All sincere lovers of the animal creation are pleased to listen to the
recitation of anecdotes illustrating the love and affection of animals
for their lord and master, man. Many of these stories are deeply
interesting, as showing the wondrous intelligence and reasoning powers
so often exhibited; and others are deeply affecting, as proving an
amount of genuine, unasked, unselfish love, that we fear is not always
too abundant amongst educated bipeds. It is not unlikely that numbers
of such acts are never heard of; as many men—well-meaning enough in
other ways—are in the habit of looking on the dog or the cat as a
mere animal and nothing more; and therefore, whatever it might do, or
whatever sagacity it might display, the creature would be treated with
indifference and passed by without notice. Byron, who loved animals as
well as most folks, was quite aware of this, when he wrote, with so
much truth:
But the poor dog—in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend—
Unhonoured falls—unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.
Strongly deprecating this indifference, it has always been the writer’s
delight to record every well-authenticated instance of remarkable
sagacity in animals, in whatever way they have been brought under his
notice. The cases referred to have come under the immediate notice
either of the writer, or of friends on whose word he can rely.
Some years ago, a lady, who was a friend of our family, possessed a
beautiful black-and-tan ‘King Charles’ called Prinney. A most engaging
and affectionate creature, he never showed the smallest symptom of
temper, or anything disagreeable save in one thing, and that was, a
fixed aversion to a particular melody. Music generally, either vocal
or instrumental, he never took the smallest notice of, or exhibited
the slightest dislike to; but if any one played, sang, whistled, or
even hummed the well-known and popular duet from the opera of _Norma_
known by the name of ‘Si, fin’ al ora,’ no matter where he was or what
he was doing, he would start up and commence the most dismal howling,
with his nose elevated in the air. If the music did not cease on this
melancholy and earnest appeal, he would make frantic efforts to get
out of the room, rearing on his hind-legs, scratching violently at the
door, and continuing his howling until some one opened the door and let
him out. We took great pains to investigate this curious antipathy,
but could never arrive at anything like a satisfactory conclusion.
As before stated, the dog never objected to music generally, as many
dogs have been known to do, nor even to single airs closely resembling
the _Norma_ melody; but so soon as we commenced that one—even though
we purposely jumbled it up with some other—he would instantly detect
it, and take his part of the ‘howling obligato’ with an energy and
determination which nothing could stop.
It had been suggested that the dog had on some particular occasion been
severely beaten, or ill-treated, when this melody was either played or
sung, and thus it was painfully impressed on the dog’s mind and memory.
But this could not have been the case, for my friend had received him
as a puppy, and certainly never ill-treated him, or even whipped him.
What, therefore, could have been the peculiar connection in the dog’s
mind between this one particular melody, and some fear of ill-usage or
pain—for nothing but such a recollection could have caused his piteous
howling, which always indicated intense fear or dread—is a mystery,
and one which it seems impossible to solve, or even explain on any
reasonable grounds.
The following anecdote somewhat resembles the last, inasmuch as the
peculiar antipathy shown is also in connection with music, although not
to any particular melody, as in Prinney’s case. A little white terrier
belonging to my grandfather had a peculiar antipathy to the pianoforte,
for as soon as any one began to play, Rose would walk into the middle
of the room, and then, quietly seating herself, facing the instrument,
elevate her nose, and commence a long series of howlings, but without
any display of anger or temper, or any attempt to run away. It might
have been her own original way of expressing applause, or approbation
of pianoforte-playing in general, for it should be specially noted that
no other music, vocal or instrumental, ever affected the dog. Musical
friends, one with his flute, another with his fiddle, often came in,
but Rose never took notice of either of these until the pianoforte
began; then at once began her demonstration. Now, what could have
caused this curious antipathy—if it was an actual antipathy—to the
sound of one particular musical instrument? The dog was born and bred
at a farmhouse in Surrey, and farmhouses in those primitive days never
possessed such an unheard-of luxury as a pianoforte; and therefore,
until she came into my grandfather’s keeping—and she came direct from
Surrey—she could never have heard the sound of such an instrument.
How, then, are we to explain her singular procedure? I fear it is only
another ‘dog mystery,’ and must ever remain so.
A third, and certainly most remarkable, case of musical antipathy is
all the more singular because it was not exhibited towards any special
melody or instrument, but towards one particular person only—a lady.
The dog—a beautiful and very amiable Clumber spaniel—belonged to an
uncle of ours who always brought Wag with him whenever he paid us a
visit, for the dog was a universal favourite; but, unluckily, he had
always to be put out of the room when one of the ladies of our family
was going to sing, because he seemed to have a violent antipathy, not
to music or singing generally, but only to the voice of this lady;
and, what is perhaps still more odd, he always seemed, personally, to
be very fond of her; but the moment she began to sing, he would start
up and commence whining, growling, and at last barking, gradually
increasing in force, until he got to a grand _fortissimo_. He would
run up in front of the lady, and get so angry, that any one would have
supposed he was going to fly at her. But this he never attempted,
and as the Scotch say, ‘His bark was waur than his bite.’ This lady
possessed a brilliant soprano voice; and it has been suggested that
the clear, ringing, penetrating tones must have produced a peculiar
vibration or sensation, perhaps causing sharp pain, in the dog’s ears,
which might have occasioned his extraordinary action, for it must be
remembered that this lady’s voice, and hers alone, produced the effect
described.
The next case of unreasoning antipathy was that of a very handsome
half-bred bull-terrier, called Charley. He belonged to a friend of
ours, the vicar of a beautiful parish in Kent, and was an affectionate,
good-tempered dog, never known to bite, snarl, growl, or do anything
disagreeable to his friends. He would romp and play with the children
on the vicarage lawn by the hour together, and never lose his temper,
though often sorely tried by the thoughtless teasing of his little
playmates. Yet he, too, had his peculiarity, which was, that if any
one—master, friend, or stranger—approached him rubbing the palms of his
hands slowly together, and at the same time repeating his name very
deliberately, ‘Char-ley, Char-ley,’ the dog would instantly get into a
state of wild fury. He would bark violently, until the bark ended in
that peculiar sort of scream often noticed in small dogs when greatly
excited or angered. He would make a rush at the offending person, and
then suddenly retreat backwards, throwing out his fore-paws with sudden
jerks at each bark; and although the person might cease the action, yet
it would be some time before Charley recovered his usual equanimity,
going about the room uttering little short barks, and a sort of odd
sound between the end of a growl and the beginning of a whine!
When this curious antipathy was first noticed, it so much surprised
and interested the vicar—who was a devoted lover of animals—that he
took a great amount of trouble to try to find out what could have been
the original cause. He thought the dog might have been taught this
merely as a clever trick; but he could never procure any evidence to
show that such had been the case on the part of any one in the vicarage
or village. What could have caused these extraordinary bursts of
passion and anger at so simple an act as merely rubbing the palms of
the hands together? There was nothing in the act itself calculated to
irritate or frighten any animal, and therefore the greater the mystery
at the strange effect produced. As the vicar could discover nothing
through his investigations, he had to ‘accept the inevitable,’ and come
to the conclusion that it was unaccountable.