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

by Frances E. Slaughter

When Bettina emerges from the seclusion of the wired-in orchard, she has a long lead attached to her collar, as this is the only way of keeping her out of mischief. Her constant endeavour is to jerk the lead out of the hand of her captor, and one day, having escaped from her mistress’s vigilance by this means, she rushed headlong into a cottage. The scene that followed defies description. A black and white cat sat in peaceful enjoyment by the fire, and near by was an infant slumbering in its cradle. Betty flung herself with her usual impetuosity on the cat, and the terrified animal, in its efforts to escape, sprang into and out of the cradle as a first effort. Betty cleared the cradle in a flying leap, and, pinning the victim on the far side, a fierce fight began. The chairs and other articles of furniture were sent flying in all directions, as Betty’s lead wound itself round them in her mad struggles. The mistress of the house, brought hurriedly from her domestic duties, seized a chair as being the handiest weapon, and with it uplifted rushed on the fighters, while three terrified children clung screaming to her skirts. At this juncture, Betty’s owner appeared on the scene, and making a snatch at the uplifted chair with one hand, she succeeded in grasping Betty’s lead with the other, and swung the delinquent off her feet. Half choking, she was forced to release her hold of the cat, and poor puss straightway fled up the staircase into safety.

The startled woman received compensation for her fright and trouble, and, as Betty was borne off she turned her attention to the baby, who, disturbed from its sleep, had been doing its best to add to the general confusion.

Bettina’s great delight is to escape into the woods, where she will stay in a very ecstasy of hunting till she is captured and brought back. She and the two other house dogs, Bobbins a Scotch bobtail, and Bosky a beautiful wire-haired fox-terrier, all make a mad rush for the dining room as soon as the gong sounds for luncheon. Betty generally wins the race, but one day when she had been excited by the constant yapping of a dog in a distant covert, she turned at the foot of the stairs and, rushing through the open door that led to the kitchen regions, tore through the back premises and disappeared to freedom and hunting. The butler waiting by the dining-room door saw her turn, and knowing her proclivities and the care with which she was guarded, rushed after her. The cook, too, had seen her flight from the kitchen, and joined in the chase. But Betty was disappearing like a flash of greased lightning down the drive, and pursuit on foot was clearly useless. The man jumped on his bicycle, and pursued the fugitive alone.

At the end of the carriage drive, Betty, finding herself hard pressed, turned out of the road and scrambling through the hedge, made at top speed across the arable field that lay between her and the covert whither she was bound. The going was heavy, and the man soon found himself in difficulties as he sped on foot after her. Happily there was a plough at work in the field, squeaking loudly as is the way of Dorset ploughs—for what Dorset ploughman does not scorn to oil his shares? Bettina was immediately all attention, and hurrying up to see what strange animal was making the noise, the ploughman promptly put his foot on her lead, and stopping his horses waited for her panting pursuer to come up. A very snappish and disappointed little creature was then carried back to the house.

Yet Betty is very good-tempered with the dogs she knows, and romps and plays merrily with them. Her greatest favourite is Bobbins, and with her she has endless games. So strong is she that the tiny thing will jump up at her friend’s head, and dragging her over on her back will hold her down and pretend to worry her. She can lift the larger bobtail completely off the ground, and all her tricks the other takes in good part. They are often to be seen curled up together, with Betty’s head pillowed on her friend’s back.

An instance of good memory Bettina once showed in connection with a dog of my own. This dog had been on a visit with me to Betty’s home, and as the poor dog was ill at the time, the volatile Betty and her pressing attentions were too much for him. The two dogs had consequently been kept much apart, with the result that the aim and object of Betty’s existence was to get to him, and he roused her keenest interest. Some five months afterwards I was there again, but without my dog. When I came into the house I met Betty, and she rushed at me in her usual impetuous way. Scarcely staying, however, for my pat of greeting, she tore upstairs to the bedroom that I had occupied on my previous visit, and searched every corner of it to see if my dog was there. For several days she insisted on renewing her search from time to time, as she clearly thought the dog was being kept from her as he had been before. The instant linking in her little mind of the expected presence of the dog with my own appearance showed that Betty’s memory is enduring.

Another practical joke among dogs was one with whom a friend had a bowing acquaintance in a Midland town, where she was keeping house for a brother. This dog lived in a long street of suburban houses tenanted by workmen. He was a pretty little dog, with a fine silky coat and a sharp nose, a cross probably between a small spaniel and a black Pomeranian. He used to have great games with the children in the street where he lived, the favourite form of amusement being for the children to try and secure something—a stick or cap—that the dog held. The way the little thing’s eyes sparkled as he proved more than a match for many of his playmates, was as effective as any laugh. His popularity was evidently great, and my friend, who often passed by his house, never saw him anything but furry and jocose and on the best of terms with his surroundings. On one occasion, indeed, he was found doing a little bullying on his own account, though not without provocation. A child, whose face and appearance were far from prepossessing, always went down the street in terror of his life. A stone, thrown in wanton mischief at the dog, had roused the latter’s ire, and no sooner did the child appear in sight than a little black imp, barking wildly, would rush out and, circling madly round his enemy, disappear, only to pop out from some unexpected corner and renew the attack further on.

When the muzzling mania was abroad, the lady was anxious about the fate of her little friend. It was evident that his owner was away all day, and that the dog took his amusement at will from the doorstep. She was glad to see him as merry hearted as ever and not a little amused to find that the new regulations were so far understood by him that he preferred a policeman to any other playmate. He delighted in presenting his unmuzzled face, and being chased, and somehow, possibly because the policemen were not entirely untouched by the joke, he was a much hunted but never caught dog. But in time the imp himself needed more excitement, and then came discreet visits to the police station. It was summer, and the doors stood invitingly open, and it was no uncommon sight for a little black unmuzzled head to come peeping round the doorpost, and a shrill, impertinent bark to dare the inmates to the chase. As the police station was at some distance from the dog’s home, it seemed as if he was drawn there by the knowledge that a spice of real danger heightened the enjoyment of the game.

Not so irresponsible a member of the canine race, or one who did violence by her appearance to the feelings of well-bred relatives, was a beautiful fox-terrier named Venus. Yet more than once this terrier showed a strong and apparently unfounded dislike to strangers. Venus was a hound-marked dog, with tan head and black-marked body, and she was of a playful and confiding nature that endeared her to a large circle of friends. She always accepted any acquaintance of her mistress, and though in some cases she only showed the tolerance that the laws of hospitality and good manners demanded, to others she extended a warmer welcome. In all cases she seemed to make up her mind about a stranger at the first glance. One day a guest arrived to luncheon, and Venus was as usual curled up in a favourite position in the drawing room. The noise of the opening door roused her, and after a momentary look at the stranger, who was advancing to greet her hostess, Venus sprang to the ground and rushing to the visitor, jumped up and caught her firmly by the sleeve. Fortunately the little teeth only met in the sleeve itself, but the lady was terrified and shaking Venus off, she exclaimed that she hated dogs and they were never to be trusted. Venus’s mistress was utterly taken aback at the onslaught, for such a thing had never happened before. She captured the little criminal promptly and sent her off to be shut up until her visitor should have left the house. After many apologies calm was restored, and the party adjourned to the dining room.

But the maids of the household had not heard of Venus’s disgrace, and one of them going into the room where she was, set her at liberty. The tiny feet instantly pattered downstairs and made their way to the dining room. Through the open door the dog sped unnoticed by any of the party, and, singling out her former victim, made straight for her and again fastened on to her arm. The second offence was worse than the first, and the frightened visitor was only reassured when her hostess returned with the key of the door of the room into which she had locked the dog.