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But, undoubtedly, the most wonderful canine instinct is the sense of direction, the power possessed by so many Dogs of finding their way back to an old and well-loved home, after being forcibly removed from it to a new place of abode. Instances are numerous in which Dogs, taken from their usual habitation, shut up in a basket, or by night, or in a swift railway train, have unerringly found their way back, greatly to the surprise of both their new and their old masters. Mr. Wallace has suggested that this was not a true case of instinct, but that the Dog, in all probability, found his way back by smell; that he, as it were, takes a note of every smell he passes—a stagnant pool here, a haystack there, a wayside inn, a stable, &c. &c.—and, remembering not only the smells, but the order in which he smelt them, he follows the scent until he arrives at his destination. There is no doubt that the Dog’s olfactory sense is wonderfully acute, but this is certainly carrying it too far. Moreover, as has been remarked, the direction of the wind was quite likely to change between the Dog’s two journeys, and if one of his odoriferous landmarks happened to be movable, like a flock of Sheep, where would he be? But the one fact which completely disposes of the smell theory of the phenomenon is, that there is no evidence of a Dog’s ever returning to his old home by the way he was taken from it; he invariably takes a different route, usually a short cut. For instance: “A Hound was sent by Charles Cobbe, Esq., from Newbridge, county Dublin, to Maynalty, county Meath, and thence, long afterwards, conveyed to Dublin. The Hound broke loose in Dublin, and the same morning made his way back to his old kennel at Newbridge, thus completing the third side of a triangle by a road he had never travelled in his life.” Again, Mr. Romanes narrates the case of a Dog who, when taken by his master from Oban to Greenock, by sea, was grievously sea-sick. The next time the journey had to be made, the Dog, remembering his former trouble, jumped off the boat and disappeared. His master continued his voyage, and was greatly surprised, when he arrived at Greenock, to find the Dog waiting for him on the wharf! The distance from Oban to Greenock is fifty miles in a straight line, and this straight course the Dog is not likely to have taken, as his way would then have lain across mountains, a lake, and an arm of the sea. Thus it would seem that the Dog must have some sort of notion of direction, must possess, as it were, a special sense of the nature of a mariner’s compass, and that, so far from his sense of locality being due in any way to power of smell, it is perhaps the most striking example of a pure instinct which it is possible to conceive.

We have not given many instances of instinct in the Dog, for it is a faculty of which no one denies the existence, but of reasoning power it is necessary to treat more fully, as many persons are disposed wholly to deny the presence of that faculty in all the lower animals, and to make it the exclusive prerogative of man. Every one who has kept a Dog must have seen it perform actions which, in a human being, would unhesitatingly be put down to reason; every one must have heard of cases in which a choice of two or more courses was presented to a Dog, and in which he has, after due reflection, chosen the best.

We are indebted to Mr. Hugh Miller, F.G.S., for a good instance of reasoning power in a Dog belonging to his brother, Captain Miller. This Dog, “Tara” by name, a Greyhound with a dash of Pointer, was one day taken out with a carriage for a run of forty miles. Now, it is estimated that a Dog, by his uncontrollable habit of “meandering,” usually goes over about three times, the ground of the horse or man he accompanies, so that on this occasion Tara must have run considerably over a hundred miles, and was in consequence rather done up when she reached home. She usually slept in the dining-room, whence she was always ejected at 7 A.M. by the housemaid who cleaned the room. On this occasion, however, no amount of persuasion could induce Tara to occupy her accustomed sleeping-place; she positively insisted upon following her master upstairs to his bedroom, where she evidently expected she could remain undisturbed for a good long rest, and where she did actually remain till 2 P.M. on the following day.

Another and more striking instance of the exercise of reasoning power is given in the Quarterly Journal of Science for April, 1876. It is there stated that a Newfoundland Dog was “sent across a stream to fetch a couple of hats, whilst his master and friend had gone on some distance. The Dog went after them, and the gentlemen saw him attempt to carry both hats, and fail, for the two were too much for him. Presently he paused in his endeavour, took a careful survey of the hats, discovered that one was larger than the other, put the small one in the larger, and took the latter in his teeth by the brim!”

In the face of facts such as these, the question as to whether Dogs possess the power of reasoning becomes merely one of words. No one would say that a human being who did as this Dog did acted from blind instinct. One can easily call to mind several persons of one’s acquaintance, to whom it would be the height of presumption to deny the possession of reason, and who yet would never have thought of putting the hats one inside the other. It is related that the great Newton made, in his study door, a big hole for his Cat and a little one for the kitten. In doing this he showed far less exercise of reason than the Dog; and it is quite conceivable that if he had been sent to fetch the hats he would have brought them over separately! We shall give other instances of reason in the Dog when we come to speak of conscience, cunning, revenge, &c., as exhibited by him. Any book of Dog-anecdotes will furnish the reader with many more, so that, on the whole, one is forced to the conclusion that, to prove the absence of reason in the Dog, one must argue something after this fashion:—Dogs often perform actions which, in man, would undoubtedly be attributed to reason. But man is the only member of the animal creation which possesses the reasoning faculty. Therefore, all actions in the Dog which simulate reason are, in reality, due to blind instinct. Therefore, Dogs do not possess the reasoning faculty. Which was to be demonstrated.

One of the most interesting points in the Dog’s character, and one in which many of his human masters would do well to imitate him, is his teachableness. A good Dog may be taught almost anything, no matter how difficult or distasteful, or how foreign to his nature. And not only will he learn to do anything, but to understand anything, for there can be no doubt whatever that Dogs actually do understand what is said to them, in many cases, quite irrespectively of tone or gesture. Of course, with an ordinary Dog who has received no special and systematic training, it is the tone of his master’s voice or his gestures which convey meanings to him, far more than the actual words; but with many Dogs, whose intelligence is great, and whose education has been thorough, this acme of culture is attained, and the animal does, undoubtedly, understand the actual words said to him. As an instance, we may mention the well-known case of “Sirrah,” the Ettrick Shepherd’s Dog, who wanted only the words “Sirrah, my man, they’re a’ awa’!” to proceed immediately in search of the missing flock. It is a matter of the commonest observation how soon even ordinary Dogs learn to understand certain words or phrases, such as “Rats!” “Cats!” “Set them off!” “Beg!” “Trust!” and so forth; and, although certainly in many of these cases tone and gesture have a great deal to do with the animal’s comprehension, yet there can be no sort of doubt that a Dog of fair intelligence learns, after a time, to recognise the words, if spoken in the most ordinary tone of voice. The following account—a truly marvellous one—illustrates not only the most perfect understanding of words, but capacity for a high degree of education, great intelligence, extensive memory, and reasoning faculties of no mean order:—

“Two fine Dogs, of the Spanish breed, were introduced by M. Léonard, with the customary French politesse, the largest by the name of M. Philax, the other as M. Brac (or Spot). The former had been in training three, the latter two, years. They were in vigorous health, and having bowed very gracefully, seated themselves on the hearth-rug side by side. M. Léonard then gave a lively description of the means he had employed to develop the cerebral system in these animals—how, from having been fond of the chase, and ambitious of possessing the best trained Dogs, he had employed the usual course of training—how the conviction had been impressed on his mind that by gentle usage, and steady perseverance in inducing the animal to repeat again and again what was required, not only would the Dog be capable of performing that specific act, but that part of the brain which was brought into activity by the mental effort would become more largely developed, and hence a permanent increase of mental power be obtained.

“After this introduction, M. Léonard spoke to his Dogs in French, in his usual tone, and ordered one of them to walk, the other to lie down, to run, to gallop, halt, crouch, &c., which they performed as promptly and correctly as the most docile children. Then he directed them to go through the usual exercises of the manège, which they performed as well as the best trained ponies at Astley’s.