No man, it has been well said, can be deemed unhappy who possesses the love of a dog; and none are too poor to win it, as none are too high to rejoice and grow glad in it. The dog, at least, knows no difference of class or place in his attachments. To him his home is his home; his master, his master and friend, whether his lot be to follow the tramp on the road, or to walk behind a king to the tomb. And perhaps it may be due to the mystery lying at the back of this wonderful intimacy and connection, stretching far back into an altogether hidden past, that to strike another man’s dog unjustly is equivalent to striking him; that to hurt a dog with intent is to earn the worst of characters and to stain one’s kind; and that for a dog to be in trouble and claim aid is for him to claim also the man’s heart—even, as has many a time occurred, the man’s life—to the infinite glory of both.
Nor has it been only on man’s side that such deeds of heroism have been exhibited. The man, the woman, and the child have undoubtedly gone to the dog’s help at the risk of their own lives on many an occasion; but so also has the dog risked his for the sake of the man—not from any moral claim, not because life is a precious thing and must be saved, not because of that power which impels, and whose chief gift is the sense of after-satisfaction that comes even to the most disinterested; such things lie necessarily beyond the reach of the dog mind. What the dog does is done for love, because of his faith, and because, unlike any other living animal, he thinks, in his unselfishness, more of his friend than he ever does about himself.
On the shores of a lake in Travancore, not far from the remote cantonment of Quillon, stands a monument to the memory of a dog. He was left to watch his master’s clothes while bathing. Presently he was seen to be doing everything in his power to attract attention, by barking and running excitedly backwards and forwards on the shore. An advancing ripple was then discerned on the smooth surface of the lake, and the next instant the meaning of this flashed home. A crocodile had got between the swimmer and the landing-place, and was coming out to seize his prey. Hope might well have been stricken dead in the face of such a situation. But the dog did not hesitate. Plunging into the water, he swam out to get between the horrid reptile and his master, and thus to head him off. It meant his own certain death; but the saving of his master’s life. A moment later there was a violent agitation of the water, and the dog had disappeared for ever. Thus there stands to record his splendid action this well-known monument, erected by his master in deepest gratitude, and that passers-by might learn of what a dog is capable.
The incident is not the only one of its kind, and may be left to speak for itself. But the influence of that one act has probably been world-wide; and it is because of the exhibition of such qualities that the moral power of the dog reaches to greater lengths than is generally supposed. There is indeed ample evidence for believing that the beauties often traceable in the character of the dog re-act unconsciously, and for infinite good, upon the roughest of our own kind—by claiming unselfishness from those who otherwise may lay claim to possessing little; by showing what love may be under stress and strain, hardship and rough fare; by the exhibition of patience and faithfulness; by those instincts that make the most depraved of lookers-on pause and think, and ask the question sharply—“Whence that?”
In Kingsley’s Hypatia, Raphael Ben Azra, his head filled with a false philosophy, is made again and again to act otherwise than he would by the mastiff Bran.
The “dog looks up in his face as only a dog can,” and causes him to follow her and to retrace his steps against his will. There are her puppies. Is she to leave them to their fate? He tells her to choose between the ties of family and duty: it is a specious form of appeal. To her, duties begin with the family; the puppies cannot be left behind. Nor can she carry them herself. She takes Raphael by the skirt, after bringing the puppies to him one by one. He must carry them, she tells him; and once again he finds himself doing the opposite of what he would: the puppies are transferred to his blanket, and he and his dog go forward together.
“After all,” he says to himself, “these have as good a right to live as I have.... Forward! whither you will, old lady. The world is wide. You shall be my guide, tutor, queen of philosophy, for the sake of this mere common-sense of yours.”
He tramps on after that, “trying to get the dog’s lessons by heart.” He catches himself asking the dog’s advice, till he exclaims irritably, “Hang these brute instincts! They make one very hot.”
At last, by the dog’s means and the example of energy that she sets, he is instrumental in effecting the rescue of Victoria’s father. Then, as the distracted girl throws herself at his feet, and calls him “her saviour and deliverer sent by God,” even Ben Azra has to admit that the credit is not in reality his. “Not in the least, my child,” he exclaims. “You must thank my teacher, the dog, not me.”
The experiences of the philosopher in the novel are only those of many in real life. Man is not the only civilising agent in this world of many mysteries. And if we often exclaim, “Bother the dog!” we have still very frequently to follow where he leads, and often to our most definite enrichment in the end.