Oil of dog by Ambrose Bierce. My name is Boffer Bings. I was
born of honest parents in one of the humbler walks of life, my father
being a manufacturer of dog oil, and my mother having a small studio in
the shadow of the village church where she disposed of unwelcome babes. In my
boyhood I was trained to habits of industry. I not only assisted my father
in procuring dogs for his vats, but was frequently employed by my mother to
carry away the debris of her work in the studio. In performance of this
duty, I sometimes had need of all my natural intelligence, for all the
law officers of the vicinity were opposed to my mother's business. They were not
elected on an opposition ticket, and the matter had never been made a political
issue. It just happened. So my father's business of making dog oil was
naturally less unpopular, though the owners of missing dogs sometimes regarded him with suspicion,
which was reflected to some extent upon me. My father had as silent
partners all the physicians of the town, who seldom wrote a prescription which did
not contain what they were pleased to designate. As all can it is really
the most valuable medicine ever discovered. But most persons are unwilling to make personal
sacrifices for the afflicted, and it was evident that many of the fattest dogs
in town had been forbidden to play with me, a fact which pained my
young sensibilities and at one time came near driving me to become a pirate.
Looking back upon those days, I cannot but regret at times that, by
indirectly bringing my beloved parents to their death, I was the author of misfortunes
profoundly affecting my future. One evening, while passing my father's oil factory with
the body of a foundling from my mother's studio, I saw a constable who
seemed to be closely watching my movements. Young as I was, I had
learned that a constable's acts of whatever apparent character, are prompt by the most
reprehensible motives, and I avoided him by dodging into the oilery by a side
door which happened to stand ajar. I locked it at once and was alone
with my dead My father had retired for the night. The only light in
the place came from the furnace, which glowed a deep, rich crimson under
one of the vats, casting ruddy reflections on the walls. Within the cauldron,
the oil still rolled in indolent abolition, occasionally pushing to the surface a
piece of dog. Seating myself to wait for the constable to go away,
I held the naked body of the foundling in my lap and tenderly stroked its
short silken hair. Ah, how beautiful it was. Even at that early
age, I was passionately fond of children, and as I looked upon this
cherub, I could almost find it in my heart to wish that the small
red wound upon its breast. The work of my dear mother had not been
mortal. It had been my custom to throw the babes into the river,
which nature had thoughtfully provided for the purpose. But that night I did not
dare to leave the oilery for fear of the constable. After all, I
said to myself, it cannot greatly matter if I put it into this cauldron.
My father will never know the bones from those of a puppy, and
the few deaths which may result from administering another kind of oil for the incomparable
all can are not important in a population which increases so rapidly. In short,
I took the first step in crime and brought myself untold sorrow by casting
the babe into the cauldron. The next day, somewhat to my surprise,
my father, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, informed me and my mother that
he had obtained the finest quality of oil that was ever seen, that the
physicians to whom he had shown samples had so pronounced it. He added that
he had no knowledge as to how the result was obtained. The dogs had
been treated in all respects as usual, and were of an ordinary breed.
I deemed it my duty to explain, which I did, though palsied would
have been my tongue if I could have foreseen the consequences bewailing their previous ignorance
of the advantages of combining their industries, my parents at once took measures to
repair the error. My mother removed her studio to a wing of the factory
building, and my duties in connection with the business ceased. I was no
longer required to dispose of the bodies of the small superfluous, and there was
no need of alluring dogs to their doom, for my father discarded them altogether,
though they still had an honorable place in the name of the oil.
So suddenly thrown into idleness, I might naturally have been expected to become vicious
and dissolute, but I did not. The holy influence of my dear mother
was ever about me to protect me from the temptations which beset youth. And
my father was a deacon in a church. Alas that through my fault these
estimable persons should have come to so bad an end. Finding a double profit
in her business, my mother now devoted herself to it with a new assiduity.
She removed not only superfluous and unwelcome babes to order, but went out
into the highways and byways, gathering in children of a larger growth, and
even such adults as she could entice to the oilery. My father, too,
enamored of the superior quality of oil produced, purveyed for his vats with
diligence and zeal. The conversion of their neighbors into dog oil became, in
short, the one passion of their lives. An absorbing and overwhelming greed took
possession of their souls and served them in place of a hope in heaven,
by which also they were inspired. So enterprising had they now become that a
public meeting was held and resolutions passed, severely censuring them. It was intimated
by the chairman that any further raids upon the population would be met in a
spirit of hostility. My poor parents left the meeting broken hearted, desperate,
and I believe not altogether sane. Anyhow, I deemed it prudent not to
enter the oilery with them that night, but slept outside in a stable.
At about midnight, some mysterious impulse caused me to rise and peer through a
window into the furnace room, where I knew my father now slept. The
fires were burning as brightly as if the following day's harvest had been expected to
be abundant. One of the large cauldrons was slowly walloping with a mysterious appearance
of self restraint, as if it by did its time to put forth its
full energy. My father was not in bed. He had risen in his
night clothes and was preparing a noose in a strong chord. From the looks
which he cast at the door of my mother's bedroom, I knew too well
the purpose that he had in mind. Speechless and motionless with terror, I
could do nothing in prevention or warning. Suddenly the door of my mother's apartment
was opened noiselessly, and the two confronted each other, both apparently surprised.
The lady also was in her night clothes, and she held in her right
hand the tool of her trade, a long, narrow bladed dagger. She
too, had been unable to deny herself the last prophet which the unfriendly action
of the citizens and my absence had left her. For one instant, they
looked into each other's blazing eyes, and then sprang together, with indescribable fury.
Round and round the room. They struggled, the man cursing, the
woman shrieking, both fighting like demons. She to strike him with the dagger,
he to strangle her with his great bare hands. I know not how
long I had the unhappiness to observe this disagreeable instance of domestic infelicity. But
at last, after a more than usually vigorous struggle, the combatants suddenly moved
apart. My father's breast and my mother's weapon showed evidences of contact. For
another instant they glared at each other in the most unamiable way. Then,
my poor wounded father, feeling the hand of death upon him, leapt forward,
unmindful of resistance, grasped my dear mother in his arms, dragged her
to the side of the boiling cauldron, collected all his failing energies, and
sprang in with her. In a moment, both had disappeared and were adding
their oil to that of the committee of citizens who had called the day before
with an invitation to the public mists. Convinced that these unhappy events closed to
me every avenue to an honorable career in that town, I removed to the
famous city of Otumwe, where these memoirs are written, with a heart full
of remorse for a heedless act entailing so dismal a commercial disaster. End of
Oil of Dog by Ambrose Bierce