the restraints imposed on him by the nature of his surroundings. He
learns that disaster in the form of correction awaits him if he gives
play to his natural cravings, and the dawn of his reasoning faculties
is shown in his efforts--by no means always successful--to govern the
impulses that his puppy mind learns to realise are not to be indulged
in with impunity.

A friend who was living with me in India had two well-bred fox-terrier
puppies given to her when they were only a few weeks old. She undertook
their training, and had a somewhat lively experience with them. Her
Ayah was devoted to the playful little fat balls, but had no more idea
of discipline for them than she had for her own children. By some
needful lessons their owner had taught them that boots and sponges and
other toilet accessories were not to be destroyed with impunity. When
the puppies were with her, therefore, they soon left the forbidden
things severely alone. During her absence they were not allowed in her
bedroom, and if left alone were shut into the safe shelter of an Indian
bathroom. But the Ayah was ready to give them anything they wanted, and
one day, when they were between two and three months old, she admitted
them to their mistress’s room, while she went off to her house to
dinner.

Not long after their owner returned and found signs of havoc in the
shape of a torn up sponge and a sadly mutilated shoe. Not a puppy,
however, was to be seen, and the bathroom being empty, the Ayah
was summoned to account for their disappearance. Then a search was
instituted, and from different places of concealment two frightened and
manifestly shame-stricken little animals were drawn. They were shown
the results of their handiwork, and a lesson for future guidance was
given them in the form of admonitory finger taps, though their mistress
had hard work to preserve even a semblance of gravity, as she looked
at their ridiculous little cowering forms. But the puppies had had a
lesson, the severest of their young lives, that they did not forget.
They learned to respect their owner’s belongings even in the freedom
of solitude, and the shame they showed when brought face to face with
the evidence of their misdeeds bore good fruit in the form of exemplary
self-restraint even in the pursuit of mischief. For these puppies had
never been beaten, and the dread of a stern word, or the touch of an
admonishing finger, was not sufficient to account for their action
in hiding themselves from their mistress. They must have had a sense
of wrong-doing, mingled with the fear of reproof that showed their
training had indeed been satisfactorily begun.

Independently of the love that young dogs show in puppyhood to their
owners, their friendship for others of their own kind comes early in
their stage of development. A friendship begun in puppyhood will often
last through life. An instance of this was seen in two fox terriers,
litter brothers, by name Rattler and Royal. These dogs were not sent
out to walk, but spent their young days together in their home kennels.
Their affection for each other was soon remarked, for contrary to the
general conditions obtaining among young terriers, they were never
known to fight together. When they arrived at years of discretion they
took their place with the older dogs, in the sporting pack to which
they belonged. Here the friendship of their younger days became even
more marked. Neither Rattler nor Royal could be induced to go out,
even for the delights of hunting, without the other. When they were at
work in the field they were always together, and in company they would
return. No day was ever too long for the brothers, and they were always
to the fore in any work there was on hand. Often when hunting was over,
Rattler would manage to slip away from the pack, and taking refuge in
some handy covert, start working on his own account. Royal would soon
notice his absence, and if not looked after would run back to find the
truant. Then the two would have a royal time, and hunt the woods at
their own sweet will till exhausted nature could do no more. It was
believed that a hearty meal of rabbit not infrequently ended the day’s
pleasures for them, and then under the shelter of a bramble bush they
would curl up together and sleep the sleep of the worn-out hunter.

[Illustration: THE INVALID AND HIS NEW FRIEND

ROY AND JACK]

An instance of strong friendship between an older and a younger dog is
seen with two pets, one a very handsome King Charles and the other a
fascinating, most alert little Yorkshire terrier, who are members of
a household where the dogs take no unimportant place. Roy, the King
Charles, was an old and valued friend before the puppy Jack came to
keep him company. At the time of the latter’s arrival Roy was suffering
from a long and painful illness, and as an invalid he claimed and
received more than his usual share of attention from his friends.
The care with which Jack was prevented from disturbing the sufferer
roused the puppy’s keenest interest in him, and it was observed that
Roy himself showed no disposition to be offended at the new-comer’s
presence. Little by little Jack was left free to go to Roy’s basket
when he pleased, and no sooner was a cry of pain heard from the older
dog than the puppy would rush to him and kiss him, and then look
round for help for his suffering friend from those present. In return
for these attentions Roy allowed Jack to play with his favourite toy
without demur, though his friends were ready to protect his plaything
from the other, while Roy was too suffering to take part in the games.
The invalid would, however, show his disapproval of the too zealous
attentions of his guardians by a low growl whenever Jack was deprived
of the coveted toy, and from his basket would watch the games of the
active puppy with a gentle interest.

Soon further signs of a good understanding between the dogs were shown.
Roy, who is the autocrat of the household, spends the night with the
cook, an old and valued servant, who has a quite passionate affection
for the imperious little beauty. In the morning, the next step of Roy’s
daily pleasures is a visit to his mistress, who being an invalid has
her breakfast in bed. The little spaniel lies on her bed until she
gets up, and when he is there, not even his friend Jane is allowed to
interfere with him. But one day when Jack arrived in his mistress’s
arms to pay a visit to the invalid, Roy was all anxiety for him to
share his position with him. As this was the highest mark of favour he
could show, it was felt that from henceforth the care in keeping Roy
from the pressing attentions of the puppy might be relaxed.

With the exception of my own Skye, Roy has the most varied vocabulary
in the way of language that I have ever heard from any dog. He makes
his wants and wishes known to his friends with the greatest ease.
Being a very determined as well as intelligent little person, it is
but seldom that he does not get his own way. He has a large circle of
friends and admirers outside his own family, and I think his devoted
attendant, Jane, could scarcely be induced to accept an invitation out
to tea, if Roy were not included in the party.

In the many severe illnesses that Roy has suffered, his life has
undoubtedly been saved by the gentle patience with which he has
submitted to remedies. He never resents anything that is done for his
future comfort, and will submit quietly to handling that causes him
great present pain with an evident appreciation of the reasons that
dictate his friends’ efforts on his behalf. As Roy in his younger
days had no home playfellow, he developed an amusing attachment to
self-elected pets. The first object of his young affections as a
plaything was a muff, that was shaken, tossed, and rolled about, till
its comely proportions were reduced to bare skin. This with unwavering
affection was always taken to bed to be slept on, till in an evil hour
for him, the cook took the somewhat doubtful looking object in hand.
She washed and mended it, with the laudable intention of making it a
sweeter bedfellow; but for Roy its charm had gone, and he discarded it
with a finality from which there was no appeal.

Now Roy, being as I have said, a privileged person, always has his
chair put for him at the dining-room table, where he sits beside his
mistress at mealtime, showing a decorous attention to the business in
hand. His plate is before him, and at a certain point, his own portion
of the food is put ready for him. Being an imaginative dog, Roy has
many little “make-believes” with his playthings, and occasionally the
ball that has succeeded the muff in his affections is carried into
the dining room and put on the edge of his plate. The first time this
happened, it was supposed to have been a mistake on Roy’s part, and the
ball was removed from its position. But its owner had not brought it
there without some unknown purpose in his little mind, and he prepared
forthwith to rectify his friend’s blunder. Leaving his chair and the
food that had just been put before him, he bustled off to recover the
lost treasure, and having put it back in its former position he ate his
dinner quietly. It is only now and then that the ball is thus honoured,
but on these rare occasions its presence is necessary to Roy’s comfort,
and his sense of the fitness of things must not be outraged by its
removal.

Roy’s little housemate Jack, though still in his early youth, has
already some well marked characteristics. He has a talent for
collecting his family and keeping them together in a walk that is
worthy of the powers of a sheep dog. His great accomplishment is
begging, which he exercises on his own initiative and in a most
effective manner. With him this habit takes the place of language. If
he wants anything he sits up immediately on his hind legs, and with a
wealth of expression in his eyes waits for his friends to attend to
him. As the desired answer is sure to come, Jack’s faith in his method
is unbounded. A little upright waiting form is not infrequently found
in position before a closed door. Though the desired answer may be long
in coming, Jack has every confidence that perseverance will win the day.

Between Whankey and Floss, the former a black and tan rough terrier
and the latter a fox-terrier, who are both mentioned elsewhere,
there existed the closest possible friendship. Though Whankey was an
established favourite in her home before Floss arrived, a firm alliance
soon sprang up between them. But the good feeling that marked their
own relations was not extended to other dogs. No other of the many
terriers owned by their mistress would they allow in the house. Even
Jubilee, an older dog, who was passing her last years in the shelter of
her owner’s home, was never permitted to pass the swing door that led
from the kitchen regions into the front hall. If she ever appeared in
the doorway, Whankey and Floss would be sure to spot her, and advance
in warlike attitude, bristles up and uttering warning growls. Jubilee
would respond in form, but would in the end give way to the superiority
of numbers and withdraw to her own domains.

The two house favourites were always with their mistress, and both
slept in her room at night. But each had her own allotted place on bed
or chair, and they showed a nice sense of the social amenities, as a
foundation of lasting friendship, by never taking a position belonging
to the other. When Whankey died, Floss was inconsolable, and spent
her time in looking for her lost friend. After a while she would pass
hours together on a certain chair that used to be considered Whankey’s
property. Here Floss would sit upright with an expression of misery on
her little face that often induced her mistress to try and comfort her.
But such efforts Floss resented, and she would snap and show marks of
anger that she never displayed to her owner under other circumstances.
Though Floss lived for some years, she still kept up the old embargo
on the presence of other dogs in the house. Several times her mistress
brought up some young puppies from the kennels, thinking that Floss
would relent in favour of their youth and innocence. But Floss was
unbending, and she was so unhappy at their presence that the young
things were always sent away. To the end of her life Floss remembered
Whankey. If the latter’s name was mentioned, she was immediately all
attention, and if any one called “Whankey!” in a low voice, Floss would
spring up and rush to the door, wagging her tail, and barking to be let
out to look for her friend.

The highest form of disinterested affection we find in dogs, as in
humans, in the love of a mother for her offspring. A friend, who was
in South Africa with her husband during the late war, was at Ladysmith
some months after the raising of the siege. She went out to Bulwana,
and near the spot from which “Long Tom” had wrought such havoc among
our people, she found a poor half-starved dog and her two puppies. The
mother and one of the little things fled at the approach of strangers,
but the other puppy, who was too weak to walk, clung to the kindly
visitor who was probably the first human being she had ever seen. To
leave the little thing in that desolate spot meant death for her, so
the lady succeeded in getting down the steep side of the plateau with
the puppy in her arms, and carried her all the way back to Ladysmith.
Here she had no difficulty in finding a good home for the little
stranger, as many people were anxious to have the care of a dog whose
birth dated from the time of the siege. Efforts were made to find the
starving mother and her other puppy, but these were unavailing. A short
time after, however, another visitor to the scene of “Long Tom’s”
exploits, found the younger dog, but the mother, who had managed to
save her offspring, had lost her own life in the struggle.

Another instance of maternal love was given by a black pointer, one of
those now known as the Black Prince breed. The dog was a very fine one
and was much prized by her owners. In a litter of otherwise healthy
puppies this dog had one weakling. The latter she would not allow to
be with its stronger brethren. She was seen to carry the little one
who was unable to hold her own in the rough and tumble of puppy life
into a separate compartment. There she cared for it patiently and
affectionately, and if it was put back with the others she instantly
removed it from the dangers of companionship. This, I think, is the
most touching example of motherly love in an animal that I have ever
heard of. The poor dog’s care, however, was unavailing, and when the
little sufferer died, she carried the dead body to a neighbouring
hedgerow, and there dug a hole and buried it. The last scene of the
tragedy was observed by a boy, who had taken the keenest interest in
the efforts made to save the puppy’s life, and who is now the owner of
the celebrated kennels of which the mother was an inmate.

VII

  “_Not hopeless round the calm, sepulchral spot,
    A wreath presaging life we twine:
  If God be love, what sleeps below was not
    Without a touch divine._”

Of the memory of past events and of recollection of places revisited
after the lapse of years, we have many wonderful instances in dog life.
Stella, a handsome well-bred fox-terrier, of strange experiences in the
wilds of Africa, was a striking example of a memory that survived some
thrilling adventures far from the bounds of civilisation. This little
dog left her English home when she was only a few months old, and with
her new master set sail for Africa. Stella was a smooth terrier with
a bright tan head, and throughout life was a fat, comfortable looking
little creature.

Stella’s evidence of memory of the place where she had spent the early
months of her life was shown when she returned from the first of her
adventurous journeys. She came home with her master after an absence
of rather over a year, and accompanied him on a visit to her former
mistress. It was a dark winter’s night when the travellers arrived at
the station, from which a drive of three miles would take them to the
house whither they were bound. The little dog’s only preoccupation was
to keep with her master, and the first part of the last stage of their
journey by road passed quietly. But as the carriage came within a short
distance of the house, Stella grew restless, and showed such anxiety
to get out that at last she was put down to run the rest of the way
on foot. But neither the darkness, that to humans would have made the
choice of a way a matter of difficulty, nor the time that had elapsed
since Stella as a puppy had been in the country before, prevented her
from recognising her old landmarks and the former conditions of her
life. At the entrance to the drive she left the carriage, and, taking
a short cut across the park, arrived at the front door and finding her
way in, turned into the drawing room, and paying no attention for the
moment to those who were waiting for the expected travellers, made
straight for the water dish from which she had often quenched her
thirst in early youth. Her mistress saw her dash in at the open door,
and go as straight for the corner where the dogs’ dish always stood,
as if it was only yesterday that she had found it there. Stella’s
unexpected appearance was the signal to the waiting friends that her
master was near at hand. In a few minutes the latter drove up, to find
that his little favourite had shown her recollection of the scenes and
surroundings of her youth, and was there in her old home to add her
welcome to those of his other friends.

The so-called “Homing-instinct” of dogs I touch on with diffidence.
Of the many truly wonderful instances of this power that we hear of
from time to time, few are narrated in a manner to compel conviction
of the facts being quite as they appear to the easy acceptance of the
narrator. With these, however, I have nothing to do, though in a few
cases I have come across examples of remarkable journeys over unknown
countries made by different kinds of dogs. I think it is in such
instances that we find evidence of a perfection of one or more of the
senses, to which we have no parallel in our own experience. Yet what a
strange difference there is in humans, in their power of finding their
way when in unbeaten tracks! Here, as we know, a savage, untutored and
guiltless of the faintest breath of civilisation, will succeed where
the highest efforts of the white man’s powers of mind avail nothing.
The lynx eye of the native will let nothing escape him. The turning of
a leaf from its natural position, the all but imperceptible impress
of a foreign body on the sandy soil, will tell him what may save the
life of the representatives of a higher civilisation, whose fate is
perchance confided to him. The powers of sight and smell, that tell so
many things to the Indian as he follows the trail through the trackless
forests of North America, and the unerring instincts that will carry a
native of Central Africa, or of the desert lands of Asia over the sandy
wastes, where to the European the unbroken desert gives no faintest
clue to his position, are closer to those we find in our dog friends
than any power we possess.

Yet among average men and women of normal intelligence and culture, the
greatest possible difference will be found in their “sense of country”
as it is often called.

In dogs there is at least as much difference in their power of reaching
home. Some will be hopelessly lost within a mile or two, while others
will make some wonderful, unaided effort to get back to their friends
that is crowned with complete success. It is of hounds that such
stories are generally told, and from the manner of their life, and
the wide range of their work, this is not surprising. I have never,
however, come across any well authenticated instance that will compare
with the marvellous tales of common report. It is hard to explain how
an unentered hound could have found her way over one hundred and twenty
miles of unknown country. Yet this happened to a young dog that was
sent by the Master of the Four Burrow Hunt to the kennels of the Devon
and Somerset Staghounds. The hound was bred at the Scorrier kennels,
and as his working days had not begun he had not learnt the country in
the neighbourhood of his home. When he was sent to his new quarters he
travelled by cart and train the whole way. On the night of his arrival
at Exford he jumped over the kennel wall and disappeared. No one saw
anything of him on the journey on which he started, so far as his
friends could learn, but ten days later he was back at Scorrier.

A similar instance occurred with another hound that was brought to the
Devon and Somerset country to hunt the wild red deer. When the late
Master of the Eggesford country gave up his position, his pack was
sent by train to Rugby to be sold. Here the Master of the Staghounds
bought several couple, which were duly taken by train to Dulverton,
and thence by cart to the kennels that are in the middle of Exmoor. On
their arrival one hound escaped, and the next day she turned up at the
Eggesford Kennels.

Another instance of the same kind, for the strict accuracy of which
I can vouch, is told in Miss Serrell’s account of the Blackmore Vale
Hounds.[5] “A remarkable instance of the homing instinct was displayed
by a hound named Rakish, with whose wonderful feet and legs Mr. Guest
was so much struck that he bought her. She came from the South Dorset
kennels, of which hunt Mr. Featherstonhaugh Frampton was then the
Master. At Moreton station Rakish was put into the Guard’s van with a
collar and chain on, and she travelled twenty miles in a northeastern
direction to Wimborne, and thence twenty-eight miles towards the
northwest to Templecombe, her journey ending two and a half miles
farther on, at Milborne Port. She was taken out at Milborne Port
Station, but no sooner was she on the platform than she snapped her
chain and made off. For a day or two she was seen occasionally near the
place, but after that was neither seen nor heard of, until Mr. Guest
received a letter from Mr. Frampton saying that Rakish had reappeared
at her old kennels. Nothing was ever known of the manner in which she
found her way home, a distance of twenty-two miles as the crow flies.”

The nature of the surroundings of a modern Skye terrier’s life do not
give him the advantage of the knowledge of country possessed by working
hounds. Yet a young Skye, only eight months old, and when taken to
London for the first time, found his way from a crowded thoroughfare,
across Hyde Park, which to him was unknown ground, to the home to which
he had been taken on his arrival from the country. The dog’s mistress
was staying in a flat at Albert Gate. A day or two after her arrival
she took the Skye with her in her carriage, when she went on a shopping
expedition. On leaving the carriage in Oxford Street she gave strict
orders to her coachman not to let the puppy escape during her absence.
The little thing had the brougham to himself, and no sound was heard
from him. At last the man got down and opened the door to make sure
that his charge was all right. Quick as thought the puppy slipped past
him, and dashed off down the crowded pavement in the direction of the
Marble Arch. When his mistress heard what had happened, she gave him
up for lost. But that evening the house porter found a little waiting
figure sitting at the door of the lift, for the lost terrier had found
his way back.

A similar instance I know of in connection with a striking looking
little dog, who passed many happy years in a good home at Bath. This
little creature was a cross between a Maltese and a Pomeranian, and
what gave him a very unusual appearance, was that in front he had the
points of a Maltese, while behind he had the tightly curled, gaily
carried tail and the form of his Pomeranian ancestors. Bobbie was only
eight months old when he was lost in one of the crowded thoroughfares
of London. As his then owner was living in a suburb, where he had
recently changed houses, it seemed impossible that the little thing
should find his way home. Nevertheless, on the following morning when
the house was opened, the wanderer was found sitting on the doorstep.
All through his life Bobbie was in the habit of going off for walks on
his own account, and though at Bath, where his days were mostly spent,
he was sometimes seen at a great distance from his home, he always
found his way back.

He had many engaging little ways and was very devoted to his mistress,
who showered love upon him. He always had a saucer of milk given to him
by his owner at afternoon tea. But when she was out and any one else
gave him the milk, he would not touch it. A very sad looking little
figure would establish itself at a short distance from the saucer, and
regard the dainty wistfully. It was not till his mistress returned and
he had given her his usual warm welcome that Bobbie would fling himself
upon the saucer and drink up the milk. When he wanted anything, Bobbie
had a fascinating little way of making his wishes known. Taking up his
position close to his mistress, he would sit upright and wave his paws
quickly in the air until his wants were attended to. In many other ways
he showed that he was a dog of character. It was the custom in his
home for one of the maids to go to the post every evening, and it was
Bobbie’s daily joy to accompany her. But he understood the business
on which she went, and not even the delight of the walk would tempt
him till he saw that she had the letters in her hand. Yet Bobbie’s
evening run was considered good for him, and if there were no letters
his mistress would put an envelope into the maid’s hand, saying, “There
are the letters,” and Bobbie, satisfied that all was right, would
spring up with a bark and rush downstairs with all his usual eagerness.

[Illustration: BOBBIE]

Pat, a Scotch terrier, once performed a mysterious journey on his own
account, and though it has nothing to do with the “homing instinct,”
well-directed determination, no slight amount of skill, and an
intelligent comprehension of the situation were required for its
success. Pat’s home was in an island off the coast of Argyll, and he
was the special favourite of the nursery party. The island is a large
one, and it was a fairly long drive from the house to the pier, at
which steamers called. Every year the family went South, to spend a
time at Bournemouth, or some other of the South-coast watering places.
One or two of their dogs went with them, and one year the children
pleaded for Pat to be of the selected travellers. But the elders
decided against him, and Pat was consequently left behind when the
family started. In the steamer the children and nurses took possession
of the cabin allotted to them. No sooner had the boat moved off from
the pier than a wriggling, apologetic little form came out from a dark
corner of the cabin. Pat was greeted with tumultuous affection from
his delighted playfellows, but how he had got there no one could say.
The men servants had seen nothing of him with the luggage carts, and
it was felt to be impossible that he could have concealed himself in
the wagonette. There was, beside, the difficulty of his having boarded
the steamer without being seen by any member of the crew or by his own
family. Pat’s exploit could never be explained, though the success with
which he carried it out made him dearer than ever to his young owners.

An instance of a similar kind of determination not to lose sight of
his friends was shown by a powerful black lurcher, named Tip. This dog
was a cross between a greyhound and a retriever, and belonged to a man
whose home was at Fleet, in Hampshire. On the day when the Basingstoke
market was held, Tip’s master was in the habit of getting a lift in a
passing cart, that he might attend the market. His dog always ran under
the cart and attended his master while he transacted his business.
The return journey the man made by rail, from Basingstoke to Fleet,
a distance of some ten or twelve miles. He left his dog to shift for
himself when he took his own place in the train. Tip would stand on the
platform and watch his master off. Then jumping down on to the line
he set off in pursuit of the train. That he never left the line is
proved by the fact that he did not come to grief by any train passing
the opposite way, and Tip would pass Winchfield, the only intermediate
station, without relaxing his speed. He performed the journey in a
marvellously short time, and from Fleet Station he made his way to
his home on the common, which he reached shortly after his master had
arrived.

Some of these performances we must acknowledge to be beyond our range,
without the aid of gifts that we feel are our own special prerogatives.
If we could put ourselves into a bodily form similar to that of the
dog, and at the same time divest ourselves of our higher powers of
mind, we should have to acknowledge that some special canine sense
was needed to get us out of our difficulties. We cannot set the dog’s
solution down to mere cleverness, though doubtless the workings of his
little mind often go far beyond what we attribute to it. Of simple
“cleverness” so called, a small red greyhound was a striking example.
The story has more than a flavour of poaching about it, but is an
evidence of individual efforts of intelligence on the part of the hero.
This dog, whose name was Rover, came into the possession of a friend
of mine in a curious way. The lady was staying with her brother, who
was a keen sportsman, and from him she heard the history of a poacher
in the neighbourhood, who had been giving the keepers a very lively
time. The man owned a little red dog, who was an extraordinarily clever
night-worker, and the hares were sadly on the decrease in consequence.
One evening, after dinner, an urgent message was brought to the master
of the house that a man, who would not give his name, implored him to
see him. The request was granted, and in a few minutes the servant
returned to ask the lady to go out to her brother. Here she found him
in conversation with a respectable looking young man, who was holding
a small greyhound in a leash. Turning to her, her brother said, “This
man has brought up the little varmint I was telling you about. He wants
me to take him, but I tell him that he is no good to me.”

In appearance Rover was certainly not the sort of dog to appeal to
a shooting man, but the sister’s sympathies were soon enlisted. She
listened while the dog’s owner explained that he had got himself into
such serious trouble that he was about to leave the country, and he was
so fond of his dog Rover that he wanted to find a good home for him
before he left. He added that he did not want anything for the dog,
but only to get him into good quarters. My friend being what she was,
it was a foregone conclusion that she should offer to take Rover, but
she expressed a doubt of such a small creature being able to catch a
hare single-handed. This implied slur of his favourite seemed to put
the young man out greatly, and he declared that he had never seen the
hare who could get away from Rover. The lady’s opinion, however, was
not shaken, but she took the dog to an empty dog box and fastened him
up for the night. The farewell between the dog and his master was very
touching, for there was evidently the warmest affection between them.
The poor little animal stood whining and tugging at his chain, while
his master’s footsteps died away in the distance, and it was only when
the last sound had faded that he retired disconsolately into his house
and curled himself up.

The next morning his new owner went down into the yard early to see
how her dog had fared. To her great astonishment she saw a large hare
hanging on the wall above his box, and Rover securely fastened up, but
looking very stiff and dirty, came slowly out to greet her. When this
was reported to her brother, he was much amused. It seemed that the
disbelief shown of the dog’s powers had so rankled in the poacher’s
mind that he had come back in the middle of the night and taken Rover
out for the last of their many midnight wanderings. A hare that the dog
had caught was left in the yard as a testimony to his prowess.

Rover in due course went home with his mistress, and before long his
owner determined to test his powers for herself. Taking Rover with her,
she went to a neighbour on whose lands hares were said to be plentiful,
to ask permission to try and find one. The permission was granted, but
her friend added, “You will never catch one with that little thing.”
Nothing daunted, however, Rover and his mistress took the field, with
the land owner’s keeper and his old retriever. Field after field was
tried unsuccessfully, and at last the word for home was given and Rover
was put on his leash. In the middle of a large stubble field Rover’s
mistress heard a shout behind her, and, turning, saw the keeper waving
his hat frantically, and pointing with his stick to a hare that was
coming straight towards her.

Rover spotted it at once, and struggled and strained so violently to
get away that it was a matter of some difficulty to release him. Off
he started in hot pursuit, and followed his quarry across the field at
racing pace, till the hare began to near the hedge. This the dog, by
cutting off a corner cleverly, managed to reach before her, and turned
her back. Away they went again the full length of the field, Rover
repeating his manoeuvre at the end and cutting the hare off from
her refuge. Back once more they raced, until the hare finding herself
baulked every time she was within reach of her smeuse, grew desperate.
The next time Rover tried to intercept her she made a frantic effort to
pass him. But Rover was too quick for her, and making his rush, rolled
her over and killed her.

His owner and the keeper meanwhile had been rushing up and down the
field, with the old retriever at their heels, till they had run
themselves to a standstill. They then had perforce to wait and watch
the issue. When the long struggle was over, the keeper ran up and
picked up the hare, finding poor little Rover panting hard from his
exertions lying full length beside her.

As soon as the man had recovered his breath he turned to the lady and
gave his view of the situation as follows: “Now, ma’am, don’t you ever
let that little devil out of your hand. Why, if some o’ they poaching
chaps were to lay hands on him there wouldn’t be a hare left in the
country.”

Though Rover’s training was open to suspicion from the point of view
of the law, there was no doubt of his having responded well to it. He
had, moreover, from his own intelligent appreciation of the work he was
called on to perform, added just those details that gave it an artistic
finish.

VIII

  “_The faithful dog, in life the firmest friend,
  The first to welcome, foremost to defend;
  Whose honest heart is aye his master’s own,
  Who lives, breathes, fights, and dies for him alone._”

The sense of the ego in the dog is, I think, clearly shown in the
feeling of personal responsibility he exhibits. If we had not the
feeling of being responsible in our own persons for the carrying out of
duties, often far from attractive in themselves, and, it may be, even
repulsive to us, should we put aside our inclinations and sensibilities
to face the disagreeables such duties entail, if we could merge our
personal responsibility in a general sense of the duties of mankind? It
is the consciousness of the individual answer, for or against, that we
must each make, that forces us to face the inevitable, as we realise
it. In the lesser round of the simpler duties that confront the dog,
the same recognition of the claims made on his personal response to
them is shown, and should be accepted as coming from the same source.

We cannot study the life story of any dog without finding at least
some instance of his recognition of duty as duty. Its carrying out may
entail personal discomfort, or even danger, but he goes forward without
hesitation or craven fear. In the life of Billy, a small wire-haired
lady fox-terrier, who answered to this incongruous name, several such
actions are to be seen. Billy is the very small daughter of well-bred
parents, and belongs to a lady whose home is in Ireland. She was
originally the property of a little son of the house, whose young life
ended in boyhood. His wee dog was very precious to his young master,
and during his last illness showed her response to his affection by
spending long hours with the sufferer. One of the last requests the
dying boy made was that Billy might be allowed to remain indoors at
night for the future, instead of being sent to the stables to sleep.
Such a petition was, of course, granted; and when her master’s short
life ended, Billy was lifted from the bed and found the most loving
guardians in the mother and sister of her former owner.

In return for the love lavished on her, Billy is a most vigilant little
guardian. In her basket she now spends the night in the kitchen. One
Sunday evening on going in to take up her position for the night, Billy
found a large kettle on the fire boiling over and sending a stream of
water on to the floor. The maids being out, there was no one to appeal
to in the kitchen regions, so Billy bustled off to the drawing room
to her mistress, and by whining and catching hold of her dress and
pulling at it she tried to show that all was not right. While her owner
was wondering what she meant Billy grew more importunate. Seizing the
lady’s skirt between her teeth she did her best to pull her mistress
up; and then, rushing to the door, she paused and looked round to see
if she were being followed. Then her mistress rose and went to see
what was the matter. When she reached the kitchen the reason of Billy’s
call was clear; and the dog, having done her duty, jumped into her
basket and curled herself up for the night.

[Illustration: BILLY]

Another time Billy rushed into her mistress’s room with such signs
of frantic eagerness to be followed that her appeal was responded to
immediately. Leading the way into one of the rooms, Billy flew to the
hearthrug, where a live coal had fallen from the fire. A large hole
was already burnt in the rug, and the carpet was smouldering in most
dangerous fashion. Without Billy’s summons the consequences must have
been serious, for flames were on the point of breaking out.

Yet again Billy came to the rescue; and though on this occasion
possible jealousy of the cat concerned in the story may have added to
the zest with which she performed her duty, she nevertheless did the
obvious and proper thing. Billy was settled for the night, but it was
not long before she discovered that a cat had been shut into the larder
by mistake, and was making the most of her unwonted opportunities. As
usual, she rushed off to bring her mistress to the rescue. As Billy’s
vigilance was now acknowledged and valued, she had little trouble in
persuading her owner to come down. She led the way to the larder and
calmly waited. The cat was discovered busy with a plump chicken; and
who shall say what feeling of satisfaction came to Billy’s soul, while
she watched the ignominious flight of the startled thief, to sweeten
the sense of a duty successfully carried out?

Not many dogs, even of Billy’s unusual beauty, have had such striking
testimony paid to their good looks. Billy was in the charge, for
the time being, of her young mistress, when an American gentleman
was so struck by the dog’s appearance that, with many apologies to
her guardian for his intrusion, he ventured to ask if she could be
persuaded to part with her pet. He would be delighted to give a cheque
for £20 in exchange for the dog. The offer was politely refused, and
the would-be purchaser then offered a blank cheque, to be filled
in by the owner for any sum she pleased, if she would let him have
Billy. Touched by the genuine admiration shown for the dog, it was
then explained to the enthusiastic American that there were tender
memories of a dead brother, to whom Billy had once belonged, that made
it impossible to consider the noble offer made for the favourite’s
transfer.

A very strong sense of duty was shown by Floss, the little terrier of
eventful history, of whom I have spoken several times. She delighted
in a day’s shooting, but looked upon it as her business to mount
guard over anything in the shape of dead game. One day she was tested
severely. A hare was killed early in the proceedings, and as the guns
were going a long way to the next beat, the hare was hung on a tree
and left. Not long after Floss was missed, and no one could remember
where she had last been seen. Thinking, however, that she had probably
run a rabbit to ground and would follow, the guns went on. At the end
of the day a beater was told off to fetch the hare. When he reached
the tree there was a little white form keeping guard over the trophy
overhead. But Floss did not know the beater, and warned him sharply off
her preserves. The man tried persuasion, caresses, and threats in turn,
but to no avail. Floss was ready to use all her powers in the defence
of her friends’ property, and the man went back to tell the tale of his
failure. Then one of Floss’s friends went to find her and the missing
hare. As soon as she saw him Floss ran to meet the new-comer with every
mark of pleasure. She watched him take down the hare, and then trotted
home contentedly by his side. Not even the sound of the firing that
told her she was losing so much of the day’s fun had been able to tempt
Floss from the path of duty.

A curious sense of the cares of guardianship Floss showed in regard to
the many masks and brushes that adorn the walls of her mistress’s room.
Every night before she curled herself up to sleep, she was observed to
sit upright and look round the walls. If one of the usual trophies had
been removed from its place, she would jump up and proceed on a tour
of inspection through the house to find it. As soon as she discovered
it, she barked again and again till some one arrived to see what was
wanted. Then she waited till her treasure was restored to its usual
place, and immediately this was done she settled herself down for the
night. A visitor to the house, who was much struck with Floss’s careful
guard, used to go into the room at night and pretend to touch some of
the furry treasures on the walls. Floss would be up and on the alert
in a moment. Flying at the rash intruder, she showed herself ready to
defend her mistress’s property till the pretended examination came to
an end.

The strongest personal note of another fox-terrier’s character was an
indomitable will power. What he wanted he would have, if any efforts of
his could secure it. A more independent, self-sufficing little person
it would be hard to find. Even as a tiny puppy, before he had left his
mother, he took the ordering of his young life in his own hands. His
future mistress, accompanied by her brother, went to see the litter, of
which Tyke was one, in order to choose a puppy for herself. When the
strangers came up to the family group, the young things took no notice
of them, with the exception of Tyke, who sat up and barked lustily. One
of the visitors was so taken with the hostile demonstration of the tiny
creature that he exclaimed to his sister, “That’s the little beggar for
you.” To this the lady agreed, and in due time the terrier passed into
her possession.

Now Tyke was not perfect from the point of view of beauty. He was
spindly in form, and had a tail that curled in reprehensible fashion.
Over one eye Tyke had a black patch that was the only touch of colour
on his smooth white coat. He soon made his presence felt in his new
home, and whenever he did not get what he wanted without delay, he
would sit down and, putting his head in the air, give a succession of
piercing howls. The noise he made was such that for the sake of peace
some one was sure to hurry up to see what was wanted. Whether it was a
door that needed to be opened, or whatever at the moment might disturb
the comfort of the puppy, he thus took his own means of ensuring its
removal.

From the first he was attached to his mistress, though he gave her
brother an almost equal place in his affections. To go out for a day’s
rabbit shooting with the latter was one of his greatest joys. While
he was engaged in his favourite sport, Tyke got a nasty blow on one
of his fore legs. He was so severely hurt and the wounded leg had
swollen so much, that there was no thought of taking him for the next
day’s shooting. Tyke, as an invalid, was being taken care of in his
mistress’s room. But no sooner did he hear the usual preparations for
a day among the rabbits being made, than he pushed open the door of
the upstairs room, and tore down to the hall in impetuous fashion, as
best he could on three legs. But Tyke’s enthusiasm cost him dear. As
he turned a corner in the staircase in a headlong rush, he missed his
footing and rolled down to the bottom of the last flight of steps. On
the way he snapped the bone of the injured leg about halfway up.

Tyke’s mistress, who was in the hall at the moment, picked him up, and
her brother, seeing what had happened, put down his gun and rushed out
to the stables to get a horse put into the dog-cart, to carry Tyke off
to have his leg set. In his mistress’s arms the dog was taken by his
two friends to the family doctor, who lived about four miles off. They
were sure that the latter would attend to their favourite for them.
In this they were not mistaken. They fortunately found the Doctor
at home, and enlisted his sympathy on behalf of the little sufferer.
His mistress suggested that Tyke should have chloroform, so while
the medical man busied himself in getting ready a bandage, he handed
the chloroform and some cotton wool to his amateur assistants. But
Tyke seemed insensible to the effects of the anæsthetic, and grew so
excited over the attempts to make him take it that the idea was at last
abandoned. Tyke’s self-control was equal to the demands made on it, and
he remained perfectly quiet throughout the operation, gently licking
his mistress’s hand, as a sign of comprehension and of gratitude for
the efforts made in his behalf.

During the time that Tyke was an invalid, he came in for a carriage
accident of a somewhat sensational kind. He was so unhappy at being
left at home when his friends were out of the house that his mistress
generally carried the little thing with her wherever she went,
comfortably tucked under her arm. One morning, when a friend had to be
driven to the station, the horse, whose business it was to do this work
not being available, an old chestnut hunter named Bessie was pressed
into the service. The wagonette was to be used and the man was to
drive, so the two ladies and Tyke took their places in the back part.
The mare did not take kindly to her new duties, but after a good deal
of fidgeting about at the start, drew the party safely to the station.

On the return journey, Bessie was startled by a dealer’s cart that
came rattling up behind her at a great pace. Laying back her ears she
started off at a mad gallop, and the coachman, in his efforts to get
a hold on her, pulled one rein harder than the other. Bessie’s head
being thus turned towards a fence, she made straight for it. Being a
capital jumper--as indeed her owner’s hunters were required to be--she
landed well on the top of a broad bank. But here she was reminded of
the unwonted encumbrance that hampered her movements. The two front
wheels of the carriage she had carried on to the bank, but the rest of
the conveyance remained hopelessly behind. After struggling vainly for
a few seconds to keep her footing, Bessie rolled back into the ditch,
where carriage, horse, and man were mixed up in hopeless confusion.
Tyke and his mistress fortunately had made their escape, for the
latter, with the dog in her arms, had, while the mare was striving to
balance herself on the bank, taken a flying leap over the closed door
into the road, where she landed happily on her feet. Looking round
for assistance, she saw that the cart, that had been the cause of the
mischief, had followed, and the driver was contemplating the scene of
confusion in the ditch. Catching hold of his horse by the head, the
lady told the man to go to the assistance of her coachman. At last,
hatless, and with his coat nearly torn from his back, but, to his
mistress’s great relief, without serious injuries, the coachman was
extricated from the débris. Then more people arrived on the scene, and
the poor mare was got up. She, too, had, in a marvellous way, escaped
further injury than some cuts about the head, but the carriage looked
like a huge spilt box of matches.

It was not long before the bone of Tyke’s leg joined, and when the last
bandage was taken off it was seen that the injured leg was as straight
as the other. His love for a day’s shooting was as keen as ever, and
his attachment to his owner’s brother was so marked that the former
was always afraid her dog would be carried off by him. When a visit
of her brother’s was coming to an end, she determined, therefore, to
leave Tyke at home when she drove down to the station on the morning
of his departure. The dog was left shut into her bedroom, and the
journey to the station passed without incident. But the dog-cart had
only just turned homewards when Tyke’s mistress caught sight of a
small creature tearing down the hill in front of her and clearly bound
for the station. She knew it must be Tyke, so flinging the reins on
the horse’s neck she jumped down just in time to catch the fugitive.
He was promptly put into the dog-cart and driven home, and for once
Tyke’s efforts to get his own way were defeated. A maid servant was, of
course, responsible for his release. When she opened the door of the
bedroom Tyke slipped past her, and, finding the front door open, he had
made straight for the station, covering the three miles in less time
than the horse had taken.

To one of the neighbouring country houses, situated some three miles
off across the fields, Tyke was a constant visitor. He had often
gone over there from his home for a day’s shooting, and this was a
performance after Tyke’s own heart. It was not long before he took to
making visits there on his own account, for he found the time dull at
home on the days when his mistress was hunting. Tyke would consequently
make his way over, and then sit down and howl at the front door until
he was let in. The gentleman to whom he specially attached himself
on his visits was in the habit of having a late breakfast before he
started for a day’s shooting. Such an arrangement suited Tyke to
perfection. He could see his mistress off on a hunting morning, and
still be able to reach the house in time to share in the breakfast and
start in good order for the day’s work. This over, Tyke would return
home with his temporary companion, and there, curling himself up in
front of the fire, he would rest peacefully for some hours till he
had slept off his fatigue. As soon as he woke, he considered it time
to return home, and announced his wishes in the usual manner. The
prolonged and continuous howls that echoed over the house, if he found
himself shut in, made his friends glad to clear the way for him. But
all were fond of the strange little creature, and one very wet night
they determined to keep him with them till the morning. Tyke seemed to
acquiesce in the proposed arrangement, and the household retired to
bed. But after a time Tyke came to other conclusions, and lifted up
his voice in such piercing fashion that at last the butler came down
and opened the front door for him. At four o’clock in the morning his
mistress was roused from sleep by Tyke’s well-known calls under her
window. In the quiet night air the shrill summons was enough to rouse
the household, and she therefore got up obediently and let him in.
Tyke must have taken an optimistic view of the general complaisance
of humans, as he curled himself up in his accustomed place for the
remaining hours of the night.

He combated successfully arrangements that were not to his mind when
another day’s shooting was in question. His shooting friend was going
with a party after pheasants, and Tyke, when he paid one of his usual
morning visits, found that after breakfast he was no longer wanted. He
was, indeed, handed over to the care of his friend the butler, who,
fastening a lead of string to his collar, gave him into the charge of
the local postman. The latter was going as far as the village, about
a mile from Tyke’s home, and the butler--with memories of Tyke’s past
exploits in his mind--declared that he was well able to find his way
home from the village. The postman undertook the charge, and trudged
off, holding the string carefully. The dog was no trouble to lead, and
after a time his guardian paid no more attention to him. Great was his
horror, therefore, on arriving at the village where the dog was to be
set free, to find only a collar trailing on the ground behind him. Tyke
as usual had taken his own means to carry out his wishes, and having
adroitly popped his head out of his collar, he returned forthwith to
the house from which he had been sent.

[Illustration: “ARE THEY COMING?”

TYKE]

The troubles of the postman however did not end here. His was a slow
working and a conscientious mind. He was in possession of a dog
collar, on which was inscribed the name of the lost dog’s owner. This
he understood was felony, and in much perturbation of mind he made
his way to the house of one of the church-wardens and told his fears.
He gave the collar into the custody of this respectable guardian, and
begged him to assure Tyke’s mistress of his innocence in the matter.

It needed very little to make Tyke understand any proposed arrangements
for the day, and to take his measures accordingly. At last his friends
had to be very careful what they said before him. He was lying one
morning asleep before the fire, in the room in which his mistress was
sitting, when the latter’s brother came in with a letter in his hand.
“I have been asked to shoot at S. to-day,” he observed to his sister.
“Will you drive me over?” “Yes,” was the answer, “but Tyke must not go.”

Tyke, who had started up all attention when the visitor entered the
room, slipped out instead of resuming his old place, as soon as he
found what was going to happen. When the dog-cart came round and his
two friends got in there was no sign of him. But when they reached the
end of the long drive, across which a public road runs, they caught
sight of Tyke’s head peeping out from the bushes on the top of the bank
facing them. Directly he saw that he was noticed, and having satisfied
himself that his friends were really coming, Tyke scampered off across
the fields, paying no heed to the calls that followed him. When his
mistress arrived at S., there was a sedate looking little dog sitting
by the front door waiting for her.

Tyke’s life was a long and a merry one. It ended peacefully, for one
morning it was a little lifeless form that his friends found lying in
his basket.

IX

“_There can be no question at all that the dog is capable of a kind
of fidelity, which presents all the characteristics of loyal and
passionate devotion. When that is the case ... there appear to be the
germ of true moral and spiritual quality._”

In the obedience that we claim and receive in such full measure from
our dogs, an element of thoughtful discrimination is often shown in
the response they give to our orders. Instead of following directions
blindly they display a nice sense of the possibilities of the situation
when all does not turn out as expected. In his behaviour a collie,
who had been trained as a sheep dog, showed a power of reasoning that
would have done credit to any human. The dog had gone to Scotland with
his master, who was living at the time at Holyrood, where he filled
the post of equerry to his relation, the High Commissioner of the day.
On going into a large shop in one of the principal thoroughfares in
Edinburgh, his owner told the collie to wait outside the shop door
for him. The dog lay down obediently, and time passed without the
reappearance of his master. The latter had indeed forgotten his dog,
and had gone out by a door on the other side of the building. At length
the collie, feeling that all was not right, got up and trotted back
to his master’s rooms. Here he was seen by the valet, but he would
not allow any one to touch him, and having satisfied himself that
his master was not there, went back to his place in front of the shop
door. Business detained his owner till the evening, and when at length
he went home, he heard from his man of the dog’s visit, and remembered
that the poor collie had been told to wait for him at the shop. Calling
a cab, he drove off to the place where he had left him and found the
dog obediently waiting for his return.

It is evident that when the dog realised that his master’s visit had
been unduly prolonged, he thought that he might have been forgotten,
and therefore took the obvious course of one possessed of reasoning
power, of going to see if his owner had returned home. But he was
mindful of his trust, and finding that his master had not gone back
without him, he was satisfied that the order given him must be carried
out to the letter. A more intelligent appreciation of the circumstances
in which he was placed it would be hard to find.

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.

[Illustration: BOBBINS]

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.

[Illustration: BOY]

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.

[Illustration: BETTINA CORONA]

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.

[Illustration: A SUNDAY MORNING WORK

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._”

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.

[Illustration: BOSKY]

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]

[Illustration: JIMMY]

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