“Placing a piece of meat on a piece of bread, and putting the whole into a corner of the room, you might say to either of these dogs: ‘Seek it! Seize it!’ The animal would run toward the object in question, but on nearing it, he would face about, seat himself before you with a pleasant air, as if to say: ‘I only eat what my master gives me—is Mons. Leonard present?’ The latter would say: ‘Leave the meat—put it on the ground—eat the bread.’ The order would be executed.
“Both these dogs knew how to play dominoes, and this is the method in which it was done: One dog was made to seat himself upon a chair before a table on which were placed the dominoes, and opposite a human player. It was necessary to give the dog only four dominoes, which were laid out in a row, the faces toward him. If he had a double six he played it at once, placing it in the middle of the table. If he had not, he waited for his opponent to play. Then, if he had a domino proper to play, he did not fail to do it, though he never adjusted it nicely—contenting himself with placing it at the end to which it belonged. If you attempted to cheat, by placing a two, for instance, where a six belonged, he contented himself (if it was a lady) with returning the wrong domino; but if it was a gentleman, he accompanied the correction with a growl, as if to say: ‘Do not revoke, sir.’ These feats were performed by these dogs either in the presence or absence of their master.
“One day, walking in the country, I asked M. Leonard to order the dogs to go over a fence right and left. He did so by command only, Philax going over on our left, and Braque on the right, as they were ordered. Then he ordered them to kiss each other; they pushed muzzle to muzzle in quite an amusing way. Another thing, the dogs were frequently sent to the butcher, baker, or grocer, with a basket and written message, and on these occasions it was only necessary to say: ‘Go to the butcher!’ ‘Go to the baker!’ or, ‘Go to the grocer!’ and the command was always obeyed without fail. On these occasions, one would carry the basket, and the other would act as guard.
“One may see from this that if the grayhound, the least intelligent of his kind, is capable of such instruction, all dogs are capable of being taught to do things which seem apparently impossible.”
Still another French celebrity of the canine kind is described by a writer in Le Siecle, a Paris journal. Mlle. Bianca, as she was called, one of the pug breed, created quite a sensation among amusement seekers at the time she was exhibited, and her wonderful feats were witnessed by large audiences. We did not see her performance, but have been assured by persons who did, that the following, though perhaps a little highly colored—as is the habit of most French writers—is yet substantially an accurate description of the dog’s feats. Le Siecle’s reporter says:
“As most of the Parisian papers have mentioned this little phenomenon, who reminds the public of the genius of the illustrious Munito, I, in turn, wished to make Mlle. Bianca’s acquaintance. She did me the honor to accord a private audience to me, for which I am extremely grateful. To see artists on the theater of their exploits is doubtless very agreeable, but to be introduced into their intimate circle of friendship, is still more precious. If these lines should fall under Mlle. Bianca’s eyes—as it is not improbable, for artists generally do not disdain to read newspapers where their merits are vaunted—she may see that, though I am only a man, may hert is no stranger to every sentiment of gratitude. Let me say, in the first place, in praise of my heroine, that her modesty exceeds even that of male and female literary people, who are, as everybody knows, a most modest race. Vanity, that horrible fault which some observers have insisted they were able to detect in some men and women—fortunately extremely rare—is no canine vice; and great as are Mlle. Bianca’s talents, she remains what nature made her—simple and good natured, and as sprightly as beautiful.
“She reads fluently, writes in her way, corrects faults of orthography, takes part in a game of ecarte, forms a bouquet by the names of flowers or their colors, and barks, or at least is familiar with, nineteen languages. Even if we admit the natural affection which Mlle. Bianca’s professor has for his excellent pupil has betrayed him into exaggerating the talents of Mlle. Bianca some fifteen more tongues than she really possesses, nevertheless she will still be a most distinguished polyglotist. This I can affirm. I gave her the English word ‘God’ to translate into Latin. She instantly, and without hesitation, composed the word ‘Deus.’ This is her modus operandi: She is placed on a table sufficiently large to allow her to move easily in every direction. She is in the center of the table. All around her are small bits of pasteboard, bearing each a letter of the alphabet. When a spectator gives a word, or asks for a translation, Mlle. Bianca seems to think a moment, half closes her eyes, like a poet hunting for a rhyme, and moves around the table, taking pasteboard, letter after letter, until she completes the word. She does this quietly, easily, without ever being betrayed into hurry. The word formed, she gravely takes her seat and gives one bark, as a printer places a period at the end of a sentence. She plays cards, and forms nosegays in the same way. While this intellectual animal is at work, her master stands motionless, some three or four paces from the table, but does not say a word. He sometimes disappears entirely behind a door, and Mlle. Bianca works wonders as effectually as when he is present. I said to her tutor: ‘So your dog really reads and understands what is said to her?’
“‘How can you doubt it, as you see she does so as well when I am absent as when I am by her side?’
“‘She really is the worthy peer of Munito, the Newton of the canine race.’
“‘Munito!’ quickly exclaimed Mlle. Bianca’s tutor, his lip curling with contempt as he spoke. ‘Munito was a miserable humbug; one of those dogs who abuse the public credulity.’