Those who walk through the well-to-do quarters of our city, and glance,
perhaps a little enviously as they pass, toward the cheerful firesides,
do not reflect that in almost every one of these apparently happy homes a
pitiless tyrant reigns, a misshapen monster without bowels of compassion
or thought beyond its own greedy appetites, who sits like Sinbad’s awful
burden on the necks of tender women and distracted men. Sometimes this
incubus takes the form of a pug, sometimes of a poodle, or simply a
bastard cur admitted to the family bosom in a moment of unreflecting
pity; size and pedigree are of no importance; the result is always the
same. Once Caliban is installed in his stronghold, peace and
independence desert that roof.
We read daily of fathers tyrannizing over trembling families, of
stepmothers and unnatural children turning what might be happy homes into
amateur Infernos, and sigh, as we think of martyrdoms endured by
overworked animals.
It is cheering to know that societies have been formed for the protection
of dumb brutes and helpless children. Will no attempt be made to
alleviate this other form of suffering, which has apparently escaped the
eye of the reformer?
The animal kingdom is divided—like all Gaul—into three divisions: wild
beasts, that are obliged to hustle for themselves; laboring and producing
animals, for which man provides because they are useful to him—and dogs!
Of all created things on our globe the canine race have the softest
“snap.” The more one thinks about this curious exception in their favor
the more unaccountable it appears. We neglect such wild things as we do
not slaughter, and exact toil from domesticated animals in return for
their keep. Dogs alone, shirking all cares and labor, live in idle
comfort at man’s expense.
When that painful family jar broke up the little garden party in Eden and
forced our first parents to work or hunt for a living, the original Dog
(equally disgusted with either alternative) hit on the luminous idea of
posing as the champion of the disgraced couple, and attached himself to
Adam and Eve; not that he approved of their conduct, but simply because
he foresaw that if he made himself companionable and cosy he would be
asked to stay to dinner.
From that day to the present, with the exception of occasionally watching
sheep and houses—a lazy occupation at the best—and a little light carting
in Belgium (dogs were given up as turn-spits centuries ago, because they
performed that duty badly), no canine has raised a paw to do an honest
day’s work, neither has any member of the genus been known voluntarily to
perform a useful act.
How then—one asks one’s self in a wonder—did the myth originate that Dog
was the friend of Man? Like a multitude of other fallacies taught to
innocent children, this folly must be unlearned later. Friend of man,
indeed! Why, the “Little Brothers of the Rich” are guileless
philanthropists in comparison with most canines, and unworthy to be named
in the same breath with them. Dogs discovered centuries ago that to live
in luxury, it was only necessary to assume an exaggerated affection for
some wealthy mortal, and have since proved themselves past masters in a
difficult art in which few men succeed. The number of human beings who
manage to live on their friends is small, whereas the veriest mongrel cur
contrives to enjoy food and lodging at some dupe’s expense.
Facts such as these, however, have not over-thrown the great dog myth.
One can hardly open a child’s book without coming across some tale of
canine intelligence and devotion. My tender youth was saddened by the
story of one disinterested dog that refused to leave his master’s grave
and was found frozen at his post on a bleak winter’s morning. With the
experience of years in pet dogs I now suspect that, instead of acting in
this theatrical fashion, that pup trotted home from the funeral with the
most prosperous and simple-minded couple in the neighborhood, and after a
substantial meal went to sleep by the fire. He must have been a clever
dog to get so much free advertisement, so probably strolled out to his
master’s grave the next noon, when people were about to hear him, and
howled a little to keep up appearances.
I have written “the richest and most simple minded couple,” because
centuries of self-seeking have developed in these beasts an especial
aptitude for spotting possible victims at a glance. You will rarely find
dogs coquetting with the strong-minded or wasting blandishments where
there is not the probability of immediate profit; but once let even a
puppy get a tenderhearted girl or aged couple under his influence, no
pity will be shown the victims.
There is a house not a square away from Mr. Gerry’s philanthropic
headquarters, where a state of things exists calculated to extract tears
from a custom-house official. Two elderly virgins are there held in
bondage by a Minotaur no bigger than your two fists. These good dames
have a taste for travelling, but change of climate disagrees with their
tyrant. They dislike house-keeping and, like good Americans, would
prefer hotel life, nevertheless they keep up an establishment in a
cheerless side street, with a retinue of servants, because, forsooth,
their satrap exacts a back yard where he can walk of a morning. These
spinsters, although loving sisters, no longer go about together,
Caligula’s nerves being so shaken that solitude upsets them. He would
sooner expire than be left alone with the servant, for the excellent
reason that his bad temper and absurd airs have made him dangerous
enemies below stairs—and he knows it!
Another household in this city revolves around two brainless, goggle-eyed
beasts, imported at much expense from the slopes of Fuji-yama. The care
that is lavished on those heathen monsters passes belief. Maids are
employed to carry them up and down stairs, and men are called in the
night to hurry for a doctor when Chi has over-eaten or Fu develops colic;
yet their devoted mistress tells me, with tears in her eyes, that in
spite of this care, when she takes her darlings for a walk they do not
know her from the first stranger that passes, and will follow any boy who
whistles to them in the street.
What revolts me in the character of dogs is that, not content with
escaping from the responsibilities entailed on all the other inhabitants
of our globe by the struggle for existence, these four-legged Pecksniffs
have succeeded in making for themselves a fallacious reputation for
honesty and devotion. What little lingering belief I had in canine
fidelity succumbed then I was told that St. Bernards—those models of
integrity and courage—have fallen into the habit of carrying the flasks
of brandy that the kind monks provide for the succor of snowbound
travellers, to the neighboring hamlets and exchanging the contents
for—chops!
Will the world ever wake to the true character of these four-legged
impostors and realize that instead of being disinterested and sincere,
most family pets are consummate hypocrites. Innocent? Pshaw! Their
pretty, coaxing ways and pretences of affection are unadulterated guile;
their ostentatious devotion, simply a clever manœuvre to excite interest
and obtain unmerited praise. It is useless, however, to hope that things
will change. So long as this giddy old world goes on waltzing in space,
so long shall we continue to be duped by shams and pin our faith on
frauds, confounding an attractive bearing with a sweet disposition and
mistaking dishevelled hair and eccentric appearance for brains. Even in
the Orient, where dogs have been granted immunity from other labor on the
condition that they organized an effective street-cleaning department,
they have been false to their trust and have evaded their contracts quite
as if they were Tammany braves, like whom they pass their days in slumber
and their nights in settling private disputes, while the city remains
uncleaned.
I nurse yet another grudge against the canine race! That Voltaire of a
whelp, who imposed himself upon our confiding first parents, must have
had an important pull at headquarters, for he certainly succeeded in
getting the decree concerning beauty and fitness which applies to all
mammals, including man himself, reversed in favor of dogs, and handed
down to his descendants the secret of making defects and deformities pass
current as qualities. While other animals are valued for sleek coats and
slender proportions, canine monstrosities have always been in demand. We
do not admire squints or protruding under jaws in our own race, yet
bulldogs have persuaded many weak-minded people that these defects are
charming when combined in an individual of their breed.
The fox in the fable, who after losing his tail tried to make that
bereavement the fashion, failed in his undertaking; Dutch canal-boat dogs
have, however, been successful where the fox failed, and are to-day
pampered and prized for a curtailment that would condemn any other animal
(except perhaps a Manx cat) to a watery grave at birth.
I can only recall two instances where canine sycophants got their
deserts; the first tale (probably apocryphal) is about a donkey, for
years the silent victim of a little terrier who had been trained to lead
him to water and back. The dog—as might have been expected—abused the
situation, while pretending to be very kind to his charge, never allowed
him to roll on the grass, as he would have liked, or drink in peace, and
harassed the poor beast in many other ways, getting, however, much credit
from the neighbors for devotion and intelligence. Finally, one day after
months of waiting, the patient victim’s chance came. Getting his
tormentor well out into deep water, the donkey quietly sat down on him.
The other tale is true, for I knew the lady who provided in her will that
her entire establishment should be kept up for the comfort and during the
life of the three fat spaniels that had solaced her declining years. The
heirs tried to break the will and failed; the delighted domestics, seeing
before them a period of repose, proceeded (headed by the portly
housekeeper) to consult a “vet” as to how the life of the precious
legatees might be prolonged to the utmost. His advice was to stop all
sweets and rich food and give each of the animals at least three hours of
hard exercise a day. From that moment the lazy brutes led a dog’s life.
Water and the detested “Spratt“ biscuit, scorned in happier days, formed
their meagre ordinary; instead of somnolent airings in a softly cushioned
landau they were torn from chimney corner musings to be raced through
cold, muddy streets by a groom on horseback.
Those two tales give me the keenest pleasure. When I am received on
entering a friend’s room with a chorus of yelps and attacked in dark
corners by snarling little hypocrites who fawn on me in their master’s
presence, I humbly pray that some such Nemesis may be in store for these
_faux bonhommes_ before they leave this world, as apparently no provision
has been made for their punishment in the next.