He was often told these things, but if, as with many of his kind, he looked as if he understood, he never really doubted to the end that other dogs were at least, and of necessity, his friends. He did not court their company. They often seemed to bore him, and more and more the older he grew; but he had a curious way of inviting some to his house, and it was no uncommon occurrence to find a strange dog lying in the morning in the hall that he had sometimes brought a long distance.
Of his hospitality in this way he once gave a remarkable instance. A neighbour’s dog was of uncertain manners, to dogs and men alike. One evening he came to call. Now Murphy’s dinner was always placed at six o’clock in one corner of the hall, and had just been brought when this visitor appeared. Not to be outdone in hospitality, Murphy at once pointed out the repast that had been spread, and stood by while the other ate, though he had himself had nothing since the early morning, and could, had he been so minded, have knocked the stranger into the proverbial cocked hat. All he did was to wag his tail and look pleased, as his dinner slowly disappeared. But, after all, such episodes as these belong to a later period, when he had become well-nigh human; when—it may as well be now confessed—he came to love the company of a man more than the company of dogs, when confidence had been won back, and happiness—happiness that with those he knew and loved showed itself in an intense and merry joy of life—had been finally regained.
One other peculiarity about him, or, rather, accomplishment, he possessed, must be noticed here, for, with a lifetime’s experience of dogs, no parallel can be recalled, or has been gatherable elsewhere. First of all, he was certainly musical, and often after a long day’s work, when the landscape outside was wintry, dreary, and wet, and the piano was thrown open and thrashed for joy of sound and relief, Murphy would rise from his mat and come and lie close to his master’s feet. He did not sing or howl on these occasions, in the way that with many dogs conveys the impression that music is pain. On the contrary, he remained quite silent, contenting himself with a sigh and a lick of the lips, which almost gave the impression that he would have said, if he could, “Just play that again, will you?”
This is, however, by the way. What he excelled in was what is generally known as talking. The sound was not a howl, or like one; it came from deep in his throat, and was deep in tone, inflections being produced by movements of the jaw at the same time. To ask him a question was generally to get an answer in this way, though rarely out of doors, where his attention was necessarily distracted. But when once he had started, he continued to respond, and so to carry on quite a lengthy conversation. That was his sole trick, if indeed it could be so classed, for he evolved it entirely himself. Of tricks proper he knew none, and through life entirely declined to learn any. Perhaps Dan, whose repertory was large, had told him what a bore they were, and cautioned him to do his utmost to avoid them.
VIII
About a year after Murphy’s arrival, Dan was gathered to his forefathers, and there was mourning throughout the house for many days. To one at least, if not to more, Alphonse Karr’s remark held good—On n’a dans la vie qu’un chien—and Dan was that dog. His life had been long; he had won all hearts; he had done many wonderful things, besides fulfilling his duties as a faithful constable of the place in which his lot was cast; and now, loving and beloved, he had died. Such were the data from which his epitaph had to be evolved. Man could desire no better. To have been loved—that, all said and done, is the great thing, for it comprises all others. Another French writer reckoned it the highest eulogy bestowable, and it seems as if he was not far wrong, whether we have before us dogs or men.
One of Murphy’s last acts by his grandfather reflected his own character, no less than the affectionate relations existing between himself and Dan. It was the custom to give the dogs certain biscuits after dinner of which they were particularly fond, and they sat side by side to receive them. One evening, when the biscuit tin was taken out as usual, Dan was absent. He was old; probably asleep: better let Murphy have his, and have done with it. The young dog refused to have anything to say to such suggestions; and for the moment his attitude was put down to an access of shyness, for these particular biscuits were irresistible. Presently he began barking and running backwards and forwards to the door. Being let through, he ran to another, found a third open, and presently returned in a perfect ecstasy of delight, with the old dog by his side. He subsequently referred to the extraordinary stupidity that had been evinced in a long and comprehensive speech. To steal a march on the old, or to fail to treat them at all times with respect, was evidently, in his opinion, wicked. At least, that was his text.
Dan’s last resting-place was, of course, in the dogs’ burial-ground in the family home. To lie there was the highest honour bestowable, and Dan had wholly earned it. Many generations of dogs lay in and around that corner, and the spot, if not consecrated, was at least regarded by most as very sacred.