Chapter XII: Book II: Studies and Stories (5)

While a dog is clearly incapable of any appreciation of a picture as a work of art, the presentment of a man or animal will appeal to him as that of a solid figure. Here we are brought face to face with the limitations of the dog’s mind that is unable to follow our own powers on to the higher planes of their development. Yet that he is far from being devoid of imagination, his behaviour when he is brought face to face with his own reflection in a looking-glass will show. My own Skye was clearly puzzled when as a young dog he first saw himself in a looking-glass that was let into the door of a sideboard. He sat down and gazed earnestly at the quaint little face looking at him from the glass. Then he got up and moved nearer, wagging his tail in pleasure at meeting with a companion of whose appearance he seemed to approve. Bounding a little to one side he showed that he was ready for a game, and waited for the other to come and join in the fun. When no response came to his invitation his tail dropped, and at a little distance he sat down again and renewed his attentive survey of the figure facing him. A sense of something that he could not fathom apparently oppressed him, and presently he got up and came and lay down at my feet, sure that no unknown danger would be allowed to follow him there. He made many attempts during the next few days to persuade the unresponsive little dog to come and share his play, and as the reflection of his moving form confronted him, he would give a joyous bark at having at last roused the other into life. But with all his efforts he could not find the barking, jumping little figure, and at last one of his rushes brought his nose in sharp contact with the glass. This evidently gave him a shock, and after drawing back for a moment and scanning the strange thing curiously, he advanced, and putting out his tongue touched the glass with its tip. Now there was no doubt that something uncanny was before him, and with every manifestation of terror he fled to me for protection. He avoided the glass in future, and if put down in front of it would refuse to look at it, and would shrink away, frightened, from the thing he could not understand.

With her King Charles, a friend had a similar experience. In this case the dog discovered his reflection in a long cheval glass on the floor of his mistress’s bedroom. For some time he gambolled about in front of it, but at last, wanting to find the dog who refused to come out to him, he ran behind the glass to see where he was. Finding a blank space where his senses told him the waiting figure ought to be, his whole demeanour changed. He was frightened, and all his eagerness for play leaving him, he became limp and depressed and went to his mistress for protection. Nothing would ever induce him to look into a glass again, and even in the safe shelter of his owner’s arms he would cower down and hide his face against her shoulder when he was invited to admire his own reflection.

In the same way, as soon as a dog has discovered that a picture is really a flat surface, and that the figure he sees there has no solid form, the thing loses all attraction for him. When an excellent painting of the master of the house was brought home, where a poodle and a collie were the household pets, both dogs recognised it at once. They jumped about in great excitement, and invited their owner to take them for the walk they always associated with his appearance among them from his study. When no response came, and they were not allowed to jump up with the usual marks of excitement, the picture had no more interest for them than a scented soap plum has after the first taste for an inquiring child.

In a house where a Blenheim spaniel lived, she could not bear to be taken into the dining room where the walls were hung round with family pictures. Some of these ancestral portraits were of stern appearance, and for one of them the children of the house had a great dread, saying that its eyes followed them about the room. When the spaniel was some eight or nine months old she first made acquaintance with the portraits. She showed every symptom of terror as she gazed at them, and singled out the children’s special dread for her fiercest growls of disapproval.

Whether an unusual degree of imagination, or a love of fun pure and simple, was the cause of very unusual conduct in a bull-terrier, I will leave others to decide. Possibly both imagination and a fondness of practical jokes were at the root of this strange creature’s love of dressing up. Such a trait is not unusual in poodles, who have a special aptitude for tricks of all kinds, but I have never heard of another bull-terrier with the same taste. This dog delighted in showing off, and the greater the laughter he excited, the better pleased he was with his performance. His favourite articles of attire were a bonnet and cloak, under which his grim face and broad shoulders were very effective. During one of his exhibitions to a group of admiring friends, whose laughter came as a pleasing evidence of success, he suddenly saw a strange dog strolling over his private grounds. With a fierce growl he sprang after the intruder. The latter, hearing the growl, turned in the direction from whence it came, but the strange sight that met his gaze was too much for his nerves. What could this large bonnet and fluttering cape over the little flying legs mean? With a howl of terror the stranger fled, and the terrier returned complacently to take up his performance at the point at which it had broken off.

A strange mixture of imaginative power and common sense was the distinguishing mark of a Blenheim spaniel, named Sylvia. In birth and appearance Sylvia was an undoubted aristocrat, and in character she was haughty to the verge of snobbishness. From her early youth she showed a detestation of poverty in any form. She would never go into a cottage if she could help it, and her family declared that she showed much greater pleasure in starting for a drive in a brougham or Victoria than in a humbler pony cart.

Sylvia had a strong will in her fascinating, tiny form. If she did not understand the reason of an order given to her, she would oppose it with all her strength. So excited would she become, if the attempt to exact obedience was persisted in, that it seemed as if a fit would be the consequence of perseverance in correction, and the little culprit usually had her own way. But she was not a disobedient dog on the whole. It was only when the meaning of the correction was not clear to her that she would die rather than give in to it. The easiest available means of punishment for such acts of insubordination was to shut her up in the travelling basket, in which she had arrived at her new home, till she had recovered her normal state.

When a journey with her mistress was in prospect, the latter regretted the use to which the travelling basket had been put. The probable effect on Sylvia of attempting to put her in, when no disciplinary effort was needed, was discussed in the family, and when the time came for the attempt to be made, her mistress gave herself a clear hour for the coming struggle.

The basket was brought out and stood in the big dark panelled hall, and in low spirits her mistress called Sylvia to her side. But Sylvia had realised that it would not do to run the risk of being left behind, so throwing aside all past associations with the basket as a place of correction, she disconcerted her mistress by running up and jumping straight into it. Even then she wished to see the arrangements for her departure complete, and would not be satisfied till the lid was fastened down and she was left safely secured till the time of the start arrived. It was not for a little dog possessed of common sense to indulge in tantrums, when such unknown joys were at stake.

When travelling, Sylvia showed a similar self-restraint and appreciation of the situation of the moment. She would be taken out of her basket, and allowed to roam the railway carriage or amuse herself at the window. But it was only necessary for her mistress to whisper to her, “It is the next station, Sylvie,” and she would instantly jump into her own special travelling carriage, so as to be ready to accompany her party when they left the train. So effective was the behaviour of this little red and white silken coated beauty that strangers were much impressed by her sweetness and intelligence. A fellow traveller once said to Sylvia’s mistress that he would willingly give twenty pounds down for so sweet-tempered a dog, as he wanted her to console a little Blenheim widower that he had at home. The bereaved one went every day to howl at the grave of his lost love, but such a vision of beauty and amiability as Sylvia could not fail to comfort him. As the latter’s mistress refused the offer, she had visions of her “sweet” dog bustling and snapping at the little widower, till she had reduced him to the state of submission her imperious nature demanded from her associates.

Sylvia was taught many of the usual tricks in her young days, but she was by no means ready to show off whenever she was wanted to. If her mistress called on her for a performance, which the little thing foresaw might be a longer one than she felt ready for, she would dash up when called, throw herself down, and do “dead dog” for a second, jump up and thrust first one paw and then the other into her owner’s hand, stand for a passing moment in trust attitude, then snap up an imaginary biscuit and run away. After this no further calls could be made on her complaisance by sensible folk.

In later life Sylvia turned instructor to her adoring family. She devised a trick of her own for their benefit. When she wanted anything to be done for her she lay down in a conspicuous position and did “dead dog.” It was for her friends to find out what she required. One thing after another was suggested, but there was no movement from the little waiting form, till at last the right guess was made. Then Sylvia sprang to her feet with a shrill bark, and demanded the instant carrying out of the suggestion.

There was a strain of sentiment in Sylvia that showed itself in a passionate affection for all young things. Babies, children, and even young hares were equal objects of adoration to her. Though all the early part of her life was passed in the country, Sylvia took to town pleasures as if born to them. The tiny thing often went to concerts and other entertainments safely perched in her mistress’s arms. She never broke the rules of the strictest decorum. No bark or fussiness disturbed the even calm of her manner, or the haughty indifference she showed to the presence of strangers. Her special delight was to be taken to one of the large confectioners, when tea was in question for her friends. Here, seated on a chair at one of the small tables, Sylvia’s eyes shone with delight when a sponge cake was put in front of her, and she proceeded to make her own dainty meal in a way that was sure to give her the respectful admiration and attention her soul loved. On the occasions when she was left at home, the maids declared that Sylvia would not take her milk unless it was brought to her in the drawing room.

The extremity of passion into which Sylvia would throw herself on occasions was counterbalanced by a surprising tenderness for, and comprehension of, sickness or suffering in any form among her special friends. No dog could be more fascinating in the gentle sympathy she displayed than the little Blenheim. Her eyes had a wealth of tenderness in them, while with the daintiest caresses she made her little efforts at consolation. When the health of her mistress’s mother was failing, she singled her out for special attentions. One of the ways in which she showed her affection for the invalid was very charming. Taking up a position at her feet, Sylvia would hold her feathery little paws firmly in front of her, and wait to be asked to “give a paw.” To some the invitation would be refused, while others had one paw daintily extended to them, her own mistress coming in for no more attention at this time than any one else. But directly the invalid asked gently for the favour she would thrust both paws into her hand with an effusion of manner that never failed to give pleasure to the sufferer.

But such soft moments only came to lighten the contrast of her ordinary demeanour. To the end of her life she was passionate and headstrong, and in her care of her mistress she was stern and unbending. I have had more than one mark of resentment from her, when I unwarily came up to take leave of her owner while she had Sylvia in her arms. Her mistress might not be touched in her presence, and to the rule Sylvia made no exception. In illness she was almost impossible to manage, for she would fight against remedies like a wild animal. When an injury to her leg required the attention of the veterinary surgeon, her doctor never escaped from a dressing of the wounded member without at least one bite to remind him of the occasion. There is no doubt that Sylvia’s great personal beauty carried her over many rough places, where a less favoured dog would have come to grief.

XIII

“_A dog is the only thing on this earth that loves you more than he loves himself._”

Among the higher gifts of the dog that culminate in the devotion to his owner that is an adumbration of the religious sense in ourselves, the discrimination between right and wrong takes an important place. If the dog succumbs to sudden temptation it does not need an expression of anger or even the presence of his owner to make him feel shame at his lapse from virtue. Those who can have no fear of harsh or hasty correction will show it to the full as much as others to whom the unconsidered blow is one of the daily experiences of their life. While the effects of past training must of course account for much in the dog’s attitude, it is not possible that in the unusual circumstance or unforeseen emergency that has put the dog in the way of temptation, such training can be the only cause of the moral sense he shows. It is because he has failed in the performance of one of the simple virtues that bound his knowledge of ethics that he feels shame for his failure.

I was much struck with a sense of right and wrong _as such_ that a wire-haired fox-terrier, named Bosky, showed. This little dog is a charming pet, gentle, affectionate, and dainty in her ways, but not even by her best friends can she be said to shine in intelligence. Her beautiful form and her show points have indeed been secured by much inbreeding, and it is to this that Bosky owes a nervous temperament that entirely unfits her for any of the rougher give and take of life. If a cat even looks at her round a corner she is paralyzed with fright, and if she comes across one at closer quarters she will scream herself almost into a fit with terror. Even in her home, where she is a favourite with all the household, Bosky will never leave the safe shelter of her mistress’s room, whenever the latter is absent. If any one comes in at the front door while her owner is out, a little white head will be seen peeping through the railing halfway down the stairs, but unless Bosky is sure her mistress is there she will go no further, and will fly back to her usual shelter if any one comes up to speak to her.

Yet this little dog, whose brain power is of the smallest, has a clear idea of right and wrong. It is the custom of the maid to take a cup of Benger’s food to her mistress’s bedroom after the latter has gone up to bed. Bosky, who by that time is already in the place where she passes the night, always has a few spoonfuls given her in the saucer as soon as her mistress has finished. One day when I was staying in the house, my hostess came with me to my room and stayed talking for some time. In the meantime the maid had put the cup in her room as usual, and then gone away. When my friend was leaving me, a startled scream from Bosky echoed through the silent house as soon as my bedroom door was opened. The little thing had been lying on the mat outside, and directly her mistress appeared she opened her lips with a cry of terror, and fled downstairs into the darkness of the front hall.

When her mistress entered her room she saw what had happened. The tempting cup had been standing on a table beside the bed. Its contents had long since grown cold, and Bosky had taken her share from the top of the cup instead of waiting for her usual portion. But repentance had followed swiftly on the crime, and she fled from the room and took up her station at my door, to put herself out of reach of further temptation. The most striking point about her conduct was that, though nothing but a few words of reproach came as a punishment for her theft, Bosky would never again be left alone in the room with the cup of Benger. She generally came with her mistress into my room; but if she had gone straight to bed when we came upstairs, she would always jump up when the maid came in with the cup, and take refuge by my door.

Such conduct seems to show, as I have said, an appreciation of wrong-doing as being contrary to the line of conduct that ought to be followed. For, though in this particular case the dog could not have feared punishment at the hands of her mistress, she yet showed undoubted terror at her theft being found out. It is hard to know what thought could have been present in her mind. When we see a little street Arab instinctively lift his arm across his face to ward off a possible blow at any unexpected or sudden word from a stranger, the action tells us a pitiful tale of the child’s experience. But if in the dog there is no such individual experience to cause his fright, may not the sense of impending misfortune following a lapse from virtue be an instance of tribal memory? In the history of his forbears, punishment has followed swiftly on wrong-doing. Has it become an instinct of the race that this should be so?

Even this, however, does not explain the sense of wrong-doing that is at the root of his conduct. In the case of the terrier, she might well have looked on a portion of her mistress’s food as being her right; for she knew she had it given to her unfailingly. Yet she recognised that she might not take it herself, and the enjoyment of the coveted dainty was soon clouded by a sense of guilt.

From my own point of view, and with a full recognition of the part that training and tribal memory may play in the ordering of the dog’s conduct, I think that such an instance shows the dawning of a moral sense that gives the dog the very highest claims to humane and considerate treatment at our hands. Although to some this will appear too high a line to take, we can but feel that whatever the solution may be, it brings us face to face with something in the dog’s mind that causes him to act in a manner altogether worthy of a human.

And when we turn to the passionate devotion a dog is capable of, we again find things that are hard to fathom. The most striking case, in some ways, that I have met with is that of a clever little cross-bred terrier. This little dog, Jimmy by name, belonged to one of the daughters of the house, where the father was a confirmed invalid and the mother in delicate health. The latter took little notice of the dog, though she was kind and gentle to him, as she was to all animals. When the master of the house died suddenly his widow was quite broken down with grief, and nothing that her daughters or her medical attendant could do would rouse her from the state of collapse into which she fell. In her fragile state it seemed that the shock would kill her. But Jimmy was struck by her suffering, and he showed such passionate distress at her misery that the gentle sufferer gained self-control as she strove to comfort him.

From that time, during the remaining years of her life, Jimmy never left her. He would even turn on his mistress if she offered to remove him from her mother’s side. When his chosen friend was confined to her bed, as she often was for weeks at a time, Jimmy would not be separated from her, and if he found the bedroom door shut against him, he would fling himself against it and beat it with his paws in a fury, till it was opened. Then, after only one day when the invalid was not able to take her usual place in her family circle, she died, and Jimmy seemed instantly to recognise what had happened. He was still faithful to his visits to her room in the days that followed, but instead of demanding admittance he would lie down and quietly wait to be let in. When he was admitted there was no mad rush to the bed, but he crept in and took his place with the watchers beside the coffin. What happened during those silent watches, I must give in the simple words of Jimmy’s mistress. “As I used to sit with Jimmy on my knee in the darkened room, he seemed to be following something I could not see with wistful eyes. Naturally you will think it was a fly on the wall, or some such thing that Jimmy’s gaze was following. But I assure you, I tried every test I could think of, and there was nothing. Yet the awe-stricken look in Jimmy’s eyes as they gazed out over the room, I can never forget. How much I would have given to see what he saw!”

What made Jimmy’s conduct the more remarkable was that he had never before been known to keep quiet for any length of time together. He was an active, excitable little dog, full of strength and movement, and giving play to his enjoyment of life with noisy exuberance of spirits. But after the death of his chosen friend he fretted silently and with such faithful memory that his mistress at one time feared she would lose him. In time, however, he turned to her for consolation, and the loving care that had always been his was now intensified by the memory of his love for one whom his owner mourned deeply.[9]

The following instance of a dog’s devotion I take from the charming appreciation of the late Lord Lytton that has recently been brought out by his daughter, Lady Betty Balfour.[10] The charm of the story, as told by the dog’s master, is the cause of my breaking through the rule I have followed in this book, of only giving anecdotes that I have collected at first hand.

The hero of the story was a Pyrenean dog named Goblin, who was Lord Lytton’s constant companion during the last years of his life. Only a few months before our ambassador died at his post in Paris, he took a short holiday on the seacoast of the North of France. With him, of course, went Goblin, and his master, in a letter to a friend, gives the following account of an incident that touched him deeply.

“I must tell you that Goblin has an invincible dread and horror of water. Never yet have I been able, by any persuasion or threat, to induce him to dip his paw into lake or river, sea or pond. Well yesterday, as soon as I got here, I went to take a bath in the sea, and I took Goblin with me. As the bathing place is just in front of the hotel, I made sure when I got into the sea he would either find his way home or else wait for me on the beach, and I did not concern myself about him. The tide was flowing in, and I was therefore able to swim out some distance from shore without risk of being drifted too far by the tide. When I was already a good way out and had just turned my face landwards to swim back, imagine my surprise to perceive that the faithful beast was swimming out to me in a very fussy, floppy style. He, too, was already some way from shore, but he made slow progress against the waves, though his poor little paws beat them with desperate rapidity. He was panting and snorting loudly, and there was a look of unutterable anguish in his yellow eyes, which were all the while fixed steadily on me. He had evidently fancied I was going to be drowned, and that it was his duty to save me or perish with me, or else that I was meanly and cruelly abandoning him and at any risk he would not be left behind. This moral agony had conquered his physical horror of the water, as Aaron’s rod swallowed up those of Pharaoh’s magicians, and affection had cast out fear.

“Now, three weeks before leaving Paris, I had dreamt a bad dream which made a great impression on me, and in my dream I had seen Goblin drowned. Suddenly the thought rushed upon me that this bad dream was about to be fulfilled, and I think that in that moment my own fears became greater than Goblin’s. I made for him as fast as I could, took him in my arms, and holding him before me like a baby, swam back with him till we were in shallow water again.

“Ever since he has been in tearing spirits, cocks his tail higher than before, and is evidently proud of his exploit, which appears to have greatly raised him in his own opinion, as it has certainly done in mine; I believe he is persuaded that he saved my life. However, when I went to bathe again this morning, I took Todd, my valet, with me, and whether it was Todd’s reassuring presence, or the certainty he had acquired from yesterday’s experience, that I should presently return, I can’t say. But this time nothing would induce Goblin to go after me again into the water. Every time I called to him, or Todd urged or coaxed him forward, he shook his head knowingly, as if to say ‘No, no; I am not to be taken in a second time. I see through your tricks now!’”

The faithful dog, we read, “long survived his master and was a beloved friend to the family.”

Noble Goblin. He loved and enjoyed his life, but was ready to sacrifice it in his master’s service, or to save himself from the deeper horror of long years to be spent without him.

Once again I break through my rule to give an old, old version of the story that in modern form tells of the dying service of Gelert to his master. Who has not been touched by the simple recital of the dog’s devotion, that was so misjudged by man?

It is in the Folk Tales of the Himalayas[11] that we find the far-off echo of Gelert’s story, which still lives among the fireside legends of the hill tribes of Northern India. These stories were, as Mrs. Dracott tells us, taken down as they were told to her by the Paharee women, and she gives them as nearly as possible in the words of the narrators. The temple built on the slopes of those far-off, snow-capped mountains, keeps alive in the hearts of the simple village folk the history of a dog’s fidelity that met with bitter injustice at the hands of his owner.

“About eleven miles from Raipur, near the village of Jagasar, is a temple built to the memory of a faithful dog of the Bunjara species, and this is the story of how it came to be built.

“Many years ago a Bunjara Naik, or headman of the class of Bunjaras, or wandering traders, owed money to a ‘Marwari,’ or money-lender at Raipur.

“When pressed for payment, the Bunjara, who was then standing near the Marwari’s shop, said, ‘Here is my gold necklace, and here is my faithful dog; keep both till I return to my camping ground near Jagasar, and fetch you the money.’

“The necklace and the dog were then left as security, and the man went his way.

“That night the Marwari’s shop was broken into by thieves, and many valuables stolen, among them the golden necklace; but before the thieves could get clear away with their stolen property, the dog got up and barked and leaped about, and made so much noise that the Marwari and his men got up, caught the thieves, and recovered the property, which was of considerable worth.

“The Marwari was very pleased, and out of gratitude for what the dog had done determined to cancel and forgive the debt of his master, the Bunjara. So he wrote a paper to cancel it, tied it to the dog’s neck, and let it go, saying, ‘Carry the tidings to your owner.’

“Early next morning the dog trotted off, and was nearing the camping ground which was his home, when the Bunjara saw him, and, very displeased, he took a stick and struck the poor dog across the head, saying, ‘You brute, you could not remain even twenty-four hours with the Marwari, though my honour was at stake.’

“The blow killed the dog on the spot, and as he fell the Bunjara noticed the slip of paper round his neck, and on reading it found what joyful news his dog had brought to him. Not only was the debt forgiven, but the reason for it was also stated on the paper.

“The grief of the Bunjara was great, for in spite of his hasty temper he loved his dog, as all Bunjaras do. He repented his hasty act, and wept most bitterly over his favourite, vowing that he would try and expiate his deed by building a temple to the faithful dog’s memory with the money he had recovered.

“The small temple now standing on the spot where this took place testifies to the fulfilment of that vow, and a small dog carved in stone indicates why the Dog Temple was built.

“To this day it is deeply revered by all the villagers around, and the story of that faithful dog is often repeated to show how intelligent and true a dog can be.”

Yes; faithful, true, loving to the death, understanding our moods and sorrows, and sympathetic in all the troubles as well as the joys of life, the dog has proved himself to be. Shall not our recognition of his many virtues be at least on a plane with the simple faith in his powers of heart and mind that the little hill temple is a witness to, among the untutored natives of the wild tribes of Northern India?

XIV

“_Are we devils? Are we men?
Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again!
He that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers
Sisters, Brothers--and the beasts whose pains are hardly less than
ours._”

If the foregoing studies of dog life make clear the right of a dog to be treated as a being whose powers of mind are nearly akin to our own, how should this affect our behaviour towards him? Not to pamper him, assuredly, and thus check the free exercise of his higher powers and qualities and encourage the selfishness and greed, the germs of which are to be found as well in canine as in human nature. The dog has his own place in the natural order of things, and our aim should be to give to the higher and better part of his nature the fullest development and training our powers enable us to do. When we hear of a lonely woman whose sole friend was her dog taking her own life in despair at her companion being reft from her, and brought to an untimely end, we pity her in that her views of life had been warped and distorted by the dreary loneliness of her lot. But apart from such an extreme example of putting our faithful little friend on a platform to which he has no right, there are many who might take to heart with advantage, both to themselves and to the animals under their care, the quaint indictment of an old writer: “These dogges are ... pretty, proper and fyne, and sought for to satisfie the delicatenesse of daintie dames’ ... wills, instruments of folly for them to play and dally withal, and tryfle away the treasure of time, to withdraw their mindes from more commendable exercises and to content their corrupted concupiscences with vain disport (a selly shift to shunne yrcksome ydlenesse).” As the book from which these words are taken is said to be the earliest one on dogs written in the English language, it shows that it is no new thing with us for women to err on the side of foolish spoiling of the intelligent creatures who are worthy of a better fate.

It is often asserted that animals as a body have no “rights,” properly so called, that must be taken into consideration in our dealings with them. Such a dictum, as it is often understood, I would combat with every means in my power. But here there must be a clear understanding of what we mean by the word “rights.” It cannot, I think, be better expressed than in the following lines, written by a member of that body who has been unjustly accused of not giving its support to the protection of animals from cruel and unfair treatment: “It is true that they [animals] have not human rights; but as there is in them a nature demanding a treatment quite above that accorded to wood or iron, plants and shrubs (as St. Francis says), so it is reasonable to claim for them rights--animal rights.”

And what are the “animal rights” that the dog, as a fellow citizen of the animal world, can claim at our hands? Not the cramping restrictions of excessive and foolish fondness, but a temperate and, above all, humane appreciation of the fact that his span of life is given him from the same source as our own. Whence it comes and whither it goes are questions that all the science of the world, so far, can do no more than speculate upon. As Christians, the faith that is in us is not shaken by the difficulties that confront us, when we think of the beginning and end of our life on the earth; but we know that the gift of life carries with it grave responsibilities and duties, for the due performance of which we are each personally accountable. But our duties and responsibilities towards our fellow men do not limit the ties that bind us. The same laws that govern our intercourse with our fellows govern also, in their degree, our relations with the animal world.

The dog, who is brought nearer to us in the intimate relations of our home than any other animal except the cat, suffers most from any failure of duty on our part. For the ordering of his whole life from puppyhood to old age, and from dawn to dark of each day as it comes, is subject to the influence we bring to bear on it. If we fail to bring an intelligent comprehension of his wants and of his powers of mind and body to act on the surroundings we give him, we lessen his joy in life, or bring untold suffering upon him, in proportion to our own failure in our duties towards him.

What, then, can be said of those who bring wanton cruelty to bear on the sensitive body and delicate mental organisation that make him a trusted friend and companion of the human race? The dog-fights, of which I have spoken in an earlier part of the book, are now happily objects of horror and disgust to all but the hopelessly brutal minded. But much, I fear, still remains to be done in bringing the force of the law to bear on those who offend in secret, and with but a partial recognition of the enormities they perpetrate.

Of the far worse horrors of vivisection I am not happily here called on to deal, with more than a passing notice. Whatever science may have to say to excuse them, the scenes of the vivisecting room are too dark and horror-striking to be reproduced for general reading. We know that some eminent members of the medical profession have pronounced against their value to the spread of scientific knowledge. We may hope, then, that such pronouncement of undoubted authorities may have due and speedy effect in the general recognition of dogs and other animals to the right to be spared all unnecessary suffering.

The highest claim a dog possesses to the full recognition of his rights--animal rights--to consideration at our hands, is, from my point of view at least, his possession of the dawning of a moral sense. Such a power of discrimination between right and wrong, and the consequent results of a feeling of satisfaction and elation, or of shame and regret, as he gives way to behaviour that contravenes his sense of moral rectitude, or in spite of temptation refuses to listen to the suggestion of passion or appetite, is, or so it appears to me, proved abundantly by a sympathetic study of the dog’s actions. A striking instance of such conscious choice was shown by the little Bosky[12] when she first fell from the paths of honesty in the presence of a tempting dainty, then fled from the scene of her lapse from virtue and from her beloved mistress’s presence; and still more when she refused to allow herself to be put in the way of temptation a second time. The Skye[13] showed unmistakable shame and sorrow when he brought to light the kitten’s dead body. The fox-terrier pups[14] in their Indian home had an appreciation more or less clear of their infant enormities in the matter of destroying their guardian’s property, and every dog-lover from his own experience can recall some instance of the same nature.

We have seen that in the primitive tribal conditions of the dog’s ancestors, the sympathy, that is the foundation on which all community life rests, must have been present in those members of the old-world packs, or the very existence of the tribes, as such, would have been imperilled. Sympathy with their fellows gave to each member of the tribe an appreciation of the needs of his fellow members as well as of his own. Such needs must be respected and cared for, and in the simple give and take of the rough life of the wandering packs, we find, I think, the first faint foreshadowing of the moral sense that reaches its highest expression in the animal world, in our dog friend as he is to-day. In saying this I do not for a moment claim for our dog more than the very simplest ideas of duty, as they appear to him in his relations to his owner and to his fellow dogs, or other animals, for of the conception of ethics in the abstract he is clearly incapable. To make such a claim for him would be to place him on our own level in the possession of mental and moral gifts.

The simplest expression of the knowledge of right and wrong presupposes no inconsiderable power of memory and of reflection. Of both these I believe the dog to show himself capable. If he is not, no faintest adumbration of the moral sense can be his. For before any ethical appreciation can be shown there must be not merely the memory of a past event, but a power of reflection on the many converging lines of presentment to his mind, not only as these affect some person or thing outside himself, but as they impress his own consciousness. Such an effort of mind, aided by his affections and other powers that may be brought into play by the circumstances of the case, give to the dog the sense of right or wrong-doing that he displays in his consequent actions. In such simple manifestations of the moral sense, shame and the fear of detection, or on the other hand self-gratulation and elation, may be expected to play their part, though without obscuring the true ethical consciousness that lies at the root of the expression of feeling. As the dog’s mind knows no higher form of devotion than that excited by his faulty owner, why should we quarrel with the crude evidences of a moral feeling our presence excites in him? Before we played the part of deity to him, he recognised his duties to his fellows, and in his own manner and degree lived up to the responsibilities the circumstances of his life demanded. The fuller blossoming of the possibilities of life for him came with the companionship of man, and with us it lies to bring these to a full fruition, or to starve them into a premature blight.

From the earliest times men who have taken a view of their responsibilities that is not limited to their own kind, have lifted their voice with no uncertain sound to plead with their fellow men for a more humane regard for animal life. In the dangerous exhibitions of the Roman Circus it was men who risked their lives for the passing gratification of their fellows. These games were followed in a later age by the bull fights that still linger to the disgrace of the civilised nations who enjoy them. In the old times St. Augustine, St. Chrysostom, and others were eloquent in their denunciation of the gladiatorial combats, and soon after the middle of the sixteenth century Pope Pius V forbade the faithful in any land to take part in or attend the bull baiting that was then a favourite form of amusement. The Pope declared such exhibitions to be “contrary to Christian duty and charity,” and if any in defiance of his command should lose their lives in contending with “bulls or other beasts,” they were to be “deprived of Christian burial.”

We may be thankful that in later times such teaching has been given by the authorities of the Church in England, in America, and in every Christian country in the world. Among the Catholic dignitaries, who in our own country have taken a leading part in inculcating a due respect for animal rights, Cardinal Manning came prominently forward. In one of his many addresses on the subject, he says:--

“It is perfectly true that ... the lower animals are not susceptible to those moral obligations which we owe to one another; but we owe a seven-fold obligation to the Creator of those animals. Our obligation and moral duty is to Him who made them, and if we wish to know the limit of the broad outline of our obligation, I say at once it is _His_ nature and His perfections, and among those perfections one is most profoundly that of eternal mercy.... And, in giving a dominion over His creatures to man, He gave it subject to the condition that it should be used in conformity to His own perfections, which is His own law, and, therefore, our law.”

Archbishop Bagshawe in speaking on the subject, said: “We have the duty to imitate the Creator; but the Creator is infinite Mercy, and to cultivate in ourselves habits of cruelty, when He is infinite Mercy, is assuredly not fulfilling that duty.” In another land, an eminent Cardinal has asserted, that “Peccatum est crudelitas etiam in bestias ponit actionem dissonam a fine et ordine Creatoris.” (Cruelty to animals is a mortal sin, because it is contrary to the purpose and rule of the Creator.) From another Catholic theologian come the words “... in animals there is a something--call it right or call it claim--which is an intrinsic bar to cruelty, and renders that cruelty a sin. In other words, there is a real objective counterpart to the acknowledged sin of cruelty to animals and that is to be found in the animal’s nature.... That animals are meant, in the Providential order of things, to educate both the thought and affection of man, is proved by the fact that they have that influence. The wrong treatment of them must produce a distorted character, as experience shows. No one will deny that great and habitual cruelty in a child towards animals is rightly looked on everywhere as a very bad augury, and is a proof of a depraved disposition.”

From the pen of one whose historical studies have brought him a world-wide reputation--the Right Rev. Abbot Gasquet--we learn that early in the fifteenth century, when the art of printing was still in its infancy, a book was brought out that, among other duties, inculcated that of kindness to animals. The book was called “Dives et Pauper,” and was announced as being “a compendious treatise ... fructuously treating upon the Ten Commandments.” To quote from the modernised form in which the Abbot gives the passages, we find the following: “For God that made all, hath care of it all, and he will take vengeance upon all that misuse His creatures.” And again, “... so men should have thought for birds and beasts, and not harm them without cause, in taking regard that they are God’s creatures.”

And since those far-off days Englishmen and Americans, of all ranks and various professions, have been ready to urge the rights of our dumb friends to consideration and humane treatment at the hands of all. The eloquent words of Canon Wilberforce, from the pulpit in Westminster Abbey and elsewhere, have in stirring tones brought these duties home to large bodies of attentive listeners. The terrors of vivisection have been the theme of his pen in articles contributed to our monthly press; and in one of them, that appeared in the New Review in the year 1893, he asks the stern question, “What victory over diseases known to be fatal can scientific experts point to as the result of vivisection?” “Meanwhile,” the writer adds, “evidence accumulates that untold sufferings have been inflicted upon the human race from the erroneous conclusions adduced from experiments on animals.” Could any darker picture be drawn of suffering on the part of those who are powerless in the hands of man, and its hideous reflection on the members of the race who are responsible for it?

But it is vain to attempt to give complete instances of those who have done their best to bring the fuller light of a more perfect understanding on the true relationship of man towards the lower animals. Their name is legion, even without going beyond the bounds of our English-speaking land. Poets, churchmen, men of science and of literature, have all contributed to the noble work of rousing their fellow men to a fuller realisation of their duties towards their dumb friends. From France, from Spain, from Italy, and from Austria and other countries, earnest voices have been raised in the same cause.

Few Englishmen have done more good work in the study of the habits, dispositions, and nature of animals, than Dr. Lauder Lindsay. In his most interesting work on “Mind in the Lower Animals” we find the following passage, which it would be well if the young of the rising generation were taught to appreciate.

“At least those animals with whom we have most to do, think and feel as we do; are effected by the same influences, moral or physical; succumb to the same diseases, mental or bodily; are elevated or degraded in the social scale, according to our treatment; may become virtuous and useful, or vicious and dangerous, just as we are appreciative, sympathetic, kindly disposed towards them.”

If such teaching were given to those who are starting on their way through life, we might look for a rich harvest of appreciative and kindly treatment for our dog friend and his companions, in the years that are to come.

That loving heart, that patient soul,
Had they indeed no longer span
To run their course and reach their goal
And teach their homily to man?
That liquid, melancholy eye
From whose _pathetic_ soul-fed springs
Seemed surging the Virgilian cry,
The sense of tears in mortal things.
That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled
By spirits gloriously gay,
And temper of heroic mould--
What!--was _four_ years their whole short day?

INDEX

INDEX

Amora (fox-terrier), 124, 125

Badger baiting, 121

Bagshawe, Archbishop, quoted, 262

Balfour, Lady Betty, quoted, 249-251

Bandy (Dandie Dinmont),
accidents to, 47, 55, 61, 62
call paid by, 64
characteristics of--
balls, attachment to, 48, 55, 56
games, passion for, 45, 46, 51;
fielding, 46-48
human companionship, preference for, 46
ridicule, distaste for, 65, 66
time-reckoning, capacity for, 53, 113
death of, 66, 113
episcopal procession incident, 61
hunting by, 62
illnesses of, 51, 58
photographs of, 53, 54
rifle corps, interest in, 45, 56-58
Swain, Mr., encounters with, 49, 57, 58
thrashings of, 65
verses on, 44, 49-51, 58-60, 67, 68

Bettina Corona (terrier), 210-215

Billy (fox-terrier), 187-190

Bob (retriever), 83, 84

Bobbins (cattle dog), 204-206, 213-215

Bobby (Maltese and Pomeranian), 179-181

Bone on a string experiment, 19, 20

Bosky (fox-terrier), 213, 243-245, 259

Boy (mongrel), 208, 209

Bruce (collie),
appearance of, 32
characteristics of--
independence, 107, 112
manners--politeness, 32-35, 112
practical joking, appreciation of, 37, 38
pugnacity to collies, 37
death of, 33
homes of, 40-42
stealing of, 41
train-meeting episode, 39, 40

Bull-baiting, 261

Buzz (Skye terrier), 228-230, 259

Collies, reasoning powers exhibited by, 200-202

Cruiser (retriever), 161, 162

Dash (pointer), 157

Dog-fighting;
_see_ Fighting

Dracott, A. E., quoted, 252-254

Dressing up, bull-terrier’s fondness for, 237

Druid (foxhound), 157, 158

Environment, influence of, 105

Fighting of dogs, 71-74, 81, 82, 258;
strategy in, 128

Floss (terrier), arrival of, 119-121;
badger baiting by, 121;
friendship of, with Whankey, 170, 171;
sense of duty shown by, 190-192

Fox-hunting;
_see_ Hunting

Frampton, Mr. Featherstonhaugh, 178

Gasquet, Abbot, quoted, 263, 264

Gilyak tribe, belief held by, 248 _note_

Goblin (Pyrenean dog), 249-251

Grief, expression of, in dogs, 117, 118, 171

Gubbins (Skye terrier),
appearance of, 3, 30
arrival of, 4
blindness of, 30
characteristics of--
courage, 20
devotion and affection for his mistress, 6, 7, 11, 13, 15, 16, 22,
106, 117
intelligence, 21-25
joyousness, 6, 9, 29
manners, 10, 26
memory of friends, 29
mischievousness, 21, 26, 112
nervousness and sensitiveness, 4, 5, 9, 112
shame, sense of, 25-27
time reckoning, capacity for, 27-29
wilfulness, 11-12
choice of mistress by, 109-112
early hardships of, 5
illnesses of, 7, 13-15, 27
nicknames of, 30
show experience of, 7, 8
sign and sound system of, 17-19

Guest, Mr. Merthyr, 133, 158, 178

Hawes, Charles, quoted, 248 _note_

Holland, Sir Henry, 223

Homing instinct, 175-180

Hounds,
Blackmore Vale pack, 133, 158
corporate life of, 127, 129, 130, 135, 141
development of characteristics of, 131
donkey line episode, 146
enmities among, 135, 136
heredity among, 132, 133
hunting, joy in, 137
huntsman’s influence on, 130, 141, 144
kennel life of, 126, 129, 135, 136, 144
“Ladies first!” 145
locality sense among, 177
methods of, at work, 142, 143
Press, John, anecdotes of, 144, 145
relationship ties recognised among, 131, 132, 165, 166
stag-hounds, 143, 144
training of, 127, 145

Hunting,
cruelties in, 138-140
discipline among hunt servants, need for, 146, 147
hounds’ joy in, 137;
their individuality displayed in, 142, 143
huntsmen, influence of, 130, 141, 144
killing of the quarry, 137
M. F. H., influence of, 139
stag-hunting, 143, 144

Imaginative power in dogs, 234, 237

Individuality in dogs, 105, 106, 109, 142, 143, 149, 163, 187