'Murphy': A Message to Dog Lovers

by Ernest Gambier-Parry

Of course Murphy could not be a sheep-dog; that is, unless Job Nutt had a mind to make him. Then, of course, he would have had a proper schoolmaster, and been brought up to things among which he had been born and bred, while lookers-on beheld a novel kind of sheep-dog. As it was, however, his master owned no sheep. Yet, seeing that his lot had not been that of some—to walk the streets for exercise, or to lie in the cramped garden of a villa in a town—it was only right he should learn all that he could, and that his education should partake of the fields and the upland downs around his home.

As to whether it would have been possible to have trained him to the streets at all must now be left among the things unknown. The impression remains that, seeing he never grasped the desperate dangers of the modern road, his life, had he been so foolish as to forsake the country for the town, would probably have been limited to hours. For a better, freer life he was fortunately born, and he certainly never threw this chance away, but made the very most of it, and came to great happiness thereby.

Of course it took time; but a beginning was made in those halcyon, summer days, and the art of working by the hand gradually brought to some perfection. No little of this dog’s gladness in life was centred eventually in this accomplishment, and he was never happier than when at practice. The education began by teaching him to lie down at the command—“Stop there,” and then in leaving him behind for gradually lengthening periods. So well did he know these words, that he would act on them instantly, and in this way once lost his walk by a slight misunderstanding. An explanation of the method was being given one day, when walking with a friend. The opening words were of course used. Some time after the dog was missed, and it was not until steps had been retraced for a considerable distance that he was found, lying where he had first heard the words and looking a little shy.

The next proceeding was to start him, and then to stop him, till by degrees he came to understand the movement of the hands or arms. In this way it was possible to send him to great distances, or move him to right or left, much after the manner in which we who are soldiers move our men. When a hand was uplifted high, he would drop at once, so that nobody would think that there was a dog within a mile: he might be lying in rough grass where the ragwort was high, or the wheat, as they say, was proud, and be himself invisible. But he could see well enough with those bright eyes of his, and the moment the arm was waved he was off with a stride of two yards or more, circling round and making the valley ring to his glad bark. He always entered into the whole fun of the thing, and looked upon it as the finest game that had ever been invented.

“Ah, well,” remarked Job as he watched, and Scot gave tongue for very jealousy—“ah, well, I allus liked that dog.”

And so did every one.

With each little addition to the sum of knowledge he possessed, master and dog grew closer to one another. It is always a moot point whether our dogs consider they belong to the family with which they live, or whether they do not regard the matter the other way about, and judge that the family belongs to them. In Murphy’s case there is no shadow of doubt that, so far as his master was concerned, that master most certainly belonged to him. At first, the position had been different. There was reason for that. But even the reason had now apparently passed out of mind: injustice had doubtless been forgiven, and what was far more wonderful—or rather, would have been, had man been in the case and not a dog—had also, so far as could be seen, been totally forgotten.

So completely had confidence been won that anything was permitted, even to the playful brandishing of a stick. Sticks were things to play with. They had no relation to punishment at all. Besides, was not life a state to be enjoyed, and as happy as the day was long? And had he not taught his one great friend no end of facts of which he had hitherto been desperately ignorant?

It was all very well for Him to say that he had educated and trained this dog. The dog had all the while been training Him. It was all very well for Him to think in his heart that he had given this dog happiness in life. Happiness had in a measure also come back to Him. There had been, in more than one direction, a strange parallel between their cases, and as this had made itself felt, it had bound them both more closely together. They were now not only never apart, but they were of one mind in other ways as well—in joy of life as they found it under the sky; in the happiness of comradeship as they learnt to rely on it—indoors and out; in the deeper meaning of friendship, with the trust and undeviating truth that friendship claims; in the faith that the one had always in the other, through the good days and the hard.

Those who watched were often overheard to say, “The dog has taken charge of the man.” And so he had, to a certain degree. He had learnt his master’s habits exactly. He knew the time of day by the striking of the clock; and, morning after morning, at a particular hour, if this master, with his funny ways, delayed his going, he would get up from his familiar corner and come and stand and fix him with his eyes. Or, if this failed, would come, gently, closer, and lay his chin upon a knee, and make him lay down his work and come out for the regulation interval. In the longer marches of old days, there were halts in every hour. Come out! Come out! New strength and new ideas are to be gathered outside; you will grow stale in here, whether you choose to practise this art or that. Houses are well enough to sleep in and to give shelter; but it is the heavens that give strength, and it is God’s heaven that somehow, if only feebly, must get itself reflected in man’s work.