A RABID DOG.
I have hitherto been much among dogs, and, nevertheless, have almost escaped being bitten. The reason is, that I understand and respect the innate nervousness of the animal. When I go into a room, if there be a dog there and he growl, I speak kindly to him, and then seat myself, and bestow on him none of my attention for some time. My request to his master or mistress is, that he or she will not check or seek to stop the symptom of his wrath; but allow him to vent his rage until he is ashamed of it, and from a feeling of remorse is silent. When this takes place, and a sufficient time has passed to confirm him in the new mood into which he has recently entered, I approach him with my hand extended and open; this I bring near to him by degrees, avoiding all sudden movements or anything that might provoke his natural disposition. Generally he crouches, then I speak to him in tones of encouragement. If he display a return of his warlike propensity, I still bring the hand nearer and nearer to him, telling him to bite it if he pleases, if he is not ashamed to injure that which means to do him good. Then, perhaps, he will make a snap at my extended hand, which is not upon this withdrawn, or the jaws would close with nervous violence, but allowed to remain, and the teeth are felt to touch the skin without wounding it. I allow him to hold the hand for any length of time he pleases, telling him "he would lose his character if he were to harm it. That he is a courageous dog, and means no hurt; he would be ashamed to bite." And with this kind of speech, which the animal may not literally understand, but the sense and purpose of which it nevertheless appears to comprehend, I seldom fail of getting my hand safe and sound from the creature's jaws. After that I may pat him, for an intimacy has begun. He allows me to drag him forth, take him on my knees, and permits me any liberty I please to take. I do not attribute my escape to any charm that I possess; but account for it simply by my knowing and respecting the natural temperament of the beast with which I have to interfere.
This natural respect for the feelings of a most affectionate creature, with such a power of observation as will enable the individual to recognise the presence of lamentable sickness in an animal that has with truth been called "the companion of the home," shall at all times enable the uneducated in such matters to recognise a mad dog, and, unless luck be dead against the individual, save him from being bitten.
It is no pleasure to a dog to go mad. Quite the reverse. Dreadful as hydrophobia may be to the human being, rabies is worse to the dog. It makes its approach more gradually. It lasts longer, and it is more intense while it endures. The dog that is going mad, feels unwell for a long time prior to the full development of the disease. He is very ill, but he does not know what ails him. He feels nasty; dissatisfied with everything; vexed without a reason; and, greatly against his better nature, very snappish. Feeling thus, he longs to avoid all annoyance by being alone. This makes him seem strange to those who are most accustomed to him.
The sensation induces him to seek solitude. But there is another reason which decides his choice of a resting-place. The light inflicts upon him intense agony. The sun is to him an instrument of torture, which he therefore studies to avoid, for his brain aches and feels as it were a trembling jelly. This induces the poor brute to find out the holes and corners where he is least likely to be noticed, and into which the light is unable to enter. In solitude and darkness he passes his day. If his retreat be discovered and the master's voice bids him to come forth, the affectionate creature's countenance brightens; his tail beats the ground, and he leaves his hiding-place, anxious to obey the loved authority; but before he has gone half the distance, a kind of sensation comes over him, which produces an instantaneous change in his whole appearance. He seems to say to himself, "Why cannot you let me alone? Go away. Do go away. You trouble, you pain me." And thereon he suddenly turns tail and darts back into his dark corner. If let alone, there he will remain; perhaps frothing a little at the mouth, and drinking a great deal of water, but not issuing from his hiding-place to seek after food. His appetites are altered, hair, straw, dirt, filth, excrement, rags, tin shavings, stones, the most noisome and unnatural substances are then the delicacies for which the poor dog, changed by disease, longs, and swallows, in hope to ease a burning stomach. So anxious is he for liquids, and so depraved are his appetites, that no sooner has he passed a little urine than he turns round to lick it up. He is now altogether changed. Still he does not desire to bite mankind; he rather endeavors to avoid society; he takes long journeys of thirty or forty miles in extent, and lengthened by all kinds of accidents, to vent his restless desire for motion. When on these journeys he does not walk. This would be too formal and measured a pace for an animal whose whole frame quivers with excitement. He does not run. That would be too great an exertion for an animal whose body is the abode of a deadly sickness. He proceeds in a slouching manner, in a kind of trot; a movement neither run nor walk, and his aspect is dejected. His eyes do not glare and stare, but they are dull and retracted. His appearance is very characteristic, and if once seen, can never afterwards be mistaken. In this state he will travel the most dusty roads, his tongue hanging dry from his open mouth, from which, however, there drops no foam. His course is not straight. How could it be, since it is doubtful whether at this period he sees at all? His desire is to journey unnoticed. If no one notices him, he gladly passes by them. He is very ill. He cannot stay to bite. If, nevertheless, anything oppose his progress, he will, as if by impulse, snap—as a man in a similar state might strike, and tell the person "to get out of the way." He may take his road across a field in which there are a flock of sheep. Could these creatures only make room for him, and stand motionless, the dog would pass on and leave them behind uninjured. But they begin, to run, and at the sound, the dog pricks up. His entire aspect changes. Rage takes possession of him. What made that noise? He pursues it with all the energy of madness. He flies at one, then at another. He does not mangle, nor is his bite, simply considered, terrible. He cannot pause to tear the creature he has caught. He snaps and then rushes onward, till, fairly exhausted and unable longer to follow, he sinks down, and the sheep pass forward to be no more molested. He may have bitten twenty or thirty in his mad onslaught; and would have worried more had his strength lasted, for the furor of madness then had possession of him.
A MAD DOG ON THE MARCH.
He may be slain while on these excursions; but if he escapes he returns home and seeks the darkness and quiet of his former abode. His thirst increases; but with it comes the swelling of the throat. He will plunge his head into water, so ravenous is his desire; but not a drop of the liquid can he swallow, though its surface is covered with bubbles in consequence of the efforts he makes to gulp the smallest quantity. The throat is enlarged to that extent which will permit nothing to pass. He is the victim of the most horrible inflammation of the stomach, and the most intense inflammation of the bowels. His state of suffering is most pitiable. He has lost all self-reliance; even feeling is gone. He flies at and pulls to pieces anything that is within his reach. One animal in this condition, being confined near a fire, flew at the burning mass, pulled out the live coals, and in his fury scrunched them. He emits the most hideous cries. The noise he makes is incessant and peculiar. It begins as a bark, which sound, being too torturing to be continued, is quickly changed to a howl, which is suddenly cut short in the middle; and so the poor wretch at last falls, fairly worn out by a terrible disease.
But now comes the question, How do we know that rabies is a nervous disease? Why, the whole course of the disorder declares it, or if that be not thought sufficient, the dog at one stage very distinctly announces it. He may be sitting down, an unwilling listener to his master's voice, when the brute's eyes will wander; and at length fix themselves upon some object at a distance, which it will keep watching, crouching down as the horror seems, to the excited brain of the poor beast, to draw near; till, having apparently come within bounds, the hateful presence is no longer to be endured, and the vision-haunted animal dashes forward with a howl of execration, as if to seize and tear the terrible spectre. This action being performed, and the dog biting the air, he stands for a moment, shivers, looks stupidly around him, and slinks back. What is this but a power of seeing visions depending on a disordered brain, or positive delirium exemplified by a dumb creature? And the same piece of pantomime the dog may go through fifty times in an hour. No disappointment can teach him; and experience is lost upon the animal that in his sane state was so quick to learn.