An English friend of mine told me lately of a dog with whom I should be proud to "shake hands," and whom I hope some day to meet. His name is Captain, and he is a young bull-terrier, very thickset and active. He is accustomed to drive every afternoon with the groom to the railroad station to meet his master. Not long since this groom happened to take out a very freakish horse, which, left alone at the dépôt with only Captain in the trap, took fright and ran furiously down the road. Captain boldly leaped from the vehicle, rolled over in the dust, dashed up again, and darted after the horse. The reins were dragging on the ground. Seizing them in his mouth, Captain hung on, in spite of all further bouncings and draggings, until he had actually stopped the horse, and that before any serious mischief had been done. Was not that a courageous act for even a plucky little English bull-dog?
This same Captain, when he was much younger, and required some whippings in course of his training, used to hide the whip wherewith the stable-man switched him. One day, while it was being hunted for, somebody suggested, "Look in Captain's kennel." Away ran the gardener's boy, just in time to overtake Captain jumping out of his kennel with the lost whip in his jaws. He must have heard and quite understood the direction given to search his quarters, and thus tried to spoil the result. On being discovered, he made no attempt to hide his clever trick, but dropped the whip guiltily, and took to his heels.
It is not unusual to meet with dogs who can tell Sunday from any other day of the week. A relative of mine, a clergyman, owned a beautiful Newfoundland who insisted upon going to church with the family, and was regularly prepared to join them at the gate without being warned. Although his guardians decidedly objected to this performance, all tying up, sending back, or any other convenient means of keeping Pluto at home did no good, and finally he was permitted to sit quietly through the sermon. Toward the last years of his long life he insisted upon rising during those portions of the service, such as the hymns or concluding prayer, with the rest of the congregation, who became perfectly accustomed to his presence.
Pampo was a small terrier whom I knew very well long ago. "Go get your collar, Pampo;" "Pampo, I feel a door open somewhere up stairs; go find it, and shut it," were commands he entirely understood and obeyed. At nine o'clock every evening his master, an old gentleman with snow-white hair, would turn to his wife across the hearth, and say, very gently, and without looking at all in Pampo's direction as the little dog lay dozing beside them, "Wife, I think it is high time for dogs to go to bed." Pampo would, without further orders, meekly rise and slink off to his box in the hallway.
One of the handsomest and best-behaved mastiffs that ever I met was Æneas, a Massachusetts gentleman's particular pet. Æneas was, in spite of his size, as frolicsome as a kitten, very faithful and intelligent, but also a great lover of good cheer. The number of dinners that he could digest in the day, and the size of those dinners, were something marvellous. Small wonder indeed that he grew fat.
One day the cook, with his breakfast, also gave him a sound lecture on his besetting weakness. "Do you think this house can afford to keep such a great greedy beast as you?" I heard her saying. "You do nothing but eat, eat, eat the whole day long. What do you do for it?"
Imagine cook's astonishment when, later on in that very morning, Æneas marched up to her, holding tenderly in his jaws a poor duck, alive but squawking vigorously, which he had encountered in a neighbor's yard, captured, and now brought to his friend, as much as to say, "See, I can do something for my own support, after all. I have caught this duck to be cooked for my next meal."
A French peasant whom Dr. Morris, in his delightful book of dog stories, speaks about, came home from market with a well-filled pocket-book in his knapsack, and his poodle at his heels. Imagine the poor fellow's grief when, on reaching his house, he discovered a hole in the knapsack, through which his purse must have fallen to the ground! But also picture his delight, an instant later, on seeing his faithful little companion enter the room, carrying the lost treasure in his mouth! He had seen it fall, quietly picked it up, and followed the whole distance with it.
Did you ever think how many queer old proverbs there are concerning dogs? "Love me, love my dog;" "Give a dog a bad name, and hang him;" "A living dog is better than a dead lion;" "A dog's life;" "Going to the dogs;" these are phrases we often hear. Uncomplimentary as many such are, they can not alter the truth that the dog is the most faithful, loving, and pleasant of all man's four-footed friends, and one who, if he can not talk, must in some sense think, reason, and—just not talk.