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

by Frances E. Slaughter

THESE words are typical of our master poet’s attitude towards the dog. Treachery, cunning, and quarrelsomeness are the traits he dwells on when he mentions dogs, and we search his plays in vain for any trace of his appreciation of the noble gifts and heroic virtues that bind the dog so closely to those who love him. At most we find such guarded praise as that given by Shallow in “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” where he says of Master Page’s greyhound, “Sir, he’s a good dog and a faire dog, can there be more said? He is good and faire.” Or again, when one of the sporting dogs, who always receive the kindliest treatment at his hands, is made the means of a sarcastic thrust of comparison with one of a higher species. This occurs in the “Two Gentlemen of Verona,” when Launce declares in praise of his mistress, “She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian.”

We can but feel that a poet who could paint the most delicate shades of moral feeling, with the same master hand that plumbs the darkest depths of the human heart, might have done what no other writer of any time could do for us in the delineation of the dog’s mind, if only he had brought his sympathetic interest to bear on it. But a dog for Shakespeare was only one of the lower animals, whose evil qualities outweighed his better gifts, and who was at most an uncertain, if not a questionable companion.

The story of the bet made between Lord Nugent and Sir Henry Holland[7] shows how difficult it has always been to believe in the limitations of the poet in this respect. Lord Nugent, who was recognised as the greatest Shakespearean scholar of his day, declared that throughout Shakespeare’s writings no passage could be found “commending directly or indirectly the moral qualities of the dog.” Sir Henry Holland demurred to the statement, but after a year’s search was fain to acknowledge its truth, and to pay the bet of a guinea which he had been confident of winning. In all our reverence for and delight in Shakespeare, we feel that his want of appreciation of the dog is one of those weak spots in the armour of genius that shows its possessors to be, after all, but of the same clay as ourselves.

Yet there are dark spots in the histories of our favourites, though in many cases these are attributable to defects in early training, or to harsh treatment. Some too are caused by illness, or by abnormal conditions of brain and nerve, of which we can only guess the existence.

My own household was once the scene of a terrible act of vengeance by a bulldog, who is said to have the unamiable trait of nursing injuries for a long time. Lion was confided to me by a friend, and remained with me for some three months. He was gentle and friendly with me from the first, and was on good terms with my other dogs—I then had a Skye and a Basset hound—and with every one in the house. As he had been used to sleeping indoors, he continued to do so, and never showed the slightest ill temper with any one. My cook was devoted to all the dogs, and as she fed them and often played with them in the garden, they were on the best of terms with her. She was very good tempered, and could be trusted implicitly to be kind to them. She could never, however, be made to see that it was unwise to play with the dogs when they were busy with a bone, and was rather proud of the fact that they would never resent it if she teased them by taking their bone from them and throwing it to a distance, or otherwise interfering with their enjoyment. Lion seemed of such a gentle nature, in spite of his ferocious appearance, that I had no special fear with regard to him, though I often told Mason that I wished the dogs to be left severely alone, to the enjoyment of their daily treat.

One evening when I returned home, I heard that Lion had been growling at the cook, and having taken up a position outside the kitchen door, he refused to allow her to pass him. I went into my study and called the dog by name, and he immediately trotted round the house and came in at the glass doors. He came up to me for his usual caress after I had been away, but I saw that his eyes were red, and had a fierce light in them that I had never seen a trace of before. I noticed, too, that he regarded my friend, who had come in with me, with such an unfriendly look, that I exclaimed, “Helen, I think you had better leave me alone with him.” This, however, my friend refused to do, as she thought Lion meant mischief.

I was on the point of telling the dog to come with me into the garden, when I saw the cook cross the lawn to fetch something from the kitchen garden, which Lion’s hostile demeanour had prevented her from doing earlier. I exclaimed, “How foolish of Mason not to keep away,” and the words were not out of my mouth, when Lion caught sight of her, and the heavy brindled form at my feet shot through the air silently from the study steps. To my horror, the next second I saw him hanging by his teeth to the upper part of Mason’s arm. The small, slight form of the cook tottered, and then fell on to the grass, and the deadly teeth were so near her throat that I trembled lest she should be killed. Not a sound marred the peaceful stillness of that summer evening, but the horror of the silent tragedy I shall never forget. Calling to my friend to get assistance I rushed into the garden, while Mason’s terror lent her strength to struggle to her feet, and stagger towards me, with the enormous brute still hanging to her arm. Lion’s eyes glared, and my terror was increased as I thought that he had gone mad. He had no collar on, and my efforts to choke him off were quite ineffectual. As I struggled with him, I remember wondering where he would seize me when he left his hold of cook, for I knew I had not strength to hold him.

The moments seemed hours as they passed. Again Mason fell, and once more staggered up, but nothing slackened the deadly grip in which she was held. Happily she did not faint, and the brute did not attack her throat. Would no one ever come to our assistance? Just as a hum of voices told me that help was at hand, Lion’s teeth relaxed, he fell from his terrible perch, and to my infinite relief he walked away and lay down, without taking any further notice of either of us.

The poor sufferer was very plucky, but after first aid had been rendered, it was found necessary to take her to a hospital where she could have the best advice and nursing that could be given her. Slowly she got over the shock, and struggled back to health and the use of her arm, and at the end of two months a visit to the seaside quite set her up, and she was able to return to me.

Lion, of course, was no longer in the house. He had been left in possession of the garden, while Mason was being attended to, and it was not till past midnight that I was free to think about him. In the meantime, his master had been summoned, and before venturing into the garden we examined Lion’s appearance with a strong light from the kitchen window. There was no trace of excitement about him, and he seemed to have recovered his normal calm. He wagged his tail when he was spoken to, and came up under the window when called. I had sternly refused the offer to kill him, made by those who had come to my help in the first instance, as I felt I must know if the poor cook was at least safe from the horrors that might have followed Lion’s mauling, if he proved to be mad.