WULLY WAS a little yaller dog. A yaller dog, be it understood, is not
necessarily the same as a yellow dog. He is not simply a canine whose
capillary covering is highly charged with yellow pigment. He is the
mongrelest mixture of all mongrels, the least common multiple of all
dogs, the breedless union of all breeds, and though of no breed at all,
he is yet of older, better breed than any of his aristocratic relations,
for he is nature's attempt to restore the ancestral jackal, the parent
stock of all dogs.
Indeed, the scientific name of the jackal (Canis aureus) means simply
'yellow dog,' and not a few of that animal's characteristics are seen in
his domesticated representative. For the plebeian cur is shrewd, active,
and hardy, and far better equipped for the real struggle of life than
any of his 'thoroughbred' kinsmen.
If we were to abandon a yaller dog, a greyhound, and a bulldog on a
desert island, which of them after six months would be alive and well?
Unquestionably it would be the despised yellow cur. He has not the speed
of the greyhound, but neither does he bear the seeds of lung and skin
diseases. He has not the strength or reckless courage of the bulldog,
but he has something a thousand times better, he has common sense.
Health and wit are no mean equipment for the life struggle, and when the
dog-world is not 'managed' by man, they have never yet failed to bring
out the yellow mongrel as the sole and triumphant survivor.
Once in a while the reversion to the jackal type is more complete, and
the yaller dog has pricked and pointed ears. Beware of him then. He is
cunning and plucky and can bite like a wolf. There is a strange, wild
streak in his nature too, that under cruelty or long adversity may
develop into deadliest treachery in spite of the better traits that are
the foundation of man's love for the dog.
I
Away up in the Cheviots little Wully was born. He and one other of the
litter were kept; his brother because he resembled the best dog in the
vicinity, and himself because he was a little yellow beauty.
His early life was that of a sheep-dog, in company with an experienced
collie who trained him, and an old shepherd who was scarcely inferior
to them in intelligence. By the time he was two years old Wully was
full grown and had taken a thorough course in sheep. He knew them from
ram-horn to lamb-hoof, and old Robin, his master, at length had such
confidence in his sagacity that he would frequently stay at the tavern
all night while Wully guarded the woolly idiots in the hills. His
education had been wisely bestowed and in most ways he was a very bright
little dog with a future before him, Yet he never learned to despise
that addle-pated Robin. The old shepherd, with all his faults, his
continual striving after his ideal state--intoxication--and his
mind-shrivelling life in general was rarely brutal to Wully, and Wully
repaid him with an exaggerated worship that the greatest and wisest in
the land would have aspired to in vain.
Wully could not have imagined any greater being than Robin, and yet for
the sum of five shillings a week all Robin's vital energy and mental
force were pledged to the service of a not very great cattle and sheep
dealer, the real proprietor of Wully's charge, and when this man, really
less great than the neighboring laird, ordered Robin to drive his flock
by stages to the Yorkshire moors and markets, of all the 376 mentalities
concerned, Wully's was the most interested and interesting.
The journey through Northumberland was uneventful. At the River Tyne
the sheep were driven on to the ferry and landed safely in smoky South
Shields. The great factory chimneys were just starting up for the day
and belching out fogbanks and thunder-rollers of opaque leaden smoke
that darkened the air and hung low like a storm-cloud over the streets.
The sheep thought that they recognized the fuming dun of an unusually
heavy Cheviot storm. They became alarmed, and in spite of their keepers
stampeded through the town in 374 different directions.
Robin was vexed to the inmost recesses of his tiny soul. He stared
stupidly after the sheep for half a minute, then gave the order, "Wully,
fetch them in." After this mental effort he sat down, lit his pipe, and
taking out his knitting began work on a half-finished sock.
To Wully the voice of Robin was the voice of God. Away he ran in 374
different directions, and headed off and rounded up the 374 different
wanderers, and brought them back to the ferry-house before Robin, who
was stolidly watching the process, had toed off his sock.
Finally Wully--not Robin--gave the sign that all were in. The old
shepherd proceeded to count them--370, 371, 372, 373.
"Wully," he said reproachfully, "thar no' a' here. Thur's anither." And
Wully, stung with shame, bounded off to scour the whole city for the
missing one. He was not long gone when a small boy pointed out to
Robin that the sheep were all there, the whole 374. Now Robin was in a
quandary. His order was to hasten on to Yorkshire, and yet he knew that
Wully's pride would prevent his coming back without another sheep, even
if he had to steal it. Such things had happened before, and resulted in
embarrassing complications. What should he do?
There was five shillings a week at stake. Wully was a good dog, it was
a pity to lose him, but then, his orders from the master; and again,
if Wully stole an extra sheep to make up the number, then what--in a
foreign land too? He decided to abandon Wully, and push on alone with
the sheep. And how he fared no one knows or cares.
Meanwhile, Wully careered through miles of streets hunting in vain for
his lost sheep. All day he searched, and at night, famished and worn
out, he sneaked shamefacedly back to the ferry, only to find that
master and sheep had gone. His sorrow was pitiful to see. He ran about
whimpering, then took the ferryboat across to the other side, and
searched everywhere for Robin. He returned to South Shields and searched
there, and spent the rest of the night seeking for his wretched idol.
The next day he continued his search, he crossed and recrossed the
river many times. He watched and smelt everyone that came over, and with
significant shrewdness he sought unceasingly in the neighboring taverns
for his master. The next day he set to work systematically to smell
everyone that might cross the ferry.
The ferry makes fifty trips a day, with an average of one hundred
persons a trip, yet never once did Wully fail to be on the gang-plank
and smell every pair of legs that crossed--5,000 pairs, 10,000 legs that
day did Wully examine after his own fashion. And the next day, and
the next, and all the week he kept his post, and seemed indifferent to
feeding himself. Soon starvation and worry began to tell on him. He
grew thin and ill-tempered. No one could touch him, and any attempt
to interfere with his daily occupation of leg-smelling roused him to
desperation.
Day after day, week after week Wully watched and waited for his master,
who never came. The ferry men learned to respect Wully's fidelity. At
first he scorned their proffered food and shelter, and lived no one knew
how, but starved to it at last, he accepted the gifts and learned to
tolerate the givers. Although embittered against the world, his heart
was true to his worthless master.
Fourteen months afterward I made his acquaintance. He was still on rigid
duty at his post. He had regained his good looks. His bright, keen face
set off by his white ruff and pricked ears made a dog to catch the eye
anywhere. But he gave me no second glance, once he found my legs were
not those he sought, and in spite of my friendly overtures during the
ten months following that he continued his watch. I got no farther into
his confidence than any other stranger.
For two whole years did this devoted creature attend that ferry. There
was only one thing to prevent him going home to the hills, not the
distance nor the chance of getting lost, but the conviction that Robin,
the godlike Robin, wished him to stay by the ferry; and he stayed.
But he crossed the water as often as he felt it would serve his purpose.
The fare for a dog was one penny, and it was calculated that Wully owed
the company hundreds of pounds before he gave up his quest. He
never failed to sense every pair of nethers that crossed the
gangplank--6,000,000 legs by computation had been pronounced upon by
this expert. But all to no purpose.
His unswerving fidelity never faltered, though his temper was obviously
souring under the long strain.
We had never heard what became of Robin, but one day a sturdy drover
strode down the ferry-slip and Wully mechanically assaying the new
personality, suddenly started, his mane bristled, he trembled, a low
growl escaped him, and he fixed his every sense on the drover.
One of the ferry hands not understanding, called to the stranger, "Hoot
mon, ye maunna hort oor dawg."
"Whaes hortin 'im, ye fule; he is mair like to hort me." But further
explanation was not necessary. Wully's manner had wholly changed. He
fawned on the drover, and his tail was wagging violently for the first
time in years. A few words made it all clear. Dorley, the drover, had
known Robin very well, and the mittens and comforter he wore were
of Robin's own make and had once been part of his wardrobe. Wully
recognized the traces of his master, and despairing of any nearer
approach to his lost idol, he abandoned his post at the ferry and
plainly announced his intention of sticking to the owner of the mittens,
and Dorley was well pleased to take Wully along to his home among the
hills of Derbyshire, where he became once more a sheep-dog in charge of
a flock.