Chapter 8

He is devotedly attached to my baby, and always accompanies me in my morning visit to the nursery. On one occasion the child (who is just as fond of him as he is of her) was very ill, and for three weeks was unconscious. As soon as this was the case, the dog ceased to go near the nursery, as if by instinct he knew he would not be noticed. Mr. Walters from Reading was attending the baby, and the dog soon got to know the time he paid his visits. He would watch him upstairs, and when he came down listen most attentively to his report. At length the child was pronounced out of danger. The very next morning, up went master Sam, made his way straight to the child's cot, and stood on his hind legs to be caressed. Although she had taken no notice of any one for some time, she seemed to know the dog, and tried to move her hand towards him to be licked. He quite understood the action, licked the little hand lovingly, and then trotted contentedly away. After this he went up to see her regularly, as he had been accustomed to do. He is quite a character in the town, and nearly every one knows Sammy Weller.

Before I had this dog, I always thought I understood the difference between reason and instinct, but his intelligence has quite puzzled me.

MARY H. BARFORD.

ARE DOGS "COLOUR-BLIND"?

[_Jan. 12, 1884._]

Your correspondent, "W. H. O'Shea," has found several dogs "colour-blind," If black is a colour, I can give several instances in which a black retriever dog of mine was certainly _not_ "colour-blind." He had the greatest antipathy to sweeps and coalheavers, and would fly at them if not fastened up or carefully watched. He would even bark at a passing hearse! In all other respects, he was the best-tempered dog in the world, and I can only imagine that when very young he must have been ill-used by either a sweep or a coalheaver.

C. R. T.

LUCKY AND UNLUCKY.

[_April 28, 1877._]

As letters telling of dogs and their doings occasionally appear in the _Spectator_, perhaps the following rather pathetic anecdote of a dog I know well may also find a place there. Two or three weeks ago, Lucky--so called from having, when an outcast, found its present happy home--perhaps by way of showing its gratitude to its benefactors, presented them with five small Luckys, or rather, with one exception, Unluckys, as the melancholy process always resorted to with these too-blooming families had to be carried out in this instance, and the five were reduced to one. Poor Lucky was inconsolable, looking everywhere for them, and looking, too, with such appealing eyes into the faces of her friends, and asking them so plainly where they were. Near her kennel was an inclosed piece of ground for pigeons, and as it was discovered that rats were carrying off the young pigeons, and as Lucky had carried off one or two rats, it was decided one night to leave the door of the pigeons' house open, that Lucky might have the run of it; and the next morning, side by side with the puppy, was found a baby pigeon, looking quite bright and at home, but hungry, and poor Lucky, proud of the addition it had made to its family, was looking more contented than it had done since the loss of its puppies. The pigeon must have fallen from its nest, some distance from the ground, and Lucky, while on the look-out for rats, must have found it, and carefully carried it to her kennel, with the vague feeling, perhaps, that it was one of her own lost little ones "developing" a little curiously. Unfortunately the arrangement could not be a permanent one, and the famished little pigeon was put back into its own nest, to be found again the next morning in Lucky's bed, but this time dead. The old birds seem to have deserted it, and it had died of starvation. If Lucky could give this account herself, it might be much more interesting, for it was thought not at all improbable that she had actually rescued from a rat the bird she was so anxious to adopt, as a small wound was found upon it such as a rat might have made, and as a young pigeon had been taken the night before from the same nest; but this is only conjecture, and Lucky only could tell us the facts; how often it would be interesting, if our humble friends could tell us their adventures! A friend who is staying with me tells me that a few months ago her dog was lost for a week, and at the end of that time it came back one night in a scarlet ruff and spangles, and looking altogether dreadfully dissipated. Evidently it had been the "performing dog" in some show, "Punch and Judy" perhaps; being naturally a clever dog, it would quickly have learnt the part of "Toby" in that delightful and time-honoured exhibition. If it could only have written also an article entitled "A Week of My Life," with what pleasure the _Spectator_ would have published it!

S.

THE COURAGE OF ANIMALS.

[_Feb. 11, 1893._]

In the _Spectator_ of December 31st, which, although a regular subscriber to your valuable paper, I only happened to see to-day, owing to absence from home, I notice a reference in the article entitled "The Courage of Animals," to the fact that the wild dogs of India attack and destroy tigers. I have no personal knowledge of the matter, but I have been told by an Indian officer that the _modus operandi_ of the "red dogs" is as follows:--Having found their tiger they proceed, not to attack him at once, as might be inferred from your article, but to starve him until they have materially reduced his strength. Night and day they form a cordon round the unfortunate beast, and allow him no chance of obtaining food or rest; every time the tiger essays to break the circle, this is widened as the pack flies before him, only to be relentlessly narrowed again when the quarry is exhausted. After a certain period of this treatment the tiger falls a comparatively easy prey to his active and persevering enemies. This theory of their plan of attack, while it may detract somewhat from the wild dogs' reputation for courage, must add considerably to our estimate of their intelligence.

EDWARD PAUL, Jun.

SOME FACTS OF MATERNAL INSTINCT IN ANIMALS.

[_Oct. 1, 1892._]

I lately met some friends who had with them a little dog, called Vic, who had adopted the family of a cat in the house, and, while in possession, would not let the mother come near her kittens. The kittens were kept in a very tall basket, and Vic would take them in her mouth, and jump out with them one by one, and then carry them into the garden and watch over them, carrying them back in the same way after a time; at other times, lying contentedly with them in the basket. Of course Vic had to be forcibly removed when the adopted family required their mother's attention for their sustenance. I also have met a friend who saw a hen-hawk, who was in a cage, mothering a young starling. Three young, unfledged starlings were given the hawk to eat. She ate two, and then broodled the other, and took the utmost care of it. Unhappily, the young starling died; and from that moment the hawk would touch no food, but died herself in a few days.

The same friend was on a mountain one day, when a sheep came up to him, and unmistakably begged him to follow her going just in front, and continually looking round to see if he was following. The sheep led him at last to some rocks, where he found a lamb fast wedged in between two pieces of rock. He was able to liberate the lamb, to the evident joy of the mother.

I myself once saw a cat "broodling" and taking care of a very small chicken, which, being hatched first of a brood, had been brought into a cottage and placed in a basket near the fire. It managed to get out of the basket, and hopped up to the cat, who immediately adopted it.

WM. WALSHAM WAKEFIELD.

HAVE ANIMALS A FOREKNOWLEDGE OF DEATH?

[_April 30, 1892._]

In a recent _Spectator_ there is a quotation from Pierre Loti to the effect that "animals not only fear death, but fear it the more because they are aware that they have no future." Pierre Loti is a brilliant novelist, but I am not aware that he is a scientific naturalist, and I trust his idea is a mere chimera. Loti would take from the brutes the one privilege for which men may envy them, and endows them with a knowledge of the aftertime that we have only by revelation. However, two common-sense naturalists have published their belief that the lower animals have a foreknowledge of death, and one of them goes so far as to give an account of an old horse committing suicide. He says the animal frequently suffered from some internal disease, and that it deliberately walked into a pond, and, putting its nostrils under water, stood thus till it dropped dead from suffocation. The incident, I think, is easily explained. Many horses drink in the manner described, and in old horses heart-disease is not uncommon. I imagine the stoppage of respiration caused a sudden and natural death from heart-disease.

I should like to ask naturalists who think animals know that they must die, where they draw the line. They must stop somewhere between a dog and a dormouse. Poets have made far more frequent allusion to the subject than naturalists, and they may be quoted on both sides. Philip James Bailey, in illustration of his contention that hope is universal, says: "and the poor hack that sinks down on the flints, upon whose eye the dust is settling, he hopes to die." But we have on the other hand Shelley's Skylark, with its "ignorance of pain," because it differs from men who "look before and after." Wordsworth's little girl of eight knew less than her dog, if she had one, for, says the poet, "what could she know of death?" I admit that when the carnivora have crushed their prey to death they cease to mangle them; but I fancy that is only because there is no more resistance; and a bull will trample on a hat and leave it when it becomes a shapeless mass. The nearest thing I ever saw to an apparent foreknowledge of death, was in the case of that least intelligent of dogs, a greyhound. I had to shoot it to prevent useless suffering from disease. It followed me willingly, but when I led it to a pit prepared as its grave it instantly rushed off at its best speed. I suggest that it saw instinctively something unpleasant was about to happen, but it does not follow that death was present to its mind. Domestic poultry will furiously attack one of their number that struggles on the ground in its death-agony. They do not dream of death; they think its contortions are a challenge to combat.

R. SCOTT SKIRVING.

OUR FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS, BIG AND LITTLE.

[_Nov. 8, 1873._]

May I be permitted to question, in the most friendly way, the assumption of "Lucy Field," in your last issue, that the lives of small dogs are in constant jeopardy from "a race of giant dogs, and exceptionally large dogs," at Muswell Hill? If it be so, then, surely the "giant dogs" of that region are exceptions. My experience goes to confirm the truth taught by Sir Edwin Landseer's "Dignity and Impudence," a fine print of which adorns my portfolio. I had a broken-haired friend, weight about eight pounds, learned in two languages, canine and English, who rejoiced in the name of Teens, given him by babes with whom he condescended to play, because he was a "tiny, teeny dog." I must confess that my late friend--alas! that I should say late--who was chivalrically brave in killing rats and carrying on war with cats, was a very bully, a kind of Ancient Pistol towards big dogs. To see him meet a Newfoundland or large retriever was as good as a play. Teens, with his tail curled like the spring of an ancient watch, his broken-haired back stiffened with indignation, would stand and give the pass-word all dogs seem to know, and be overhauled and examined as he walked round the giant like an English gunboat by a Spanish fifth-rate; but when once the enemy turned his back, Teens exploded like a cracker, running under the big dog's nose, and often springing at his lip. His gigantic, but generous foe (or friend) always fled, or walked away, followed by a torrent of abusive barks, which, from their peculiar intonation, I took for dog-slang, and Teens returning with an impudent smile on his countenance, wiped his feet on the pavement as a sign of triumph. I have seen him do this a hundred times, and never saw a big dog attempt to punish his impudence. Jeems, a black-and-tan of smaller weight, who seemed to walk upon springs, and who on work-a-days was called Jim, and James on Sundays, which day he perfectly well knew, was more like Parolles. He bullied big dogs at a distance, and seldom stood up to them like the truculent Teens, and, although he ran away, was seldom pursued and never hurt, while the Claimant (he was for his size unwieldly in fatness as a pup), who (or which) still lives with me, is now bullying a shambling retriever pup, full-grown, but, like Cousin Feenix, uncertain as to his gait, who good-naturedly submits to it. Here, perhaps, there is danger; for very big pups will pursue any little thing that runs away, and one of their large paws, which they put down as if they wore heavily clumped boots, might certainly crush the life--a very noisy, fussy, busy life it is--out of my small and impertinent, pretentious Tichborne. This dog, by the way, brings down his mistress her boots, as a hint for her to take a walk, and blows like a trumpet or young walrus under the door to be let in, having been corrected for scratching the panel. I end as I began, by assuring you that my experience, no less than that of my friends, lies in the direction of extreme generosity exhibited by large dogs towards small ones; I would not deny that a large dog may now and then punish an impudent and aggressive toy-terrier, but, as a rule, we can only wonder at the providential wisdom which makes them so generous and forbearing; having a giant's strength, they seldom indeed use it like a giant.

HAIN FRISWELL.

DOG CONSCIOUSNESS.

[_Nov. 2, 1872._]

Our terrier Crib took upon himself yesterday to add his testimony to your view of "dog-consciousness," as expressed in the _Spectator_ of the 19th ult. Crib verges on perfection, save that he is frantically jealous of any other animal who may receive attention, but yesterday he rebelled against the injustice of being compelled to eat all his dinner, and refused to swallow one special piece of bread; but finding that his refusal was not accepted, apparently made a virtue of necessity, and gulped down the bread with a look and wag of the tail, giving me to understand that I ought to be satisfied, which I was not, as I observed a slight swelling in one cheek. So concealing my suspicion I furtively watched. Crib also occasionally eyed me, lying down and then walking round the room, and sniffing in the corners, as he is wont to do. In a few minutes, and when I appeared safely absorbed in my paper, he made his way slowly to where pussy was lapping her saucer of milk; passing her without stopping, he cleverly discharged the hated mouthful into pussy's milk, and continuing his walk to the rug, laid himself down and slept the sleep of the just.

C. S.

A DOG STORY.

[_June 1, 1895._]

Perhaps you will allow me to add another to your interesting list of dog stories. In a house where I once boarded there was a large and remarkably sagacious St. Bernard mastiff, who used to come into my sitting-room and give me his company at dinner, sitting on the floor beside my chair, with his head on a level with the plates. His master, however, fearing that he was being over-fed, gave strict injunctions that this practice should no longer be permitted. On the first day of the prohibition the dog lay and sulked in the kitchen; but on the second day, when the landlady brought in the dishes, he stole in noiselessly close behind her, and while for the moment she bent over the table, he slipped promptly beneath it, and waited. No sooner had she retired than he emerged from his hiding-place, sat down in his usual position, and winked in my face with a look which seemed to say, "Haven't I done her!" In due course, the good woman came to change the plates, and as soon as he heard her step, he slunk once more under the table; but in an instant, ere she had time to open the door, he came out again, as if he had suddenly taken another thought, and threw himself down on the rug before the fire--to all appearance fast asleep. "Ah, Keeper; you there, you rascal!" exclaimed his mistress, in indignant surprise, as she caught sight of him. The dog opened his eyes, half raised his body, stretched himself out lazily at full length, gave a great yawn as if awakened from a good long sleep, and then, with a wag of his tail, went forward and tried to lick her hand. It was a capital piece of acting, and the air of perfect guilelessness was infinitely amusing.

GEO. MCHARDY.

WOW: A STORY OF A CAT'S PAW.

[_March 23, 1872._]

I think you will be interested in the following anecdote of a distinguished foreigner. One of the happiest results of that abandonment of their ancient exclusiveness which has rendered us familiar with the Japanese, has been the arrival on these shores of a very pretty fluffy little dog, a born subject of the Mikado, who hails or rather barks from Nagasaki, and who is happily domiciled with a friend of mine, of a sufficiently elevated mind to esteem at its proper value the privilege of being the master of a clever and refined dog. The child of the sun and the earthquake has been named Wow, an ingenious combination of the familiar utterance of his kind with the full-mouthed terminals of the language of the merely human inhabitants of his country. My own impression is that Wow smacks rather of the melodious monosyllabic tongue of the Flowery Land than of that of the Dragon country; but this is a detail, and, as a young naval officer newly come from Nipon remarked to me lately, with much fervour, "Thank God! a fellow isn't obliged to learn their lingo." Wow has made himself at home and happy in his Northern residence with all the courtesy and suavity of a true Japanese, and has attached himself to his master with apparent resignation to the absence of pigtail and petticoat, articles of attire replaced in this case by the wig and gown of a Q.C. About this attachment there is, however, none of the exclusiveness which characterises the insular dog. Wow is a politician, or at least a diplomatist, and he desires to maintain friendly relations, with profitable results to himself, with everybody. He succeeds in doing so to an extraordinary extent, of which fact his master lately discovered evidence. Very strict orders, including the absolute prohibition of bones, had been issued with regard to Wow's diet. The ideas of a country in which little dogs eat, but are not eaten, require liberality in his opinion, and Wow made up his mind he would have his bones without incurring the penalties of disobedience, which his master, in the interests of the delicate foreigner, was determined to inflict. A commodious and elegant residence was fitted up in the study for Wow, and he was permitted free access to the upper floors of the house, but the line was drawn at the kitchen staircase. That way lay bones and ruin, and its easy descent was interdicted by stern command, which Wow understood as clearly as did its utterer, though he at first affected a simple and unconscious misapprehension. Then Wow was reproved and gently chastised, an administration of justice performed with the utmost reluctance by his master, but with the happiest results. Nothing could be more admirable than Wow's submission, more perfect than his obedience. He never looked towards the kitchen stairs, and would attend at the family meals without following the retiring dishes with a wistful gaze, or betraying a longing for the forbidden bones by so much as a sniff. Attached to the lower department of the household is a humble cat, a faithful creature in her way, but not cultivated by my friend as I could wish. With this meek and useful animal Wow contracted a friendship regarded by his master as a proof of his amiability and condescension. (In my capacity of narrator I am compelled to use the latter somewhat injurious term--as a private individual with an undying recollection, I repudiate it). But the single-minded Q.C. had something to learn of the four-footed exile from the Far East concerning this intimacy. Coming into his study one day at an unusual hour, he saw the cat--I do not know her name, I am afraid she has not one--stealthily depositing a bone behind a curtain. Presently she went downstairs, and returned with a second bone, which she conveyed to the same place of concealment, whence proceeded a gentle rustling and whisking, suggestive of the presence of Wow, whose house, or pagoda, was empty. Then arose the Q.C., and cautiously peeped behind the curtain, where he beheld Wow and his humble friend amicably discussing their respective bones, Wow's being the bigger and the meatier of the two.

Thus did the Japanese exile illustrate the cosmopolitan story of the catspaw (with the improvement of making it pleasant for the cat), and accomplish the proverbially desirable feat of minding both his meat and his manners. If we could be secured against their imitation, it would be pleasant to ask our own domestic pets the problems:

"What do you think of that, my cat?" "What do you think of that, my dog?"

A CONSTANT READER AND DISCIPLE.

THE BIOGRAPHY OF SPRIG.

[_Jan. 20, 1872._]

I dare not hope to equal the eloquent and most touching biography of Nero, with whom I had the honour of a slight acquaintance. But I was the possessor of an animal who, in his way as a dog, not a cat, for originality of character, reasoning power, talent, and devoted affection I have never seen equalled in his species, and you and your readers may possibly be interested by a sketch of his biography.