BLUMFELD, AN ELDERLY BACHELOR
55
Dirtiness,
however, was only one disadvantage of a dog. Dogs also
get sick, and no one, really, understands dog maladies. Then this
animal cowers in a corner, or hobbles around, whimpers, hacks,
retches with some pain or other; one wraps it in a cover, whistles it
a tune, shoves it some milk,- in short, nurses it in the hope-however
that may be possible-that it is a question of a passing illness, while
actually
it
may be a disgusting and serious infectious disease. But
even though the dog remains healthy, later on he will grow suddenly
old. One can not decide to give him away at the proper time; and
then comes the day when one's own age looks out at one from the
teary
eyes of the dog. Then one has to be tormented by the animal,
half-blind, weak-lunged and almost immoveable in its fat, and pay
dearly for the pleasures it had formerly brought.
As
much as Blum–
feld would like to have a dog at the moment, he would rather climb
the stairs alone for another thirty years than be burdened with an
old dog like that, who, groaning more loudly even than himself, would
drag itself up behind him step by step.
So Blumfeld decides to stay alone. He has none of the hanker–
ings
of an old maid who has to have some inferior living being about
her that she· can treasure and be tender with and constantly serve,
so that a cat, a canary, or even a goldfish suffice her purpose. And
if
that proves impossible, she is even content with flowers in the window.
Blumfeld, on the contrary, wants only one companion, an animal
which will not give him much trouble, which an occasional kick will
not harm, which can even spend the night in the street if necessary,
but which, if he so desires, will be at his disposal, barking, jumping
up on him, and licking his hands. Something of the sort Blumfeld
wants, but since he can not have it, as he sees, without disadvantages
all
too great, he renounces it; yet in keeping with his fundamental dis–
p<mtion he returns from time to time- as, for instance, this very eve–
ning-to the same thought.
Upon reaching the door to his room upstairs and taking the key
from
his pocket, he hears a slight noise coming from within. A pe–
culiar rattling noise, but very lively and very regular. Since he has
just
been thinking of dogs, it reminds him of the noise that paws
make when striking by turns on the floor. But paws do not rattle;
it
is
not paws, then. He opens the door hurriedly and turns on the
dectric light. He was hardly prepared for this sight. This is magic:
two small, white, blue-striped balls of celluloid are bouncing up and
down beside each other on the floor; as one is striking the floor, the
other
is
in
the air, and tirelessly they carry on their play. Once in the
grammar school during a well-known electrical experiment Blumfeld
had
seen small spheres bouncing in a like manner, but these are com-
