A Man and His Dog by Katherine Mansfield

Books at bedtime by calming anxiety. A man and his dog by Catherine Mansfield.

To look at Mr. Potts, one would have thought that there were at least some, well, someone who had nothing to boast about. He was a little insignificant fellow, with a crooked tie, a hat too small for him, and a coat too large. The brown canvas portfolio that he carried to and from the post office every day was not like a businessman's portfolio. It was like a children's school satchel. It did up even around the id buttons. And imagined there were crumbs and an apple core inside. And then there was something funny about his boots. Well, wasn't there? Through the laces, his coloured socks peaked out. What the Dickens had the chap done with the tongues? Friedham suggested the wit of a chest knee butt. Poor old Potts, more likely buried them in his garden. Under his arm, he clasped an umbrella, and in wet weather, when he put it up, he disappeared completely.

He was not. He was a walking umbrella, no more. The umbrella became his shell.

The pots lived in a little bungalow on Chesney flat. The bulge of the water tank to one side gave it a mournful air, like a little bungalow with a toothache. There was no garden.

A path had been cut in the paddock turf, from the gate to the front door, and two beds, in round, one on-blown, had been cut in what was going to be the front lawn. Down that path went pots, every morning at half-past 8, and was picked up by the Chesney bus. Up that path walked pots every evening, while the great kettle of a bus droned on. In the late evening, when he crept as far as the gate, eager to smoke a pipe, he wasn't allowed to smoke any nearer to the house than that. So humble, so modest was his air, but the big, merrily shining stars seemed to wink at each other, to laugh, to say, "Look at him, he's thrown something." When pots got out of the tram at the fire station, to change into the Chesney bus, he saw something was up. The car was there all right, but the driver was off his purge. He was flat on his face half under the engine, and the conductor, his cap off, sat on a step rolling a cigarette and looking dreamy. A little group of businessmen and a woman clerk and two of them were stood staring at the empty car. There was something mournful, pitiful, about the way leaned one side and shivered faintly when the driver shook something. It was like someone who'd had an accident and tries to say, "Don't touch me, don't come near me, don't hurt me." But all this was so familiar, the cars had only been chasing, had been running to Chesney the last few months, that nobody said anything, nobody asked anything. They just waited on the off chance. In fact, two or three decided to walk it as pots came up, but pots didn't want to walk unless he had to. He was tired. He had been up half the night, rubbing his white chest. She had one of her mysterious pains, and helping the sleepy servant girl, heat compresses and hot water bottles and make tea. The window was blue, and the roosters, they had started crowing before he lay down finally with feet like ice. And all this was familiar, two standing at the edge of the pavement, and now and again changing, his brown canvas portfolio from one hand to the other. Pots began to live over the night before, but it was vague, shadowy. He saw himself moving like a crab, down the passage to the cold kitchen and back again. The two candles quivered on the dark chest of drawers, as he bent over his wife, his big eyes suddenly flashed, and then she cried. "I get no sympathy, no sympathy, you only do it because you have to, don't contradict me, I can see you crudge doing it." Trying to suit her only made matters worse. There had been an awful scene, ending with her sitting up and saying solemnly with our hand raised, "Never mind, it will not be for long now." But the sounds of those words frightened her so terribly, that she flung black on the pillow and sobbed. "Robot, Robert." "Robot was the name of the young man, to whom she had been engaged years ago, before she met pots, and pots, was very glad to hear him invoked. He had come to know that meant that in a crisis it was over and she'd began to quieten down. But this time, pots had wheeled round, he had walked across the pavement to the pailing fence that ran beside. A piece of light grass pushed through the fence and some slender silky daisies. Suddenly, he saw a bee, a light on one of the daisies, and the flower leaned over, swayed, shook, while a little bleak, clung, and rock. And as it flew away, the petals fluttered as if joyfully. Just for an instant, pots dropped into the world where this happened. He brought from it the timid smile, with which he walked back to the car. But now, everybody had disappeared except one young girl, who stood beside the empty car reading. At the tail of the procession came pots, in a casak, so much too large for him that it looked like a night shirt, and you felt that he ought to be carrying not a hymn and a prayer book but a candle. His voice was a very light, plaintive tenor. He surprised everybody. It seemed to surprise him too. But it was so plaintive that when he cried for the wings, for the wings of a dove, the ladies in the congregation wanted to club together and buy him a pair. Lino's nose quivered so pitifully. There was such a whistle, timid look in his eyes, that pots heart was run. But of course, he would not show it. Well, he said sternly, "I suppose you'd better come home." So he got up off the bench. Lino got up too. But stood still holding up a pole. But there's one thing, said pots, turning and facing him squarely, that we'd better be clear about before you do come. And it's this. He pointed his finger at Lino, who started as though he expected to be shot. But he kept his bewildered whistle-eye upon his master. Stop this pretence of being a fighting dog. Potts more sternly than ever. You are not a fighting dog. You're a watchdog. That's what you are. Very well. Stick to it. But it's this infernal, boasting I can't stand.

It's that that gets me. In the moments Paul's that followed, while Lino and his master looked at each other, it was curious how strong a resemblance was between them. Then Potts turned again and made for home. And timidly, as though falling over his own poles, Lino followed after the humble little figure of his master.