I have been staying recently at Oxford, the home of perennial youth—and of innumerable dogs. In fact, it was the canine aspect of Oxford that impressed me on this occasion more than any other. Nearly every self-respecting undergraduate keeps his dog, and the mediæval, academic look of the place is pleasantly tempered by these careless, happy, intrusive, "warlike wearers of the wagging tail," who career up the High, make the meadows to resound with their barkings, and bring the bicycled rowing coach to eternal smash on the tow-path. There being, roughly speaking, some 3,000 undergraduates, the floating population of Oxford dogs cannot be less than 2,500.
Perhaps, however, the most remarkable thing about Oxford dogs is the variety of their migrations. Some dogs, of course, remain constant to one owner. Others spend their lives under the general ownership of the whole University. These know the best rooms for bones from term to term; they can track the perfumed ash-pan to its lair, and indulge in hideous orgies of fish-heads and egg-shells. The most prominent representative of this class is, of course, Oriel Bill, who has, perhaps, the most gorgeously ugly and tenderly pathetic face ever granted by nature to a bull-dog.
But ordinary dogs, though they remain nominally the possession of one original owner, migrate from sub-owner to deputy-sub-owner, and thence to pro-deputy-sub-owner, with a wonderful rapidity. For instance, I once gave a retriever puppy to an Oxford friend. This is the life-history of that amiable animal, so far as I can gather it up to a recent date.
A. (my friend) kept the dog faithfully for a term. As he was going down, it occurred to A. that Ponto would be happier in Oxford than in London, so when the following term began, Ponto, still in his gay puppyhood, was once more found in Oxford under a different master, B. B. kept Ponto in his lodgings in the High. They were prettily furnished; there were cretonnes, and embroidered cushions, and handsome rugs. One day Ponto was left in solitary charge for one short hour. Upon B.'s return he found that remarkable dog sleeping soundly, with a well-gnawed slipper under each of his forepaws, amidst a ruin of tattered stuffs. Not a hanging, not a cushion, not a rug remained entire. This was too much, and Ponto promptly became the fleeting property of C., a Balliol man, who changed his name to Jowler (this happened in the time of the late Master), and taught him to worry cats.
After three weeks of glorious scrimmages amongst the surrounding feline inhabitants, Jowler took it into his head to get lost for a week. C. mourned him, but took no further steps when he found him living under the protection of D., a Brasenose man, totally unknown to A., the original owner. D. took him home in the vac, broke him to the gun, imbued him with an extraordinary fondness for beer, and re-christened him "Hebby."