XII
“For know that in the soul
Are many lesser faculties that serve
Reason as chief. Among these, Fancy next
His office holds. Of all external things,
Which the five watchful senses represent,
He forms imaginations, airy shapes;
Which Reason joining or disjoining, forms
All that we affirm, or what deny,
And call our knowledge.”
WHILE a dog is clearly incapable of any appreciation of a picture as a work of art, the presentment of a man or animal will appeal to him as that of a solid figure. Here we are brought face to face with the limitations of the dog’s mind that is unable to follow our own powers on to the higher planes of their development. Yet that he is far from being devoid of imagination, his behaviour when he is brought face to face with his own reflection in a looking-glass will show. My own Skye was clearly puzzled when as a young dog he first saw himself in a looking-glass that was let into the door of a sideboard. He sat down and gazed earnestly at the quaint little face looking at him from the glass. Then he got up and moved nearer, wagging his tail in pleasure at meeting with a companion of whose appearance he seemed to approve. Bounding a little to one side he showed that he was ready for a game, and waited for the other to come and join in the fun. When no response came to his invitation his tail dropped, and at a little distance he sat down again and renewed his attentive survey of the figure facing him. A sense of something that he could not fathom apparently oppressed him, and presently he got up and came and lay down at my feet, sure that no unknown danger would be allowed to follow him there. He made many attempts during the next few days to persuade the unresponsive little dog to come and share his play, and as the reflection of his moving form confronted him, he would give a joyous bark at having at last roused the other into life. But with all his efforts he could not find the barking, jumping little figure, and at last one of his rushes brought his nose in sharp contact with the glass. This evidently gave him a shock, and after drawing back for a moment and scanning the strange thing curiously, he advanced, and putting out his tongue touched the glass with its tip. Now there was no doubt that something uncanny was before him, and with every manifestation of terror he fled to me for protection. He avoided the glass in future, and if put down in front of it would refuse to look at it, and would shrink away, frightened, from the thing he could not understand.
With her King Charles, a friend had a similar experience. In this case the dog discovered his reflection in a long cheval glass on the floor of his mistress’s bedroom. For some time he gambolled about in front of it, but at last, wanting to find the dog who refused to come out to him, he ran behind the glass to see where he was. Finding a blank space where his senses told him the waiting figure ought to be, his whole demeanour changed. He was frightened, and all his eagerness for play leaving him, he became limp and depressed and went to his mistress for protection. Nothing would ever induce him to look into a glass again, and even in the safe shelter of his owner’s arms he would cower down and hide his face against her shoulder when he was invited to admire his own reflection.
In the same way, as soon as a dog has discovered that a picture is really a flat surface, and that the figure he sees there has no solid form, the thing loses all attraction for him. When an excellent painting of the master of the house was brought home, where a poodle and a collie were the household pets, both dogs recognised it at once. They jumped about in great excitement, and invited their owner to take them for the walk they always associated with his appearance among them from his study. When no response came, and they were not allowed to jump up with the usual marks of excitement, the picture had no more interest for them than a scented soap plum has after the first taste for an inquiring child.
In a house where a Blenheim spaniel lived, she could not bear to be taken into the dining room where the walls were hung round with family pictures. Some of these ancestral portraits were of stern appearance, and for one of them the children of the house had a great dread, saying that its eyes followed them about the room. When the spaniel was some eight or nine months old she first made acquaintance with the portraits. She showed every symptom of terror as she gazed at them, and singled out the children’s special dread for her fiercest growls of disapproval.
Whether an unusual degree of imagination, or a love of fun pure and simple, was the cause of very unusual conduct in a bull-terrier, I will leave others to decide. Possibly both imagination and a fondness of practical jokes were at the root of this strange creature’s love of dressing up. Such a trait is not unusual in poodles, who have a special aptitude for tricks of all kinds, but I have never heard of another bull-terrier with the same taste. This dog delighted in showing off, and the greater the laughter he excited, the better pleased he was with his performance. His favourite articles of attire were a bonnet and cloak, under which his grim face and broad shoulders were very effective. During one of his exhibitions to a group of admiring friends, whose laughter came as a pleasing evidence of success, he suddenly saw a strange dog strolling over his private grounds. With a fierce growl he sprang after the intruder. The latter, hearing the growl, turned in the direction from whence it came, but the strange sight that met his gaze was too much for his nerves. What could this large bonnet and fluttering cape over the little flying legs mean? With a howl of terror the stranger fled, and the terrier returned complacently to take up his performance at the point at which it had broken off.
A strange mixture of imaginative power and common sense was the distinguishing mark of a Blenheim spaniel, named Sylvia. In birth and appearance Sylvia was an undoubted aristocrat, and in character she was haughty to the verge of snobbishness. From her early youth she showed a detestation of poverty in any form. She would never go into a cottage if she could help it, and her family declared that she showed much greater pleasure in starting for a drive in a brougham or Victoria than in a humbler pony cart.
Sylvia had a strong will in her fascinating, tiny form. If she did not understand the reason of an order given to her, she would oppose it with all her strength. So excited would she become, if the attempt to exact obedience was persisted in, that it seemed as if a fit would be the consequence of perseverance in correction, and the little culprit usually had her own way. But she was not a disobedient dog on the whole. It was only when the meaning of the correction was not clear to her that she would die rather than give in to it. The easiest available means of punishment for such acts of insubordination was to shut her up in the travelling basket, in which she had arrived at her new home, till she had recovered her normal state.
When a journey with her mistress was in prospect, the latter regretted the use to which the travelling basket had been put. The probable effect on Sylvia of attempting to put her in, when no disciplinary effort was needed, was discussed in the family, and when the time came for the attempt to be made, her mistress gave herself a clear hour for the coming struggle.
The basket was brought out and stood in the big dark panelled hall, and in low spirits her mistress called Sylvia to her side. But Sylvia had realised that it would not do to run the risk of being left behind, so throwing aside all past associations with the basket as a place of correction, she disconcerted her mistress by running up and jumping straight into it. Even then she wished to see the arrangements for her departure complete, and would not be satisfied till the lid was fastened down and she was left safely secured till the time of the start arrived. It was not for a little dog possessed of common sense to indulge in tantrums, when such unknown joys were at stake.
When travelling, Sylvia showed a similar self-restraint and appreciation of the situation of the moment. She would be taken out of her basket, and allowed to roam the railway carriage or amuse herself at the window. But it was only necessary for her mistress to whisper to her, “It is the next station, Sylvie,” and she would instantly jump into her own special travelling carriage, so as to be ready to accompany her party when they left the train. So effective was the behaviour of this little red and white silken coated beauty that strangers were much impressed by her sweetness and intelligence. A fellow traveller once said to Sylvia’s mistress that he would willingly give twenty pounds down for so sweet-tempered a dog, as he wanted her to console a little Blenheim widower that he had at home. The bereaved one went every day to howl at the grave of his lost love, but such a vision of beauty and amiability as Sylvia could not fail to comfort him. As the latter’s mistress refused the offer, she had visions of her “sweet” dog bustling and snapping at the little widower, till she had reduced him to the state of submission her imperious nature demanded from her associates.
Sylvia was taught many of the usual tricks in her young days, but she was by no means ready to show off whenever she was wanted to. If her mistress called on her for a performance, which the little thing foresaw might be a longer one than she felt ready for, she would dash up when called, throw herself down, and do “dead dog” for a second, jump up and thrust first one paw and then the other into her owner’s hand, stand for a passing moment in trust attitude, then snap up an imaginary biscuit and run away. After this no further calls could be made on her complaisance by sensible folk.
In later life Sylvia turned instructor to her adoring family. She devised a trick of her own for their benefit. When she wanted anything to be done for her she lay down in a conspicuous position and did “dead dog.” It was for her friends to find out what she required. One thing after another was suggested, but there was no movement from the little waiting form, till at last the right guess was made. Then Sylvia sprang to her feet with a shrill bark, and demanded the instant carrying out of the suggestion.
There was a strain of sentiment in Sylvia that showed itself in a passionate affection for all young things. Babies, children, and even young hares were equal objects of adoration to her. Though all the early part of her life was passed in the country, Sylvia took to town pleasures as if born to them. The tiny thing often went to concerts and other entertainments safely perched in her mistress’s arms. She never broke the rules of the strictest decorum. No bark or fussiness disturbed the even calm of her manner, or the haughty indifference she showed to the presence of strangers. Her special delight was to be taken to one of the large confectioners, when tea was in question for her friends. Here, seated on a chair at one of the small tables, Sylvia’s eyes shone with delight when a sponge cake was put in front of her, and she proceeded to make her own dainty meal in a way that was sure to give her the respectful admiration and attention her soul loved. On the occasions when she was left at home, the maids declared that Sylvia would not take her milk unless it was brought to her in the drawing room.
The extremity of passion into which Sylvia would throw herself on occasions was counterbalanced by a surprising tenderness for, and comprehension of, sickness or suffering in any form among her special friends. No dog could be more fascinating in the gentle sympathy she displayed than the little Blenheim. Her eyes had a wealth of tenderness in them, while with the daintiest caresses she made her little efforts at consolation. When the health of her mistress’s mother was failing, she singled her out for special attentions. One of the ways in which she showed her affection for the invalid was very charming. Taking up a position at her feet, Sylvia would hold her feathery little paws firmly in front of her, and wait to be asked to “give a paw.” To some the invitation would be refused, while others had one paw daintily extended to them, her own mistress coming in for no more attention at this time than any one else. But directly the invalid asked gently for the favour she would thrust both paws into her hand with an effusion of manner that never failed to give pleasure to the sufferer.
But such soft moments only came to lighten the contrast of her ordinary demeanour. To the end of her life she was passionate and headstrong, and in her care of her mistress she was stern and unbending. I have had more than one mark of resentment from her, when I unwarily came up to take leave of her owner while she had Sylvia in her arms. Her mistress might not be touched in her presence, and to the rule Sylvia made no exception. In illness she was almost impossible to manage, for she would fight against remedies like a wild animal. When an injury to her leg required the attention of the veterinary surgeon, her doctor never escaped from a dressing of the wounded member without at least one bite to remind him of the occasion. There is no doubt that Sylvia’s great personal beauty carried her over many rough places, where a less favoured dog would have come to grief.