Imported dogs often die in South Africa; especially if they remain near Port Elizabeth, or if they have distemper, which is much more severe in the colony than it is in Europe. Poor Toto laboured under both these disadvantages; for during our stay at Walmer he was attacked with distemper, and, the summer being also an unusually hot one, everything seemed against him. He was so ill that we quite gave up all hope of saving him, and bitterly regretted having brought him out with us. Just when he was at his worst, however, business called us away for a few days to Cradock, which is some distance inland; and T——, knowing it to be a healthy place for dogs, suggested that we should take the poor creature with us—dying as he seemed to be—on the slight chance that the change of climate might save him. We left him there—parting from him sadly and without much hope of seeing him again; but we were leaving him in the kindest of hands, and, thanks to the careful nursing he received, as well as to the timely change of air, he lived—indeed, I am glad to say, lives still. He remained some months at Cradock, whence from time to time came the good news of his steady improvement, and finally, some time after we had settled up-country, the announcement that he would be sent off to us at the first opportunity.
Then, one day as we sat at dinner, we heard a sudden and startling tumult in the kitchen; the welcoming voices of the servants; a frantic scuffle outside the sitting-room door; and in rushed Toto, handsomer and fuller of life and spirits than ever; whining and howling with delight, and nearly upsetting us, chairs and all, besides endangering everything on the table, as he jumped wildly to lick our faces. He had been brought from Klipplaat by a passing waggon, in the usual "promiscuous" manner in which property, animate as well as inanimate, is delivered at its destination on Cape farms.
After thus paying his footing in South Africa nearly with his life, Toto was thoroughly acclimatized, and passed through several very hot summers on the farm without a day's illness; only showing by increased liveliness his preference for the cooler weather; being very happy on the occasional really cold days of our short winter, and—like everyone else—cross during a hot wind. He has now accompanied us back to England, where—probably on the strength of being an old traveller who has twice crossed the line—he gives himself great airs, and makes no secret of his contempt for the stay-at-home dogs who have not had his advantages. This involves him in many fights; and the brother and sister with whom—having no settled home in England—we have occasionally left him, have several times been threatened with summonses for his misdeeds.
Toto is now getting on in years—those few years, alas! which make up the little span of a dog's life—but he is still lively enough; and the crows at Mogador, where we spent the winter of 1888-89, will long remember the games they have had with that comical foreign dog, so unlike any of the jackal-like creatures to which they were accustomed. They knew him well, and always seemed to look out for him; and, as soon as he emerged from the ugly white-washed gateway of the town, and approached their favourite haunt, the dirty rubbish-heaps just outside the walls, they would fly close up to him, challenging him to catch them.
Undaunted by invariable failure, he was always ready, and would dash noisily after them; while they, enjoying the joke—for every crow is a fellow of infinite jest—flew tantalizingly along close in front of his nose, and only just out of his reach. Sometimes they would settle on the ground a long way off, and—apparently oblivious of him—become so deeply absorbed in searching for the choicest morsels of rubbish that Toto, deluded by the well-acted little play, would make a wild charge. But the artless-looking crows, who all the while were thinking of him, had accurately calculated time and distance; and as he galloped up—confident that this time at least he was really going to catch one—they would allow him to come within an inch of touching them before they would appear to see him at all; then, rising slowly into the air—as if it were hardly worth the trouble to get out of his way—they would hover, croaking contemptuously, above his head, just out of reach of his spring.
And when at last he was tired out with racing after them, and—being, like Hamlet, "fat and scant of breath"—could only fling himself panting on the sand, they would walk derisively all round him; come up defiantly, close to his gasping mouth, and all but perch on him. Before we left, several of the native dogs had learned the game; possibly their descendants will keep it up, and—who knows?—some naturalist of the future may record his discovery of a strange friendship between dogs and crows in Mogador.
From the latter place T—— made several expeditions to the interior, travelling on foot and in native dress, for the purpose of distributing Arabic Testaments—on one occasion going as far as the city of Morocco. On these trips Toto accompanied his master, and—far from being the object of contempt and aversion, as a dog usually is in Mohammedan lands—was universally admired and coveted by the natives; by some of whom—had T—— not eaten of their bread and salt, thus placing them on their honour—it is extremely likely that he would have been stolen. It was something quite new to them to see a dog actually fond of his master, and treated by the latter as a friend; full of intelligence, too, and altogether different from their own uninteresting dogs; his clever tricks—which seemed to them almost uncanny—earned him many a good feed; and among the variety of animals offered at different times in exchange for him, were two donkeys, a horse, and a young camel.
Toto can boast, too, of having spent many nights in quarters where probably never dog has slept before—i.e. in Mohammedan mosques. These were the usual sleeping-places assigned to the travellers by the simple village folk, whose toleration contrasts strongly with the fanaticism of the towns. There the mosques are held very sacred; and for Europeans to look in at their doors, even from across the street, gives great offence.
And now, as I write, the old dog—faithful and friendly as ever—sits up begging, no longer conceitedly and unsteadily as in his youth, but in the more sober fashion of the poor, fat, apoplectic-looking bears at the Zoo; with legs well spread out to afford the firm foundation needed by the portliness of advancing years. His kind eyes are fixed very lovingly and deferentially on the tiny face of his present queen and mistress, the little fair-haired girl who has come to us since we left the Cape; and who, with a regal air of command, holds out her biscuit to the seated Colossus, who, not so long ago, towered above her small head, and bids him "ask for it." Together these two friends and playfellows make so pretty a picture, that we could wish Briton Rivière or Burton Barber were here to see it and give it to the world.