CURIOUS ANTIPATHIES IN ANIMALS.
DOGS.
All sincere lovers of the animal creation are pleased to listen to the recitation of anecdotes illustrating the love and affection of animals for their lord and master, man. Many of these stories are deeply interesting, as showing the wondrous intelligence and reasoning powers so often exhibited; and others are deeply affecting, as proving an amount of genuine, unasked, unselfish love, that we fear is not always too abundant amongst educated bipeds. It is not unlikely that numbers of such acts are never heard of; as many men—well-meaning enough in other ways—are in the habit of looking on the dog or the cat as a mere animal and nothing more; and therefore, whatever it might do, or whatever sagacity it might display, the creature would be treated with indifference and passed by without notice. Byron, who loved animals as well as most folks, was quite aware of this, when he wrote, with so much truth:
But the poor dog—in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend—
Unhonoured falls—unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.
Strongly deprecating this indifference, it has always been the writer’s delight to record every well-authenticated instance of remarkable sagacity in animals, in whatever way they have been brought under his notice. The cases referred to have come under the immediate notice either of the writer, or of friends on whose word he can rely.
Some years ago, a lady, who was a friend of our family, possessed a beautiful black-and-tan ‘King Charles’ called Prinney. A most engaging and affectionate creature, he never showed the smallest symptom of temper, or anything disagreeable save in one thing, and that was, a fixed aversion to a particular melody. Music generally, either vocal or instrumental, he never took the smallest notice of, or exhibited the slightest dislike to; but if any one played, sang, whistled, or even hummed the well-known and popular duet from the opera of Norma known by the name of ‘Si, fin’ al ora,’ no matter where he was or what he was doing, he would start up and commence the most dismal howling, with his nose elevated in the air. If the music did not cease on this melancholy and earnest appeal, he would make frantic efforts to get out of the room, rearing on his hind-legs, scratching violently at the door, and continuing his howling until some one opened the door and let him out. We took great pains to investigate this curious antipathy, but could never arrive at anything like a satisfactory conclusion. As before stated, the dog never objected to music generally, as many dogs have been known to do, nor even to single airs closely resembling the Norma melody; but so soon as we commenced that one—even though we purposely jumbled it up with some other—he would instantly detect it, and take his part of the ‘howling obligato’ with an energy and determination which nothing could stop.
It had been suggested that the dog had on some particular occasion been severely beaten, or ill-treated, when this melody was either played or sung, and thus it was painfully impressed on the dog’s mind and memory. But this could not have been the case, for my friend had received him as a puppy, and certainly never ill-treated him, or even whipped him. What, therefore, could have been the peculiar connection in the dog’s mind between this one particular melody, and some fear of ill-usage or pain—for nothing but such a recollection could have caused his piteous howling, which always indicated intense fear or dread—is a mystery, and one which it seems impossible to solve, or even explain on any reasonable grounds.
The following anecdote somewhat resembles the last, inasmuch as the peculiar antipathy shown is also in connection with music, although not to any particular melody, as in Prinney’s case. A little white terrier belonging to my grandfather had a peculiar antipathy to the pianoforte, for as soon as any one began to play, Rose would walk into the middle of the room, and then, quietly seating herself, facing the instrument, elevate her nose, and commence a long series of howlings, but without any display of anger or temper, or any attempt to run away. It might have been her own original way of expressing applause, or approbation of pianoforte-playing in general, for it should be specially noted that no other music, vocal or instrumental, ever affected the dog. Musical friends, one with his flute, another with his fiddle, often came in, but Rose never took notice of either of these until the pianoforte began; then at once began her demonstration. Now, what could have caused this curious antipathy—if it was an actual antipathy—to the sound of one particular musical instrument? The dog was born and bred at a farmhouse in Surrey, and farmhouses in those primitive days never possessed such an unheard-of luxury as a pianoforte; and therefore, until she came into my grandfather’s keeping—and she came direct from Surrey—she could never have heard the sound of such an instrument. How, then, are we to explain her singular procedure? I fear it is only another ‘dog mystery,’ and must ever remain so.
A third, and certainly most remarkable, case of musical antipathy is all the more singular because it was not exhibited towards any special melody or instrument, but towards one particular person only—a lady. The dog—a beautiful and very amiable Clumber spaniel—belonged to an uncle of ours who always brought Wag with him whenever he paid us a visit, for the dog was a universal favourite; but, unluckily, he had always to be put out of the room when one of the ladies of our family was going to sing, because he seemed to have a violent antipathy, not to music or singing generally, but only to the voice of this lady; and, what is perhaps still more odd, he always seemed, personally, to be very fond of her; but the moment she began to sing, he would start up and commence whining, growling, and at last barking, gradually increasing in force, until he got to a grand fortissimo. He would run up in front of the lady, and get so angry, that any one would have supposed he was going to fly at her. But this he never attempted, and as the Scotch say, ‘His bark was waur than his bite.’ This lady possessed a brilliant soprano voice; and it has been suggested that the clear, ringing, penetrating tones must have produced a peculiar vibration or sensation, perhaps causing sharp pain, in the dog’s ears, which might have occasioned his extraordinary action, for it must be remembered that this lady’s voice, and hers alone, produced the effect described.
The next case of unreasoning antipathy was that of a very handsome half-bred bull-terrier, called Charley. He belonged to a friend of ours, the vicar of a beautiful parish in Kent, and was an affectionate, good-tempered dog, never known to bite, snarl, growl, or do anything disagreeable to his friends. He would romp and play with the children on the vicarage lawn by the hour together, and never lose his temper, though often sorely tried by the thoughtless teasing of his little playmates. Yet he, too, had his peculiarity, which was, that if any one—master, friend, or stranger—approached him rubbing the palms of his hands slowly together, and at the same time repeating his name very deliberately, ‘Char-ley, Char-ley,’ the dog would instantly get into a state of wild fury. He would bark violently, until the bark ended in that peculiar sort of scream often noticed in small dogs when greatly excited or angered. He would make a rush at the offending person, and then suddenly retreat backwards, throwing out his fore-paws with sudden jerks at each bark; and although the person might cease the action, yet it would be some time before Charley recovered his usual equanimity, going about the room uttering little short barks, and a sort of odd sound between the end of a growl and the beginning of a whine!
When this curious antipathy was first noticed, it so much surprised and interested the vicar—who was a devoted lover of animals—that he took a great amount of trouble to try to find out what could have been the original cause. He thought the dog might have been taught this merely as a clever trick; but he could never procure any evidence to show that such had been the case on the part of any one in the vicarage or village. What could have caused these extraordinary bursts of passion and anger at so simple an act as merely rubbing the palms of the hands together? There was nothing in the act itself calculated to irritate or frighten any animal, and therefore the greater the mystery at the strange effect produced. As the vicar could discover nothing through his investigations, he had to ‘accept the inevitable,’ and come to the conclusion that it was unaccountable.