"Albert," a famous Labrador Dog--As a Water-Dog--His
intelligence--Takes to Sheep-stealing--Death!
In a recent number of Land and Water, Mr. Frank Buckland, in
writing about the Ophiophagus elaps, a serpent-eating serpent
lately introduced into the Zoological Gardens, London, with all the
honours due to a visitor so choice and curious in its diet, remarks
that "the saying that 'Dog will not eat dog' is proverbial amongst
us." North of the Tweed, neither in Gaelic nor in guid braid Scotch,
is any such proverb known. The nearest approach to it that we can
think of at this moment [April 1875] is the saying that "Hawks winna
pick oot hawks' een," and this is applied in a sense very different
from that suggested by Mr. Buckland's proverb, if such a proverb
exists. At all events the saying that dog will not eat dog is not
true; dog will eat dog, ravenously and greedily enough, when he is
hungry and gets the chance. Notwithstanding his domestication and
long acquaintance with the usages of civilised life, the dog is,
under certain circumstances, as thorough a cannibal and savage as
ever was Fiji islander in the days when that worthy Polynesian would
give the best finger of his right hand for a prime haunch of full-fed
and fat "missionary." Out of many instances that had come under our
own observation of cannibalism in dogs, take the following, all the
circumstances connected with which, although it is somewhat of an old
story now, are for many reasons as fresh in our recollection as if
they had occurred but yesterday. When we came to Lochaber, upwards
of twenty years ago (Eheu! fugaces labuntur anni), we had a large
Labrador dog, a present, when a three-months-old pup, from one of the
best and kindliest men we have ever known, the late Rev. Dr. Macnair,
of the Abbey Church, Paisley. He grew to be a magnificent animal, the
largest and most powerful dog, perhaps, ever seen in the Highlands, and
as sagacious and good-tempered as he was big and bold and strong. The
late Mr. Campbell of Monzie, an excellent judge of dogs, used to say
that he was the finest dog he ever saw, and made it a point every
year to call once or twice during the shooting season purposely to
have "a friendly talk," as he termed it, with "Albert," for such was
our canny Goliath's name. As a water-dog, he was simply perfect,
as amphibious almost as a seal. Any stone that you took in your
hand and threw into twelve, fifteen, or even twenty feet of water,
he instantly dashed after, and took from the bottom, and laid at your
feet, seldom making a mistake, though how he was able to select from
a stony bottom the very stone that had been handled and thrown in by
you was then, and is still, a puzzle to us: not by scent, one would
think, for all traces of contact with the hand must surely have been
lost in passing through such a depth of salt water. He probably was
able to recognise the proper stone partly from its colour and shape,
and from its being in a less saturated state, and less in contact with
the bottom than were those that always lay there. On one occasion we
had left our boat on the beach, neglecting to tie the painter, as we
intended returning immediately. Something came in the way, however,
that occupied us longer than we expected, and on returning to the
shore, our boat was off and away, drifting before a land breeze that
had already carried it quite a quarter of a mile from the beach. There
was no other boat at hand in which to overtake the runaway, and to
go round by the ferry, to meet it on the opposite side of the loch,
was a longer walk than one cared about just then, and the boat,
besides, was likely to be considerably damaged if it reached the
rocks on the other side, as the chances were it would, before we could
arrive. While thus in a state of anxiety and indecision, our eye fell
upon "Albert," then our constant companion, afloat and ashore. "Albert,
old fellow," we remarked, "the boat, you see, is adrift; what's to
be done?" With a grand, deep bass bark in response, he dashed into
the water, and ere we could well understand it all, he was a hundred
yards away, swimming hastily and rapidly in the direction of the
truant yawl. We could only sit down on a rock to watch and wait the
upshot of the adventure. Soon overtaking the runaway boat, "Albert"
swam once or twice round it, and then observing that the painter was
dragging in the water over the bow, he seized the rope in his mouth,
and strongly and steadily towed the boat towards us, against a stiff
breeze and a considerable ripple of a sea, until he reached the beach,
and dropped the painter on the shingle at our feet, and with a jolly,
self-approving bark, in response to our words of hearty welcome, that
made the mountain echoes ring again, he shook a perfect shower-bath
of brine from his shaggy coat, and scampered away along the sands to
dry himself. He was manifestly proud, as he well ought to be, of an
exploit so timeously and sagaciously performed, and so, be sure, were
we. "Albert's" readiness to take to the water was, on one occasion at
least, attended by rather awkward circumstances. One beautiful summer
afternoon, a young Oxford friend and ourselves were in the same boat,
with "Albert," as usual, for a companion. It was too calm for sailing,
and we were too lazy to row, so we allowed the boat to drift about at
"its own sweet will," while we lounged on the thwarts and read the
papers, of special interest then on account of the Crimean war. We
were half a mile from land, and our friend by-and-by suggested that
a swim in the invitingly cool, clear sea would be a good thing before
returning home to dinner. As he was an excellent swimmer, with whom,
for a small wager, we had the day before done a considerable distance,
we readily agreed. We had long known, however, how difficult it is to
get into a buoyant, floating boat of such a comparatively small size
as ours was, without any purchase to aid but such as is afforded by the
unstable water, and it was arranged that he should have his dip first,
and when he was tired of it, and we had helped him on board, that we
should have a plunge in our turn. "Albert," who had not been consulted
in our arrangement, was stretched the while at length, half or wholly
asleep, along the bottom of the boat. When he had stripped, our young
friend stood up in the bow, with one foot on the foremost thwart and
the other on the gunwale, and with a loud shout took a splendid header
into the cool, green depths, disappearing like an arrow, with a clean,
clear cut, that hardly left a ripple on the surface. "Albert," who
clearly thought it an accident, and that the young man's life was
in danger, with one brave bound, and before we could prevent him,
was instantly over the side, and, diving after the swimmer, met him
as he was returning to the surface, and laid hold of him awkwardly,
though with the best intention, by the fleshy part of the left arm
near the shoulder. When they appeared on the surface, the swimmer,
who had manifestly lost all his self-possession, struggled violently
to free himself from the dog, and would certainly have been drowned by
his own struggles and the very exertions intended by the noble animal
to save his life, if we had not quickly rowed the boat alongside,
and taking our friend very unceremoniously by his "Hyperion curls,"
dragged him on board, panting and sputtering as only the half-drowned
and wholly frightened can pant and sputter in such circumstances. On
examination, his arm was found to be less hurt by the dog's teeth
than we expected it to be; a firm and friendly grip with such kindly
intentions as actuated the honest would-be rescuer being a very
different thing from a bite and worry in good earnest. His back and
shoulders, however, were seriously scratched in livid lash-like weals
by the dog's nails, while they were hugging each other and struggling
in the water. "Albert" was of course very little if at all to blame
in the adventure, and his only punishment--if what indeed was to him
always a delight could be called a punishment--was that, refusing
to take him back into the boat, he was obliged to swim a full half
mile to the beach; which, however, he easily reached before us. Our
friend felt sore and uncomfortable for a day or two, but was soon all
right again; and both he and we had got a lesson which we were not
likely to forget in a hurry, that a powerful dog, no matter how well
meaning and kindly his intentions, is rather a dangerous companion
to a swimmer in puris naturalibus in deep water.
But what has all this, it may be asked, to do with Mr. Frank Buckland
and his proverb that "Dog will not eat dog"? A little patience,
as is your wont, courteous reader, and we shall come to the point
without much more ado. When "Albert" was about four years old,
and as powerful, and perfect, and pleasant a dog as ever growled in
anger or barked with glee, it began to be rumoured abroad that he was
fast falling into bad habits--whether from following evil example, or
instinctively and proprio motû, was never determined. He was accused,
in fact, of sheep-worrying, and of course we couldn't and wouldn't
believe a bit of it. Other dogs might be guilty of such vulgar
misconduct; in the case of our dog the thing was impossible. Wasn't
he regularly and well fed? Didn't he sleep every night at our own
bedroom door? All this, of course, we said, and urged, and argued,
and furthermore we urged a fact which seemed to us to be conclusive of
our dog's innocence of the great misdemeanour laid to his charge--we
had sheep of our own, and there were sheep belonging to others in
our immediate neighbourhood, and with none of these, we pointed out,
had our dog ever been known to make or meddle in any way further than
by an occasional deep bow-wow! which, though it sometimes made them
scamper, was uttered more in rollicking fun and merry make-believe
than in anything like anger or earnest. Precisely so, answered a host
of crook-carrying shepherds from farms five, seven, ten miles away:
"Your dog is too knowing to kill sheep at your own doors; he goes to a
considerable distance on his raids, the better to escape detection,
slipping away at night or early in the morning unknown to you,
and returning as innocent-seeming as the last sheep he has worried,
before you appear in your breakfast parlour!" It was not alleged that
he had ever been caught in the act, or actually seen eating forbidden
mutton or lamb, minus the "mint sauce;" but more than one shepherd
averred that he had more than once been seen wandering at improper
hours on hill-sides, where he had no good right or reason to be,
on which occasions, too, he exhibited the stealthy, prowling pace,
and all the hang-dog looks and other signs of an evil-doer. Half
afraid that it was too true, but irritated by their strenuousness of
assertion, and defiant to the last, "Catch him, then!" we exclaimed,
"shoot him, kill him, if he is harming you; but I am not going to put
away or kill my dog--and such a dog, too! worth the best hirsel in
your charge!--simply to please you." And thus the matter rested for a
time, but not for long. Early one Monday morning, about a fortnight
afterwards, our good neighbour Mr. Linton, of the farm of Coruanan,
seven or eight miles away, drove up to our door in his gig, and asked
to see us. After the usual civilities, "Your big dog is killing my
sheep, Mr. S.!" was the charge, straightforward and unqualified. We
argued, of course, that it couldn't be, &c., as above, but Mr. Linton
soon brought the matter to a very practical issue. "What is the value
of your dog?" We couldn't say; he was very valuable, a great favourite,
and we declined to put a price upon him. "Well," continued Mr. Linton,
"say that he is worth £5, or £10, or £20. I charge him with killing
two of my sheep this very morning. I have my gun here in the gig: let
me shoot him, and if I don't find and show you wool and mutton-flesh
taken from his stomach, I will gladly pay over the dog's price; if I
show you what I am certain I can show, his still undigested morning
meal of mutton-flesh and wool, we are quits. That's surely fair!" And
there was no denying that it was perfectly fair, but we declined,
nevertheless, bringing the matter to the arbitrament suggested. We
parted good friends, however, for we promised that whether he was to
be shot or drowned, or sent out of the country, the dog would never
again be allowed a chance of killing another sheep in Lochaber,
and our friend Mr. Linton is, we are glad to say, still in life to
bear testimony to the fact that we were as good as our word. On due
consideration of the case in all its aspects, we decided that it
was best, in the interest of peace and good neighbourhood, to have
the dog shot forthwith, and shot he was accordingly within an hour
of the interview above described. We directed the executioner of
the sad sentence to open him, that we might examine the contents of
the stomach, and sure enough, intermixed with wool enough to stuff
a small cushion, it was found to contain many pounds of recently
killed and undigested mutton. It was clear that some at least of the
many grave charges against him were true. Anxious to preserve the
skin for stuffing, the eviscerated body was placed in the fork of
an apple tree in the garden, until we could procure the services of
some one expert in flaying to do the job handsomely. Next morning,
on going into the garden to have a look at all that remained of poor
"Albert," what was our astonishment and horror at finding the corpus
vile--vile, indeed, at last!--dragged from the tree to the ground,
and almost entirely devoured by some half-dozen jackal looking curs,
that were having what was manifestly to them a jolly banquet on the
remains of the gallant animal whose single bark when in lusty life
was sufficient to scatter a whole score of such sorry mongrels, as if
each had a firebrand at his tail. Except a few ragged shreds of skin
and the larger bones, they had devoured every particle of him; and
so much for Mr. Frank Buckland and his proverb that "Dog will not eat
dog." Won't he just, when he has the chance! Nor is this by any means
the only instance of canine cannibalism that might be adduced from our
common-place book in disproof of any proverb or saying whatever to the
contrary. Poor "Albert!" we are ashamed to confess how much grieved
we were for his death, his ovicidal tendencies notwithstanding. His
upper jaw, showing a development of dentition of which a Bengal tiger
need not have been ashamed, is the only relic of our gallant dog now
remaining to us; and on the ex pede Herculem principle, we point to
that with a melancholy satisfaction in telling how big and brave,
afloat and ashore, was our matchless Labrador.