his mistake, was now
calmly walking along the gallery rail before the astounded worshipers.
Reaching the end, he paused for a moment, and carelessly looked down. It
was about fifteen feet to the floor below—the simplest jump in the
world for the mountain-bred Bones. Daintily, gingerly, lazily, and yet
with a conceited airiness of manner, as if, humanly speaking, he had one
leg in his pocket and were doing it on three, he cleared the distance,
dropping just in front of the chancel, without a sound, turned himself
around three times, and then lay comfortably down.
Three deacons were instantly in the aisle, coming up before the eminent
divine, who, we fancied, wore a restrained smile. We heard the hurried
whispers: "Belongs to them." "Quite a local institution here, you know."
"Don't like to offend sensibilities;" and the minister's prompt "By no
means," as he went on with his service.
A short month ago we would have repudiated Bones; today we sat there in
slightly supercilious attitudes, as if to indicate that any affront
offered to Bones would be an insult to ourselves, and followed by our
instantaneous withdrawal in a body.
All went well, however, until the minister, lifting the large Bible from
the communion table and holding it in both hands before him, walked toward
a reading stand by the altar rails. Bones uttered a distinct growl. The
We, and we alone, comprehended in a flash the whole situation. The Bible
was nearly the size and shape of one of those soft clods of sod which we
were in the playful habit of launching at Bones when he lay half-asleep in
the sun, in order to see him cleverly evade it.
We held our breath. What was to be done? But the opportunity belonged to
our leader, Jeff Briggs—a confoundedly good-looking fellow, with the
golden mustache of a northern viking and the curls of an Apollo. Secure in
his beauty and bland in his self-conceit, he rose from the pew, and
stepped before the chancel rails.
"I would wait a moment, if I were you, sir," he said, respectfully, "and
you will see that he will go out quietly."
"What is wrong?" whispered the minister in some concern.
"He thinks you are going to heave that book at him, sir, without giving
him a fair show, as we do."
The minister looked perplexed, but remained motionless, with the book in
his hands. Bones arose, walked halfway down the aisle, and vanished like a
With this justification of his reputation, Bones disappeared for a week.
At the end of that time we received a polite note from Judge Preston,
saying that the dog had become quite domiciled in their house, and begged
that the camp, without yielding up their valuable PROPERTY in him, would
allow him to remain at Spring Valley for an indefinite time; that both the
judge and his daughter—with whom Bones was already an old friend—would
be glad if the members of the camp would visit their old favorite whenever
they desired, to assure themselves that he was well cared for.
I am afraid that the bait thus ingenuously thrown out had a good deal to
do with our ultimate yielding. However, the reports of those who visited
Bones were wonderful and marvelous. He was residing there in state, lying
on rugs in the drawing-room, coiled up under the judicial desk in the
judge's study, sleeping regularly on the mat outside Miss Pinkey's bedroom
door, or lazily snapping at flies on the judge's lawn.
"He's as yaller as ever," said one of our informants, "but it don't
somehow seem to be the same back that we used to break clods over in the
old time, just to see him scoot out of the dust."
And now I must record a fact which I am aware all lovers of dogs will
indignantly deny, and which will be furiously bayed at by every faithful
hound since the days of Ulysses. Bones not only FORGOT, but absolutely CUT
US! Those who called upon the judge in "store clothes" he would perhaps
casually notice, but he would sniff at them as if detecting and resenting
them under their superficial exterior. The rest he simply paid no
attention to. The more familiar term of "Bonesy"—formerly applied to
him, as in our rare moments of endearment—produced no response. This
pained, I think, some of the more youthful of us; but, through some
strange human weakness, it also increased the camp's respect for him.
Nevertheless, we spoke of him familiarly to strangers at the very moment
he ignored us. I am afraid that we also took some pains to point out that
he was getting fat and unwieldy, and losing his elasticity, implying
covertly that his choice was a mistake and his life a failure.
A year after, he died, in the odor of sanctity and respectability, being
found one morning coiled up and stiff on the mat outside Miss Pinkey's
door. When the news was conveyed to us, we asked permission, the camp
being in a prosperous condition, to erect a stone over his grave. But when
it came to the inscription we could only think of the two words murmured
to him by Miss Pinkey, which we always believe effected his conversion: