Chapter C: F. Harrison

[_Oct. 24, 1891._]

Anent "Orpheus at the Zoo," the following facts may interest you. Of two dogs of mine, one showed a great fondness for music. She (though usually my shadow) would always leave me to go to a room where a piano was being played, and the more she liked the music, the closer she crept to the player, even if a stranger to her. If, however, one began to play scales or exercises, she would get up, walk to the door, sit down, and, after waiting a bit, go away out of sight, but not out of hearing, for she soon appeared again on the resumption of music to her taste. On the other hand, mere "strumming" very quickly obliged her to go right away out of hearing. I confess that I have many times plagued the poor dog by thus sending her backwards and forwards. Her looks were often very comical. The other dog evidently hated music--would try to push a player from the piano, go out of hearing, and show other unmistakable signs of dislike. A band would draw one dog out to listen, while the other rushed away to hide. In one house the dog first mentioned had, for some reason or other, a particular objection to the room where the piano was, and never willingly stayed there. Music would bring her in, but only to sigh and moan, evidently in great pity for herself at being obliged to listen under such (to her) trying conditions. From these and other observations I am convinced that there is the musical dog as well as the unmusical, just as with human beings.

D.

RECOGNITION OF LIKENESSES BY DOGS.

[_May 5, 1894._]

In the _Spectator_ of April 21st there is an article on Apes, in which the following occurs:--"Monkeys, we believe, alone among animals can recognise the meaning of a picture." It may interest some of your readers to hear that certain other animals can also do this, two instances having come under my own observation. A cat belonging to a little girl I know was on the child's bed one morning, and made a spring at a picture of a thrush, about life-size, which was hanging near. The other case is that of a dog--a female Irish terrier--who is in the habit of running with her mistress's pony carriage. When she sees the pony being harnessed, she often shows her delight by jumping up at its head and barking. In a certain shop to which she sometimes goes with her mistress there is a picture of a horse hanging. The dog invariably behaves in exactly the same manner to this, jumping up and barking at it, thus showing unmistakably that she recognises its meaning.

JULIA ANDREWS.

_May 19, 1894._

The following instance bears on the subject discussed in the _Spectator_ of May 5th. We had for a newcomer to our circle a little terrier dog. I was informed it had been seen in the library facing a large-sized portrait of myself, and barking furiously. I was somewhat sceptical until a day or two later I saw it repeat the performance. I have wondered whether it was because the dog thought it a good or bad representation of the original, and so was complimenting or otherwise the artist.

FRANK WRIGHT.

[_May 19, 1894._]

Apropos of the recognition of pictures by dogs (_Spectator_, May 5th), I think you may be interested in the two following facts which came under my notice a few years ago. A sagacious but quite uneducated old terrier came with his master to call for me, and coiled himself on the hearthrug while we talked. Turning himself round in the intervals of slumber, his eye caught an oil-painting just over his head (a life-size half-length of a gentleman). He immediately sat up, showed his teeth, and growled--not once, but continually--as both angry and mortified that neither eyes nor nose had given him notice of the arrival of a stranger! The next instance was similar, except that the chief actor was a young, intelligent collie, who, on the sudden discovery of a man looking at him from the wall, barked long and furiously. In both instances, after their excitement had subsided, I led the dogs to look at another picture similar in size, and also of a gentleman, but neither of them would take the smallest notice of it. I need only add that the picture which the dogs appreciated was painted by Sir Henry Raeburn--the other was not. Might not a few sagacious canine members be a useful addition to the Royal Academy Hanging Committee?

B. THOMSON.

[_May 26, 1894._]

Many years ago I had a similar experience to Mr. Frank Wright. A likeness of myself, head and shoulders, drawn in chalk from a photograph, and enlarged to nearly life size, hung on the dining-room wall of a house I then occupied. One evening my wife silently called my attention to a young English terrier, who had not been very long with us, looking up at it very steadfastly. He regarded it for about a minute in silence, and at last broke out into a loud bark, which I supposed to mean that in his opinion the wall was not my proper place, and that only an evil genius could have set anything like me in such a position.

G.

[_June 2, 1894._]

You were so good as to insert my little account of the politeness of a parrot in the _Spectator_, will you now allow me also to bear witness to the recognition of a likeness by a dog? Some time ago I was painting two portraits in the country, and one day by chance I placed the picture of my hostess on the ground. Immediately her old spaniel came and gazed intently at the face for several seconds. Then he smelt at the canvas, and, unsatisfied, walked round and investigated the back. Finally, having discovered the deception, he turned away in manifest disgust, and nothing that we could do or say, on that day or on any other, would induce that dog to look at that picture again. We then tried him by putting my portrait of his master also on the ground, but he simply gave it a kind of casual contemptuous side-glance and took no further notice of it. We attributed this not to any difference in the merits or demerits of the two portraits, but simply to the fact that the dog felt he had been deceived once, but was not to be so taken in again.

LOUISA STARR CANZIANI.

RECOGNITION BY ANIMALS OF PICTURES.

[_Sept. 7, 1889._]

Thirty years ago I was staying at Langley, near Chippenham, with a lady who was working a large screen, on which she depicted in "raised" work (as it was then called) a life-sized cat on a cushion. The host, a sportsman now dead, was much struck with the similarity to life of the cat, so he fetched his dog (alas! like too many of the species), a cat-hater. The animal made a dead set at the (wool) cat, and but for the master's vigorous clutching him by the collar, the cushion would have been torn into atoms. I related this tale lately in Oxford, and my hearer told me that a friend in the Bevington Road had just painted a bird on a fire-screen, and her cat flew at it.

My own old dog, Scaramouch (a pet of the Duke of Albany's in his undergraduate days), disliked being washed, and when I showed him a large _Graphic_ picture of a child scrubbing a fox-terrier in a tub, he turned his head away ruefully, and would not look at his brother in adversity.

J. M. HULBERT.

_DOG FRIENDSHIPS._

DOG FRIENDS.

[_Feb. 16, 1889._]

The following story of friendship between two dogs may, I think, interest some of your readers. Some time ago I used often to stay with a friend in Wiltshire, whose park is separated from the house by a lake which is about a hundred and fifty yards broad at the narrowest part. Being extremely fond of animals, I soon became intimate with two delightful dogs belonging to my hostess, a large collie, called Jasper, and a rough Skye terrier, Sandie. The pair were devoted friends, if possible always went out together, and, sad to relate, even poached together. One afternoon I called them, as usual, to go for a walk, and making my way to the lake, I determined to row across and wander about in the deer-park. Without thinking of my two companions, I got into the boat and pushed off. Jasper at once jumped into the water and gaily followed the boat; half way across he and I were both startled by despairing howls, and stopping to look back, we saw poor little Sandie running up and down the bank, and bitterly bewailing the cruelty of his two so-called friends in leaving him behind. Hardening my heart, I sat still in silence, and simply watched. Jasper was clearly distressed; he swam round the boat, and looking up into my face, said unmistakably with his wise brown eyes, "Why don't you go to the rescue?" Seeing, however, that I showed no signs of intelligence, he made up his mind to settle the difficulty himself, so turned and swam back to forlorn little Sandie; there was a moment's pause, I suppose for explanations, and then, to my surprise and amusement, Jasper stood still, half out and half in the water, and Sandie scrambled on to his back, his front paws resting on Jasper's neck, who swam across the lake and landed him safely in the deer-park! I need not describe the evident pride of the one, or the gratitude of the other.

ROY.

FRIENDSHIPS OF DOGS WITH OTHER ANIMALS.

A LESSON.

[_Feb. 23, 1889._]

Your correspondent "Roy's" very interesting account of "A Canine Friendship" tempts me to send you the following about two Dandy Dinmonts in this neighbourhood.

Friends of mine in Dumfriesshire had in their house two Dandie Dinmont dogs who were inseparable friends and constant companions in all that was going on. One day one of these dogs disappeared unaccountably, and nothing was seen of it for a week. His owners were very vexed, thinking he must have got within the range of some keeper's gun or met with some other accident.

But the absentee's home-keeping companion was greatly distressed; he moped about, and would not touch any food for several days; till, unexpectedly on my friend's part, the truant suddenly reappeared and showed himself in the house. The dog who had remained at home, when he saw the arrival of his former friend, looked steadily at him for a few seconds, and then, without further parley, went at him and gave the truant a thoroughly sound thrashing. I always explain this to myself by supposing that the home-keeping dog decided that the truant had caused him for several days needless anxiety and abstinence from food, and that the truant must learn by painful experience that such behaviour could not be lightly condoned by his inseparable companion.

J. G.

CONSCIOUS AUTOMATA.

[_July 31, 1875._]

I have lately heard a story that I hope you may think worthy of a place among your illustrations of the thoughtful intelligence of "Conscious Automata." Many years ago, a family having a house in Grosvenor Square, and a place in the country (I think in Warwickshire), owned a terrier, who, in the country, made great friends with a large Newfoundland. When they came to town they brought the terrier, and he resided in a mews where he was much annoyed by a cur who lived next door, and attacked him whenever he came out. One day the terrier disappeared, but after a little time returned, bringing with him his big friend, who gave the vulgar bully a satisfactory thrashing--not attempting to kill him. This has been told me by an old servant, who was then a young man, living in service in London, close to the owners of the dogs. He answers for the facts of the story as he heard them at the time.

F. C.

DOG AND PIGEON.

[_Sept. 22, 1888._]

The _Spectator_ does not disdain anecdotes of dogs and their doings, and I think the following history, to which I can bear personal testimony, may be found not uninteresting to your readers. At this delightful house in Perthshire, where I am on a visit, there is a well-bred pointer, named Fop, who, when not engaged in his professional pursuits on the moor, lives chiefly in a kennel placed in a loose-box adjoining the other stables attached to the house. Nearly a year ago there were a pair of pigeons who lived in and about the stable yard. One of the birds died, and its bereaved mate at once attached itself for society and protection to the dog, and has been its constant companion ever since. On the days when the sportsmen are not seeking grouse the dog is in his kennel, and the pigeon is always his close attendant. She roosts on a rack over the manger of the stable, and in the day-time is either strutting about preening her feathers, taking her meals from the dog's biscuit and water tin, or quite as often sitting in the kennel by his side, nestling close to him. Fop, who is an amiable and rather sentimental being, takes no apparent notice of his companion, except that we observe him, in jumping into or out of his kennel while the pigeon is there, to take obvious care not to crush or disturb her in any way. The only other symptom Fop has shown of being jealous for the pigeon's comfort and convenience is that when of late two chickens from the stable-yard wandered into the apartment where the dog and pigeon reside, he very promptly bit their heads off, as if in mute intimation that one bird is company, and two (or rather three) are none.

The story is rather one of a pigeon than a dog, for it is quite evident that she is the devoted friend, and that he acquiesces in the friendship. On the days when Fop is taken, to his infinite delight, on to the moor, the pigeon is much concerned. She follows him as far as she dare, taking a series of short flights over his head, until a little wood is reached, through which the keeper and dogs have to take their way. At this point her courage fails her, and she returns to the stable, to wait hopefully for her comrade's return.

This singular alliance is a great joy and interest to the keepers, coachmen, and grooms of the establishment, and as the keeper gave me a strong hint that the story ought to be told in print, adding that he had seen much less noteworthy incidents of animal life promoted to such honour, I have ventured to send it to you. I may add that the pigeon is of the kind called "Jacobin," and is white, with a black wing. Is there any precedent for such close intimacies between animals so widely separated in kind and habit?

ALFRED AINGER.

A HEN AND PUPPIES.

[_Sept. 29, 1888._]

In reply to Mr. Ainger's question as to there being "any precedent for such close intimacies between animals so widely separated in kind and habit" as the dog and pigeon mentioned in his interesting letter, I can mention two cases which have come under my notice this last summer at my farm in Berkshire. In one case the friendship existed between a pullet and a pig. The pullet never left the farmyard to join in the rambles of the other fowls, but kept near the pig all day, occasionally roosting on its friend's back when taking its afternoon nap.

The other case was more remarkable. A hen, with strong motherly instincts, but no family of her own, acted for several weeks as foster-mother to eight spaniel puppies. The real mother, a very gentle creature, soon acquiesced in the arrangement. The hen covered the puppies with her wings just as though they had been chickens, and remained with them day and night. When they began to walk she was still their constant attendant; when they learned to lap and eat a little she would "call" them and break up their food. As they grew older the poor foster-mother had her patience sorely tried. They barked and capered around her, leading her altogether a sad life. After the puppies deserted her she was often seen sitting close to their mother, the pair apparently quite understanding each other. My children were naturally delighted to watch these strange sights, and the hen, though not at other times very tame, maintained perfect equanimity while they played with the puppies around her.

F. C. MAXWELL.

A DOG AND A RABBIT.

[_Sept. 29, 1888._]

Mr. Ainger, in giving his interesting incident of strange friendships between animals, asks if there are any precedents for such incongruous intimacy as he saw between a dog and a pigeon. To most close observers of animals, such curious cases, though always noteworthy, are well known; naturalists like Buckland and many others have frequently recorded them.

With the view of adding to the lore on this matter, permit me to cite the following. Two Scotch terriers are lying before the fire. Prince is an amiable sort of dog; Jack is rather surly; both good vermin-killers and fond of hunting. I bring in a common buck rabbit, and place it beside the dogs, with the intimation they were not to touch it. Trust, and then alliance, quickly grew between it and Prince, whilst Jack shows unmistakable hatred. In a few days the two friends, with their paws absurdly clasping each other's necks, sleep happily on the rug; they play together, they chase each other up and down the stairs and all over the house at full speed, and when tired come back to the rug. Jack refusing all this sort of thing, makes the rabbit look at him with a sort of awe. Does Bunny make no mess in the house? None whatever; he goes into the garden as the dogs do, and like them, scratches at the door when he wants to return. All this he does without any instruction from us. After a while, being very fond of him, we put on the floor a pretty pink-eyed doe as a present. He stares, sniffs her all over, kills her on the spot, and goes for a romp with his dear Prince. Jack always sleeps under my bed from choice, and just before I put out the light as I lie, stands up against the bed for his last pat and "good-night." Bunny has observed all this, and quietly creeps into the room, which he refuses to leave; then likewise always asks for his "good-night," and sleeps somewhere near his great "ideal."

Another instance, published in "Loch Creran" by my friend Mr. Anderson Smith. I punished my cat for killing a chicken. The next day he is seen to carry a live chicken in his mouth and lay it down to the hen he had previously robbed. He and the chicken afterwards were frequently observed leaving the orchard together, and travelling through the courtyard and back passages, find their way to the kitchen fireplace, where they would sleep in good fellowship. This chicken, I discovered, had been stolen nearly two miles away. It is important to remark that the cat, though a cruel bird-killer, never touched another chicken. Was the idea of compensation in the cat's mind? If not that, all the circumstances are singularly coincident. And why did the chicken prefer the cat's companionship to that of its fellows?

E. W. PHIBBS.

ANOTHER PIGEON STORY.

[_Oct. 6, 1888._]

Mr. Ainger's letter in the _Spectator_ of September 22nd reminds me of an almost identical friendship that existed some years ago at Grove House, Knutsford. A long-haired mastiff was kept chained as a watch-dog, and when a white fantail pigeon's mate died, it attached itself to the mastiff, and was continually with it in the kennel. When the dog had its breakfast of porridge and milk, the pigeon would eat out of the bowl at the same time; and when the dog had finished, it would lie flat on its side while the pigeon perched on its head and pecked off the grains of oatmeal that stuck to the long hair round its mouth. The only danger to the pigeon seemed to be that when the dog rushed out of the kennel suddenly to bark, it seemed to forget the pigeon, and we used to fear that the heavy chain might hurt it; but it never was hurt. This friendship lasted many years, till one of the two, I forget which, died.

ISABEL JAMISON.

DOG AND KITTENS.

[_July 1, 1893._]

The following story may, perhaps, interest some of your readers:--Willie is a small, rough-haired terrier, a truculent and aggressive character, the terror of tramps, in a skirmish with one of whom he has lost an eye. He rules the kitchen with a rod of iron, the inmate there admiring and fearing him. Next to tramps, Willie hates cats; he has been flogged again and again for chasing the neighbour's "Tom"; nothing can stop him rushing at the alien cat, however. But for his own domestic "Tabby" he has tolerance and a certain amount of affection; if another dog were to attack her, dire would be the warfare. A while ago, this cat had three kittens; two were taken by the maid and placed in a bucket of water, and left to their fate. Before that fate had come Willie perceived them; he snatched them from the bucket one by one, and carried them to his kennel. The maid attempted to get them away, but Willie flew at her with fury, and then returned to lick first one and then the other, to shove them up together, and lie down near them, and in every way to give the poor half-dead things a chance. This went on for some time; but when at last there was no sign of breath, and he saw that they were hopelessly dead, he marched out of the kennel, shook himself, and indicated to the maid that she might now proceed to bury them, that they were past intelligent treatment. He treats the remaining and living kitten with the indifference of the scientific for the normal.

L. H.

A CANINE NURSE.

[_May 18, 1895._]

Being a frequent reader of anecdotes of the sagacity of animals in your paper, I think you may consider the following trait of character in a dog worthy of notice. Jack, a rough-haired fox-terrier of quiet disposition, but a good ratter, and an inveterate enemy to strange or neighbouring cats, of whom, to my sorrow, he has slain at least one, became without effort the attached friend of a minute kitten introduced into the house last November. This friendship has been continued without intermission, and is reciprocated by the now full-grown cat. She, unfortunately, got caught in a rabbit-trap not long ago, but escaped with no further injury than a lacerated paw, which for some time caused her much pain and annoyance. Every morning Jack was to be seen tenderly licking the paw of the interesting invalid, to which kind nursing no doubt her rapid recovery may be attributed; and though she is now more than convalescent and able to enjoy her usual game of play, he still greets her each morning with a gentle inquiring lick on the injured paw, just to see if it is all right, before proceeding to roll her over in their accustomed gambols. This seems to me a marked instance of individual affection overcoming race-antipathy.

BLANCHE ROCHFORT.

A CURIOUS FRIENDSHIP.

[_Feb. 6, 1875._]

I have two dogs, two cats, and a kitten. Many years of experience have shown me, in the teeth of all proverbs, that cats and dogs, members of the same household, live together quite as amicably as human beings.

Only, like human beings, they have their dislikes and preferences for each other. At the present time, my dog Snow is on terms of hearty friendship with my grey cat Kitty, but of polite indifference with my black cat Toppy.

Toppy, for some years back, has been subject to fits, owing, it is considered, to the lodgment of some small shot near her spine, whilst out trespassing (or poaching).

Yesterday Snow rushed into the kitchen with face so anxious and piteous that my servants both exclaimed that something must have happened; gave signs, as he can do, that somebody was to go with him, and was followed into the drawing-room, where Toppy, left alone, had fallen under the grate in a fit, and was writhing amid the ashes and embers. She was rescued, and beyond a little singeing, does not seem much the worse.

To reach the kitchen, Snow must have pushed open a red-baize door, which he has never been known to open before, and before which he will stay barking for ten minutes at a time to be let through.

If any biped, supposing himself to be endowed with reason, humanity, and articulate speech, tells me that Snow is a conscious automaton, can I give him any other answer than, "You're another"?

J. M. L.

AN ACT OF CANINE FRIENDSHIP.

[_Nov. 6, 1880._]

I have read from time to time in the pages of the _Spectator_ instances of canine sagacity furnished by your correspondents, which have, no doubt, interested many others besides myself. The following incident occurred last Saturday, in my walk from the beach, which, perhaps, may amuse your readers, as it did me.

My curiosity was excited by seeing a young retriever on his hind legs licking very ardently the face of a nice-looking donkey, who was tethered on the bank. After licking his face all over for a long time, he began to frisk around him, evidently anxious to have a trot together; but, finding that his friend was tied by a rope, he deliberately began to gnaw it, and in a very short time succeeded in setting him free! The owner of the donkey, who happened to be at work close by, then interfered, and put a stop to their little game, or otherwise Master Neddy would, no doubt, have been seduced to join in a scamper. From the warmth of the dog's salutes, I imagine that he and the donkey were old friends.

S. RICHARDS.

DOG AND CANARY.

[_Nov. 20, 1880._]

I was much interested in the account of the friendship that existed between the young retriever and the donkey whom he released by gnawing the rope. The little incident I send of another retriever may also interest your readers. A friend of mine had a pet canary, while her brother was the owner of a retriever that was also much petted. One day the canary escaped from the house, and was seen flying about the grounds for a few days, and when it perched was generally on high elm-trees. At last it vanished from view, and this dear little pet was mourned for as lost or dead. But after the interval of another day or so, the retriever came in with the canary in his mouth, carrying it most delicately, and went up to the owner of the bird, delivering it into her hands without even the feathers being injured. Surely nothing could illustrate more beautifully faithful love and gentleness in a dog than this.

E. TILL.

CAT-AND-DOG LOVE.

[_April 13, 1878._]

Would you allow me, as a cat fancier of nearly thirty years' standing, to corroborate, by a personal experience, Mr. Balfour's testimony in your last issue to the possibility of a genuine attachment between a cat and a dog? A few weeks ago, I called upon a bachelor friend who has two pets, a handsome black female cat, of the name of Kate, and a bright little terrier, responding to the call of David. My friend assured me that they lived on the most affectionate terms. They were certainly not demonstrative, but they were importations from Scotland, and refrained from "spooning" before folk. The character of the attachment was soon tested. Another acquaintance entered the room, accompanied by a terrier of about the same size as David, although not of the same variety. This dog made at once for the cat, then resting in front of the fire. She backed against the wall, and prepared for a fight, in which, if I may judge from her size, she would have been victorious. But she was saved the trouble of using her claws. Before she could utter a feline equivalent for "Jack Robinson," before the door could be closed, David rushed at the intruder, and literally ran him out of the room and down two flights of stairs, with a rapidity worthy of a member of the Irish Constabulary. By the time he returned, his Dulcinea had arranged herself for another nap, but she opened one eye as her companion took his place by his side, and--

"Betwixt her darkness and his brightness,
There passed a mutual glance of great politeness."

I witnessed a similar scene some years ago in a country inn in the north of Scotland. On that occasion, one dog defended against another a favourite cat and a favourite hen.

Speaking of cats, can any one say what has become of the late Pope's black cat, Morello? Did he die before his master, or has some one adopted him? Chateaubriand, as everybody knows, adopted Micetto, the grey favourite of Leo XII.

WILLIAM WALLACE.

_CURIOUS HABITS OF DOGS._

THE DOG THAT BURIED THE FROGS.

[_Feb. 2, 1895._]

Knowing your love of animals, and the interest so often shown in your columns in their ways, I venture to send you the following story I have lately heard from an eye-witness, and to ask whether you or any of your readers can throw any light upon the dog's probable object. The dog in question was a Scotch terrier. He was one day observed to appear from a corner of the garden carrying in his mouth, very gently and tenderly, a live frog. He proceeded to lay the frog down upon a flower-bed, and at once began to dig a hole in the earth, keeping one eye upon the frog to see that it did not escape. If it went more than a few feet from him, he fetched it back, and then continued his work. Having dug the hole a certain depth, he then laid the frog, still alive, at the bottom of it, and promptly scratched the loose earth back into the hole, and friend froggy was buried alive! The dog then went off to the corner of the garden, and returned with another frog, which he treated in the same way. This occurred on more than one occasion; in fact, as often as he could find frogs he occupied himself in burying them alive. Now dogs generally have some reason for what they do. What can have been a dog's reason for burying frogs alive? It does not appear that he ever dug them up again to provide himself with a meal. If, sir, you or any of your readers can throw any light on this curious, and for the frogs most uncomfortable, behaviour of my friend's Scotch terrier, I should be very much obliged.

R. ACLAND-TROYTE.

AN EXPLANATION.

[_Feb. 9, 1895._]

I think I can explain the puzzle of the Scotch terrier and his interment of the frogs, for the satisfaction of your correspondent. A friend of mine had once a retriever who was stung by a bee, and ever afterwards, when the dog found a bee near the ground, she stamped on it, and then scraped earth over it and buried it effectually--presumably to put an end to the danger of further stings. In like manner, another dog having bitten a toad, showed every sign of having found the mouthful to the last degree unpleasant. Probably Mr. Acland-Troyte's dog had, in the same way, bitten a toad, and conceived henceforth that he rendered public service by putting every toad-like creature he saw carefully and gingerly "out of harm's way," underground.

A great number of the buryings and other odd tricks of dogs must, however, I am sure, be considered as Atavism, and traced to the instincts bequeathed by their remote progenitors when yet "wild in the woods the noble _beastie_ ran." Such, I believe, is generally admitted to be the explanation of the universal habit of every dog before lying down to turn round two or three times and scratch its intending bed--even when that bed is of the softest woollen or silk--apparently to ascertain that no snakes or thorns lurk in its sleeping-place.

A dog which I once possessed exhibited such reversion to ancestral habits in a noteworthy way. She was a beautiful white Pomeranian; and when a litter of puppies was impending, on one occasion she scratched an enormous hole in our back-garden in South Kensington, where her leisure hours were passed--a hole like the burrow of a fox. It was not in the least of the character of the ordinary circular punch-bowl so often scooped out by idle or impatient dogs, but a long, deep channel running at a sharp angle a considerable way underground. Obviously, it was Yama's conviction that it was her maternal duty to provide shelter for her expected offspring, precisely as a fox or rabbit must feel it, and as we may suppose her own ancestresses did on the shores of the Baltic some thousand generations ago. When the puppies were born, Yama and the survivor were established by me in a most comfortable kennel in the same garden, with a day nursery and a night nursery (covered and open) for the comfort and safety of the puppy. But one fine morning, when the little creature had begun to crawl over the inclosure of its small domain, I happened to go into the garden while Yama was absent in the house, and discovered that my little friend was missing. The puppy had disappeared altogether; and at the same time I noticed that the flower-bed in which Yama had made her excavation had been nicely smoothed over by the gardener, who was putting the place in order. A suspicion instantly seized me, and I exclaimed, "You have buried my puppy!" I ran to the spot where the hole had been made, and, having swept aside the gardener's spadeful of soil, found the deeper part of the hole, running slanting underground, still open. I knelt down and thrust in my arm to its fullest stretch, and then, at the very end of the hole, my fingers encountered a little soft, warm, fluffy ball. The puppy came out quite happy and uninjured, freshly awakened from sleep, having shown that his instinct recognised the suitability of holes in the ground for the accommodation of puppies; just as the hereditary instinct of his mother had led her to prepare one for him, even in a South Kensington garden!

FRANCES POWER COBBE.

A DOG AND HIS DINNER.

[_Feb. 16, 1895._]

I knew a dog in Ireland--a large retriever--who had been taught always to bring his own tin dish in his mouth, to be filled at the late dinner. For some reason his master wished to make a change, and to feed him twice a day instead of once, to which he had always been accustomed. The dog resented this, and when told to bring his dish, refused, and it could nowhere be found; on which his master spoke angrily to him, and ordered him to bring the dish at once. With drooping tail and sheepish expression he went down the length of the garden, and began scratching up the soil where he had buried the bowl deep down, to avoid having to bring it at an hour of which he did not approve.

A LOVER OF DOGS.

DOGS AND LOOKING-GLASSES.

[_June 23, 1894._]

You are fond of odd actions of dogs, so perhaps the following may be acceptable. I have two fox-terriers--young dogs--Grip and Vic. In the morning, at early tea in our bedroom, Vic gets angry with Grip's reflection in the long glass of the wardrobe, barks at him furiously as he moves about, and scratches at the glass, quite regardless of her own face between her and his reflection. And when he assaults her from behind, to make her play with his real self, she turns round and snaps at him viciously, and then returns to her attack on his reflection. He jumps upon the window-sill, and fancies he sees a squirrel in the garden, and dashes past her to the door; she follows the motion of the reflection till she is past the edge of the glass, and loses it, when she dashes back to the glass again. This has occurred several days in the last week, and seems to me almost absurd. The dogs are just about a year old, and so beyond puppy folly, though very lively and playful still.

A. M. B.

_THE SENSE OF HUMOUR AND CUNNING IN DOGS._

DOGS' SENSE OF HUMOUR.

THE POWER OF IMITATION IN DOGS.

[_Oct. 22, 1882._]

The following anecdote may interest those of your readers who are accustomed to observe the characteristic actions of dogs. I can vouch for its accuracy, as I was an amused eye-witness, and several members of my family were also present, and have often told the story.

A friend of ours and his wife were spending a musical evening with us, and an old, black, English terrier, who belonged to the house, had been in the drawing-room, which was upstairs. The dog had been kindly noticed by our friend, who was partially lame from paralysis. On leaving the drawing-room the dog followed him to the top of the staircase (we, with his wife, were waiting below in the hall), and with cocked tail and ears stood gravely watching his slow, limping descent. When the invalid was nearly at the foot of the stairs the dog began to follow, limping on three legs (he was quite sound), in humorous imitation of our poor, afflicted friend, and this assumed lameness was gravely kept up till he arrived on the mat. It was impossible to repress a smile, though our politeness was at stake, and the unconsciousness of our friend added to the difficulty.

A. R.

SENSE OF HUMOUR IN DOGS.

[_July 28, 1888._]

A recent anecdote from one of your correspondents about a dog and a hen brought to my mind an incident, related to me by an eye-witness, of a dog who had a constant feud with the fowls, which were prone to pilfer from the basin containing his dinner. On one occasion he was lying in front of his kennel, quietly watching a hen as she made stealthy and tentative approaches to his basin, which at length she reached and looked into, finding it perfectly empty. The dog wagged his tail.

J. R.

A DOG'S SENSE OF HUMOUR.

[_March 9, 1895._]

Does the following dog-story show a sense of humour? A retriever was in the habit of leaving his bed in the kitchen when he heard his master descending the stairs in the morning. On one occasion a new kitchen-maid turned him out of his bed at a much earlier hour than usual. He looked angrily at her, but walked out quietly. Time passed, and he was nowhere to be found. At last, in going to her bedroom, the kitchen-maid found him coiled up in her own bed.

B. B.

CUNNING DOGS.

A DOG AND A WHIP.

[_May 18, 1889._]

You have lately published several dog stories. Allow me to send you another for publication should you think it worthy. It was told me to-day by a lady whom I cross-examined to get full details:--"Some twenty years back we had a poodle--white, with one black ear. After the manner of his race, he was never quite happy unless he carried something in his mouth. He was intelligent and teachable to the last degree. The great defect in his character was the impossibility of distinguishing _meum_ from _tuum_. Anything he could get hold of he seemed to think, according to his dogged ethics, to be fairly his own. On one occasion he entered the room of one of the maidservants and stole her loaf of bread, carefully shutting the door after him with his feet--the latter part being a feat I had taught him. The woman--Irish--was scared, and thought that the dog was the devil incarnate. The necessity of discipline on the one hand, and of occupation on the other, induced me one day to enter a saddler's shop, situated in a straight street about half a mile from our house, and buy a whip. Shortly after my return home he committed some act of petty larceny, so I gave him a beating with the whip he had carried home. Going for a walk next day the dog, as usual, accompanied me, and was entrusted with the whip to carry. Directly we got outside the door he started off at his best pace straight down the street, paying no attention whatever, to my repeated calls. He entered the saddler's shop and deposited the whip on the floor. When I arrived the saddler showed me the whip lying exactly where the dog had deposited it."

HENRY H. MAXWELL.

A RUSE DOG.

[_March 21, 1885._]

A story which came to my knowledge a few months ago may be of interest in connection with the _Spectator's_ series of anecdotes illustrating the intelligence of animals.

One summer afternoon a group of children were playing at the end of a pier which projects into Lake Ontario, near Kingston, New York, U.S.A. The proverbial careless child of the party made the proverbial backward step off from the pier into the water. None of his companions could save him, and their cries had brought no one from the shore, when, just as he was sinking for the third time, a superb Newfoundland dog rushed down the pier into the water and pulled the boy out. Those of the children who did not accompany the boy home took the dog to a confectioner's on the shore, and fed him with as great a variety of cakes and other sweets as he would eat. So far the story is, of course, only typical of scores of well-known cases. The individuality of this case is left for the sequel.

The next afternoon the same group of children were playing at the same place, when the canine hero of the day before came trotting down to them with the most friendly wags and nods. There being no occasion this time for supplying him with delicacies, the children only stroked and patted him. The dog, however, had not come out of pure sociability. A child in the water and cakes and candy stood to him in the close and obvious relation of cause and effect, and if this relation was not clear to the children he resolved to impress it upon them. Watching his chance, he crept up behind the child who was standing nearest to the edge of the pier, gave a sudden push, which sent him into the water, then sprang in after him, and gravely brought him to shore.

To those of us who have had a high respect for the disinterestedness of dogs, this story may give a melancholy proof that the development of the intelligence, at the expense of the moral nature, is by no means exclusively human.

CLARA FRENCH.

DOG DECEIVERS.

[_Feb. 9, 1895._]

Your fondness for dogs induces me to send you the following anecdote, which shows their power of acting a part for purposes of their own. Some years ago a fox-terrier of mine was condemned by a veterinary surgeon to consume a certain amount of flour of sulphur every day. He was at all times a fanciful and dainty feeder, and every conceivable ingenuity on my part was exhausted in the vain endeavour to disguise the daily portion and to give it a more tempting appearance. Each new device was invariably detected. However hungry he might be he turned from the proffered morsel in disgust, and it ended almost invariably in my having to put it down his throat. One morning, after keeping him for many hours without food, and having neatly wrapped the powder in a most appetising piece of raw meat, I offered it him in the vain hope that hunger might prevail over prejudice. But no. With averted head and downcast look he steadily and determinedly declined to partake of it. I encouraged him in vain. Deep dejection on his part; despair, but persistence, on mine. All of a sudden his whole manner changed. He assumed a brisk and cheerful demeanour, joyfully accepted the hitherto rejected offering, and running merrily through the open door, disappeared swiftly a few yards off round the corner of the building. Inside the room I ran as quickly to a window, whence I could view his proceedings, and there watched him while he deposited the hated morsel on the ground, dug a hole in the flower-bed, and buried it. His jaunty, triumphant air as he returned I shall never forget.

F. E. WYNNE.

_USEFUL DOGS._

GUARDIAN DOGS.

[_July 15, 1892._]

Having read for years your interesting letters and articles on animals in the _Spectator_, I feel sure you will like to have a thoroughly authentic account of a dog in this neighbourhood. I am allowed to give the name of the owner, who is living at Lyme Regis, where I was staying last week. The two incidents happened within a few weeks of each other.

Mrs. and Miss Coode were alone in their house (except the servants); and one night Miss Coode was awakened by hearing two knocks at her door and a slight whine. It was between three and four o'clock in the morning. She rose and opened the door to find the dog there, and at the same time noticed and heard a stream of water running down the stairs. She went up the staircase to its source, and aroused the servants to attend to it. As soon as the dog saw that the matter was being remedied, he quietly went back to the mat in the hall and went to sleep again. The dog is a large one, a cross between a retriever and a greyhound--a very beautiful creature, resembling a poacher's lurcher.

The second incident occurred only last week, when Miss Coode was again aroused. This time by a loud crash, as if a picture had fallen. Almost immediately the dog bounded upstairs, threw himself against the door, which happened to be ajar, burst into the room, panting and eyes glistening,--this, at least, Miss Coode saw as soon as she struck a light, for it was between twelve and one o'clock. She went out on to the staircase and downstairs to look at the pictures in the drawing-room. The dog would not follow. The cook, coming down from her room, called him a coward not to go with his mistress, but Sheppard did not move. Miss Coode found all safe below, and returned upstairs, and the dog went with her to the top floor, where the ceiling of a small room had fallen in. He then retired to his mat, having done his duty. He also showed his sagacity in going to the daughter's room--the one most capable of seeing to matters. Hoping, as a dog-lover, that this may interest all such, and help to prove that dogs think and reason more than some human beings--also to show that we often inferior beings have no right to presuppose that the superior animals have no souls.

K. CLARKE.

A TRUE WATCH-DOG.

[_Aug. 5, 1893._]

The "dog" letter in the _Spectator_ of July 15th is wonderfully like my experience, some years ago, with my little red Blenheim, Frisk. She always slept in a basket, close to the hall door. One night she dashed up the stairs, loudly barking, ran first to my eldest sister's room, then through a swing-door to another sister's room, barking outside each door, then upstairs again to my room at the top of the house, where she remained barking till I got up and opened it, when she ran in, still barking, and waited till I was ready to go down with her. She scampered on before me, I following close, and when we both reached the hall she dashed still barking to the door, to show me whence her alarm had arisen. It was the policeman turning the handle of the door from the outside to see if it was properly closed! One night, a long time after the first adventure, I was wakened by a quiet scratch at the door of my room. No barking this time; but, tiresome as it was to be disturbed on a cold night, I got up and opened the door, and was conscious in the darkness that Frisk was standing there. "Come in, Frisk," said I. But no movement; Frisk stood waiting. "Come in, Frisk," I repeated, somewhat sharply. No movement, no bark! Then, being sure that something must be wrong, I lighted a candle, and there stood Frisk outside the door, never offering to come in. She trotted quietly down before me, not speaking a word. When we were both through the swing-door, and at the head of the stairs, I saw that the inner door to the hall was open, and also that of the morning-room, from which shone a bright light. My heart went pit-a-pat for a moment; then seeing Frisk run quietly down the stairs, I followed her, when she calmly jumped into her basket again, and I, venturing into the morning-room, found that my brother-in-law had left the lamp burning by mistake--a proceeding which Frisk plainly knew was wrong, and had therefore come upstairs to inform me, but had not thought it necessary to disturb the rest of the household this time! She had come straight up to my room without disturbing any one else, to tell me of the irregularity of a light burning when every one was in bed, and that being done, jumped into bed again, conscious of having performed her duty.

GEORGINA A. MARSH-CALDWELL.

[_Aug. 12, 1893._]

I can give an instance as convincing as that of Miss Marsh-Caldwell of the way in which a true watch-dog will measure the extent of his duties. I lived for many years opposite a wood, in which the game at first was preserved. I had a dog named Prin, who had begun by being a gardener's dog, but having caught the distemper and been unskilfully treated by his master he remained nearly blind, and was left on my hands by the man when he quitted my service. The dog was a great coward, but good-tempered and affectionate, and the partial loss of sight seemed to have developed greatly the senses both of hearing and smell, so that he was recognised as a capital watch-dog. He was promoted to the kitchen, and would have been promoted to the drawing-room but for the obstreperousness of his affection, which seemed to know no bounds if he was admitted even into the hall. I slept at that time in a room over the kitchen, fronting the road. One night I was awakened by Prin growling, and, after a time, giving a snappish bark underneath me. I got out of bed and throwing up the sash, listened at the window, where, after a time, I heard slight noises, which convinced me that some one or more persons were hiding in the shrubbery between the house and the road, whom I supposed to be burglars. I called out, "Who's there?" without, of course, eliciting any answer, and, after a time, I heard the click of the further gate (there being two, one opposite my house, the other opposite its semi-detached neighbour, and out of my sight), after which all was quiet. But I had noticed that from the moment of my getting out of bed Prin had not uttered a sound. The same thing happened seven or eight times, and always in the same way, Prin growling or barking till he heard me get out of bed, and then holding his tongue, as feeling that he had fulfilled his duty in warning his master, and that all responsibility now devolved upon me. The secret of the matter I discovered to be that poachers, with no burglarious intentions towards me, used the shrubbery as a hiding-place before getting over the opposite paling into the wood.

One other instance of Prin's sagacity I will also mention. I had a black cat, with white breast, named Toffy, between whom and Prin there was peace, though not affection. There was also another black cat, with white breast, that prowled about, an outlaw cat, who made free with my chickens when he could! It was a bitter winter, and the snow had lain already for days on the ground. I was walking one Sunday morning in my garden, Prin being out with me. He quitted me to go under a laurel-hedge bounding a shrubbery, and presently began barking loudly. I went towards him, and saw a white-breasted cat sitting stretched under the laurels, with front paws doubled under him, which I took to be Toffy asleep. I scolded Prin for disturbing Toffy, and he stopped barking, but remained on the spot whilst I continued my walk. Presently--say two or three minutes after--I heard him barking still more loudly than before, and so persistently that I returned to the spot. Noticing that the cat had never moved through all the noise, I crept up under the bushes, and found that it was not Toffy asleep, but the outlaw cat, dead--evidently of cold. Thus my poor purblind watch-dog had--(1) barked to draw my attention to what appeared to him an unusual phenomenon; (2), held his tongue in deference to my (supposed) superior wisdom, when I told him he was making a mistake; (3), not being, however, satisfied in his mind, remained to investigate till he was convinced he had not been mistaken; (4), called my attention to the facts still more instantly till I was satisfied of them for myself. Could _homo sapiens_ have done more?

J. M. L.

[_Aug. 12, 1893._]

I am reminded by the anecdote related in the _Spectator_ of July 15th, "A Canine Guardian," of the sagacity of a favourite Scotch terrier which was displayed some years ago. I was dressing one morning, and my bedroom-door was ajar. Standing at my dressing-table, I was surprised to see Fan come up to me, frisking about, and looking eagerly into my face, whether from pleasure or not I could not tell. I spoke to and stroked her, but she was in no way soothed, and she ran out of the room evidently much excited. In she came again, more earnestly trying to tell me what she wanted, rushing up to me and again to the door, plainly begging me to follow her, which I did, into the next room, where breakfast was laid. I at once saw what she had easily felt was out of order--the kettle was boiling over, and the water pouring from the spout had drenched the hearth. Hence her discomfort, and her effort to tell me of the disaster. Having brought me on the scene, she seemed perfectly content.