matched, possibly explained, by a similar occurrence. I had bought a
Spanish poodle pup of an Irishman who assured me, "Indade, sir, an' the
dog knows all my childer do, only he can't talk." He shut doors, opened
those with thumb-latches, and rushed upstairs and waked his mistress at
words of command. One day we were starting to drive to our former home
in the city, six miles distant, but the dog was refused his usual place
in the carriage, and shut up in the house. When we arrived, to our
astonishment we found him waiting for us on the doorstep! We could not
conceive how he got there, but upon inquiry found that he had got out,
gone to the station, in some way entered the train, hid under a seat,
and on arrival in the city threaded his way a mile through the streets,
and was found quietly awaiting our arrival.
R. P. S.
[_May 3, 1884._]
How do we know that in inviting dogs to the use of words Sir John
Lubbock is _developing_ their intelligence? Are we sure that he is not
asking them to descend to a lower level than their own, in teaching them
to communicate with us through our proper forms of speech, unnecessary
to them? I can vouch for the truth of the following story. A young
keeper, living about twelve miles east of Winchester, on leaving his
situation gave away a fox-terrier, which had been his constant companion
for some months; he then took another place in the north of Hampshire,
near the borders of Berkshire, in a part of the country to which he had
never been. The new owner of the dog took her with him to a village in
Sussex; before she had been there long she disappeared, and after a
short time found her old master in the woods at his new home. As I have
said before, he had never been there before, neither had she. Rather
ungratefully, he again gave the dog away, this time to a man living some
way north of Berkshire; she came back to him in a few days, and, I am
happy to say, is now to be allowed to stay with the master of her
choice. Can such a nature need to be taught our clumsy language.
A. H. WILLIAMS.
[_Feb. 16, 1895._]
As I see that you have published some interesting anecdotes about dogs,
I send you the two following, which perhaps you may think worth
inserting.
In 1873 we came to live in England, after a residence upon the
Continent, bringing with us a Swiss terrier of doubtful breed but of
marked sagacity, called Tan. One day, shortly after reaching the new
home from Switzerland, the dog was lost under the following
circumstances:--We had driven to a station eight miles off--East
Harling--to meet a friend. As the friend got out of the railway carriage
the dog got in without being noticed and the train proceeded on its way.
At the next station--Eccles Road--the dog's barking attracted the
attention of the station-master, who opened the carriage door, and the
dog jumped out. The station-master and the dog were perfect strangers.
He and a porter tried to lock up the dog, but he flew viciously at any
one who attempted to touch him, although he was not above accepting
food. For the next three days his behaviour was decidedly methodical;
starting from the station in the morning, he came back dejected and
tired at night. At last, on the evening of the third day, he reached
home, some nine miles away, along roads which he had not before
travelled, a sorry object and decidedly the worse for wear; after some
food he slept for twenty-four hours straight off.
Anecdote number two. One day a handsome black, smooth-haired retriever
puppy was given to us, whom we named Neptune. The terrier Tan greatly
resented having this new companion thrust upon him, and became very
jealous of him. Being small, he was unable to tackle so large a dog, but
sagacity accomplished what strength could not. Tan disappeared for two
days. One evening, hearing a tremendous commotion in the yard, we
rushed out to find a huge dog of the St. Bernard species inflicting a
severe castigation upon poor Nep, Tan meanwhile looking on, complacently
wagging his tail. Both Tan and his companion then disappeared for two
more days, after which Tan reappeared alone, apparently in an equable
frame of mind, and satisfied that he had had his revenge. We never
discovered where the large dog came from. I can attest the truth of the
two stories.
CECIL DOWNTON.
RAILWAY DOGS.
[_July 10, 1887._]
Your dog-loving readers may be interested to hear that there is (or was
till lately) in South Africa a rival to the well-known Travelling Jack,
of Brighton line fame, after whom, indeed, he has been nicknamed by his
acquaintance.
I was introduced to him eighteen months ago, on board the _Norham
Castle_, on a voyage from Cape Town to England--a voyage which this
distinguished Colonial traveller was making much against his will. He
was a black-and-tan terrier with a white chest, whose intellect had
therefore probably been improved by a dash of mongrelism, and I was told
that he belonged to a gentleman connected with the railway department
living at Port Elizabeth. It appears that it was Mr. Jack's habit
frequently to embark all by himself on board the mail steamer leaving
that place on Saturday afternoon, and make the trip round the coast to
Cape Town, arriving there on Monday morning. Where he "put up" I do not
know, but he used to stay there until Wednesday evening, when he would
calmly walk into the station, take his place in the train, and return to
Port Elizabeth in that way, thus completing his "circular tour" by a
railway journey of about eight hundred miles.
He was well known by the officers and sailors of the _Norham_, and her
commander, Captain Alexander Winchester (who can vouch for these facts),
told me that, as the dog seemed fond of the sea, he had determined to
give him a long voyage for a change, and had kept him shut up on board
during the ship's stay at Cape Town.
Jack was evidently very uneasy at being taken on beyond his usual port,
and he was on the point of slipping into a boat for the shore at
Madeira, probably with a view of returning to the Cape by the next
steamer, when I called the captain's attention to him, and he was
promptly shut up again. I said good-bye to him at Plymouth, and hope he
found his way home safely on the return voyage.
EX-COLONIST.
[_June 23, 1894._]
I have read with much interest the stories in the _Spectator_ of the
sagacity of animals. The following, I think, is worth recording:--The
chief-engineer of the Midland and South-Western Junction Railway, Mr. J.
R. Shopland, C.E., has a spaniel that frequently accompanies him or his
sons to their office. On Saturday last this dog went to Marlborough from
Swindon by train with one of Mr. Shopland's clerks, and walked with him
to Savernake Forest. Suddenly the dog was missing. The creature had gone
back to the station at Marlborough and taken a seat in a second-class
compartment. The dog defied the efforts of the railway officials to
dislodge him. When the train reached Swindon he came out of the carriage
and walked quietly to his master's residence.
SAMUEL SNELL.
[_March 30, 1895._]
I was witness the other day of what I had only heard of before--a dog
travelling by rail on his own account. I got into the train at Uxbridge
Road, and, the compartment being vacant, took up the seat which I now
prefer--the corner seat at the entrance with the back to the engine.
Presently a whole crowd of ladies got in, and with them a dog, which I
supposed to belong to them. All the ladies except one got out at Addison
Road, and then the dog slunk across the carriage to just under my seat.
I asked my remaining fellow-passenger whether the dog was hers; she said
"No." No one got in before she herself got out at South Kensington,
where the dog remained perfectly quiet, but at Sloane Square a man was
let in, and out rushed the dog, the door actually grazing his sides. Had
he not taken up the precise place he did, he must have been shut in or
crushed. "That dog is a stowaway," I observed to the porter who had
opened the door. "I suppose he is," the man answered. The dog was making
the best of his way to the stairs. Clearly the dog meant to get out at
that particular station (he had had ample opportunity of getting out
both at Addison Road and South Kensington), and had, as soon as he
could, taken up the best position for doing so. How did he recognise the
Sloane Square Station, for he had had only those two opportunities of
glancing out? It seems to me it could only have been by counting the
stations, in which case he must be able to reckon up to five. The dog
was a very ordinary London cur, white and tan, of a greatly mixed Scotch
terrier stock, the long muzzle showing a greyhound cross. He was thin,
and apparently conscious of breaking the law, hiding out of sight, and
slinking along with his tail between his legs, and altogether not worth
stealing. I suppose that he had been transferred to a new home which had
proved uncongenial, and was slipping away, in fear and trembling, to his
old quarters.
J. M. L.
_EMOTION AND SENTIMENT IN DOGS._
A DOG'S REMORSE.
[_Sept. 1, 1883._]
A remarkable instance of the effect that can be produced upon a dog by
the human voice was related to me yesterday. Some of your correspondents
would consider it confirmatory of their notion that dogs have mind
enough to understand words; but I myself rather believe that the sound
of the voice acts upon the _feelings_ of dumb animals just as
instrumental music acts upon us. The story is as follows:--A clergyman
had for a long time a dog, and no other domestic animal. He and his
servant made a great pet of the dog. At last, however, the clergyman
took to keeping a few fowls, and the servant fed them. The dog showed
himself very jealous and out of humour at this, and when Sunday came
round, and he was left alone, he took the opportunity to _kill and bury_
two hens. A claw half-uncovered betrayed what he had done. His master
did not beat him, but took hold of him, and _talked_ to him, most
bitterly, most severely. "You've been guilty of the sin of murder,
sir,--and on the Sabbath day, too; and you, a clergyman's dog, taking a
mean advantage of my absence!" &c. He talked on and on for a long time,
in the same serious and reproachful strain. Early the next morning the
master had to leave home for a day or so; and he did so without speaking
a word of kindness to the dog, because he said he wished him to feel
himself in disgrace. On his return, the first thing he was told was,
"The dog is dead. He never ate nor drank after you had spoken to him; he
just lay and pined away, and he died an hour ago."
L. G. GILLUM.
A CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN DOG.
[_Feb. 1, 1879._]
You have frequently published letters containing stories bearing on the
question of the moral nature and the future of the lower animals. I
venture to send you some facts about a dog, narrated to me by a lady,
whose name and address I enclose for your own satisfaction, and at my
request written down by her as follows--
"A young fox-terrier, about eight months old, took a great fancy to a
small brush, of Indian workmanship, lying on the drawing-room table. It
had been punished more than once for jumping on the table and taking it.
On one occasion, the little dog was left alone in the room accidentally.
On my return, it jumped to greet me as usual, and I said, 'Have you been
a good little dog while you have been left alone?' Immediately it put
its tail between its legs and slunk off into an adjoining room, and
brought back the little brush in its mouth from where it had hidden it.
"I was much struck with what appeared to me a remarkable instance of a
dog possessing a conscience, and a few months afterwards, finding it
again alone in the room, I asked the same question, while patting it. At
once I saw it had been up to some mischief, for with the same look of
shame it walked slowly to one of the windows, where it lay down, with
its nose pointing to a letter bitten and torn into shreds. On a third
occasion, it showed me where it had strewn a number of little tickets
about the floor, for doing which it had been reproved previously. I
cannot account for these facts, except by supposing the dog must have a
conscience."
The conduct of this dog seems to me, sir, to exhibit something different
from fear of punishment, viz., a sense of shame, a remorse, a desire to
confess his fault, and even to expiate it by punishment, in order to
feel the guilt no longer. He rather sought punishment, than feared it.
TH. HILL.
A DOG'S AFFECTION.
[_April 24, 1875._]
I saw an anecdote in your paper the other week illustrative of the
sagacity of a dog. Kindly allow me to place upon record, as a kind of a
companion picture, an anecdote showing the _affection_ of one of the
canine species--a fine young retriever. For some weeks I have been
staying away from my house in the country, where is the fine young
retriever in question. Well, last week the household missed him for
hours, and began to think he was lost. Nothing of the kind, however. The
servant, happening to go up to my bedroom, found him with his head
resting on my pillow, moaning heavily, and it was only with great
difficulty that she could drive him away. Surely it is incidents such as
these that have made so many great men rail against humanity and uphold
their dog!
WILL WILLIAMS.
AFFECTION.
[_Sept. 15, 1894._]
As you sometimes admit anecdotes of animals into the _Spectator_,
perhaps you may consider the following fact worthy of record. In a hotel
where I am staying, being distressed by the cry of anguish of a dog
occasionally, I inquired the cause, and was told that whenever he
happens to be in the hall when luggage is brought down to go in the
omnibus, he utters these bitter cries, and has to be removed. His master
left him here many months ago, and the supposition is that the sight of
the luggage and omnibus recalls his loss; and is another instance of the
faithful affection of these half-human creatures.
J. K.
SYMPATHY IN A DOG.
[_July 30, 1892._]
The article, "Animals in Sickness," in the _Spectator_ of July 23rd, has
reminded me of the following anecdote, which was told to me some years
ago by a butcher residing at Brodick, in the Isle of Arran. He told me
that he had had two collie dogs at the same time, one old and the other
young. The old dog became useless through age, and was drowned in the
sea at Brodick. A few days afterwards, its body was washed ashore, and
it was discovered by the young dog, who was seen immediately to go to
the butcher's shop and take away a piece of meat and lay it at the dead
dog's mouth. The young dog evidently thought that the meat would revive
his old comrade, and thereby showed remarkable sympathy in aid of, to
him, the apparent "weak."
DAVID HANNAY.
A DOG'S HUMANITY.
[_April 18, 1891._]
Possibly it is from an excess of the "maudlin sentimentality" of which
physiologists complain in those who protest against cruelty to animals,
that I find it almost painful to read such pathetic stories of dogs as
the one given by Miss Cobbe in the _Spectator_ of April 11th; for they
tell of such intelligence and devotion, that, remembering the inhuman
way in which our poor dogs are too often treated, we feel it would be
almost better if they lacked these human qualities.
The following is an anecdote of the same kind, that ever since I heard
it, I have been intending to send it to the _Spectator_. The servant-man
of one of my friends took a kitten to a pond with the intention of
drowning it. His master's dog was with him, and when the kitten was
thrown into the water, the dog sprang in and brought it back safely to
land. A second time the man threw it in, and again the dog rescued it;
and when for the third time the man tried to drown it, the dog, as
resolute to save the little helpless life as the man was to destroy it,
swam with it to the other side of the pool, running all the way home
with it, and safely depositing it before the kitchen fire; and "ever
after" they were inseparable, sharing even the same bed!
When not long ago I came across the noble sentiment that "hecatombs of
brutes should be tortured, if man thereby could be saved one pang," I
found myself dimly wondering what constituted a "brute." Certainly, in
the incident I have just given, the "brute" was not the dog!
S. W.
A CANINE MEMBER OF THE S.P.C.A.
[_June 18, 1892._]
If you think this little anecdote of canine friendliness worthy of the
_Spectator_, will you insert it for me? Last week a sick dog took up its
abode in the field behind our house, and after seeing the poor thing
lying there for some time, I took it food and milk-and-water. The next
day it was still there, and when I was going out to feed it, I saw that
a small pug was running about it, so I took a whip out with me to drive
it away. The pug planted itself between me and the sick dog, and barked
at me savagely, but at last I drove it away, and again gave food and
milk-and-water to my _protege_. The little pug watched me for a few
moments, and as soon as he felt quite assured that my intentions towards
the sick dog were friendly, it ran to me wagging its tail, leapt up to
my shoulder, and licked my face and hands, nor would it touch the water
till the invalid had had all it wanted. I suppose that it was satisfied
that its companion was in good hands, for it trotted happily away, and
did not appear upon the scene again.
VIOLET DAVIES.
A DOG'S COURTESY.
[_Nov. 29, 1890._]
In your article on Mr. Nettleship's pictures of animals, you note the
delicacy of a dog that has been properly trained in the matter of taking
its food. My little dog is not only most dainty in that particular, but
strictly observes the courtesy, which is natural, not taught, of not
beginning his dinner (served on white napery that is never soiled) until
his master begins his own. No amount of coaxing on the part of the
ladies (they do not wait) will induce him to eat if I am late: he merely
consents to have his muzzle taken off, inspects his dinner, and then
seeks his master's room, where he waits to accompany him in orderly
fashion downstairs.
C. HARPER.
CANINE JEALOUSY.
[_Dec. 12, 1891._]
I am not versed in dog-lore, and it may be that my love for the animal
makes me an ill judge of the importance of the following story; but a
friend vouches for its truth, and to my mind it has its importance, not
from its display of jealousy, but from the dog's deliberate acceptance
of the undoubtedly changed condition, and the clearly metaphysical
character of his motive.
The story is this. A young man had owned for some years a dog who was
his constant companion. Recently the young man married, and moved with
his bride and his dog into a house on the opposite side of the street
from his father's house, his own former home. The dog was not happy, for
the time and attention which had formerly been his was now given to the
young wife. In many ways he showed his unhappiness and displeasure, in
spite of the fact that the master tried to reconcile him and the bride
to win him. One day when the master came home, his wife sat on his
knee, while Jack was lying by the fire. He rose from his place, came
over to the couple, and expressed his disapproval. "Why, Jack," said the
master, "this is all right, she's a good girl," and as he spoke, he
patted her arm. Jack looked up at him, turned away, and left the room.
In a moment they heard a noise, and going into the hall, they found Jack
dragging his bed downstairs. When he reached the front door, he whined
to be let out, and when the door was opened, he dragged his bed down the
steps, across the street to his old home, where he scratched for
admittance. Since then he has never been back to his master, refusing
all overtures.
CHAS. MORRIS ADDISON.
A JEALOUS DOG.
[_Jan. 12, 1895._]
I was greatly interested in the story of the generosity shown by a dog,
as related in the _Spectator_ of January 5th, because of a similar case
within my own knowledge, and yet so different, as to prove that the
dispositions of animals are as varied as those of human beings. A friend
of mine had two fox-terriers, inseparable companions, and both equally
devoted to their mistress. On one occasion, when the family had been
away from home for some time, and were returning, one of these pets, not
being well, was brought back with its mistress, while the other was left
to follow with the horses, &c., and did not arrive for three days. On
entering the house, the dog had a very sullen appearance, took no notice
of any one, but searched everywhere till he found his companion; then
flew at his throat, and would have killed him but for timely succour!
Could any human being have indulged in a more rankling jealousy?
E. A. K.
A DOG THAT SCORNED TO BE JEALOUS.
[_Jan. 5, 1895._]
The following history of canine sympathy may interest your readers. I
was once the happy owner of a large and beautiful bull-terrier, Rose,
and at the same time of a still dearer, though less beautiful, little
mongrel, Fan, both passionately attached to a member of my household,
commonly called their best friend. A certain shawl belonging to this
adored friend was especially sacred in Fan's eyes. She never allowed any
one to touch it without remonstrance--Rose least of all--and when her
best friend was in bed, it was Fan's custom to ensconce herself in her
arms, and not to allow any dog, and only the most favoured of human
beings, to approach without violent growlings, if not worse. Fan was a
tiny grandmother who had long ruled the household; Rose, an
inexperienced newcomer. One day, in a fit of youthful folly, Rose jumped
over a gate and spiked herself badly, and was consigned for ten days to
the care of the veterinary surgeon. On her return, she was cordially
welcomed by Fan and myself; but when she rushed upstairs to the room of
her best friend (then confined to her bed), my mind forboded mischief.
We followed, and I opened the door. With one bound Rose flew into her
best friend's arms, taking Fan's very own place, and was lost in a
rapture of licking and being caressed. Fan flew after her, but to my
amazement, instead of the fury I expected, it was to join with heart and
tongue in the licking and caressing. She licked Rose as if she had been
a long-lost puppy, instead of an intruder; and then, of her own accord,
turned away, leaving Rose in possession, and took up a distant place on
the foot of the bed, appealing to me with an almost human expression of
mingled feelings--the heroic self-abnegation of new-born sympathy
struggling with natural jealousy. The better feelings triumphed (not, of
course, unsupported by human recognition and applause), till both dogs
fell asleep in their strangely reversed positions. After this, there was
a slight temporary failure in Fan's perhaps overstrained self-conquest;
but on the next day but one she actually, for the first (and last) time
in her life, made Rose welcome to a place beside her on the sacred
shawl; where again they slept side by side like sisters. This, however,
was the last gleam of the special sympathy called forth by Rose's
troubles. From that day Fan decidedly and finally resumed her jealous
occupation and guardianship of all sacred places and things, and
maintained it energetically to her life's end.
C. E. S.
_DOGS AND THE ARTS._
MUSIC AND DOGS.
[_Oct. 24, 1891._]
Dogs, as well as horses, can recognise tunes. Many years ago a friend,
during a short absence from our station on the Kurrumfooler, lent my
sister a pet dog. Cissie was constantly in the room while playing and
singing went on, without taking any notice; but whenever the temporary
mistress began singing one favourite song of the absent mistress's, the
dog would jump on a chair by her side with evident pleasure.
O. H. G.
[_Oct. 24, 1891._]
I have read with much interest your correspondent's letter on the
capability of animals to distinguish tunes. I had a small dog who, when
first I got him, would have howled incessantly during singing. This,
however, he was not allowed to do, except to one tune, which he soon
knew and always joined in, not attempting to "sing" other songs. We
tried every sort of experiment to see if he would recognise his own
tune, which he invariably did, and would whine if the air was hummed
quite quietly.
C. F. HARRISON.
[_Oct. 24, 1891._]