"He was a gash and faithfu' tyke
As over lap a sheugh or dyke."
Burns.
I had cured friend Frank's dog of some trifling ailment, and she seemed
fonder of me than ever. "Poor Meg," I said, patting her.
Dogs are never ungrateful for kindnesses, but I have seen many noted
instances of revenge, and so doubtless have many of my readers. Here is
a case. At one time of day my father possessed a breed of beautiful
black game-cocks. One of these had a great aversion to dogs, and a
bull-terrier, who was tied up in a stall in the stable, came in for a
considerable share of blows and abuse from a certain brave bird of the
King Jock strain. I myself was a witness to the assault, but I dared
not interfere, for to tell you the truth, that game-cock was one too
many for me then, and I wouldn't care to be attacked by a bird of the
same kind even now. King Jock had come into the stable to pick a bit by
himself, for he was far too cavalierly to eat much before the hens.
"Give everything to the ladies and go without yourself" is game-cock
etiquette. Presently he spied "Danger" lying in the stall with his head
on his two fore-paws.
"Oh! you're there, are you?" said King Jock, holding his head to the
ground, and keening up with one eye at the poor dog. "Didn't notice ye
before. It ain't so light as it might be."
Danger gave one apologetic wag of his tail. "Pretty fellow you are,
ain't ye?" continued the cock, edging a bit nearer.
"Eh? Why don't you speak?"
"Ho! ho! it's chained ye are, is it? I've a good mind to let you have
it on that ugly patched face of yours. And, by my halidom, I will too.
Who ran through the yard yesterday and scared the senses out of half my
harem? Take that, and that, and that. Try to bite, would you? Then
you'll have another; there! and there!"
Poor Danger's head was covered with round lumps as big as half marbles,
and each lump had a spur-hole. Cock Jock had made good practice, which
he had much reason to repent, for one day Master Danger broke loose, and
went straight away to look for his enemy. Jock possessed a tail that
any cock might have been proud of, but after his encounter with Danger
his pride had a fall, for in his speedy flight he got stuck in a hedge,
and the dog tore every feather out, and would have eaten his way into,
and probably through, King Jock himself, if the twig hadn't snapped, and
the bird escaped. After that King Jock was content to treat
bull-terriers with quiet disdain.
Dogs know much of what is said to them, especially if you do not speak
too fast, for, if you do, they get nervous, and forget their English.
It is, in my opinion, better not to alter your form of speech, nor the
tone of your voice, when talking to a dog. My old friend Tyro, a
half-bred collie, but most beautiful animal, understood and was in the
habit of being talked to in three languages, to say nothing of broad
Scotch, namely, English, Gaelic, and Latin--no, not dog Latin, by your
leave, sir, but the real Simon Pure and Ciceronic. I don't mean to
assert that he could appreciate the beauties of the Bucolics, nor
Horatian love lays if read to him; but he would listen respectfully, and
he would obey ordinary orders when couched in the Roman tongue. Every
animal that had hair and ran was, to Tyro, a cat; every animal that had
feathers was a crow, and these he qualified by size. In a flock of
sheep, for instance, if you asked him to chase out the _big_ "cat," it
was a ram, who got no peace till he came your way; if, in a flock of
fowls, you had asked him to chase out the _big_ "crow," it was the cock
who had to fly; if you said the wee crow, a bantam or hen would be the
victim. An ordinary cat was simply a cat, and if you asked him to go
and find one, it would be about the barn-yards or stables he would
search. But if you told him to go and find a "grub-cat," it was off to
the hills he would be, and if you listened you would presently hear him
in chase, and he would seldom return without a grub-cat, that meant a
cat that could be eaten--i.e., a hare or rabbit. He knew when told to
go and take a drink of water; but, at sea, the ocean all around him was
pointed out to him as the big drink of water. In course of time he grew
fond of the sea, though the commotion in the water and the breakers must
have been strange and puzzling to him; but if at any time he was told to
go and take a look at the big drink of water, he would put his two
fore-paws on the bulwarks and watch the waves for many minutes at a
time.
"I have often heard you speak of your dog Tyro, Gordon," said Frank;
"can't you tell us his history?"
"I will, with pleasure," I replied. "He was _the_ dog of my student
days. I never loved a dog more, I never loved one so much, with the
exception perhaps of Theodore Nero--or you, Aileen, for I see you
glancing up at me. No, you needn't sigh so."
But about Tyro. Here is his story:--He was bred from a pure Scottish
collie, the father a powerful retriever (Irish). "Bah!" some one may
here say, "only a mongrel," a class of dogs whose praises few care to
sing, and whose virtues are written in water. A watch-dog of the right
sort was Tyro; and from the day when his brown eyes first rested on me,
for twelve long years, by sea and land, I never had a more loving
companion or trusty friend. He was a large and very strong dog,
feathered like a Newfoundland, but with hair so soft and long and
glossy, as to gain for him in his native village the epithet of "silken
dog." In colour he was black-and-tan, with snow-white gauntlets and
shirt-front. His face was very remarkable, his eyes bright and tender,
giving him, with his long, silky ears, almost the expression of a
beautiful girl. Being good-mannered, kind, and always properly groomed,
he was universally admired, and respected by high and low. He was,
indeed, patted by peers and petted by peasants, never objected to in
first-class railway cars or steamer saloons, and the most fastidious of
hotel waiters did not hesitate to admit him, while he lounged daintily
on sofa or ottoman, with the _sang froid_ of one who had a right. Tyro
came into my possession a round-pawed fun-and-mischief-loving puppy.
His first playmate was a barn-door fowl, of the male persuasion, who had
gained free access to the kitchen on the plea of being a young female in
delicate health; which little piece of deceit, on being discovered by
his one day having forgot himself so far as to crow, cost "Maggie," the
name he impudently went by, his head. Very dull indeed was poor Tyro on
the following day, but when the same evening he found Maggie's head and
neck heartlessly exposed on the dunghill, his grief knew no bounds.
Slowly he brought it to the kitchen, and with a heavy sigh deposited it
on the hearthstone-corner, and all the night and part of next day it was
"waked," the pup refusing all food, and flashing his teeth meaningly at
whosoever attempted to remove it, until sleep at last soothed his
sorrow. I took to the dog after that, and never repented it, for he
saved my life, of which anon. Shortly after his "childish sorrow," Tyro
had a difference of opinion with a cat, and got rather severely handled,
and this I think it was that led him, when a grown dog, to a confusion
of ideas regarding these animals, _plus_ hares and rabbits; "when taken
to be well shaken," was his motto, adding "wherever seen," so he slew
them indiscriminately. This cat-killing propensity was exceedingly
reprehensible, but the habit once formed never could be cured; although
I, stimulated by the loss of guinea after guinea, whipped him for it,
and many an old crone--deprived of her pet--has scolded him in English,
Irish, and Scotch, all with the same effect.
Talking of cats, however, there was _one_ to whom Tyro condescendingly
forgave the sin of existing. It so fell out that, in a fight with a
staghound, he was wounded in a large artery, and was fast bleeding to
death, because no one dared to go near him, until a certain sturdy
eccentric woman, very fond of our family, came upon the scene. She
quickly enveloped her arms with towels, to save herself from bites, and
thus armed, thumbed the artery for two hours; then dressing it with
cobwebs, saved the dog's life. Tyro became, when well, a constant
visitor at the woman's cottage; he actually came to love her, often
brought her the hares he killed, and, best favour of all to the old
maid, considerately permitted her cat to live during his royal pleasure;
but, if he met the cat abroad, he changed his direction, and inside he
never let his eyes rest upon her.
When Tyro came of age, twenty-one (months), he thought it was high time
to select a profession, for hitherto he had led a rather roving life.
One thing determined him. My father's shepherd's toothless old collie
died, and having duly mourned for her loss, he--the shepherd--one day
brought home another to fill up the death-vacancy. She was black, and
very shaggy, had youth and beauty on her side, pearly teeth, hair that
shone like burnished silver, and, in short, was quite a charming
shepherdess--so, at least, thought Tyro; and what more natural than that
he should fall in love with her? So he did. In her idle hours they
gambolled together on the gowny braes, brushed the bells from the purple
heather and the dewdrops from the grass, chased the hares, bullied the
cat, barked and larked, and, in short, behaved entirely like a pair of
engaged lovers of the canine class; and then said Tyro to himself, "My
mother was a shepherdess, _I_ will be a shepherd, and thus enjoy the
company of my beloved `Phillis' for ever, and perhaps a day or two
longer." And no young gentleman ever gave himself with more energy to a
chosen profession than did Tyro. He was up with the lark--the bird that
picks up the worm--and away to the hill and the moor. To his faults the
shepherd was most indulgent for a few days; but when Tyro, in his
over-zeal, attempted to play the wolf, he was, very properly, punished.
"What an indignity! Before one's Phillis too!" Tyro turned tail and
trotted sulkily home. "Bother the sheep!" he must have thought; at any
rate, he took a dire revenge--not on the shepherd, _his_ acquaintance he
merely cut, and he even continued to share the crib with his little
ensnarer--but on the sheep-fold.
A neighbouring farmer's dog, of no particular breed, was in the habit of
meeting Tyro at summer gloaming, in a wood equidistant from their
respective homes. They then shook tails, and trotted off side by side.
Being a very early riser, I used often to see Tyro coming home in the
mornings, jaded, worn, and muddy, avoiding the roads, and creeping along
by ditches and hedgerows. When I went to meet him, he threw himself at
my feet, as much as to say, "Thrash away, and be quick about it." This
went on for weeks, though I did not know then what mischief "the twa
dogs" had been brewing, although ugly rumours began to be heard in all
the countryside about murdered sheep and bleeding lambs; but my eyes
were opened, and opened with a vengeance, when nineteen of the sheep on
my father's hill-side were made bleeding lumps of clay in one short
"simmer nicht"; and had Tyro been tried for his life, he could scarcely
have proved an _alibi_, and, moreover, his pretty breast was like unto a
robin's, and his gauntlets steeped in gore. Dire was the punishment
that fell on Tyro's back for thus forsaking the path of virtue for a
sheep-walk; and for two or three years, until, like the "Rose o'
Anandale," he--
"Left his Highland home
And wandered forth with me,"
he was condemned to the chain.
He now became really a watch-dog, and a right good one he proved.
The chain was of course slipped at night when his real duties were
supposed to commence. Gipsies--tinklers we call them--were just then an
epidemic in our part of the country; and our hen-roosts were in an
especial manner laid under blackmail. One or two of those same
long-legged gentry got a lesson from Tyro they did not speedily forget.
I have seldom seen a dog that could knock down a man with less
unnecessary violence. So surely as any one laid a hand on his master,
even in mimic assault, he was laid prone on his back, and that, too, in
a thoroughly business-like fashion; and violence was only offered if the
lowly-laid made an attempt to get up till out of arrest.
I never had a dog of a more affectionate disposition than my
dead-and-gone friend Tyro. By sea and land, of course _I_ was his
especial charge; but that did not prevent him from joyously recognising
"friends he had not seen for years." Like his human shipmates, he too
used to look out for land, and he was generally the first to make known
the welcome news, by jumping on the bulwarks, snuffing the air, and
giving one long loud bark, which was slightly hysterical, as if there
were a big lump in his throat somewhere.
I should go on the principle of _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_; but I am
bound to speak of Tyro's faults as well as his virtues. Reader, he had
a temper--never once shown to woman or child, but often, when he fancied
his _casus belli_ just, to man, and once or twice to his master. Why,
one night, in my absence, he turned my servant out, and took forcible
possession of my bed. It _was_ hard, although I _had_ stayed out rather
late; but only by killing him could I have dislodged him, so for several
reasons I preferred a night on the sofa, and next morning I reasoned the
matter with him.
During our country life, Tyro took good care I should move as little as
possible without him, and consequently dubbed himself knight-companion
of my rambles over green field and heathy mountain, and these were not
few. We often extended our excursions until the stars shone over us,
then we made our lodging on the cold ground, Tyro's duties being those
of watch and pillow. Often though, on awakening in the morning, I found
my head among the heather, and my pillow sitting comfortably by my side
panting, generally with a fine hare between its paws, for it had been
"up in the morning airly" and "o'er the hills and far awa'," long before
I knew myself from a stone.
Tyro's country life ended when his master went to study medicine. One
day I was surprised to find him sitting on the seat beside me. The
attendant was about to remove him.
"Let alone the poor dog," said Professor L. "I am certain he will
listen more quietly than any one here." Then after the lecture, "Thank
you, doggie; you have taught my students a lesson." That naughty chain
prevented a repetition of the offence; but how exuberant he was to meet
me at evening any one may guess. Till next morning he was my second
shadow. More than once, too, he has been a rather too faithful ally in
the many silly escapades into which youth and spirits lead the medical
student. His use was to cover a retreat, and only once did he floor a
too-obtrusive Bobby; and once he _saved me from an ugly death_.
It was Hogmanay--the last night of the year--and we had been merry. We,
a jolly party of students, had elected to sing in the New Year. We did
so, and had been very happy, while, as Burns hath it, Tyro--
"For vera joy had barkit wi' us."
Ringing out from every corner of the city, like cocks with troubled
minds, came the musical voices of night-watchmen, bawling "half-past
one," as we left the streets, and proceeded towards our home in the
suburbs. It was a goodly night, moon and stars, and all that sort of
thing, which tempted me to set out on a journey of ten miles into the
country, in order to be "first foot" to some relations that lived there.
The road was crisp with frost, and walking pleasant enough, so that we
were in one hour nearly half-way. About here was a bridge crossing a
little rocky ravine, with a babbling stream some sixty feet below. On
the low stone parapet of this bridge, like the reckless fool I was, I
stretched myself at full length, and, unintentionally, fell fast asleep.
How nearly that sleep had been my last! Two hours afterwards I awoke,
and naturally my eyes sought the last thing they had dwelt upon, the
moon; she had declined westward, and in turning round I was just
toppling over when I was sharply pulled backwards toward the road. Here
was Tyro with his two paws pressed firmly against the parapet, and part
of my coat in his mouth, while with flashing teeth he growled as I never
before had heard him. His anger, however, was changed into the most
exuberant joy, when I alighted safely on the road, shuddering at the
narrow escape I had just made. At the suggestion of Tyro, we danced
round each other, for five minutes at least, in mutual joy, by which
time we were warm enough to finish our journey, and be "first foot" to
our friends in the morning.
When Tyro left home with me to begin a seafaring life, he put his whole
heart and soul into the business. There was more than one dog in the
ship, but his drawing-room manners and knowledge of "sentry-go" made him
saloon dog _par excellence_.
His first voyage was to the Polar regions, and his duty the protection
by night of the cabin stores, including the spirit room. This duty he
zealously performed; in fact, Master Tyro would have cheerfully
undertaken to take charge of the whole ship, and done his best to repel
boarders, if the occasion had demanded it.
A sailor's life was now for a time the lot of Tyro. I cannot, however,
say he was perfectly happy; no dog on board ship is. He missed the wide
moors and the heathy hills, and I'm sure, like his master, he was always
glad to go on shore again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poor Tyro got old; and so I had to go to sea without him. Then this dog
attached himself to my dear mother. When I returned home again, she was
gone...
Strange to say, Tyro, who during my poor mother's illness had never left
her room, refused food for days after her death.
He got thin, and dropsy set in.
With my _own_ hand, I tapped him no less than fifteen times, removing
never less than one gallon and three quarters of water. The first
operation was a terrible undertaking, owing to the dog making such
fierce resistance; but afterwards, when he began to understand the
immense relief it afforded him, he used to submit without even a sigh,
allowing himself to be strapped down without a murmur, and when the
operation (excepting the stab of the trocar, there is little or no pain)
was over, he would give himself a shake, then lick the hands of all the
assistants--generally four--and present a grateful paw to each; then he
had his dinner, and next day was actually fit to run down a rabbit or
hare.
Thinner and weaker, weaker and thinner, month by month, and still I
could not, as some advised, "put him out of pain;" he had once saved my
life, and I did not feel up to the mark in Red Indianism. And so the
end drew nigh.
The saddest thing about it was this: the dog had the idea (knowing
little of the mystery of death) that I could make him well; and at last,
when he could no longer walk, he used to crawl to meet me on my morning
visit, and gaze in my face with his poor imploring eyes, and my answer
(_well_ he knew what I said) was always, "Tyro, doggie, you'll be better
the morn (to-morrow), boy." And when one day I could stand it no
longer, and rained tears on my old friend's head, he crept back to his
bed, and that same forenoon he was dead.
Poor old friend Tyro. Though many long years have fled since then, I
can still afford a sigh to his memory.
On a "dewy simmer's gloaming" my Tyro's coffin was laid beneath the sod,
within the walls of a noble old Highland ruin. There is no stone to
mark where he lies, but I know the spot, and I always think the _gowan
blinks_ bonniest and the grass grows greenest there.