Dog Stories from the "Spectator" Part 10

A TRUE WATCH-DOG.

[_Aug. 5, 1893._]

The "dog" letter in the _Spectator_ of July 15th is wonderfully like my experience, some years ago, with my little red Blenheim, Frisk. She always slept in a basket, close to the hall door. One night she dashed up the stairs, loudly barking, ran first to my eldest sister's room, then through a swing-door to another sister's room, barking outside each door, then upstairs again to my room at the top of the house, where she remained barking till I got up and opened it, when she ran in, still barking, and waited till I was ready to go down with her. She scampered on before me, I following close, and when we both reached the hall she dashed still barking to the door, to show me whence her alarm had arisen. It was the policeman turning the handle of the door from the outside to see if it was properly closed! One night, a long time after the first adventure, I was wakened by a quiet scratch at the door of my room. No barking this time; but, tiresome as it was to be disturbed on a cold night, I got up and opened the door, and was conscious in the darkness that Frisk was standing there. "Come in, Frisk," said I. But no movement; Frisk stood waiting. "Come in, Frisk," I repeated, somewhat sharply. No movement, no bark! Then, being sure that something must be wrong, I lighted a candle, and there stood Frisk outside the door, never offering to come in. She trotted quietly down before me, not speaking a word. When we were both through the swing-door, and at the head of the stairs, I saw that the inner door to the hall was open, and also that of the morning-room, from which shone a bright light. My heart went pit-a-pat for a moment; then seeing Frisk run quietly down the stairs, I followed her, when she calmly jumped into her basket again, and I, venturing into the morning-room, found that my brother-in-law had left the lamp burning by mistake--a proceeding which Frisk plainly knew was wrong, and had therefore come upstairs to inform me, but had not thought it necessary to disturb the rest of the household this time! She had come straight up to my room without disturbing any one else, to tell me of the irregularity of a light burning when every one was in bed, and that being done, jumped into bed again, conscious of having performed her duty.

GEORGINA A. MARSH-CALDWELL.

[_Aug. 12, 1893._]

I can give an instance as convincing as that of Miss Marsh-Caldwell of the way in which a true watch-dog will measure the extent of his duties. I lived for many years opposite a wood, in which the game at first was preserved. I had a dog named Prin, who had begun by being a gardener's dog, but having caught the distemper and been unskilfully treated by his master he remained nearly blind, and was left on my hands by the man when he quitted my service. The dog was a great coward, but good-tempered and affectionate, and the partial loss of sight seemed to have developed greatly the senses both of hearing and smell, so that he was recognised as a capital watch-dog. He was promoted to the kitchen, and would have been promoted to the drawing-room but for the obstreperousness of his affection, which seemed to know no bounds if he was admitted even into the hall. I slept at that time in a room over the kitchen, fronting the road. One night I was awakened by Prin growling, and, after a time, giving a snappish bark underneath me. I got out of bed and throwing up the sash, listened at the window, where, after a time, I heard slight noises, which convinced me that some one or more persons were hiding in the shrubbery between the house and the road, whom I supposed to be burglars. I called out, "Who's there?" without, of course, eliciting any answer, and, after a time, I heard the click of the further gate (there being two, one opposite my house, the other opposite its semi-detached neighbour, and out of my sight), after which all was quiet. But I had noticed that from the moment of my getting out of bed Prin had not uttered a sound. The same thing happened seven or eight times, and always in the same way, Prin growling or barking till he heard me get out of bed, and then holding his tongue, as feeling that he had fulfilled his duty in warning his master, and that all responsibility now devolved upon me. The secret of the matter I discovered to be that poachers, with no burglarious intentions towards me, used the shrubbery as a hiding-place before getting over the opposite paling into the wood.

One other instance of Prin's sagacity I will also mention. I had a black 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 _h.o.m.o 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 pa.s.sing 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, s.h.a.ggy 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 inst.i.tutions. 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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 b.u.t.ting 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 n.o.ble creature that we have both, since then, been very loath to cla.s.s dogs as "inferior animals."

GEORGE EASTGATE.

TWO ANECDOTES OF DOGS.