XI
“To snarl, and bite, and play the dog.”
THESE words are typical of our master poet’s attitude towards the dog. Treachery, cunning, and quarrelsomeness are the traits he dwells on when he mentions dogs, and we search his plays in vain for any trace of his appreciation of the noble gifts and heroic virtues that bind the dog so closely to those who love him. At most we find such guarded praise as that given by Shallow in “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” where he says of Master Page’s greyhound, “Sir, he’s a good dog and a faire dog, can there be more said? He is good and faire.” Or again, when one of the sporting dogs, who always receive the kindliest treatment at his hands, is made the means of a sarcastic thrust of comparison with one of a higher species. This occurs in the “Two Gentlemen of Verona,” when Launce declares in praise of his mistress, “She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian.”
We can but feel that a poet who could paint the most delicate shades of moral feeling, with the same master hand that plumbs the darkest depths of the human heart, might have done what no other writer of any time could do for us in the delineation of the dog’s mind, if only he had brought his sympathetic interest to bear on it. But a dog for Shakespeare was only one of the lower animals, whose evil qualities outweighed his better gifts, and who was at most an uncertain, if not a questionable companion.
The story of the bet made between Lord Nugent and Sir Henry Holland[7] shows how difficult it has always been to believe in the limitations of the poet in this respect. Lord Nugent, who was recognised as the greatest Shakespearean scholar of his day, declared that throughout Shakespeare’s writings no passage could be found “commending directly or indirectly the moral qualities of the dog.” Sir Henry Holland demurred to the statement, but after a year’s search was fain to acknowledge its truth, and to pay the bet of a guinea which he had been confident of winning. In all our reverence for and delight in Shakespeare, we feel that his want of appreciation of the dog is one of those weak spots in the armour of genius that shows its possessors to be, after all, but of the same clay as ourselves.
Yet there are dark spots in the histories of our favourites, though in many cases these are attributable to defects in early training, or to harsh treatment. Some too are caused by illness, or by abnormal conditions of brain and nerve, of which we can only guess the existence.
My own household was once the scene of a terrible act of vengeance by a bulldog, who is said to have the unamiable trait of nursing injuries for a long time. Lion was confided to me by a friend, and remained with me for some three months. He was gentle and friendly with me from the first, and was on good terms with my other dogs—I then had a Skye and a Basset hound—and with every one in the house. As he had been used to sleeping indoors, he continued to do so, and never showed the slightest ill temper with any one. My cook was devoted to all the dogs, and as she fed them and often played with them in the garden, they were on the best of terms with her. She was very good tempered, and could be trusted implicitly to be kind to them. She could never, however, be made to see that it was unwise to play with the dogs when they were busy with a bone, and was rather proud of the fact that they would never resent it if she teased them by taking their bone from them and throwing it to a distance, or otherwise interfering with their enjoyment. Lion seemed of such a gentle nature, in spite of his ferocious appearance, that I had no special fear with regard to him, though I often told Mason that I wished the dogs to be left severely alone, to the enjoyment of their daily treat.
One evening when I returned home, I heard that Lion had been growling at the cook, and having taken up a position outside the kitchen door, he refused to allow her to pass him. I went into my study and called the dog by name, and he immediately trotted round the house and came in at the glass doors. He came up to me for his usual caress after I had been away, but I saw that his eyes were red, and had a fierce light in them that I had never seen a trace of before. I noticed, too, that he regarded my friend, who had come in with me, with such an unfriendly look, that I exclaimed, “Helen, I think you had better leave me alone with him.” This, however, my friend refused to do, as she thought Lion meant mischief.
I was on the point of telling the dog to come with me into the garden, when I saw the cook cross the lawn to fetch something from the kitchen garden, which Lion’s hostile demeanour had prevented her from doing earlier. I exclaimed, “How foolish of Mason not to keep away,” and the words were not out of my mouth, when Lion caught sight of her, and the heavy brindled form at my feet shot through the air silently from the study steps. To my horror, the next second I saw him hanging by his teeth to the upper part of Mason’s arm. The small, slight form of the cook tottered, and then fell on to the grass, and the deadly teeth were so near her throat that I trembled lest she should be killed. Not a sound marred the peaceful stillness of that summer evening, but the horror of the silent tragedy I shall never forget. Calling to my friend to get assistance I rushed into the garden, while Mason’s terror lent her strength to struggle to her feet, and stagger towards me, with the enormous brute still hanging to her arm. Lion’s eyes glared, and my terror was increased as I thought that he had gone mad. He had no collar on, and my efforts to choke him off were quite ineffectual. As I struggled with him, I remember wondering where he would seize me when he left his hold of cook, for I knew I had not strength to hold him.
The moments seemed hours as they passed. Again Mason fell, and once more staggered up, but nothing slackened the deadly grip in which she was held. Happily she did not faint, and the brute did not attack her throat. Would no one ever come to our assistance? Just as a hum of voices told me that help was at hand, Lion’s teeth relaxed, he fell from his terrible perch, and to my infinite relief he walked away and lay down, without taking any further notice of either of us.
The poor sufferer was very plucky, but after first aid had been rendered, it was found necessary to take her to a hospital where she could have the best advice and nursing that could be given her. Slowly she got over the shock, and struggled back to health and the use of her arm, and at the end of two months a visit to the seaside quite set her up, and she was able to return to me.
Lion, of course, was no longer in the house. He had been left in possession of the garden, while Mason was being attended to, and it was not till past midnight that I was free to think about him. In the meantime, his master had been summoned, and before venturing into the garden we examined Lion’s appearance with a strong light from the kitchen window. There was no trace of excitement about him, and he seemed to have recovered his normal calm. He wagged his tail when he was spoken to, and came up under the window when called. I had sternly refused the offer to kill him, made by those who had come to my help in the first instance, as I felt I must know if the poor cook was at least safe from the horrors that might have followed Lion’s mauling, if he proved to be mad.
At the midnight conference held over him we decided to shut him into a stable, and keep him under supervision till we could be sure on this point. As there was likely to be trouble with the stable door, of which a decrepit lock often defied the best efforts of those who did not understand its eccentricities, I insisted on going to open it, while the dog’s master kept his attention on the culprit. Lion came up to us quietly when we went out, and allowed his master to pat him, but the weird horror of that short walk in the dead of night, with the pattering feet behind me, is a thing not to be forgotten. Would one of those deadly springs suddenly overpower us? But the tragedies of the day were over, and Lion in the course of a few days found a new master, who was undismayed by the gruesome record of his misdeeds, with which he was made fully acquainted. His new owner found him gentle and affectionate, as I had done, but he watched him carefully, and some fifteen months later, when he thought he saw signs of excitement about him, I believe Lion’s life came to an end.
Whether some playful teasing had roused Lion’s anger against his friend the cook, and thus led to his terrible act of vengeance, I never knew. Mason always declared she had done nothing but play with him and the other dogs, as she always did when she was free in the afternoon. To all my questions as to whether she had taken a bone from him, I could get nothing but an assurance that she had been very careful since I had warned her, and thus no direct explanation of the disaster was ever forthcoming. I inquired diligently for details of Lion’s earlier life; but here again I could learn nothing of any value. He had changed hands frequently, and the experiences of his early days were shrouded in obscurity. I may admit that I have never since then had anything to do with bulldogs, and that among dogs, the bulldog is the only one I cannot regard with favour. The terrors of my experience with Lion have prejudiced me against all others of his kind.
Jealousy is often shown by dogs, but when this comes from the strength of their affections, which can brook no rival in their owner’s hearts, is it to be counted among their bad qualities? We must here take into account the comparatively low standard of the dog’s moral development, in the answer we give. Certain it is, that in the crimes to which jealousy often leads dogs, a sense of shame for the misdemeanour into which the force of their feelings has hurried them is almost always shown.
A clear instance of this was given by a Skye terrier, the object of whose dislike was a kitten. The Skye’s master was a man who possessed that strange power over animals that is only given to the few even among those who love them. He was, too, a scrupulously truthful person, and neither particularly imaginative nor of a philosophical turn of mind, so that any story that came from his lips is worthy of credence. Buzz, the Skye, was for a long time the only indoor pet in this household. Then a kitten was introduced by the mistress, and Buzz’s master took some notice of the new arrival. Buzz, though a perfect little gentleman in his behaviour to the kitten, showed every sign of being distressed by her presence. He would creep away under cover of the furniture and was generally very depressed, but as he never showed the least inclination to touch the kitten, it was thought he would soon be reconciled to her.
One day the kitten disappeared, and all search for it was unavailing. It was noticed that Buzz seemed more dejected than ever, instead of rejoicing at her departure. On the following morning, when the master of the house went out for his smoke and stroll round the garden after breakfast, Buzz went with him as usual. Instead of displaying his accustomed vivacity, however, he attracted attention by the depressed fashion in which he crawled along at his master’s side. At last he showed signs of interest, and made his master understand that he wanted him to follow him. He then led the way to a rose bush, and flinging himself impetuously on the bed, poor Buzz began to dig, looking up from time to time to make sure that his master was close beside him. At last the dead body of the kitten came to light. Buzz then left his work, and rolling over on his back, waved four fat paws in the air, in the fascinating way these terriers generally ask for pardon.
It was concluded that Buzz had killed the kitten and hidden the sign of his crime, and his conduct gave ground for the conviction. It might be, however, that the little intruder had been the victim of an accident, and that a servant was responsible both for that and the burial, but in any case the dog showed plainly that he knew what had happened, and could not rest till he had told his master. The simple action of asking pardon when he discovered the body seemed to point to his having had a share in the tragedy. Who shall say that the sense of shame Buzz showed at his own or another’s misdeed was not a clear evidence of the moral sense that is the guide of our own actions?
Another and more remarkable instance of the effects of jealousy on a dog, I will take from that mine of good stories contained in Miss Serrell’s book.[8] Whankey, the hero of the story, was a black and tan wire-haired terrier, a dog of such beauty that she was pronounced to be faultless in make and shape. She was too of a singularly engaging and affectionate disposition. To her mistress her attachment was very great, and as Miss Serrell says, “She could never tolerate anything for which I showed affection.”
“At one time,” the narrator goes on, “I kept a large head of poultry which Whankey looked on with great disdain. She would never go near them, and her anger knew no bounds when once, being pressed for room, I had a trip of young game chicks brought up and cooped on the lawn.”
“All went well for a time, Whankey affecting to ignore their presence. One very precocious young cockerel, however, soon took to leaving the others and marching up the steps of the verandah in front of the drawing room windows. One day he ventured to come close and look into the room, when Whankey was instantly on the alert and growled angrily at the intrusion. Growing bolder as he came to know the verandah better, the cockerel at last walked through the window into the room where I was sitting at the time. Whankey showed such anger at his audacity that I was glad to throw the bird some crumbs and get him back on to the lawn, and as Whankey then quieted down no more was thought about the matter.
“The following day, when I returned from a drive, I found Whankey in her usual place in the drawing room with the window open, and noticing some earth on her nose and paws, I said to her, ‘What have you been burying, Whankey?’ On this, instead of greeting me, she got up and walked out of the room. In the evening when the chicks were penned in their coop there was a hue and cry; one was missing, and this turned out to be the little pert cockerel. A few days afterwards his body was found buried under the shrubs at the far end of the garden, and of course there were all sorts of conjectures as to the manner of his death. Some were of opinion that a stray cat had done it, but the mystery was not cleared up till many months later....
“The following spring I had seven dark-coloured ducklings brought up from the farm and put on the lawn, together with five very nice white ones, which, as they were about the same age as mine, I bought to go with them. I had the white ones wired in when they were first brought home till they should get accustomed to their quarters, and every day after luncheon I used to take some scraps out and feed them. This proceeding excited Whankey’s jealousy to the highest pitch, and she used to walk round the wire with her bristles up, and growling savagely. One Sunday morning before I started for church I opened the wire and left all the ducks to run about together, and Whankey was as usual in the drawing room with the window open. On my return a tragic tale was unfolded. The gardener had met Whankey carrying a dead white duckling in her mouth, and he had watched her go with it to the asparagus bed, lay it down, and proceed to dig a hole. The gardener picked up the duck and brought it into the house, and Whankey immediately went indoors and ensconced herself in my bedroom. I went to the lawn to see what had happened, and there found the seven dark ducklings all huddled together and looking very frightened, and not a white one to be seen. Further search showed that all the latter had been killed and buried in different parts of the asparagus bed, and there was no doubt but that Whankey was the culprit, not only in the matter of the ducklings, but in that of the cockerel the year before.”
A Sunday Morning Work
WHANKEY
The extraordinary thing about this performance was, as Miss Serrell points out, that the terrier picked out only those ducklings of which her mistress had taken special notice in order to reconcile them to their new home. She must have killed each of the detested rivals separately, and then carried the body a considerable distance from the front lawn to the middle of the kitchen garden, and there concealed the evidence of the crime. In fact, it was clear that Whankey had had an active morning’s work before her mistress returned from church, and that the little brain had not been idle was proved by the perfectly planned scheme of vengeance.
Whankey did not show any touching sorrow for her crime, and perhaps considered that the end of clearing rivals from her path justified the means she used. In fact, she could not be considered as a repentant sinner, though she never liked to hear her exploit alluded to. If any one said to her, “Whankey, where are the white ducks?” she “would always get up and walk away growling.”
The growls would seem to show an unrepentant frame of mind to the end. She wished the subject to be forgotten, but the cockerel and the ducklings were beyond the power of annoying her. The price we are content to pay for a great relief is sometimes a large one.