The “playing” part consists in the trainer directing the dog to bring the particular card required; wherever it is pretended that the dog of his own accord selects the proper card for taking a trick, there is really deception; the dog in such a case must be secretly directed by signals which he has been taught to obey.
To teach a dog to play dominoes, provide some pieces of board or thick card, some eight or ten inches long, on which paint conspicuously in black the required dots. Having provided two sets in this manner, spread one set upon the floor, and taking in your hand the blank domino of the other set, you say: “Bring the white.” Being familiar, from his previous training, with the color, he will doubtless select the correct domino. Then you show him the one spot, directing him to “bring the one.” Should he hesitate, repeat the command, showing him the spot on the domino in your hand. As soon as he has learned this difference, cease your instruction for the day, as it is unwise to attempt to go too fast. On the next day the two, three, and four may be included in the lesson; and so on each day, adding two or three, until the whole are learned. Having learned so much, the dog is prepared to play a game of dominoes, for the game consists merely in matching certain pieces.
Munito, the dog to whom reference is made in a preceding page, was a French poodle, very handsome, with a fine silky, white, woolly coat, half shaved. A gentleman who saw him exhibited in Piccadilly, London, nearly fifty years ago, thus describes his performance, disclosing at the same time the secrets thereof:
“He performed many curious feats, answering questions, telling the hour of the day, the day of the week, or date of the month, and picking out any cards called for from a pack spread on the ground. At the corner of the room was a screen, behind which the dog and his master disappeared between each feat for a short time. We watched him narrowly; but it was not until after our second visit that the mystery was solved. There were packs of ordinary cards, and other cards with figures, and others with single letters. One of the spectators was requested to name a card—say the queen of clubs—the pack was spread on the floor in a circle, faces upward. Munito went around the circle, came to the queen of clubs, pounced upon it, and brought it in his mouth to his master. The same process was repeated with the cards with figures, when he brought the exact numbers which answered the questions put as to dates, or days, or hours; in the same way with the letter cards, when he picked out the necessary letters to spell any short word called for, always making a full circle of the whole of the cards for each letter, or for each number, and never taking up two letters or two numbers consecutively, though they might chance to lie close together. This fact we made out at the first visit, but nothing more. On the second occasion we watched more narrowly, and with that object took a side seat, so that we had a partial view behind the screen. We then noticed that between each feat the master gave the dog some small bits of some sort of food, and that there was a faint smell of aniseed from that corner of the room. We noticed that the dog, as he passed around the circle of cards, with his nose down, and his eyes directed to the ground, never pounced on the right card as his eyes covered it, but turned back and picked it out. It was clear that he chose it by the smell, and not by the sense of sight. We recalled that, each time before the dog began his circuit, the master arranged and settled the cards, and we then found that he pressed the fleshy part of his thumb on the particular card the dog was to draw, which thumb he previously put into his waistcoat pocket for an instant; and as he passed close to us, his waistcoat had an aniseed scent.”
Dogs have been made to take part in stage representations, their performances being but applications of simple tricks taught in our tenth chapter. The good dog who recognizes the murderer of his master and seizes him by the throat; the other good dog who prevents an assassination by flying at the would-be assassin, and having a scuffle; and the still other good dog who rescues the child from drowning, or some other impending danger, are all “worked” by signals, or obey understood commands—the actor’s “cue” serving as well as any other word.
An amusing story is told of an accident which befell a penurious manager of a minor play-house, in endeavoring to avoid an engagement with the owner of the wonderful dogs, when their services and not his were to constitute the principal attraction. The owner persisted; it must be his dogs and himself, or no dogs at all; the sagacious animals would perform their marvels with no one else. The huckstering manager doubted this, and craved permission to try whether, by running across the room, and using the words repeated by the owner in the play, one of the animals would not seize him by the coat collar as well, without doing him any injury. The master consented, but the experiment failed entirely. The dog remained doggedly motionless. “It strikes me,” said the disappointed manager, “that if you were to say, ‘Go, sir!’ in a harsh tone, when I repeat the words, that he would at once perform the feat.” “Very well, sir,” replied the owner, “we will try the experiment, if you wish it.” The preliminaries were again gone through with; and the master said, “Go, sir!” The gigantic dog did go with a vengeance. He dashed off like an arrow; seized the manager by the nape of his neck, threw him violently on the floor, and giving two or three tremendous growls, seemed on the point of making mince-meat of his prey, who, petrified with fright, was glad enough to be rescued, and to permit the master to perform with his dogs, and on his own terms. He never was quite satisfied, however, that there was not some peculiarity in the “Go, sir,” used on that particular occasion.
CHAPTER XII.
TAMING AND TRAINING ELEPHANTS—CAPTURE AND TREATMENT—ELEPHANTS AS LABORERS AND AS CIRCUS PERFORMERS.
In telling how elephants are trained, so interwoven is our subject with that of the capture of the animals, that perhaps our best plan will be to take a hint from Mrs. Glass’s recipe for cooking the hare, viz., catch him first—and commence with the capture of the animals. Although authentic instances are on record of elephants breeding in captivity, it is of very rare occurrence, so that, practically, it may be said that the entire supply of domesticated elephants has been obtained by conversion from a wild state.
The device of taking them in pitfalls still prevails in India, but this is a laborious operation, often unsuccessful, owing to the caution of the animal; besides this, if caught, the great weight of the elephant, and the inability of his legs to withstand any severe direct shock, too frequently cause so much injury to the game as to render this mode of capture unprofitable. A writer on Ceylon, nearly two hundred years ago, describes another method which is still practiced. Describing the captures of elephants for the stud of the king of Kandy, he says: