LIFE HISTORIES
THE “ONE DOG” AND “THE OTHERS”
THE CHILD OF THE HOUSE
“_I have lost many a friend, but never one
So patient, steadfast, and sincere as he--
So unforgetful in his constancy._”
“The One” of all dogs for me was a long, low Skye of the old-fashioned
drop-eared kind. In breed and build he was just what I had always said
I would _not_ have as a house dog, yet I never regretted the weakness
that forbade me to send the forlorn little stranger away. He had no
eventful history, and though I am persuaded that no other of his kind
was ever quite so intelligently sympathetic and altogether lovable as
he, I have nothing to relate of him that “The Others” will not outdo at
every turn. Yet for me he is the one apart, and his memory has all the
fragrance of richest perfumes from friendship’s garden.
It is in his life, and in those of my friends’ dogs, whose life
histories I have written, that I have found the data for such thoughts
and fancies concerning our relations with the dog, and of the various
pleasures, pains, and obligations that result therefrom, which I hope
my readers may share with me.
The summer in which Mr. Gubbins came to me, I had a lady staying with
me, who was also a great lover of dogs. A brother of this friend it
was, who brought the little aristocrat with the strangely incongruous
name to ask a temporary shelter, while his owner looked out for a
suitable home for him. This man, another keen dog-lover, had seen
and admired the beautiful young Skye at a country house where he was
staying. He made friends with the timid, shy animal, who belonged to no
one in particular in the house, and when the visitor left, the terrier
was offered to him. He could not find it in his heart to refuse, so he
brought it to his sister to take care of. I may say that at the time
I had a Basset hound and a bulldog, both of which slept in my room at
night
When this friend came into my study, where his sister and I were
sitting, my astonishment was great to see a long, grey, hairy creature,
of which nothing could be distinguished but his magnificent coat, slip
in at the door behind the visitor. After a short pause, during which
the bright eyes hidden behind a cloud of hair were doubtless taking
in the bearings of the situation, the terrier made straight for the
long, low chair at the further end of the room, where I was sitting,
and curled himself up behind it. My other dogs were in the garden, and
there was no one to dispute the refuge with him. He submitted quietly
to caresses, but was evidently so frightened that he was soon left in
peace, while the reason of his advent was explained.
[Illustration: THE CHILD OF THE HOUSE
GUBBINS]
He had gone as a puppy to his late owners, from his breeder Mr.
Pratt, whose long-haired Skyes were at one time well known in Hyde
Park, where their master took them for their daily exercise. These dogs
were bred with the nicest care, and the strain that came from Lady
Aberdeen’s kennels had been preserved. Pratt, who was a butler, living
with a family on the Bayswater side of the Park, was devoted to his
dogs, but as he could not keep a great number of them, and doubtless
looked to making his hobby a profitable investment, the puppies were
sold at a remunerative price.
In the case of my own favourite, he had gone early to his country home,
and, not having been trained to the house, he was put in the charge
of a gamekeeper to have his education completed. This man, whose very
name I do not know, had little idea of the gentleness required for
successful training. He was harsh and ill-tempered, and the shy, wild
little creature, who all his life long was one of the most sensitive of
his kind, was years before he recovered from the experiences of those
early months. He was cowed and frightened, and, not having the bright
merry little ways of puppyhood, he won no favour from any member of the
family when he was sent up to the house with his first hard experience
of life behind him. He crawled about the grounds by himself, and only
asked to be left alone and unnoticed, so that he might escape the rough
usage that he associated with intercourse with the superior being. The
long grey form was creeping over a wide expanse of lawn, looking a
dejected enough specimen of his race, when the visitor saw him from his
bedroom window, and was struck by his great beauty. When Gubbins left
with his new owner he accepted the experiences of the journey by road
and rail with the dejected submission that only gradually gave place to
a real joy in living as he began to forget what harsh words and blows,
and the chilling guardianship of kindly but unloving owners, were like.
For the first weeks he was regarded as my visitor’s property, and for
a few nights he slept in her room. But in spite of this, and of the
constant presence of my own dogs with me, he attached himself to me
from the first. He spent long hours curled up behind my study chair,
or, if he could gain entrance to my bedroom, he would lie contentedly
under the bed. I took very little notice of him, as I did not wish to
become fond of him, and was only anxious that he should find a good
home before my visitor left me. But very soon Gubbins would follow the
other dogs when they rushed up or downstairs in front of me, and he and
the Basset being of unusual length of body and shortness of limb, my
friend always used to call the procession, “dog by the yard.” Gubbins
was so quiet and harmless that the others from the first seemed to
accept him as not worth disputing with. When I was busy in my study I
soon got into the habit of putting down my hand to pat the little hairy
ball that was sure to be within reach, for the garden gambols of the
other dogs had as yet no attraction for him. Then one night he got into
my room, and was so reluctant to be taken off to his usual quarters
that he was allowed to stay, and from that time to almost the end of
his long life he never slept away from me when I was at home.
By the time my friend’s visit came to an end I had begun to wonder
if I could ever give him up. As no suitable home offered, and the
weeks passed, Gubbins carried the citadel by assault by reason of an
illness he had at the very time I had a friend seriously ill in the
house. Between my duties in the sick-room I made hurried visits to
the suffering dog, who spent his time by the now deserted chair in my
study. He would eat nothing but what I gave him, and by his touching
trust in, and affection, for me he fairly won my heart.
It was not long after this that Gubbins had his first and only taste of
show life. I had been asked to support a dog show in the neighbourhood,
and consequently entered him and another of my dogs, Gubbins at that
time being about three years old. On the morning of the show, he was
taken and delivered over to the authorities, as I was not able to go
myself till later in the day. When I entered the show ground I made
my way at once to the place where the Skyes were benched, but could
see nothing of my dog. The attendants could give me no tidings of
him, and it was a kindly stranger who, overhearing my inquiries, at
last told me he had seen a Skye in the pet dog section of the show,
and he added, “the sooner he was taken away he thought the better.” I
hastened to act on the suggestion, and to my great annoyance found my
poor Gubbins, looking the picture of misery, benched in a place only
large enough for a dog half his length and size. He was, indeed, so
stiff and cramped when I took him out that he could hardly stand. The
man in charge of the benches was quite deaf to my assertion that it
was cruelty to put a dog in a place so obviously unfit for him, and in
spite of the absurd mistake that had been made he tried to refuse to
allow me to move him. To this, not unnaturally, I paid no heed, but
taking Gubbins with me I told the man I would see the secretary about
the matter. When I found this functionary, a much harassed individual,
who seemed far from being at home at his duties, I was told curtly
that he supposed the mistake was mine in entering the dog for a wrong
class! In any case it was against the rules of the show for a dog to be
taken from the benches until the judging was over. Nevertheless Gubbins
did not return to his martyrdom, and it took him many days to recover
from the effects of the combined foolish treatment, and the terror he
had suffered at finding himself among strangers. I decided that any
honours he might win would be dearly bought, as it was clear his early
experiences had made him unfit for show life, and I always refused to
let him try his fortune again.
My other dogs were sent to new homes when I gave up my house, but
Gubbins became a great traveller, and accompanied me everywhere in the
wanderings of the next few years. At first he was quiet as a mouse
when taken by carriage or train, and I had no anxiety as to his ever
wandering from me, even in the most crowded thoroughfares. But as
his nature recovered its tone, and a bright, joyous, and independent
outlook on life became habitual to him, he grew wilful and over
confident that my protection was sufficient to rescue him from any
trouble. Yet he was three months in my house before he lost the habit
of keeping himself hidden from view, and was, as I have said, always
concealed behind or under some article of furniture. The slightest
accidental touch of a foot, even the gentlest, was enough to make him
flee in terror, and for hours afterwards he would not come out from his
shelter, or respond to any caresses. Almost to the end of his life,
until sight and hearing were impaired, he always rushed into the most
secluded corner he could find whenever strangers came into the room,
and no blandishments would draw him out while they remained.
I thought at first that his spirit had been so utterly broken that
he would never recover, but would always need the care lavished on a
semi-invalid. But gradually and surely he began to show the natural
fearlessness of his disposition and the bright playfulness that
afterwards distinguished him. Little by little he gained courage, and
secured his place as first favourite in the house. I do not think,
however, that he was ever quite happy while the other dogs remained,
though he thoroughly enjoyed his daily scamper with them.
After his first illness he would never feed in the outhouse where the
dogs’ dinner was made ready for them. Daily complaints came to me that
Gubbins would not touch his food, and though if I went out and petted
and encouraged him he would begin to eat heartily, the instant I turned
away he stopped, and no one could induce him to take another mouthful.
I said sternly that he must be left till natural hunger forced him to
give up the fancy, and it was only when I found how thin and weak he
was getting that one day I ordered his previously rejected food to be
brought into the dining room. The bowl was put down on a newspaper,
spread out for a tablecloth. Gubbins watched the proceedings with
interest, and then with much tail wagging, fell on the food with a will
and quickly disposed of it. Never after this did he attempt to go near
the other dogs when they were feeding, but at breakfast time curled
himself up near the spot where his bowl had been placed, and waited
till it was brought to him. That I do not shine as a disciplinarian
with my pets must, I fear, after this be conceded, for there are
drawbacks to feeding a long-haired dog on your dining-room carpet. It
only needed a day or two to show Gubbins that manners in the house were
not quite on a level with those of the dogs’ feeding-place. As soon as
the last mouthful of food was disposed of, a kennel duster was brought
into play to remove the remains of the meal from the long hair about
the mouth and at the tips of the beautiful ears. After the first time
or two he showed his appreciation of the new régime by standing quietly
with his head over the dish where he had just finished eating, and if
he was not attended to immediately he would look round to see the cause
of the delay.
His enormously thick coat required the most careful daily grooming,
and the time spent on this was not an unmixed pleasure to Gubbins. For
some time he submitted quietly, as he did to everything else that was
asked of him, but by the time he had won his place in the dining room,
and the kitchen regions had become unknown ground to him, he sometimes
showed resentment at the treatment his tangled locks entailed on him.
The first serious difference of opinion I had with him came over his
refusing a piece of toast he had asked for at breakfast. As he had
asked for it, he must be made to eat it. But each time the usually
coveted dainty was put before him his tongue came out, and with a
contemptuous flick sent it rolling over the floor. He was told it must
be eaten, and a mutinous determination not to obey was shown in the
pose of his head, for one can hardly speak of expression where the
face, even to the eyes, was entirely covered with thick, falling hair.
But the whole contour of his form expressed a great refusal, and it was
felt that a lesson of obedience must be given.
When the meal came to an end the toast was again offered and rejected,
and before I left the room Gubbins was fastened to the leg of the
table, and I told him the toast must be eaten before he would be
released. While the maid was clearing away the breakfast things Gubbins
lay perfectly quiet, but as soon as he found himself shut in alone he
began to call and struggle. I went in more than once to see if the
dispute was at an end, but no, there lay the rejected morsel, and
Gubbins would have none of it. When the hour arrived for the daily
walk great sounds of unrest came from the room, and once more looking
in I found, to my astonishment, the dog had actually succeeded in
dragging the fairly large dining table quite out of its place, in the
direction of the door. A chorus of angry barks showed his displeasure,
but there still lay the uneaten toast. At this moment, while the door
was standing open, the other dogs came into the hall on their way out.
“Is Gubbins to come with us?” asked their guardian. “No,” I answered.
“If he will not eat the toast he must be left at home.”
Behind the bundle of hair I could just see two bright eyes fixed on my
face. The front door opened, and the other dogs rushed out. Gubbins
sat up, listening intently, and when he found the others were actually
going without him he looked round for the object of contention, flung
himself upon it, swallowed it, and then rushed barking to the end of
his tether, demanding to be set free. Needless to say this was done,
but the excited, quivering dog turned for one second to give my hand a
dainty, propitiatory lick before he rushed off wildly in pursuit of the
others.
The lesson was remembered, but all through life, from this
point, a wilful determination to have his own way was one of his
characteristics. This I attribute to the reaction from the harsh
treatment of his early days, and though it is probable that with
firmer discipline it might have been overcome, I found it impossible
to resort to harsh measures when he was only just coming out from the
shell of nervous dread that had seemed to wrap him round from all the
enjoyments of life. I fear I hailed the first exhibitions of will as
an indication of his recovery to a normal state. A sharp word from me,
if given at a sufficiently early stage, would always restrain him, but
to others he was not so obedient, and I fear soon learned to trade on
the fact that under no circumstances would he be beaten. A flick of a
handkerchief he took with stoicism from others, but from my hands it
had all the effect of a stronger punishment. He would crawl away, and
lie, a picture of dejection, for an hour or more. He was left to feel
himself in disgrace, until he would presently come creeping to my feet
for the pat of forgiveness that restored him to life and animation.
His devotion to me never wavered, and after each of his severe
illnesses I thought I saw a closer attachment show itself in many ways.
What, perhaps, was the greatest proof of his unwavering loyalty was
that during the last six months of his life, when he was sixteen years
of age, nearly blind and partially deaf, and in a state that required
him to be carried up and downstairs, and otherwise attended to, I was
not able to have him in my room at night, and his care passed greatly
into the hands of others. To his guardians he was very affectionate,
and especially to the friend who watched over him with the most devoted
care, and to whom Gubbins looked for the greatest enjoyment of his
life--his daily walk. But there could be no doubt in the mind of any
one who was with him, that no one was likely to displace his mistress
from the warmest corner of his heart.
He always showed the nicest appreciation of the capacity and duties of
those who took care of him. When he was already so feeble that he was
generally carried from one room to another, I was astounded to find
he realised that I was not strong enough to do this. His knowledge
was all the more extraordinary because when in stronger health, I had
been in the habit of lifting and carrying him on occasions. But one
night when the maid who always carried him into the dining room, and
for whom he waited as a matter of course if she was not there when I
went to dinner, was absent, Gubbins came out of his basket as soon as I
moved and crawled into the other room after me. The following night his
attendant was at home, so Gubbins stayed quietly in his basket as usual
till she came to fetch him. Often afterwards the same thing happened,
and during the whole of the time after his powers had failed he never
once appealed to me to lift him. He would make the most determined
efforts to mount the garden steps if I was with him, though he never
attempted to do so if he was with any one else, but would lie down and
wait to be fetched if he was not lifted at once.
At one time when I had him in lodgings, the maid who attended on him
was with me, and always carried him up and down the two flights of
stairs that led to my bedroom. When the maid was going home for a
month’s holiday I wondered what I should do with him. I did not think
he could get up by himself, and did not want to call a strange maid
to my assistance. At bed-time I went to the stairs as if I expected
him to follow me, and the little thing worked his way up with a
sideways motion after me, stopping on the landing for a rest, and then
finishing the journey. In the morning he followed me down, though this
was really a dangerous proceeding, and I had to prevent his taking a
roll to the bottom by holding him up with his lead fastened to his
collar. This performance was repeated as a matter of course every night
and morning for the month, and when the maid returned I told her that
Gubbins had learned to go upstairs by himself, and that while he could
do so I preferred him not to be carried. When she came to fetch him,
therefore, for the night, she told him to follow her, and he went out
of the room after her obediently. At the foot of the stairs, however,
he laid down, and turning a deaf ear to her calls he quietly waited for
her to come back and pick him up.
That under any circumstances Gubbins could refuse his walk I did not
believe, till one day I found him lying on the front doorstep, and
refusing to move at the entreaties of his prospective companion, the
reason being that he had discovered I was about to leave the house.
This was when he had been with me about a year, for up to that period
he had shown himself equally willing to go out with me or any other of
his friends. After this he would never go until he was sure that I was
not going out, and many a time he insisted on being let into my study
to see if I was there, before he would leave the house. If nothing in
my dress suggested a walk he would go off and immediately give himself
up to the joys of the coming expedition. When at one time I used to
go out in the early morning before breakfast, at a certain stage in
my dressing operations Gubbins would always come up to investigate
what boots and skirt I had on. If his sensitive little nose told him
those were in use that he connected with a walk, he began to bark and
jump round me, as if wild with joy, for he knew that he would go too.
But if he recognised the skirt in which I usually cycled he crept away
dejectedly, for on these occasions I always left him at home. Although
his speed would have enabled him to keep up easily with the bicycle, I
have always thought it mistaken kindness to allow a dog to go at the
stretch of his powers while he keeps in touch with carriage or bicycle,
as the prolonged tension is likely to injure the natural action of
heart and lungs.
One day, when there was illness in the house, the volley of barks and
wild gambols with which Gubbins showed his joy at an approaching walk
could not be allowed. I felt a little doubtful if the exuberance of
his joy could be kept within due limits, and in any case I knew I was
the only person likely to be able to restrain him. When the moment
arrived for putting this to the test I knelt down by him, and turning
his little head up I put my finger on my lips and in a low, hushed
voice told him he must be quiet. He saw I was dressed for walking and
knew what was in store. He was, however, evidently impressed, and
opening the room door quickly I cautioned him again, and to my great
relief only one little half strangled bark escaped before we were
safely outside the hall door. Yet he tore down the stairs in his usual
headlong manner when excited, and was quivering with eagerness for the
coming joy.
After this I was always able to make him go out quietly by the same
means, and in a house where he stayed with me for some weeks he
learned that under no circumstances was barking allowed indoors. He
consequently won golden opinions from the old lady whose feelings he
thus spared. But that he felt the long restraint irksome, he would show
by a petulant twist of his head from under my hand, when I made one
of my many appeals to him to remember the caution. His self control
happily lasted to the end of the visit, though I never felt inclined to
put it to the same test again.
It was one of the most interesting studies I have ever had, to watch
the gradual unfolding of Gubbins’s mind as he threw off the terrors of
the past. His strong affection was, as I have said, the first point
that showed itself. Then his intelligent appreciation of the ways of
the household, and his own place in it, was little by little made
plain, and with it came the manifest determination to stand on his
rights. It was not, however, till he had been with me for some four
years that he began the system of signs and sounds that stood to him in
the place of language.
There were certain biscuits kept for Gubbins as a treat when he had
behaved with decorum in the dining room, where he used to lie in a
corner during meals. These biscuits were known in the household as
“Peter Burrs,” owing to the correction given me in the matter of
pronunciation by a worthy country grocer, when I stated my wish for
“Petits Beurres.” The tin containing these dainties was generally
taken from the sideboard by one of ourselves, just before we left the
table. Gubbins was always all attention, and at the movement to fetch
the tin, he would come out of his corner and bark rapturously. But one
day a friend brought me the wrong tin by mistake, and Gubbins, who had
been all eagerness as usual to watch for its advent, sat down quietly
and did not attempt to come up for the usual offering. It was this
conduct that led me to notice the mistake that had been made, for the
tins were almost alike in size, though different in colour. The dog’s
appreciation of the mistake before we had recognised it, caused such
amusement that while this friend was staying with me she often tested
Gubbins’s discernment by bringing out the wrong tin purposely. Never
was he deceived, though one day he rushed up and barked once before he
noticed the tin, but as soon as he saw it he sat down and waited for
the mistake to be rectified.
It was when he stole to my side during luncheon, and made his presence
known by a delicious little low sound of entreaty, that his language
sounds began. I was so delighted with the effort that I took to making
him say it before he had one of his much loved biscuits given to him.
“Ask, Gubbins,” he was told, and the little entreating sound came as
a preliminary to business. Very soon he learned to use the signal to
draw attention to any want, such as the need for water, or the opening
of a door. Whenever his water dish was empty Gubbins would first call
attention to the fact by lying full length in front of it, with his
head touching the dish. If this did not succeed he would look round
to see why he was not being attended to, and if I was--or pretended
to be--wholly immersed at my writing table he would cry quietly to
himself,--a little complaining noise that could not be overlooked in
its gentle persistence. Once or twice I tested him further to see what
would happen, and when Gubbins found that my denseness was not to be
pierced by any ordinary means he came up to me and, resting his head
against me, “asked.” Then he walked back to his water dish and lay down
as before. That here there was a very intelligent adaptation of means
to end is evident.
The daily bone thrown to Gubbins was of course a great delight, and
once I tried the same experiment that Mr. Herbert Spencer made with
his Skye, and with the same result. A string was fastened to the bone
and Gubbins had his usual play with it, a necessary part of which
was for him to stand growling over it and dare any of his friends to
take it from him. This nearly always brought some one on to the lawn
to play the part of robber. It was enough for one of his friends to
advance gently towards him saying, “Is that for me, Gubbins?” for the
little thing to seize it in his mouth and run to a distant part of the
lawn, where the performance was repeated. If his friends did not go on
playing the game I have known Gubbins to leave his bone and come to ask
them to see it out, and only when his spirits had exhausted themselves
would he settle down to the enjoyment of the dainty, secure in the
knowledge that no one would be allowed to interfere with business.
But to return to the experiment. Gubbins was just settling down to the
serious part of the performance when I pulled the string and drew the
bone gently away. Gubbins gave a startled look at it as it receded
slowly, then as it lay still he approached with every sign of caution
and stretched out one fat paw. Still there was no movement, and relief
and confidence were now expressed in his bearing. Then I jerked the
bone to some distance. Gubbins fairly turned tail and fled to me for
protection. The sense of the unknown, conditions of which he had no
previous experience, terrified him, as did the growling of thunder or
the presence of strangers in his own home.
In matters where Gubbins was on known ground his courage was beyond
dispute and often brought him into peril. No dog was too large or
too strong to call forth hostile demonstrations, if he happened to
excite his ire. I well remember the horror with which, on hearing the
well-known rush and growl that signalised Gubbins’s dislike of another
dog, I turned to see the ridiculous little creature hanging on to the
nose of a huge St. Bernard. With one angry toss of his mighty head the
larger dog could have broken the spine of his tormentor. Happily the
monster seemed too astonished at the onslaught of the hairy mass to do
anything beyond give a very gentle swaying motion of the head, which
swung Gubbins’s long body from side to side; for even hanging as the
latter was at full length, his hind limbs were well off the ground,
and he must have made one of his marvellous springs to fasten on the
head as he did. Presently his teeth loosened and he dropped from his
perilous perch, and he certainly owed his life to the remarkable
gentleness of his victim.
Before Gubbins had walked off his excess of spirits in exercise he
often gave these mad rushes, sometimes, I grieve to say, at humans. Any
unsavoury specimen of the genus tramp always roused his mischief, and
so, alas! did any gentle, fragile looking old lady or gentleman who
could be depended on to receive his onslaught with a sufficient display
of terror to make it worth while. Many were the scrapes from which he
was not always rescued with the honours of war, and countless were the
apologies made on his behalf. But after his maddest exploit the absurd
little bundle of hair would come meekly to my feet, and generally by
his very appearance disarm the sufferers. At such a moment caresses
from the stranger’s hand were suffered with deceptive meekness, and
were evidently taken as the necessary consequence of the previous
joy. That the loud bark which would have fitted a dog ten times his
size, and the sudden rush at the heels of a passing stranger, were
sufficiently alarming, is clear, and a leather lead was soon fastened
promptly to his collar whenever a human approached who long experience
had taught me was one likely to be singled out by Gubbins as a vent for
his excitement. His teeth never came into play, and this showed it was
simply the fun of the thing that appealed to him, and not the hostile
feeling that often prompted his attacks on fellow dogs.
Gubbins was the most humanly intelligent of all the dogs I have ever
owned, and so far as his powers of mind went they appealed perfectly
to the same level of expression of our own. While his trust and love
were unwavering, his sympathy with anything in the shape of suffering
or sorrow was undoubted. He would never leave me of his own free will,
if he knew I was in trouble, though it could only have been by the tone
of my voice that he discovered there was anything amiss. In the case
of physical illness it was the same, and he would lie for hours on the
foot of my bed, to which on these occasions he always “asked” to be
permitted to jump.
The highest exercise of intelligence he ever showed was prompted by
his love, and the amount of reasoning power that led to the successful
carrying out of his stratagem shows what a narrow boundary there is
between the highest efforts of the animal mind and those where human
intelligence begins. I was suffering at the time from malaria, a
legacy from a fairly long sojourn in India, and it was decreed by the
friend who had taken charge of my sick-room that Gubbins was not to be
allowed to disturb me. This lady, who was herself one of Gubbins’s most
faithful friends, and was regarded by him with the warmest affection,
told him after breakfast that he was not to come to me. That he fully
understood what she said he showed by the dejected way in which he
turned from her and crawled into his basket. The dining-room door was
then shut on him, the back stairs were cut off by two heavy doors,
and the passage from the top of the front stairs led past my friend’s
bedroom before my own could be reached. From her bedroom, where the
visitor sat writing with her door open, she could hear if any of the
household should go into the dining room and set Gubbins at liberty.
Besides, the flop, flop with which he always jumped from step to step
of the stairs was clearly audible over all that part of the house, and
this gave her confidence that he could not, in any case, get up without
her hearing him.
But the dining-room door had not been fastened securely, and though it
was a heavy oak door Gubbins managed to work it open. He then crept
upstairs without a sound, and therefore in a very different way to that
in which he usually mounted, stole past the open bedroom door, without
betraying his presence, and putting his head close to the crack of my
door gave one of his tiniest “asks.” So low was it that the watcher in
the adjoining room heard nothing. At first I did not realise what had
happened, and thought the voice reached me from a distance. But when a
repetition came, the peculiar guarded sound of the faint call struck
me, and at the third time I knew that by some means Gubbins had found
his way to me. Entering into the spirit of the enterprise I opened the
door softly and let him in. Without any of the usual manifestations of
joy with which he was wont to greet me, he slipped past, and without
waiting for the permission he always asked he sprang on the bed and
curled himself round with a sigh of content. Then the drowsiness of
fever overcame me, and I dozed for some hours, Gubbins also sleeping
peacefully at my feet.
When at last my friend appeared, her relief at the sight of the hairy
bundle on the bed was great. She told me that a search had been made
for him all over the place, both indoors and out, as soon as it was
discovered that he had escaped from the dining room. My room had not
been thought of, as she felt certain he could not have come upstairs
without being heard by her.
The amount of thought and caution exercised by the dog in carrying
out his plan was remarkable. After making use of the great muscular
strength of his sturdy forepaws in getting open the door of his prison,
he had to get upstairs in a way that would not betray his presence.
How he managed this we could not understand at the time, but years
afterwards I saw him, when still weak from a severe illness, crawl
up with a sideways, crab-like motion that explained what he had done
to attain his ends in the heyday of his youth and strength. Placing
his forepaws on the step above him he hitched his hind quarters up
sideways, as his length could only thus be supported on the step, the
depth of the stairs not being more than half his length. In this way
there was no noise, but he still had to pass the watcher’s open door
and convey the fact of his presence to me without letting her know.
This accomplished successfully, he did not forget the need for caution
when he had made good his entrance, but with a silent caress to my
feet, and much wagging of the tail he left his usual mode of welcome
severely alone, and, secure of my understanding and abetting, even took
possession of one of his most prized rewards, only rarely accorded, by
jumping on to the bed without the preliminaries of permission asked and
granted that were always insisted on.
Here he showed a clear appreciation of the difficulties of carrying out
his plan, and who shall say what was passing in his brain as he stole
softly upstairs, passed his friend’s open door without disclosing his
presence, and then, with all the precautions a human could have used,
succeeded in communicating with me? Not less remarkably did he show his
appreciation of the dangers so far conquered, when he exercised needful
self-restraint in the expression of his greeting, and sank down at last
with a sigh of content as he realised that all was well.
We are told by an eminent writer on the psychology of animals that the
feeling of shame stands very high in the development of the emotional
powers. In Gubbins its manifestation was very apparent. A flick of
the handkerchief or a sharp word from me changed his whole aspect in
a second, unless, indeed, the excitement of some forbidden pleasure
had taken him in too firm a grip, and the enterprise on which he had
started had to be carried out at all costs. But once the excitement
passed, shame for his misdeed followed, and was shown in the same way
a child will do in the same circumstances, up to the verge of speech.
On one occasion, when I was from home all day, the maid in whose charge
he had been left neglected to attend to him. The shame-faced little dog
that met me on my return, and who put his head in my hand and cried
softly, told me that some trouble had happened for which he was not to
blame. In the same way when he was suffering from illness that caused
occasional attacks of sickness, if by chance he was shut in a room when
misfortune overtook him, although he knew he would not be punished
for what was not his fault, he could not have shown more shame at the
occurrence if he had dreaded chastisement.
Gubbins was a little gentleman in all his ways and feelings, his one
lapse from propriety of manners being the rushes by which he helped
to work off the excitement of his walks. He could always be depended
on to preserve a neutral attitude towards any stranger staying in the
house, if I performed a sort of introduction by putting my hand on my
visitor’s arm and telling Gubbins that he or she was my friend. The
same course had to be adopted with a new maid, and if a fearless pat
was then given him by the new-comer, I knew that as long as that person
was in the house there would be no trouble. But if, on the other hand,
the slightest fear of him was shown, it behoved me to be careful, for
if that maid came in his way when he was under the influence of any
excitement such as that of his daily walk, there would be the same
attempts to upset her equanimity by which he distinguished himself out
of doors. No use of the teeth, but just the communication of his own
excitement to one who his instincts told him could be relied on to
respond. To secure the clatter of a fallen tray, or the headlong rush
of a frightened maid downstairs, while he stood growling and barking at
the top, as if ready to tear her in pieces, gave him, I grieve to say,
under such circumstances, the liveliest enjoyment. But when he was
shut up to reflect on his misdemeanours, by whatever process these were
brought home to him, an unmistakable feeling of shame was displayed as
soon as he had recovered his normal state.
The abject depression with which he crept from view one very wet
autumn, the first time his long coat was clipped about his legs and
the under part of the body, took a long time to recover from. For days
a remark on his appearance, or a laugh at his expense by any visitor,
would cover him again with shame. His self-respect had been wounded,
and the same feeling was shown when he was taken out for a walk the
first time after a severe illness. The poor weak dog could only totter
along for a very short distance. But on the way he met another dog, and
as soon as Gubbins saw him approaching, the change in his demeanour was
instantaneous. With head and tail erect, and a general air of alertness
and strength, he passed his rival, walking on the tips of his toes, as
he was wont to do in better times. A few steps carried him triumphantly
past, and then, the excitement over, the poor little invalid collapsed
as suddenly as he had pulled himself together, and rolled over helpless
in the dust. Could any animal without a sense of the ego, the personal
I, show such a keen sense of the respect due to himself?
A quite marvellous knowledge of time was shown by my favourite. I am
not speaking of the hours of feeding, for such knowledge is doubtless
due to the promptings of the natural appetite. But how for some months
he always knew when the clock pointed to half-past nine I have never
been able to ascertain. A lady who was living with me as my secretary
at the time was a warm friend of Gubbins, and was accepted by him as
such. This lady was not in good health, and used to retire to bed
before the rest of the party. In about a week Gubbins constituted
himself the guardian of her health in this respect. If she did not
move promptly at the half hour he roused himself, came out of his
basket, and, sitting at her feet, barked until she got up and said
good-night. The performance was so much appreciated that after this
Gubbins’s reminder was waited for, and though there was no clock within
hearing that struck the half hour, nor so far as we knew any sound that
could tell the time, Gubbins was never more than a few minutes either
before or after. He would go and sit close at the lady’s feet, lift
his head and fix his brown eyes on her face, and bark his signal for
her to go. There seemed no reason for him to wish her to leave, as no
sooner had she gone from the room, than he went back to his basket and
curled himself up to wait for the dispersal of the other members of the
family. With no one else did he ever do anything of the same kind.
At one time when I was living in the country, the same inscrutable
knowledge of the hour of seven in the evening was shown by him. Once or
twice he was taken for a run across the valley below the house to the
post, just before the dinner hour at seven-thirty. After that he was
always on the look out at seven o’clock, and as soon as he associated
the little expedition with one member of the household, he found him
out and kept close to him as soon as the hour arrived. Once, when the
dinner hour had been advanced, the letters were taken earlier, and
Gubbins had not come in from his rambles in the garden and could not
be found. He was watching, however, when the messenger returned, and
showed that he understood what had happened by taking up his position
in good time the following day on a point in the drive where the two
ways from the house met, and without passing which no one could leave
the place. Often after this he would sit there watching, instead of
coming into the house, as he clearly understood that from that spot he
had a full command of the situation.
As the gradual unfolding of Gubbins’s mind had been an unfailing source
of interest, so was the preservation of his natural characteristics
when his powers began to fail. He enjoyed his life almost to the
end, and through the last long day of suffering found comfort in the
care and affection that were lavished on him. Although for some time
his eyesight had almost gone and his hearing was impaired, and other
disabilities of old age were upon him, he still went nearly mad with
joy at the prospect of a walk, still took a certain modified, though
always mischievous, pleasure in making others share his excitement, and
made his sense of smell serve for the loss of his other faculties in a
quite marvellous way. He always recognised his old friends, and it was
a characteristic of his throughout life that he never forgot a single
person whom he had once accepted as a friend. It might be months or
even years before he saw them again, but he never failed to recognise
them.
Various were the names bestowed on him by his many friends at different
times. From the absurd “Mr. Gubbins,” he was called by the still more
unsuitable title of “Scrub.” This led to a mild joke of a friend
of mine, who always inquired after him by the formula, “And how is
Ammonia?” A very dear old lady, the mother of the friend through whom
Gubbins came to me, spoke of him as “The caterpillar,” moved thereto by
the sight of the long dark form that used to steal across her drawing
room to find a hidden corner, when he was staying with me in her house.
In the inner circle of his home he became “The Hairy Angel” or “The
Fascinating Fiend,” according to the nature of his disposition at the
moment.
But these names belong to the time of his youth and strength; his
beauty he kept to a surprising degree up to the very day of his death.
It was touching to see him in his later years, and especially during
the last six months when he was all but blind, finding his way about
the house by the help of his nose. I have often watched him come into
my study when he was looking for me. The room is a double one, and he
used to feel for the side of the arch that forms the division, then
feel about for the couch that stands on one side of the inner room.
From there he touched my bureau, and thence worked about till he found
my chair, which was often at some little distance. No sooner did his
nose touch the chair than he hurried to the front of it to see if I
was sitting there, and feeling the full helplessness of continuing his
search if I was not in my usual place, he would curl himself up beside
it and cry quietly. I have watched him do this while I stood by the
bookshelves in the back room, though I had to be careful he did not
find me out, as he came in by the door in that room.
To the last the watchful little head would come up in his basket, and
a warning growl give notice of the presence of a stranger, and in his
feeble way he guarded his beloved mistress to the end. When the little
life went out from the suffering body it left a blank that for those
who loved him best can never be filled, but--
“When at last my long day’s work is done,
Shall I not find him waiting as of yore,
Eager, expectant, glad, to meet me at the door?”
THE DIPLOMATIST
“_Ung Roy, ung Loy, ung Chien_”
Bruce, a beautiful black and tan collie, had the appearance of a
gentleman and the finished manners of one accustomed to the usages
of society. In the days of his prime he won many honours in the show
ring, though his points were not those required by modern fashion. His
head was too broad for present-day judges, but this gave space for the
brains that made Bruce the most charming of companions. He was light
in build, strong, and full of grace and activity, and his beauty he
retained almost to the end of his life. His colour, as I have said, was
black and tan, the latter a bright golden hue, that was very striking.
His eyes were clear and brown, and wonderfully expressive, and over
each was a bright tan spot. His ears were half prick, the points of
which almost met over his forehead, when he stood to attention. His
ruff was magnificent, and had it had the ring of white decreed by
fashion Bruce would have carried all before him on the show bench. As
it was, the only touch of white about his coat was at the tip of his
grand brush, for to speak of it as a tail seems almost an indignity.
[Illustration: THE DIPLOMATIST
BRUCE]
But it was the high-bred finish of his manners that won Bruce his many
friends. In his home circle he was always gentle and affectionate,
though he had the finest grades of distinction in his regard. Any
member of the family had a general place in his affections, but that
underneath this was a subtle difference in his feelings was shown by
his behaviour towards them. To the servants of the house he was always
polite, and to the older ones who were admitted to the confidence and
respect of their employers, he was even affectionate. But he never
gave them the outbursts of unrestrained affection that in moments of
excitement he would shower on his special friends in the family circle.
Being a great favourite with the servants, he was always something of a
tyrant with them, and clearly thought that one of their chief duties in
life was to wait on him.
His politeness to visitors was invariable. If he saw strangers coming
to the house he would accompany them to the drawing room, and as soon
as they were seated would gravely offer a beautiful silky paw. In the
same way he would be ready, when they took their leave, to escort them
to the front gate, and there once again offer a paw in farewell. This
was always a very taking performance of his, and if the departing
visitor, after duly accepting the offered salute, said to him, “That is
a very cold good-bye, Bruce,” he would instantly offer the other paw in
token of good-will. The strangest thing about his attention to visitors
was that no one had instructed him, and it was not till Bruce’s
hand-shaking was talked of as quite a feature of a call at the house
that his master taught him to offer the right paw in salutation. This
he learnt as quickly as any other lesson, and with its accomplishment
the last touch of polish had been given to Bruce’s society manners.
Bruce came from a large kennel when he was two years old. His pedigree
and former history were unknown, and Bruce started in life with only
his good looks, his intelligence, and his perfect manners to depend
on. When he came to his new home he responded instantly to individual
affection and attention, and showed a very strong sense of his personal
rights. His master at that time owned another collie, also a house dog,
who answered to the name of Lassie. From the day of Bruce’s advent the
two dogs took it in turns to pass the night in their master’s bedroom.
Bruce always respected the arrangement, and on the nights when it was
not his turn to have the place of honour he would curl himself up
contentedly on the mat put ready for him in the hall; but Lassie would
often try to steal a march on him. She would lay her plans in advance,
and creep upstairs before her master retired, and trust to possession
to bring her through. As soon as Bruce discovered her tactics he would
rush up after her, and do his best to pull her downstairs. Ejected with
ignominy from the bedroom, Lassie would still make a fight for it, and
entrenching herself on the landing do her best to stand her ground.
The commotion of course attracted their master, who would take Lassie
by the collar and lead her in disgrace down to her allotted sleeping
place in the hall. Bruce would sit smiling at the top of the stairs and
watch her down, wagging his tail and giving every sign of complacent
satisfaction at having won the day.
It was in his dealings with humans that Bruce showed his talent in
diplomacy. He often paid visits with his master, and never failed to
bestow the cream of his attention on the most important person present.
He singled out his host or hostess and made good his place with them
before he took the slightest heed of any one else. His greatest triumph
was during a visit to his master’s grandmother. For some reason his
owner felt obliged to take him, though the old lady was by no means
an indiscriminate dog-lover, and was wont to declare that she “liked
dogs in their proper place.” Many were the talks held in the family
before Bruce’s departure as to what his reception was likely to be.
Did he understand and take his measures accordingly? The result seemed
to justify the supposition. In any case, on arriving at the house he
settled the matter once for all. Without a word being said to him he
went straight to his hostess’s room, and arriving there before his
master he sat down in front of the old lady, and, with a grace that
instantly won her heart, offered first one silky paw and then the other
for her acceptance. By the time his owner arrived Bruce was reaping the
first fruits of his diplomacy in the petting and admiration of his new
friend. Bruce’s “proper place” after that was any spot he chose in the
house, and he was given a warm invitation to repeat his visit when he
left.
While he was still new to the show bench he exercised his tact, by
getting a man he knew to stay by him, as presumably he felt lonely
among so many strange faces. The man was the village schoolmaster
near Bruce’s home, and so far had always been treated with polite
indifference by him. As the schoolmaster was making a round of the
benches he felt a touch on his arm, and there was Bruce with a most
amiable expression of countenance holding out a paw to him. The man
responded to the advances made to him, and Bruce, all anxiety to
please, managed to make him stay by him till one of his own family
arrived. The reason of his amiability was then apparent, for Bruce
promptly relapsed into his former indifference, and his visitor was
allowed to depart without any further notice being taken of him.
When Bruce was more used to the show bench he manifested the most
lively appreciation of having been singled out for honours. If no card
fell to him he curled himself up on his bench, put his brush over his
head, and slept quietly till all was over. But when he had secured a
card his demeanour was very different. He sat up with an alert and
self-satisfied air, and though as a rule he did not make advances to
strangers outside his home, he now seemed possessed with a universal
benevolence. He always attracted attention, and to all who admired him
he instantly offered to shake a paw in the most affable manner. He used
indeed to hold a levée, and thoroughly enjoyed the unwonted importance
of his position. So long as he was in the show grounds his general
friendliness lasted, but once outside his show manner was dropped and
he became chary of notice by strangers.
He never, however, resented advances being made to him unless he was
startled. Being nervous and high strung, any sudden rough movement he
disliked, and under such circumstances would give a snap to mark his
displeasure. He never used his teeth, for he was by no means uncertain
in his temper. To other dogs he was usually gentle, but a collie he
would always go for. Many were the scrapes he got into in consequence,
and when his master had cured him of the trick of making the attack, he
would invariably pass a collie with such wanton provocation written in
his bearing that the other dog, stirred out of his self-control, always
made for him.
Bruce’s enjoyment of practical jokes was great. When a walk was in
prospect, his delight was to rush into the hall, and, snatching his
collar and lead from their place on the hat-stand, hastily throw them
into hiding. A glance at Bruce’s smiling face was enough to tell his
master what had happened. Intense enjoyment was displayed by the
watching dog, while a search for the missing collar was made. But
Bruce’s paws were long, and the place he had selected was not always
easy to find. Then his anxiety for the coming joy of the walk would
carry all before it, and moving suddenly to the place of concealment he
would seize the collar and fling it at his master’s feet. The superior
and slightly supercilious way in which he brought to light the hidden
thing said as plainly as any speech, “If you are so stupid that you
cannot find it, I suppose I must help you.” In the summer he would
sometimes change his tactics, and taking the collar and lead in his
mouth, would jump a fence or hedge, and lie just out of reach on the
other side. If the moment for a joke was not well chosen, and there
seemed any danger of his being left behind to enjoy it by himself, he
was speedily at his companion’s feet, asking, with an eloquence none
the less to be understood because it was mute, to be forgiven and taken
out.
His greatest joy was to have stick or umbrella confided to his care
during the walk. Solemnly, and with a great show of appreciating the
duties of his position, Bruce would walk decorously by the side of the
owner of his trophy. But not for long. There would be a sudden flash,
and Bruce would disappear over some obstacle where he could not be
followed, and after a race round the orchard or field into which he
had hurled himself, he would reappear with nothing in his mouth. With
expectancy written all over him he waited for the order to “Go, seek.”
Obediently he flew the hedge and proceeded to hunt for the missing
stick. But the result was always the same. He could not find it. Again
and again the same process would be gone through, and no one could
look more guileless than Bruce when he returned to tell of his want of
success. Sometimes the only way to stop the game was to walk on and
leave him to himself, on which he would go directly to the spot where
the stick was lying hidden, take it up, and go on decorously as before,
carrying it in his mouth.
Bruce acted as if the secrets of the family circle were an open book
to him, or at any rate those that concerned himself. As he and Lassie,
whatever their private differences, would always unite against a
common foe, their master found his walks disturbed by the frequent
altercations that arose in the course of them. He announced, therefore,
that for the future he would only take out one at a time, and as he
was going that day to a town about a mile off, he gave orders that
Bruce was to be shut up before he started. Bruce at the time was lying
quietly on the hearthrug, and in a short time he got up and went to the
door, and was let out into the garden. His master thought no more about
him, and later in the day started for his walk, taking Lassie with him.
When he had almost reached the town he was struck by the resemblance to
Bruce of a dog sitting in the middle of a patch of grass, where three
roads met. His own way lay past the spot, and he soon found that Bruce
was waiting there for him too far from the house to be taken back, and
thus securing his walk. One of his exploits seems almost beyond the
realm of the possible, but I can vouch for the truth of the facts as I
give them. His master was in the habit of going away on business, and
leaving his home on one day, he nearly always returned on the next. On
one occasion, however, he said that he should return the same night,
and in order to do this he would come by another railway line and
reach a station he very rarely used, at 10.30. Bruce as usual was with
him when he talked of his plans. That evening when Bruce was let out
for his evening run he disappeared, to the consternation of the other
members of his family. He was searched for in all directions, but no
tidings could be heard of him, and great was the rejoicing when at
eleven o’clock he returned. The household had been waiting up for the
master, but he did not arrive. The next day he came back by the way he
had intended to come the previous day, and he had no sooner alighted
from the train than one of the porters who knew him came up and said,
“Your dog was here looking for you last night, sir. He saw the train
in and seemed to expect you, and when he found you were not here he
went off. He would not let any of us touch him.” On arriving at home
his master heard of Bruce’s absence the night before, and the chain of
evidence seemed complete. Not so the explanation. Bruce’s presence at
the station was vouched for by a perfectly disinterested person, who
could not have known any of the circumstances attending his master’s
journey. The dog’s absence from home at the time was undoubted, so
also was his presence when his master stated his plans, but how it was
that Bruce was ready to welcome the expected traveller at the station
I cannot pretend to explain. It is quite one of the most inexplicable
efforts of a dog’s intelligence that I have ever met with.
Though for fifteen years Bruce lived with his family, his life was not
without vicissitudes. After a time his master took up an appointment in
India, and Bruce had to be left behind. He passed into the care of his
master’s brother and sister, with whom he was already on affectionate
terms. In his new home, however, he did not have the first place, as
a very remarkable spaniel was already in possession. Bruce, with his
usual ready tact, though with chastened feelings, took the second
place. The cook in his new home was an old servant, whom he had known
in his first days of acquaintance with the family. She had indeed
passed through various stages in the household, and from nursery maid
in “the old house” had risen to be cook to the “young master and
mistress.” For Bruce, Harriet had simply a passion. He could never do
wrong for her, and in return she was decidedly tyrannised over by him.
But in Nottingham, where Bruce’s lot was now cast, the townspeople
appreciate a good dog. So one day Bruce disappeared, and all inquiries
about him were unavailing. His guardians gave him up, but Harriet never
lost hope and always declared that he would come home. Every night this
devoted woman sat up till the small hours of the morning, watching and
listening, and with a saucepan of hot soup ready for the wanderer. On
the third or fourth night, she heard a feeble call at the front door,
and rushing up she found Bruce, with a fragment of dirty rope round
his neck. The dog seemed at almost the last stage of exhaustion, and
staggering in he was taken to the kitchen fire, and without moving
from his place he lapped up a little warm soup, and slept the sleep of
exhaustion for twenty-four hours.
Why he should have been so worn out was never explained, as from
“information received” it turned out that he had spent his time in a
street of small houses not a mile away from his home. His experiences,
whatever they may have been, were never forgotten by him, and from
that time he showed a disposition to bite every ill-dressed man who
approached him.
After five years’ absence Bruce’s master returned, and Bruce on hearing
his voice looked at him attentively and then gave him the modified form
of affectionate greeting that showed he recognised him as one of the
family. The dog seemed puzzled, and the dim memories that stirred in
the back of his mind led him to follow his old master to his bedroom at
night. There he lay down quietly, and it was not till his master was
in bed that the far-off echoes of past days became clear, and with a
cry Bruce suddenly hurled himself on the bed and covered his astonished
owner with caresses.
When the time came for another long parting Bruce took the matter
of his future guardianship into his own hands by attaching himself
so lovingly to his master’s father that his decision was accepted
without demur. Alas, Bruce never saw his master again, for old age and
infirmities were upon him, and before another return from India the old
dog had passed away.
It was characteristic of Bruce’s sense of the fitness of things that
when he was too old to run with the carriage he still kept up the
fiction of doing so. He would not give in to the disabilities entailed
by his failing strength. He always greeted the arrival of the carriage
at the front door with his old joyous excitement. When it started he
rushed off bounding and barking as he had always done, but at a certain
point in the road, not far from the end of the carriage drive, Bruce
was seen to slip quietly through the hedge and disappear. When this
point was reached on the return drive, out came Bruce, and trotted
quietly home as if he had run with the carriage all the way.
Bruce’s constant habit during this last period of his life was to
accompany his guardian, who was a clergyman, to the door of the church
where the latter went for a daily morning service. When he came out,
Bruce was waiting for him and trotted home in his company to breakfast.
At last one morning Bruce was so weak and feeble that his guardian put
him by his study fire before he left the house, and told the dog to
wait there for him. Did Bruce feel the end was coming? Who can say,
but in all his weakness he managed to crawl to his usual place by
the church door, and was ready with a feeble welcome when his friend
appeared. Carried back to the study fire, Bruce did not move again,
but in the course of a few hours gave up his life. We may hope that no
regrets for the absent master clouded the last moments of his waning
powers.
THE PROFESSOR
_In Memoriam_
Lugete o pueri et genus togatum
Et quaecumque canes amant puellae,
Ille emortuus est canis fidelis,
Huius deliciae scholae decusque,
Qui vix inferior domus magistro
Formabat pueros sagax Agelli.
Ast omnes studio pari ciebat
Praesens Marlburios favente cauda,
Qui propellere vel manu volantem
Vel saevis pedibus pilam studebant,
Exemplo aut tacito coarguebat
Si quem dedecuit piger veternus
Nam raptas modo quattuor superbus
Mala continuit pilas minore,
Elatrans modo equum procax anhelum
Morsu callidiore persecutus.
At liberrimus usque sic vagari
Per campum solitus viasque nostras,
Indignans Anatis tulisse vincla
Innexo laqueo miser peremptus
Aeterno dominum obruit dolore.[1]
M.
Bandy, the friend and hero of three generations of Marlborough boys,
was of the spirit of the age in which he lived. With a decorous respect
for the sober business of the classrooms, it was in the playing fields
that his prowess was displayed. Cricket was for him the absorbing
interest from the early days of his puppyhood to the closing hours of
his life. Football and hockey had a lesser place in his affections,
and the Racquet Court came in occasionally for patronage. Of the
School Rifle Corps he was an enthusiastic and exemplary member, and
even illness would not keep him from his place in the corps, when the
delights of a Field Day were in prospect.
In private life Bandy was a Dandie Dinmont, who came into the
possession of the master of Littlefield, one of the Marlborough
boarding houses, when he was only a few weeks old. As there were some
fifty boys at Littlefield, and no other dog was kept in the house,
Bandy was from the first thrown greatly into the society of humans,
and throughout his life he always showed a preference for their
companionship to that of those of his own kind.
Bandy made his first acquaintance with cricket in the summer term that
followed his arrival at the school. His master, who used to coach at
the cricket nets in the school playing field, was in the habit of
taking the puppy with him and tying him up in full view of all that
was going on. With growing interest Bandy watched the proceedings,
and so well did he respond to his early training that the love of the
game developed into a passion with him when he had come to years of
discretion. He grew to be one of the most enthusiastic and untiring
of fieldsmen, and for a long succession of summer terms he was seldom
absent, morning or afternoon, from the Littlefield practice net. He
generally stood in the long field, and would work himself to a state of
complete exhaustion in retrieving the balls.
[Illustration: THE PROFESSOR
BANDY]
In this, his chosen work, Bandy showed a nice discrimination. He only
worked for his own house. Balls hit from other nets might fly past him,
or even roll to his feet, but of these he took no heed. His fielding
was for those of his own house party, though he recognised the claims
of the school nets reserved for the XI and XXII, and professional
bowlers, and showed his recognition in a manner all his own. He himself
was always up to time, and if his house contingent were late he would
enter a protest against their slackness by taking his services for
that hour to the aristocrats of the cricket field. Yet here the nets
had drawbacks from Bandy’s point of view. Being longer and higher than
the ordinary house nets, the ball was seldom hit outside them, and in
consequence there was but little fielding to be done. But Bandy made
the best of things. Taking no notice for the time being of his usual
allies, he would stand behind the wicket of his chosen comrades, and
leap at the balls, not yet past the bat, or as they struck the net.
He would even venture inside and stand near in on the off, with eyes
fixed, as a fieldsman’s should be, not on the bowler but on the bat.
This habit nearly brought Bandy’s career to an untimely end. The
captain of the XI drove a ball low down on the off right, that came
straight at him. Bandy watched its course without flinching, and met
it full on his head. As he rolled over, the game was forgotten, and
the players rushed to his assistance. As his master was coming on to
the field he met the poor little sufferer being carried tenderly home.
He was apparently dying. In a few hours, however, he rallied a little,
and during the night so far recovered consciousness as to take some
nourishment from the hands of a devoted nurse. He was still alive when
his master went into school at 10 o’clock on the following morning, but
it seemed scarcely possible that he could recover. Soon after twelve,
when his owner went into the cricket field, an excited boy rushed up
to him with the question, “Have you heard about Bandy, sir?” As there
seemed only one possible reason for such a query, the master responded
sadly with the one word, “Dead?” “Not a bit of it,” was the astounding
answer, “he’s fielding inside the net.”
After this, life without a ball for Bandy was incomplete. Though a
cricket ball was his first love, it was not by any means the only one.
Any ball not in play he regarded as fair game. In the cricket season,
as he sometimes strolled with seeming innocence about the field, he
would search the pockets of any coat that had been thrown on the ground
in the hope of finding the thing he loved so well. Or from the Fives or
Racquet Court, he would carry off any spare balls he might come across,
and stoutly maintain his right to them. His master was not infrequently
met with a request from one of the suffering owners, “Please, sir,
would you speak to Bandy? He has bagged my Fives balls.”
Sunday, a day that never appealed to Bandy, was that in which he often
turned his attention to possible balls. In the summer he would spend
hours quartering the fringe of long grass that surrounds the cricket
grounds in which balls were often lost. If Bandy came across an old
one, a useless “pudding,” he would proceed to gnaw it to pieces then
and there, but if he found a new one he would straightway carry it to
his master’s study, which he always regarded as his treasure-house.
That in the opinion of his Marlborough friends Bandy was “more than
brute, if less than man,” the following school story will show. In this
case, I fear, I cannot go quite so far as those who knew him better and
whose faith in his powers was boundless. While Bandy was an interested
spectator of a cricket match he would gradually get nearer and nearer
to the scoring board, with the object, as his friends declared, of
seeing how they had acquitted themselves. If when the numbers went up
they showed that a boy had made a good innings, Bandy would sometimes
walk down the steps from the pavilion to meet him, and accompany him
back with applauding barks.
No wonder that with such belief in his powers Bandy was honoured by his
friends in a way surely no little dog has ever been before. The Latin
verse at the beginning of this chapter speaks for itself, it--and the
translation--was written by Mr. F. B. Malin. From the pen of another
friend, Mr. F. Bain, come the delightful lines:
IN MEMORY OF THE VALIANT LITTLE DOG, BANDY
Alas! and art thou really dead,
Quaint, semi-human quadruped?
And dost thou sit on Pluto’s coast,
A pallid little bandy ghost;
Gone, little friend, away from us,
Compatriot now of Cerberus,
And shall we never see thee more
Barking about the Rifle Corps?
And wilt thou never now explain
Thy base attack on Mr. Swain?
Shall the old nag now munch his meals,
Nor feel thee biting at his heels?
At football shalt thou ne’er be found,
Snuffing at every inch of ground
Along those touch-lines, where we know
Thou found’st a mouse long years ago?
Never in court shall we now pass
Thy sturdy figure on the grass,
Fives balls protruding from its jaws,
And racquet balls between its paws.
Never again shall we now meet
Thee, Bandy, trotting down the street;
See thee turn over on thy back,
And, deep down in thy throat, alack!
Behold, defended by thy grin,
Our cricket ball, thou dog of sin!
Who can forget the solemn way
Thou mapped’st out thy every day?
Thy daily round, thy common task,
Furnished far more than most dogs ask.
The cricket net, the football match,
The racquet court, those hours thou’dst snatch,
When masters are in cap and gown,
To do thy duty by the town.
Yet was there one day, Bandy, one day,
When life was dull, and that was Sunday.
No interest, poor dog, for thee,
Had sermons or Divinity:
Thou’dst no delight in Scripture facts,
No joy in Gospels or in Acts:
Thou setted’st small store by such things,
As Apostolic journeyings.
Ah! Bandy, if the Apostle Paul
Had only been a cricket ball!
Queer little dog, I see thee yet,
Panting behind the cricket net:
Thy every fibre quivering
To touch that flying leathery thing,
That sometimes lives, sometimes is dead,
So wonderful and round and red!
Those wistful little yellow eyes
Glaring at balls that round them rise:
Those bandy legs, those big, broad paws,
Those smiling, comprehensive jaws:
That lolling, red, protruding tongue,
That plaintive yelp to heaven up-flung,
Attesting plain as human speech
How fain thou art the ball to reach.
Mid languid forms that lounge and sprawl,
And hardly deign to stop the ball,
A pattern fieldsman--sight to stir
The heart of every cricketer.
And down among the ghosts, who knows,
May flit dim forms of ghostly Pros;
(For such as throw on grass may well
Be doomed to bowl on Asphodel,
With Rhadamanthus standing there,
To see that every ball is fair.)
While ghosts of gentler birth strike at
A ghostly ball with ghostly bat.
If so, a little ghost has set
Himself behind that ghostly net,
And leaps into the air to clutch
The thing he loved on earth so much.
F. BAIN.
Some of the allusions in the above will unfold their meaning in the
later events of Bandy’s life. A more charming appreciation of a dog’s
life has, I think, never been written, for Matthew Arnold’s lines on
Geist’s Grave are conceived in a different vein.
On one occasion it seemed that Bandy must be absent from one of
his beloved cricket matches. He was in hospital, suffering from
what the veterinary surgeon said was eczema,--in an ordinary dog
it might perhaps have been called mange--but in any case Bandy was
_hors de combat_ and in confinement. But Bandy throughout life had a
well-grounded opinion that “stone walls do not a prison make,” and his
master’s astonishment was great to see a dilapidated little figure
strolling presently over the field to his accustomed place. His owner
called out to the medical attendant to know what Bandy’s presence
meant, and, to add to the quaintness of the incident, the reply came
promptly in all good faith, “I don’t know, sir. _I_ never told him
there was a match on.”
When health and strength were his, Bandy showed himself a rigid
disciplinarian. While a cricket match was in progress there were
various minor games going on in different parts of the field. Bandy’s
attention was of course given exclusively to the major court, until
a criminal proceeding on the part of a fox-terrier attracted him.
A big hit from one of the lesser players carried the ball near the
terrier, and before the out-field could get up the dog seized the ball
between his teeth and bolted with it. None of the spectators within
reach stopped him, but Bandy, who had seen the theft from his proud
position on the eleven bank, dashed to the rescue. With a growl of
mingled astonishment and indignation he flew after the culprit, whom he
soon reached and pinned by the throat. He then stood sentry over the
disgorged ball till the fieldsman came up and recovered it. Then Bandy,
still bristling with disgust, slowly returned to his master’s side.
Football and hockey matches Bandy seemed to attend more from a sense
of duty, than from any interest he felt in the play itself. He did
not watch the game but, satisfied that by his presence he had shown
a becoming respect for the occasion, he turned his attention to
more interesting matters. He generally spent the time in patrolling
touch-lines cut in the turf, for here he had once found and killed a
mouse. Though the joy never came to him again in the same way, he lived
in hope of further discoveries.