Doubtless many of the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE who love dogs, and like to
compare their own pets with other people's, attended the great Bench
Show, as it is called, recently held in the American Institute Building,
New York city. That great hall resounded with yelpings and barkings and
whinings in every key. On either side of the passageways where the
ladies and gentlemen elbowed about, examining and praising, were groups
of stately Newfoundland dogs or dignified mastiffs, splendid St.
Bernards, proud of the silver collars and chains adorning some of them,
surly-looking English bull-dogs, or curious foreign hounds. Here a dozen
ladies bent toward a row of little padlocked cages lined with satin or
silk, where reposed daintily some tiny terrier, sleepy little pug, or
graceful Italian greyhound. Somebody once called a greyhound a
"parenthesis on four legs."
My own stroll through this tail-wagging assembly set me to remembering
some dogs with whose acquaintance I have been honored. For are there not
dogs whom, like people, it is an honor to know? First of all came to my
mind Nero, whose picture you see above. Nero was a Berlin dog--is still,
I hope. Strange to say, he spoke German no better than English, yet we
became capital friends, and many a long romp have we had together on his
master's lawn in ---- Strasse. Nero is not merely a clever but a very
rare dog. His wonderfully odd black coat gave him the first prize at a
Berlin dog show as the most perfect specimen of a German "corded-coated"
poodle there. Moreover, that same long hair curls naturally, and neither
Nero nor his master spends any morning hours with the curling-stick.
Bruno is another dog of my acquaintance. He is a superb St. Bernard, and
lives in New Jersey. In spite of his great size and strength, Bruno has
the most lovely of dispositions. Here is an example. He has two other
St. Bernards as playmates in his kennel, much younger dogs, but very
lively, and huge romps the three have. Not long since, Gretchen, the
smallest of this trio, misbehaved. Punishment was necessary. Poor
Gretchen, trembling all over, was held down by her master, who leaned
over her with whip upraised. Just at that instant he felt a gentle
pressure from behind upon his shoulder, and turned to behold Bruno
balancing himself on three legs, and holding out the fourth paw
entreatingly, while with a most beseeching expression in his brown eyes
he thus was trying to "beg off" his playmate from the whipping. Don't
you think that you would have thrown the whip to the other end of the
yard after that, and given Bruno a hug? That is what his master did, at
any rate.
An English friend of mine told me lately of a dog with whom I should be
proud to "shake hands," and whom I hope some day to meet. His name is
Captain, and he is a young bull-terrier, very thickset and active. He is
accustomed to drive every afternoon with the groom to the railroad
station to meet his master. Not long since this groom happened to take
out a very freakish horse, which, left alone at the dépôt with only
Captain in the trap, took fright and ran furiously down the road.
Captain boldly leaped from the vehicle, rolled over in the dust, dashed
up again, and darted after the horse. The reins were dragging on the
ground. Seizing them in his mouth, Captain hung on, in spite of all
further bouncings and draggings, until he had actually stopped the
horse, and that before any serious mischief had been done. Was not that
a courageous act for even a plucky little English bull-dog?
This same Captain, when he was much younger, and required some whippings
in course of his training, used to hide the whip wherewith the
stable-man switched him. One day, while it was being hunted for,
somebody suggested, "Look in Captain's kennel." Away ran the gardener's
boy, just in time to overtake Captain jumping out of his kennel with the
lost whip in his jaws. He must have heard and quite understood the
direction given to search his quarters, and thus tried to spoil the
result. On being discovered, he made no attempt to hide his clever
trick, but dropped the whip guiltily, and took to his heels.
It is not unusual to meet with dogs who can tell Sunday from any other
day of the week. A relative of mine, a clergyman, owned a beautiful
Newfoundland who insisted upon going to church with the family, and was
regularly prepared to join them at the gate without being warned.
Although his guardians decidedly objected to this performance, all tying
up, sending back, or any other convenient means of keeping Pluto at home
did no good, and finally he was permitted to sit quietly through the
sermon. Toward the last years of his long life he insisted upon rising
during those portions of the service, such as the hymns or concluding
prayer, with the rest of the congregation, who became perfectly
accustomed to his presence.
Pampo was a small terrier whom I knew very well long ago. "Go get your
collar, Pampo;" "Pampo, I feel a door open somewhere up stairs; go find
it, and shut it," were commands he entirely understood and obeyed. At
nine o'clock every evening his master, an old gentleman with snow-white
hair, would turn to his wife across the hearth, and say, very gently,
and without looking at all in Pampo's direction as the little dog lay
dozing beside them, "Wife, I think it is high time for dogs to go to
bed." Pampo would, without further orders, meekly rise and slink off to
his box in the hallway.
One of the handsomest and best-behaved mastiffs that ever I met was
Æneas, a Massachusetts gentleman's particular pet. Æneas was, in spite
of his size, as frolicsome as a kitten, very faithful and intelligent,
but also a great lover of good cheer. The number of dinners that he
could digest in the day, and the size of those dinners, were something
marvellous. Small wonder indeed that he grew fat.
One day the cook, with his breakfast, also gave him a sound lecture on
his besetting weakness. "Do you think this house can afford to keep such
a great greedy beast as you?" I heard her saying. "You do nothing but
eat, eat, eat the whole day long. What do you do for it?"
Imagine cook's astonishment when, later on in that very morning, Æneas
marched up to her, holding tenderly in his jaws a poor duck, alive but
squawking vigorously, which he had encountered _in a neighbor's_ yard,
captured, and now brought to his friend, as much as to say, "See, I
_can_ do something for my own support, after all. I have caught this
duck to be cooked for my next meal."
A French peasant whom Dr. Morris, in his delightful book of dog stories,
speaks about, came home from market with a well-filled pocket-book in
his knapsack, and his poodle at his heels. Imagine the poor fellow's
grief when, on reaching his house, he discovered a hole in the knapsack,
through which his purse must have fallen to the ground! But also picture
his delight, an instant later, on seeing his faithful little companion
enter the room, carrying the lost treasure in his mouth! He had seen it
fall, quietly picked it up, and followed the whole distance with it.
Did you ever think how many queer old proverbs there are concerning
dogs? "Love me, love my dog;" "Give a dog a bad name, and hang him;" "A
living dog is better than a dead lion;" "A dog's life;" "Going to the
dogs;" these are phrases we often hear. Uncomplimentary as many such
are, they can not alter the truth that the dog is the most faithful,
loving, and pleasant of all man's four-footed friends, and one who, if
he can not talk, must in some sense think, reason, and--just not talk.