cat, with white breast, named Toffy, between whom and Prin there was
peace, though not affection. There was also another black cat, with
white breast, that prowled about, an outlaw cat, who made free with my
chickens when he could! It was a bitter winter, and the snow had lain
already for days on the ground. I was walking one Sunday morning in my
garden, Prin being out with me. He quitted me to go under a laurel-hedge
bounding a shrubbery, and presently began barking loudly. I went towards
him, and saw a white-breasted cat sitting stretched under the laurels,
with front paws doubled under him, which I took to be Toffy asleep. I
scolded Prin for disturbing Toffy, and he stopped barking, but remained
on the spot whilst I continued my walk. Presently--say two or three
minutes after--I heard him barking still more loudly than before, and so
persistently that I returned to the spot. Noticing that the cat had
never moved through all the noise, I crept up under the bushes, and
found that it was not Toffy asleep, but the outlaw cat, dead--evidently
of cold. Thus my poor purblind watch-dog had--(1) barked to draw my
attention to what appeared to him an unusual phenomenon; (2), held his
tongue in deference to my (supposed) superior wisdom, when I told him he
was making a mistake; (3), not being, however, satisfied in his mind,
remained to investigate till he was convinced he had not been mistaken;
(4), called my attention to the facts still more instantly till I was
satisfied of them for myself. Could _homo sapiens_ have done more?
J. M. L.
[_Aug. 12, 1893._]
I am reminded by the anecdote related in the _Spectator_ of July 15th,
"A Canine Guardian," of the sagacity of a favourite Scotch terrier which
was displayed some years ago. I was dressing one morning, and my
bedroom-door was ajar. Standing at my dressing-table, I was surprised to
see Fan come up to me, frisking about, and looking eagerly into my face,
whether from pleasure or not I could not tell. I spoke to and stroked
her, but she was in no way soothed, and she ran out of the room
evidently much excited. In she came again, more earnestly trying to tell
me what she wanted, rushing up to me and again to the door, plainly
begging me to follow her, which I did, into the next room, where
breakfast was laid. I at once saw what she had easily felt was out of
order--the kettle was boiling over, and the water pouring from the spout
had drenched the hearth. Hence her discomfort, and her effort to tell me
of the disaster. Having brought me on the scene, she seemed perfectly
content.
C. A. T.
[_Aug. 12, 1893._]
Not long ago I was passing a barn-yard in this place, and stood to look
over the gate at a pretty half-grown lamb standing alone outside the
barn. But the sight of me so enraged a fierce, shaggy grey dog tied up
to his kennel between the lamb and me, that he barked himself nearly
into fits, showing all his teeth, and straining so furiously at his
chain as to make me quite nervous lest it should give way. In the
meantime, I struck such terror into the heart of the lamb that it fled
across the yard to place itself under the protection of the dog, and
stood close by his side, whilst he barked and danced with fury. As I
drew a little nearer, the lamb backed right into the kennel, and when,
after I had made a circuit in order to watch the further movements of
this strange pair of friends from behind a tree, I saw their two faces
cautiously looking out together, cheek-by-jowl, whilst the dog's anger
was being reduced to subsiding splutters of resentment. He was not a
collie, but a very large sort of poodle.
C. S.
COLLIES AT WORK.
[_March 25, 1893._]
At six o'clock this morning, I saw a mountain-shepherd stand at a gate
on the hill-top. Seven sheep were on the outside of the gate--six of the
shepherd's flock, the other a strayer. The man wanted his own sheep in;
so, before opening the gate, he quietly said: "'Rob,' catch the
strayer." In an instant "Rob" pinned the sheep, holding him, strong and
wild as he was, as though he were in a vice; and then, by another word,
"Gled" was told to bring the others in through the gate now opened for
them. Although "Gled" brought his six wild sheep right over "Rob" and
his strayer, the sheep was held securely till the gate was closed, and
the order given to "let it gang."
WILLIAM FOTHERGILL.
A COLLIE AT WORK.
[_Aug. 11, 1894._]
We stood at the bottom of a deep valley with the hills rising abruptly
on either side, when Robert Scott said: "Yonder is the sheep I led away
from Llangynider, all those weary miles yesterday. I saw it as I came
over the hill-top down to the house this morning. If you wish, "Kate"
shall bring it down to my feet here for you to see it." "What?--bring
that single sheep! How will she know the one you want, and how can she
get it away from the flock by itself? I will not believe that possible
till I see it done, at all events."
He spoke a low word or two to the collie by his side, and away went
"Kate" right up over rock and bracken, till we could see the flock far
away upon the height above give a very rapid turn, and in a few minutes
afterwards, down rushed a strong mountain wether with the wily "Kate"
working to the right and left about thirty yards behind it. "Come away,
back 'ahint me," cried Scott; and "Kate," at once leaving the sheep,
appeared positively to fly far out, and coming round behind us, stopped
the wether in his headlong course, bringing him to a stand literally at
the shepherd's feet. "Robert," I said, "when (as you intend) you sail
next month for New Zealand, you will not take 'Kate' with you, but leave
her here for seven sovereigns." "Nae, nae, sir," was the reply, "seventy
sovereigns would nae buy her."
W. FOTHERGILL.
_MISCELLANEOUS._
A SUNDAY DOG.
[_Feb. 17, 1877._]
A correspondent favoured your readers last week (see page 53) with an
interesting anecdote of a dog's intelligence in reference to the use of
money. Permit me to relate an instance of a dog's intelligence in
reference to the day of the week. Some three-and-twenty years ago, in
the infancy of the Canterbury Province, New Zealand, there lived in the
same neighbourhood as myself two young men, in the rough but independent
mode of life then prevalent in the colony, somewhat oblivious of old
institutions. These men possessed a dog each, affectionate companions of
their solitude. It was the custom of this primitive establishment to
utilise the Sabbath by a ramble, in quest of wild ducks and wild pigs,
about the swamps and creeks of the district. It was observed that long
before any preparations were made for starting, the dogs always seemed
to be more or less excited. This was remarkable enough, but not so much
as what followed. One of these men after a while left his friend, and
taking his dog with him, went to live with a clergyman about four miles
off. Here ducks and pigs had to be given up on Sundays for the
church-service. It was soon noticed that this dog used to vanish betimes
on Sundays, and did not turn up again until late. Upon inquiring, it was
found that the dog had visited its old abode, where on that day of the
week sport was not forbidden. The owner tried the plan of chaining up
the animal on Saturday evenings, but it soon became very cunning, and
would get away whenever it had the chance. On one occasion it was
temporarily fastened to a fence-rail about mid-day on a Saturday. By
repeated jerks it loosened the rail from the mortice-holes, and dragged
it away. Upon search being made, this resolute but unfortunate dog was
found drowned, still fast to the chain and rail, in a stream about two
miles away in the direction of its old haunts. The gentleman who owned
the other dog is in England now, and went over the details of the facts
herein stated with me quite recently.
ALFRED DURELL.
A COW'S JEALOUSY OF A DOG.
[_April 30, 1892._]
As a subscriber to and constant reader of the _Spectator_, I have
derived much pleasure from the anecdotes of animal instinct, sagacity,
and emotion, which from time to time have appeared in your columns.
Perhaps you may like to publish the following instance of jealousy in a
cow; it is, at any rate, a story at first-hand, as I myself was an actor
in the affair.
A few years ago, I had a quiet milch-cow, Rose, who certainly was fond
of Thomas, the man who milked her regularly, and she also showed an
aversion to dogs even greater than is usual in her species. One night,
for what reason I now forget, I had tied up a young collie dog in the
little cowshed where she was accustomed to be milked. The following
morning, I had just begun to dress, when I heard the puppy barking in
the cowshed. "Oh!" thought I, "I forgot to tell Thomas about the puppy,
and now the cow will get in first and gore it." The next minute I heard
a roar of unmistakable fear and anguish--a human roar. I dashed down to
the spot, and at the same moment arrived my son, pitchfork in hand.
There lay Thomas on his face in a dry gutter by the side of the road to
the cowhouse, and the cow butting angrily at him. We drove off the cow,
and poor Thomas scuffled across the road, slipped through a wire fence,
stood up and drew breath. "Why, Thomas," said I, "what's the matter with
Rose?" "Well, sir," said Thomas, "I heard the pup bark and untied him,
and I was just coming out of the cowhouse, with the pup in my arms, when
'Rose' came round the corner. As soon as she see'd the pup in my arms,
she rushed at me without more ado, knocked me down, and would have
killed me if you hadn't come up." Thomas had indeed had a narrow escape;
his trousers were ripped up from end to end, and red marks all along his
legs showed where Rose's horns had grazed along them. "Well," said I,
"you'd better not milk her this morning, since she's in such a fury."
"Oh! I'll milk her right enough, sir, by and by; just give her a little
time to settle down like. It's only jealousy of that 'ere pup, sir. She
couldn't abide seeing me a-fondling of it." "Well, as you like," said I;
"only take care, and mind what you're about." "All right, sir!"
In about twenty minutes, Thomas called me down to see the milk. The cow
had stood quiet enough to be milked. But the milk was deeply tinged with
blood, and in half an hour a copious red precipitate had settled to the
bottom of the pail. Till then I had doubted the jealousy theory. After
that I believed.
C. HUNTER BROWN.
AN AUSTRALIAN DOG-STORY.
[_May 11, 1895._]
Seeing the great interest which many of your readers take in the study
of canine character and intelligence, I think perhaps the following
incident is worth recording. Whilst walking with a lady friend along
Studley Park Road, Kew (a residential suburb of Melbourne), on a very
quiet afternoon some time ago, we were surprised by a large St. Bernard
dog, which came up to us and deliberately pawed my leg several times.
Our perplexity at his extraordinary behaviour was perhaps not unmixed
with a little misgiving, for he was an animal of formidable size and
strength; but as he gave evident signs of satisfaction at our noticing
him, and proceeded to trot on in front--at intervals looking round to
make sure we were following--we became interested. When we had followed
him about forty yards, he stopped before a door in a high garden wall,
and, looking round anxiously to see that we were noticing, reached up
his paw in the direction of the latch. On stretching forth my hand to
unfasten the door, his extreme pleasure was exhibited in a most
unmistakable manner; but when he saw me try in vain to open it, he
became quiet, and looked at me with an expression so manifestly anxious
that I could no more have left the poor animal thus than I could have
left a helpless little child in a similar position. With eager attention
and expectancy he listened while I knocked, and when at last some one
was heard coming down the garden path, he bounded about with every sign
of unlimited joy.
Now here was one of the so-called "brutes," which, failing to get in at
a certain door, cast about for a way out of the difficulty, and seeing
us some distance down the road (we were the only persons in sight at the
time), he had come to us, attracted our attention, taken us to the door,
and told us he wanted it opened. We both agreed that the animal had all
through shown a play of emotion and intelligence comparable to that of
a human being; and, indeed, we felt so much akin to the noble creature
that we have both, since then, been very loath to class dogs as
"inferior animals."
GEORGE EASTGATE.
TWO ANECDOTES OF DOGS.
[_Feb. 2, 1895._]
Having derived much pleasure from reading the frequent natural history
notes which from time to time appear in the _Spectator_, I venture to
send you two instances of what seems to me the working of the canine
mind under quite different circumstances. The first refers to an
incident which happened a great many years ago. It was this. One day,
when a lad, I was walking with my father accompanied by a strong,
smooth-haired retriever called Turk. We were joined by the bailiff of
the farm, and in the course of our walk Turk suddenly discovered the
presence of a rabbit concealed in what in Scotland is called a
"dry-stane dyke." After a little trouble in removing some stones, poor
bunny was caught and slaughtered, being handed to the bailiff, who put
it in his coat pocket. Shortly afterwards we separated, the bailiff
going to his home in one direction, and we to ours in an opposite one.
Before we reached home we noticed that Turk was no longer with us, at
which we were rather surprised, as he was a very faithful follower. Some
time after we got home, perhaps an hour, I chanced to see a strange
object on the public road which puzzled me as to what it was. It raised
a cloud of dust as it came along, which partly obscured the vision. What
was my surprise when I found it was Turk dragging a man's
shooting-jacket, which proved to be the bailiff's, with the rabbit still
in the pocket. We afterwards learnt that the dog, to the surprise of the
bailiff, quietly followed him home, and lay down near him. Presently the
man took off his coat, and laid it on a chair. Instantly Turk pounced
upon it, and dashed to the door with it in his mouth. He was pursued,
but in vain, and succeeded in dragging the coat from the one house to
the other, a distance of one mile and three-fourths. It was evident the
dog had a strong sense of the rights of property. He believed the rabbit
belonged to his master, so he set himself to recover what he thought
stolen goods.
The other anecdote refers to quite a recent date, and the only interest
it has, is that it shows how perfectly a dog can exhibit facial
expression, and also read at a glance the slightest indications of
feeling in the human face. I had a well-broken Irish setter, which was
perfectly free of hare or rabbit as to chasing, but he was a sad rascal
for all that. I also had at the time a rough Scotch terrier, and the two
dogs were great chums. The moment they got the chance they were off
together on a rabbit-hunt. Like idiots, they would spend hours in vainly
trying to dig rabbits out of their burrows. One day as I was returning
home I met the pair in the avenue. They were the very picture of
happiness. At first they did not see me, and came joyously on at a trot.
The instant they observed me they came to a full stop, some forty yards
off. The setter gently wagged his tail, and looked at me with an
expression of anxious inquiry. Taking heart, he slowly advanced to
within about thirty yards, and then came the varying play of feature
which so interested me. He was in great doubt as to whether I had
guessed what tricks he had been up to; but as I made no sign, he was
gradually looking more comfortable and gaining confidence. Suddenly I
noticed a patch of mud above his nose, and I must have unconsciously
shown him I had made a discovery of some kind, for that instant he
turned tail and bolted home at the utmost speed of which he was capable.
Without uttering a single word, or making a single gesture, the dog and
man understood each other perfectly. It was the language of faces.
R. SCOT SKIRVING.
A DOG OBEYING A SUMMONS
[_Jan. 18, 1890._]
The enclosed may interest you. I received it this morning. I have no
doubt Dr. Barford, of Wokingham, would verify it, but I have not the
pleasure of his acquaintance. The following is the story:--
"Dr. Barford's dog at Wokingham was put into a muzzle; he objected to
it, took it off, and hid it somewhere, no one knows where. Policeman saw
him; summoned Dr. B.; case was to come off one Saturday. The children
told dog how wicked _he'd_ been: Dr. B. would have to appear at the
Court, and he too, as it was his doing; he'd lost the muzzle. Case was
postponed (I think policeman witness had influenza). Dr. B. was told of
postponement by letter; forgot to tell children or dog. At Saturday's
Bench, Magistrates much astonished by the dog appearing in Court and
sitting solemnly opposite them."
ALYS M. WOOD.
A PUG'S INTELLIGENCE.
[_Feb. 1, 1890._]
Several newspaper cuttings have been sent to me with the story of my dog
which appeared in the _Spectator_ of January 18th, and one or two of
them suggest a doubt as to the veracity of the story. I write,
therefore, to tell you that it is literally true, only that the
policeman was away for his holiday instead of having influenza, and the
case came off on Tuesday instead of Saturday. My dog is a pug, a very
choice specimen of his kind, and was given to me by the late Dr. Wakley,
editor of the _Lancet_, who was a great connoisseur in dogs. His
intelligence is really marvellous, and he has done many things as
extraordinary as the one related by Miss Wood.
He is devotedly attached to my baby, and always accompanies me in my
morning visit to the nursery. On one occasion the child (who is just as
fond of him as he is of her) was very ill, and for three weeks was
unconscious. As soon as this was the case, the dog ceased to go near
the nursery, as if by instinct he knew he would not be noticed. Mr.
Walters from Reading was attending the baby, and the dog soon got to
know the time he paid his visits. He would watch him upstairs, and when
he came down listen most attentively to his report. At length the child
was pronounced out of danger. The very next morning, up went master Sam,
made his way straight to the child's cot, and stood on his hind legs to
be caressed. Although she had taken no notice of any one for some time,
she seemed to know the dog, and tried to move her hand towards him to be
licked. He quite understood the action, licked the little hand lovingly,
and then trotted contentedly away. After this he went up to see her
regularly, as he had been accustomed to do. He is quite a character in
the town, and nearly every one knows Sammy Weller.
Before I had this dog, I always thought I understood the difference
between reason and instinct, but his intelligence has quite puzzled me.
MARY H. BARFORD.
ARE DOGS "COLOUR-BLIND"?
[_Jan. 12, 1884._]
Your correspondent, "W. H. O'Shea," has found several dogs
"colour-blind," If black is a colour, I can give several instances in
which a black retriever dog of mine was certainly _not_ "colour-blind."
He had the greatest antipathy to sweeps and coalheavers, and would fly
at them if not fastened up or carefully watched. He would even bark at a
passing hearse! In all other respects, he was the best-tempered dog in
the world, and I can only imagine that when very young he must have been
ill-used by either a sweep or a coalheaver.
C. R. T.
LUCKY AND UNLUCKY.
[_April 28, 1877._]
As letters telling of dogs and their doings occasionally appear in the
_Spectator_, perhaps the following rather pathetic anecdote of a dog I
know well may also find a place there. Two or three weeks ago, Lucky--so
called from having, when an outcast, found its present happy
home--perhaps by way of showing its gratitude to its benefactors,
presented them with five small Luckys, or rather, with one exception,
Unluckys, as the melancholy process always resorted to with these
too-blooming families had to be carried out in this instance, and the
five were reduced to one. Poor Lucky was inconsolable, looking
everywhere for them, and looking, too, with such appealing eyes into the
faces of her friends, and asking them so plainly where they were. Near
her kennel was an inclosed piece of ground for pigeons, and as it was
discovered that rats were carrying off the young pigeons, and as Lucky
had carried off one or two rats, it was decided one night to leave the
door of the pigeons' house open, that Lucky might have the run of it;
and the next morning, side by side with the puppy, was found a baby
pigeon, looking quite bright and at home, but hungry, and poor Lucky,
proud of the addition it had made to its family, was looking more
contented than it had done since the loss of its puppies. The pigeon
must have fallen from its nest, some distance from the ground, and
Lucky, while on the look-out for rats, must have found it, and carefully
carried it to her kennel, with the vague feeling, perhaps, that it was
one of her own lost little ones "developing" a little curiously.
Unfortunately the arrangement could not be a permanent one, and the
famished little pigeon was put back into its own nest, to be found again
the next morning in Lucky's bed, but this time dead. The old birds seem
to have deserted it, and it had died of starvation. If Lucky could give
this account herself, it might be much more interesting, for it was
thought not at all improbable that she had actually rescued from a rat
the bird she was so anxious to adopt, as a small wound was found upon
it such as a rat might have made, and as a young pigeon had been taken
the night before from the same nest; but this is only conjecture, and
Lucky only could tell us the facts; how often it would be interesting,
if our humble friends could tell us their adventures! A friend who is
staying with me tells me that a few months ago her dog was lost for a
week, and at the end of that time it came back one night in a scarlet
ruff and spangles, and looking altogether dreadfully dissipated.
Evidently it had been the "performing dog" in some show, "Punch and
Judy" perhaps; being naturally a clever dog, it would quickly have
learnt the part of "Toby" in that delightful and time-honoured
exhibition. If it could only have written also an article entitled "A
Week of My Life," with what pleasure the _Spectator_ would have
published it!
S.
THE COURAGE OF ANIMALS.
[_Feb. 11, 1893._]
In the _Spectator_ of December 31st, which, although a regular
subscriber to your valuable paper, I only happened to see to-day, owing
to absence from home, I notice a reference in the article entitled "The
Courage of Animals," to the fact that the wild dogs of India attack and
destroy tigers. I have no personal knowledge of the matter, but I have
been told by an Indian officer that the _modus operandi_ of the "red
dogs" is as follows:--Having found their tiger they proceed, not to
attack him at once, as might be inferred from your article, but to
starve him until they have materially reduced his strength. Night and
day they form a cordon round the unfortunate beast, and allow him no
chance of obtaining food or rest; every time the tiger essays to break
the circle, this is widened as the pack flies before him, only to be
relentlessly narrowed again when the quarry is exhausted. After a
certain period of this treatment the tiger falls a comparatively easy
prey to his active and persevering enemies. This theory of their plan of
attack, while it may detract somewhat from the wild dogs' reputation for
courage, must add considerably to our estimate of their intelligence.
EDWARD PAUL, Jun.
SOME FACTS OF MATERNAL INSTINCT IN ANIMALS.
[_Oct. 1, 1892._]
I lately met some friends who had with them a little dog, called Vic,
who had adopted the family of a cat in the house, and, while in
possession, would not let the mother come near her kittens. The kittens
were kept in a very tall basket, and Vic would take them in her mouth,
and jump out with them one by one, and then carry them into the garden
and watch over them, carrying them back in the same way after a time; at
other times, lying contentedly with them in the basket. Of course Vic
had to be forcibly removed when the adopted family required their
mother's attention for their sustenance. I also have met a friend who
saw a hen-hawk, who was in a cage, mothering a young starling. Three
young, unfledged starlings were given the hawk to eat. She ate two, and
then broodled the other, and took the utmost care of it. Unhappily, the
young starling died; and from that moment the hawk would touch no food,
but died herself in a few days.