Chapter XI: Book II: Studies and Stories (4)

Another and a wonderful instance of reasoning power in carrying out an order was shown by a collie, who was one of the performers in the sheep-dog trials held some years ago at the Alexandra Palace. A great crowd had gathered to watch the proceedings, and each dog had to single out three sheep from the flock, and drive them to a hillside about half a mile distant. On the hill was the pen into which he was to drive them. One fine collie had three wild and frightened sheep in charge, and for a long time he tried in vain to round them into the pen. They refused to face the opening, and again and again scattered in wild confusion whenever the collie tried to drive them in. The spectators watched his efforts with breathless interest. Suddenly the collie dropped as if exhausted, and lay with his back to the sheep, who were standing some little distance from the opening into the pen. He was panting with his exertions, and as he lay prone on the ground he seemed to have given up the game and to take no further interest in his charges. But the onlookers saw that every now and again he worked his body slowly backwards along the ground, the movement being so gentle that the sheep did not take alarm at it, though they moved gradually further away from him and consequently nearer to the pen. When the oft repeated manoeuvre had brought them sufficiently near, the dog sprang to his feet and, twisting round with a shrill bark, drove the sheep with a sudden rush inside. A chorus of cheers showed the spectators’ appreciation of the clever way in which he had surmounted the difficulty. No man could have shown more patience in compassing the desired end, or have taken a more subtle method of overcoming opposition.

A clear evidence of reasoning power was the source of great delight to the many friends of a little dog called Nanky Poo. The name shows that the little favourite had foreign blood in her veins, and though Nanky Poo could not boast of pure descent, her mother was a Pekinese spaniel. The daughter was black, with white front and toes. She had a head that did credit to her mother’s side of the family, had a tail that curled over her back, and was too long in the leg in proportion to her size. But in spite of all blemishes in appearance, Nanky Poo was as fascinating a little specimen of her kind as any dog-lover need wish to know. In her country home, the spaniel used to have her basket in the front hall, which was used as a sitting room during the summer months. Here Nanky Poo was shut in, during her owner’s absence from the house. She was too small and too precious to be allowed to meet the possible dangers of woods and fields without a guardian at hand to protect her. But if she was left alone long, Nanky Poo found the time tedious, and whenever the front bell rang, and the man came to open it for the expected visitors, she would slip past him and make her escape. It sometimes happened that when the summons was answered no one was found waiting at the door, nor was any one to be seen in the drive. When it became of frequent occurrence for the man to be summoned on a fruitless errand, some of the household determined to solve the mystery, and, unknown to Nanky Poo, kept a watch upon her through the glass door. When the little thing got tired of solitude she was seen to get out of her basket and go to the wall on one side of the hall. Here a dainty paw was lifted to the bell wire that ran round the wall but a few inches from the ground. Nanky Poo pressed the wire down in business-like fashion, and when she was satisfied that she had brought about the desired result, she ran to the door that communicated with the house and took up her station in front of it. With her head on one side, she sat listening intently for the sound of approaching footsteps, and by the time the servant arrived she was ready to take advantage of her chance of liberty. Nanky Poo had a short but happy life, with a mistress who was devoted to her.

A high form of intellectual development must be allowed to those dogs who are always ready in an emergency to help themselves out of a difficulty, or in any other way to conform to the unexpected requirements of the moment. Such power has been shown by Bobbins, one of the old Scotch bobtail cattle dogs, throughout her life. Bobbins is a most fascinating dog, both in appearance and manner, and is of a gentle, loving nature to her friends. She is a blue grey with tan markings, and has a wonderful coat that resists the most inclement of weather. Though Bobbins came from her home in Lundy Island at an early age, and with her present owner has had none of the work in guarding sheep or cattle that is the ordinary portion of her kind, she still shows a keen appreciation of the duties to which she was bred.

Not long ago Bobbins was with her mistress in the fields when they came upon some men at work. One of the men was trying to prevent some heifers from forcing their way through a gate, that led into the field. Her mistress called to Bobbins to go to the man’s assistance. Just as the dog reached him the heifers charged through, and for a moment Bobbins’s mistress feared her dog would be killed in the mad rush of the young things. Bobbins was quick to see her danger, and threw herself flat on the ground. One of the heifers who was coming straight at her jumped over her prostrate form. No sooner had she passed than Bobbins was on her feet, and, heading the rushing heifers, turned them, and drove them safely through the gate.

Another story that shows Bobbins’s readiness to adapt her methods to the needs of the moment is told by Miss Serrell, and once again I will quote from her.[6] Bobbins was giving her assistance in the work of driving a refractory bull, which refused to answer to the dog’s repeated jumps at his head. Changing her tactics, Bobbins suddenly ran behind him, “seized him by the tail, and hung on so persistently that she was swung in the air, as the bull whirled round in his efforts to get at her. Failing to dislodge her, the animal at last took fright and beat a precipitate retreat.” The bull apparently nursed a sense of his wrongs, and one day charged Bobbins unexpectedly, and all but caught her. The dog only escaped “by turning head over heels and rolling cleverly to one side.” Then she proceeded to take her revenge for the unprovoked onslaught. Before the bull had time to turn, Bobbins was snapping at his heels, and perhaps fearing a second attack on his tail, the creature made off, and for the future he and Bobbins preserved an attitude of armed neutrality.

It is of Bobbins that the delicious story is told of a judge who, not being acquainted with the breed to which the dog belonged, put her down as “a bearded collie.” When his attention was drawn to the fact that the so-called collie had no tail, the worried judge made a reply that deserves to be immortal. “If she has not a tail, she ought to have one.” Needless to say that with such shortcomings Bobbins carried off no award of merit from the show.

Another member of the wonderful dog family that Bobbins’s mistress gathers round her is a pure white smooth fox-terrier named Roy. This dog is a son of Racer’s, who was a distinguished member of the sporting pack, whose exploits on land and water their owner has recounted. Roy has the sporting instincts that marked his sire, and nothing in the way of vermin comes amiss to him either above or under ground. But he recognises the limitations of what is lawful in the chase, and respects the inhabitants of the home poultry yard. Yet even they contribute to the pleasures of life for him. As soon as he is let out for his morning run, Roy dashes down the kennel steps and through the yard, scattering the game fowls in all directions as he makes for the gate leading into the fields. The more the birds fly and scream, the better pleased is he with this beginning of the morning’s joys, but he has too keen a sense of duty to offer to touch them.

In the summer months it is no unusual thing to see a number of ordinary barn-door fowls scattered among the home game-chicks. The former are bought by the owner of the place from the cottagers round, who are afraid to keep them for fear of their falling a prey to prowling foxes, and thus spoiling their season’s return. The first time Roy found such unaccustomed mongrels among the dark brown aristocrats of the yard, his duty appeared to him in a pleasanter light than usual. It was clear that such nondescript sort of animals could have no right there, and his mistress was apprised of something unusual going on by the sound of a great commotion in the yard. Hurrying from the kennels to see what was the matter, she met Roy with one of the strange birds in his mouth. She stooped to take it from him, and restrain him from further depredations. But Roy had no idea of wasting time in the delightful occupation that duty for once opened out to him. Dropping the chick, he scampered back before his mistress could secure him. Another trophy of the chase was brought and laid at her feet, and this time Roy was caught and a lead slipped on as the surest means of curbing his enthusiasm. Roy was now clearly puzzled. His mistress was angry, and told him sternly he was not to meddle with the new-comers. Yet, as he understood things, these were intruders, and had no more right to a place in the yard than from an æsthetic point of view they added to its appearance. He stood looking wistfully up into his mistress’s face, his stern carried low, but wagging it gently, as he always does when he is found fault with. Poor Roy, the aspect of the day had indeed changed, and the problem that confronted him was hard to solve. He had tried to do his duty in clearing his own ground of unauthorised trespassers, and he was being scolded for his pains. It was hard indeed that such an unwontedly delightful duty should not be appreciated by his usually discerning mistress. But though the reasons that dictated her conduct were beyond him, he understood the order given. For the future, the homely creatures must be allowed to join in the general rush that signalised his rapid passage across the yard, and he never again attempted to touch them. The carrying out of his personal responsibility in guarding his mistress’s property must have seemed beset with unknown dangers to him from that time.

The duty attached to his position as guardian of his home also presents itself sometimes in attractive form to a thoroughbred mongrel named Boy. This dog is, in his home circle, said to be a Russian poodle. In colour he is white with black markings, and has a silky, curly coat and tail. He has a round head, in which there is plenty of room for brains, and a pair of very intelligent eyes. Belonging to his owners is an old and very fat Dalmatian who answers to the name of Tip. The latter is not allowed in the house, but is always finding means of ignoring the prohibition. Boy, whose own position is assured, feels called on to resent the intrusion. As soon as he catches sight of Tip on forbidden ground, he flies to tell his mistress what has happened. Then comes Boy’s full sense of virtue rewarded. While Tip is stealing away dejectedly from the coveted comforts of the house, Boy shows his delight in the situation by dancing about in glee, and letting off a series of joyous barks.

Boy is a great ratter, and with his first exploit in this line is connected an early foreshadowing of the serious views as to guardianship he now holds. In this case untold joys were found that proved too strong to be resisted. Boy was only a few months old when his mistress shut him up in a room into which a rat was known to find its way. In due course the rat appeared, and Boy, yielding to his hereditary instincts, fought and eventually killed it. But he knew nothing of the life history of the strange creature whose span of existence he had ended. Was it not a pet of the mistress whose belongings he was bound to guard? When his owner came in to see how things had fared, she was met by a shame-faced little creature, who crawled to her feet and begged forgiveness for the crime he believed he had committed. Since then Boy has learned much about rats in general, and suffers no qualms when he has laid low one of their mischievous tribe.

X

“_To come to speech they have it questionless,
Although we understand it not so well,
They bark as good old Saxon as may be,
And that in more variety than we._”

A natural freak among dogs is Bettina Corona, of high sounding title. This small creature contains in her tiny form as many blemishes from a show point of view as any terrier--so called--that has ever lived. In weight she is only eight pounds, and in her photograph can be seen the bandy fore legs, the prick ears, the woolly curling coat, and altogether ridiculous tail that go to make up her physical attractions. But a lion’s heart is in that small body, and she is a sportswoman to the core, while a more fascinating little will-o’-the-wisp bundle of mercurial attractions it would be hard to find.

Bettina Corona was born in the Coronation year of King Edward VII, and her pedigree is of the longest. Her sire is one of the greatest champions of the kennel-world, and was sent to America at a very high price. But in compassion to her high relations, let us draw a veil over her family history, and concern ourselves only with her very interesting little person.

She is very compact and sturdily built, and has such a powerful jaw and rare set of teeth as to make her a very formidable creature to give offence to. Her curly coat is of quite extraordinary thickness, and resembles that of a sheep. So luxuriant is its growth that like a sheep she has to be shorn in the course of the summer, or Bettina with her active ways would be in danger of her life. Bettina’s time of beauty then is in the winter, when she is a mass of woolly curls from the tip of her aggressive little nose to the end of her gaily carried stern.

The amount of digging that Betty can get through is surprising, and in the orchard, where she spends a part of each day, she passes hours digging for field mice. Nothing indeed comes amiss to her in the way of game. She has followed a rabbit through all the turns and twists of a very large earth, and either killed or bolted it. Even cockchafers and stag beetles do not come amiss, for want of larger prey, and these she crunches up with a terrible finality. Her greatest enemies are, however, cats, and she will literally go through fire and water to reach them. Amongst her many feline foes is a fine long-haired tabby, half as big again as herself, who rejoices in the name of Jim. Now Jim is a great poacher, and one morning Betty lighted on him as he was returning from a midnight prowl. Jim was carrying a young rabbit, from which he evidently contemplated making his breakfast. But Betty had other views, and after a very noisy, skirmishing sort of fight, succeeded in getting possession of it. She then marched triumphantly into the house, carrying the prize, and making herself as big and fussy over it as she possibly could.

Another time she did not come off so well, as she rashly caught Jim by the tail as he was vanishing through the stable door. Swinging round on her, Jim fixed his claws on each side of her head, and seized one of her ears with his teeth. But Betty was game, and refused to release her hold. Fortunately the coachman was at hand to come to her aid, and with the stable broom tried to get in between them. The commotion soon drew her mistress to the spot, and she made frantic grabs at the struggling Betty. At length, Betty was seized by the neck and pulled off, and her mistress fled with her, while Betty fought and yelled to get back to the fray. Jim being now perfectly infuriated turned on the coachman, but the broom being well handled, he was finally swept out of the stable and the door closed. It was a very long time before the other combatant calmed down, and Betty spent the rest of the morning rushing about wildly and hunting for the enemy.

When Bettina emerges from the seclusion of the wired-in orchard, she has a long lead attached to her collar, as this is the only way of keeping her out of mischief. Her constant endeavour is to jerk the lead out of the hand of her captor, and one day, having escaped from her mistress’s vigilance by this means, she rushed headlong into a cottage. The scene that followed defies description. A black and white cat sat in peaceful enjoyment by the fire, and near by was an infant slumbering in its cradle. Betty flung herself with her usual impetuosity on the cat, and the terrified animal, in its efforts to escape, sprang into and out of the cradle as a first effort. Betty cleared the cradle in a flying leap, and, pinning the victim on the far side, a fierce fight began. The chairs and other articles of furniture were sent flying in all directions, as Betty’s lead wound itself round them in her mad struggles. The mistress of the house, brought hurriedly from her domestic duties, seized a chair as being the handiest weapon, and with it uplifted rushed on the fighters, while three terrified children clung screaming to her skirts. At this juncture, Betty’s owner appeared on the scene, and making a snatch at the uplifted chair with one hand, she succeeded in grasping Betty’s lead with the other, and swung the delinquent off her feet. Half choking, she was forced to release her hold of the cat, and poor puss straightway fled up the staircase into safety.

The startled woman received compensation for her fright and trouble, and, as Betty was borne off she turned her attention to the baby, who, disturbed from its sleep, had been doing its best to add to the general confusion.

Bettina’s great delight is to escape into the woods, where she will stay in a very ecstasy of hunting till she is captured and brought back. She and the two other house dogs, Bobbins a Scotch bobtail, and Bosky a beautiful wire-haired fox-terrier, all make a mad rush for the dining room as soon as the gong sounds for luncheon. Betty generally wins the race, but one day when she had been excited by the constant yapping of a dog in a distant covert, she turned at the foot of the stairs and, rushing through the open door that led to the kitchen regions, tore through the back premises and disappeared to freedom and hunting. The butler waiting by the dining-room door saw her turn, and knowing her proclivities and the care with which she was guarded, rushed after her. The cook, too, had seen her flight from the kitchen, and joined in the chase. But Betty was disappearing like a flash of greased lightning down the drive, and pursuit on foot was clearly useless. The man jumped on his bicycle, and pursued the fugitive alone.

At the end of the carriage drive, Betty, finding herself hard pressed, turned out of the road and scrambling through the hedge, made at top speed across the arable field that lay between her and the covert whither she was bound. The going was heavy, and the man soon found himself in difficulties as he sped on foot after her. Happily there was a plough at work in the field, squeaking loudly as is the way of Dorset ploughs--for what Dorset ploughman does not scorn to oil his shares? Bettina was immediately all attention, and hurrying up to see what strange animal was making the noise, the ploughman promptly put his foot on her lead, and stopping his horses waited for her panting pursuer to come up. A very snappish and disappointed little creature was then carried back to the house.

Yet Betty is very good-tempered with the dogs she knows, and romps and plays merrily with them. Her greatest favourite is Bobbins, and with her she has endless games. So strong is she that the tiny thing will jump up at her friend’s head, and dragging her over on her back will hold her down and pretend to worry her. She can lift the larger bobtail completely off the ground, and all her tricks the other takes in good part. They are often to be seen curled up together, with Betty’s head pillowed on her friend’s back.

An instance of good memory Bettina once showed in connection with a dog of my own. This dog had been on a visit with me to Betty’s home, and as the poor dog was ill at the time, the volatile Betty and her pressing attentions were too much for him. The two dogs had consequently been kept much apart, with the result that the aim and object of Betty’s existence was to get to him, and he roused her keenest interest. Some five months afterwards I was there again, but without my dog. When I came into the house I met Betty, and she rushed at me in her usual impetuous way. Scarcely staying, however, for my pat of greeting, she tore upstairs to the bedroom that I had occupied on my previous visit, and searched every corner of it to see if my dog was there. For several days she insisted on renewing her search from time to time, as she clearly thought the dog was being kept from her as he had been before. The instant linking in her little mind of the expected presence of the dog with my own appearance showed that Betty’s memory is enduring.

Another practical joke among dogs was one with whom a friend had a bowing acquaintance in a Midland town, where she was keeping house for a brother. This dog lived in a long street of suburban houses tenanted by workmen. He was a pretty little dog, with a fine silky coat and a sharp nose, a cross probably between a small spaniel and a black Pomeranian. He used to have great games with the children in the street where he lived, the favourite form of amusement being for the children to try and secure something--a stick or cap--that the dog held. The way the little thing’s eyes sparkled as he proved more than a match for many of his playmates, was as effective as any laugh. His popularity was evidently great, and my friend, who often passed by his house, never saw him anything but furry and jocose and on the best of terms with his surroundings. On one occasion, indeed, he was found doing a little bullying on his own account, though not without provocation. A child, whose face and appearance were far from prepossessing, always went down the street in terror of his life. A stone, thrown in wanton mischief at the dog, had roused the latter’s ire, and no sooner did the child appear in sight than a little black imp, barking wildly, would rush out and, circling madly round his enemy, disappear, only to pop out from some unexpected corner and renew the attack further on.

When the muzzling mania was abroad, the lady was anxious about the fate of her little friend. It was evident that his owner was away all day, and that the dog took his amusement at will from the doorstep. She was glad to see him as merry hearted as ever and not a little amused to find that the new regulations were so far understood by him that he preferred a policeman to any other playmate. He delighted in presenting his unmuzzled face, and being chased, and somehow, possibly because the policemen were not entirely untouched by the joke, he was a much hunted but never caught dog. But in time the imp himself needed more excitement, and then came discreet visits to the police station. It was summer, and the doors stood invitingly open, and it was no uncommon sight for a little black unmuzzled head to come peeping round the doorpost, and a shrill, impertinent bark to dare the inmates to the chase. As the police station was at some distance from the dog’s home, it seemed as if he was drawn there by the knowledge that a spice of real danger heightened the enjoyment of the game.

Not so irresponsible a member of the canine race, or one who did violence by her appearance to the feelings of well-bred relatives, was a beautiful fox-terrier named Venus. Yet more than once this terrier showed a strong and apparently unfounded dislike to strangers. Venus was a hound-marked dog, with tan head and black-marked body, and she was of a playful and confiding nature that endeared her to a large circle of friends. She always accepted any acquaintance of her mistress, and though in some cases she only showed the tolerance that the laws of hospitality and good manners demanded, to others she extended a warmer welcome. In all cases she seemed to make up her mind about a stranger at the first glance. One day a guest arrived to luncheon, and Venus was as usual curled up in a favourite position in the drawing room. The noise of the opening door roused her, and after a momentary look at the stranger, who was advancing to greet her hostess, Venus sprang to the ground and rushing to the visitor, jumped up and caught her firmly by the sleeve. Fortunately the little teeth only met in the sleeve itself, but the lady was terrified and shaking Venus off, she exclaimed that she hated dogs and they were never to be trusted. Venus’s mistress was utterly taken aback at the onslaught, for such a thing had never happened before. She captured the little criminal promptly and sent her off to be shut up until her visitor should have left the house. After many apologies calm was restored, and the party adjourned to the dining room.

But the maids of the household had not heard of Venus’s disgrace, and one of them going into the room where she was, set her at liberty. The tiny feet instantly pattered downstairs and made their way to the dining room. Through the open door the dog sped unnoticed by any of the party, and, singling out her former victim, made straight for her and again fastened on to her arm. The second offence was worse than the first, and the frightened visitor was only reassured when her hostess returned with the key of the door of the room into which she had locked the dog.

The strangest thing about the occurrence was that Venus had never seen the lady before, and the only explanation of her conduct seemed to be that a glance told her the stranger was to be regarded as an enemy, inasmuch as she had no love for dogs. It is certain that we poor humans would save ourselves much suffering and many painful disillusions if we had the same intuitive knowledge of those who, under the amenities of social usage, secretly regard us with disfavour.

The second time that Venus put her mistress to shame, she had more apparent ground for her action. In this case she was in a strange house, where she was visiting with her mistress. A lady entered the drawing room, who was perfectly unknown to the terrier, though she was on terms of intimacy with the members of the household. As soon as the usual greetings were over, the visitor turned her attention to the dog. Standing in front of the couch where Venus lay curled up, she exclaimed in a teasing voice, “Do you call that thing a terrier?” and laughed in a manner clearly insulting to a well-bred dog.

Venus lay quietly watching her, but her eyes glowed like two little balls of fire, and as the laugh ended she made one spring, and, fastening her teeth in the visitor’s dress, shook and worried it with every appearance of anger. The offender was borne off in disgrace and was shut up in her owner’s bedroom, there to reflect on her misdeeds. Some days later the same lady came to the house again, and no sooner was she inside the door than with a rush Venus was upon her, and worrying her dress in the way she had done before.

The gentle, amiable nature of the dog made these onslaughts all the more remarkable, for the delicate marks of her attention she bestowed on her friends were such as endeared her to them. To any one who was admitted to her favour--and to others she simply showed a well-bred indifference--she would carry a tiny stick, or failing that, or any small article she could find about the room, she would abstract a small piece of coal from the coal box, and going up to the selected person, would offer it, with every appearance of conferring a favour. Should any one, however, attempt to take the not always tempting morsel from her, she would refuse to part with it, and intimate that her playful condescension was not to be imposed on.

Venus had a way of extending the love she felt for her mistress to some of her belongings that occasionally led to embarrassment. Whenever the dog was left at home during her owner’s absence, she always searched for a pair of old slippers sacred to the use of the bedroom, and made use of one of them for a pillow. If she grew tired of staying in one room, Venus would carry her prize downstairs and, putting it down in front of the drawing room fire, curl up on it and await her mistress’s return. One day, when the latter came home late from hunting, she was told that some friends were awaiting her in the drawing room. On entering the room, she saw to her dismay a pair of dilapidated slippers occupying a prominent position in front of the fire, and Venus in high spirits doing the honours. As a mark of special favour she had offered one of the slippers to a lady who was a great friend of hers, and who was thoroughly enjoying the joke.

Her owner could not account for the anger she showed to the two strangers who received such startling marks of her disfavour. She must often have been in the society of other people who were not to be counted among dog-lovers, and she never, except in these two instances, swerved from the usual dignified indifference she extended to all who were not admitted to the circle of her friends.

XI

“_To snarl, and bite, and play the dog._”

These words are typical of our master poet’s attitude towards the dog. Treachery, cunning, and quarrelsomeness are the traits he dwells on when he mentions dogs, and we search his plays in vain for any trace of his appreciation of the noble gifts and heroic virtues that bind the dog so closely to those who love him. At most we find such guarded praise as that given by Shallow in “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” where he says of Master Page’s greyhound, “Sir, he’s a good dog and a faire dog, can there be more said? He is good and faire.” Or again, when one of the sporting dogs, who always receive the kindliest treatment at his hands, is made the means of a sarcastic thrust of comparison with one of a higher species. This occurs in the “Two Gentlemen of Verona,” when Launce declares in praise of his mistress, “She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian.”

We can but feel that a poet who could paint the most delicate shades of moral feeling, with the same master hand that plumbs the darkest depths of the human heart, might have done what no other writer of any time could do for us in the delineation of the dog’s mind, if only he had brought his sympathetic interest to bear on it. But a dog for Shakespeare was only one of the lower animals, whose evil qualities outweighed his better gifts, and who was at most an uncertain, if not a questionable companion.

The story of the bet made between Lord Nugent and Sir Henry Holland[7] shows how difficult it has always been to believe in the limitations of the poet in this respect. Lord Nugent, who was recognised as the greatest Shakespearean scholar of his day, declared that throughout Shakespeare’s writings no passage could be found “commending directly or indirectly the moral qualities of the dog.” Sir Henry Holland demurred to the statement, but after a year’s search was fain to acknowledge its truth, and to pay the bet of a guinea which he had been confident of winning. In all our reverence for and delight in Shakespeare, we feel that his want of appreciation of the dog is one of those weak spots in the armour of genius that shows its possessors to be, after all, but of the same clay as ourselves.

Yet there are dark spots in the histories of our favourites, though in many cases these are attributable to defects in early training, or to harsh treatment. Some too are caused by illness, or by abnormal conditions of brain and nerve, of which we can only guess the existence.

My own household was once the scene of a terrible act of vengeance by a bulldog, who is said to have the unamiable trait of nursing injuries for a long time. Lion was confided to me by a friend, and remained with me for some three months. He was gentle and friendly with me from the first, and was on good terms with my other dogs--I then had a Skye and a Basset hound--and with every one in the house. As he had been used to sleeping indoors, he continued to do so, and never showed the slightest ill temper with any one. My cook was devoted to all the dogs, and as she fed them and often played with them in the garden, they were on the best of terms with her. She was very good tempered, and could be trusted implicitly to be kind to them. She could never, however, be made to see that it was unwise to play with the dogs when they were busy with a bone, and was rather proud of the fact that they would never resent it if she teased them by taking their bone from them and throwing it to a distance, or otherwise interfering with their enjoyment. Lion seemed of such a gentle nature, in spite of his ferocious appearance, that I had no special fear with regard to him, though I often told Mason that I wished the dogs to be left severely alone, to the enjoyment of their daily treat.

One evening when I returned home, I heard that Lion had been growling at the cook, and having taken up a position outside the kitchen door, he refused to allow her to pass him. I went into my study and called the dog by name, and he immediately trotted round the house and came in at the glass doors. He came up to me for his usual caress after I had been away, but I saw that his eyes were red, and had a fierce light in them that I had never seen a trace of before. I noticed, too, that he regarded my friend, who had come in with me, with such an unfriendly look, that I exclaimed, “Helen, I think you had better leave me alone with him.” This, however, my friend refused to do, as she thought Lion meant mischief.

I was on the point of telling the dog to come with me into the garden, when I saw the cook cross the lawn to fetch something from the kitchen garden, which Lion’s hostile demeanour had prevented her from doing earlier. I exclaimed, “How foolish of Mason not to keep away,” and the words were not out of my mouth, when Lion caught sight of her, and the heavy brindled form at my feet shot through the air silently from the study steps. To my horror, the next second I saw him hanging by his teeth to the upper part of Mason’s arm. The small, slight form of the cook tottered, and then fell on to the grass, and the deadly teeth were so near her throat that I trembled lest she should be killed. Not a sound marred the peaceful stillness of that summer evening, but the horror of the silent tragedy I shall never forget. Calling to my friend to get assistance I rushed into the garden, while Mason’s terror lent her strength to struggle to her feet, and stagger towards me, with the enormous brute still hanging to her arm. Lion’s eyes glared, and my terror was increased as I thought that he had gone mad. He had no collar on, and my efforts to choke him off were quite ineffectual. As I struggled with him, I remember wondering where he would seize me when he left his hold of cook, for I knew I had not strength to hold him.

The moments seemed hours as they passed. Again Mason fell, and once more staggered up, but nothing slackened the deadly grip in which she was held. Happily she did not faint, and the brute did not attack her throat. Would no one ever come to our assistance? Just as a hum of voices told me that help was at hand, Lion’s teeth relaxed, he fell from his terrible perch, and to my infinite relief he walked away and lay down, without taking any further notice of either of us.

The poor sufferer was very plucky, but after first aid had been rendered, it was found necessary to take her to a hospital where she could have the best advice and nursing that could be given her. Slowly she got over the shock, and struggled back to health and the use of her arm, and at the end of two months a visit to the seaside quite set her up, and she was able to return to me.

Lion, of course, was no longer in the house. He had been left in possession of the garden, while Mason was being attended to, and it was not till past midnight that I was free to think about him. In the meantime, his master had been summoned, and before venturing into the garden we examined Lion’s appearance with a strong light from the kitchen window. There was no trace of excitement about him, and he seemed to have recovered his normal calm. He wagged his tail when he was spoken to, and came up under the window when called. I had sternly refused the offer to kill him, made by those who had come to my help in the first instance, as I felt I must know if the poor cook was at least safe from the horrors that might have followed Lion’s mauling, if he proved to be mad.

At the midnight conference held over him we decided to shut him into a stable, and keep him under supervision till we could be sure on this point. As there was likely to be trouble with the stable door, of which a decrepit lock often defied the best efforts of those who did not understand its eccentricities, I insisted on going to open it, while the dog’s master kept his attention on the culprit. Lion came up to us quietly when we went out, and allowed his master to pat him, but the weird horror of that short walk in the dead of night, with the pattering feet behind me, is a thing not to be forgotten. Would one of those deadly springs suddenly overpower us? But the tragedies of the day were over, and Lion in the course of a few days found a new master, who was undismayed by the gruesome record of his misdeeds, with which he was made fully acquainted. His new owner found him gentle and affectionate, as I had done, but he watched him carefully, and some fifteen months later, when he thought he saw signs of excitement about him, I believe Lion’s life came to an end.

Whether some playful teasing had roused Lion’s anger against his friend the cook, and thus led to his terrible act of vengeance, I never knew. Mason always declared she had done nothing but play with him and the other dogs, as she always did when she was free in the afternoon. To all my questions as to whether she had taken a bone from him, I could get nothing but an assurance that she had been very careful since I had warned her, and thus no direct explanation of the disaster was ever forthcoming. I inquired diligently for details of Lion’s earlier life; but here again I could learn nothing of any value. He had changed hands frequently, and the experiences of his early days were shrouded in obscurity. I may admit that I have never since then had anything to do with bulldogs, and that among dogs, the bulldog is the only one I cannot regard with favour. The terrors of my experience with Lion have prejudiced me against all others of his kind.

Jealousy is often shown by dogs, but when this comes from the strength of their affections, which can brook no rival in their owner’s hearts, is it to be counted among their bad qualities? We must here take into account the comparatively low standard of the dog’s moral development, in the answer we give. Certain it is, that in the crimes to which jealousy often leads dogs, a sense of shame for the misdemeanour into which the force of their feelings has hurried them is almost always shown.

A clear instance of this was given by a Skye terrier, the object of whose dislike was a kitten. The Skye’s master was a man who possessed that strange power over animals that is only given to the few even among those who love them. He was, too, a scrupulously truthful person, and neither particularly imaginative nor of a philosophical turn of mind, so that any story that came from his lips is worthy of credence. Buzz, the Skye, was for a long time the only indoor pet in this household. Then a kitten was introduced by the mistress, and Buzz’s master took some notice of the new arrival. Buzz, though a perfect little gentleman in his behaviour to the kitten, showed every sign of being distressed by her presence. He would creep away under cover of the furniture and was generally very depressed, but as he never showed the least inclination to touch the kitten, it was thought he would soon be reconciled to her.

One day the kitten disappeared, and all search for it was unavailing. It was noticed that Buzz seemed more dejected than ever, instead of rejoicing at her departure. On the following morning, when the master of the house went out for his smoke and stroll round the garden after breakfast, Buzz went with him as usual. Instead of displaying his accustomed vivacity, however, he attracted attention by the depressed fashion in which he crawled along at his master’s side. At last he showed signs of interest, and made his master understand that he wanted him to follow him. He then led the way to a rose bush, and flinging himself impetuously on the bed, poor Buzz began to dig, looking up from time to time to make sure that his master was close beside him. At last the dead body of the kitten came to light. Buzz then left his work, and rolling over on his back, waved four fat paws in the air, in the fascinating way these terriers generally ask for pardon.

It was concluded that Buzz had killed the kitten and hidden the sign of his crime, and his conduct gave ground for the conviction. It might be, however, that the little intruder had been the victim of an accident, and that a servant was responsible both for that and the burial, but in any case the dog showed plainly that he knew what had happened, and could not rest till he had told his master. The simple action of asking pardon when he discovered the body seemed to point to his having had a share in the tragedy. Who shall say that the sense of shame Buzz showed at his own or another’s misdeed was not a clear evidence of the moral sense that is the guide of our own actions?

Another and more remarkable instance of the effects of jealousy on a dog, I will take from that mine of good stories contained in Miss Serrell’s book.[8] Whankey, the hero of the story, was a black and tan wire-haired terrier, a dog of such beauty that she was pronounced to be faultless in make and shape. She was too of a singularly engaging and affectionate disposition. To her mistress her attachment was very great, and as Miss Serrell says, “She could never tolerate anything for which I showed affection.”

“At one time,” the narrator goes on, “I kept a large head of poultry which Whankey looked on with great disdain. She would never go near them, and her anger knew no bounds when once, being pressed for room, I had a trip of young game chicks brought up and cooped on the lawn.”

“All went well for a time, Whankey affecting to ignore their presence. One very precocious young cockerel, however, soon took to leaving the others and marching up the steps of the verandah in front of the drawing room windows. One day he ventured to come close and look into the room, when Whankey was instantly on the alert and growled angrily at the intrusion. Growing bolder as he came to know the verandah better, the cockerel at last walked through the window into the room where I was sitting at the time. Whankey showed such anger at his audacity that I was glad to throw the bird some crumbs and get him back on to the lawn, and as Whankey then quieted down no more was thought about the matter.

“The following day, when I returned from a drive, I found Whankey in her usual place in the drawing room with the window open, and noticing some earth on her nose and paws, I said to her, ‘What have you been burying, Whankey?’ On this, instead of greeting me, she got up and walked out of the room. In the evening when the chicks were penned in their coop there was a hue and cry; one was missing, and this turned out to be the little pert cockerel. A few days afterwards his body was found buried under the shrubs at the far end of the garden, and of course there were all sorts of conjectures as to the manner of his death. Some were of opinion that a stray cat had done it, but the mystery was not cleared up till many months later....

“The following spring I had seven dark-coloured ducklings brought up from the farm and put on the lawn, together with five very nice white ones, which, as they were about the same age as mine, I bought to go with them. I had the white ones wired in when they were first brought home till they should get accustomed to their quarters, and every day after luncheon I used to take some scraps out and feed them. This proceeding excited Whankey’s jealousy to the highest pitch, and she used to walk round the wire with her bristles up, and growling savagely. One Sunday morning before I started for church I opened the wire and left all the ducks to run about together, and Whankey was as usual in the drawing room with the window open. On my return a tragic tale was unfolded. The gardener had met Whankey carrying a dead white duckling in her mouth, and he had watched her go with it to the asparagus bed, lay it down, and proceed to dig a hole. The gardener picked up the duck and brought it into the house, and Whankey immediately went indoors and ensconced herself in my bedroom. I went to the lawn to see what had happened, and there found the seven dark ducklings all huddled together and looking very frightened, and not a white one to be seen. Further search showed that all the latter had been killed and buried in different parts of the asparagus bed, and there was no doubt but that Whankey was the culprit, not only in the matter of the ducklings, but in that of the cockerel the year before.”

The extraordinary thing about this performance was, as Miss Serrell points out, that the terrier picked out only those ducklings of which her mistress had taken special notice in order to reconcile them to their new home. She must have killed each of the detested rivals separately, and then carried the body a considerable distance from the front lawn to the middle of the kitchen garden, and there concealed the evidence of the crime. In fact, it was clear that Whankey had had an active morning’s work before her mistress returned from church, and that the little brain had not been idle was proved by the perfectly planned scheme of vengeance.

WHANKEY]

Whankey did not show any touching sorrow for her crime, and perhaps considered that the end of clearing rivals from her path justified the means she used. In fact, she could not be considered as a repentant sinner, though she never liked to hear her exploit alluded to. If any one said to her, “Whankey, where are the white ducks?” she “would always get up and walk away growling.”

The growls would seem to show an unrepentant frame of mind to the end. She wished the subject to be forgotten, but the cockerel and the ducklings were beyond the power of annoying her. The price we are content to pay for a great relief is sometimes a large one.

XII

“_For know that in the soul
Are many lesser faculties that serve
Reason as chief. Among these, Fancy next
His office holds. Of all external things,
Which the five watchful senses represent,
He forms imaginations, airy shapes;
Which Reason joining or disjoining, forms
All that we affirm, or what deny,
And call our knowledge._”