[Oct. 6, 1888.]
Mr. Ainger's letter in the Spectator of September 22nd reminds me of an almost identical friendship that existed some years ago at Grove House, Knutsford. A long-haired mastiff was kept chained as a watch-dog, and when a white fantail pigeon's mate died, it attached itself to the mastiff, and was continually with it in the kennel. When the dog had its breakfast of porridge and milk, the pigeon would eat out of the bowl at the same time; and when the dog had finished, it would lie flat on its side while the pigeon perched on its head and pecked off the grains of oatmeal that stuck to the long hair round its mouth. The only danger to the pigeon seemed to be that when the dog rushed out of the kennel suddenly to bark, it seemed to forget the pigeon, and we used to fear that the heavy chain might hurt it; but it never was hurt. This friendship lasted many years, till one of the two, I forget which, died.
Isabel Jamison.
[July 1, 1893.]
The following story may, perhaps, interest some of your readers:—Willie is a small, rough-haired terrier, a truculent and aggressive character, the terror of tramps, in a skirmish with one of whom he has lost an eye. He rules the kitchen with a rod of iron, the inmate there admiring and fearing him. Next to tramps, Willie hates cats; he has been flogged again and again for chasing the neighbour's "Tom"; nothing can stop him rushing at the alien cat, however. But for his own domestic "Tabby" he has tolerance and a certain amount of affection; if another dog were to attack her, dire would be the warfare. A while ago, this cat had three kittens; two were taken by the maid and placed in a bucket of water, and left to their fate. Before that fate had come Willie perceived them; he snatched them from the bucket one by one, and carried them to his kennel. The maid attempted to get them away, but Willie flew at her with fury, and then returned to lick first one and then the other, to shove them up together, and lie down near them, and in every way to give the poor half-dead things a chance. This went on for some time; but when at last there was no sign of breath, and he saw that they were hopelessly dead, he marched out of the kennel, shook himself, and indicated to the maid that she might now proceed to bury them, that they were past intelligent treatment. He treats the remaining and living kitten with the indifference of the scientific for the normal.
L. H.
[May 18, 1895.]
Being a frequent reader of anecdotes of the sagacity of animals in your paper, I think you may consider the following trait of character in a dog worthy of notice. Jack, a rough-haired fox-terrier of quiet disposition, but a good ratter, and an inveterate enemy to strange or neighbouring cats, of whom, to my sorrow, he has slain at least one, became without effort the attached friend of a minute kitten introduced into the house last November. This friendship has been continued without intermission, and is reciprocated by the now full-grown cat. She, unfortunately, got caught in a rabbit-trap not long ago, but escaped with no further injury than a lacerated paw, which for some time caused her much pain and annoyance. Every morning Jack was to be seen tenderly licking the paw of the interesting invalid, to which kind nursing no doubt her rapid recovery may be attributed; and though she is now more than convalescent and able to enjoy her usual game of play, he still greets her each morning with a gentle inquiring lick on the injured paw, just to see if it is all right, before proceeding to roll her over in their accustomed gambols. This seems to me a marked instance of individual affection overcoming race-antipathy.
Blanche Rochfort.
[Feb. 6, 1875.]
I have two dogs, two cats, and a kitten. Many years of experience have shown me, in the teeth of all proverbs, that cats and dogs, members of the same household, live together quite as amicably as human beings.
Only, like human beings, they have their dislikes and preferences for each other. At the present time, my dog Snow is on terms of hearty friendship with my grey cat Kitty, but of polite indifference with my black cat Toppy.
Toppy, for some years back, has been subject to fits, owing, it is considered, to the lodgment of some small shot near her spine, whilst out trespassing (or poaching).
Yesterday Snow rushed into the kitchen with face so anxious and piteous that my servants both exclaimed that something must have happened; gave signs, as he can do, that somebody was to go with him, and was followed into the drawing-room, where Toppy, left alone, had fallen under the grate in a fit, and was writhing amid the ashes and embers. She was rescued, and beyond a little singeing, does not seem much the worse.
To reach the kitchen, Snow must have pushed open a red-baize door, which he has never been known to open before, and before which he will stay barking for ten minutes at a time to be let through.
If any biped, supposing himself to be endowed with reason, humanity, and articulate speech, tells me that Snow is a conscious automaton, can I give him any other answer than, "You're another"?
J. M. L.
[Nov. 6, 1880.]
I have read from time to time in the pages of the Spectator instances of canine sagacity furnished by your correspondents, which have, no doubt, interested many others besides myself. The following incident occurred last Saturday, in my walk from the beach, which, perhaps, may amuse your readers, as it did me.
My curiosity was excited by seeing a young retriever on his hind legs licking very ardently the face of a nice-looking donkey, who was tethered on the bank. After licking his face all over for a long time, he began to frisk around him, evidently anxious to have a trot together; but, finding that his friend was tied by a rope, he deliberately began to gnaw it, and in a very short time succeeded in setting him free! The owner of the donkey, who happened to be at work close by, then interfered, and put a stop to their little game, or otherwise Master Neddy would, no doubt, have been seduced to join in a scamper. From the warmth of the dog's salutes, I imagine that he and the donkey were old friends.
S. Richards.
[Nov. 20, 1880.]
I was much interested in the account of the friendship that existed between the young retriever and the donkey whom he released by gnawing the rope. The little incident I send of another retriever may also interest your readers. A friend of mine had a pet canary, while her brother was the owner of a retriever that was also much petted. One day the canary escaped from the house, and was seen flying about the grounds for a few days, and when it perched was generally on high elm-trees. At last it vanished from view, and this dear little pet was mourned for as lost or dead. But after the interval of another day or so, the retriever came in with the canary in his mouth, carrying it most delicately, and went up to the owner of the bird, delivering it into her hands without even the feathers being injured. Surely nothing could illustrate more beautifully faithful love and gentleness in a dog than this.
E. Till.
[April 13, 1878.]
Would you allow me, as a cat fancier of nearly thirty years' standing, to corroborate, by a personal experience, Mr. Balfour's testimony in your last issue to the possibility of a genuine attachment between a cat and a dog? A few weeks ago, I called upon a bachelor friend who has two pets, a handsome black female cat, of the name of Kate, and a bright little terrier, responding to the call of David. My friend assured me that they lived on the most affectionate terms. They were certainly not demonstrative, but they were importations from Scotland, and refrained from "spooning" before folk. The character of the attachment was soon tested. Another acquaintance entered the room, accompanied by a terrier of about the same size as David, although not of the same variety. This dog made at once for the cat, then resting in front of the fire. She backed against the wall, and prepared for a fight, in which, if I may judge from her size, she would have been victorious. But she was saved the trouble of using her claws. Before she could utter a feline equivalent for "Jack Robinson," before the door could be closed, David rushed at the intruder, and literally ran him out of the room and down two flights of stairs, with a rapidity worthy of a member of the Irish Constabulary. By the time he returned, his Dulcinea had arranged herself for another nap, but she opened one eye as her companion took his place by his side, and—
I witnessed a similar scene some years ago in a country inn in the north of Scotland. On that occasion, one dog defended against another a favourite cat and a favourite hen.
Speaking of cats, can any one say what has become of the late Pope's black cat, Morello? Did he die before his master, or has some one adopted him? Châteaubriand, as everybody knows, adopted Micetto, the grey favourite of Leo XII.
William Wallace.
[Feb. 2, 1895.]
Knowing your love of animals, and the interest so often shown in your columns in their ways, I venture to send you the following story I have lately heard from an eye-witness, and to ask whether you or any of your readers can throw any light upon the dog's probable object. The dog in question was a Scotch terrier. He was one day observed to appear from a corner of the garden carrying in his mouth, very gently and tenderly, a live frog. He proceeded to lay the frog down upon a flower-bed, and at once began to dig a hole in the earth, keeping one eye upon the frog to see that it did not escape. If it went more than a few feet from him, he fetched it back, and then continued his work. Having dug the hole a certain depth, he then laid the frog, still alive, at the bottom of it, and promptly scratched the loose earth back into the hole, and friend froggy was buried alive! The dog then went off to the corner of the garden, and returned with another frog, which he treated in the same way. This occurred on more than one occasion; in fact, as often as he could find frogs he occupied himself in burying them alive. Now dogs generally have some reason for what they do. What can have been a dog's reason for burying frogs alive? It does not appear that he ever dug them up again to provide himself with a meal. If, sir, you or any of your readers can throw any light on this curious, and for the frogs most uncomfortable, behaviour of my friend's Scotch terrier, I should be very much obliged.
R. Acland-Troyte.
[Feb. 9, 1895.]
I think I can explain the puzzle of the Scotch terrier and his interment of the frogs, for the satisfaction of your correspondent. A friend of mine had once a retriever who was stung by a bee, and ever afterwards, when the dog found a bee near the ground, she stamped on it, and then scraped earth over it and buried it effectually—presumably to put an end to the danger of further stings. In like manner, another dog having bitten a toad, showed every sign of having found the mouthful to the last degree unpleasant. Probably Mr. Acland-Troyte's dog had, in the same way, bitten a toad, and conceived henceforth that he rendered public service by putting every toad-like creature he saw carefully and gingerly "out of harm's way," underground.
A great number of the buryings and other odd tricks of dogs must, however, I am sure, be considered as Atavism, and traced to the instincts bequeathed by their remote progenitors when yet "wild in the woods the noble beastie ran." Such, I believe, is generally admitted to be the explanation of the universal habit of every dog before lying down to turn round two or three times and scratch its intending bed—even when that bed is of the softest woollen or silk—apparently to ascertain that no snakes or thorns lurk in its sleeping-place.
A dog which I once possessed exhibited such reversion to ancestral habits in a noteworthy way. She was a beautiful white Pomeranian; and when a litter of puppies was impending, on one occasion she scratched an enormous hole in our back-garden in South Kensington, where her leisure hours were passed—a hole like the burrow of a fox. It was not in the least of the character of the ordinary circular punch-bowl so often scooped out by idle or impatient dogs, but a long, deep channel running at a sharp angle a considerable way underground. Obviously, it was Yama's conviction that it was her maternal duty to provide shelter for her expected offspring, precisely as a fox or rabbit must feel it, and as we may suppose her own ancestresses did on the shores of the Baltic some thousand generations ago. When the puppies were born, Yama and the survivor were established by me in a most comfortable kennel in the same garden, with a day nursery and a night nursery (covered and open) for the comfort and safety of the puppy. But one fine morning, when the little creature had begun to crawl over the inclosure of its small domain, I happened to go into the garden while Yama was absent in the house, and discovered that my little friend was missing. The puppy had disappeared altogether; and at the same time I noticed that the flower-bed in which Yama had made her excavation had been nicely smoothed over by the gardener, who was putting the place in order. A suspicion instantly seized me, and I exclaimed, "You have buried my puppy!" I ran to the spot where the hole had been made, and, having swept aside the gardener's spadeful of soil, found the deeper part of the hole, running slanting underground, still open. I knelt down and thrust in my arm to its fullest stretch, and then, at the very end of the hole, my fingers encountered a little soft, warm, fluffy ball. The puppy came out quite happy and uninjured, freshly awakened from sleep, having shown that his instinct recognised the suitability of holes in the ground for the accommodation of puppies; just as the hereditary instinct of his mother had led her to prepare one for him, even in a South Kensington garden!
Frances Power Cobbe.
[Feb. 16, 1895.]
I knew a dog in Ireland—a large retriever—who had been taught always to bring his own tin dish in his mouth, to be filled at the late dinner. For some reason his master wished to make a change, and to feed him twice a day instead of once, to which he had always been accustomed. The dog resented this, and when told to bring his dish, refused, and it could nowhere be found; on which his master spoke angrily to him, and ordered him to bring the dish at once. With drooping tail and sheepish expression he went down the length of the garden, and began scratching up the soil where he had buried the bowl deep down, to avoid having to bring it at an hour of which he did not approve.
A Lover of Dogs.
[June 23, 1894.]
You are fond of odd actions of dogs, so perhaps the following may be acceptable. I have two fox-terriers—young dogs—Grip and Vic. In the morning, at early tea in our bedroom, Vic gets angry with Grip's reflection in the long glass of the wardrobe, barks at him furiously as he moves about, and scratches at the glass, quite regardless of her own face between her and his reflection. And when he assaults her from behind, to make her play with his real self, she turns round and snaps at him viciously, and then returns to her attack on his reflection. He jumps upon the window-sill, and fancies he sees a squirrel in the garden, and dashes past her to the door; she follows the motion of the reflection till she is past the edge of the glass, and loses it, when she dashes back to the glass again. This has occurred several days in the last week, and seems to me almost absurd. The dogs are just about a year old, and so beyond puppy folly, though very lively and playful still.
A. M. B.
[Oct. 22, 1882.]
The following anecdote may interest those of your readers who are accustomed to observe the characteristic actions of dogs. I can vouch for its accuracy, as I was an amused eye-witness, and several members of my family were also present, and have often told the story.
A friend of ours and his wife were spending a musical evening with us, and an old, black, English terrier, who belonged to the house, had been in the drawing-room, which was upstairs. The dog had been kindly noticed by our friend, who was partially lame from paralysis. On leaving the drawing-room the dog followed him to the top of the staircase (we, with his wife, were waiting below in the hall), and with cocked tail and ears stood gravely watching his slow, limping descent. When the invalid was nearly at the foot of the stairs the dog began to follow, limping on three legs (he was quite sound), in humorous imitation of our poor, afflicted friend, and this assumed lameness was gravely kept up till he arrived on the mat. It was impossible to repress a smile, though our politeness was at stake, and the unconsciousness of our friend added to the difficulty.
A. R.
[July 28, 1888.]
A recent anecdote from one of your correspondents about a dog and a hen brought to my mind an incident, related to me by an eye-witness, of a dog who had a constant feud with the fowls, which were prone to pilfer from the basin containing his dinner. On one occasion he was lying in front of his kennel, quietly watching a hen as she made stealthy and tentative approaches to his basin, which at length she reached and looked into, finding it perfectly empty. The dog wagged his tail.
J. R.
[March 9, 1895.]
Does the following dog-story show a sense of humour? A retriever was in the habit of leaving his bed in the kitchen when he heard his master descending the stairs in the morning. On one occasion a new kitchen-maid turned him out of his bed at a much earlier hour than usual. He looked angrily at her, but walked out quietly. Time passed, and he was nowhere to be found. At last, in going to her bedroom, the kitchen-maid found him coiled up in her own bed.
B. B.
[May 18, 1889.]
You have lately published several dog stories. Allow me to send you another for publication should you think it worthy. It was told me to-day by a lady whom I cross-examined to get full details:—"Some twenty years back we had a poodle—white, with one black ear. After the manner of his race, he was never quite happy unless he carried something in his mouth. He was intelligent and teachable to the last degree. The great defect in his character was the impossibility of distinguishing meum from tuum. Anything he could get hold of he seemed to think, according to his dogged ethics, to be fairly his own. On one occasion he entered the room of one of the maidservants and stole her loaf of bread, carefully shutting the door after him with his feet—the latter part being a feat I had taught him. The woman—Irish—was scared, and thought that the dog was the devil incarnate. The necessity of discipline on the one hand, and of occupation on the other, induced me one day to enter a saddler's shop, situated in a straight street about half a mile from our house, and buy a whip. Shortly after my return home he committed some act of petty larceny, so I gave him a beating with the whip he had carried home. Going for a walk next day the dog, as usual, accompanied me, and was entrusted with the whip to carry. Directly we got outside the door he started off at his best pace straight down the street, paying no attention whatever, to my repeated calls. He entered the saddler's shop and deposited the whip on the floor. When I arrived the saddler showed me the whip lying exactly where the dog had deposited it."
Henry H. Maxwell.
[March 21, 1885.]
A story which came to my knowledge a few months ago may be of interest in connection with the Spectator's series of anecdotes illustrating the intelligence of animals.
One summer afternoon a group of children were playing at the end of a pier which projects into Lake Ontario, near Kingston, New York, U.S.A. The proverbial careless child of the party made the proverbial backward step off from the pier into the water. None of his companions could save him, and their cries had brought no one from the shore, when, just as he was sinking for the third time, a superb Newfoundland dog rushed down the pier into the water and pulled the boy out. Those of the children who did not accompany the boy home took the dog to a confectioner's on the shore, and fed him with as great a variety of cakes and other sweets as he would eat. So far the story is, of course, only typical of scores of well-known cases. The individuality of this case is left for the sequel.
The next afternoon the same group of children were playing at the same place, when the canine hero of the day before came trotting down to them with the most friendly wags and nods. There being no occasion this time for supplying him with delicacies, the children only stroked and patted him. The dog, however, had not come out of pure sociability. A child in the water and cakes and candy stood to him in the close and obvious relation of cause and effect, and if this relation was not clear to the children he resolved to impress it upon them. Watching his chance, he crept up behind the child who was standing nearest to the edge of the pier, gave a sudden push, which sent him into the water, then sprang in after him, and gravely brought him to shore.
To those of us who have had a high respect for the disinterestedness of dogs, this story may give a melancholy proof that the development of the intelligence, at the expense of the moral nature, is by no means exclusively human.
Clara French.
[Feb. 9, 1895.]
Your fondness for dogs induces me to send you the following anecdote, which shows their power of acting a part for purposes of their own. Some years ago a fox-terrier of mine was condemned by a veterinary surgeon to consume a certain amount of flour of sulphur every day. He was at all times a fanciful and dainty feeder, and every conceivable ingenuity on my part was exhausted in the vain endeavour to disguise the daily portion and to give it a more tempting appearance. Each new device was invariably detected. However hungry he might be he turned from the proffered morsel in disgust, and it ended almost invariably in my having to put it down his throat. One morning, after keeping him for many hours without food, and having neatly wrapped the powder in a most appetising piece of raw meat, I offered it him in the vain hope that hunger might prevail over prejudice. But no. With averted head and downcast look he steadily and determinedly declined to partake of it. I encouraged him in vain. Deep dejection on his part; despair, but persistence, on mine. All of a sudden his whole manner changed. He assumed a brisk and cheerful demeanour, joyfully accepted the hitherto rejected offering, and running merrily through the open door, disappeared swiftly a few yards off round the corner of the building. Inside the room I ran as quickly to a window, whence I could view his proceedings, and there watched him while he deposited the hated morsel on the ground, dug a hole in the flower-bed, and buried it. His jaunty, triumphant air as he returned I shall never forget.
F. E. Wynne.
[July 15, 1892.]
Having read for years your interesting letters and articles on animals in the Spectator, I feel sure you will like to have a thoroughly authentic account of a dog in this neighbourhood. I am allowed to give the name of the owner, who is living at Lyme Regis, where I was staying last week. The two incidents happened within a few weeks of each other.
Mrs. and Miss Coode were alone in their house (except the servants); and one night Miss Coode was awakened by hearing two knocks at her door and a slight whine. It was between three and four o'clock in the morning. She rose and opened the door to find the dog there, and at the same time noticed and heard a stream of water running down the stairs. She went up the staircase to its source, and aroused the servants to attend to it. As soon as the dog saw that the matter was being remedied, he quietly went back to the mat in the hall and went to sleep again. The dog is a large one, a cross between a retriever and a greyhound—a very beautiful creature, resembling a poacher's lurcher.
The second incident occurred only last week, when Miss Coode was again aroused. This time by a loud crash, as if a picture had fallen. Almost immediately the dog bounded upstairs, threw himself against the door, which happened to be ajar, burst into the room, panting and eyes glistening,—this, at least, Miss Coode saw as soon as she struck a light, for it was between twelve and one o'clock. She went out on to the staircase and downstairs to look at the pictures in the drawing-room. The dog would not follow. The cook, coming down from her room, called him a coward not to go with his mistress, but Sheppard did not move. Miss Coode found all safe below, and returned upstairs, and the dog went with her to the top floor, where the ceiling of a small room had fallen in. He then retired to his mat, having done his duty. He also showed his sagacity in going to the daughter's room—the one most capable of seeing to matters. Hoping, as a dog-lover, that this may interest all such, and help to prove that dogs think and reason more than some human beings—also to show that we often inferior beings have no right to presuppose that the superior animals have no souls.
K. Clarke.
[Aug. 5, 1893.]
The "dog" letter in the Spectator of July 15th is wonderfully like my experience, some years ago, with my little red Blenheim, Frisk. She always slept in a basket, close to the hall door. One night she dashed up the stairs, loudly barking, ran first to my eldest sister's room, then through a swing-door to another sister's room, barking outside each door, then upstairs again to my room at the top of the house, where she remained barking till I got up and opened it, when she ran in, still barking, and waited till I was ready to go down with her. She scampered on before me, I following close, and when we both reached the hall she dashed still barking to the door, to show me whence her alarm had arisen. It was the policeman turning the handle of the door from the outside to see if it was properly closed! One night, a long time after the first adventure, I was wakened by a quiet scratch at the door of my room. No barking this time; but, tiresome as it was to be disturbed on a cold night, I got up and opened the door, and was conscious in the darkness that Frisk was standing there. "Come in, Frisk," said I. But no movement; Frisk stood waiting. "Come in, Frisk," I repeated, somewhat sharply. No movement, no bark! Then, being sure that something must be wrong, I lighted a candle, and there stood Frisk outside the door, never offering to come in. She trotted quietly down before me, not speaking a word. When we were both through the swing-door, and at the head of the stairs, I saw that the inner door to the hall was open, and also that of the morning-room, from which shone a bright light. My heart went pit-a-pat for a moment; then seeing Frisk run quietly down the stairs, I followed her, when she calmly jumped into her basket again, and I, venturing into the morning-room, found that my brother-in-law had left the lamp burning by mistake—a proceeding which Frisk plainly knew was wrong, and had therefore come upstairs to inform me, but had not thought it necessary to disturb the rest of the household this time! She had come straight up to my room without disturbing any one else, to tell me of the irregularity of a light burning when every one was in bed, and that being done, jumped into bed again, conscious of having performed her duty.
Georgina A. Marsh-Caldwell.
[Aug. 12, 1893.]
I can give an instance as convincing as that of Miss Marsh-Caldwell of the way in which a true watch-dog will measure the extent of his duties. I lived for many years opposite a wood, in which the game at first was preserved. I had a dog named Prin, who had begun by being a gardener's dog, but having caught the distemper and been unskilfully treated by his master he remained nearly blind, and was left on my hands by the man when he quitted my service. The dog was a great coward, but good-tempered and affectionate, and the partial loss of sight seemed to have developed greatly the senses both of hearing and smell, so that he was recognised as a capital watch-dog. He was promoted to the kitchen, and would have been promoted to the drawing-room but for the obstreperousness of his affection, which seemed to know no bounds if he was admitted even into the hall. I slept at that time in a room over the kitchen, fronting the road. One night I was awakened by Prin growling, and, after a time, giving a snappish bark underneath me. I got out of bed and throwing up the sash, listened at the window, where, after a time, I heard slight noises, which convinced me that some one or more persons were hiding in the shrubbery between the house and the road, whom I supposed to be burglars. I called out, "Who's there?" without, of course, eliciting any answer, and, after a time, I heard the click of the further gate (there being two, one opposite my house, the other opposite its semi-detached neighbour, and out of my sight), after which all was quiet. But I had noticed that from the moment of my getting out of bed Prin had not uttered a sound. The same thing happened seven or eight times, and always in the same way, Prin growling or barking till he heard me get out of bed, and then holding his tongue, as feeling that he had fulfilled his duty in warning his master, and that all responsibility now devolved upon me. The secret of the matter I discovered to be that poachers, with no burglarious intentions towards me, used the shrubbery as a hiding-place before getting over the opposite paling into the wood.
One other instance of Prin's sagacity I will also mention. I had a black cat, with white breast, named Toffy, between whom and Prin there was peace, though not affection. There was also another black cat, with white breast, that prowled about, an outlaw cat, who made free with my chickens when he could! It was a bitter winter, and the snow had lain already for days on the ground. I was walking one Sunday morning in my garden, Prin being out with me. He quitted me to go under a laurel-hedge bounding a shrubbery, and presently began barking loudly. I went towards him, and saw a white-breasted cat sitting stretched under the laurels, with front paws doubled under him, which I took to be Toffy asleep. I scolded Prin for disturbing Toffy, and he stopped barking, but remained on the spot whilst I continued my walk. Presently—say two or three minutes after—I heard him barking still more loudly than before, and so persistently that I returned to the spot. Noticing that the cat had never moved through all the noise, I crept up under the bushes, and found that it was not Toffy asleep, but the outlaw cat, dead—evidently of cold. Thus my poor purblind watch-dog had—(1) barked to draw my attention to what appeared to him an unusual phenomenon; (2), held his tongue in deference to my (supposed) superior wisdom, when I told him he was making a mistake; (3), not being, however, satisfied in his mind, remained to investigate till he was convinced he had not been mistaken; (4), called my attention to the facts still more instantly till I was satisfied of them for myself. Could homo sapiens have done more?
J. M. L.
[Aug. 12, 1893.]
I am reminded by the anecdote related in the Spectator of July 15th, "A Canine Guardian," of the sagacity of a favourite Scotch terrier which was displayed some years ago. I was dressing one morning, and my bedroom-door was ajar. Standing at my dressing-table, I was surprised to see Fan come up to me, frisking about, and looking eagerly into my face, whether from pleasure or not I could not tell. I spoke to and stroked her, but she was in no way soothed, and she ran out of the room evidently much excited. In she came again, more earnestly trying to tell me what she wanted, rushing up to me and again to the door, plainly begging me to follow her, which I did, into the next room, where breakfast was laid. I at once saw what she had easily felt was out of order—the kettle was boiling over, and the water pouring from the spout had drenched the hearth. Hence her discomfort, and her effort to tell me of the disaster. Having brought me on the scene, she seemed perfectly content.
C. A. T.
[Aug. 12, 1893.]
Not long ago I was passing a barn-yard in this place, and stood to look over the gate at a pretty half-grown lamb standing alone outside the barn. But the sight of me so enraged a fierce, shaggy grey dog tied up to his kennel between the lamb and me, that he barked himself nearly into fits, showing all his teeth, and straining so furiously at his chain as to make me quite nervous lest it should give way. In the meantime, I struck such terror into the heart of the lamb that it fled across the yard to place itself under the protection of the dog, and stood close by his side, whilst he barked and danced with fury. As I drew a little nearer, the lamb backed right into the kennel, and when, after I had made a circuit in order to watch the further movements of this strange pair of friends from behind a tree, I saw their two faces cautiously looking out together, cheek-by-jowl, whilst the dog's anger was being reduced to subsiding splutters of resentment. He was not a collie, but a very large sort of poodle.
C. S.
[March 25, 1893.]
At six o'clock this morning, I saw a mountain-shepherd stand at a gate on the hill-top. Seven sheep were on the outside of the gate—six of the shepherd's flock, the other a strayer. The man wanted his own sheep in; so, before opening the gate, he quietly said: "'Rob,' catch the strayer." In an instant "Rob" pinned the sheep, holding him, strong and wild as he was, as though he were in a vice; and then, by another word, "Gled" was told to bring the others in through the gate now opened for them. Although "Gled" brought his six wild sheep right over "Rob" and his strayer, the sheep was held securely till the gate was closed, and the order given to "let it gang."
William Fothergill.
[Aug. 11, 1894.]
We stood at the bottom of a deep valley with the hills rising abruptly on either side, when Robert Scott said: "Yonder is the sheep I led away from Llangynider, all those weary miles yesterday. I saw it as I came over the hill-top down to the house this morning. If you wish, "Kate" shall bring it down to my feet here for you to see it." "What?—bring that single sheep! How will she know the one you want, and how can she get it away from the flock by itself? I will not believe that possible till I see it done, at all events."
He spoke a low word or two to the collie by his side, and away went "Kate" right up over rock and bracken, till we could see the flock far away upon the height above give a very rapid turn, and in a few minutes afterwards, down rushed a strong mountain wether with the wily "Kate" working to the right and left about thirty yards behind it. "Come away, back 'ahint me," cried Scott; and "Kate," at once leaving the sheep, appeared positively to fly far out, and coming round behind us, stopped the wether in his headlong course, bringing him to a stand literally at the shepherd's feet. "Robert," I said, "when (as you intend) you sail next month for New Zealand, you will not take 'Kate' with you, but leave her here for seven sovereigns." "Nae, nae, sir," was the reply, "seventy sovereigns would nae buy her."
W. Fothergill.
[Feb. 17, 1877.]
A correspondent favoured your readers last week (see page 53) with an interesting anecdote of a dog's intelligence in reference to the use of money. Permit me to relate an instance of a dog's intelligence in reference to the day of the week. Some three-and-twenty years ago, in the infancy of the Canterbury Province, New Zealand, there lived in the same neighbourhood as myself two young men, in the rough but independent mode of life then prevalent in the colony, somewhat oblivious of old institutions. These men possessed a dog each, affectionate companions of their solitude. It was the custom of this primitive establishment to utilise the Sabbath by a ramble, in quest of wild ducks and wild pigs, about the swamps and creeks of the district. It was observed that long before any preparations were made for starting, the dogs always seemed to be more or less excited. This was remarkable enough, but not so much as what followed. One of these men after a while left his friend, and taking his dog with him, went to live with a clergyman about four miles off. Here ducks and pigs had to be given up on Sundays for the church-service. It was soon noticed that this dog used to vanish betimes on Sundays, and did not turn up again until late. Upon inquiring, it was found that the dog had visited its old abode, where on that day of the week sport was not forbidden. The owner tried the plan of chaining up the animal on Saturday evenings, but it soon became very cunning, and would get away whenever it had the chance. On one occasion it was temporarily fastened to a fence-rail about mid-day on a Saturday. By repeated jerks it loosened the rail from the mortice-holes, and dragged it away. Upon search being made, this resolute but unfortunate dog was found drowned, still fast to the chain and rail, in a stream about two miles away in the direction of its old haunts. The gentleman who owned the other dog is in England now, and went over the details of the facts herein stated with me quite recently.
Alfred Durell.
[April 30, 1892.]
As a subscriber to and constant reader of the Spectator, I have derived much pleasure from the anecdotes of animal instinct, sagacity, and emotion, which from time to time have appeared in your columns. Perhaps you may like to publish the following instance of jealousy in a cow; it is, at any rate, a story at first-hand, as I myself was an actor in the affair.
A few years ago, I had a quiet milch-cow, Rose, who certainly was fond of Thomas, the man who milked her regularly, and she also showed an aversion to dogs even greater than is usual in her species. One night, for what reason I now forget, I had tied up a young collie dog in the little cowshed where she was accustomed to be milked. The following morning, I had just begun to dress, when I heard the puppy barking in the cowshed. "Oh!" thought I, "I forgot to tell Thomas about the puppy, and now the cow will get in first and gore it." The next minute I heard a roar of unmistakable fear and anguish—a human roar. I dashed down to the spot, and at the same moment arrived my son, pitchfork in hand. There lay Thomas on his face in a dry gutter by the side of the road to the cowhouse, and the cow butting angrily at him. We drove off the cow, and poor Thomas scuffled across the road, slipped through a wire fence, stood up and drew breath. "Why, Thomas," said I, "what's the matter with Rose?" "Well, sir," said Thomas, "I heard the pup bark and untied him, and I was just coming out of the cowhouse, with the pup in my arms, when 'Rose' came round the corner. As soon as she see'd the pup in my arms, she rushed at me without more ado, knocked me down, and would have killed me if you hadn't come up." Thomas had indeed had a narrow escape; his trousers were ripped up from end to end, and red marks all along his legs showed where Rose's horns had grazed along them. "Well," said I, "you'd better not milk her this morning, since she's in such a fury." "Oh! I'll milk her right enough, sir, by and by; just give her a little time to settle down like. It's only jealousy of that 'ere pup, sir. She couldn't abide seeing me a-fondling of it." "Well, as you like," said I; "only take care, and mind what you're about." "All right, sir!"
In about twenty minutes, Thomas called me down to see the milk. The cow had stood quiet enough to be milked. But the milk was deeply tinged with blood, and in half an hour a copious red precipitate had settled to the bottom of the pail. Till then I had doubted the jealousy theory. After that I believed.
C. Hunter Brown.
[May 11, 1895.]
Seeing the great interest which many of your readers take in the study of canine character and intelligence, I think perhaps the following incident is worth recording. Whilst walking with a lady friend along Studley Park Road, Kew (a residential suburb of Melbourne), on a very quiet afternoon some time ago, we were surprised by a large St. Bernard dog, which came up to us and deliberately pawed my leg several times. Our perplexity at his extraordinary behaviour was perhaps not unmixed with a little misgiving, for he was an animal of formidable size and strength; but as he gave evident signs of satisfaction at our noticing him, and proceeded to trot on in front—at intervals looking round to make sure we were following—we became interested. When we had followed him about forty yards, he stopped before a door in a high garden wall, and, looking round anxiously to see that we were noticing, reached up his paw in the direction of the latch. On stretching forth my hand to unfasten the door, his extreme pleasure was exhibited in a most unmistakable manner; but when he saw me try in vain to open it, he became quiet, and looked at me with an expression so manifestly anxious that I could no more have left the poor animal thus than I could have left a helpless little child in a similar position. With eager attention and expectancy he listened while I knocked, and when at last some one was heard coming down the garden path, he bounded about with every sign of unlimited joy.
Now here was one of the so-called "brutes," which, failing to get in at a certain door, cast about for a way out of the difficulty, and seeing us some distance down the road (we were the only persons in sight at the time), he had come to us, attracted our attention, taken us to the door, and told us he wanted it opened. We both agreed that the animal had all through shown a play of emotion and intelligence comparable to that of a human being; and, indeed, we felt so much akin to the noble creature that we have both, since then, been very loath to class dogs as "inferior animals."
George Eastgate.
[Feb. 2, 1895.]
Having derived much pleasure from reading the frequent natural history notes which from time to time appear in the Spectator, I venture to send you two instances of what seems to me the working of the canine mind under quite different circumstances. The first refers to an incident which happened a great many years ago. It was this. One day, when a lad, I was walking with my father accompanied by a strong, smooth-haired retriever called Turk. We were joined by the bailiff of the farm, and in the course of our walk Turk suddenly discovered the presence of a rabbit concealed in what in Scotland is called a "dry-stane dyke." After a little trouble in removing some stones, poor bunny was caught and slaughtered, being handed to the bailiff, who put it in his coat pocket. Shortly afterwards we separated, the bailiff going to his home in one direction, and we to ours in an opposite one. Before we reached home we noticed that Turk was no longer with us, at which we were rather surprised, as he was a very faithful follower. Some time after we got home, perhaps an hour, I chanced to see a strange object on the public road which puzzled me as to what it was. It raised a cloud of dust as it came along, which partly obscured the vision. What was my surprise when I found it was Turk dragging a man's shooting-jacket, which proved to be the bailiff's, with the rabbit still in the pocket. We afterwards learnt that the dog, to the surprise of the bailiff, quietly followed him home, and lay down near him. Presently the man took off his coat, and laid it on a chair. Instantly Turk pounced upon it, and dashed to the door with it in his mouth. He was pursued, but in vain, and succeeded in dragging the coat from the one house to the other, a distance of one mile and three-fourths. It was evident the dog had a strong sense of the rights of property. He believed the rabbit belonged to his master, so he set himself to recover what he thought stolen goods.
The other anecdote refers to quite a recent date, and the only interest it has, is that it shows how perfectly a dog can exhibit facial expression, and also read at a glance the slightest indications of feeling in the human face. I had a well-broken Irish setter, which was perfectly free of hare or rabbit as to chasing, but he was a sad rascal for all that. I also had at the time a rough Scotch terrier, and the two dogs were great chums. The moment they got the chance they were off together on a rabbit-hunt. Like idiots, they would spend hours in vainly trying to dig rabbits out of their burrows. One day as I was returning home I met the pair in the avenue. They were the very picture of happiness. At first they did not see me, and came joyously on at a trot. The instant they observed me they came to a full stop, some forty yards off. The setter gently wagged his tail, and looked at me with an expression of anxious inquiry. Taking heart, he slowly advanced to within about thirty yards, and then came the varying play of feature which so interested me. He was in great doubt as to whether I had guessed what tricks he had been up to; but as I made no sign, he was gradually looking more comfortable and gaining confidence. Suddenly I noticed a patch of mud above his nose, and I must have unconsciously shown him I had made a discovery of some kind, for that instant he turned tail and bolted home at the utmost speed of which he was capable. Without uttering a single word, or making a single gesture, the dog and man understood each other perfectly. It was the language of faces.
R. Scot Skirving.
[Jan. 18, 1890.]
The enclosed may interest you. I received it this morning. I have no doubt Dr. Barford, of Wokingham, would verify it, but I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance. The following is the story:—
"Dr. Barford's dog at Wokingham was put into a muzzle; he objected to it, took it off, and hid it somewhere, no one knows where. Policeman saw him; summoned Dr. B.; case was to come off one Saturday. The children told dog how wicked he'd been: Dr. B. would have to appear at the Court, and he too, as it was his doing; he'd lost the muzzle. Case was postponed (I think policeman witness had influenza). Dr. B. was told of postponement by letter; forgot to tell children or dog. At Saturday's Bench, Magistrates much astonished by the dog appearing in Court and sitting solemnly opposite them."
Alys M. Wood.
[Feb. 1, 1890.]
Several newspaper cuttings have been sent to me with the story of my dog which appeared in the Spectator of January 18th, and one or two of them suggest a doubt as to the veracity of the story. I write, therefore, to tell you that it is literally true, only that the policeman was away for his holiday instead of having influenza, and the case came off on Tuesday instead of Saturday. My dog is a pug, a very choice specimen of his kind, and was given to me by the late Dr. Wakley, editor of the Lancet, who was a great connoisseur in dogs. His intelligence is really marvellous, and he has done many things as extraordinary as the one related by Miss Wood.
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.
[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.
[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.
[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.
[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.
[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.