In 1877, at his English home, I first made the acquaintance of “Max,” a
fine specimen of a Dandy Dinmont dog. He was of the usual size, with
brown, velvety eyes—very expressive—a long body, tail, and ears, coarse
hair of a blackish brown and light-tan color, and with short legs, not
particularly straight. The ancient Greeks, with their severe ideas
regarding lines of beauty, would not have called him beautiful to the
sight. But, notwithstanding his looks, he was, to all who knew him well,
very beautiful; for he was a dog of marked intelligence and superior
moral character. So fine was his sense of integrity that a most
delicious and canine-tempting bone might remain within his reach for
days without his touching it, no matter if he were ever so hungry.
His usual daily occupation commenced with a very early walk with his
master. Then, in regular order, after the family and guests had
breakfasted, the butler would give him his napkin, folded in his own
private ring, which he would carry from the dining-room to the kitchen,
where it would be spread upon a table, slightly raised from the floor,
arranged for serving his food. After the morning meal had been eaten,
his napkin would be refolded, and he would return it to the butler. The
same routine was always repeated for dinner. His time until evening, if
possible, was devoted to his master, of whom he was exceedingly fond,
but he would sometimes walk with the guests when told to do so by his
master, to whom he always appealed when invited for a promenade by a
stranger.
Every day, after dinner, when the family and guests had assembled in the
drawing-room, “Max” would insist upon giving his regular daily
exhibition, and there was no peace from his importunities until he had
completed the usual performance. His master always carried with him from
the dinner table a biscuit which, in the drawing-room, he would hold up
and say: “Max, I have a biscuit for you. Can’t you give us a little
dance and a song?” Whereupon he would commence to turn around upon his
hind feet, at the same time doing his best in the direction of singing a
very doleful sort of a song, all the while looking exceedingly grave,
the result of his abnormal effort. This part of the daily programme was
so exceedingly comical that it always excited unbounded applause from
the audience. The dance would go on until the master called out
“enough,” when the performer would stop and look imploringly into his
master’s face, as if asking him if he might continue the performance,
which consisted of his master going through the motion of firing,
accompanied with a noise which passed, in the doggish mind, for the
explosion of a gun, and was a signal for the actor to fall down
apparently dead, with eyes firmly closed, and keeping perfectly quiet.
In this position he would remain until his master told him to come to
life. The biscuit would then be given him, and that would end each day’s
work, by which he, we may infer, believed he earned his daily bread.
With passing time my little friend took on the garb of age, and, a few
years before his end, became totally blind, and among the most pathetic
sights I ever witnessed were his attempts to see his friends. I had been
so many times at his home that he had come to know me almost as one of
the family, and at each visit, after his loss of sight, as the carriage
drove up to the front door, when recognizing my voice, as I spoke to his
master, he would put his paws upon the steps of the carriage and wag me
a hearty welcome, at the same time trying his best to see me.
His career ended in November, 1883, when his master buried him near a
garden gate, put a neat wire fence around his grave, and planted flowers
over his remains. And now those who may chance to go to Toddington will
find embedded into the garden wall a handsome marble slab, with a
mortuary inscription and a verse composed by his kind master engraved
upon it, which runs as follows:
“MAX
Died, November, 1883.
If ever dog deserved a tear
For fondness and fidelity,
That darling one lies buried here
Bemourned in all sincerity.”
One bright morning in the month of November, 1879, the front door of my
house was opened, and there came bounding through it and up the flight
of stairs, the most vivacious, clean, and inquiring little dog
imaginable. As soon as he arrived upon the second floor, calls came to
him from several directions at the same time, and he did his best to
answer them all at the same moment; all the while barking and dancing
around in the most frantic and delighted manner. Within five minutes
after his _début_, he was perfectly at home and upon the best of terms
with the entire household.
The name of this new member of the family was “Phiz,” and his alleged
place of nativity Yorkshire, England. In other words, he was a pure
Yorkshire terrier in descent, a mixture of blue, light gray, and silver
in color; in size a little larger than the average dog of that breed,
and, as one of his dog-expert friends often remarked: “He is one of the
doggiest dogs of his size I have ever known.” This was literally true,
for there never was a more manly and courageous little animal. In his
prime, his bravery was far beyond the point of reckless indiscretion,
and any dog whose appearance did not happen to please him, he would
attack, no matter how large, or under what disadvantageous
circumstances. The severe shakings and rough tumbles of to-day were
forgotten by the morrow, which found him ever ready for a new encounter.
The red-letter events in his active life occurred in Madison Square,
which he would enter as though shot from a catapult; and woe of woes to
the unfortunate plethoric pug which might happen to pass his way! It was
his habit when he saw one of these stupid and helpless unfortunates to
“ring on full steam and board him head-on mid-ships.” For a few seconds
after the coming together, there would be visible a comical mixture of
quick moving legs, tails, and ears, and a frantic attempt on the part of
the astonished pug to emit a wheezy sound of alarm, followed by a
condition of most abject submission. “Phiz,” standing over the prostrate
body of his victim, head erect, tail and ears stiffened with pride of
victory, made a picture of doggish vanity, once seen, never to be
forgotten. These scenes, in the warm season, were almost of daily
occurrence, much to the chagrin of many pug-loving dames.
“Phiz” only amused himself with the innocent pug (for he never was known
to offer to bite one), but he was always savagely in earnest in his
demonstrations of detestation of the face-making, ever-yelling average
street small boy. And he had no special love for the undersized
butcher’s and grocer’s assistant, whom he delighted to attack whenever
he could waylay them in a dark passage between the kitchen and front
basement hall. Some of these attacks were so sudden, fierce, and
unexpected, and were attended with such a volume of snarls and barks,
that the grocer’s boy had been known to drop his basket of eggs, and run
as if pursued by a terrible beast of huge dimensions.
As the subject of this sketch took on additional years, he accumulated
much knowledge, and, by the time he had accomplished the mature age of
six, he was far more wise than any serpent the writer had ever known. He
had never been taught to perform tricks, nor had been in any manner
trained, but by his own observation he had managed to pick up a world of
useful information, which proved of great value to him. Among his
acquirements he had learned how to make known, in an original and
intelligent manner, all the wants of a well-bred dog. He could tell
those around him when he desired to go up or down stairs, call for water
or food, ask to go out, and give a note of warning when a stranger was
coming up the street steps, but he was never known to bark at the like
approach of one of the family or a friend.
One of his undeviating customs was the morning call at the chambers of
his master and his mistress, when he would first make himself known by a
very delicate scratch upon the door. If not answered, then another and
more vigorous scratch; still no response, then a gentle bark of
interrogation, and then, if the door was not opened, would come a most
commanding full-voiced bark, saying as plainly as possible: “Why don’t
you let me in?” These gradations from the lesser to the greater in
effort and tones, all in the direction of asking for a certain thing,
proves conclusively the presence of powers to reason developed to a
considerable degree.
“Phiz” was selfishly interested in three things: a walk, cats generally,
and dogs particularly; and no conversation relating to these could take
place in his presence without exciting his active attention. When these
subjects were being discussed he would leave his couch and go from one
conversationalist to another, looking up into their faces in the most
inquisitive manner, all the while making a great mental effort to
understand exactly what they were saying.
His most remarkable manifestations of intelligence would occur at the
time when his master and mistress were about to leave their home for
their usual summer absence of about six months. On the first two or
three occasions of this kind he came to the carriage to wag a good-bye.
Later he must have arrived at the conclusion that certain preparations
meant a long period of loneliness for him, and then, from the
commencement of “putting things away” and packing boxes, he would appear
very much dejected—no more cheery barks and frisky wags, but, on the
contrary, he would show great depression of spirits, and, finally, when
the time arrived for the carriage and for carrying out the baggage,
“Phiz” would hide in some out-of-the-way place, there to nurse his
grief, undisturbed and unseen.
The subject of this sketch reached the ripe old age of eleven with all
functions and faculties unimpaired, save sight, which, we are compelled
to record, was totally obscured. I happened to be with him when he came
to the painful realization of his great misfortune. It was during his
accustomed late-in-the-afternoon walk. Failing to find his way along the
sidewalk he had stopped, while I, without seeing him, had passed on, but
only for a short distance, when I was attracted by a most pitiful and
grief-stricken cry. I looked around, and there was my poor little friend
and companion, sitting close to the lower stone of a flight of steps,
with his nose pointed straight up to the heavens, and crying as though
his heart would break. I hurried to him, took him gently in my arms, and
carried him to his box, which he hardly left for many days. His grief
was so intense that he refused to eat or be cheerful, and made very
faint responses to the most affectionate advances. Within a week or
more, however, he began to resume his interest in affairs, having, no
doubt, like human beings similarly afflicted, through process of
reasoning, become reconciled to his misfortune.
If he had been a man instead of a dog, he would have had an easy chair,
a pipe, and, in his moods of vainglory, fought his many battles over and
over again. But, as he was only a dog, he found his way about the house
as best he could, varying occasionally his dull routine by a short
promenade over the paths which were once the race-track of his wild and
gleeful prancings. And thus he passed on to that everlasting night, from
whence no dog whether good or bad has ever returned to wag a solution of
the mysteries which must have puzzled the minds of many generations of
wise and philosophical dogs.