Was a dark brindled bull-terrier, as pure in blood as Cruiser or Wild
Dayrell. She was brought by my brother from Otley, in the West Riding.
She was very handsome, fierce, and gentle, with a small, compact,
finely-shaped head, and a pair of wonderful eyes,--as full of fire and
of softness as Grisi's; indeed she had to my eye a curious look of that
wonderful genius--at once wild and fond. It was a fine sight to see her
on the prowl across Bowden Moor, now cantering with her nose down, now
gathered up on the top of a dyke, and with erect ears, looking across
the wild like a moss-trooper out on business, keen and fell. She could
do everything it became a dog to do, from killing an otter or a polecat,
to watching and playing with a baby, and was as docile to her master as
she was surly to all else. She was not quarrelsome, but "being in," she
would have pleased Polonius as much, as in being "ware of entrance." She
was never beaten, and she killed on the spot several of the country
bullies who came out upon her when following her master in his rounds.
She generally sent them off howling with one snap, but if this was not
enough, she made an end of it.
But it was as a mother that she shone; and to see the gypsy, Hagar-like
creature nursing her occasional Ishmael--playing with him, and fondling
him all over, teaching his teeth to war, and with her eye and the curl
of her lip daring any one but her master to touch him, was like seeing
Grisi watching her darling "_Gennaro_," who so little knew why and how
much she loved him.
Once when she had three pups, one of them died. For two days and nights
she gave herself up to trying to bring it to life--licking it and
turning it over and over, growling over it, and all but worrying it to
awake it. She paid no attention to the living two, gave them no milk,
flung them away with her teeth, and would have killed them, had they
been allowed to remain with her. She was as one possessed, and neither
ate, nor drank, nor slept, was heavy and miserable with her milk, and in
such a state of excitement that no one could remove the dead pup.
Early on the third day she was seen to take the pup in her mouth, and
start across the fields towards the Tweed, striding like a
race-horse--she plunged in, holding up her burden, and at the middle of
the stream dropped it and swam swiftly ashore; then she stood and
watched the little dark lump floating away, bobbing up and down with the
current, and losing it at last far down, she made her way home, sought
out the living two, devoured them with her love, carried them one by one
to her lair, and gave herself up wholly to nurse them; you can fancy her
mental and bodily happiness and relief when they were pulling away--and
theirs.
On one occasion my brother had lent her to a woman who lived in a lonely
house, and whose husband was away for a time. She was a capital watch.
One day an Italian with his organ came--first begging, then demanding
money--showing that he knew she was alone, and that he meant to help
himself, if she didn't. She threatened to "lowse the dowg;" but as this
was Greek to him, he pushed on. She had just time to set Wasp at him. It
was very short work. She had him by the throat, pulled him and his organ
down with a heavy crash, the organ giving a ludicrous sort of cry of
musical pain. Wasp thinking this was from some creature within, possibly
a _whittret_, left the ruffian, and set to work tooth and nail on the
box. Its master slunk off, and with mingled fury and thankfulness
watched her disembowelling his only means of an honest living. The woman
good-naturedly took her off, and signed to the miscreant to make himself
and his remains scarce. This he did with a scowl; and was found in the
evening in the village, telling a series of lies to the watchmaker, and
bribing him with a shilling to mend his pipes--"his kist o' whussels."