[May 11, 1895.]
Seeing the great interest which many of your readers take in the study of canine character and intelligence, I think perhaps the following incident is worth recording. Whilst walking with a lady friend along Studley Park Road, Kew (a residential suburb of Melbourne), on a very quiet afternoon some time ago, we were surprised by a large St. Bernard dog, which came up to us and deliberately pawed my leg several times. Our perplexity at his extraordinary behaviour was perhaps not unmixed with a little misgiving, for he was an animal of formidable size and strength; but as he gave evident signs of satisfaction at our noticing him, and proceeded to trot on in front—at intervals looking round to make sure we were following—we became interested. When we had followed him about forty yards, he stopped before a door in a high garden wall, and, looking round anxiously to see that we were noticing, reached up his paw in the direction of the latch. On stretching forth my hand to unfasten the door, his extreme pleasure was exhibited in a most unmistakable manner; but when he saw me try in vain to open it, he became quiet, and looked at me with an expression so manifestly anxious that I could no more have left the poor animal thus than I could have left a helpless little child in a similar position. With eager attention and expectancy he listened while I knocked, and when at last some one was heard coming down the garden path, he bounded about with every sign of unlimited joy.
Now here was one of the so-called "brutes," which, failing to get in at a certain door, cast about for a way out of the difficulty, and seeing us some distance down the road (we were the only persons in sight at the time), he had come to us, attracted our attention, taken us to the door, and told us he wanted it opened. We both agreed that the animal had all through shown a play of emotion and intelligence comparable to that of a human being; and, indeed, we felt so much akin to the noble creature that we have both, since then, been very loath to class dogs as "inferior animals."
George Eastgate.
TWO ANECDOTES OF DOGS.
[Feb. 2, 1895.]
Having derived much pleasure from reading the frequent natural history notes which from time to time appear in the Spectator, I venture to send you two instances of what seems to me the working of the canine mind under quite different circumstances. The first refers to an incident which happened a great many years ago. It was this. One day, when a lad, I was walking with my father accompanied by a strong, smooth-haired retriever called Turk. We were joined by the bailiff of the farm, and in the course of our walk Turk suddenly discovered the presence of a rabbit concealed in what in Scotland is called a "dry-stane dyke." After a little trouble in removing some stones, poor bunny was caught and slaughtered, being handed to the bailiff, who put it in his coat pocket. Shortly afterwards we separated, the bailiff going to his home in one direction, and we to ours in an opposite one. Before we reached home we noticed that Turk was no longer with us, at which we were rather surprised, as he was a very faithful follower. Some time after we got home, perhaps an hour, I chanced to see a strange object on the public road which puzzled me as to what it was. It raised a cloud of dust as it came along, which partly obscured the vision. What was my surprise when I found it was Turk dragging a man's shooting-jacket, which proved to be the bailiff's, with the rabbit still in the pocket. We afterwards learnt that the dog, to the surprise of the bailiff, quietly followed him home, and lay down near him. Presently the man took off his coat, and laid it on a chair. Instantly Turk pounced upon it, and dashed to the door with it in his mouth. He was pursued, but in vain, and succeeded in dragging the coat from the one house to the other, a distance of one mile and three-fourths. It was evident the dog had a strong sense of the rights of property. He believed the rabbit belonged to his master, so he set himself to recover what he thought stolen goods.
The other anecdote refers to quite a recent date, and the only interest it has, is that it shows how perfectly a dog can exhibit facial expression, and also read at a glance the slightest indications of feeling in the human face. I had a well-broken Irish setter, which was perfectly free of hare or rabbit as to chasing, but he was a sad rascal for all that. I also had at the time a rough Scotch terrier, and the two dogs were great chums. The moment they got the chance they were off together on a rabbit-hunt. Like idiots, they would spend hours in vainly trying to dig rabbits out of their burrows. One day as I was returning home I met the pair in the avenue. They were the very picture of happiness. At first they did not see me, and came joyously on at a trot. The instant they observed me they came to a full stop, some forty yards off. The setter gently wagged his tail, and looked at me with an expression of anxious inquiry. Taking heart, he slowly advanced to within about thirty yards, and then came the varying play of feature which so interested me. He was in great doubt as to whether I had guessed what tricks he had been up to; but as I made no sign, he was gradually looking more comfortable and gaining confidence. Suddenly I noticed a patch of mud above his nose, and I must have unconsciously shown him I had made a discovery of some kind, for that instant he turned tail and bolted home at the utmost speed of which he was capable. Without uttering a single word, or making a single gesture, the dog and man understood each other perfectly. It was the language of faces.
R. Scot Skirving.