As regards memory, one or two instances will suffice. Mr. Darwin writes: 'I had a dog who was savage and averse to all strangers, and I purposely tried his memory after an absence of five years and two days. I went near the stable where he lived, and shouted to him in my old manner; he showed no joy, but instantly followed me out walking, and obeyed me, as if I had parted with him only an hour before.'[263]
It is not only persons or places that dogs remember for long periods. I had a setter in the country, which one year I took up with me to town for a few months. While in town he was never allowed to go out without a collar on which was engraved my address. A ring upon this collar made a clinking sound, and the setter soon learnt to associate the approach of this sound with the prospect of a walk. Three years afterwards I again took this setter up to town. He remembered every nook and corner of my house in town, and also his way about the streets, and the first time that I brought his collar, slightly clinking as before, he showed by his demonstrations of joy that he well remembered the sound with all its old associations, although he had not heard this sound for three years.
Emotions.
The emotional life of the dog is highly developed—more highly, indeed, than that of any other animal. His gregarious instincts, united with his high intelligence and constant companionship with man, give to this animal a psychological basis for the construction of emotional character, having a more massive as well as more complex consistency than that which is presented even in the case of the monkey, which, as we shall afterwards see, attains to a remarkably high level in this respect.
Pride, sense of dignity, and self-respect are very conspicuously exhibited by well-treated dogs. As with man, so with the friend of man, it is only those whose lines of fortune have fallen in pleasant places, and whose feelings may therefore be said to have profited by the refining influences of culture, that display in any conspicuous measure the emotions in question. 'Curs of low degree,' and even many dogs of better social position, have never enjoyed those conditions essential to moral refinement, which alone can engender a true sense of self-respect and dignity. A 'low-life' dog may not like to have his tail pulled, any more than a gutter child may like to have his ears boxed; but here it is physical pain rather than wounded pride that causes the smart. Among 'high-life' dogs, however, the case is different. Here wounded sensibilities and loss of esteem are capable of producing much keener suffering than is mere physical pain; so that among such dogs a whipping produces quite a different and a much more lasting effect than in the case of their rougher brethren, who, as soon as it is over, give themselves a shake and think no more about it. As evidence of the delicacy of feeling to which dogs of aristocratic estate may attain, I shall give one or two among many instances that I could render.
A reproachful word or look from any of his friends would make a Skye terrier that I owned miserable for a whole day. If we had ever ventured to strike him I do not know what would have happened, for his sentiments were quite abreast of the age with respect to moral repugnance to the use of the lash. Thus, for instance, at one time when all his own friends were out of town, he was taken for a walk every day in the park by my brother, to whose care he had been entrusted. He enjoyed his walks very much, and was wholly dependent upon my brother for obtaining them. Nevertheless, one day while he was amusing himself with another dog in the park, my brother, in order to persuade him to follow, struck him with a glove. The terrier looked up at his face with an astonished and indignant gaze, deliberately turned round, and trotted home. Next day he went out with my brother as before, but after he had gone a short distance he looked up at his face significantly, and again trotted home with a dignified air. After thus making his protest in the strongest way he could, the dog ever afterwards refused to accompany him.
This terrier habitually exhibited a strong repugnance to corporal punishment, even when inflicted upon others. Thus, whenever or wherever he saw a man striking a dog, whether in the house or outside, near at hand or at a distance, he used to rush in to interfere, snarling and snapping in a most threatening way. Again, when driving with me in a dog-cart, he always used to hold the sleeve of my coat every time I touched the horse with the whip. As bearing upon this sensitiveness of feeling produced in dogs by habitually kind treatment, I shall here give an extract from the letter of one of my correspondents (Mrs. E. Picton). It relates to a Skye terrier which had a strong aversion to being washed:—
In process of time this aversion increased so much that all the servants I had refused to perform the ablutions, being in terror of doing so from the ferocity the animal evinced on such occasions. I myself did not choose to undertake the office, for though the animal was passionately attached to me, such was his horror of the operation, that even I was not safe. Threats, beating, and starving were all of no avail; he still persisted in his obstinacy. At length I hit upon a new device. Leaving him perfectly free, and not curtailing his liberty in any way, I let him know, by taking no notice of him, that he had offended me. He was usually the companion of my walks, but now I refused to let him accompany me. When I returned home I took no notice of his demonstrative welcome, and when he came looking up at me for caresses when I was engaged either in reading or needlework, I deliberately turned my head aside. This state of things continued for about a week or ten days, and the poor animal looked wretched and forlorn. There was evidently a conflict going on within him, which told visibly on his outward appearance. At length one morning he crept quietly up to me, and gave me a look which said as plainly as any spoken words could have done, 'I can stand it no longer; I submit.' And submit he did quite quietly and patiently to one of the roughest ablutions it had ever been his lot to experience; for by this time he sorely needed it. After it was over he bounded to me with a joyous bark and wag of his tail, saying unmistakably, 'I know all is right now.' He took his place by my side as his right when I went for my walk, and retained from that time his usually glad and joyous expression of countenance. When the period for the next ablution came round the old spirit of obstinacy resumed its sway for a while, but a single look at my averted countenance was sufficient for him, and he again submitted without a murmur. Must there not have been something akin to the reasoning faculty in the breast of an animal who could thus for ten days carry on such a struggle?
This strong effect of silent coldness shows that the loss of affectionate regard caused the terrier more suffering than beating, starving, or even the hated bath; and as many analogous cases might be quoted, I have no hesitation in adducing this one as typical of the craving for affectionate regard, which is manifested by sensitive dogs.
In this connection I may point out the remarkable change which has been produced in the domestic dog as compared with wild dogs, with reference to the enduring of pain. A wolf or a fox will sustain the severest kinds of physical suffering without giving utterance to a sound, while a dog will scream when any one accidentally treads upon its toes. This contrast is strikingly analogous to that which obtains between savage and civilised man: the North American Indian, and even the Hindoo, will endure without a moan an amount of physical pain—or at least bodily injury—which would produce vehement expressions of suffering from a European. And doubtless the explanation is in both cases the same—namely, that refinement of life engenders refinement of nervous organisation, which renders nervous lesions more intolerable.