Chapter C: A. T

[_Aug. 12, 1893._]

Not long ago I was passing a barn-yard in this place, and stood to look over the gate at a pretty half-grown lamb standing alone outside the barn. But the sight of me so enraged a fierce, shaggy grey dog tied up to his kennel between the lamb and me, that he barked himself nearly into fits, showing all his teeth, and straining so furiously at his chain as to make me quite nervous lest it should give way. In the meantime, I struck such terror into the heart of the lamb that it fled across the yard to place itself under the protection of the dog, and stood close by his side, whilst he barked and danced with fury. As I drew a little nearer, the lamb backed right into the kennel, and when, after I had made a circuit in order to watch the further movements of this strange pair of friends from behind a tree, I saw their two faces cautiously looking out together, cheek-by-jowl, whilst the dog's anger was being reduced to subsiding splutters of resentment. He was not a collie, but a very large sort of poodle.

C. S.

COLLIES AT WORK.

[_March 25, 1893._]

At six o'clock this morning, I saw a mountain-shepherd stand at a gate on the hill-top. Seven sheep were on the outside of the gate--six of the shepherd's flock, the other a strayer. The man wanted his own sheep in; so, before opening the gate, he quietly said: "'Rob,' catch the strayer." In an instant "Rob" pinned the sheep, holding him, strong and wild as he was, as though he were in a vice; and then, by another word, "Gled" was told to bring the others in through the gate now opened for them. Although "Gled" brought his six wild sheep right over "Rob" and his strayer, the sheep was held securely till the gate was closed, and the order given to "let it gang."

WILLIAM FOTHERGILL.

A COLLIE AT WORK.

[_Aug. 11, 1894._]

We stood at the bottom of a deep valley with the hills rising abruptly on either side, when Robert Scott said: "Yonder is the sheep I led away from Llangynider, all those weary miles yesterday. I saw it as I came over the hill-top down to the house this morning. If you wish, "Kate" shall bring it down to my feet here for you to see it." "What?--bring that single sheep! How will she know the one you want, and how can she get it away from the flock by itself? I will not believe that possible till I see it done, at all events."

He spoke a low word or two to the collie by his side, and away went "Kate" right up over rock and bracken, till we could see the flock far away upon the height above give a very rapid turn, and in a few minutes afterwards, down rushed a strong mountain wether with the wily "Kate" working to the right and left about thirty yards behind it. "Come away, back 'ahint me," cried Scott; and "Kate," at once leaving the sheep, appeared positively to fly far out, and coming round behind us, stopped the wether in his headlong course, bringing him to a stand literally at the shepherd's feet. "Robert," I said, "when (as you intend) you sail next month for New Zealand, you will not take 'Kate' with you, but leave her here for seven sovereigns." "Nae, nae, sir," was the reply, "seventy sovereigns would nae buy her."

W. FOTHERGILL.

_MISCELLANEOUS._

A SUNDAY DOG.

[_Feb. 17, 1877._]

A correspondent favoured your readers last week (see page 53) with an interesting anecdote of a dog's intelligence in reference to the use of money. Permit me to relate an instance of a dog's intelligence in reference to the day of the week. Some three-and-twenty years ago, in the infancy of the Canterbury Province, New Zealand, there lived in the same neighbourhood as myself two young men, in the rough but independent mode of life then prevalent in the colony, somewhat oblivious of old institutions. These men possessed a dog each, affectionate companions of their solitude. It was the custom of this primitive establishment to utilise the Sabbath by a ramble, in quest of wild ducks and wild pigs, about the swamps and creeks of the district. It was observed that long before any preparations were made for starting, the dogs always seemed to be more or less excited. This was remarkable enough, but not so much as what followed. One of these men after a while left his friend, and taking his dog with him, went to live with a clergyman about four miles off. Here ducks and pigs had to be given up on Sundays for the church-service. It was soon noticed that this dog used to vanish betimes on Sundays, and did not turn up again until late. Upon inquiring, it was found that the dog had visited its old abode, where on that day of the week sport was not forbidden. The owner tried the plan of chaining up the animal on Saturday evenings, but it soon became very cunning, and would get away whenever it had the chance. On one occasion it was temporarily fastened to a fence-rail about mid-day on a Saturday. By repeated jerks it loosened the rail from the mortice-holes, and dragged it away. Upon search being made, this resolute but unfortunate dog was found drowned, still fast to the chain and rail, in a stream about two miles away in the direction of its old haunts. The gentleman who owned the other dog is in England now, and went over the details of the facts herein stated with me quite recently.

ALFRED DURELL.

A COW'S JEALOUSY OF A DOG.

[_April 30, 1892._]

As a subscriber to and constant reader of the _Spectator_, I have derived much pleasure from the anecdotes of animal instinct, sagacity, and emotion, which from time to time have appeared in your columns. Perhaps you may like to publish the following instance of jealousy in a cow; it is, at any rate, a story at first-hand, as I myself was an actor in the affair.

A few years ago, I had a quiet milch-cow, Rose, who certainly was fond of Thomas, the man who milked her regularly, and she also showed an aversion to dogs even greater than is usual in her species. One night, for what reason I now forget, I had tied up a young collie dog in the little cowshed where she was accustomed to be milked. The following morning, I had just begun to dress, when I heard the puppy barking in the cowshed. "Oh!" thought I, "I forgot to tell Thomas about the puppy, and now the cow will get in first and gore it." The next minute I heard a roar of unmistakable fear and anguish--a human roar. I dashed down to the spot, and at the same moment arrived my son, pitchfork in hand. There lay Thomas on his face in a dry gutter by the side of the road to the cowhouse, and the cow butting angrily at him. We drove off the cow, and poor Thomas scuffled across the road, slipped through a wire fence, stood up and drew breath. "Why, Thomas," said I, "what's the matter with Rose?" "Well, sir," said Thomas, "I heard the pup bark and untied him, and I was just coming out of the cowhouse, with the pup in my arms, when 'Rose' came round the corner. As soon as she see'd the pup in my arms, she rushed at me without more ado, knocked me down, and would have killed me if you hadn't come up." Thomas had indeed had a narrow escape; his trousers were ripped up from end to end, and red marks all along his legs showed where Rose's horns had grazed along them. "Well," said I, "you'd better not milk her this morning, since she's in such a fury." "Oh! I'll milk her right enough, sir, by and by; just give her a little time to settle down like. It's only jealousy of that 'ere pup, sir. She couldn't abide seeing me a-fondling of it." "Well, as you like," said I; "only take care, and mind what you're about." "All right, sir!"

In about twenty minutes, Thomas called me down to see the milk. The cow had stood quiet enough to be milked. But the milk was deeply tinged with blood, and in half an hour a copious red precipitate had settled to the bottom of the pail. Till then I had doubted the jealousy theory. After that I believed.