Lions 'n' tigers 'n' everything

by Courtney Ryley Cooper

Therefore, until the regular pack becomes accustomed to the new arrival, he is nothing but a hated “towner,” regarded with the strange sense of enmity which runs all the way through the circus world. Day after day, however, the other dogs see the newcomer taken into the ring during the interim between the matinée and the night show, for training. Gradually there comes the understanding that he too is a circus dog; then the growling and snarling ceases. No longer does he stand apart at his picket pin. He is a part of the pack, as ready as any of the rest to set upon and kill any “towner dog” that comes his way.

And once a circus dog, always a circus dog, for the instinct never dies, even though it may lead into strange channels; once, in fact, to a story of dogdom that has had few equals even in fiction,—the narrative of Nosey, and an instinct of the spring, when circus loves comes strongest, which turned her to a thing of the wild, never to reach civilization again. Somewhere now, in the wild country of Northwestern Colorado, where the mountainous rises stretch mile on mile, where there are still bears to be found in the berry patches at autumn, and the deer and elk crash through the underbrush about the great rock-slides, is Nosey, no longer a dog as dogs go.

Perhaps the story is best from the beginning. No one except a circus man really understands the importance of a dog to an elephant herd. It means as much as steam gauge to a boiler, or a steering wheel to an automobile. If there is anything in the world that an elephant loves, it is to become frightened. The old story of the mouse and the elephant is true to a certain extent, and the thing of things with which to shake an elephant absolutely from his foundations is a dog. Perhaps it is a natural antipathy: perhaps it is the fact that dogs have a habit of going where they choose and since elephants are so big and cumbersome that they cannot readily see behind them, they are more easily frightened by something woolly darting between their legs, or appearing apparently from nowhere under their trunks.

However, a dog is the elephant’s Nemesis, and to the wise circus man, the only cure is the disease itself. Hence every menagerie has several non-descripts whose sole job is to be constantly about the elephants, and by their presence to reassure the great beasts and keep them reminded that the things which are moving about them are only dogs and not some fearsome thing to start them on a panic. At the loading runs, of all places, are those dogs necessary; otherwise, a dog fight, or the appearance of any street mongrel, might start a stampede that would wreck a town.

It happened one night on a big show, shortly before the close of the season in 1916—the town was a small place in Texas—that the menagerie superintendent noticed something small and yellow stealthily following the elephant herd from the grounds to the loading runs, there to evade the protective sallies of the old elephant dog, and dart first toward one elephant man, then another, in an effort to gain at least momentary notice. But the show was “full up” on dogs; the menagerie superintendent had given orders only that morning that no more were to be taken on. Besides, the bull-men saw that the intruder was undoubtedly of good stock, a half-grown female of the Chow breed, and circus men, as has been mentioned before, are skittish of pedigreed volunteers. So they merely shunted the dog aside, and with gruff commands drove her from the runways when she sought to evade them and crawl into the elephant car. Finally the doors were closed, the tired elephant men went to their bunks, and the little waif was left in darkness.

But luck played with her. She remained beside the elephant car, waiting, whining. A passing “razorback” or car-loader halted, reflected a moment, decided that one of the show’s elephant dogs had been forgotten in the loading, and tossed her upon a flat car. The next morning, surprised elephant men noticed her again “on the lot,” a hundred miles from their starting point of the night before, loitering at the edge of the canvas, peeking through when the wind raised the side walls, then at times seeking to come within, only to be driven away by the old elephant dog, watchful of every passing canine. That night she again waited in the darkness, and the next morning—how no one knows—she once more made her appearance on a show grounds, seventy-five miles farther on.

It was too much persistence even for a circus that didn’t need an extra dog. The elephant men halted now and then in their work to give her a pat of encouragement. Even the old elephant dog relented, and watchful, a bit suspicious in his hospitality, allowed her to come within the menagerie tent and sit for a few moments at the head of the picket line. A week later Nosey had won her place with the show, for the rest of the season at least.

Nosey because she had nosed her way into the circus, nosed her way into the cookhouse, where she had inveigled the busy chefs and hurrying flunkeys to toss her enough food to sustain life, nosed her way past the guardianship of the elephant dog and into the affections of the menagerie men. For the rest of the season and the winter, at least, she was installed as a fixture, and when the show went into quarters at Denver, Nosey went also, content to bed herself down in an unobtrusive corner, to live upon the droppings from the chopping blocks as the menagerie men cut the daily food of the lions, tigers and other cats, content with anything, so that she might be near the things she loved,—the inmates of the animal house. Through the winter the world was hers; then spring came.

There was no room for Nosey this season. The animal superintendent scratched his head, considered long, then telephoned a doctor who lived in a suburb, some ten miles from town. She’d have a good time there; the doctor drove to winter quarters, took Nosey into his arms and his heart, and departed. The show went forth to the road. A month passed. Then came a sorrowful letter from Denver. The dog had disappeared from her new home. Shortly afterward a policeman had reported that he had been forced to kill a dog of her description because of the evidences of rabies. Around the menagerie the word passed that Nosey was dead.

On went the show, to its sallies into the North, its quick spurts into the moneyed territories in the East, the long trail through the small town of the “Death Trail” on its way to the Western coast, and finally into the far South for the end of its season. Once more the railroad yards of Denver were cluttered with wagons and horses and tableaus, scarred from the mud and tribulations of bad lots and long hauls; it was November again; the circus was home for the long months of winter, and the hurried activities of refurnishing that it might be ready for the road when the bluebirds sang again. And with the arrival of the first wagon at winter quarters a gaunt, half-starved thing darted from her position at the animal-house door, closed and locked until the menagerie superintendent should arrive. She weaved in wild circles, rushing to the horses, then darting away again, running to the door of the animal house, whining, scratching, then swerving away once more; a beast which acted as one crazed, circling and twisting in a perfect hysteria of excitement. The long line of elephants came up the snowy street; the dog yowled and barked, rushed to the animal men, then whirled away again. The bull line was halted. Word was rushed to the superintendent.