Cornell Woolrich - The Dog with the Wooden Leg

Marty stuffed the tin cup — whose magic earning power his granddaughter never dreamed or she would have promptly thrown it out — into his pocket, put on a pair of dark glasses. These were strictly legitimate; he had her permission to wear them when he was out on the streets. They helped by warning people of his handicap, made Dick’s task easier. The dog was competent to guide him through the thickest traffic or most crowded sidewalks, but motorists and pedestrians would understand more quickly at sight of the glasses, be less likely to graze or jostle him. He also took a stick with him.

He carefully stowed the quarter his granddaughter had given him into his pocket, took along a small sack of tobacco and his pipe, locked up the flat, and started down the stairs with his companion. At every turn Dick carefully closed in, nudged him around in the direction they were to follow, although he had the banister rail to guide him. But once they were out on the open street, he was totally dependent on the dog.

He felt for each of the three steps going down to sidewalk level, and a friendly feminine voice beside him said:

“Good morning, Mr. Campbell. Off to the park?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Schultz.” He smiled, recognized it as the jaintress’ voice without trouble.

They advanced over cement sidewalk for about thirty or forty yards. Then Dick halted him by pressing his muzzle like a brake before Marty’s kneecap. The traffic was louder just ahead of them, and his stick went down lower than his feet when he tested it, so he knew they’d come to the brink of a crossing.

A traffic whistle blew shrilly, and Dick nudged him on again. He stepped down and they started over. Brakes screamed, coming around at them on a right turn, and the dog quickly prodded him diagonally out of the way, but he had such confidence in it he wasn’t even frightened. It was really safer than walking with your eyes open, because by not seeing the vehicles all around him, there was no chance for him to lose his presence of mind and step the wrong way, which is a cause of most mishaps.

The dog thrust its shoulder before him again like a brake, so he knew they had reached the opposite curb line, and stepped up. They repeated this three or four times. But meanwhile, as they left their own immediate neighborhood, where both were a familiar sight, and entered a more congested business district, the dog’s wooden leg began to attract more and more attention. Marty could hear a hum of voices all around him. “Look at that! D’je ever see anything like it before?” He could tell by the scuffle of feet that everyone was stopping a moment to stand and stare as he and Dick went by. He was used to that by now; it happened nearly every time he went out.

He was used to people asking him about it, too; stooping to examine it and pet the dog. So was Dick; he bore it with an air of patient indifference. Someone did right now, as usual. A voice edged up beside him.

“Does he bite if you touch him?”

“No, he won’t bite you,” Marty answered gently, as he had many times before.

The voice dropped down lower; the man was evidently squatting down to pat Dick and — Marty could tell by the slight hitch in their progress — lift the wooden leg up to inspect it at closer range. He would have answered the next question before it was asked, so sure was he what it would be.

“What happened to him, mister? Is it a real amputation or is the paw just folded over double inside that leather pouch?”

“It’s real,” Marty answered patiently. “He was run over by a truck when he was just a little pup, before he’d been trained.” And then as a gentle hint that they’d been delayed long enough. “Go ahead, Dick.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” the voice gasped.

Dick went on again, so Marty knew the interference had ended, for this time at least.

Marty could smell trees and grass before him after the next crossing, so he knew they were at the park entrance. The traffic noises subsided behind them, and the twittering of birds took their place.

“Our usual bench, Dick,” he told the dog.

Their progress was now curved and serpentine instead of being in a straight line, as they followed the winding park pathway. An occasional perambulator guided by a nursemaid was the only danger they had to run now. Somebody’s Pekingese out for an airing yapped uncivilly at Dick, but the latter just ignored it disdainfully. He was trained not to fight with other dogs while he had someone in his charge, no matter what the provocation.

Once there was a whiff of water to one side of them as they skirted a little lake. The dog edged him to one side of the path finally, and they’d reached their familiar bench. Marty sat down, patted Dick’s head, and let the pleasant warmth of the sun soak into him. He didn’t neglect, however, to put the “drinking cup” on the bench beside him. There was a soft thud as Dick sank to rest on the pathway before him.

It was the most peaceful spot imaginable. He smiled when the thought of Celia’s parting admonition: “Don’t get into any trouble.” Wasn’t that just like a woman, to fret when there was no reason? He filled his pipe, lighted it, and began peacefully puffing away. Dick yawned comfortably. Marty could tell by the almost human sound his expanding jaws made.

A half hour went by. Steps came along the path toward them, stopped short at sight of the dog’s wooden leg. Marty had known they would. He waited for the inevitable question to come. The man took a minute or two to get up courage to address him. Or maybe he was staring at the leg, unable to believe his eyes. Marty smiled a little toward the place where the steps had stopped, simply to get the thing over with as quickly as possible. That brought it on.

“What happened to him, dad?”

“He was run over when he was a pup.”

“I’ll be hanged. What’ll they think of next?”

It was all right so long as he didn’t plank himself down on the bench next to Marty and make a pest of himself. Dick was company enough for Marty’s liking. The man didn’t. He stared his fill, and then his steps went on again.

“Fold it under you so they won’t pester us so much, Dick,” Marty said in a low voice. He reached down, felt for the leg, and patted it to help the dog understand. Dick got his meaning; the little wooden pivot scraped the cement as he bedded it under him.

Presently more footsteps came, from the same direction as the last. They, too, stopped short, so some of the leg must have been showing after all, in spite of their precaution. Marty sighed, then smiled again encouragingly, to get it over with. Otherwise it was liable to drag on ten minutes or more.

“What’s he got there, gramp, a wooden leg?”

“Yep. Run over by a truck when he was a pup.”

This was one of the real nosey kind, the from-Missouri kind. They averaged about one to ten of the others. “Is it all right if I look at it? Will he bite?”

“He won’t bite so long as you don’t try to touch me.”

There was the soft thump of Dick’s coat being patted propitiatingly. Then the man coaxed: “Let’s see it, old boy. Tha-at’s it.” Dick must have submitted resignedly. The next sound was of the man slapping his own thigh in amazement. “Can you beat it! I thought I’d seen everything, but this is a new one on me.”

The footsteps went on their way again. They seemed to go at a little quicker gait than they had approached, but then maybe the man had some place to go and wanted to make up for the time he had lost by stopping and rubbernecking. Or else maybe it was just Marty’s imagination that his pace was faster now, and it really wasn’t. It was such a little thing after all.