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And now, with all and each of the young friends who have read these
little histories of our dogs, we want to have a few moments of quiet chat
about dogs and household pets in general.
In these stories you must have noticed that each dog had as much his own
character as if he had been a human being. Carlo was not like Rover, nor
Rover like Giglio, nor Giglio like Florence, nor Florence like Rag, nor
Rag like Wix,—any more than Charley is like Fred, or Fred like Henry,
or Henry like Eliza, or Eliza like Julia. Every animal has his own
character, as marked and distinct as a human being. Many people who have
not studied much into the habits of animals don’t know this. To them a
dog is a dog, a cat a cat, a horse a horse, and no more,—that is the end
of it.
But domestic animals that associate with human beings develop a very
different character from what they would possess in a wild state. Dogs,
for example, in those countries where there is a prejudice against
receiving them into man’s association, herd together, and become wild and
fierce like wolves. This is the case in many Oriental countries, where
there are superstitious ideas about dogs; as, for instance, that they are
unclean and impure. But in other countries, the dog, for the most part,
forsakes all other dogs to become the associate of man. A dog without a
master is a forlorn creature; no society of other dogs seems to console
him; he wanders about disconsolate, till he finds some human being to
whom to attach himself, and then he is a made dog,—he pads about with an
air of dignity, like a dog that is settled in life.
There are among dogs certain races or large divisions, and those
belonging purely to any of those races are called blood-dogs. As examples
of what we mean by these races, we will mention the spaniel, the mastiff,
the bulldog, the hound, and the terrier; and each of these divisions
contains many species, and each has a strongly marked character. The
spaniel tribes are gentle, docile, easily attached to man; from them many
hunting dogs are trained. The bulldog is irritable, a terrible fighter,
and fiercely faithful to his master. A mastiff is strong, large, not so
fierce as the bulldog, but watchful and courageous, with a peculiar sense
of responsibility in guarding anything which is placed under his charge.
The hounds are slender, lean, wiry, with a long, pointed muzzle, and a
peculiar sensibility in the sense of smell, and their instincts lead
them to hunting and tracking. As a general thing, they are cowardly and
indisposed to combat; there are, however, remarkable exceptions, as you
will see if you read the account of the good black hound which Sir Walter
Scott tells about in “The Talisman,”—a story which I advise you to read
at your next leisure. The terriers are, for the most part, small dogs,
smart, bright, and active, very intelligent, and capable of being taught
many tricks. Of these there are several varieties,—as the English black
and tan, which is the neatest and prettiest pet a family of children can
have, as his hair is so short and close that he can harbor no fleas, and
he is always good-tempered, lively, and affectionate. The Skye terrier,
with his mouse-colored mop of hair, and his great bright eyes, is very
loving and very sagacious; but alas! unless you can afford a great deal
of time for soap, water, and fine-tooth-comb exercises, he will bring
more company than you will like. The Scotch terriers are rough, scraggy,
affectionate, but so nervous, frisky, and mischievous that they are only
to be recommended as out-door pets in barn and stable. They are capital
rat-catchers, very amicable with horses, and will sit up by the driver or
a coach-boy with an air of great sagacity.
There is something very curious about the habits and instincts of
certain dogs which have been trained by man for his own purposes. In the
mountains of Scotland, there are a tribe of dogs called Shepherd-dogs,
which for generations and ages have helped the shepherds to take care
of their sheep and which look for all the world like long-nosed,
high-cheek-boned, careful old Scotchmen. You will see them in the
morning, trotting out their flock of sheep, walking about with a grave,
care-taking air, and at evening all bustle and importance, hurrying and
scurrying hither and thither, getting their charge all together for the
night. An old Scotchman tells us that his dog Hector, by long sharing his
toils and cares, got to looking so much like him, that once, when he felt
too sleepy to go to meeting he sent Hector to take his seat in the pew,
and the minister never knew the difference, but complimented him the next
day for his good attention to the sermon.
There is a kind of dog employed by the monks of St. Bernard, in the Alps,
to go out and seek in the snow for travellers who may have lost their
way; and this habit becomes such a strong instinct in them, that I once
knew a puppy of this species which was brought by a shipmaster to Maine,
and grew up in a steady New England town, which used to alarm his kind
friends by rushing off into the pine forest in snow-storms, and running
anxiously up and down burrowing in the snow as if in quest of something.
I have seen one of a remarkable breed of dogs that are brought from
the island of Manilla. They resemble mastiffs in their form, but are
immensely large and strong. They are trained to detect thieves, and kept
by merchants on board of vessels where the natives are very sly and much
given to stealing. They are called _holders_, and their way is, when a
strange man, whose purposes they do not understand, comes on board the
ship, to take a very gentle but decisive hold of him by the heel, and
keep him fast until somebody comes to look after him. The dog I knew of
this species stood about as high as an ordinary dining-table, and I have
seen him stroke off the dinner-cloth with one wag of his tail in his
pleasure when I patted his head. He was very intelligent and affectionate.
There is another dog, which may often be seen in Paris, called the Spitz
dog. He is a white, smooth-haired, small creature, with a great muff
of stiff hair round his neck, and generally comes into Paris riding
horseback on the cart-horses which draw the carts of the washerwomen.
He races nimbly up and down on the back of the great heavy horses,
barking from right to left with great animation, and is said to be a most
faithful little creature in guarding the property of his owner. What is
peculiar about these little dogs is the entireness of their devotion to
their master. They have not a look, not a wag of the tail, for any one
else; it is vain for a stranger to try and make friends with them,—they
have eyes and ears for one alone.
All dogs which do not belong to some of the great varieties, on the one
side of their parentage or the other, are classed together as curs, and
very much undervalued and decried; and yet among these mongrel curs we
have seen individuals quite as sagacious, intelligent, and affectionate
as the best blood-dogs.
And now I want to say some things to those young people who desire to
adopt as domestic pets either a dog or a cat. Don’t do it without making
up your mind to be really and thoroughly kind to them, and feeding them
as carefully as you feed yourself, and giving them appropriate shelter
from the inclemency of the weather.
Some people seem to have a general idea that throwing a scrap, or bone,
or bit of refuse meat, at odd intervals, to a dog, is taking abundant
care of him. “What’s the matter with him? he can’t be hungry,—I gave
him that great bone yesterday.” Ah, Master Hopeful, how would you like
to be fed on the same principle? When you show your hungry face at the
dinner-table, suppose papa should say, “What’s that boy here for? He was
fed this morning.” You would think this hard measure; yet a dog’s or
cat’s stomach digests as rapidly as yours. In like manner, dogs are often
shut out of the house in cold winter weather without the least protection
being furnished them. A lady and I looked out once, in a freezing icy
day, and saw a great Newfoundland cowering in a corner of a fence to keep
from the driving wind; and I said, “Do tell me if you have no kennel
for that poor creature.” “No,” said the lady. “I didn’t know that dogs
needed shelter. Now I think of it, I remember last spring he seemed quite
poorly, and his hair seemed to come out; do you suppose it was being
exposed so much in the winter?” This lady had taken into her family a
living creature, without ever having reflected on what that creature
needed, or that it was her duty to provide for its wants.
Dogs can bear more cold than human beings, but they do not like cold any
better than we do; and when a dog has his choice, he will very gladly
stretch himself on a rug before the fire for his afternoon nap, and show
that he enjoys the blaze and warmth as much as anybody.
As to cats, many people seem to think that a miserable, half-starved
beast, never fed, and always hunted and beaten, and with no rights that
anybody is bound to respect, is a necessary appendage to a family. They
have the idea that all a cat is good for is to catch rats, and that
if well fed they will not do this,—and so they starve them. This is a
mistake in fact. Cats are hunting animals, and have the natural instinct
to pursue and catch prey, and a cat that is a good mouser will do this
whether well or ill fed. To live only upon rats is said to injure the
health of the cat, and bring on convulsions.
The most beautiful and best trained cat I ever knew was named Juno, and
was brought up by a lady who was so wise in all that related to the care
and management of animals, that she might be quoted as authority on all
points of their nurture and breeding; and Juno, carefully trained by such
a mistress, was a standing example of the virtues which may be formed in
a cat by careful education.
Never was Juno known to be out of place, to take her nap elsewhere than
on her own appointed cushion, to be absent at meal-times, or, when the
most tempting dainties were in her power, to anticipate the proper time
by jumping on the table to help herself.
In all her personal habits Juno was of a neatness unparalleled in cat
history. The parlor of her mistress was always of a waxen and spotless
cleanness, and Juno would have died sooner than violate its sanctity
by any impropriety. She was a skilful mouser, and her sleek, glossy
sides were a sufficient refutation of the absurd notion that a cat must
be starved into a display of her accomplishments. Every rat, mouse,
or ground mole that she caught was brought in and laid at the feet of
her mistress for approbation. But on one point her mind was dark. She
could never be made to comprehend the great difference between fur and
feathers, nor see why her mistress should gravely reprove her when she
brought in a bird, and warmly commend when she captured a mouse.
After a while a little dog named Pero, with whom Juno had struck up a
friendship, got into the habit of coming to her mistress’s apartment at
the hours when her modest meals were served, on which occasions Pero
thought it would be a good idea to invite himself to make a third.
He had a nice little trick of making himself amiable, by sitting up
on his haunches, and making little begging gestures with his two
fore-paws,—which so much pleased his hostess that sometimes he was fed
before Juno. Juno observed this in silence for some time; but at last
a bright idea struck her, and, gravely rearing up on her haunches, she
imitated Pero’s gestures with her fore-paws. Of course this carried the
day, and secured her position.
Cats are often said to have no heart,—to be attached to places, but
incapable of warm personal affection. It was reserved for Juno by her sad
end to refute this slander on her race. Her mistress was obliged to leave
her quiet home, and go to live in a neighboring city; so she gave Juno to
the good lady who inhabited the other part of the house.
But no attentions or care on the part of her new mistress could banish
from Juno’s mind the friend she had lost. The neat little parlor where
she had spent so many pleasant hours was dismantled and locked up, but
Juno would go, day after day, and sit on the ledge of the window-seat,
looking in and mewing dolefully. She refused food; and, when too weak to
mount on the sill and look in, stretched herself on the ground beneath
the window, where she died for love of her mistress, as truly as any
lover in an old ballad.
You see by this story the moral that I wish to convey. It is, that
watchfulness, kindness, and care will develop a nature in animals such as
we little dream of. Love will beget love, regular care and attention will
give regular habits, and thus domestic pets may be made agreeable and
interesting.
Any one who does not feel an inclination or capacity to take the amount
of care and pains necessary for the well-being of an animal ought
conscientiously to abstain from having one in charge. A carefully
tended pet, whether dog or cat, is a pleasant addition to a family of
young people; but a neglected, ill-brought-up, ill-kept one is only an
annoyance.
We should remember, too, in all our dealings with animals, that they are
a sacred trust to us from our Heavenly Father. They are dumb, and cannot
speak for themselves; they cannot explain their wants or justify their
conduct; and therefore we should be tender towards them.
Our Lord says not even a little sparrow falls to the ground without
our Heavenly Father, and we may believe that his eye takes heed of the
disposition which we show towards those defenceless beings whom he thinks
worthy of his protection.