Joseph Delmaire, of Looberghe, twenty-nine years old, was, on the 6th of October, 1836, bitten in the hand by a dog that he met with in the forest, and that was evidently rabid. On the following morning, he went to a medical man of some repute in the country, who washed the wound, and scarified it, and terminated the operation by tracing a bloody cross on the forehead of the patient.
He returned home, but he was far from being satisfied. The image of the dog that had attacked him was always before him, and his sleep was troubled with the most frightful dreams. So passed four-and-twenty days, when Delmaire, rising from his bed, felt the most dreadful trepidation; he panted violently; it seemed as if an enormous weight oppressed his chest, and from time to time there was profound sighing and sobbing. He complained every moment that he was smothered. He attempted to drink, but it was with great difficulty that a few drops of barley-water were swallowed. His mouth was dry, his throat burning, his thirst excessive, and all that he attempted to swallow was rejected with horror.
At nine o'clock at night he was largely bled. His respiration was more free, but the dread of every fluid remained. After an hour's repose, he started and felt the most fearful pain in every limb — his whole body was agitated with violent convulsions. The former place of bleeding was reopened, and a great quantity of blood escaped. The pulse became small and accelerated. The countenance was dreadful — the eyes were starting from their sockets — he continually sprung from his seat and uttered the most fearful howling. A quantity of foam filled his mouth, and compelled a continued expectoration. In his violent fits, the strength of six men was not sufficient to keep him on his bed. In the midst of a sudden recess of fury he would disengage himself from all that were attempting to hold him, and dash himself on the floor; there, freed from all control, he rolled about, beat himself, and tore everything that he could reach. In the short intervals that separated these crises, he regained possession of his reasoning powers: he begged his old father to pardon him, he talked to him and to those around with the most intense affection, and it was only when he felt that a new attack was at hand, that he prayed them to leave him. At length his mental excitation began to subside; his strength was worn out, and he suffered himself to be placed on his bed. The horrible convulsions from time to time returned, but the dread of liquors had ceased. He demanded something to drink. They gave him a little white wine, but he was unable to swallow it; it was returned through his nostrils. The poor fellow then endeavoured to sleep; but it was soon perceived that he had ceased to live.
early symptoms of rabies in the dog are occasionally very obscure. In the greater number of cases, these are sullenness, fidgetiness, and continual shifting of posture. Where I have had opportunity, I have generally found these circumstances in regular succession. For several consecutive hours perhaps he retreats to his basket or his bed. He shows no disposition to bite, and he answers the call upon him laggardly. He is curled up and his face is buried between his paws and his breast. At length he begins to be fidgety. He searches out new resting-places; but he very soon changes them for others. He takes again to his own bed; but he is continually shifting his posture. He begins to gaze strangely about him as he lies on his bed. His countenance is clouded and suspicious. He comes to one and another of the family and he fixes on them a steadfast gaze as if he would read their very thoughts. "I feel strangely ill," he seems to say: "have you anything to do with it? or you? or you?" Has not a dog mind enough for this? If we have observed a rabid dog at the commencement of the disease, we have seen this to the very life.
There is a species of dog — the small French poodle — the essence of whose character and constitution is fidgetiness or perpetual motion.
If this dog has been bitten, and rabies is about to establish itself, he is the most irritative restless being that can be conceived of; starting convulsively at the slightest sound; disposing of his bed in every direction, seeking out one retreat after another in order to rest his wearied frame, but quiet only for a moment in any one, and the motion of his limbs frequently stimulating chorea and even epilepsy.
A peculiar delirium is an early symptom, and one that will never deceive. A young man had been bitten by one of his dogs; I was requested to meet a medical gentleman on the subject: I was a little behind my time; as I entered the room I found the dog eagerly devouring a pan of sopped bread. "There is no madness here," said the gentleman. He had scarcely spoken, when in a moment the dog quitted the sop, and, with a furious bark sprung against the wall as if he would seize some imaginary object that he fancied was there. "Did you see that?" was my reply. "What do you think of it?" "I see nothing in it," was his retort: "the dog heard some noise on the other side of the wall." At my serious urging, however, he consented to excise the part. I procured a poor worthless cur, and got him bitten by this dog, and carried the disease from this dog to the third victim: they all became rabid one after the other, and there my experiment ended. The serious matter under consideration, perhaps, justified me in going so far as I did.
This kind of delirium is of frequent occurrence in the human patient.