THE CHILD OF THE HOUSE
“I have lost many a friend, but never one
So patient, steadfast, and sincere as he—
So unforgetful in his constancy.”
“THE One” of all dogs for me was a long, low Skye of the old-fashioned drop-eared kind. In breed and build he was just what I had always said I would not have as a house dog, yet I never regretted the weakness that forbade me to send the forlorn little stranger away. He had no eventful history, and though I am persuaded that no other of his kind was ever quite so intelligently sympathetic and altogether lovable as he, I have nothing to relate of him that “The Others” will not outdo at every turn. Yet for me he is the one apart, and his memory has all the fragrance of richest perfumes from friendship’s garden.
It is in his life, and in those of my friends’ dogs, whose life histories I have written, that I have found the data for such thoughts and fancies concerning our relations with the dog, and of the various pleasures, pains, and obligations that result therefrom, which I hope my readers may share with me.
The summer in which Mr. Gubbins came to me, I had a lady staying with me, who was also a great lover of dogs. A brother of this friend it was, who brought the little aristocrat with the strangely incongruous name to ask a temporary shelter, while his owner looked out for a suitable home for him. This man, another keen dog-lover, had seen and admired the beautiful young Skye at a country house where he was staying. He made friends with the timid, shy animal, who belonged to no one in particular in the house, and when the visitor left, the terrier was offered to him. He could not find it in his heart to refuse, so he brought it to his sister to take care of. I may say that at the time I had a Basset hound and a bulldog, both of which slept in my room at night
When this friend came into my study, where his sister and I were sitting, my astonishment was great to see a long, grey, hairy creature, of which nothing could be distinguished but his magnificent coat, slip in at the door behind the visitor. After a short pause, during which the bright eyes hidden behind a cloud of hair were doubtless taking in the bearings of the situation, the terrier made straight for the long, low chair at the further end of the room, where I was sitting, and curled himself up behind it. My other dogs were in the garden, and there was no one to dispute the refuge with him. He submitted quietly to caresses, but was evidently so frightened that he was soon left in peace, while the reason of his advent was explained.
The Child of the House
GUBBINS
He had gone as a puppy to his late owners, from his breeder Mr. Pratt, whose long-haired Skyes were at one time well known in Hyde Park, where their master took them for their daily exercise. These dogs were bred with the nicest care, and the strain that came from Lady Aberdeen’s kennels had been preserved. Pratt, who was a butler, living with a family on the Bayswater side of the Park, was devoted to his dogs, but as he could not keep a great number of them, and doubtless looked to making his hobby a profitable investment, the puppies were sold at a remunerative price.
In the case of my own favourite, he had gone early to his country home, and, not having been trained to the house, he was put in the charge of a gamekeeper to have his education completed. This man, whose very name I do not know, had little idea of the gentleness required for successful training. He was harsh and ill-tempered, and the shy, wild little creature, who all his life long was one of the most sensitive of his kind, was years before he recovered from the experiences of those early months. He was cowed and frightened, and, not having the bright merry little ways of puppyhood, he won no favour from any member of the family when he was sent up to the house with his first hard experience of life behind him. He crawled about the grounds by himself, and only asked to be left alone and unnoticed, so that he might escape the rough usage that he associated with intercourse with the superior being. The long grey form was creeping over a wide expanse of lawn, looking a dejected enough specimen of his race, when the visitor saw him from his bedroom window, and was struck by his great beauty. When Gubbins left with his new owner he accepted the experiences of the journey by road and rail with the dejected submission that only gradually gave place to a real joy in living as he began to forget what harsh words and blows, and the chilling guardianship of kindly but unloving owners, were like.
For the first weeks he was regarded as my visitor’s property, and for a few nights he slept in her room. But in spite of this, and of the constant presence of my own dogs with me, he attached himself to me from the first. He spent long hours curled up behind my study chair, or, if he could gain entrance to my bedroom, he would lie contentedly under the bed. I took very little notice of him, as I did not wish to become fond of him, and was only anxious that he should find a good home before my visitor left me. But very soon Gubbins would follow the other dogs when they rushed up or downstairs in front of me, and he and the Basset being of unusual length of body and shortness of limb, my friend always used to call the procession, “dog by the yard.” Gubbins was so quiet and harmless that the others from the first seemed to accept him as not worth disputing with. When I was busy in my study I soon got into the habit of putting down my hand to pat the little hairy ball that was sure to be within reach, for the garden gambols of the other dogs had as yet no attraction for him. Then one night he got into my room, and was so reluctant to be taken off to his usual quarters that he was allowed to stay, and from that time to almost the end of his long life he never slept away from me when I was at home.
By the time my friend’s visit came to an end I had begun to wonder if I could ever give him up. As no suitable home offered, and the weeks passed, Gubbins carried the citadel by assault by reason of an illness he had at the very time I had a friend seriously ill in the house. Between my duties in the sick-room I made hurried visits to the suffering dog, who spent his time by the now deserted chair in my study. He would eat nothing but what I gave him, and by his touching trust in, and affection, for me he fairly won my heart.
It was not long after this that Gubbins had his first and only taste of show life. I had been asked to support a dog show in the neighbourhood, and consequently entered him and another of my dogs, Gubbins at that time being about three years old. On the morning of the show, he was taken and delivered over to the authorities, as I was not able to go myself till later in the day. When I entered the show ground I made my way at once to the place where the Skyes were benched, but could see nothing of my dog. The attendants could give me no tidings of him, and it was a kindly stranger who, overhearing my inquiries, at last told me he had seen a Skye in the pet dog section of the show, and he added, “the sooner he was taken away he thought the better.” I hastened to act on the suggestion, and to my great annoyance found my poor Gubbins, looking the picture of misery, benched in a place only large enough for a dog half his length and size. He was, indeed, so stiff and cramped when I took him out that he could hardly stand. The man in charge of the benches was quite deaf to my assertion that it was cruelty to put a dog in a place so obviously unfit for him, and in spite of the absurd mistake that had been made he tried to refuse to allow me to move him. To this, not unnaturally, I paid no heed, but taking Gubbins with me I told the man I would see the secretary about the matter. When I found this functionary, a much harassed individual, who seemed far from being at home at his duties, I was told curtly that he supposed the mistake was mine in entering the dog for a wrong class! In any case it was against the rules of the show for a dog to be taken from the benches until the judging was over. Nevertheless Gubbins did not return to his martyrdom, and it took him many days to recover from the effects of the combined foolish treatment, and the terror he had suffered at finding himself among strangers. I decided that any honours he might win would be dearly bought, as it was clear his early experiences had made him unfit for show life, and I always refused to let him try his fortune again.
My other dogs were sent to new homes when I gave up my house, but Gubbins became a great traveller, and accompanied me everywhere in the wanderings of the next few years. At first he was quiet as a mouse when taken by carriage or train, and I had no anxiety as to his ever wandering from me, even in the most crowded thoroughfares. But as his nature recovered its tone, and a bright, joyous, and independent outlook on life became habitual to him, he grew wilful and over confident that my protection was sufficient to rescue him from any trouble. Yet he was three months in my house before he lost the habit of keeping himself hidden from view, and was, as I have said, always concealed behind or under some article of furniture. The slightest accidental touch of a foot, even the gentlest, was enough to make him flee in terror, and for hours afterwards he would not come out from his shelter, or respond to any caresses. Almost to the end of his life, until sight and hearing were impaired, he always rushed into the most secluded corner he could find whenever strangers came into the room, and no blandishments would draw him out while they remained.
I thought at first that his spirit had been so utterly broken that he would never recover, but would always need the care lavished on a semi-invalid. But gradually and surely he began to show the natural fearlessness of his disposition and the bright playfulness that afterwards distinguished him. Little by little he gained courage, and secured his place as first favourite in the house. I do not think, however, that he was ever quite happy while the other dogs remained, though he thoroughly enjoyed his daily scamper with them.
After his first illness he would never feed in the outhouse where the dogs’ dinner was made ready for them. Daily complaints came to me that Gubbins would not touch his food, and though if I went out and petted and encouraged him he would begin to eat heartily, the instant I turned away he stopped, and no one could induce him to take another mouthful. I said sternly that he must be left till natural hunger forced him to give up the fancy, and it was only when I found how thin and weak he was getting that one day I ordered his previously rejected food to be brought into the dining room. The bowl was put down on a newspaper, spread out for a tablecloth. Gubbins watched the proceedings with interest, and then with much tail wagging, fell on the food with a will and quickly disposed of it. Never after this did he attempt to go near the other dogs when they were feeding, but at breakfast time curled himself up near the spot where his bowl had been placed, and waited till it was brought to him. That I do not shine as a disciplinarian with my pets must, I fear, after this be conceded, for there are drawbacks to feeding a long-haired dog on your dining-room carpet. It only needed a day or two to show Gubbins that manners in the house were not quite on a level with those of the dogs’ feeding-place. As soon as the last mouthful of food was disposed of, a kennel duster was brought into play to remove the remains of the meal from the long hair about the mouth and at the tips of the beautiful ears. After the first time or two he showed his appreciation of the new régime by standing quietly with his head over the dish where he had just finished eating, and if he was not attended to immediately he would look round to see the cause of the delay.
His enormously thick coat required the most careful daily grooming, and the time spent on this was not an unmixed pleasure to Gubbins. For some time he submitted quietly, as he did to everything else that was asked of him, but by the time he had won his place in the dining room, and the kitchen regions had become unknown ground to him, he sometimes showed resentment at the treatment his tangled locks entailed on him.
The first serious difference of opinion I had with him came over his refusing a piece of toast he had asked for at breakfast. As he had asked for it, he must be made to eat it. But each time the usually coveted dainty was put before him his tongue came out, and with a contemptuous flick sent it rolling over the floor. He was told it must be eaten, and a mutinous determination not to obey was shown in the pose of his head, for one can hardly speak of expression where the face, even to the eyes, was entirely covered with thick, falling hair. But the whole contour of his form expressed a great refusal, and it was felt that a lesson of obedience must be given.
When the meal came to an end the toast was again offered and rejected, and before I left the room Gubbins was fastened to the leg of the table, and I told him the toast must be eaten before he would be released. While the maid was clearing away the breakfast things Gubbins lay perfectly quiet, but as soon as he found himself shut in alone he began to call and struggle. I went in more than once to see if the dispute was at an end, but no, there lay the rejected morsel, and Gubbins would have none of it. When the hour arrived for the daily walk great sounds of unrest came from the room, and once more looking in I found, to my astonishment, the dog had actually succeeded in dragging the fairly large dining table quite out of its place, in the direction of the door. A chorus of angry barks showed his displeasure, but there still lay the uneaten toast. At this moment, while the door was standing open, the other dogs came into the hall on their way out. “Is Gubbins to come with us?” asked their guardian. “No,” I answered. “If he will not eat the toast he must be left at home.”
Behind the bundle of hair I could just see two bright eyes fixed on my face. The front door opened, and the other dogs rushed out. Gubbins sat up, listening intently, and when he found the others were actually going without him he looked round for the object of contention, flung himself upon it, swallowed it, and then rushed barking to the end of his tether, demanding to be set free. Needless to say this was done, but the excited, quivering dog turned for one second to give my hand a dainty, propitiatory lick before he rushed off wildly in pursuit of the others.
The lesson was remembered, but all through life, from this point, a wilful determination to have his own way was one of his characteristics. This I attribute to the reaction from the harsh treatment of his early days, and though it is probable that with firmer discipline it might have been overcome, I found it impossible to resort to harsh measures when he was only just coming out from the shell of nervous dread that had seemed to wrap him round from all the enjoyments of life. I fear I hailed the first exhibitions of will as an indication of his recovery to a normal state. A sharp word from me, if given at a sufficiently early stage, would always restrain him, but to others he was not so obedient, and I fear soon learned to trade on the fact that under no circumstances would he be beaten. A flick of a handkerchief he took with stoicism from others, but from my hands it had all the effect of a stronger punishment. He would crawl away, and lie, a picture of dejection, for an hour or more. He was left to feel himself in disgrace, until he would presently come creeping to my feet for the pat of forgiveness that restored him to life and animation.
His devotion to me never wavered, and after each of his severe illnesses I thought I saw a closer attachment show itself in many ways. What, perhaps, was the greatest proof of his unwavering loyalty was that during the last six months of his life, when he was sixteen years of age, nearly blind and partially deaf, and in a state that required him to be carried up and downstairs, and otherwise attended to, I was not able to have him in my room at night, and his care passed greatly into the hands of others. To his guardians he was very affectionate, and especially to the friend who watched over him with the most devoted care, and to whom Gubbins looked for the greatest enjoyment of his life—his daily walk. But there could be no doubt in the mind of any one who was with him, that no one was likely to displace his mistress from the warmest corner of his heart.
He always showed the nicest appreciation of the capacity and duties of those who took care of him. When he was already so feeble that he was generally carried from one room to another, I was astounded to find he realised that I was not strong enough to do this. His knowledge was all the more extraordinary because when in stronger health, I had been in the habit of lifting and carrying him on occasions. But one night when the maid who always carried him into the dining room, and for whom he waited as a matter of course if she was not there when I went to dinner, was absent, Gubbins came out of his basket as soon as I moved and crawled into the other room after me. The following night his attendant was at home, so Gubbins stayed quietly in his basket as usual till she came to fetch him. Often afterwards the same thing happened, and during the whole of the time after his powers had failed he never once appealed to me to lift him. He would make the most determined efforts to mount the garden steps if I was with him, though he never attempted to do so if he was with any one else, but would lie down and wait to be fetched if he was not lifted at once.
At one time when I had him in lodgings, the maid who attended on him was with me, and always carried him up and down the two flights of stairs that led to my bedroom. When the maid was going home for a month’s holiday I wondered what I should do with him. I did not think he could get up by himself, and did not want to call a strange maid to my assistance. At bed-time I went to the stairs as if I expected him to follow me, and the little thing worked his way up with a sideways motion after me, stopping on the landing for a rest, and then finishing the journey. In the morning he followed me down, though this was really a dangerous proceeding, and I had to prevent his taking a roll to the bottom by holding him up with his lead fastened to his collar. This performance was repeated as a matter of course every night and morning for the month, and when the maid returned I told her that Gubbins had learned to go upstairs by himself, and that while he could do so I preferred him not to be carried. When she came to fetch him, therefore, for the night, she told him to follow her, and he went out of the room after her obediently. At the foot of the stairs, however, he laid down, and turning a deaf ear to her calls he quietly waited for her to come back and pick him up.
That under any circumstances Gubbins could refuse his walk I did not believe, till one day I found him lying on the front doorstep, and refusing to move at the entreaties of his prospective companion, the reason being that he had discovered I was about to leave the house. This was when he had been with me about a year, for up to that period he had shown himself equally willing to go out with me or any other of his friends. After this he would never go until he was sure that I was not going out, and many a time he insisted on being let into my study to see if I was there, before he would leave the house. If nothing in my dress suggested a walk he would go off and immediately give himself up to the joys of the coming expedition. When at one time I used to go out in the early morning before breakfast, at a certain stage in my dressing operations Gubbins would always come up to investigate what boots and skirt I had on. If his sensitive little nose told him those were in use that he connected with a walk, he began to bark and jump round me, as if wild with joy, for he knew that he would go too. But if he recognised the skirt in which I usually cycled he crept away dejectedly, for on these occasions I always left him at home. Although his speed would have enabled him to keep up easily with the bicycle, I have always thought it mistaken kindness to allow a dog to go at the stretch of his powers while he keeps in touch with carriage or bicycle, as the prolonged tension is likely to injure the natural action of heart and lungs.
One day, when there was illness in the house, the volley of barks and wild gambols with which Gubbins showed his joy at an approaching walk could not be allowed. I felt a little doubtful if the exuberance of his joy could be kept within due limits, and in any case I knew I was the only person likely to be able to restrain him. When the moment arrived for putting this to the test I knelt down by him, and turning his little head up I put my finger on my lips and in a low, hushed voice told him he must be quiet. He saw I was dressed for walking and knew what was in store. He was, however, evidently impressed, and opening the room door quickly I cautioned him again, and to my great relief only one little half strangled bark escaped before we were safely outside the hall door. Yet he tore down the stairs in his usual headlong manner when excited, and was quivering with eagerness for the coming joy.
After this I was always able to make him go out quietly by the same means, and in a house where he stayed with me for some weeks he learned that under no circumstances was barking allowed indoors. He consequently won golden opinions from the old lady whose feelings he thus spared. But that he felt the long restraint irksome, he would show by a petulant twist of his head from under my hand, when I made one of my many appeals to him to remember the caution. His self control happily lasted to the end of the visit, though I never felt inclined to put it to the same test again.
It was one of the most interesting studies I have ever had, to watch the gradual unfolding of Gubbins’s mind as he threw off the terrors of the past. His strong affection was, as I have said, the first point that showed itself. Then his intelligent appreciation of the ways of the household, and his own place in it, was little by little made plain, and with it came the manifest determination to stand on his rights. It was not, however, till he had been with me for some four years that he began the system of signs and sounds that stood to him in the place of language.
There were certain biscuits kept for Gubbins as a treat when he had behaved with decorum in the dining room, where he used to lie in a corner during meals. These biscuits were known in the household as “Peter Burrs,” owing to the correction given me in the matter of pronunciation by a worthy country grocer, when I stated my wish for “Petits Beurres.” The tin containing these dainties was generally taken from the sideboard by one of ourselves, just before we left the table. Gubbins was always all attention, and at the movement to fetch the tin, he would come out of his corner and bark rapturously. But one day a friend brought me the wrong tin by mistake, and Gubbins, who had been all eagerness as usual to watch for its advent, sat down quietly and did not attempt to come up for the usual offering. It was this conduct that led me to notice the mistake that had been made, for the tins were almost alike in size, though different in colour. The dog’s appreciation of the mistake before we had recognised it, caused such amusement that while this friend was staying with me she often tested Gubbins’s discernment by bringing out the wrong tin purposely. Never was he deceived, though one day he rushed up and barked once before he noticed the tin, but as soon as he saw it he sat down and waited for the mistake to be rectified.
It was when he stole to my side during luncheon, and made his presence known by a delicious little low sound of entreaty, that his language sounds began. I was so delighted with the effort that I took to making him say it before he had one of his much loved biscuits given to him. “Ask, Gubbins,” he was told, and the little entreating sound came as a preliminary to business. Very soon he learned to use the signal to draw attention to any want, such as the need for water, or the opening of a door. Whenever his water dish was empty Gubbins would first call attention to the fact by lying full length in front of it, with his head touching the dish. If this did not succeed he would look round to see why he was not being attended to, and if I was—or pretended to be—wholly immersed at my writing table he would cry quietly to himself,—a little complaining noise that could not be overlooked in its gentle persistence. Once or twice I tested him further to see what would happen, and when Gubbins found that my denseness was not to be pierced by any ordinary means he came up to me and, resting his head against me, “asked.” Then he walked back to his water dish and lay down as before. That here there was a very intelligent adaptation of means to end is evident.
The daily bone thrown to Gubbins was of course a great delight, and once I tried the same experiment that Mr. Herbert Spencer made with his Skye, and with the same result. A string was fastened to the bone and Gubbins had his usual play with it, a necessary part of which was for him to stand growling over it and dare any of his friends to take it from him. This nearly always brought some one on to the lawn to play the part of robber. It was enough for one of his friends to advance gently towards him saying, “Is that for me, Gubbins?” for the little thing to seize it in his mouth and run to a distant part of the lawn, where the performance was repeated. If his friends did not go on playing the game I have known Gubbins to leave his bone and come to ask them to see it out, and only when his spirits had exhausted themselves would he settle down to the enjoyment of the dainty, secure in the knowledge that no one would be allowed to interfere with business. But to return to the experiment. Gubbins was just settling down to the serious part of the performance when I pulled the string and drew the bone gently away. Gubbins gave a startled look at it as it receded slowly, then as it lay still he approached with every sign of caution and stretched out one fat paw. Still there was no movement, and relief and confidence were now expressed in his bearing. Then I jerked the bone to some distance. Gubbins fairly turned tail and fled to me for protection. The sense of the unknown, conditions of which he had no previous experience, terrified him, as did the growling of thunder or the presence of strangers in his own home.
In matters where Gubbins was on known ground his courage was beyond dispute and often brought him into peril. No dog was too large or too strong to call forth hostile demonstrations, if he happened to excite his ire. I well remember the horror with which, on hearing the well-known rush and growl that signalised Gubbins’s dislike of another dog, I turned to see the ridiculous little creature hanging on to the nose of a huge St. Bernard. With one angry toss of his mighty head the larger dog could have broken the spine of his tormentor. Happily the monster seemed too astonished at the onslaught of the hairy mass to do anything beyond give a very gentle swaying motion of the head, which swung Gubbins’s long body from side to side; for even hanging as the latter was at full length, his hind limbs were well off the ground, and he must have made one of his marvellous springs to fasten on the head as he did. Presently his teeth loosened and he dropped from his perilous perch, and he certainly owed his life to the remarkable gentleness of his victim.
Before Gubbins had walked off his excess of spirits in exercise he often gave these mad rushes, sometimes, I grieve to say, at humans. Any unsavoury specimen of the genus tramp always roused his mischief, and so, alas! did any gentle, fragile looking old lady or gentleman who could be depended on to receive his onslaught with a sufficient display of terror to make it worth while. Many were the scrapes from which he was not always rescued with the honours of war, and countless were the apologies made on his behalf. But after his maddest exploit the absurd little bundle of hair would come meekly to my feet, and generally by his very appearance disarm the sufferers. At such a moment caresses from the stranger’s hand were suffered with deceptive meekness, and were evidently taken as the necessary consequence of the previous joy. That the loud bark which would have fitted a dog ten times his size, and the sudden rush at the heels of a passing stranger, were sufficiently alarming, is clear, and a leather lead was soon fastened promptly to his collar whenever a human approached who long experience had taught me was one likely to be singled out by Gubbins as a vent for his excitement. His teeth never came into play, and this showed it was simply the fun of the thing that appealed to him, and not the hostile feeling that often prompted his attacks on fellow dogs.
Gubbins was the most humanly intelligent of all the dogs I have ever owned, and so far as his powers of mind went they appealed perfectly to the same level of expression of our own. While his trust and love were unwavering, his sympathy with anything in the shape of suffering or sorrow was undoubted. He would never leave me of his own free will, if he knew I was in trouble, though it could only have been by the tone of my voice that he discovered there was anything amiss. In the case of physical illness it was the same, and he would lie for hours on the foot of my bed, to which on these occasions he always “asked” to be permitted to jump.
The highest exercise of intelligence he ever showed was prompted by his love, and the amount of reasoning power that led to the successful carrying out of his stratagem shows what a narrow boundary there is between the highest efforts of the animal mind and those where human intelligence begins. I was suffering at the time from malaria, a legacy from a fairly long sojourn in India, and it was decreed by the friend who had taken charge of my sick-room that Gubbins was not to be allowed to disturb me. This lady, who was herself one of Gubbins’s most faithful friends, and was regarded by him with the warmest affection, told him after breakfast that he was not to come to me. That he fully understood what she said he showed by the dejected way in which he turned from her and crawled into his basket. The dining-room door was then shut on him, the back stairs were cut off by two heavy doors, and the passage from the top of the front stairs led past my friend’s bedroom before my own could be reached. From her bedroom, where the visitor sat writing with her door open, she could hear if any of the household should go into the dining room and set Gubbins at liberty. Besides, the flop, flop with which he always jumped from step to step of the stairs was clearly audible over all that part of the house, and this gave her confidence that he could not, in any case, get up without her hearing him.
But the dining-room door had not been fastened securely, and though it was a heavy oak door Gubbins managed to work it open. He then crept upstairs without a sound, and therefore in a very different way to that in which he usually mounted, stole past the open bedroom door, without betraying his presence, and putting his head close to the crack of my door gave one of his tiniest “asks.” So low was it that the watcher in the adjoining room heard nothing. At first I did not realise what had happened, and thought the voice reached me from a distance. But when a repetition came, the peculiar guarded sound of the faint call struck me, and at the third time I knew that by some means Gubbins had found his way to me. Entering into the spirit of the enterprise I opened the door softly and let him in. Without any of the usual manifestations of joy with which he was wont to greet me, he slipped past, and without waiting for the permission he always asked he sprang on the bed and curled himself round with a sigh of content. Then the drowsiness of fever overcame me, and I dozed for some hours, Gubbins also sleeping peacefully at my feet.
When at last my friend appeared, her relief at the sight of the hairy bundle on the bed was great. She told me that a search had been made for him all over the place, both indoors and out, as soon as it was discovered that he had escaped from the dining room. My room had not been thought of, as she felt certain he could not have come upstairs without being heard by her.
The amount of thought and caution exercised by the dog in carrying out his plan was remarkable. After making use of the great muscular strength of his sturdy forepaws in getting open the door of his prison, he had to get upstairs in a way that would not betray his presence. How he managed this we could not understand at the time, but years afterwards I saw him, when still weak from a severe illness, crawl up with a sideways, crab-like motion that explained what he had done to attain his ends in the heyday of his youth and strength. Placing his forepaws on the step above him he hitched his hind quarters up sideways, as his length could only thus be supported on the step, the depth of the stairs not being more than half his length. In this way there was no noise, but he still had to pass the watcher’s open door and convey the fact of his presence to me without letting her know. This accomplished successfully, he did not forget the need for caution when he had made good his entrance, but with a silent caress to my feet, and much wagging of the tail he left his usual mode of welcome severely alone, and, secure of my understanding and abetting, even took possession of one of his most prized rewards, only rarely accorded, by jumping on to the bed without the preliminaries of permission asked and granted that were always insisted on.
Here he showed a clear appreciation of the difficulties of carrying out his plan, and who shall say what was passing in his brain as he stole softly upstairs, passed his friend’s open door without disclosing his presence, and then, with all the precautions a human could have used, succeeded in communicating with me? Not less remarkably did he show his appreciation of the dangers so far conquered, when he exercised needful self-restraint in the expression of his greeting, and sank down at last with a sigh of content as he realised that all was well.
We are told by an eminent writer on the psychology of animals that the feeling of shame stands very high in the development of the emotional powers. In Gubbins its manifestation was very apparent. A flick of the handkerchief or a sharp word from me changed his whole aspect in a second, unless, indeed, the excitement of some forbidden pleasure had taken him in too firm a grip, and the enterprise on which he had started had to be carried out at all costs. But once the excitement passed, shame for his misdeed followed, and was shown in the same way a child will do in the same circumstances, up to the verge of speech. On one occasion, when I was from home all day, the maid in whose charge he had been left neglected to attend to him. The shame-faced little dog that met me on my return, and who put his head in my hand and cried softly, told me that some trouble had happened for which he was not to blame. In the same way when he was suffering from illness that caused occasional attacks of sickness, if by chance he was shut in a room when misfortune overtook him, although he knew he would not be punished for what was not his fault, he could not have shown more shame at the occurrence if he had dreaded chastisement.
Gubbins was a little gentleman in all his ways and feelings, his one lapse from propriety of manners being the rushes by which he helped to work off the excitement of his walks. He could always be depended on to preserve a neutral attitude towards any stranger staying in the house, if I performed a sort of introduction by putting my hand on my visitor’s arm and telling Gubbins that he or she was my friend. The same course had to be adopted with a new maid, and if a fearless pat was then given him by the new-comer, I knew that as long as that person was in the house there would be no trouble. But if, on the other hand, the slightest fear of him was shown, it behoved me to be careful, for if that maid came in his way when he was under the influence of any excitement such as that of his daily walk, there would be the same attempts to upset her equanimity by which he distinguished himself out of doors. No use of the teeth, but just the communication of his own excitement to one who his instincts told him could be relied on to respond. To secure the clatter of a fallen tray, or the headlong rush of a frightened maid downstairs, while he stood growling and barking at the top, as if ready to tear her in pieces, gave him, I grieve to say, under such circumstances, the liveliest enjoyment. But when he was shut up to reflect on his misdemeanours, by whatever process these were brought home to him, an unmistakable feeling of shame was displayed as soon as he had recovered his normal state.
The abject depression with which he crept from view one very wet autumn, the first time his long coat was clipped about his legs and the under part of the body, took a long time to recover from. For days a remark on his appearance, or a laugh at his expense by any visitor, would cover him again with shame. His self-respect had been wounded, and the same feeling was shown when he was taken out for a walk the first time after a severe illness. The poor weak dog could only totter along for a very short distance. But on the way he met another dog, and as soon as Gubbins saw him approaching, the change in his demeanour was instantaneous. With head and tail erect, and a general air of alertness and strength, he passed his rival, walking on the tips of his toes, as he was wont to do in better times. A few steps carried him triumphantly past, and then, the excitement over, the poor little invalid collapsed as suddenly as he had pulled himself together, and rolled over helpless in the dust. Could any animal without a sense of the ego, the personal I, show such a keen sense of the respect due to himself?
A quite marvellous knowledge of time was shown by my favourite. I am not speaking of the hours of feeding, for such knowledge is doubtless due to the promptings of the natural appetite. But how for some months he always knew when the clock pointed to half-past nine I have never been able to ascertain. A lady who was living with me as my secretary at the time was a warm friend of Gubbins, and was accepted by him as such. This lady was not in good health, and used to retire to bed before the rest of the party. In about a week Gubbins constituted himself the guardian of her health in this respect. If she did not move promptly at the half hour he roused himself, came out of his basket, and, sitting at her feet, barked until she got up and said good-night. The performance was so much appreciated that after this Gubbins’s reminder was waited for, and though there was no clock within hearing that struck the half hour, nor so far as we knew any sound that could tell the time, Gubbins was never more than a few minutes either before or after. He would go and sit close at the lady’s feet, lift his head and fix his brown eyes on her face, and bark his signal for her to go. There seemed no reason for him to wish her to leave, as no sooner had she gone from the room, than he went back to his basket and curled himself up to wait for the dispersal of the other members of the family. With no one else did he ever do anything of the same kind.
At one time when I was living in the country, the same inscrutable knowledge of the hour of seven in the evening was shown by him. Once or twice he was taken for a run across the valley below the house to the post, just before the dinner hour at seven-thirty. After that he was always on the look out at seven o’clock, and as soon as he associated the little expedition with one member of the household, he found him out and kept close to him as soon as the hour arrived. Once, when the dinner hour had been advanced, the letters were taken earlier, and Gubbins had not come in from his rambles in the garden and could not be found. He was watching, however, when the messenger returned, and showed that he understood what had happened by taking up his position in good time the following day on a point in the drive where the two ways from the house met, and without passing which no one could leave the place. Often after this he would sit there watching, instead of coming into the house, as he clearly understood that from that spot he had a full command of the situation.
As the gradual unfolding of Gubbins’s mind had been an unfailing source of interest, so was the preservation of his natural characteristics when his powers began to fail. He enjoyed his life almost to the end, and through the last long day of suffering found comfort in the care and affection that were lavished on him. Although for some time his eyesight had almost gone and his hearing was impaired, and other disabilities of old age were upon him, he still went nearly mad with joy at the prospect of a walk, still took a certain modified, though always mischievous, pleasure in making others share his excitement, and made his sense of smell serve for the loss of his other faculties in a quite marvellous way. He always recognised his old friends, and it was a characteristic of his throughout life that he never forgot a single person whom he had once accepted as a friend. It might be months or even years before he saw them again, but he never failed to recognise them.
Various were the names bestowed on him by his many friends at different times. From the absurd “Mr. Gubbins,” he was called by the still more unsuitable title of “Scrub.” This led to a mild joke of a friend of mine, who always inquired after him by the formula, “And how is Ammonia?” A very dear old lady, the mother of the friend through whom Gubbins came to me, spoke of him as “The caterpillar,” moved thereto by the sight of the long dark form that used to steal across her drawing room to find a hidden corner, when he was staying with me in her house. In the inner circle of his home he became “The Hairy Angel” or “The Fascinating Fiend,” according to the nature of his disposition at the moment.
But these names belong to the time of his youth and strength; his beauty he kept to a surprising degree up to the very day of his death. It was touching to see him in his later years, and especially during the last six months when he was all but blind, finding his way about the house by the help of his nose. I have often watched him come into my study when he was looking for me. The room is a double one, and he used to feel for the side of the arch that forms the division, then feel about for the couch that stands on one side of the inner room. From there he touched my bureau, and thence worked about till he found my chair, which was often at some little distance. No sooner did his nose touch the chair than he hurried to the front of it to see if I was sitting there, and feeling the full helplessness of continuing his search if I was not in my usual place, he would curl himself up beside it and cry quietly. I have watched him do this while I stood by the bookshelves in the back room, though I had to be careful he did not find me out, as he came in by the door in that room.
To the last the watchful little head would come up in his basket, and a warning growl give notice of the presence of a stranger, and in his feeble way he guarded his beloved mistress to the end. When the little life went out from the suffering body it left a blank that for those who loved him best can never be filled, but—
“When at last my long day’s work is done,
Shall I not find him waiting as of yore,
Eager, expectant, glad, to meet me at the door?”