had ever seenbefore in a place that the Gentle Man called the Park. There were lots of choice spots in the Park where I could lift my leg and let this city know that Barry now lived there.
There were other big dogs like me in the Park. We approached each other and sniffed carefully.They smelled like city dogs. There were small dogs riding in carriages on ladies’ laps who saw me and yipped at me so fiercely I had to snort. What did they think they were going to do to me with their tiny little teeth and bodies not much bigger than hares? Tear me limb from limb? There were birds,too, and long brown things the Gentle Man called squirrels. I had half a mind to chase after them, but there was the leash to hold me back, and, besides, my running days were over. These were my plodding days, and I was at peace with that. They were sitting days, too, and I was content to sit with the Gentle Man while he read his newspaper. He took me to the Park every day.
Many people came to the house to visit with the man. Some of them came just to see me. The Gentle Man would greet them at the door. They would enter the house and approach me where I liked to lie on the woolly rug in the parlor in a shaft of sunlight. Usually the visitor was a mother or a father bringing their children to meet me. They would kneel down and stroke my coat. They would pat my head and offer me treats and coo over me.
“This is the world-famous Barry der Menschenretter,” the parents would explain to their children. There was such pride in their voices. It was as if I were their very own dog.
I bet that you have been wondering all this time what the
Menschenretter
part of my name means. Well, I will tell you, just in case you have not already guessed. It means “lifesaver” in the German tongue. To my visitors, to the world, that was who I was: Barry the Lifesaver.
“He saved forty people,” they said.
“He saved a baby,” they said.
“He saved the clerics from robbers who wanted to steal the silver cross in the chapel,” they said.
I might have saved forty people. Frankly, I did not know. I had long since lost count. But as I have said, by the time I was born, there were not many robbers roaming the Alps. Still, I suppose that iswhat happens when you become a legend. People like to tell stories about you, and they don’t always care whether the stories are the exact truth. That was all right with me. I knew who I was and what I had done. I had saved lives. I had rescued people from the White Death. And in the end, I had escaped the White Death myself.
In the Park, the Gentle Man had a favorite bench where he liked to sit and read. Lying stretched out at his feet, I could see beyond the trees of the Park and the city chimneys to the high peaks of the snow-covered Alps. On cloudless days, if I looked very hard, I imagined I could even see the roof of the hospice, glinting in the sunshine. How I missed the hospice. The Gentle Man was good to me, but I missed the clerics and the marronniers and the other working dogs. And, oh, how I missed the snow!
Then one morning, I woke up to see a familiar soft grayness in the sky out the window of my new home. It was not long before they came drifting down from on high, my dear old friends, the snow-flakes. I went to the front door and scratched.
The Gentle Man said, “Would you like to take a walk in the snow, Barry?”
He might have been a new friend, but he already understood me so well. He attached the leash to my collar and together we went out for a walk in the snow. I plodded a little way down the street before I opened my mouth and felt the cold flakes melting on my tongue. I could smell the snow, which lightly covered all the other city scents. Later that afternoon, the Gentle Man took me out again. By that time, the snow in the Park had gotten deep. It was not as deep as the snow in the Great Saint Bernard Pass. But it was deepenough for my purposes. I went down on my back and rolled in it, just like
There were other big dogs like me in the Park. We approached each other and sniffed carefully.They smelled like city dogs. There were small dogs riding in carriages on ladies’ laps who saw me and yipped at me so fiercely I had to snort. What did they think they were going to do to me with their tiny little teeth and bodies not much bigger than hares? Tear me limb from limb? There were birds,too, and long brown things the Gentle Man called squirrels. I had half a mind to chase after them, but there was the leash to hold me back, and, besides, my running days were over. These were my plodding days, and I was at peace with that. They were sitting days, too, and I was content to sit with the Gentle Man while he read his newspaper. He took me to the Park every day.
Many people came to the house to visit with the man. Some of them came just to see me. The Gentle Man would greet them at the door. They would enter the house and approach me where I liked to lie on the woolly rug in the parlor in a shaft of sunlight. Usually the visitor was a mother or a father bringing their children to meet me. They would kneel down and stroke my coat. They would pat my head and offer me treats and coo over me.
“This is the world-famous Barry der Menschenretter,” the parents would explain to their children. There was such pride in their voices. It was as if I were their very own dog.
I bet that you have been wondering all this time what the
Menschenretter
part of my name means. Well, I will tell you, just in case you have not already guessed. It means “lifesaver” in the German tongue. To my visitors, to the world, that was who I was: Barry the Lifesaver.
“He saved forty people,” they said.
“He saved a baby,” they said.
“He saved the clerics from robbers who wanted to steal the silver cross in the chapel,” they said.
I might have saved forty people. Frankly, I did not know. I had long since lost count. But as I have said, by the time I was born, there were not many robbers roaming the Alps. Still, I suppose that iswhat happens when you become a legend. People like to tell stories about you, and they don’t always care whether the stories are the exact truth. That was all right with me. I knew who I was and what I had done. I had saved lives. I had rescued people from the White Death. And in the end, I had escaped the White Death myself.
In the Park, the Gentle Man had a favorite bench where he liked to sit and read. Lying stretched out at his feet, I could see beyond the trees of the Park and the city chimneys to the high peaks of the snow-covered Alps. On cloudless days, if I looked very hard, I imagined I could even see the roof of the hospice, glinting in the sunshine. How I missed the hospice. The Gentle Man was good to me, but I missed the clerics and the marronniers and the other working dogs. And, oh, how I missed the snow!
Then one morning, I woke up to see a familiar soft grayness in the sky out the window of my new home. It was not long before they came drifting down from on high, my dear old friends, the snow-flakes. I went to the front door and scratched.
The Gentle Man said, “Would you like to take a walk in the snow, Barry?”
He might have been a new friend, but he already understood me so well. He attached the leash to my collar and together we went out for a walk in the snow. I plodded a little way down the street before I opened my mouth and felt the cold flakes melting on my tongue. I could smell the snow, which lightly covered all the other city scents. Later that afternoon, the Gentle Man took me out again. By that time, the snow in the Park had gotten deep. It was not as deep as the snow in the Great Saint Bernard Pass. But it was deepenough for my purposes. I went down on my back and rolled in it, just like
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