VII
“Not hopeless round the calm, sepulchral spot,
A wreath presaging life we twine:
If God be love, what sleeps below was not
Without a touch divine.”
OF the memory of past events and of recollection of places revisited after the lapse of years, we have many wonderful instances in dog life. Stella, a handsome well-bred fox-terrier, of strange experiences in the wilds of Africa, was a striking example of a memory that survived some thrilling adventures far from the bounds of civilisation. This little dog left her English home when she was only a few months old, and with her new master set sail for Africa. Stella was a smooth terrier with a bright tan head, and throughout life was a fat, comfortable looking little creature.
Stella’s evidence of memory of the place where she had spent the early months of her life was shown when she returned from the first of her adventurous journeys. She came home with her master after an absence of rather over a year, and accompanied him on a visit to her former mistress. It was a dark winter’s night when the travellers arrived at the station, from which a drive of three miles would take them to the house whither they were bound. The little dog’s only preoccupation was to keep with her master, and the first part of the last stage of their journey by road passed quietly. But as the carriage came within a short distance of the house, Stella grew restless, and showed such anxiety to get out that at last she was put down to run the rest of the way on foot. But neither the darkness, that to humans would have made the choice of a way a matter of difficulty, nor the time that had elapsed since Stella as a puppy had been in the country before, prevented her from recognising her old landmarks and the former conditions of her life. At the entrance to the drive she left the carriage, and, taking a short cut across the park, arrived at the front door and finding her way in, turned into the drawing room, and paying no attention for the moment to those who were waiting for the expected travellers, made straight for the water dish from which she had often quenched her thirst in early youth. Her mistress saw her dash in at the open door, and go as straight for the corner where the dogs’ dish always stood, as if it was only yesterday that she had found it there. Stella’s unexpected appearance was the signal to the waiting friends that her master was near at hand. In a few minutes the latter drove up, to find that his little favourite had shown her recollection of the scenes and surroundings of her youth, and was there in her old home to add her welcome to those of his other friends.
The so-called “Homing-instinct” of dogs I touch on with diffidence. Of the many truly wonderful instances of this power that we hear of from time to time, few are narrated in a manner to compel conviction of the facts being quite as they appear to the easy acceptance of the narrator. With these, however, I have nothing to do, though in a few cases I have come across examples of remarkable journeys over unknown countries made by different kinds of dogs. I think it is in such instances that we find evidence of a perfection of one or more of the senses, to which we have no parallel in our own experience. Yet what a strange difference there is in humans, in their power of finding their way when in unbeaten tracks! Here, as we know, a savage, untutored and guiltless of the faintest breath of civilisation, will succeed where the highest efforts of the white man’s powers of mind avail nothing. The lynx eye of the native will let nothing escape him. The turning of a leaf from its natural position, the all but imperceptible impress of a foreign body on the sandy soil, will tell him what may save the life of the representatives of a higher civilisation, whose fate is perchance confided to him. The powers of sight and smell, that tell so many things to the Indian as he follows the trail through the trackless forests of North America, and the unerring instincts that will carry a native of Central Africa, or of the desert lands of Asia over the sandy wastes, where to the European the unbroken desert gives no faintest clue to his position, are closer to those we find in our dog friends than any power we possess.
Yet among average men and women of normal intelligence and culture, the greatest possible difference will be found in their “sense of country” as it is often called.
In dogs there is at least as much difference in their power of reaching home. Some will be hopelessly lost within a mile or two, while others will make some wonderful, unaided effort to get back to their friends that is crowned with complete success. It is of hounds that such stories are generally told, and from the manner of their life, and the wide range of their work, this is not surprising. I have never, however, come across any well authenticated instance that will compare with the marvellous tales of common report. It is hard to explain how an unentered hound could have found her way over one hundred and twenty miles of unknown country. Yet this happened to a young dog that was sent by the Master of the Four Burrow Hunt to the kennels of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds. The hound was bred at the Scorrier kennels, and as his working days had not begun he had not learnt the country in the neighbourhood of his home. When he was sent to his new quarters he travelled by cart and train the whole way. On the night of his arrival at Exford he jumped over the kennel wall and disappeared. No one saw anything of him on the journey on which he started, so far as his friends could learn, but ten days later he was back at Scorrier.
A similar instance occurred with another hound that was brought to the Devon and Somerset country to hunt the wild red deer. When the late Master of the Eggesford country gave up his position, his pack was sent by train to Rugby to be sold. Here the Master of the Staghounds bought several couple, which were duly taken by train to Dulverton, and thence by cart to the kennels that are in the middle of Exmoor. On their arrival one hound escaped, and the next day she turned up at the Eggesford Kennels.
Another instance of the same kind, for the strict accuracy of which I can vouch, is told in Miss Serrell’s account of the Blackmore Vale Hounds.[5] “A remarkable instance of the homing instinct was displayed by a hound named Rakish, with whose wonderful feet and legs Mr. Guest was so much struck that he bought her. She came from the South Dorset kennels, of which hunt Mr. Featherstonhaugh Frampton was then the Master. At Moreton station Rakish was put into the Guard’s van with a collar and chain on, and she travelled twenty miles in a northeastern direction to Wimborne, and thence twenty-eight miles towards the northwest to Templecombe, her journey ending two and a half miles farther on, at Milborne Port. She was taken out at Milborne Port Station, but no sooner was she on the platform than she snapped her chain and made off. For a day or two she was seen occasionally near the place, but after that was neither seen nor heard of, until Mr. Guest received a letter from Mr. Frampton saying that Rakish had reappeared at her old kennels. Nothing was ever known of the manner in which she found her way home, a distance of twenty-two miles as the crow flies.”
The nature of the surroundings of a modern Skye terrier’s life do not give him the advantage of the knowledge of country possessed by working hounds. Yet a young Skye, only eight months old, and when taken to London for the first time, found his way from a crowded thoroughfare, across Hyde Park, which to him was unknown ground, to the home to which he had been taken on his arrival from the country. The dog’s mistress was staying in a flat at Albert Gate. A day or two after her arrival she took the Skye with her in her carriage, when she went on a shopping expedition. On leaving the carriage in Oxford Street she gave strict orders to her coachman not to let the puppy escape during her absence. The little thing had the brougham to himself, and no sound was heard from him. At last the man got down and opened the door to make sure that his charge was all right. Quick as thought the puppy slipped past him, and dashed off down the crowded pavement in the direction of the Marble Arch. When his mistress heard what had happened, she gave him up for lost. But that evening the house porter found a little waiting figure sitting at the door of the lift, for the lost terrier had found his way back.
A similar instance I know of in connection with a striking looking little dog, who passed many happy years in a good home at Bath. This little creature was a cross between a Maltese and a Pomeranian, and what gave him a very unusual appearance, was that in front he had the points of a Maltese, while behind he had the tightly curled, gaily carried tail and the form of his Pomeranian ancestors. Bobbie was only eight months old when he was lost in one of the crowded thoroughfares of London. As his then owner was living in a suburb, where he had recently changed houses, it seemed impossible that the little thing should find his way home. Nevertheless, on the following morning when the house was opened, the wanderer was found sitting on the doorstep. All through his life Bobbie was in the habit of going off for walks on his own account, and though at Bath, where his days were mostly spent, he was sometimes seen at a great distance from his home, he always found his way back.
BOBBIE
He had many engaging little ways and was very devoted to his mistress, who showered love upon him. He always had a saucer of milk given to him by his owner at afternoon tea. But when she was out and any one else gave him the milk, he would not touch it. A very sad looking little figure would establish itself at a short distance from the saucer, and regard the dainty wistfully. It was not till his mistress returned and he had given her his usual warm welcome that Bobbie would fling himself upon the saucer and drink up the milk. When he wanted anything, Bobbie had a fascinating little way of making his wishes known. Taking up his position close to his mistress, he would sit upright and wave his paws quickly in the air until his wants were attended to. In many other ways he showed that he was a dog of character. It was the custom in his home for one of the maids to go to the post every evening, and it was Bobbie’s daily joy to accompany her. But he understood the business on which she went, and not even the delight of the walk would tempt him till he saw that she had the letters in her hand. Yet Bobbie’s evening run was considered good for him, and if there were no letters his mistress would put an envelope into the maid’s hand, saying, “There are the letters,” and Bobbie, satisfied that all was right, would spring up with a bark and rush downstairs with all his usual eagerness.
Pat, a Scotch terrier, once performed a mysterious journey on his own account, and though it has nothing to do with the “homing instinct,” well-directed determination, no slight amount of skill, and an intelligent comprehension of the situation were required for its success. Pat’s home was in an island off the coast of Argyll, and he was the special favourite of the nursery party. The island is a large one, and it was a fairly long drive from the house to the pier, at which steamers called. Every year the family went South, to spend a time at Bournemouth, or some other of the South-coast watering places. One or two of their dogs went with them, and one year the children pleaded for Pat to be of the selected travellers. But the elders decided against him, and Pat was consequently left behind when the family started. In the steamer the children and nurses took possession of the cabin allotted to them. No sooner had the boat moved off from the pier than a wriggling, apologetic little form came out from a dark corner of the cabin. Pat was greeted with tumultuous affection from his delighted playfellows, but how he had got there no one could say. The men servants had seen nothing of him with the luggage carts, and it was felt to be impossible that he could have concealed himself in the wagonette. There was, beside, the difficulty of his having boarded the steamer without being seen by any member of the crew or by his own family. Pat’s exploit could never be explained, though the success with which he carried it out made him dearer than ever to his young owners.
An instance of a similar kind of determination not to lose sight of his friends was shown by a powerful black lurcher, named Tip. This dog was a cross between a greyhound and a retriever, and belonged to a man whose home was at Fleet, in Hampshire. On the day when the Basingstoke market was held, Tip’s master was in the habit of getting a lift in a passing cart, that he might attend the market. His dog always ran under the cart and attended his master while he transacted his business. The return journey the man made by rail, from Basingstoke to Fleet, a distance of some ten or twelve miles. He left his dog to shift for himself when he took his own place in the train. Tip would stand on the platform and watch his master off. Then jumping down on to the line he set off in pursuit of the train. That he never left the line is proved by the fact that he did not come to grief by any train passing the opposite way, and Tip would pass Winchfield, the only intermediate station, without relaxing his speed. He performed the journey in a marvellously short time, and from Fleet Station he made his way to his home on the common, which he reached shortly after his master had arrived.
Some of these performances we must acknowledge to be beyond our range, without the aid of gifts that we feel are our own special prerogatives. If we could put ourselves into a bodily form similar to that of the dog, and at the same time divest ourselves of our higher powers of mind, we should have to acknowledge that some special canine sense was needed to get us out of our difficulties. We cannot set the dog’s solution down to mere cleverness, though doubtless the workings of his little mind often go far beyond what we attribute to it. Of simple “cleverness” so called, a small red greyhound was a striking example. The story has more than a flavour of poaching about it, but is an evidence of individual efforts of intelligence on the part of the hero. This dog, whose name was Rover, came into the possession of a friend of mine in a curious way. The lady was staying with her brother, who was a keen sportsman, and from him she heard the history of a poacher in the neighbourhood, who had been giving the keepers a very lively time. The man owned a little red dog, who was an extraordinarily clever night-worker, and the hares were sadly on the decrease in consequence. One evening, after dinner, an urgent message was brought to the master of the house that a man, who would not give his name, implored him to see him. The request was granted, and in a few minutes the servant returned to ask the lady to go out to her brother. Here she found him in conversation with a respectable looking young man, who was holding a small greyhound in a leash. Turning to her, her brother said, “This man has brought up the little varmint I was telling you about. He wants me to take him, but I tell him that he is no good to me.”
In appearance Rover was certainly not the sort of dog to appeal to a shooting man, but the sister’s sympathies were soon enlisted. She listened while the dog’s owner explained that he had got himself into such serious trouble that he was about to leave the country, and he was so fond of his dog Rover that he wanted to find a good home for him before he left. He added that he did not want anything for the dog, but only to get him into good quarters. My friend being what she was, it was a foregone conclusion that she should offer to take Rover, but she expressed a doubt of such a small creature being able to catch a hare single-handed. This implied slur of his favourite seemed to put the young man out greatly, and he declared that he had never seen the hare who could get away from Rover. The lady’s opinion, however, was not shaken, but she took the dog to an empty dog box and fastened him up for the night. The farewell between the dog and his master was very touching, for there was evidently the warmest affection between them. The poor little animal stood whining and tugging at his chain, while his master’s footsteps died away in the distance, and it was only when the last sound had faded that he retired disconsolately into his house and curled himself up.
The next morning his new owner went down into the yard early to see how her dog had fared. To her great astonishment she saw a large hare hanging on the wall above his box, and Rover securely fastened up, but looking very stiff and dirty, came slowly out to greet her. When this was reported to her brother, he was much amused. It seemed that the disbelief shown of the dog’s powers had so rankled in the poacher’s mind that he had come back in the middle of the night and taken Rover out for the last of their many midnight wanderings. A hare that the dog had caught was left in the yard as a testimony to his prowess.
Rover in due course went home with his mistress, and before long his owner determined to test his powers for herself. Taking Rover with her, she went to a neighbour on whose lands hares were said to be plentiful, to ask permission to try and find one. The permission was granted, but her friend added, “You will never catch one with that little thing.” Nothing daunted, however, Rover and his mistress took the field, with the land owner’s keeper and his old retriever. Field after field was tried unsuccessfully, and at last the word for home was given and Rover was put on his leash. In the middle of a large stubble field Rover’s mistress heard a shout behind her, and, turning, saw the keeper waving his hat frantically, and pointing with his stick to a hare that was coming straight towards her.
Rover spotted it at once, and struggled and strained so violently to get away that it was a matter of some difficulty to release him. Off he started in hot pursuit, and followed his quarry across the field at racing pace, till the hare began to near the hedge. This the dog, by cutting off a corner cleverly, managed to reach before her, and turned her back. Away they went again the full length of the field, Rover repeating his manœuvre at the end and cutting the hare off from her refuge. Back once more they raced, until the hare finding herself baulked every time she was within reach of her smeuse, grew desperate. The next time Rover tried to intercept her she made a frantic effort to pass him. But Rover was too quick for her, and making his rush, rolled her over and killed her.
His owner and the keeper meanwhile had been rushing up and down the field, with the old retriever at their heels, till they had run themselves to a standstill. They then had perforce to wait and watch the issue. When the long struggle was over, the keeper ran up and picked up the hare, finding poor little Rover panting hard from his exertions lying full length beside her.
As soon as the man had recovered his breath he turned to the lady and gave his view of the situation as follows: “Now, ma’am, don’t you ever let that little devil out of your hand. Why, if some o’ they poaching chaps were to lay hands on him there wouldn’t be a hare left in the country.”
Though Rover’s training was open to suspicion from the point of view of the law, there was no doubt of his having responded well to it. He had, moreover, from his own intelligent appreciation of the work he was called on to perform, added just those details that gave it an artistic finish.