"The One" Dog and "The Others": A Study of Canine Character

by Frances E. Slaughter

A similar instance I know of in connection with a striking looking little dog, who passed many happy years in a good home at Bath. This little creature was a cross between a Maltese and a Pomeranian, and what gave him a very unusual appearance, was that in front he had the points of a Maltese, while behind he had the tightly curled, gaily carried tail and the form of his Pomeranian ancestors. Bobbie was only eight months old when he was lost in one of the crowded thoroughfares of London. As his then owner was living in a suburb, where he had recently changed houses, it seemed impossible that the little thing should find his way home. Nevertheless, on the following morning when the house was opened, the wanderer was found sitting on the doorstep. All through his life Bobbie was in the habit of going off for walks on his own account, and though at Bath, where his days were mostly spent, he was sometimes seen at a great distance from his home, he always found his way back.

BOBBIE

He had many engaging little ways and was very devoted to his mistress, who showered love upon him. He always had a saucer of milk given to him by his owner at afternoon tea. But when she was out and any one else gave him the milk, he would not touch it. A very sad looking little figure would establish itself at a short distance from the saucer, and regard the dainty wistfully. It was not till his mistress returned and he had given her his usual warm welcome that Bobbie would fling himself upon the saucer and drink up the milk. When he wanted anything, Bobbie had a fascinating little way of making his wishes known. Taking up his position close to his mistress, he would sit upright and wave his paws quickly in the air until his wants were attended to. In many other ways he showed that he was a dog of character. It was the custom in his home for one of the maids to go to the post every evening, and it was Bobbie’s daily joy to accompany her. But he understood the business on which she went, and not even the delight of the walk would tempt him till he saw that she had the letters in her hand. Yet Bobbie’s evening run was considered good for him, and if there were no letters his mistress would put an envelope into the maid’s hand, saying, “There are the letters,” and Bobbie, satisfied that all was right, would spring up with a bark and rush downstairs with all his usual eagerness.

Pat, a Scotch terrier, once performed a mysterious journey on his own account, and though it has nothing to do with the “homing instinct,” well-directed determination, no slight amount of skill, and an intelligent comprehension of the situation were required for its success. Pat’s home was in an island off the coast of Argyll, and he was the special favourite of the nursery party. The island is a large one, and it was a fairly long drive from the house to the pier, at which steamers called. Every year the family went South, to spend a time at Bournemouth, or some other of the South-coast watering places. One or two of their dogs went with them, and one year the children pleaded for Pat to be of the selected travellers. But the elders decided against him, and Pat was consequently left behind when the family started. In the steamer the children and nurses took possession of the cabin allotted to them. No sooner had the boat moved off from the pier than a wriggling, apologetic little form came out from a dark corner of the cabin. Pat was greeted with tumultuous affection from his delighted playfellows, but how he had got there no one could say. The men servants had seen nothing of him with the luggage carts, and it was felt to be impossible that he could have concealed himself in the wagonette. There was, beside, the difficulty of his having boarded the steamer without being seen by any member of the crew or by his own family. Pat’s exploit could never be explained, though the success with which he carried it out made him dearer than ever to his young owners.

An instance of a similar kind of determination not to lose sight of his friends was shown by a powerful black lurcher, named Tip. This dog was a cross between a greyhound and a retriever, and belonged to a man whose home was at Fleet, in Hampshire. On the day when the Basingstoke market was held, Tip’s master was in the habit of getting a lift in a passing cart, that he might attend the market. His dog always ran under the cart and attended his master while he transacted his business. The return journey the man made by rail, from Basingstoke to Fleet, a distance of some ten or twelve miles. He left his dog to shift for himself when he took his own place in the train. Tip would stand on the platform and watch his master off. Then jumping down on to the line he set off in pursuit of the train. That he never left the line is proved by the fact that he did not come to grief by any train passing the opposite way, and Tip would pass Winchfield, the only intermediate station, without relaxing his speed. He performed the journey in a marvellously short time, and from Fleet Station he made his way to his home on the common, which he reached shortly after his master had arrived.

Some of these performances we must acknowledge to be beyond our range, without the aid of gifts that we feel are our own special prerogatives. If we could put ourselves into a bodily form similar to that of the dog, and at the same time divest ourselves of our higher powers of mind, we should have to acknowledge that some special canine sense was needed to get us out of our difficulties. We cannot set the dog’s solution down to mere cleverness, though doubtless the workings of his little mind often go far beyond what we attribute to it. Of simple “cleverness” so called, a small red greyhound was a striking example. The story has more than a flavour of poaching about it, but is an evidence of individual efforts of intelligence on the part of the hero. This dog, whose name was Rover, came into the possession of a friend of mine in a curious way. The lady was staying with her brother, who was a keen sportsman, and from him she heard the history of a poacher in the neighbourhood, who had been giving the keepers a very lively time. The man owned a little red dog, who was an extraordinarily clever night-worker, and the hares were sadly on the decrease in consequence. One evening, after dinner, an urgent message was brought to the master of the house that a man, who would not give his name, implored him to see him. The request was granted, and in a few minutes the servant returned to ask the lady to go out to her brother. Here she found him in conversation with a respectable looking young man, who was holding a small greyhound in a leash. Turning to her, her brother said, “This man has brought up the little varmint I was telling you about. He wants me to take him, but I tell him that he is no good to me.”

In appearance Rover was certainly not the sort of dog to appeal to a shooting man, but the sister’s sympathies were soon enlisted. She listened while the dog’s owner explained that he had got himself into such serious trouble that he was about to leave the country, and he was so fond of his dog Rover that he wanted to find a good home for him before he left. He added that he did not want anything for the dog, but only to get him into good quarters. My friend being what she was, it was a foregone conclusion that she should offer to take Rover, but she expressed a doubt of such a small creature being able to catch a hare single-handed. This implied slur of his favourite seemed to put the young man out greatly, and he declared that he had never seen the hare who could get away from Rover. The lady’s opinion, however, was not shaken, but she took the dog to an empty dog box and fastened him up for the night. The farewell between the dog and his master was very touching, for there was evidently the warmest affection between them. The poor little animal stood whining and tugging at his chain, while his master’s footsteps died away in the distance, and it was only when the last sound had faded that he retired disconsolately into his house and curled himself up.

The next morning his new owner went down into the yard early to see how her dog had fared. To her great astonishment she saw a large hare hanging on the wall above his box, and Rover securely fastened up, but looking very stiff and dirty, came slowly out to greet her. When this was reported to her brother, he was much amused. It seemed that the disbelief shown of the dog’s powers had so rankled in the poacher’s mind that he had come back in the middle of the night and taken Rover out for the last of their many midnight wanderings. A hare that the dog had caught was left in the yard as a testimony to his prowess.

Rover in due course went home with his mistress, and before long his owner determined to test his powers for herself. Taking Rover with her, she went to a neighbour on whose lands hares were said to be plentiful, to ask permission to try and find one. The permission was granted, but her friend added, “You will never catch one with that little thing.” Nothing daunted, however, Rover and his mistress took the field, with the land owner’s keeper and his old retriever. Field after field was tried unsuccessfully, and at last the word for home was given and Rover was put on his leash. In the middle of a large stubble field Rover’s mistress heard a shout behind her, and, turning, saw the keeper waving his hat frantically, and pointing with his stick to a hare that was coming straight towards her.