Have any of us ever lived, when we were boys, in a large city, and have we ever been “licked” by the boys of a neighboring street for the terrible crime of venturing out of our own territory? And furthermore have we ever joined in “licking” some other boy who had the audacity to venture from his street into ours.
Well, what boys do in American cities, the dogs do in Turkey. They divide Constantinople into districts, and they know their own districts as well as “the gal knew her dad.” Each group of dogs has its own territory and they are also on good terms with each other. But let a cur from the next dogship venture over the boundary he is in trouble at once. The whole crowd, Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart and all the other big and little dogs go for him, and give it to him tooth and nail. He is rolled over in the mud and bitten and bruised, and if he gets back to his own ground with a whole skin he may thank his dog-stars.
I have frequently seen these discussions and observed how carefully the boundary is defined, and how common cause is made against the intruder. He is driven back to and over the frontier, and there the pursuit is supposed to end. But if the pursuers in the excess of their zeal venture across the line they are attacked by the combined forces of the district they have invaded, and a grand battle is occasionally the result. The vigor with which the dogs of the district assert their common rights, the patriotic zeal of even the most insignificant and contemptible curs when called upon to defend the common weal, and the aptitude which the dogs display for the discussion of diplomatic niceties and fine distinctions, call for the respectful consideration and study of the diplomats and scientists of the Western world.
One day I was sitting with a friend in front of a café which was situated on a street corner. The small street intersecting the larger one happened to be the boundary of two of the dog principalities, and we observed that the four-footed inhabitants of each realm frequently came down to the street, but did not venture into it, as it was a sort of neutral zone, which neither might occupy.
Let us call the principalities East and West for convenience in telling what happened.
Both armies had been gathered at the boundary and separated only by the narrow street. They snarled and growled and made reconnaissances in force, but neither ventured across.
The army of the East was the more numerous and contained larger and more healthy soldiers than that of the West; there was mischief in their eyes and mud on their feet, and they felt that they could “chaw up” the dogs of the West if they had a chance.
And how should they do it when it was contrary to their moral principles to invade a country with which they were nominally at peace?
The army of the East retired from the frontier and disappeared round the next corner where there was doubtless a camp of instruction—a sort of Chalons-sur-Marne. The army of the West also retired and moved toward its own interior; it stacked arms in the vicinity of a swill-box in front of a restaurant, and waited for somebody to overturn the box, on which their hopes and hunger were centered. Unconscious of danger, they did not preserve good order, and nearly half their forces straggled away where a baggy-breeched and dirty Turk had just deposited a basketful of kitchen garbage. With tail in air, mouth wide open, and thoughts intent upon their hurried banquet, for one fateful moment they lost sight of stratagems and only dwelt on spoils.
This was the military situation at 3.15 p.m. About 3.18 p.m. a cavalry regiment (one dog) debouched from the street leading to the fortified camp of the Army of the East.