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Title: Dog Stories from the "Spectator" - being anecdotes of the intelligence, reasoning power, - affection and sympathy of dogs, selected from the - correspondence columns of "The Spectator"
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Dog Stories from the "Spectator" - being anecdotes of the intelligence, reasoning power, - affection and sympathy of dogs, selected from the - correspondence columns of "The Spectator"" ***

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Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation, Spelling and Geographical errors retained as found in
the original.









     "Sir, to leave things out of a book, merely because people
     tell you they will not be believed, is meanness."

     (_Dr. Johnson._)

_All rights reserved._



  INTRODUCTION                                   7

  SYLLOGISTIC DOGS                              15

  THE REASONING POWER OF DOGS                   49

  EMOTION AND SENTIMENT IN DOGS                 99

  DOGS AND THE ARTS                            119

  DOG FRIENDSHIPS                              131

  CURIOUS HABITS OF DOGS                       155


  USEFUL DOGS                                  177

  MISCELLANEOUS                                193



The following Dog Stories are taken from the pages of the _Spectator_,
with the permission of the editors and proprietors. It was suggested to
me by Mr. Fisher Unwin that the many strange and pleasant stories of
dogs which from time to time are sent to the _Spectator_ by its
correspondents would, if put together, form a volume of no little
entertainment for all who love dogs, or are interested in stories of
animal intelligence. Up till now the _Spectator_ dog stories, after the
week of their publication, have practically been inaccessible to the
general reader; for he is a bold man who will attack a bound volume of a
newspaper in search of amusement. Though I at once agreed that the
suggested book would be a very readable one, and likely to please
dog-lovers all the world over, I did not, till the selection was nearly
made, realise how much the stories gain by being grouped together. A
single story of a clever dog may amuse, but it is liable to be put aside
as an accident, a coincidence, a purely exceptional circumstance which
proves nothing. If, however, instead of a single story we have half a
dozen illustrating the same form of intelligence, the value of the
evidence is enormously increased, and a collection of dog stories may
become of very great value in determining such questions as the power of
dogs to act on reason as well as on instinct, or their ability to
understand human language. The solution of these problems is, I cannot
help thinking, materially advanced by the stories in the present book.
Take, again, the group of stories which I have labelled Purchasing Dogs.
One sample of this kind might, as I have noted above, be put off as a
case of imperfect observation, or as a curious coincidence; but when we
get a whole group of stories it becomes very difficult to doubt that
dogs may learn the first principles of the science of exchange. The
Italian dog (page 59) which did the narrator a service by fetching him
cigars, demanded payment in the shape of a penny, and then used that
penny by exchanging it for a loaf, was far advanced in the practice of
Political Economy. He not only understood and acted on an implied
contract, but realised the great fact at the back of the currency. "What
are guineas," said Horne Tooke, "but tickets for sheep and oxen!" The
Italian dog did not, like a savage, say, "What is the use of copper to
me, I cannot eat it?" Instead, he perceived that the piece of copper was
a ticket for bread. It should be noted too that this dog, the dog called
Hardy (page 57) and others, were able to distinguish between the pieces
of copper given them. Again, the Glasgow story (page 53) shows that a
dog can learn to realise that a halfpenny will buy not merely one thing
but several things--in fact, that the great advantage of exchange by
currency over barter is that it gives you a choice. While on the subject
of purchasing dogs, it is curious to reflect how very little is wanted
to convert the dog that is able to purchase into a free agent. If a dog
can exchange his faculty for cigar carrying or his tricks against
half-pence, why should he not exchange useful services, such as guarding
a house or herding sheep, and so become self-supporting? Imagine a
collie paid by the day, and, when his work was over, receiving twopence
and going off to buy his supper. But the vista opened is too
far-reaching. One sees down it dogs paid by the hour and by the piece,
and then dogs asking for better pay and shorter hours, and, finally,
dogs on strike, and dog "black-legs," or "free dogs."


A word should be said as to the authenticity of the stories in the
present volume. It is a matter of common form for the evening newspapers
to talk of the _Spectator_ dog stories as hoaxes, and to refer in their
playful, way to "another _Spectator_ dog." It might not then unnaturally
have been supposed that a person undertaking to edit and reprint these
stories would have found a considerable number that showed signs of
being hoaxes. I may confess, indeed, that I set out with the notion of
forming a sort of Appendix to the present work, which should be headed
"Ben Trovato," in which should be inserted stories which were too
curious and amusing to be left out altogether, but which, on the other
hand, were what the Americans call a little "too tall" to be accepted as
genuine. The result of my plan was unexpected. Though I found many
stories in which the inferences seemed strained or mistaken, and others
which contained indications of exaggeration, I could find but two
stories which could reasonably be declared as only suitable for a "Ben
Trovato." I therefore suppressed my heading. The truth is that the
animal stories are much more carefully sifted at the _Spectator_ office
than our witty critics and contemporaries will admit. No stories are
ever published unless the names and addresses of the writers are
supplied, and all stories are rejected which have anything clearly
suspicious about them. What the editors of the _Spectator_ do not do is
to reject a dog-story because it states that a dog has been observed to
do something which has never been reported as having been done by a dog
before, or at any rate, something which is not universally admitted to
be doable by a dog. Apparently this willingness to print stories which
enlarge our notions of animal intelligence is regarded in certain
quarters as a sign that the _Spectator_ will swallow anything, and that
its stories must be apocryphal. I cannot, however, help thinking that
all who care for the advancement of knowledge in regard to animals
should be grateful to the editors of the _Spectator_ for not adopting
the plan of excluding all dog stories that do not correspond with an
abstract ideal of canine intelligence. Had they acted on the principle
of putting every anecdote that seemed _primâ facie_ unlikely into the
waste-paper basket, they would certainly have missed a great many
stories of real value. In truth, there is nothing so credulous as
universal incredulity. An attitude of general incredulity means a blind
belief in the existing state of opinion. If we believe that animals have
no reasoning power, and refuse to examine evidence that is brought to
show the contrary, we are adopting, the attitude of those who disbelieve
that the earth goes round the sun because they seem daily to see a proof
of an exactly opposite proposition. If people are to refuse to believe
anything of a dog that does not sound likely on the face of it, we shall
never get at the truth about animal intelligence. What is wanted is the
careful preservation and collection of instances of exceptional


Before I conclude this Introduction, I should like to address a word of
apology to the correspondents of the _Spectator_ whose letters form the
present volume. Though the copyright of the letters belongs to the
editors and proprietors of the _Spectator_ I should have liked to ask
the leave of the various writers before republishing their letters.
Physical difficulties have, however rendered this impossible. In the
case of nearly half the letters the names and addresses have not been
preserved. In many instances, again, only the names remain. Lastly, a
large number of the letters are ten or twelve, or even twenty years old,
and the writers may therefore be dead or out of England. Under these
circumstances I have not made any effort to enter into communication
with the writers before including their letters in this book. That their
permission would have been given, had it been asked, I do not doubt. The
original communication of the letters to the _Spectator_ is proof that
the writers wished a public use to be made of the anecdotes they relate.
As long, then, as the letters are not altered or edited, but produced
verbatim, I may, I think, feel assured that I am doing nothing which is
even remotely discourteous to the writers.



          [_Aug. 4, 1888._]

During a recent journey in Canada, I met with a striking instance of
reason in a dog. I was staying at the Mohawk Indian Institution,
Brantford, Ontario. The Rev. R. Ashton, superintendent of the school, is
also incumbent of the neighbouring Mohawk Church (the oldest Protestant
church in Canada). Mr. Ashton is very fond of animals, and has many
pets. One of these, a black-and-tan terrier, always accompanies the
ninety Indian children to church on Sunday morning. He goes to the
altar-rails, and lies down facing the congregation. When they rise to
sing, he rises; and when they sit, he lies down. One day, shortly before
my visit, a stranger-clergyman was preaching, and the sermon was longer
than usual. The dog grew tired and restless, and at last a thought
occurred to him, upon which he at once acted. He had observed that one
of the elder Indian boys was accustomed to hand round a plate for alms,
after which the service at once concluded. He evidently thought that if
he could persuade this boy to take up the collection, the sermon must
naturally end. He ran down to the back seat occupied by the boy, seated
himself in the aisle, and gazed steadfastly in the boy's face. Finding
that no notice was taken, he sat up and "begged" persistently for some
time, to Mr. Ashton's great amusement. Finally, as this also failed, the
dog put his nose under the lad's knee, and tried with all his strength
to force him out of his place, continuing this at intervals till the
sermon was concluded.

Did not this prove a distinct power of consecutive reasoning?

          A. H. A.


          [_July 7, 1888._]

Your dog-loving readers may be interested in the following instance of
animal sagacity. Bob is a fine two-year-old mastiff, with head and face
of massive strength, heightened by great mildness of expression. One day
he was seen carrying a hen, very gently, in his mouth, to the kennel.
Placing her in one corner, he stood sentry while she laid an egg, which
he at once devoured. From that day the two have been fast friends, the
hen refusing to lay anywhere but in "Bob's" kennel, and getting her
reward in the dainty morsels from his platter. There must have been a
bit of canine reasoning here. "Bob" must have found eggs to his liking,
that they were laid by hens, and that he could best secure a supply by
having a hen to himself.

          THOMAS HAMER.


          [_Feb. 20, 1875._]

A patient recently consulted me who was blind and subject to fits. I
pointed out to her friends the danger to which she was exposed in case a
fit came on when she was in the vicinity of a fire, and they informed me
that she incurred little or no risk, because a favourite dog ran at once
and fetched assistance the moment a fit came on. This intelligent animal
would rush into the next house barking eagerly, would seize the dress of
the woman who lived there, and drag her to the assistance of his
mistress. If one did not go, he would seize another, and exhibited the
most lively symptoms of distress until his object was accomplished.



          [_Sept. 1, 1888._]

The following incident in dog-life may perhaps find a place in the
_Spectator_. I quote from a letter received a few days ago from my
nephew, "T. G. T.," resident in South Africa:--"Johannesburg,
Traansvaal.--My dog Cherry has had three great pups, and I had to leave
her behind at the Grange. When I was going away, Cherry and the pups
were located in some stables. She came out and watched the tent-truck
and my things packed up. Presently I went away, and when I came back I
found Cherry had carried all the pups on to the top of my luggage, and
evidently had not the least intention of staying behind."

          T. W. T.


          [_June 26, 1875._]

Dr. Walter F. Atlee writes to the editor of the _Philadelphia Medical

"In a letter recently received from Lancaster, where my father resides,
it is said:--'A queer thing occurred just now. Father was in the office,
and heard a dog yelping outside the door; he paid no attention until a
second and louder yelp was heard, when he opened it, and found a little
brown dog standing on the step upon three legs. He brought him in, and
on examining the fourth leg, found a pin sticking in it. He drew out the
pin, and the dog ran away again.' The office of my father, Dr. Atlee, is
not directly on the street, but stands back, having in front of it some
six feet of stone wall with a gate. I will add, that it has not been
possible to discover anything more about this dog.

"This story reminds me of something similar that occurred to me while
studying medicine in this same office nearly thirty years ago. A man,
named Cosgrove, the keeper of a low tavern near the railroad station,
had his arm broken, and came many times to the office to have the
dressings arranged. He was always accompanied by a large, most
ferocious-looking bull-dog, that watched me most attentively, and most
unpleasantly to me, while bandaging his master's arm. A few weeks after
Cosgrove's case was discharged, I heard a noise at the office door, as
if some animal was pawing it, and on opening it, saw there this huge
bull-dog, accompanied by another dog that held up one of its front legs,
evidently broken. They entered the office. I cut several pieces of wood,
and fastened them firmly to the leg with adhesive plaster, after
straightening the limb. They left immediately. The dog that came with
Cosgrove's dog I never saw before nor since."

Do not these stories adequately show that the dogs reasoned and drew new
inferences from a new experience?


          [_April 6, 1889._]

Knowing your interest in dogs, I venture to send you the following
story. A week or two ago, the porter of the Bristol Royal Infirmary was
disturbed one morning about 6.30 by the howling of a dog outside the
building. Finding that it continued, he went out and tried to drive it
away; but it returned and continued to howl so piteously, that he was
obliged to go out to it again. This time he observed that one of its
paws was injured. He therefore brought it in and sent for two nurses,
who at once dressed the paw, and were rewarded by every canine sign of
gratitude, including much licking of their hands. The patient was
"retained" for two days, during which time he received every attention
from those inside the house, and from the neighbours outside, who
quickly heard of the case. As no one appeared to claim the dog, he was
sent to the Home for Lost Dogs in the city, where so interesting an
animal was, of course, not long in finding a purchaser. The dog was one
of those called "lurchers."

I have myself called on the porter of the infirmary for confirmation of
the story, and am assured by him of its truth. How did an apparently
friendless dog know where to go for surgical aid? The case differs from
that of the dog which took its friend for treatment to King's College
Hospital in London, for I understand that the King's College dog had
previously been taken to the hospital for treatment itself; but in this
case there is no such clue.

          HELEN M. STURGE.


          [_June 10, 1876._]

For some time past I have noticed in your journal letters and articles
referring to the wonderful powers of dogs. As I was myself much struck
by many features in the character of a dog which I knew, illustrating,
as I think, not only affection, but reasoning faculties, I shall
acquaint you with a few of these, believing that they may be
_interesting_, at least to all admirers of that noble animal.

The dog of which I speak was a terrier. It showed its affection in the
most marked manner in several ways. Every morning, as soon as it got out
of the kitchen, it came to its master's door, and if not admitted and
caressed about the usual hour, gave evident signs of impatience. It
would lie quiet till it thought the time had arrived, but never longer.
Afterwards it went to the breakfast-room, and occupied its master's
chair till he arrived. On one occasion a visitor was in the house, who,
coming first into the room, ordered the dog to come off the best chair.
To this it paid no attention, and when threatened with expulsion, at
once prepared for defence. But as soon as its master appeared it
resigned its place voluntarily, and quietly stretched itself on the rug
at his feet.

At another time it was left for three weeks during its master's absence
from home. It saw him leave in a steamer, and every day until his return
it repaired to the quay upon the arrival of the same boat, expecting him
to come again in the one by which he had gone. It distinguished between
a number of boats, always selecting the right one and the right hour.

One evening it accompanied its master when he went to gather mussels for
bait. As the tide was far in, few mussels remained uncovered; and after
collecting all within reach, more were required. A large bunch lay a few
feet from the water's edge, but beyond reach; yet as the dog was not one
of those who take the water to fetch, its master had no expectation that
it would prove useful on the present occasion. Seeing him looking at
the mussels, however, it first took a good look at those in the basket,
and then, without being directed at all, went into the water. Selecting
the right bunch from amongst the stones and wreck with which it was
surrounded, it brought it to land, and laid it at its master's feet.
This, I think, is a proof of _reason_, rather than of instinct. The dog
had never been trained to go into the sea, and would not probably have
brought out the mussels had it not seen that they were wanted.

It showed wonderful instinct, however, just before the death of one of
its pups, and before its own death. Its pup had not been thriving, and
the mother gave unmistakable proof that she foresaw its death. She dug a
grave for it and put it in. Nor, when it was removed, would she let it
lie beside her, but immediately dug another grave, where she was less
likely to be disturbed. Upon the day of her own death, also, she used
what strength she had to dig her grave, in which she lay, preferring to
die in it, than in what would seem to most a place of greater

These may not be singular incidents, but they are still remarkable and
worthy of notice. They serve to show us the wonderful nature of man's
faithful friend, the dog, and how he has many traits of character fitted
to make him the worthy receiver of kindness and respect.


[Footnote 1: It is difficult to accept T.'s explanation of the dog's
object in digging. Possibly its aim was to obtain warmth or shelter.]


          [_Aug. 29, 1874._]

I see that you welcome all notes of interest upon our fellow-beings, the
dogs. Here is one that seems to prove they have a sense of time and of
distance as measured by time.

I was walking with my bull-terrier, Bully (seven years old last
Christmas), during a hot afternoon this month homewards along the Bund
(Shanghai), and I suddenly missed him. I turned back for twenty or
thirty yards, and, not finding him, I gave up the search, saying, "He
knows the way home well enough." Presently I saw him on my right,
dripping with water, cantering on at a round pace, without looking about
him, homewards. I watched him, curious to see whether he would go
straight home. No. He kept on till he reached the distance of about 150
yards, and looked ahead, _not_ smelling the ground. He then deliberately
walked back, catching sight of me in about twenty yards after his
turning back, and wagged his tale recognisingly. He had evidently been
to cool himself in the river (thirty yards to the right, it being low
tide), and, thinking I would go on at the ordinary pace without him, he,
after his bath, struck directly at a long diagonal for the point I would
have reached if I had not turned back to look for him. He did not seem
to have the slightest misgiving as to his sense of the distance I
_ought_ to have walked during the time of his bath. His turning was done
seemingly with a calm assurance of certainty. I may add that there were
twenty to thirty foot-passengers scattered over the portion of road in
question at the time, whose footsteps might have effaced my scent on the
_watered_ granite macadamised roadway, even supposing the dog to have
tried his sense of smell, _which he did not_, as far as I could see, and
I noticed him carefully.

          W. G. S.


          [_July 24, 1886._]

You often give us pleasant anecdotes of our four-footed friends. You may
think the following worthy of record. I have a little dog, a not
particularly well-bred fox-terrier. He is much attached to me, and shows
by his obedience, and sometimes _in_ his disobedience, that he
understands a good deal. Yesterday I was away all day, and he, I am
told, was very uneasy, and searched everywhere for me. Every day at 5
p.m. I go to church. Toby seems to know this is not an ordinary walk,
and never offers to come with me. But yesterday, when the bell began, he
started off and took up his position by the vestry door. I believe he
reasoned with himself, "There goes the bell; now I shall catch the



          [_April 4, 1885._]

Reading from time to time many pleasant anecdotes in the columns of the
_Spectator_--which, by the way, I receive as regularly, and read as
eagerly, as when resident in England many years ago--relative to the
sagacity of dogs, I send the following, thinking it possible you may
deem it worthy of insertion.

Some three years ago I was "having a spell" in Brisbane, after a
lengthened sojourn on a sheep station in the interior of Queensland.
During my stay in the city I had the good fortune to gain the friendship
of a gentleman who owned a magnificent collie. My friend, his dog Sweep,
and myself, were frequently together, engaged either in yachting among
the islands of Moreton Bay, or 'possum hunting under the towering
_eucalypti_ which fringe the banks of the river Brisbane. Naturally
"Sweep" (who was a most lovable animal) and myself soon began to
entertain a warm friendship for one another, which friendship gave rise
to the anecdote I am about to relate. Returning to my hotel about
midnight from the house of a friend, I was not a little startled at
finding my hand suddenly seized from behind by a dog, which, however, I
at once recognised as my handsome acquaintance, Sweep. I patted him, at
the same time endeavouring to withdraw the hand which he held firmly,
but gently, between his teeth. It was of no use, as, in spite of all my
endearments, he insisted on retaining his hold, wriggling along by my
side, and vigorously wagging his tail, as though he would say, "Don't be
afraid; it's all right." We soon reached a point in the main street down
which we were walking, where a side avenue branched off towards the
river. My way lay right ahead. Sweep, however, insisted on my taking the
road which lay at a right-angle to my course. I felt some annoyance at
his persistence, as I was both tired and sleepy; but, having no choice
in the matter, I followed his lead. Having walked some two or three
hundred yards down _his_ street, he released his hold, dancing round
me, then running on for a few yards and looking back to see if I were
following. Becoming interested, I determined to see what he was after,
so, without further resistance, I followed submissively. At last, having
reached the river, which at this place was about four hundred yards
wide, he, with many joyous barks, ran down the ferry steps, and jumped
into the empty boat of the ferryman. At last I was able to guess at his
motive for forcing me to follow him. His master, who lived across the
river, had accidentally lost sight of his dog returning from his office
in the city; and Sweep appeared to understand perfectly that unless the
boatman received his fare he, Sweep, would not be carried over, my
friend frequently sending the dog over by himself when wishing to attend
concerts, &c., invariably paying the fare as of an ordinary passenger.
The ferryman, who at once recognised my canine friend, laughed heartily
when I told him how I had been served, took my penny, and set off at
once for "Kangaroo Point," Sweep gaily barking "good-night" until he
reached the opposite bank. I heard subsequently that he used to swim the
river when left behind; but having had two narrow escapes from sharks,
his nerves had become somewhat shaken so far as water was concerned.

          J. WM. CREIGHTON.


          [_Nov. 13, 1875._]

Having often read, with great pleasure, the anecdotes about dogs which
from time to time appear in the _Spectator_, I venture to send you one
which has come under my own observation, and which, it seems to me,
shows an effort of reasoning implying two distinct ideas--one the
consequence of the other--more interesting than many of those clever
performances of educated dogs which may or may not be merely mechanical

The dog who performed the following trick was then a great, half-grown,
awkward puppy, whose education, up to that time, had been much
neglected. It has been better attended to since, and now, although
sportsmen probably consider such an animal sadly thrown away upon a
lady, he is a very pleasant friend and companion. My two dogs, Guy and
Denis, form as capital a pair, for contrast's sake, as one need wish to
see. They are both handsome dogs of their kind--Guy, a fine black
retriever, with no white hair upon him, and, I believe, in the eyes of
sportsmen, as well as those of his mistress, a very desirable
possession, good-tempered, clever, and affectionate; Denis, as naughty
and spoilt a little fellow as ever existed, and a great pet, also black,
except for his yellow paws and chest, but covered with long, loose
locks, instead of Guy's small, crisp curls.

Denis is exceedingly comic, and a constant source of amusement. He is
very faithful to his mistress, whose bedside during illness he has
refused to leave, even for food; but it must be confessed that he is not
amiably disposed towards most people, and is a perfect tyrant over the
other animals. Some account of the two dogs' character is necessary, to
explain the little scene which took place between them one evening about
a year ago. Guy, it must be premised, is at least twelve months younger
than Denis, consequently, when the former first arrived--a miserable and
very ugly little puppy, a few weeks old, more like a small black jug
than any known animal of the canine species, having had the mange, and
lost all his hair--Denis undertook his education, and ruled him so
severely that his influence lasted a long while; indeed, even after Guy
had grown so big that Denis almost needed to stand upon his hind legs in
order to snap at him, the great dog would crouch meekly at a growling
remonstrance from the little master, and never dared to invade his
rights--to approach his plate of food, or to drink before him. Now a
days Guy has discovered his own power, and although too good-natured an
animal ever to ill-treat the little dog, no longer allows any liberties,
but at the same time, when the scene which I am about to describe took
place, he was still under the impression that Denis's wrath was a
terrible and dangerous matter.

And now for my story, which, it seems to me, shows as much real
reasoning power in an untrained animal as any anecdote that I ever read.
One evening I took my two dogs to the kitchen, to give them the rare
treat of a bone apiece. (Dogs were certainly never intended to make
Natal their home, for, in order to keep them alive at all, they should
never be given anything that they like, especially meat, and even then
the most careful management often fails in preserving them from disease
and death.) One of my sisters was with me, and together we watched the
dogs over their supper. Guy, with his great mouth, and ravenous, growing
appetite, made short work with his, every vestige of which had vanished;
while little Denis was still contentedly sucking away at his small
share, not very hungry, and taking his pleasures sedately, like a
gentleman, as he is. And then Guy began to watch the other with an
envious eye, evidently casting about in his mind how he might gain
possession of that bone. He was even then, though not full grown, so big
and strong that he could have taken it by force with the greatest ease;
but such an idea did not cross his mind; he decided to employ stratagem
to win the prize. I must mention here, that amongst other naughty
practices of my dogs, is that of rushing out of the house and barking
violently upon the slightest sound without. This is Denis's fault,
which Guy, in spite of all my lessons, has contracted from him. With the
evident intention of sending Denis out, Guy suddenly started up, and
began to bark _towards_ the door in an excited manner, but not running
out himself, as he certainly would have done, had he really heard
anything. Down went Denis's bone, and out rushed he, barking at the top
of his voice. Did Guy follow him? Oh, dear no! he had no such
intentions; he sneaked up to Denis's bone immediately, picked it up, and
ran to the other end of the room. But when he had got it, he did not
know what to do with it; there was no hiding-place for him there, and he
dare neither await Denis's return openly, nor risk meeting him at the
door. My sister and I were, by this time, both sitting on a bench
against the wall, watching the scene between the dogs, and Guy, after
running once round the room, with the bone in his mouth, came and crept
in beneath my seat, where he was hidden by my dress, and where he lay,
not eating the bone, and in perfect silence. Presently Master Denis
trotted back, quite unconscious, and shaking the curls out of his eyes,
as much as to say, "My dear fellow! what a fuss you've made; there's
nothing there." He looked about for his bone for a few minutes, but soon
gave up the search, and began to amuse himself with other things. After
a while, I, forgetting the culprit beneath my seat, rose, and crossed
the room, leaving him exposed. Guy was in a great fright; he jumped up,
and running to my sister, who was still seated, he stood up with his
forepaws upon her lap, and the bone still untouched in his mouth, as
though begging her protection. Denis, however, did not observe him, and
after a few minutes, Guy's courage returned, and finally he ventured to
lie down, with the bone between his paws, and began to gnaw it, keeping
one eye fixed on Denis the while. This, however, was going a step too
far. Denis was attracted by the sound, and recognised his own bone the
moment that he looked round. He marched up to Guy (who immediately
stopped eating) and stood before him. Denis growled, and Guy slowly
removed one great paw from his prize. Denis advanced a step, with
another growl; Guy removed the other paw, and slunk back a little,
whereupon Master Denis calmly walked up, took possession of his bone,
and went off with it.

I am bound, however, to remark that after another half-hour's contented
amusement over it, he resigned the remainder, which was too hard for his
small mouth, to Guy, who finished the last morsel with great
satisfaction. Now that he is full grown, Guy still gives up to Denis in
many little ways, but it is evidently through generosity only, for he
has proved himself perfectly capable of taking his own part. But he is
very gentle with his little playmate, except at night, when he lies
across my door-way--entirely of his own accord--and will allow no one
and nothing to enter without my command.



          [_May 20, 1876._]

As a subscriber to your journal, I have observed from time to time
discussion on the "reasoning power of dogs." I will tell you what I
observed to-day. In consequence of the Levée there was a great crowd in
Pall Mall. I was invited by a friend to accompany him in his carriage
from St. James's Palace down Pall Mall, when lo and behold, his dog,
which usually runs with the carriage, insisting on getting in also.
Nothing could induce him to get out, and whilst passing along Pall Mall
he amused himself looking out of window at the police, soldiers, and
crowd collected. When through, he was glad enough to get out again, and
readily followed through the most frequented streets. Now, I have no
doubt as to that dog's "reasoning power," respecting his ability to
follow his carriage safely through the dense crowd collected around St.
James's Palace and Marlborough House.



          [_March 3, 1888._]

Are animals able to think over and carry out a plan? The following
anecdotes will answer the question. When in India, I had a small rough
terrier who, when given a bone, was sent to eat it on the gravel drive
under an open porch in front of the bungalow. On several occasions two
crows had made an attempt to snatch the dainty morsel, but their plans
were easily defeated by Topsy's growls and snapping teeth. Away flew the
crows to the branch of a tree near by. After a few moments of evident
discussion, they proceeded to carry out the plan of attack. One crow
flew down to the ground and gave a peck at the end of the dog's tail.
Topsy at once turned to resent this attack in the rear, whilst the other
crow flew down and bore the bone away in triumph.

The same dog had a favourite resting-place in an easy-chair, and was
very often deprived of it by a dog which came as visitor to the house.
Topsy did not approve of this, and her attempts to regain her seat were
met with growls and bites. This justified an act of eviction, and the
busy little brain decided on a plan. The next day, as usual, the
intruder established himself in the chair, which was close to the open
door. Topsy looked on for a moment, and then flew savagely out of doors,
barking at a supposed enemy. Out ran the other dog to see what was up,
and back came Topsy to take possession of her coveted seat. The other
dog came slowly back, and curled himself up in a far-off corner. The
above I was an eye-witness to, and therefore can vouch for the truth of
what I relate.

          K. P.


          [_Feb. 9, 1895._]

In illustration of the anecdotal letters about dogs and their habits, in
the _Spectator_ of February 2nd, and Mr. Lang's paper in this month's
_Nineteenth Century_, I send you the following story of a dog which I
had in 1851 and for three years afterwards. He was a handsome
Newfoundland dog, and one of the most intelligent animals with which it
was ever my good luck to meet. I was living in a village about three
miles from Dover, where I did all my shopping and marketing, being
generally my own "carrier." Sometimes Nep would carry home a small
parcel for me, and always most carefully. On one occasion Nep was with
me when I chose a spade, and asked the ironmonger to send it by the
village carrier. The spade was put by, labelled and duly addressed. I
went on to have a bathe, my dog going with me, but on finishing my
toilet in the machine, and calling and whistling for Nep, he was nowhere
to be seen. He was not to be found at the stable where I had left my
horse, but on calling at the ironmonger's shop I found he had been there
and had carried off the spade which I had bought, balancing it carefully
in his mouth. When I reached home, there Nep was, lying near his kennel
in the stable-yard looking very fagged, but wearing a countenance of the
fullest self-satisfaction, and evidently wishing me to think he had
fulfilled his "dog-duty." My friend Mr. Wood, who was a thorough lover
and admirer of dogs, was delighted to hear of his intelligent


P.S.--I may add Nep always guarded me when bathing, and always went into
the water with me, too, often uttering a peculiar kind of "howl."



          [_May 26, 1877._]

Some time ago I sent you my recollections of a dog who knew a halfpenny
from a penny, and who could count up as far as two (see page 56). I have
been able to obtain authentic information of a dog whose mental powers
were still more advanced, and who, in his day, besides being celebrated
for his abilities, was of substantial benefit to a charitable
institution in his town. The dog I refer to was a little white
fox-terrier, Prin by name, who lived at the Lion Hotel, at
Kidderminster, for three or four years; but now, alas! he is dead, and
nothing remains of him but his head in a glass case.

I had heard of this dog some months ago, but on Saturday last, having to
make a visit to Kidderminster, I went to see him. The facts I give about
him are based on the statements of Mr. Lloyd, his master, and they are
fully substantiated by the evidence of many others. I have before me a
statement of the proceeds of "Dog Prin's box, Lion Hotel; subscriptions
to the Infirmary." The contributions began in September, 1874, and ended
on April 25th, 1876, and during that period the sum of £13 14s. 6d. was
contributed through Prin's instrumentality.

He began by displaying a fancy for playing with coins, not unusual
amongst terriers, and he advanced to a discovery that he could exchange
the coins for biscuits. He learnt that for a halfpenny he could get two
biscuits, and for a penny, three; and, having become able to distinguish
between the two coins, it was found impossible to cheat him. If he had
contributed a penny, he would not leave the bar till he had had his
third biscuit; and if there was nobody to attend to his wants, he kept
the coin in his mouth till he could be served. Indeed, it was this
persistence which ultimately caused poor Prin's death, for there is
every reason to fear that he fell a victim to copper-poisoning.

By a little training he was taught to place the coins, after he had got
the biscuits, upon the top of a small box fixed on the wall, and they
were dropped for him through a slot. He never objected to part with them
in this way, and having received the _quid pro quo_, he gave complete
evidence of his appreciation of the honourable understanding which is so
absolutely necessary for all commercial transactions.

An authenticated case like this is of extreme value, for just as the
elementary stages of any science or discovery are the most difficult and
the slowest in accomplishment, so are the primary stages of all mental
processes. To find the preliminary steps of the evolution of mathematics
and commerce in a dog is therefore a very important observation, and
everything bearing on these early phases of intellect should be
carefully recorded.

          LAWSON TAIT.

          [_Feb. 10, 1877._]

The _Spectator_ is always so kind to animals that I venture to send you
the following story of a dog's sagacity, which may be depended upon as
absolutely true:--

During the meeting of the British Association at Glasgow, a friend of
mine had occasion to go one day from that place to Greenock on business.
Hearing, on his arrival, that the person he wished to see was out, but
expected shortly to return home, he determined to take a stroll about
the town, to which he was a stranger. In the course of his walk he
turned into a baker's shop and bought a bun. As he stood at the door of
the shop eating his bun, a large dog came up to him and begged for a
share, which he got, and seemed to enjoy, coming back for piece after
piece. "Does the dog belong to you?" my friend asked of the shop-woman.
"No," she answered, "but he spends most of his time here, and begs
halfpennies from the people who pass." "Halfpennies! What good can they
be to him?" "Oh, he knows very well what to do with them; he comes into
the shop and buys cakes."

This seemed rather a remarkable instance of cleverness even for the
cleverest of animals, so, by way of testing its reality, my friend went
out of the shop into the street, where he was immediately accosted by
the dog, who begged for _something_ with all the eloquence of which a
dog is capable. He offered him a halfpenny, and was rather surprised to
see him accept it readily, and walk, with the air of a regular customer,
into the shop, where he put his forepaws on the counter, and held out
the halfpenny towards the attendant. The young woman produced a bun, but
that did not suit the dog, and he held his money fast. "Ah," she said,
"I know what he wants," and took down from a shelf a plate of
shortbread. This was right; the dog paid his halfpenny, took his
shortbread, and ate it with decorous satisfaction. When he had quite
finished he left the shop, and my friend, much amused, followed him, and
when he again begged found another halfpenny for him, and saw the whole
process gone through a second time.

This dog clearly had learned by some means the use of money, and not
merely that it would buy something to eat, but that it would buy
several things, among which he could exercise a right of choice. What is
perhaps most remarkable is that his proceedings were entirely
independent, and for his own benefit, not that of any teacher or master.

          A. L. W.

          [_Feb. 17, 1877._]

When a student at Edinburgh, I enjoyed the friendship of a brown
retriever, who belonged to a fishmonger in Lothion Street, and who was
certainly the cleverest dog I have ever met with. He was a cleverer dog
than the one described by "A. L. W." because he knew the relative value
of certain coins. In the morning he was generally to be seen seated on
the step of the fishmonger's shop-door, waiting for some of his many
friends to give him a copper. When he had got one, he trotted away to a
baker's shop a few doors off, and dropped the coin on the counter. If I
remember rightly (it is twelve or fifteen years ago), his weakness was
"soda scones." If he dropped a halfpenny on the counter he was
contented with one scone, but if he had given a penny he expected two,
and would wait for the second, after he had eaten the first, until he
got it. That he knew exactly when he was entitled to one scone only, and
when he ought to get two, is certain, for I tried him often.

          LAWSON TAIT.

          [_Feb. 17, 1877._]

In the _Spectator_ of the 10th inst. a correspondent describes the
purchase of cakes by a clever dog at Greenock. I should like to be
allowed to help preserve the memory of a most worthy dog-friend of my
youth, well remembered by many now living who knew Greenwich Hospital
some thirty or five-and-thirty years ago.

At that time there lived there a dog-pensioner called Hardy, a large
brown Irish retriever. He was so named by Sir Thomas Hardy, when
Governor (Nelson's Hardy), who at the same time constituted him a
pensioner, at the rate of one penny per diem, for that he had one day
saved a life from drowning just opposite the hospital. Till that time
he was a poor stranger and vagrant dog--friendless. But thenceforward he
lived in the hospital, and _spent his pension himself_ at the butcher's
shop, as he did also many another coin given to him by numerous friends.
Many is the halfpenny which, as a child, I gave Hardy, that I might see
him buy his own meat--which he did with judgment, and a due regard to
value. When a _penny_ was given to him, he would, on arriving at the
shop, place it on the counter and rest his nose or paw upon it until he
received _two halfpennyworths_, nor would any persuasion induce him to
give up the coin for the usual smaller allowance. I was a young child at
the time, but I had a great veneration for Hardy, and remember him well,
but lest my juvenile memory might have been in fault, I have, before
writing this letter, compared my recollections with those of my elders,
who, as grown people, knew Hardy for many years, and confirm all the
above facts. There, indeed, was the right dog in the right place. Peace
to his shade!

          J. D. C.

          [_Feb. 7, 1885._]

Have you room for one more dog story, which resembles one lately
reported in a French journal? A few years since I was sitting inside the
door of a shop to escape from the rain while waiting for a trap to take
me to the railway station in the old Etruscan city of Ferentino.
Presently an ill-bred dog of the pointer kind came and sat down in front
of me, looking up in my face, and wagging his tail to attract my
attention. "What does that dog want?" I asked of a bystander. "Signore,"
he answered, "he wants you to give him a soldo to go and buy you a cigar
with." I gave the dog the coin, and he presently returned, bringing a
cigar, which he held crossways in his mouth until I took it from him.
Sent again and again, he brought me three or four more cigars from the
tobacco-shop. At length the dog's demeanour changed, and he gave vent to
his impatience by two or three low whines. "What does he want now?" I
asked. "He wants you to give him two soldi to go to the baker's and buy
bread for himself." I gave him a two-soldo piece, and in a few minutes
the dog returned with a small loaf of bread, which he laid at my feet,
at the same time gazing wistfully in my face. "He won't take it until
you give him leave," said another bystander. I gave the requisite
permission, and the dear animal seized the loaf and disappeared with it
in his mouth, and did not again make his appearance before I left the
city. "He always does like this," said the standers-by, "whenever he
sees a stranger in Ferentino."




          [_July 7, 1888._]

The following instance of dog instinct (or reasoning?) will, I think,
interest some of your readers. About a fortnight ago, while crossing the
Albula Pass, our driver stopped for a few moments at the little
restaurant on the highest point of it. A rough kind of herdsman's dog,
of no particular breed, I suppose, came out and sat down by the carriage
and looked up at us. We happened to have a few Marie biscuits in the
carriage, so I threw half of one out to him. I suppose he had no
experience in Huntley and Palmer's make, for he looked at and smelled it
carefully, and then declined to eat it, but again looked up at me. I
then took the remaining half, bit off and ate a little bit of it, and
then threw over the rest to him. This time he ate it at once, then
turned and ate the first piece, which he had before refused, and at once
came and asked for more, which I had great pleasure in giving him. I
may add that I have several times tried a similar experiment with more
pampered dogs at home, but have never succeeded with it. Whether this
arises from the latter knowing, in most cases, from experience what they
like and what they do not like, or, as I am rather inclined to think,
from the superior intelligence of this Alpine dog, who really reasoned
that what I could eat he could, I leave your readers to decide for

          G. W. C.


          [_July 21, 1888._]

I do not think that it was superior intelligence in the Alpine dog over
other intelligent dogs which induced him to wait to eat the biscuit till
he had seen the giver eat some of it. We have a very sagacious little
Highland terrier, and he in the same manner often refuses a new kind of
biscuit or cake until he has seen me bite off a small piece and eat it,
and then he will do the same. I have also found our boarhound
distrusting food occasionally, and declining to take it from his bowl
until I have given him some with my hand. Then he seems to feel that it
is all right, and comes down from his bench and eats it. This perhaps is
not exactly the same, but it is still a phase of a dog's distrust of
unaccustomed food, and his reasoning power respecting it. This wonderful
reasoning power any one accustomed to dogs soon discovers.

          J. B. G.



          [_Aug. 4, 1883._]

I think the question has been mooted in your columns as to whether dogs
sometimes understand our language. A circumstance that has just occurred
leads me to think that it does happen, where they are highly organised
and living much with their owners. While our family party were sitting
over dessert, a cork jumped from an apollinaris-water bottle on the
sideboard. I took no notice at first, but after the conversation was
ended, I got up and looked about for a few minutes, soon giving up the
search. My brother asked what I was looking for, and I answered. I had
no sooner sat down than our little dog crept from behind a piece of
furniture, where she was reposing on the end of a rug, and went straight
up to the cork, looking up at me and pointing to it with her nose. It
was near me, but the shadow thrown by the table prevented my seeing it.
She is a very nervous little fox-terrier, a most "comfort-loving
animal," and spends her life with one or the other of us on my sofa,
when her master is out, but hearing his voice at a great distance, and
always attending to it.



          [_Aug. 11, 1883._]

The following anecdote may interest some of your readers:--Some years
ago, when starting for a foreign tour, I entrusted my little Scotch
terrier, Pixie, to the care of my brother, who lived about three miles
distant from my house. I was away for six weeks, during the whole of
which time Pixie remained contentedly at his new abode. The day,
however, before I returned, my brother mentioned in the dog's hearing
that I was expected back the next day. Thereupon, the dog started off,
and was found by me at my bedroom door the next morning, he having been
seen waiting outside the house early in the morning when the servants
got up, and been admitted by them. Pixie is still alive and flourishing,
and readily lends himself to experiments, which, however, yield no very
definite result. He certainly seems to understand as much of our meaning
as it concerns his own comfort to understand, but how he does it I
cannot quite determine. I should be sorry to affirm, clever as he is,
that he understands French and German, yet it is certainly a fact that
he will fall back just as readily if I say "Zurück!" as if I say "To
heel!" and advance to the sound "En avant!" as well as to "Hold up!" As
in both cases I am careful to avoid any elucidatory gesture or special
tone of voice, I am inclined to think that there must be here a species
of direct thought transference. At the same time, I am bound to add that
without the spoken word I am unable to convey the slightest meaning to
him. This, however, may be due to what I believe to be a fact, that it
is almost impossible without word or gesture to formulate the will with
any distinctness. If this theory be correct, the verbal sounds used
would convey the speaker's meaning, not in virtue of the precise sounds
themselves, but of the intention put into them by the speaker. I should
be glad to know if the experience of others tends to confirm this
theory, which I do not remember to have seen suggested before.

          A. EUBULE-EVANS.

          [_Aug. 18, 1883._]

I beg to contribute another anecdote on the subject of how our meaning
is conveyed to animals. When I was in Norway with my husband, a dog
belonging to the people of the house went with us in all our walks. One
day a strange dog joined us, and seemed to wish to get up a fight with
our dog, Fechter, who for protection kept almost under our feet; my
husband said several times, "Go on, Fechter," in English, which he
immediately did, but soon came back again. At last we succeeded in
driving the strange dog away, but he soon returned. Then my husband said
without any alteration of tone or gesture that I was aware of, "Drive
that dog away, Fechter." He immediately rushed at him, and we saw no
more of our troubler. I have long thought that dogs do understand, not
"the precise sounds themselves, but the intention put into them by the



          [_Aug. 18, 1883._]

Perhaps I should have said the "Intelligence of Animals," but my
meaning, in relation to the interesting correspondence in your columns,
is no doubt clear. The whole question seems to me to lie in the
proverbial nutshell, and to be solvable by the proverbial common sense.
Dogs' hearing is undoubtedly very keen and accurate, and even subtle;
and dogs have also the power of putting this and that together in a
marvellously shrewd and almost rational fashion. They cannot understand
sentences, but they get hold of words, _i.e._, sounds, and keep them
pigeon-holed in their memory. I might as well argue moral principle
from the fact that my dog Karl, like scores of other dogs, will hold a
piece of biscuit on his nose so long as I say "trust," and will when I
say "paid for" gaily toss his head and catch the biscuit in his honest
mouth, as argue that because he finds eleven tennis-balls among the
shrubs in five minutes, when I say, "We can't find them at all, Karl; do
go and find them, good dog, will you? Find the balls, old
fellow"--therefore he understands my sentence. He simply grasps the
words "find" and "balls," sees the game at a standstill, and reasons out
our needs and his responsibilities, quickened by the expectation of
pattings on the head, pettings, and pieces of biscuit. It is remarkable
that if I try to delude him by uttering "base coin" in the shape of
words just like the real words, as, for example, if I say "Jacob"
instead of "paid for," he makes no mistake, but refuses the morsel,
however delicate, till it _is_ "paid for."

Prominent nouns, participles, verbs, &c., make up the _lingua franca_
that so beautifully links together men and dogs, and now and then men
and horses, their intelligence being quickened by their dumbness, as is
that of deaf and dumb men and women, whose other faculties become so
keenly intensified, and who put this and that together so much more
quickly than do we who have all our faculties. There are of course
"Admiral Crichtons" among dogs, as there are among men, but the
difference between dog and dog will generally, I think, be traceable
more to human training than to born capacity. The yearning look which
Karl gives when (told to "speak") he gives forth his voice in response,
is sometimes piteously like "Oh, that I could really tell all I feel!"
He is like, and all dogs of average intelligence are like, the Frenchman
I met yesterday on the beach at Hastings, who wanted to know whether he
could reach Ramsgate on foot before nightfall, and how far it was, and
who, as I only know a few French words, and am utterly unable to speak
or understand sentences, was obliged to make me understand his wants by
a few nouns such as everybody knows, and by causing me to put this and
that together. There is of course the vital defect in the parallel that
I could learn to understand French, and the dog could never learn to
understand sentences; but as so many parallels have vital defects of
some kind, even down to that historic self-drawn parallel between
Alexander and the robber, we may well say, whether we be men or dogs,
"Let me reflect." Dogs do undoubtedly reflect, and reason, and remember;
and they never forget their "grammar," as school-boys do. Instinct, like
chance, is only a name expressing fitly enough our own ignorance. Did
not Luther and Wesley believe in the resurrection of animals?

          S. B. JAMES.

          [_Aug. 25, 1883._]

A little illustration of canine intelligence shown by my collie, Dido,
may be added to those which have lately appeared in the _Spectator_. The
dog was lying on the floor in a room in which I was preparing to go out.
An old servant was present, and when I had given her directions about
an errand on which she was going, I said, "You will take Dido with you?"
She assented, and the dog directly got up to follow her downstairs. I
then remembered that I should want a cab, so I asked the servant to send
one, and not to leave the house till I rang the bell. On her leaving the
room, Dido resumed her quiet attitude on the floor, with her nose to the
carpet. In rather less than ten minutes I rang the bell, and the dog at
once sprang up and ran downstairs to join her companion. I had not
spoken a word after asking the servant to wait for the bell. Was this
word-reading, or voice-reading, or thought-reading.

          S. E. DE MORGAN.


          [_Sept. 1, 1883._]

I can match Mrs. De Morgan's pretty story of her Dido. A wise old dog
with whom I have the privilege to associate was, two or three days ago,
lying asleep in her basket by the fire. I entered the room with my hat
on, and invited her to join me in a walk; but, after looking up at me
for a moment, as canine politeness required, she dropped back among her
cushions, obviously replying, "Thank you very much, but I prefer
repose." Thereupon I observed, in a clear voice, "I am _not_ going on
the road [a promenade disliked by the dogs, because the walls on either
side restrict the spirit of scientific research]; I am going up the
mountain." Instantly my little friend jumped up, shook her ears, and,
with a cheerful bark, announced herself as ready to join the party.

Beyond doubt or question, Colleen had either understood the word "road,"
or the word "mountain," or both, and determined her proceedings
accordingly. Nothing in my action showed, or could show, the meaning of
my words.

If any of your readers who have resided for some weeks or months in a
country where a language is spoken entirely foreign to their own--say,
Arabic, or Basque, or Welsh--will recall of how many words they
insensibly learn the meaning without asking it, and merely by hearing
them always used in certain relations, they will have, I think, a fair
measure of the extent and nature of a dog's knowledge of the language of
his masters. My dog has lived fewer years in the world than I have
passed in Wales, but he knows just about as much English as I know
Welsh, and has acquired it just in the same way.

          F. P. C.


          [_Dec. 29, 1883._]

Mr. Darwin's "Notes on Instinct," recently published by my friend, Mr.
Romanes, have again called attention to the interesting subject of
instinct in animals.

Miss Martineau once remarked that, considering how long we have lived in
close association with animals, it is astonishing how little we know
about them, and especially about their mental condition. This applies
with especial force to our domestic animals, and, above all, of course,
to dogs. I believe that it arises very much from the fact that hitherto
we have tried to teach animals, rather than to learn from them--to
convey our ideas to them, rather than to devise any language, or code of
signals, by means of which they might communicate theirs to us. No doubt
the former process is interesting and instructive, but it does not carry
us very far.

Under these circumstances it has occurred to me whether some such system
as that followed with deaf mutes, and especially by Dr. Howe with Laura
Bridgman, might not prove very instructive if adapted to the case of
dogs. Accordingly I prepared some pieces of stout cardboard, and printed
on each in legible letters a word, such as "food," "bone," "out," &c. I
then began training a black poodle, Van by name, kindly given me by my
friend, Mr. Nickalls.

I commenced by giving the dog food in a saucer, over which I laid the
card on which was the word "food," placing also by the side an empty
saucer, covered by a plain card. Van soon learnt to distinguish between
the two, and the next stage was to teach him to bring me the card; this
he now does, and hands it to me quite prettily, and I then give him a
bone, or a little food, or take him out, according to the card brought.
He still brings sometimes a plain card, in which case I point out his
error, and he then takes it back and changes it. This, however, does not
often happen. Yesterday morning, for instance, he brought me the card
with "food" on it nine times in succession, selecting it from among
other plain cards, though I changed the relative position every time. No
one who sees him can doubt that he understands the act of bringing the
card with the word "food" on it, as a request for something to eat, and
that he distinguishes between it and a plain card. I also believe that
he distinguishes, for instance, between the card with the word "food" on
it and the card with "out" on it.

This, then, seems to open up a method which may be carried much further,
for it is obvious that the cards may be multiplied, and the dog thus
enabled to communicate freely with us. I have as yet, I know, made only
a very small beginning, and hope to carry the experiment much further,
but my object in troubling you with this letter is twofold. In the first
place, I trust that some of your readers may be able and willing to
suggest extensions or improvements of the idea. Secondly, my spare time
is small, and liable to many interruptions; and animals also, we know,
differ greatly from one another. Now, many of your readers have
favourite dogs, and I would express a hope that some of them may be
disposed to study them in the manner indicated. The observations, even
though negative, would be interesting; but I confess I hope that some
positive results might follow, which would enable us to obtain a more
correct insight into the minds of animals than we have yet acquired.

          JOHN LUBBOCK.


          [_April 12, 1884._]

You did me the honour, some weeks ago, to insert a letter of mine,
containing suggestions as to a method of studying the psychology of
animals and a short account of a beginning I had myself made in that

This letter has elicited various replies and suggestions which you will
perhaps allow me to answer, and I may also take the opportunity of
stating the progress which my dog Van has made, although, owing greatly,
no doubt, to my frequent absences from home and the little time I can
devote to him, this has not been so rapid as I doubt not would otherwise
have been the case. Perhaps I may just repeat that the essence of my
idea was to have various words, such as "food," "bone," "water," "out,"
&c., printed on pieces of card-board, and, after some preliminary
training, to give the dog anything for which he asked by bringing a
card. I use pieces of cardboard about ten inches long and three inches
high, placing a number of them on the floor side by side, so that the
dog has several cards to select from, each bearing a different word.

One correspondent has suggested that it would be better to use variously
coloured cards. This might, no doubt, render the first steps rather
more easy, but, on the other hand, any temporary advantage gained would
be at the expense of subsequent difficulty, since the pupil would very
likely begin by associating the object with the colour, rather than with
the letters. He would, therefore, as is too often the case with our own
children, have the unnecessary labour of unlearning some of his first
lessons. At the same time, the experiment would have an interest as a
test of the colour-sense in dogs.

Another suggestion has been that, instead of words, pictorial
representations should be placed on the cards. This, however, could only
be done with material objects, such as "food," "bone," "water," &c., and
would not be applicable to such words as "out," "pet me," &c.; nor even
as regards the former class do I see that it would present any
substantial advantage.

Again, it has been suggested that Van is led by scent rather than by
sight. He has, no doubt, an excellent nose, but in this case he is
certainly guided by the eye. The cards are all handled by us, and must
emit very nearly the same odour. I do not, however, rely on this, but
have in use a number of cards bearing the same word. When, for instance,
he has brought a card with "food" on it, we do not put down the same
identical card, but another with the same word; when he has brought
that, a third is put down, and so on. For a single meal, therefore,
eight or ten cards will have been used, and it seems clear, therefore,
that in selecting them Van must be guided by the letters.

When I last wrote I had satisfied myself that he had learnt to regard
the bringing of a card as a request, and that he could distinguish a
card with the word "food" on it from a plain one, while I believed that
he could distinguish between a card with "food" on it and one with "out"
on it.

I have now no doubt that he can distinguish between different words. For
instance, when he is hungry he will bring a "food" card time after time,
until he has had enough, and then he lies down quietly for a nap. Again,
when I am going for a walk, and invite him to come, he gladly responds
by picking up the "out" card, and running triumphantly with it before me
to the front door. In the same way he knows the "bone" card quite well.
As regards water (which I spell phonetically, so as not to confuse him
unnecessarily), I keep a card always on the floor in my dressing-room,
and whenever he is thirsty he goes off there, without any suggestion
from me, and brings the card with perfect gravity. At the same time he
is fond of a game, and if he is playful or excited will occasionally run
about with any card. If through inadvertence he brings a card for
something he does not want, when the corresponding object is shown him,
he seizes the card, takes it back again, and fetches the right one. No
one who has seen him look along a row of cards, and select the right
one, can, I think, doubt that in bringing a card he feels that he is
making a request, and that he can not only perfectly distinguish between
one word and another, but also associates the word and the object.

I do not for a moment say that Van thus shows more intelligence than
has been recorded in the case of other dogs; that is not my point, but
it does seem to me that this method of instruction opens out a means by
which dogs and other animals may be enabled to communicate with us more
satisfactorily than hitherto. I am still continuing my observations, and
am now considering the best mode of testing him in very simple
arithmetic, but I wish I could induce others to co-operate, for I feel
satisfied that the system would well repay more time and attention than
I am myself able to give.

          JOHN LUBBOCK.


          [_March 4, 1893._]

A cat carried a hundred miles in a basket, a dog taken, perhaps, five
hundred miles by rail, in a few days may have found their way back to
the starting-point. So we have often been told, and, no doubt, the thing
has happened. We have been astonished at the wonderful intelligence
displayed. Magic, I should call it. Last week I heard of a captain who
sailed from Aberdeen to Arbroath. He left behind him a dog which,
according to the story, had never been in Arbroath, but when he arrived
there the dog was waiting on the quay. I was expected to believe that
the dog had known his master's destination, and been able to inquire the
way overland to Arbroath. Truly marvellous! But, really, it is time to
inquire more carefully as to what these stories do mean; we must cease
to ascribe our intelligence to animals, and learn that it is we that
often possess their instinct. A cat on a farm will wander many miles in
search of prey, and will therefore be well acquainted with the country
for many miles round. It is taken fifty miles away. Again it wanders,
and comes across a bit of country it knew before. What more natural than
that it should go to its old home? Carrier-pigeons are taught "homing"
by taking them gradually longer flights from home, so that they may
learn the look of the country. We cannot always discover that a dog
actually was acquainted with the route by which it wanders home; but it
is quite absurd to imagine, as most people at once do, that it was a
perfect stranger to the lay of the land. To find our way a second time
over ground we have once trod is scarcely intelligence; we can only call
it instinct, though the word does not in the least explain the process.
Two years ago I first visited Douglas, in the Isle of Man. I reached the
station at 11 p.m.; I was guided to a house a mile through the town. I
scarcely paid any attention to the route, yet next morning I found my
way by the same route to the station, walking with my head bent, deeply
thinking all the time about other things than the way. I have the
instinct of locality. Most people going into a dark room that they know
are by muscular sense guided exactly to the very spot they wish; so
people who have the instinct of locality may wander over a moor exactly
to the place they wish to reach without thinking of where they go. There
may be no mental exercise connected with this. I have known a lady of
great intelligence who would lose her way within half-a-mile of the
house she had lived in forty years. This feeling about place belongs to
that part of us that we have in common with the lower creatures. We need
not postulate that the animals ever show signs of possessing our
intelligence; they possess, in common with us, what is not intelligence,
but instinct.

          A. J. MACKINTOSH.

          [_Sept. 24, 1892._]

Will you allow me to record in the _Spectator_ "another dog story"? It
is one that testifies, for the thousandth time, to canine sagacity,
and, as we are still in the silly season, which has this year in
particular been so very prolific in human follies, it may be of special
interest to learn some clever doings on the part of beasts. Quite
recently a Westphalian squire travelled by rail from Lüxen to Wesel, on
the Rhine, for the purpose of enjoying some hunting, and took with him
his favourite hound. The hunting party was to have started on a Sunday
morning at nine o'clock, but, to the squire's great disappointment, his
sporting dog could nowhere be discovered. Disconsolate, he arrived on
the following Monday afternoon at his house, and, to his great delight,
he was greeted there with exuberant joy by his dog. The latter, who had
never made the journey from Lüxen to Wesel, had simply run home, thus
clearing a distance of eighty English miles through an unknown country.
Why the sporting dog should have declined to join the hunt is, perhaps,
a greater mystery than the fact of his returning home without any other
guidance than his sagacious instinct. Possibly he was a Sabbatarian, and
objected to imitate his master's wicked example. So, Sunday papers,
please copy!


          [_Sept. 8, 1894._]

May I be allowed to offer to your readers yet another instance of the
faithfulness and sagacity of our friend the dog? The anecdote comes from
a distinguished naval officer, and is best given in his own words: "This
is what happened to a spaniel of mine. It was given to our children as a
puppy about three or four months old, and we have had it about five or
six months, making it about ten months old. It was born about three
miles from here, at Hertford, and has never been anywhere but from one
home to the other. When the time came for breaking him in for shooting
purposes, I sent him to a keeper at Leighton-Buzzard, and, to insure a
safe arrival, sent the dog with my man-servant to the train here, and
thence to King's Cross. He walked with the dog to Euston Station, turned
him over to the guard of the 12.15 train and the animal duly arrived at
Leighton-Buzzard at 1.30, and was there met by the keeper and taken to
his home about three miles off. That was on the Friday. On the following
Tuesday, the dog having been with him three full days, he took him out
in the morning with his gun, and at eight o'clock on Wednesday morning
(that being the following day) the dog appeared here, rather dirty, and
looking as if he had travelled some distance, which he undoubtedly had.
There is no doubt that this puppy of ten months old was sent away,
certainly forty or fifty miles as the crow flies, and that he returned
here in a day. How he did it no one can say, but it is nevertheless a
fact. It would be interesting to know his route and to trace his
adventures." This anecdote is the more remarkable in consequence of the
extreme youth of the dog, and particularly as he belongs to a breed of
sporting dogs which are not generally considered to rank among the most
intelligent of the species.

          F. H. SUCKLING.

          [_Sept. 15, 1894._]

The "True Story of a Dog," in the _Spectator_ of September 8th, may be
matched, possibly explained, by a similar occurrence. I had bought a
Spanish poodle pup of an Irishman who assured me, "Indade, sir, an' the
dog knows all my childer do, only he can't talk." He shut doors, opened
those with thumb-latches, and rushed upstairs and waked his mistress at
words of command. One day we were starting to drive to our former home
in the city, six miles distant, but the dog was refused his usual place
in the carriage, and shut up in the house. When we arrived, to our
astonishment we found him waiting for us on the doorstep! We could not
conceive how he got there, but upon inquiry found that he had got out,
gone to the station, in some way entered the train, hid under a seat,
and on arrival in the city threaded his way a mile through the streets,
and was found quietly awaiting our arrival.

          R. P. S.

          [_May 3, 1884._]

How do we know that in inviting dogs to the use of words Sir John
Lubbock is _developing_ their intelligence? Are we sure that he is not
asking them to descend to a lower level than their own, in teaching them
to communicate with us through our proper forms of speech, unnecessary
to them? I can vouch for the truth of the following story. A young
keeper, living about twelve miles east of Winchester, on leaving his
situation gave away a fox-terrier, which had been his constant companion
for some months; he then took another place in the north of Hampshire,
near the borders of Berkshire, in a part of the country to which he had
never been. The new owner of the dog took her with him to a village in
Sussex; before she had been there long she disappeared, and after a
short time found her old master in the woods at his new home. As I have
said before, he had never been there before, neither had she. Rather
ungratefully, he again gave the dog away, this time to a man living some
way north of Berkshire; she came back to him in a few days, and, I am
happy to say, is now to be allowed to stay with the master of her
choice. Can such a nature need to be taught our clumsy language.

          A. H. WILLIAMS.

          [_Feb. 16, 1895._]

As I see that you have published some interesting anecdotes about dogs,
I send you the two following, which perhaps you may think worth

In 1873 we came to live in England, after a residence upon the
Continent, bringing with us a Swiss terrier of doubtful breed but of
marked sagacity, called Tan. One day, shortly after reaching the new
home from Switzerland, the dog was lost under the following
circumstances:--We had driven to a station eight miles off--East
Harling--to meet a friend. As the friend got out of the railway carriage
the dog got in without being noticed and the train proceeded on its way.
At the next station--Eccles Road--the dog's barking attracted the
attention of the station-master, who opened the carriage door, and the
dog jumped out. The station-master and the dog were perfect strangers.
He and a porter tried to lock up the dog, but he flew viciously at any
one who attempted to touch him, although he was not above accepting
food. For the next three days his behaviour was decidedly methodical;
starting from the station in the morning, he came back dejected and
tired at night. At last, on the evening of the third day, he reached
home, some nine miles away, along roads which he had not before
travelled, a sorry object and decidedly the worse for wear; after some
food he slept for twenty-four hours straight off.

Anecdote number two. One day a handsome black, smooth-haired retriever
puppy was given to us, whom we named Neptune. The terrier Tan greatly
resented having this new companion thrust upon him, and became very
jealous of him. Being small, he was unable to tackle so large a dog, but
sagacity accomplished what strength could not. Tan disappeared for two
days. One evening, hearing a tremendous commotion in the yard, we
rushed out to find a huge dog of the St. Bernard species inflicting a
severe castigation upon poor Nep, Tan meanwhile looking on, complacently
wagging his tail. Both Tan and his companion then disappeared for two
more days, after which Tan reappeared alone, apparently in an equable
frame of mind, and satisfied that he had had his revenge. We never
discovered where the large dog came from. I can attest the truth of the
two stories.

          CECIL DOWNTON.


          [_July 10, 1887._]

Your dog-loving readers may be interested to hear that there is (or was
till lately) in South Africa a rival to the well-known Travelling Jack,
of Brighton line fame, after whom, indeed, he has been nicknamed by his

I was introduced to him eighteen months ago, on board the _Norham
Castle_, on a voyage from Cape Town to England--a voyage which this
distinguished Colonial traveller was making much against his will. He
was a black-and-tan terrier with a white chest, whose intellect had
therefore probably been improved by a dash of mongrelism, and I was told
that he belonged to a gentleman connected with the railway department
living at Port Elizabeth. It appears that it was Mr. Jack's habit
frequently to embark all by himself on board the mail steamer leaving
that place on Saturday afternoon, and make the trip round the coast to
Cape Town, arriving there on Monday morning. Where he "put up" I do not
know, but he used to stay there until Wednesday evening, when he would
calmly walk into the station, take his place in the train, and return to
Port Elizabeth in that way, thus completing his "circular tour" by a
railway journey of about eight hundred miles.

He was well known by the officers and sailors of the _Norham_, and her
commander, Captain Alexander Winchester (who can vouch for these facts),
told me that, as the dog seemed fond of the sea, he had determined to
give him a long voyage for a change, and had kept him shut up on board
during the ship's stay at Cape Town.

Jack was evidently very uneasy at being taken on beyond his usual port,
and he was on the point of slipping into a boat for the shore at
Madeira, probably with a view of returning to the Cape by the next
steamer, when I called the captain's attention to him, and he was
promptly shut up again. I said good-bye to him at Plymouth, and hope he
found his way home safely on the return voyage.


          [_June 23, 1894._]

I have read with much interest the stories in the _Spectator_ of the
sagacity of animals. The following, I think, is worth recording:--The
chief-engineer of the Midland and South-Western Junction Railway, Mr. J.
R. Shopland, C.E., has a spaniel that frequently accompanies him or his
sons to their office. On Saturday last this dog went to Marlborough from
Swindon by train with one of Mr. Shopland's clerks, and walked with him
to Savernake Forest. Suddenly the dog was missing. The creature had gone
back to the station at Marlborough and taken a seat in a second-class
compartment. The dog defied the efforts of the railway officials to
dislodge him. When the train reached Swindon he came out of the carriage
and walked quietly to his master's residence.

          SAMUEL SNELL.

          [_March 30, 1895._]

I was witness the other day of what I had only heard of before--a dog
travelling by rail on his own account. I got into the train at Uxbridge
Road, and, the compartment being vacant, took up the seat which I now
prefer--the corner seat at the entrance with the back to the engine.
Presently a whole crowd of ladies got in, and with them a dog, which I
supposed to belong to them. All the ladies except one got out at Addison
Road, and then the dog slunk across the carriage to just under my seat.
I asked my remaining fellow-passenger whether the dog was hers; she said
"No." No one got in before she herself got out at South Kensington,
where the dog remained perfectly quiet, but at Sloane Square a man was
let in, and out rushed the dog, the door actually grazing his sides. Had
he not taken up the precise place he did, he must have been shut in or
crushed. "That dog is a stowaway," I observed to the porter who had
opened the door. "I suppose he is," the man answered. The dog was making
the best of his way to the stairs. Clearly the dog meant to get out at
that particular station (he had had ample opportunity of getting out
both at Addison Road and South Kensington), and had, as soon as he
could, taken up the best position for doing so. How did he recognise the
Sloane Square Station, for he had had only those two opportunities of
glancing out? It seems to me it could only have been by counting the
stations, in which case he must be able to reckon up to five. The dog
was a very ordinary London cur, white and tan, of a greatly mixed Scotch
terrier stock, the long muzzle showing a greyhound cross. He was thin,
and apparently conscious of breaking the law, hiding out of sight, and
slinking along with his tail between his legs, and altogether not worth
stealing. I suppose that he had been transferred to a new home which had
proved uncongenial, and was slipping away, in fear and trembling, to his
old quarters.

          J. M. L.



          [_Sept. 1, 1883._]

A remarkable instance of the effect that can be produced upon a dog by
the human voice was related to me yesterday. Some of your correspondents
would consider it confirmatory of their notion that dogs have mind
enough to understand words; but I myself rather believe that the sound
of the voice acts upon the _feelings_ of dumb animals just as
instrumental music acts upon us. The story is as follows:--A clergyman
had for a long time a dog, and no other domestic animal. He and his
servant made a great pet of the dog. At last, however, the clergyman
took to keeping a few fowls, and the servant fed them. The dog showed
himself very jealous and out of humour at this, and when Sunday came
round, and he was left alone, he took the opportunity to _kill and bury_
two hens. A claw half-uncovered betrayed what he had done. His master
did not beat him, but took hold of him, and _talked_ to him, most
bitterly, most severely. "You've been guilty of the sin of murder,
sir,--and on the Sabbath day, too; and you, a clergyman's dog, taking a
mean advantage of my absence!" &c. He talked on and on for a long time,
in the same serious and reproachful strain. Early the next morning the
master had to leave home for a day or so; and he did so without speaking
a word of kindness to the dog, because he said he wished him to feel
himself in disgrace. On his return, the first thing he was told was,
"The dog is dead. He never ate nor drank after you had spoken to him; he
just lay and pined away, and he died an hour ago."

          L. G. GILLUM.


          [_Feb. 1, 1879._]

You have frequently published letters containing stories bearing on the
question of the moral nature and the future of the lower animals. I
venture to send you some facts about a dog, narrated to me by a lady,
whose name and address I enclose for your own satisfaction, and at my
request written down by her as follows--

"A young fox-terrier, about eight months old, took a great fancy to a
small brush, of Indian workmanship, lying on the drawing-room table. It
had been punished more than once for jumping on the table and taking it.
On one occasion, the little dog was left alone in the room accidentally.
On my return, it jumped to greet me as usual, and I said, 'Have you been
a good little dog while you have been left alone?' Immediately it put
its tail between its legs and slunk off into an adjoining room, and
brought back the little brush in its mouth from where it had hidden it.

"I was much struck with what appeared to me a remarkable instance of a
dog possessing a conscience, and a few months afterwards, finding it
again alone in the room, I asked the same question, while patting it. At
once I saw it had been up to some mischief, for with the same look of
shame it walked slowly to one of the windows, where it lay down, with
its nose pointing to a letter bitten and torn into shreds. On a third
occasion, it showed me where it had strewn a number of little tickets
about the floor, for doing which it had been reproved previously. I
cannot account for these facts, except by supposing the dog must have a

The conduct of this dog seems to me, sir, to exhibit something different
from fear of punishment, viz., a sense of shame, a remorse, a desire to
confess his fault, and even to expiate it by punishment, in order to
feel the guilt no longer. He rather sought punishment, than feared it.

          TH. HILL.


          [_April 24, 1875._]

I saw an anecdote in your paper the other week illustrative of the
sagacity of a dog. Kindly allow me to place upon record, as a kind of a
companion picture, an anecdote showing the _affection_ of one of the
canine species--a fine young retriever. For some weeks I have been
staying away from my house in the country, where is the fine young
retriever in question. Well, last week the household missed him for
hours, and began to think he was lost. Nothing of the kind, however. The
servant, happening to go up to my bedroom, found him with his head
resting on my pillow, moaning heavily, and it was only with great
difficulty that she could drive him away. Surely it is incidents such as
these that have made so many great men rail against humanity and uphold
their dog!

          WILL WILLIAMS.


          [_Sept. 15, 1894._]

As you sometimes admit anecdotes of animals into the _Spectator_,
perhaps you may consider the following fact worthy of record. In a hotel
where I am staying, being distressed by the cry of anguish of a dog
occasionally, I inquired the cause, and was told that whenever he
happens to be in the hall when luggage is brought down to go in the
omnibus, he utters these bitter cries, and has to be removed. His master
left him here many months ago, and the supposition is that the sight of
the luggage and omnibus recalls his loss; and is another instance of the
faithful affection of these half-human creatures.

          J. K.


          [_July 30, 1892._]

The article, "Animals in Sickness," in the _Spectator_ of July 23rd, has
reminded me of the following anecdote, which was told to me some years
ago by a butcher residing at Brodick, in the Isle of Arran. He told me
that he had had two collie dogs at the same time, one old and the other
young. The old dog became useless through age, and was drowned in the
sea at Brodick. A few days afterwards, its body was washed ashore, and
it was discovered by the young dog, who was seen immediately to go to
the butcher's shop and take away a piece of meat and lay it at the dead
dog's mouth. The young dog evidently thought that the meat would revive
his old comrade, and thereby showed remarkable sympathy in aid of, to
him, the apparent "weak."

          DAVID HANNAY.


          [_April 18, 1891._]

Possibly it is from an excess of the "maudlin sentimentality" of which
physiologists complain in those who protest against cruelty to animals,
that I find it almost painful to read such pathetic stories of dogs as
the one given by Miss Cobbe in the _Spectator_ of April 11th; for they
tell of such intelligence and devotion, that, remembering the inhuman
way in which our poor dogs are too often treated, we feel it would be
almost better if they lacked these human qualities.

The following is an anecdote of the same kind, that ever since I heard
it, I have been intending to send it to the _Spectator_. The servant-man
of one of my friends took a kitten to a pond with the intention of
drowning it. His master's dog was with him, and when the kitten was
thrown into the water, the dog sprang in and brought it back safely to
land. A second time the man threw it in, and again the dog rescued it;
and when for the third time the man tried to drown it, the dog, as
resolute to save the little helpless life as the man was to destroy it,
swam with it to the other side of the pool, running all the way home
with it, and safely depositing it before the kitchen fire; and "ever
after" they were inseparable, sharing even the same bed!

When not long ago I came across the noble sentiment that "hecatombs of
brutes should be tortured, if man thereby could be saved one pang," I
found myself dimly wondering what constituted a "brute." Certainly, in
the incident I have just given, the "brute" was not the dog!

          S. W.


          [_June 18, 1892._]

If you think this little anecdote of canine friendliness worthy of the
_Spectator_, will you insert it for me? Last week a sick dog took up its
abode in the field behind our house, and after seeing the poor thing
lying there for some time, I took it food and milk-and-water. The next
day it was still there, and when I was going out to feed it, I saw that
a small pug was running about it, so I took a whip out with me to drive
it away. The pug planted itself between me and the sick dog, and barked
at me savagely, but at last I drove it away, and again gave food and
milk-and-water to my _protegé_. The little pug watched me for a few
moments, and as soon as he felt quite assured that my intentions towards
the sick dog were friendly, it ran to me wagging its tail, leapt up to
my shoulder, and licked my face and hands, nor would it touch the water
till the invalid had had all it wanted. I suppose that it was satisfied
that its companion was in good hands, for it trotted happily away, and
did not appear upon the scene again.

          VIOLET DAVIES.


          [_Nov. 29, 1890._]

In your article on Mr. Nettleship's pictures of animals, you note the
delicacy of a dog that has been properly trained in the matter of taking
its food. My little dog is not only most dainty in that particular, but
strictly observes the courtesy, which is natural, not taught, of not
beginning his dinner (served on white napery that is never soiled) until
his master begins his own. No amount of coaxing on the part of the
ladies (they do not wait) will induce him to eat if I am late: he merely
consents to have his muzzle taken off, inspects his dinner, and then
seeks his master's room, where he waits to accompany him in orderly
fashion downstairs.

          C. HARPER.


          [_Dec. 12, 1891._]

I am not versed in dog-lore, and it may be that my love for the animal
makes me an ill judge of the importance of the following story; but a
friend vouches for its truth, and to my mind it has its importance, not
from its display of jealousy, but from the dog's deliberate acceptance
of the undoubtedly changed condition, and the clearly metaphysical
character of his motive.

The story is this. A young man had owned for some years a dog who was
his constant companion. Recently the young man married, and moved with
his bride and his dog into a house on the opposite side of the street
from his father's house, his own former home. The dog was not happy, for
the time and attention which had formerly been his was now given to the
young wife. In many ways he showed his unhappiness and displeasure, in
spite of the fact that the master tried to reconcile him and the bride
to win him. One day when the master came home, his wife sat on his
knee, while Jack was lying by the fire. He rose from his place, came
over to the couple, and expressed his disapproval. "Why, Jack," said the
master, "this is all right, she's a good girl," and as he spoke, he
patted her arm. Jack looked up at him, turned away, and left the room.
In a moment they heard a noise, and going into the hall, they found Jack
dragging his bed downstairs. When he reached the front door, he whined
to be let out, and when the door was opened, he dragged his bed down the
steps, across the street to his old home, where he scratched for
admittance. Since then he has never been back to his master, refusing
all overtures.



          [_Jan. 12, 1895._]

I was greatly interested in the story of the generosity shown by a dog,
as related in the _Spectator_ of January 5th, because of a similar case
within my own knowledge, and yet so different, as to prove that the
dispositions of animals are as varied as those of human beings. A friend
of mine had two fox-terriers, inseparable companions, and both equally
devoted to their mistress. On one occasion, when the family had been
away from home for some time, and were returning, one of these pets, not
being well, was brought back with its mistress, while the other was left
to follow with the horses, &c., and did not arrive for three days. On
entering the house, the dog had a very sullen appearance, took no notice
of any one, but searched everywhere till he found his companion; then
flew at his throat, and would have killed him but for timely succour!
Could any human being have indulged in a more rankling jealousy?

          E. A. K.


          [_Jan. 5, 1895._]

The following history of canine sympathy may interest your readers. I
was once the happy owner of a large and beautiful bull-terrier, Rose,
and at the same time of a still dearer, though less beautiful, little
mongrel, Fan, both passionately attached to a member of my household,
commonly called their best friend. A certain shawl belonging to this
adored friend was especially sacred in Fan's eyes. She never allowed any
one to touch it without remonstrance--Rose least of all--and when her
best friend was in bed, it was Fan's custom to ensconce herself in her
arms, and not to allow any dog, and only the most favoured of human
beings, to approach without violent growlings, if not worse. Fan was a
tiny grandmother who had long ruled the household; Rose, an
inexperienced newcomer. One day, in a fit of youthful folly, Rose jumped
over a gate and spiked herself badly, and was consigned for ten days to
the care of the veterinary surgeon. On her return, she was cordially
welcomed by Fan and myself; but when she rushed upstairs to the room of
her best friend (then confined to her bed), my mind forboded mischief.
We followed, and I opened the door. With one bound Rose flew into her
best friend's arms, taking Fan's very own place, and was lost in a
rapture of licking and being caressed. Fan flew after her, but to my
amazement, instead of the fury I expected, it was to join with heart and
tongue in the licking and caressing. She licked Rose as if she had been
a long-lost puppy, instead of an intruder; and then, of her own accord,
turned away, leaving Rose in possession, and took up a distant place on
the foot of the bed, appealing to me with an almost human expression of
mingled feelings--the heroic self-abnegation of new-born sympathy
struggling with natural jealousy. The better feelings triumphed (not, of
course, unsupported by human recognition and applause), till both dogs
fell asleep in their strangely reversed positions. After this, there was
a slight temporary failure in Fan's perhaps overstrained self-conquest;
but on the next day but one she actually, for the first (and last) time
in her life, made Rose welcome to a place beside her on the sacred
shawl; where again they slept side by side like sisters. This, however,
was the last gleam of the special sympathy called forth by Rose's
troubles. From that day Fan decidedly and finally resumed her jealous
occupation and guardianship of all sacred places and things, and
maintained it energetically to her life's end.

          C. E. S.



          [_Oct. 24, 1891._]

Dogs, as well as horses, can recognise tunes. Many years ago a friend,
during a short absence from our station on the Kurrumfooler, lent my
sister a pet dog. Cissie was constantly in the room while playing and
singing went on, without taking any notice; but whenever the temporary
mistress began singing one favourite song of the absent mistress's, the
dog would jump on a chair by her side with evident pleasure.

          O. H. G.

          [_Oct. 24, 1891._]

I have read with much interest your correspondent's letter on the
capability of animals to distinguish tunes. I had a small dog who, when
first I got him, would have howled incessantly during singing. This,
however, he was not allowed to do, except to one tune, which he soon
knew and always joined in, not attempting to "sing" other songs. We
tried every sort of experiment to see if he would recognise his own
tune, which he invariably did, and would whine if the air was hummed
quite quietly.

          C. F. HARRISON.

          [_Oct. 24, 1891._]

Anent "Orpheus at the Zoo," the following facts may interest you. Of two
dogs of mine, one showed a great fondness for music. She (though usually
my shadow) would always leave me to go to a room where a piano was being
played, and the more she liked the music, the closer she crept to the
player, even if a stranger to her. If, however, one began to play scales
or exercises, she would get up, walk to the door, sit down, and, after
waiting a bit, go away out of sight, but not out of hearing, for she
soon appeared again on the resumption of music to her taste. On the
other hand, mere "strumming" very quickly obliged her to go right away
out of hearing. I confess that I have many times plagued the poor dog
by thus sending her backwards and forwards. Her looks were often very
comical. The other dog evidently hated music--would try to push a player
from the piano, go out of hearing, and show other unmistakable signs of
dislike. A band would draw one dog out to listen, while the other rushed
away to hide. In one house the dog first mentioned had, for some reason
or other, a particular objection to the room where the piano was, and
never willingly stayed there. Music would bring her in, but only to sigh
and moan, evidently in great pity for herself at being obliged to listen
under such (to her) trying conditions. From these and other observations
I am convinced that there is the musical dog as well as the unmusical,
just as with human beings.



          [_May 5, 1894._]

In the _Spectator_ of April 21st there is an article on Apes, in which
the following occurs:--"Monkeys, we believe, alone among animals can
recognise the meaning of a picture." It may interest some of your
readers to hear that certain other animals can also do this, two
instances having come under my own observation. A cat belonging to a
little girl I know was on the child's bed one morning, and made a spring
at a picture of a thrush, about life-size, which was hanging near. The
other case is that of a dog--a female Irish terrier--who is in the habit
of running with her mistress's pony carriage. When she sees the pony
being harnessed, she often shows her delight by jumping up at its head
and barking. In a certain shop to which she sometimes goes with her
mistress there is a picture of a horse hanging. The dog invariably
behaves in exactly the same manner to this, jumping up and barking at
it, thus showing unmistakably that she recognises its meaning.

          JULIA ANDREWS.

          _May 19, 1894._

The following instance bears on the subject discussed in the _Spectator_
of May 5th. We had for a newcomer to our circle a little terrier dog. I
was informed it had been seen in the library facing a large-sized
portrait of myself, and barking furiously. I was somewhat sceptical
until a day or two later I saw it repeat the performance. I have
wondered whether it was because the dog thought it a good or bad
representation of the original, and so was complimenting or otherwise
the artist.

          FRANK WRIGHT.

          [_May 19, 1894._]

Apropos of the recognition of pictures by dogs (_Spectator_, May 5th), I
think you may be interested in the two following facts which came under
my notice a few years ago. A sagacious but quite uneducated old terrier
came with his master to call for me, and coiled himself on the hearthrug
while we talked. Turning himself round in the intervals of slumber, his
eye caught an oil-painting just over his head (a life-size half-length
of a gentleman). He immediately sat up, showed his teeth, and
growled--not once, but continually--as both angry and mortified that
neither eyes nor nose had given him notice of the arrival of a stranger!
The next instance was similar, except that the chief actor was a young,
intelligent collie, who, on the sudden discovery of a man looking at him
from the wall, barked long and furiously. In both instances, after their
excitement had subsided, I led the dogs to look at another picture
similar in size, and also of a gentleman, but neither of them would take
the smallest notice of it. I need only add that the picture which the
dogs appreciated was painted by Sir Henry Raeburn--the other was not.
Might not a few sagacious canine members be a useful addition to the
Royal Academy Hanging Committee?

          B. THOMSON.

          [_May 26, 1894._]

Many years ago I had a similar experience to Mr. Frank Wright. A
likeness of myself, head and shoulders, drawn in chalk from a
photograph, and enlarged to nearly life size, hung on the dining-room
wall of a house I then occupied. One evening my wife silently called my
attention to a young English terrier, who had not been very long with
us, looking up at it very steadfastly. He regarded it for about a minute
in silence, and at last broke out into a loud bark, which I supposed to
mean that in his opinion the wall was not my proper place, and that only
an evil genius could have set anything like me in such a position.


          [_June 2, 1894._]

You were so good as to insert my little account of the politeness of a
parrot in the _Spectator_, will you now allow me also to bear witness to
the recognition of a likeness by a dog? Some time ago I was painting two
portraits in the country, and one day by chance I placed the picture of
my hostess on the ground. Immediately her old spaniel came and gazed
intently at the face for several seconds. Then he smelt at the canvas,
and, unsatisfied, walked round and investigated the back. Finally,
having discovered the deception, he turned away in manifest disgust, and
nothing that we could do or say, on that day or on any other, would
induce that dog to look at that picture again. We then tried him by
putting my portrait of his master also on the ground, but he simply gave
it a kind of casual contemptuous side-glance and took no further notice
of it. We attributed this not to any difference in the merits or
demerits of the two portraits, but simply to the fact that the dog felt
he had been deceived once, but was not to be so taken in again.



          [_Sept. 7, 1889._]

Thirty years ago I was staying at Langley, near Chippenham, with a lady
who was working a large screen, on which she depicted in "raised" work
(as it was then called) a life-sized cat on a cushion. The host, a
sportsman now dead, was much struck with the similarity to life of the
cat, so he fetched his dog (alas! like too many of the species), a
cat-hater. The animal made a dead set at the (wool) cat, and but for the
master's vigorous clutching him by the collar, the cushion would have
been torn into atoms. I related this tale lately in Oxford, and my
hearer told me that a friend in the Bevington Road had just painted a
bird on a fire-screen, and her cat flew at it.

My own old dog, Scaramouch (a pet of the Duke of Albany's in his
undergraduate days), disliked being washed, and when I showed him a
large _Graphic_ picture of a child scrubbing a fox-terrier in a tub, he
turned his head away ruefully, and would not look at his brother in

          J. M. HULBERT.



          [_Feb. 16, 1889._]

The following story of friendship between two dogs may, I think,
interest some of your readers. Some time ago I used often to stay with a
friend in Wiltshire, whose park is separated from the house by a lake
which is about a hundred and fifty yards broad at the narrowest part.
Being extremely fond of animals, I soon became intimate with two
delightful dogs belonging to my hostess, a large collie, called Jasper,
and a rough Skye terrier, Sandie. The pair were devoted friends, if
possible always went out together, and, sad to relate, even poached
together. One afternoon I called them, as usual, to go for a walk, and
making my way to the lake, I determined to row across and wander about
in the deer-park. Without thinking of my two companions, I got into the
boat and pushed off. Jasper at once jumped into the water and gaily
followed the boat; half way across he and I were both startled by
despairing howls, and stopping to look back, we saw poor little Sandie
running up and down the bank, and bitterly bewailing the cruelty of his
two so-called friends in leaving him behind. Hardening my heart, I sat
still in silence, and simply watched. Jasper was clearly distressed; he
swam round the boat, and looking up into my face, said unmistakably with
his wise brown eyes, "Why don't you go to the rescue?" Seeing, however,
that I showed no signs of intelligence, he made up his mind to settle
the difficulty himself, so turned and swam back to forlorn little
Sandie; there was a moment's pause, I suppose for explanations, and
then, to my surprise and amusement, Jasper stood still, half out and
half in the water, and Sandie scrambled on to his back, his front paws
resting on Jasper's neck, who swam across the lake and landed him safely
in the deer-park! I need not describe the evident pride of the one, or
the gratitude of the other.




          [_Feb. 23, 1889._]

Your correspondent "Roy's" very interesting account of "A Canine
Friendship" tempts me to send you the following about two Dandy Dinmonts
in this neighbourhood.

Friends of mine in Dumfriesshire had in their house two Dandie Dinmont
dogs who were inseparable friends and constant companions in all that
was going on. One day one of these dogs disappeared unaccountably, and
nothing was seen of it for a week. His owners were very vexed, thinking
he must have got within the range of some keeper's gun or met with some
other accident.

But the absentee's home-keeping companion was greatly distressed; he
moped about, and would not touch any food for several days; till,
unexpectedly on my friend's part, the truant suddenly reappeared and
showed himself in the house. The dog who had remained at home, when he
saw the arrival of his former friend, looked steadily at him for a few
seconds, and then, without further parley, went at him and gave the
truant a thoroughly sound thrashing. I always explain this to myself by
supposing that the home-keeping dog decided that the truant had caused
him for several days needless anxiety and abstinence from food, and that
the truant must learn by painful experience that such behaviour could
not be lightly condoned by his inseparable companion.

          J. G.


          [_July 31, 1875._]

I have lately heard a story that I hope you may think worthy of a place
among your illustrations of the thoughtful intelligence of "Conscious
Automata." Many years ago, a family having a house in Grosvenor Square,
and a place in the country (I think in Warwickshire), owned a terrier,
who, in the country, made great friends with a large Newfoundland. When
they came to town they brought the terrier, and he resided in a mews
where he was much annoyed by a cur who lived next door, and attacked him
whenever he came out. One day the terrier disappeared, but after a
little time returned, bringing with him his big friend, who gave the
vulgar bully a satisfactory thrashing--not attempting to kill him. This
has been told me by an old servant, who was then a young man, living in
service in London, close to the owners of the dogs. He answers for the
facts of the story as he heard them at the time.

          F. C.


          [_Sept. 22, 1888._]

The _Spectator_ does not disdain anecdotes of dogs and their doings, and
I think the following history, to which I can bear personal testimony,
may be found not uninteresting to your readers. At this delightful house
in Perthshire, where I am on a visit, there is a well-bred pointer,
named Fop, who, when not engaged in his professional pursuits on the
moor, lives chiefly in a kennel placed in a loose-box adjoining the
other stables attached to the house. Nearly a year ago there were a pair
of pigeons who lived in and about the stable yard. One of the birds
died, and its bereaved mate at once attached itself for society and
protection to the dog, and has been its constant companion ever since.
On the days when the sportsmen are not seeking grouse the dog is in his
kennel, and the pigeon is always his close attendant. She roosts on a
rack over the manger of the stable, and in the day-time is either
strutting about preening her feathers, taking her meals from the dog's
biscuit and water tin, or quite as often sitting in the kennel by his
side, nestling close to him. Fop, who is an amiable and rather
sentimental being, takes no apparent notice of his companion, except
that we observe him, in jumping into or out of his kennel while the
pigeon is there, to take obvious care not to crush or disturb her in any
way. The only other symptom Fop has shown of being jealous for the
pigeon's comfort and convenience is that when of late two chickens from
the stable-yard wandered into the apartment where the dog and pigeon
reside, he very promptly bit their heads off, as if in mute intimation
that one bird is company, and two (or rather three) are none.

The story is rather one of a pigeon than a dog, for it is quite evident
that she is the devoted friend, and that he acquiesces in the
friendship. On the days when Fop is taken, to his infinite delight, on
to the moor, the pigeon is much concerned. She follows him as far as she
dare, taking a series of short flights over his head, until a little
wood is reached, through which the keeper and dogs have to take their
way. At this point her courage fails her, and she returns to the stable,
to wait hopefully for her comrade's return.

This singular alliance is a great joy and interest to the keepers,
coachmen, and grooms of the establishment, and as the keeper gave me a
strong hint that the story ought to be told in print, adding that he had
seen much less noteworthy incidents of animal life promoted to such
honour, I have ventured to send it to you. I may add that the pigeon is
of the kind called "Jacobin," and is white, with a black wing. Is there
any precedent for such close intimacies between animals so widely
separated in kind and habit?

          ALFRED AINGER.


          [_Sept. 29, 1888._]

In reply to Mr. Ainger's question as to there being "any precedent for
such close intimacies between animals so widely separated in kind and
habit" as the dog and pigeon mentioned in his interesting letter, I can
mention two cases which have come under my notice this last summer at my
farm in Berkshire. In one case the friendship existed between a pullet
and a pig. The pullet never left the farmyard to join in the rambles of
the other fowls, but kept near the pig all day, occasionally roosting on
its friend's back when taking its afternoon nap.

The other case was more remarkable. A hen, with strong motherly
instincts, but no family of her own, acted for several weeks as
foster-mother to eight spaniel puppies. The real mother, a very gentle
creature, soon acquiesced in the arrangement. The hen covered the
puppies with her wings just as though they had been chickens, and
remained with them day and night. When they began to walk she was still
their constant attendant; when they learned to lap and eat a little she
would "call" them and break up their food. As they grew older the poor
foster-mother had her patience sorely tried. They barked and capered
around her, leading her altogether a sad life. After the puppies
deserted her she was often seen sitting close to their mother, the pair
apparently quite understanding each other. My children were naturally
delighted to watch these strange sights, and the hen, though not at
other times very tame, maintained perfect equanimity while they played
with the puppies around her.

          F. C. MAXWELL.


          [_Sept. 29, 1888._]

Mr. Ainger, in giving his interesting incident of strange friendships
between animals, asks if there are any precedents for such incongruous
intimacy as he saw between a dog and a pigeon. To most close observers
of animals, such curious cases, though always noteworthy, are well
known; naturalists like Buckland and many others have frequently
recorded them.

With the view of adding to the lore on this matter, permit me to cite
the following. Two Scotch terriers are lying before the fire. Prince is
an amiable sort of dog; Jack is rather surly; both good vermin-killers
and fond of hunting. I bring in a common buck rabbit, and place it
beside the dogs, with the intimation they were not to touch it. Trust,
and then alliance, quickly grew between it and Prince, whilst Jack shows
unmistakable hatred. In a few days the two friends, with their paws
absurdly clasping each other's necks, sleep happily on the rug; they
play together, they chase each other up and down the stairs and all over
the house at full speed, and when tired come back to the rug. Jack
refusing all this sort of thing, makes the rabbit look at him with a
sort of awe. Does Bunny make no mess in the house? None whatever; he
goes into the garden as the dogs do, and like them, scratches at the
door when he wants to return. All this he does without any instruction
from us. After a while, being very fond of him, we put on the floor a
pretty pink-eyed doe as a present. He stares, sniffs her all over, kills
her on the spot, and goes for a romp with his dear Prince. Jack always
sleeps under my bed from choice, and just before I put out the light as
I lie, stands up against the bed for his last pat and "good-night."
Bunny has observed all this, and quietly creeps into the room, which he
refuses to leave; then likewise always asks for his "good-night," and
sleeps somewhere near his great "ideal."

Another instance, published in "Loch Creran" by my friend Mr. Anderson
Smith. I punished my cat for killing a chicken. The next day he is seen
to carry a live chicken in his mouth and lay it down to the hen he had
previously robbed. He and the chicken afterwards were frequently
observed leaving the orchard together, and travelling through the
courtyard and back passages, find their way to the kitchen fireplace,
where they would sleep in good fellowship. This chicken, I discovered,
had been stolen nearly two miles away. It is important to remark that
the cat, though a cruel bird-killer, never touched another chicken. Was
the idea of compensation in the cat's mind? If not that, all the
circumstances are singularly coincident. And why did the chicken prefer
the cat's companionship to that of its fellows?

          E. W. PHIBBS.


          [_Oct. 6, 1888._]

Mr. Ainger's letter in the _Spectator_ of September 22nd reminds me of
an almost identical friendship that existed some years ago at Grove
House, Knutsford. A long-haired mastiff was kept chained as a watch-dog,
and when a white fantail pigeon's mate died, it attached itself to the
mastiff, and was continually with it in the kennel. When the dog had its
breakfast of porridge and milk, the pigeon would eat out of the bowl at
the same time; and when the dog had finished, it would lie flat on its
side while the pigeon perched on its head and pecked off the grains of
oatmeal that stuck to the long hair round its mouth. The only danger to
the pigeon seemed to be that when the dog rushed out of the kennel
suddenly to bark, it seemed to forget the pigeon, and we used to fear
that the heavy chain might hurt it; but it never was hurt. This
friendship lasted many years, till one of the two, I forget which, died.



          [_July 1, 1893._]

The following story may, perhaps, interest some of your readers:--Willie
is a small, rough-haired terrier, a truculent and aggressive character,
the terror of tramps, in a skirmish with one of whom he has lost an
eye. He rules the kitchen with a rod of iron, the inmate there admiring
and fearing him. Next to tramps, Willie hates cats; he has been flogged
again and again for chasing the neighbour's "Tom"; nothing can stop him
rushing at the alien cat, however. But for his own domestic "Tabby" he
has tolerance and a certain amount of affection; if another dog were to
attack her, dire would be the warfare. A while ago, this cat had three
kittens; two were taken by the maid and placed in a bucket of water, and
left to their fate. Before that fate had come Willie perceived them; he
snatched them from the bucket one by one, and carried them to his
kennel. The maid attempted to get them away, but Willie flew at her with
fury, and then returned to lick first one and then the other, to shove
them up together, and lie down near them, and in every way to give the
poor half-dead things a chance. This went on for some time; but when at
last there was no sign of breath, and he saw that they were hopelessly
dead, he marched out of the kennel, shook himself, and indicated to the
maid that she might now proceed to bury them, that they were past
intelligent treatment. He treats the remaining and living kitten with
the indifference of the scientific for the normal.

          L. H.


          [_May 18, 1895._]

Being a frequent reader of anecdotes of the sagacity of animals in your
paper, I think you may consider the following trait of character in a
dog worthy of notice. Jack, a rough-haired fox-terrier of quiet
disposition, but a good ratter, and an inveterate enemy to strange or
neighbouring cats, of whom, to my sorrow, he has slain at least one,
became without effort the attached friend of a minute kitten introduced
into the house last November. This friendship has been continued without
intermission, and is reciprocated by the now full-grown cat. She,
unfortunately, got caught in a rabbit-trap not long ago, but escaped
with no further injury than a lacerated paw, which for some time caused
her much pain and annoyance. Every morning Jack was to be seen tenderly
licking the paw of the interesting invalid, to which kind nursing no
doubt her rapid recovery may be attributed; and though she is now more
than convalescent and able to enjoy her usual game of play, he still
greets her each morning with a gentle inquiring lick on the injured paw,
just to see if it is all right, before proceeding to roll her over in
their accustomed gambols. This seems to me a marked instance of
individual affection overcoming race-antipathy.



          [_Feb. 6, 1875._]

I have two dogs, two cats, and a kitten. Many years of experience have
shown me, in the teeth of all proverbs, that cats and dogs, members of
the same household, live together quite as amicably as human beings.

Only, like human beings, they have their dislikes and preferences for
each other. At the present time, my dog Snow is on terms of hearty
friendship with my grey cat Kitty, but of polite indifference with my
black cat Toppy.

Toppy, for some years back, has been subject to fits, owing, it is
considered, to the lodgment of some small shot near her spine, whilst
out trespassing (or poaching).

Yesterday Snow rushed into the kitchen with face so anxious and piteous
that my servants both exclaimed that something must have happened; gave
signs, as he can do, that somebody was to go with him, and was followed
into the drawing-room, where Toppy, left alone, had fallen under the
grate in a fit, and was writhing amid the ashes and embers. She was
rescued, and beyond a little singeing, does not seem much the worse.

To reach the kitchen, Snow must have pushed open a red-baize door, which
he has never been known to open before, and before which he will stay
barking for ten minutes at a time to be let through.

If any biped, supposing himself to be endowed with reason, humanity, and
articulate speech, tells me that Snow is a conscious automaton, can I
give him any other answer than, "You're another"?

          J. M. L.


          [_Nov. 6, 1880._]

I have read from time to time in the pages of the _Spectator_ instances
of canine sagacity furnished by your correspondents, which have, no
doubt, interested many others besides myself. The following incident
occurred last Saturday, in my walk from the beach, which, perhaps, may
amuse your readers, as it did me.

My curiosity was excited by seeing a young retriever on his hind legs
licking very ardently the face of a nice-looking donkey, who was
tethered on the bank. After licking his face all over for a long time,
he began to frisk around him, evidently anxious to have a trot together;
but, finding that his friend was tied by a rope, he deliberately began
to gnaw it, and in a very short time succeeded in setting him free! The
owner of the donkey, who happened to be at work close by, then
interfered, and put a stop to their little game, or otherwise Master
Neddy would, no doubt, have been seduced to join in a scamper. From the
warmth of the dog's salutes, I imagine that he and the donkey were old

          S. RICHARDS.


          [_Nov. 20, 1880._]

I was much interested in the account of the friendship that existed
between the young retriever and the donkey whom he released by gnawing
the rope. The little incident I send of another retriever may also
interest your readers. A friend of mine had a pet canary, while her
brother was the owner of a retriever that was also much petted. One day
the canary escaped from the house, and was seen flying about the grounds
for a few days, and when it perched was generally on high elm-trees. At
last it vanished from view, and this dear little pet was mourned for as
lost or dead. But after the interval of another day or so, the
retriever came in with the canary in his mouth, carrying it most
delicately, and went up to the owner of the bird, delivering it into her
hands without even the feathers being injured. Surely nothing could
illustrate more beautifully faithful love and gentleness in a dog than

          E. TILL.


          [_April 13, 1878._]

Would you allow me, as a cat fancier of nearly thirty years' standing,
to corroborate, by a personal experience, Mr. Balfour's testimony in
your last issue to the possibility of a genuine attachment between a cat
and a dog? A few weeks ago, I called upon a bachelor friend who has two
pets, a handsome black female cat, of the name of Kate, and a bright
little terrier, responding to the call of David. My friend assured me
that they lived on the most affectionate terms. They were certainly not
demonstrative, but they were importations from Scotland, and refrained
from "spooning" before folk. The character of the attachment was soon
tested. Another acquaintance entered the room, accompanied by a terrier
of about the same size as David, although not of the same variety. This
dog made at once for the cat, then resting in front of the fire. She
backed against the wall, and prepared for a fight, in which, if I may
judge from her size, she would have been victorious. But she was saved
the trouble of using her claws. Before she could utter a feline
equivalent for "Jack Robinson," before the door could be closed, David
rushed at the intruder, and literally ran him out of the room and down
two flights of stairs, with a rapidity worthy of a member of the Irish
Constabulary. By the time he returned, his Dulcinea had arranged herself
for another nap, but she opened one eye as her companion took his place
by his side, and--

    "Betwixt her darkness and his brightness,
    There passed a mutual glance of great politeness."

I witnessed a similar scene some years ago in a country inn in the north
of Scotland. On that occasion, one dog defended against another a
favourite cat and a favourite hen.

Speaking of cats, can any one say what has become of the late Pope's
black cat, Morello? Did he die before his master, or has some one
adopted him? Châteaubriand, as everybody knows, adopted Micetto, the
grey favourite of Leo XII.




          [_Feb. 2, 1895._]

Knowing your love of animals, and the interest so often shown in your
columns in their ways, I venture to send you the following story I have
lately heard from an eye-witness, and to ask whether you or any of your
readers can throw any light upon the dog's probable object. The dog in
question was a Scotch terrier. He was one day observed to appear from a
corner of the garden carrying in his mouth, very gently and tenderly, a
live frog. He proceeded to lay the frog down upon a flower-bed, and at
once began to dig a hole in the earth, keeping one eye upon the frog to
see that it did not escape. If it went more than a few feet from him, he
fetched it back, and then continued his work. Having dug the hole a
certain depth, he then laid the frog, still alive, at the bottom of it,
and promptly scratched the loose earth back into the hole, and friend
froggy was buried alive! The dog then went off to the corner of the
garden, and returned with another frog, which he treated in the same
way. This occurred on more than one occasion; in fact, as often as he
could find frogs he occupied himself in burying them alive. Now dogs
generally have some reason for what they do. What can have been a dog's
reason for burying frogs alive? It does not appear that he ever dug them
up again to provide himself with a meal. If, sir, you or any of your
readers can throw any light on this curious, and for the frogs most
uncomfortable, behaviour of my friend's Scotch terrier, I should be very
much obliged.

          R. ACLAND-TROYTE.


          [_Feb. 9, 1895._]

I think I can explain the puzzle of the Scotch terrier and his interment
of the frogs, for the satisfaction of your correspondent. A friend of
mine had once a retriever who was stung by a bee, and ever afterwards,
when the dog found a bee near the ground, she stamped on it, and then
scraped earth over it and buried it effectually--presumably to put an
end to the danger of further stings. In like manner, another dog having
bitten a toad, showed every sign of having found the mouthful to the
last degree unpleasant. Probably Mr. Acland-Troyte's dog had, in the
same way, bitten a toad, and conceived henceforth that he rendered
public service by putting every toad-like creature he saw carefully and
gingerly "out of harm's way," underground.

A great number of the buryings and other odd tricks of dogs must,
however, I am sure, be considered as Atavism, and traced to the
instincts bequeathed by their remote progenitors when yet "wild in the
woods the noble _beastie_ ran." Such, I believe, is generally admitted
to be the explanation of the universal habit of every dog before lying
down to turn round two or three times and scratch its intending
bed--even when that bed is of the softest woollen or silk--apparently to
ascertain that no snakes or thorns lurk in its sleeping-place.

A dog which I once possessed exhibited such reversion to ancestral
habits in a noteworthy way. She was a beautiful white Pomeranian; and
when a litter of puppies was impending, on one occasion she scratched an
enormous hole in our back-garden in South Kensington, where her leisure
hours were passed--a hole like the burrow of a fox. It was not in the
least of the character of the ordinary circular punch-bowl so often
scooped out by idle or impatient dogs, but a long, deep channel running
at a sharp angle a considerable way underground. Obviously, it was
Yama's conviction that it was her maternal duty to provide shelter for
her expected offspring, precisely as a fox or rabbit must feel it, and
as we may suppose her own ancestresses did on the shores of the Baltic
some thousand generations ago. When the puppies were born, Yama and the
survivor were established by me in a most comfortable kennel in the same
garden, with a day nursery and a night nursery (covered and open) for
the comfort and safety of the puppy. But one fine morning, when the
little creature had begun to crawl over the inclosure of its small
domain, I happened to go into the garden while Yama was absent in the
house, and discovered that my little friend was missing. The puppy had
disappeared altogether; and at the same time I noticed that the
flower-bed in which Yama had made her excavation had been nicely
smoothed over by the gardener, who was putting the place in order. A
suspicion instantly seized me, and I exclaimed, "You have buried my
puppy!" I ran to the spot where the hole had been made, and, having
swept aside the gardener's spadeful of soil, found the deeper part of
the hole, running slanting underground, still open. I knelt down and
thrust in my arm to its fullest stretch, and then, at the very end of
the hole, my fingers encountered a little soft, warm, fluffy ball. The
puppy came out quite happy and uninjured, freshly awakened from sleep,
having shown that his instinct recognised the suitability of holes in
the ground for the accommodation of puppies; just as the hereditary
instinct of his mother had led her to prepare one for him, even in a
South Kensington garden!



          [_Feb. 16, 1895._]

I knew a dog in Ireland--a large retriever--who had been taught always
to bring his own tin dish in his mouth, to be filled at the late dinner.
For some reason his master wished to make a change, and to feed him
twice a day instead of once, to which he had always been accustomed. The
dog resented this, and when told to bring his dish, refused, and it
could nowhere be found; on which his master spoke angrily to him, and
ordered him to bring the dish at once. With drooping tail and sheepish
expression he went down the length of the garden, and began scratching
up the soil where he had buried the bowl deep down, to avoid having to
bring it at an hour of which he did not approve.

          A LOVER OF DOGS.


          [_June 23, 1894._]

You are fond of odd actions of dogs, so perhaps the following may be
acceptable. I have two fox-terriers--young dogs--Grip and Vic. In the
morning, at early tea in our bedroom, Vic gets angry with Grip's
reflection in the long glass of the wardrobe, barks at him furiously as
he moves about, and scratches at the glass, quite regardless of her own
face between her and his reflection. And when he assaults her from
behind, to make her play with his real self, she turns round and snaps
at him viciously, and then returns to her attack on his reflection. He
jumps upon the window-sill, and fancies he sees a squirrel in the
garden, and dashes past her to the door; she follows the motion of the
reflection till she is past the edge of the glass, and loses it, when
she dashes back to the glass again. This has occurred several days in
the last week, and seems to me almost absurd. The dogs are just about a
year old, and so beyond puppy folly, though very lively and playful

          A. M. B.




          [_Oct. 22, 1882._]

The following anecdote may interest those of your readers who are
accustomed to observe the characteristic actions of dogs. I can vouch
for its accuracy, as I was an amused eye-witness, and several members of
my family were also present, and have often told the story.

A friend of ours and his wife were spending a musical evening with us,
and an old, black, English terrier, who belonged to the house, had been
in the drawing-room, which was upstairs. The dog had been kindly noticed
by our friend, who was partially lame from paralysis. On leaving the
drawing-room the dog followed him to the top of the staircase (we, with
his wife, were waiting below in the hall), and with cocked tail and
ears stood gravely watching his slow, limping descent. When the invalid
was nearly at the foot of the stairs the dog began to follow, limping on
three legs (he was quite sound), in humorous imitation of our poor,
afflicted friend, and this assumed lameness was gravely kept up till he
arrived on the mat. It was impossible to repress a smile, though our
politeness was at stake, and the unconsciousness of our friend added to
the difficulty.

          A. R.


          [_July 28, 1888._]

A recent anecdote from one of your correspondents about a dog and a hen
brought to my mind an incident, related to me by an eye-witness, of a
dog who had a constant feud with the fowls, which were prone to pilfer
from the basin containing his dinner. On one occasion he was lying in
front of his kennel, quietly watching a hen as she made stealthy and
tentative approaches to his basin, which at length she reached and
looked into, finding it perfectly empty. The dog wagged his tail.

          J. R.


          [_March 9, 1895._]

Does the following dog-story show a sense of humour? A retriever was in
the habit of leaving his bed in the kitchen when he heard his master
descending the stairs in the morning. On one occasion a new kitchen-maid
turned him out of his bed at a much earlier hour than usual. He looked
angrily at her, but walked out quietly. Time passed, and he was nowhere
to be found. At last, in going to her bedroom, the kitchen-maid found
him coiled up in her own bed.

          B. B.



          [_May 18, 1889._]

You have lately published several dog stories. Allow me to send you
another for publication should you think it worthy. It was told me
to-day by a lady whom I cross-examined to get full details:--"Some
twenty years back we had a poodle--white, with one black ear. After the
manner of his race, he was never quite happy unless he carried something
in his mouth. He was intelligent and teachable to the last degree. The
great defect in his character was the impossibility of distinguishing
_meum_ from _tuum_. Anything he could get hold of he seemed to think,
according to his dogged ethics, to be fairly his own. On one occasion he
entered the room of one of the maidservants and stole her loaf of bread,
carefully shutting the door after him with his feet--the latter part
being a feat I had taught him. The woman--Irish--was scared, and thought
that the dog was the devil incarnate. The necessity of discipline on
the one hand, and of occupation on the other, induced me one day to
enter a saddler's shop, situated in a straight street about half a mile
from our house, and buy a whip. Shortly after my return home he
committed some act of petty larceny, so I gave him a beating with the
whip he had carried home. Going for a walk next day the dog, as usual,
accompanied me, and was entrusted with the whip to carry. Directly we
got outside the door he started off at his best pace straight down the
street, paying no attention whatever, to my repeated calls. He entered
the saddler's shop and deposited the whip on the floor. When I arrived
the saddler showed me the whip lying exactly where the dog had deposited

          HENRY H. MAXWELL.


          [_March 21, 1885._]

A story which came to my knowledge a few months ago may be of interest
in connection with the _Spectator's_ series of anecdotes illustrating
the intelligence of animals.

One summer afternoon a group of children were playing at the end of a
pier which projects into Lake Ontario, near Kingston, New York, U.S.A.
The proverbial careless child of the party made the proverbial backward
step off from the pier into the water. None of his companions could save
him, and their cries had brought no one from the shore, when, just as he
was sinking for the third time, a superb Newfoundland dog rushed down
the pier into the water and pulled the boy out. Those of the children
who did not accompany the boy home took the dog to a confectioner's on
the shore, and fed him with as great a variety of cakes and other sweets
as he would eat. So far the story is, of course, only typical of scores
of well-known cases. The individuality of this case is left for the

The next afternoon the same group of children were playing at the same
place, when the canine hero of the day before came trotting down to them
with the most friendly wags and nods. There being no occasion this time
for supplying him with delicacies, the children only stroked and patted
him. The dog, however, had not come out of pure sociability. A child in
the water and cakes and candy stood to him in the close and obvious
relation of cause and effect, and if this relation was not clear to the
children he resolved to impress it upon them. Watching his chance, he
crept up behind the child who was standing nearest to the edge of the
pier, gave a sudden push, which sent him into the water, then sprang in
after him, and gravely brought him to shore.

To those of us who have had a high respect for the disinterestedness of
dogs, this story may give a melancholy proof that the development of the
intelligence, at the expense of the moral nature, is by no means
exclusively human.

          CLARA FRENCH.


          [_Feb. 9, 1895._]

Your fondness for dogs induces me to send you the following anecdote,
which shows their power of acting a part for purposes of their own. Some
years ago a fox-terrier of mine was condemned by a veterinary surgeon to
consume a certain amount of flour of sulphur every day. He was at all
times a fanciful and dainty feeder, and every conceivable ingenuity on
my part was exhausted in the vain endeavour to disguise the daily
portion and to give it a more tempting appearance. Each new device was
invariably detected. However hungry he might be he turned from the
proffered morsel in disgust, and it ended almost invariably in my having
to put it down his throat. One morning, after keeping him for many hours
without food, and having neatly wrapped the powder in a most appetising
piece of raw meat, I offered it him in the vain hope that hunger might
prevail over prejudice. But no. With averted head and downcast look he
steadily and determinedly declined to partake of it. I encouraged him in
vain. Deep dejection on his part; despair, but persistence, on mine. All
of a sudden his whole manner changed. He assumed a brisk and cheerful
demeanour, joyfully accepted the hitherto rejected offering, and running
merrily through the open door, disappeared swiftly a few yards off round
the corner of the building. Inside the room I ran as quickly to a
window, whence I could view his proceedings, and there watched him while
he deposited the hated morsel on the ground, dug a hole in the
flower-bed, and buried it. His jaunty, triumphant air as he returned I
shall never forget.

          F. E. WYNNE.



          [_July 15, 1892._]

Having read for years your interesting letters and articles on animals
in the _Spectator_, I feel sure you will like to have a thoroughly
authentic account of a dog in this neighbourhood. I am allowed to give
the name of the owner, who is living at Lyme Regis, where I was staying
last week. The two incidents happened within a few weeks of each other.

Mrs. and Miss Coode were alone in their house (except the servants); and
one night Miss Coode was awakened by hearing two knocks at her door and
a slight whine. It was between three and four o'clock in the morning.
She rose and opened the door to find the dog there, and at the same time
noticed and heard a stream of water running down the stairs. She went up
the staircase to its source, and aroused the servants to attend to it.
As soon as the dog saw that the matter was being remedied, he quietly
went back to the mat in the hall and went to sleep again. The dog is a
large one, a cross between a retriever and a greyhound--a very beautiful
creature, resembling a poacher's lurcher.

The second incident occurred only last week, when Miss Coode was again
aroused. This time by a loud crash, as if a picture had fallen. Almost
immediately the dog bounded upstairs, threw himself against the door,
which happened to be ajar, burst into the room, panting and eyes
glistening,--this, at least, Miss Coode saw as soon as she struck a
light, for it was between twelve and one o'clock. She went out on to the
staircase and downstairs to look at the pictures in the drawing-room.
The dog would not follow. The cook, coming down from her room, called
him a coward not to go with his mistress, but Sheppard did not move.
Miss Coode found all safe below, and returned upstairs, and the dog went
with her to the top floor, where the ceiling of a small room had fallen
in. He then retired to his mat, having done his duty. He also showed his
sagacity in going to the daughter's room--the one most capable of seeing
to matters. Hoping, as a dog-lover, that this may interest all such, and
help to prove that dogs think and reason more than some human
beings--also to show that we often inferior beings have no right to
presuppose that the superior animals have no souls.

          K. CLARKE.


          [_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.


          [_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 _homo 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

          C. A. T.

          [_Aug. 12, 1893._]

Not long ago I was passing 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, shaggy 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.


          [_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."



          [_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.



          [_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
institutions. 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 Saturday 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 Saturday. 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.


          [_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 butting 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.


          [_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 noble creature
that we have both, since then, been very loath to class dogs as
"inferior animals."



          [_Feb. 2, 1895._]

Having derived much pleasure from reading the frequent natural history
notes which from time to time appear in the _Spectator_, I venture to
send you two instances of what seems to me the working of the canine
mind under quite different circumstances. The first refers to an
incident which happened a great many years ago. It was this. One day,
when a lad, I was walking with my father accompanied by a strong,
smooth-haired retriever called Turk. We were joined by the bailiff of
the farm, and in the course of our walk Turk suddenly discovered the
presence of a rabbit concealed in what in Scotland is called a
"dry-stane dyke." After a little trouble in removing some stones, poor
bunny was caught and slaughtered, being handed to the bailiff, who put
it in his coat pocket. Shortly afterwards we separated, the bailiff
going to his home in one direction, and we to ours in an opposite one.
Before we reached home we noticed that Turk was no longer with us, at
which we were rather surprised, as he was a very faithful follower. Some
time after we got home, perhaps an hour, I chanced to see a strange
object on the public road which puzzled me as to what it was. It raised
a cloud of dust as it came along, which partly obscured the vision. What
was my surprise when I found it was Turk dragging a man's
shooting-jacket, which proved to be the bailiff's, with the rabbit still
in the pocket. We afterwards learnt that the dog, to the surprise of the
bailiff, quietly followed him home, and lay down near him. Presently the
man took off his coat, and laid it on a chair. Instantly Turk pounced
upon it, and dashed to the door with it in his mouth. He was pursued,
but in vain, and succeeded in dragging the coat from the one house to
the other, a distance of one mile and three-fourths. It was evident the
dog had a strong sense of the rights of property. He believed the rabbit
belonged to his master, so he set himself to recover what he thought
stolen goods.

The other anecdote refers to quite a recent date, and the only interest
it has, is that it shows how perfectly a dog can exhibit facial
expression, and also read at a glance the slightest indications of
feeling in the human face. I had a well-broken Irish setter, which was
perfectly free of hare or rabbit as to chasing, but he was a sad rascal
for all that. I also had at the time a rough Scotch terrier, and the two
dogs were great chums. The moment they got the chance they were off
together on a rabbit-hunt. Like idiots, they would spend hours in vainly
trying to dig rabbits out of their burrows. One day as I was returning
home I met the pair in the avenue. They were the very picture of
happiness. At first they did not see me, and came joyously on at a trot.
The instant they observed me they came to a full stop, some forty yards
off. The setter gently wagged his tail, and looked at me with an
expression of anxious inquiry. Taking heart, he slowly advanced to
within about thirty yards, and then came the varying play of feature
which so interested me. He was in great doubt as to whether I had
guessed what tricks he had been up to; but as I made no sign, he was
gradually looking more comfortable and gaining confidence. Suddenly I
noticed a patch of mud above his nose, and I must have unconsciously
shown him I had made a discovery of some kind, for that instant he
turned tail and bolted home at the utmost speed of which he was capable.
Without uttering a single word, or making a single gesture, the dog and
man understood each other perfectly. It was the language of faces.

          R. SCOT SKIRVING.


          [_Jan. 18, 1890._]

The enclosed may interest you. I received it this morning. I have no
doubt Dr. Barford, of Wokingham, would verify it, but I have not the
pleasure of his acquaintance. The following is the story:--

"Dr. Barford's dog at Wokingham was put into a muzzle; he objected to
it, took it off, and hid it somewhere, no one knows where. Policeman saw
him; summoned Dr. B.; case was to come off one Saturday. The children
told dog how wicked _he'd_ been: Dr. B. would have to appear at the
Court, and he too, as it was his doing; he'd lost the muzzle. Case was
postponed (I think policeman witness had influenza). Dr. B. was told of
postponement by letter; forgot to tell children or dog. At Saturday's
Bench, Magistrates much astonished by the dog appearing in Court and
sitting solemnly opposite them."

          ALYS M. WOOD.


          [_Feb. 1, 1890._]

Several newspaper cuttings have been sent to me with the story of my dog
which appeared in the _Spectator_ of January 18th, and one or two of
them suggest a doubt as to the veracity of the story. I write,
therefore, to tell you that it is literally true, only that the
policeman was away for his holiday instead of having influenza, and the
case came off on Tuesday instead of Saturday. My dog is a pug, a very
choice specimen of his kind, and was given to me by the late Dr. Wakley,
editor of the _Lancet_, who was a great connoisseur in dogs. His
intelligence is really marvellous, and he has done many things as
extraordinary as the one related by Miss Wood.

He is devotedly attached to my baby, and always accompanies me in my
morning visit to the nursery. On one occasion the child (who is just as
fond of him as he is of her) was very ill, and for three weeks was
unconscious. As soon as this was the case, the dog ceased to go near
the nursery, as if by instinct he knew he would not be noticed. Mr.
Walters from Reading was attending the baby, and the dog soon got to
know the time he paid his visits. He would watch him upstairs, and when
he came down listen most attentively to his report. At length the child
was pronounced out of danger. The very next morning, up went master Sam,
made his way straight to the child's cot, and stood on his hind legs to
be caressed. Although she had taken no notice of any one for some time,
she seemed to know the dog, and tried to move her hand towards him to be
licked. He quite understood the action, licked the little hand lovingly,
and then trotted contentedly away. After this he went up to see her
regularly, as he had been accustomed to do. He is quite a character in
the town, and nearly every one knows Sammy Weller.

Before I had this dog, I always thought I understood the difference
between reason and instinct, but his intelligence has quite puzzled me.

          MARY H. BARFORD.


          [_Jan. 12, 1884._]

Your correspondent, "W. H. O'Shea," has found several dogs
"colour-blind," If black is a colour, I can give several instances in
which a black retriever dog of mine was certainly _not_ "colour-blind."
He had the greatest antipathy to sweeps and coalheavers, and would fly
at them if not fastened up or carefully watched. He would even bark at a
passing hearse! In all other respects, he was the best-tempered dog in
the world, and I can only imagine that when very young he must have been
ill-used by either a sweep or a coalheaver.

          C. R. T.


          [_April 28, 1877._]

As letters telling of dogs and their doings occasionally appear in the
_Spectator_, perhaps the following rather pathetic anecdote of a dog I
know well may also find a place there. Two or three weeks ago, Lucky--so
called from having, when an outcast, found its present happy
home--perhaps by way of showing its gratitude to its benefactors,
presented them with five small Luckys, or rather, with one exception,
Unluckys, as the melancholy process always resorted to with these
too-blooming families had to be carried out in this instance, and the
five were reduced to one. Poor Lucky was inconsolable, looking
everywhere for them, and looking, too, with such appealing eyes into the
faces of her friends, and asking them so plainly where they were. Near
her kennel was an inclosed piece of ground for pigeons, and as it was
discovered that rats were carrying off the young pigeons, and as Lucky
had carried off one or two rats, it was decided one night to leave the
door of the pigeons' house open, that Lucky might have the run of it;
and the next morning, side by side with the puppy, was found a baby
pigeon, looking quite bright and at home, but hungry, and poor Lucky,
proud of the addition it had made to its family, was looking more
contented than it had done since the loss of its puppies. The pigeon
must have fallen from its nest, some distance from the ground, and
Lucky, while on the look-out for rats, must have found it, and carefully
carried it to her kennel, with the vague feeling, perhaps, that it was
one of her own lost little ones "developing" a little curiously.
Unfortunately the arrangement could not be a permanent one, and the
famished little pigeon was put back into its own nest, to be found again
the next morning in Lucky's bed, but this time dead. The old birds seem
to have deserted it, and it had died of starvation. If Lucky could give
this account herself, it might be much more interesting, for it was
thought not at all improbable that she had actually rescued from a rat
the bird she was so anxious to adopt, as a small wound was found upon
it such as a rat might have made, and as a young pigeon had been taken
the night before from the same nest; but this is only conjecture, and
Lucky only could tell us the facts; how often it would be interesting,
if our humble friends could tell us their adventures! A friend who is
staying with me tells me that a few months ago her dog was lost for a
week, and at the end of that time it came back one night in a scarlet
ruff and spangles, and looking altogether dreadfully dissipated.
Evidently it had been the "performing dog" in some show, "Punch and
Judy" perhaps; being naturally a clever dog, it would quickly have
learnt the part of "Toby" in that delightful and time-honoured
exhibition. If it could only have written also an article entitled "A
Week of My Life," with what pleasure the _Spectator_ would have
published it!



          [_Feb. 11, 1893._]

In the _Spectator_ of December 31st, which, although a regular
subscriber to your valuable paper, I only happened to see to-day, owing
to absence from home, I notice a reference in the article entitled "The
Courage of Animals," to the fact that the wild dogs of India attack and
destroy tigers. I have no personal knowledge of the matter, but I have
been told by an Indian officer that the _modus operandi_ of the "red
dogs" is as follows:--Having found their tiger they proceed, not to
attack him at once, as might be inferred from your article, but to
starve him until they have materially reduced his strength. Night and
day they form a cordon round the unfortunate beast, and allow him no
chance of obtaining food or rest; every time the tiger essays to break
the circle, this is widened as the pack flies before him, only to be
relentlessly narrowed again when the quarry is exhausted. After a
certain period of this treatment the tiger falls a comparatively easy
prey to his active and persevering enemies. This theory of their plan of
attack, while it may detract somewhat from the wild dogs' reputation for
courage, must add considerably to our estimate of their intelligence.

          EDWARD PAUL, Jun.


          [_Oct. 1, 1892._]

I lately met some friends who had with them a little dog, called Vic,
who had adopted the family of a cat in the house, and, while in
possession, would not let the mother come near her kittens. The kittens
were kept in a very tall basket, and Vic would take them in her mouth,
and jump out with them one by one, and then carry them into the garden
and watch over them, carrying them back in the same way after a time; at
other times, lying contentedly with them in the basket. Of course Vic
had to be forcibly removed when the adopted family required their
mother's attention for their sustenance. I also have met a friend who
saw a hen-hawk, who was in a cage, mothering a young starling. Three
young, unfledged starlings were given the hawk to eat. She ate two, and
then broodled the other, and took the utmost care of it. Unhappily, the
young starling died; and from that moment the hawk would touch no food,
but died herself in a few days.

The same friend was on a mountain one day, when a sheep came up to him,
and unmistakably begged him to follow her going just in front, and
continually looking round to see if he was following. The sheep led him
at last to some rocks, where he found a lamb fast wedged in between two
pieces of rock. He was able to liberate the lamb, to the evident joy of
the mother.

I myself once saw a cat "broodling" and taking care of a very small
chicken, which, being hatched first of a brood, had been brought into a
cottage and placed in a basket near the fire. It managed to get out of
the basket, and hopped up to the cat, who immediately adopted it.



          [_April 30, 1892._]

In a recent _Spectator_ there is a quotation from Pierre Loti to the
effect that "animals not only fear death, but fear it the more because
they are aware that they have no future." Pierre Loti is a brilliant
novelist, but I am not aware that he is a scientific naturalist, and I
trust his idea is a mere chimera. Loti would take from the brutes the
one privilege for which men may envy them, and endows them with a
knowledge of the aftertime that we have only by revelation. However, two
common-sense naturalists have published their belief that the lower
animals have a foreknowledge of death, and one of them goes so far as to
give an account of an old horse committing suicide. He says the animal
frequently suffered from some internal disease, and that it deliberately
walked into a pond, and, putting its nostrils under water, stood thus
till it dropped dead from suffocation. The incident, I think, is easily
explained. Many horses drink in the manner described, and in old horses
heart-disease is not uncommon. I imagine the stoppage of respiration
caused a sudden and natural death from heart-disease.

I should like to ask naturalists who think animals know that they must
die, where they draw the line. They must stop somewhere between a dog
and a dormouse. Poets have made far more frequent allusion to the
subject than naturalists, and they may be quoted on both sides. Philip
James Bailey, in illustration of his contention that hope is universal,
says: "and the poor hack that sinks down on the flints, upon whose eye
the dust is settling, he hopes to die." But we have on the other hand
Shelley's Skylark, with its "ignorance of pain," because it differs from
men who "look before and after." Wordsworth's little girl of eight knew
less than her dog, if she had one, for, says the poet, "what could she
know of death?" I admit that when the carnivora have crushed their prey
to death they cease to mangle them; but I fancy that is only because
there is no more resistance; and a bull will trample on a hat and leave
it when it becomes a shapeless mass. The nearest thing I ever saw to an
apparent foreknowledge of death, was in the case of that least
intelligent of dogs, a greyhound. I had to shoot it to prevent useless
suffering from disease. It followed me willingly, but when I led it to a
pit prepared as its grave it instantly rushed off at its best speed. I
suggest that it saw instinctively something unpleasant was about to
happen, but it does not follow that death was present to its mind.
Domestic poultry will furiously attack one of their number that
struggles on the ground in its death-agony. They do not dream of death;
they think its contortions are a challenge to combat.

          R. SCOTT SKIRVING.


          [_Nov. 8, 1873._]

May I be permitted to question, in the most friendly way, the assumption
of "Lucy Field," in your last issue, that the lives of small dogs are in
constant jeopardy from "a race of giant dogs, and exceptionally large
dogs," at Muswell Hill? If it be so, then, surely the "giant dogs" of
that region are exceptions. My experience goes to confirm the truth
taught by Sir Edwin Landseer's "Dignity and Impudence," a fine print of
which adorns my portfolio. I had a broken-haired friend, weight about
eight pounds, learned in two languages, canine and English, who rejoiced
in the name of Teens, given him by babes with whom he condescended to
play, because he was a "tiny, teeny dog." I must confess that my late
friend--alas! that I should say late--who was chivalrically brave in
killing rats and carrying on war with cats, was a very bully, a kind of
Ancient Pistol towards big dogs. To see him meet a Newfoundland or
large retriever was as good as a play. Teens, with his tail curled like
the spring of an ancient watch, his broken-haired back stiffened with
indignation, would stand and give the pass-word all dogs seem to know,
and be overhauled and examined as he walked round the giant like an
English gunboat by a Spanish fifth-rate; but when once the enemy turned
his back, Teens exploded like a cracker, running under the big dog's
nose, and often springing at his lip. His gigantic, but generous foe (or
friend) always fled, or walked away, followed by a torrent of abusive
barks, which, from their peculiar intonation, I took for dog-slang, and
Teens returning with an impudent smile on his countenance, wiped his
feet on the pavement as a sign of triumph. I have seen him do this a
hundred times, and never saw a big dog attempt to punish his impudence.
Jeems, a black-and-tan of smaller weight, who seemed to walk upon
springs, and who on work-a-days was called Jim, and James on Sundays,
which day he perfectly well knew, was more like Parolles. He bullied
big dogs at a distance, and seldom stood up to them like the truculent
Teens, and, although he ran away, was seldom pursued and never hurt,
while the Claimant (he was for his size unwieldly in fatness as a pup),
who (or which) still lives with me, is now bullying a shambling
retriever pup, full-grown, but, like Cousin Feenix, uncertain as to his
gait, who good-naturedly submits to it. Here, perhaps, there is danger;
for very big pups will pursue any little thing that runs away, and one
of their large paws, which they put down as if they wore heavily clumped
boots, might certainly crush the life--a very noisy, fussy, busy life it
is--out of my small and impertinent, pretentious Tichborne. This dog, by
the way, brings down his mistress her boots, as a hint for her to take a
walk, and blows like a trumpet or young walrus under the door to be let
in, having been corrected for scratching the panel. I end as I began, by
assuring you that my experience, no less than that of my friends, lies
in the direction of extreme generosity exhibited by large dogs towards
small ones; I would not deny that a large dog may now and then punish an
impudent and aggressive toy-terrier, but, as a rule, we can only wonder
at the providential wisdom which makes them so generous and forbearing;
having a giant's strength, they seldom indeed use it like a giant.

          HAIN FRISWELL.


          [_Nov. 2, 1872._]

Our terrier Crib took upon himself yesterday to add his testimony to
your view of "dog-consciousness," as expressed in the _Spectator_ of the
19th ult. Crib verges on perfection, save that he is frantically jealous
of any other animal who may receive attention, but yesterday he rebelled
against the injustice of being compelled to eat all his dinner, and
refused to swallow one special piece of bread; but finding that his
refusal was not accepted, apparently made a virtue of necessity, and
gulped down the bread with a look and wag of the tail, giving me to
understand that I ought to be satisfied, which I was not, as I observed
a slight swelling in one cheek. So concealing my suspicion I furtively
watched. Crib also occasionally eyed me, lying down and then walking
round the room, and sniffing in the corners, as he is wont to do. In a
few minutes, and when I appeared safely absorbed in my paper, he made
his way slowly to where pussy was lapping her saucer of milk; passing
her without stopping, he cleverly discharged the hated mouthful into
pussy's milk, and continuing his walk to the rug, laid himself down and
slept the sleep of the just.

          C. S.


          [_June 1, 1895._]

Perhaps you will allow me to add another to your interesting list of dog
stories. In a house where I once boarded there was a large and
remarkably sagacious St. Bernard mastiff, who used to come into my
sitting-room and give me his company at dinner, sitting on the floor
beside my chair, with his head on a level with the plates. His master,
however, fearing that he was being over-fed, gave strict injunctions
that this practice should no longer be permitted. On the first day of
the prohibition the dog lay and sulked in the kitchen; but on the second
day, when the landlady brought in the dishes, he stole in noiselessly
close behind her, and while for the moment she bent over the table, he
slipped promptly beneath it, and waited. No sooner had she retired than
he emerged from his hiding-place, sat down in his usual position, and
winked in my face with a look which seemed to say, "Haven't I done her!"
In due course, the good woman came to change the plates, and as soon as
he heard her step, he slunk once more under the table; but in an
instant, ere she had time to open the door, he came out again, as if he
had suddenly taken another thought, and threw himself down on the rug
before the fire--to all appearance fast asleep. "Ah, Keeper; you there,
you rascal!" exclaimed his mistress, in indignant surprise, as she
caught sight of him. The dog opened his eyes, half raised his body,
stretched himself out lazily at full length, gave a great yawn as if
awakened from a good long sleep, and then, with a wag of his tail, went
forward and tried to lick her hand. It was a capital piece of acting,
and the air of perfect guilelessness was infinitely amusing.

          GEO. MCHARDY.


          [_March 23, 1872._]

I think you will be interested in the following anecdote of a
distinguished foreigner. One of the happiest results of that abandonment
of their ancient exclusiveness which has rendered us familiar with the
Japanese, has been the arrival on these shores of a very pretty fluffy
little dog, a born subject of the Mikado, who hails or rather barks from
Nagasaki, and who is happily domiciled with a friend of mine, of a
sufficiently elevated mind to esteem at its proper value the privilege
of being the master of a clever and refined dog. The child of the sun
and the earthquake has been named Wow, an ingenious combination of the
familiar utterance of his kind with the full-mouthed terminals of the
language of the merely human inhabitants of his country. My own
impression is that Wow smacks rather of the melodious monosyllabic
tongue of the Flowery Land than of that of the Dragon country; but this
is a detail, and, as a young naval officer newly come from Nipon
remarked to me lately, with much fervour, "Thank God! a fellow isn't
obliged to learn their lingo." Wow has made himself at home and happy in
his Northern residence with all the courtesy and suavity of a true
Japanese, and has attached himself to his master with apparent
resignation to the absence of pigtail and petticoat, articles of attire
replaced in this case by the wig and gown of a Q.C. About this
attachment there is, however, none of the exclusiveness which
characterises the insular dog. Wow is a politician, or at least a
diplomatist, and he desires to maintain friendly relations, with
profitable results to himself, with everybody. He succeeds in doing so
to an extraordinary extent, of which fact his master lately discovered
evidence. Very strict orders, including the absolute prohibition of
bones, had been issued with regard to Wow's diet. The ideas of a country
in which little dogs eat, but are not eaten, require liberality in his
opinion, and Wow made up his mind he would have his bones without
incurring the penalties of disobedience, which his master, in the
interests of the delicate foreigner, was determined to inflict. A
commodious and elegant residence was fitted up in the study for Wow, and
he was permitted free access to the upper floors of the house, but the
line was drawn at the kitchen staircase. That way lay bones and ruin,
and its easy descent was interdicted by stern command, which Wow
understood as clearly as did its utterer, though he at first affected a
simple and unconscious misapprehension. Then Wow was reproved and gently
chastised, an administration of justice performed with the utmost
reluctance by his master, but with the happiest results. Nothing could
be more admirable than Wow's submission, more perfect than his
obedience. He never looked towards the kitchen stairs, and would attend
at the family meals without following the retiring dishes with a wistful
gaze, or betraying a longing for the forbidden bones by so much as a
sniff. Attached to the lower department of the household is a humble
cat, a faithful creature in her way, but not cultivated by my friend as
I could wish. With this meek and useful animal Wow contracted a
friendship regarded by his master as a proof of his amiability and
condescension. (In my capacity of narrator I am compelled to use the
latter somewhat injurious term--as a private individual with an undying
recollection, I repudiate it). But the single-minded Q.C. had something
to learn of the four-footed exile from the Far East concerning this
intimacy. Coming into his study one day at an unusual hour, he saw the
cat--I do not know her name, I am afraid she has not one--stealthily
depositing a bone behind a curtain. Presently she went downstairs, and
returned with a second bone, which she conveyed to the same place of
concealment, whence proceeded a gentle rustling and whisking, suggestive
of the presence of Wow, whose house, or pagoda, was empty. Then arose
the Q.C., and cautiously peeped behind the curtain, where he beheld Wow
and his humble friend amicably discussing their respective bones, Wow's
being the bigger and the meatier of the two.

Thus did the Japanese exile illustrate the cosmopolitan story of the
catspaw (with the improvement of making it pleasant for the cat), and
accomplish the proverbially desirable feat of minding both his meat and
his manners. If we could be secured against their imitation, it would be
pleasant to ask our own domestic pets the problems:

    "What do you think of that, my cat?"
    "What do you think of that, my dog?"



          [_Jan. 20, 1872._]

I dare not hope to equal the eloquent and most touching biography of
Nero, with whom I had the honour of a slight acquaintance. But I was the
possessor of an animal who, in his way as a dog, not a cat, for
originality of character, reasoning power, talent, and devoted affection
I have never seen equalled in his species, and you and your readers may
possibly be interested by a sketch of his biography.

Where Sprig was born I do not know, nor had I any acquaintance with his
parents. One morning several years ago I chanced to go down stairs
early, and found the milk-boy at the hall door, delivering his daily
supply to the cook. In the courtyard before my house was a
bright-looking rough terrier of small size, frisking about very
cheerfully, trying to catch the small stump of a tail which some cruel
despoiler had left him. As he was engaged in this pastime, a large brown
retriever entered the gate, to look on, I suppose, for he had an amused
expression of face, and was wagging his tail amicably. Sprig, however,
though but a mite in comparison, decidedly resented the intrusion, and
flew at the retriever's throat, from which he had to be choked off by
his owner, who brought him back in his arms. The little fellow was in
the highest state of excitement and anger, his bright, intelligent eyes
flashing, and his hair bristling. He was indeed most amusingly fierce,
but was soon calmed when he was shown, and told, that his enemy had
fled, whereupon the following colloquy ensued between myself and his
owner: Myself: "And where did you get that dog, boy? You did not steal
him, I hope?" Boy, in a rich Dublin brogue: "Ah, now! would I stale
anythin', yer honner, an' me the poor milk-boy? Is it stale him? Bedad,
it's my father's cuzin that's at the Curragh! Sure he's a corporal, so
he is. He brought him, and he sez, 'Yez'll get me a pound for him, and
no less.' So it's a pound I want for him, sur, and nothin' less. An'
sure John Lambert knows me well--so he does!" When John, my servant,
was sent for, he gave a good account of the lad, and as he entirely
approved of Sprig, I gave the sovereign, showing it to the dog, whose
wondering eyes were glancing from one to the other. Then I said to the
boy, "Put him into my arms, and tell him he belongs to me;" and he did
so. The little fellow looked curiously and wistfully at the lad, who, to
do him justice, had tears in his eyes, and then nestled into my breast,
licking my hands and face. When my daughter came down stairs, I took up
Sprig and placed him in my youngest daughter's arms, a process he
appeared to comprehend perfectly, and told him she was his mistress; nor
to the day of his death did he ever falter in his devoted allegiance to
her. He was very fond of me and of us all, but his deepest love was for
his mistress, and on many occasions was most affecting to see. She was
often delicate, and once had a sharp attack of typhus fever. In this
illness Sprig never left her. He would lie at the foot of her bed
watching her, and would sometimes creep gently up to her, put his paws
round her neck, and lick her hands softly, while the pleading of his
large eyes looking from his mistress, in her unconscious delirium, to
her sister and me, was touching in the extreme. Indeed, there were then
many sad illnesses, but Sprig was always the same. As my child grew
stronger and better her little friend would amuse her by the hour
together; sit up, beg, preach, play with his ball, and try in humble
doggie fashion to beguile her of her pain. But I am anticipating.

Sprig was, I believe, what is called a Dandie Dinmont, and as he grew up
he became, for his class, a very handsome, as he was a sturdy, little
fellow, with great strength for his size. He was a reddish-brown colour,
more dark-red than brown, like a squirrel, with white below, and a
delightfully fuzzy head, and a breast of long soft white hair. His eyes
were that peculiar bright liquid "dog" brown which is capable of so much
expression, and he grew to have a long moustache and beard. Even the
most un-observant of dogs admired him, for he resembled no terrier I
have ever seen. I think he would have won the prize of his class at the
Dublin Dog Show, had it not been for a terrible accident he met with in
being wounded by a large foxhound in a neighbouring orchard. His neck
was then torn open, and he was rescued by John only in time to prevent
his being killed. As it was, it was weeks before he could walk--and how
patient he was all the time! and as the wound healed it left a
thickening of his skin which had an awkward look. Sprig was, however,
"highly commended." In his youth he was perhaps rather short in his
temper, and always resented in the most distinct manner any liberty that
was taken with him. To tread upon his foot was perilous, but he was at
once pacified if an apology was made that it was accidental; but to pull
his tail wilfully was an insult which he resented bitterly, and for
which much atonement was necessary, or he would go under the sofa and
cry in his peculiar manner when offended.

As he grew up, Sprig developed various talents which were highly
cultivated. His greatest pleasure, perhaps, was in an india-rubber ball,
with which his gambols were indescribably pretty and constant. It was a
great distress when he lost or mislaid his ball, and he was miserable
till he found it, or another was brought him. It was a cruel thing to
say, when one of us went to town, "Sprig, I will bring you a new ball,"
and as sometimes happened, to forget to do so. On return he would sniff
about the person who had gone, poke his nose into his or her pockets,
and if disappointed could hardly be soothed, but would go away and have
his quiet cry to himself. Sometimes a kind friend who knew him might
bring him a new ball; but it very much depended on who presented it
whether it was accepted or not, and I am afraid that too frequently for
his good manners he turned it over contemptuously with his nose and left
it for the old one, which, gnawed, bitten, and broken, was still the
favourite. I used sometimes to make a ball squeak by pressing the hole
against my hand, and I believe he thought it was in pain, for he would
whine piteously, and would not let me rest till he had it again in his
possession. It was most amusing to see him when a parcel of new balls
arrived, he having been told beforehand that one was coming. He would
find out directly who had it, and become impatient and cross indeed if
he did not get it directly. When the parcel was given him, his great
delight was to open it himself and select _one_. A red ball was usually
preferred, but not always. All were subjected to the most varied
trials--gnawed, smelt, and rolled, till the one which pleased his fancy
was finally selected; of the rest he would take no notice whatever.

Sprig was thoroughly a gentleman, and on most occasions he was most
attentive to lady visitors. He never noticed gentlemen. On one occasion,
when my daughters were out, a dear friend called (Nero's mistress). She
told us afterwards that Sprig had been a most attentive beau. He met her
at the hall door, welcomed her in his odd fashion, trotted before her
into the drawing-room, looking behind him to see if she followed. He
then jumped upon the ottoman, inviting her to sit down; when she was
seated he brought his ball and went through all his tricks with it, sat
up on his hind legs, begged with his paws, preached to her in his own
queer way, and kept her amused till, no longer able to remain, she bid
him good morning and left, evidently to his disgust. "Could he have
spoken," she said afterwards, "he would have told me to wait, for his
mistresses would soon be back; the look was in his face, but the words
were wanting." His attention to visitors was never omitted. When we had
a ball or evening party, he would await, with John Lambert, the several
arrivals at the hall door, welcome each new party, and usher them in a
solemn manner into the drawing-room or tea-room, returning for a new set
to his former place. Nor did he want for an occasional cake or biscuit
at the tea-table; "he was so amiable," said the young ladies, "he could
not be resisted."

As an instance of how perfectly he understood what was said to him, I
may relate that one hot day I had walked out from town, and being
thirsty went into the dining-room for a drink of water. I saw Sprig's
ball under the table, and when I went into the garden where my girls
were sitting they said, "Sprig has lost his ball, and is perfectly
miserable." After I had sent him to look about for it, I said, "Now,
Sprig, I know where it is; I saw it in the dining-room under the table;
go fetch it." He looked brightly at me, and I repeated what I had said.
He trotted off, and while we were wondering whether he had understood
me, he returned with it in his mouth quite delighted. I have mentioned
his preaching, which may sound rather irreverent, but it was an
accomplishment entirely of his own invention. When seated in a chair
after dinner, and requested to preach, he would sit up, place his
forepaws gravely on the table, and then lifting up one paw as high as
his head, and then the other, deliver a discourse to the company in a
sort of gurgling, growling manner, with an occasional low bark, which
was indescribably ludicrous to see and hear. What he meant by it we
could never find out, but I question whether he prized any of his
accomplishments more than this.

Sometimes, but not often, he would go out by himself to take a walk, we
supposed to see his friends, for I never heard that he had any love
affairs. If we all, or my daughters, or myself, met him on his return,
I, or they, or we all might call to him, notice him as he brushed past
us, or ask him to come for a walk. No. He would have none of our
company; he would cut us dead, and go toddling home, his tail more erect
and quivering than ever; never hastening his sedate pace, and giving his
usual kick-out with one hind leg every third or fourth step, as was his
custom. He would have no connection with us; that was quite clear and
decided. Sprig was very fond, too, of a walk with his mistresses or with
me, and, though never taught it, would always wipe his feet clean on the
hall mat as he came in. I am now going to relate an anecdote of Sprig
which I know is almost beyond credibility, but the occurrence so
displayed his power of thought and reason that I cannot withhold it. My
usual haunt is my den, as I call it, a large room at one end of our old
rambling house. There Sprig never came unless with his mistresses, and
indeed never was easy when he was there. I had begun a large full-length
picture of my daughters, and Sprig and Whisky, a small Skye puppy, were
to be painted lying at their feet. As the picture progressed, Sprig
seemed to understand all about it, and paid me the compliment of wagging
his tail at the portraits. One day my girls had been sitting to me, and
it was now Sprig's turn to sit. I put him into the proper position and
told him to lie still, and he proved a most patient sitter. When the
sketch of him was finished, I showed it to him; I think he was pleased
with his likeness, for he licked my face; but as he smelt at his
portrait, he did not like himself, and growled. Whisky was now put into
position, but was very restless, although Sprig scolded her by snarling
at her. Next day I had put the picture against the wall near the
window, and before a few steps which led up into my bedroom, and was
busy perched on a step-ladder with the after-portion of it. By and by I
heard a great scratching at my bedroom door, which was closed, and Sprig
whining to get in. I thought this odd, but it was too much trouble to
come down from my perch, and I told him to go away. He, however, only
whined and scratched the more. I therefore descended, and getting behind
the picture, went up the steps and opened the door. Sprig did not notice
me, but pushing past me hurried down the steps, and then, as I emerged
into the room, looked up to me blandly, and actually sat down in the
place in which I had put him the day before. I said to him gravely,
though infinitely amused, "No, Sprig, I don't want you to-day; look, the
colour is all wet, go away to your mistress." He looked very blank and
greatly disappointed, and stood up with his tail drooped. Suddenly a
bright thought seemed to strike him, as if he had said, "Now I have it!"
Whisky had got hold of one of my slippers, and was playing with it in
my bedroom, and Sprig, rushing up the steps, seized her by the "scruff"
of her neck, dragged her howling down the steps, and put her, I can use
no other words, into the place where she had been the day before. He
then came to me frisking about, and could he but have spoken, would have
said, "If you don't want me, you must her, and there she is!" He was
quite triumphant about it; and dirty as I was, and palette in hand, I
took him forthwith to the drawing-room and told them what had happened.

I could tell numberless other stories of the reasoning power and
intelligence of our little pet, but I should trespass at too great
length on your patience. I could describe a curious friendship which
sprang up between him and a German friend who was staying some time with
us; how he learned many new tricks from him, and was taught to hop on
his hind legs from one end of the drawing-room to the other, with our
friend hopping backwards before him; I could describe his evening romps
with my dear father, never omitted while my father lived; and the many
curious traits by which his great love for us was perpetually
displayed--how he learned to crack nuts of all kinds, and to pick out
the kernels like a squirrel--how he never went into the servants' hall
or the kitchen, and refused to associate with the servants, though
friendly with them, and especially with John Lambert, his fast friend.
But I must bring this sketch to a close.

We had been absent about a year in Germany and the South of France.
After we left, Sprig was inconsolable, and would not eat; but the cook
made him little curries and rice, and after a time he became more
resigned. We only heard that he was well, and hoped we should find him
so. The day we arrived I thought he would have died for joy. He gasped
for breath, and lay down, and when taken up by his mistress lay in her
arms almost insensible. It was long before he came to himself, and when
he did revive, it is quite impossible to describe his delight, or what
he did. He was, indeed, quite beside himself with joy, scouring about,
dragging his mistress here and there, doing all his tricks in a
confused manner, and, in short, behaving after a very insane fashion
indeed. We noticed he had a slight cough; but he seemed otherwise quite
well, and we thought it would go away; but it increased, and at that
time there was an epidemic of bronchitis among dogs. We sent him to an
eminent veterinary surgeon, who blistered him (and how patient the poor
fellow was under the pain cannot be told), but though relieved for the
time, the end was near. One morning he was seen to do an apparently
quite unaccountable thing. He took his son Terry (whom he was never
known to notice except by knocking him over and standing upon him,
growling fiercely), all round our village, and visited all the dogs in
it. John saw him doing this early in the morning, and told me of it. I
suppose he was commending Terry to their favour. He coughed a great deal
all day, and breathed heavily; but in the evening he was very bright,
and to all appearance much better, and insisted on doing all his tricks
till it was time to go to bed. Sprig never would go to bed willingly.
John used to come to the drawing-room door and call him, and he would go
to it, but stand growling till he was caught up and carried off. That
evening, as we remembered, he seemed more than ever unwilling to go, but
was caught up and carried away.

In the morning, about six o'clock--it was summer-time--I was just about
to get up, when John Lambert knocked at my door, and came in with Sprig
in his arms. He did not speak, and I asked him whether Sprig was worse.
"He's dead, sir," said he, with the tears rolling down his face, and
hardly able to speak. "Quite dead, sir; he must have died only a little
while ago, for when I went to let him out, I found him dead and quite
warm, as he is still." I am not ashamed to write that my eyes felt very
blind, but there was no hope; the dear little fellow was quite dead; he
had died calmly, and his eyes were bright; they had not glazed.

We buried him, John and myself, when he was quite cold and stiff, by a
rose-tree at the end of the garden. Poor John could hardly dig the
grave, and his tears fell fast and silently and upon dear old Sprig as
we covered him up for ever. I wish I could write a fitting epitaph for a
creature who, through his life, was a constant source of pleasure to all
who knew him.

          M. T.


          [_June 8, 1895._]

A friend thinks I ought to add to the collection of dog stories
appearing in the _Spectator_, one which is within my own knowledge, and
may appear deserving of publication. My uncle, a well-known Chairman of
the Bench of Magistrates in a western county, had a tenant on his
estates who occupied a farm not far from the River Severn. The farmer
possessed a favourite dog, who slept at the foot of his bed every night.
When a brother emigrated to Canada, the farmer gave him the dog as a
travelling companion. In the course of time the news arrived that the
emigrant and his family, together with the dog, had safely reached their
destination--a farm in the interior of Canada some days' journey from
the port where they landed. At a later date the brother in Canada wrote
to his family in England saying that the dog had disappeared. Some time
afterwards the dog came back to the farm of his old master, about three
miles from Gloucester, and though at first it could hardly be believed
that he was returned from Canada, yet he soon established his identity
by taking his old place at the foot of his master's bed at night.
Inquiries were made, and the dog's course was traced backwards to the
River Severn, thence to Bristol, and thence to a port in Canada. It
appeared that, after running from his home in Canada to the seaport, he
selected there a vessel bound for Bristol, and shipped on board. After
arriving at the Bristol basin, he found out a local vessel trading up
and down the River Severn (locally called a "trow"), and transferred
himself to her deck. When he reached the neighbourhood of Gloucester,
the dog must have jumped into the Severn and reached the shore nearest
to his old home.

I can vouch for the truth of this story, from information received from
my relations on the spot shortly after the occurrence took place. I knew
the farm well, and the farmer who occupied it.

          H. C. N.


          [_June 8, 1895._]

The interesting letter, "A Canine Nurse," in the _Spectator_ of May
18th, recalls to mind an equally curious event in cat and dog life which
occurred some years since in a house where I was living, but with the
additional interest of a hen being also implicated.

In the back-kitchen premises of an old manor-house, amongst hampers, and
such like odds and ends, a cat had a litter of kittens. They were all
removed but one, and as the mother was frequently absent, a hen began
laying in a hamper close by. For a time all things went well, the hen
sitting on her eggs and the cat nursing the kitten within a few inches
of each other. The brood were hatched out, and almost at the same time
the old cat disappeared. The chickens were allowed to run about on the
floor for sake of the warmth from a neighbouring chimney, and the kitten
was fed with a saucer of milk, &c., in the same place, both feeding
together frequently out of the same dish. The hen used to try to induce
the kitten to eat meal like the chicks, calling to it and depositing
pieces under its nose in the most amusing way; finally doing all in its
power to induce the kitten to come, like her chicks, under her wings.
The result was nothing but a series of squalls from the kitten, which
led to its being promoted from the back to the front kitchen, where it
was reared until it was grown up. At this time a young terrier was
introduced into the circle, and after many back-risings and bad language
on pussy's part, they settled down amicably and romped about the floor
in fine style. Eventually the terrier became an inveterate
rabbit-poacher--killing young rabbits and bringing them home--a
proceeding to which the cat gave an intelligent curiosity, then a
passive and purring approval, and finally her own instincts having
asserted themselves, she went off with the dog, hunting in the woods.
Our own keeper reported them as getting "simply owdacious," being found
a great distance from the house; and keepers of adjacent places also
said the pair were constantly seen hunting hedgerows on their beats. On
one occasion I saw them myself hunting a short hedge systematically, the
dog on one side, the cat on the other; and on coming near an open
gateway a hare was put out of her form, and bounding through the open
gate, was soon off; the dog followed, till he came through the gateway,
where he stood looking after the hare; and the cat joining him, they
apparently decided it was too big or too fast to be successfully chased,
so resumed the hedge-hunting, each taking its own side as before.

They frequently returned home covered with mud, and pussy's claws with
fur, and would lie together in front of the fire; the cat often grooming
down the dog, licking him and rubbing him dry, and the dog getting up
and turning over the ungroomed side to be finished. This curious
friendship went on for six months or more, till the dog had to be kept
in durance vile to save him from traps and destruction, the cat, nothing
daunted, going on with her poaching until one day she met her fate in a
trap, and so brought her course to an end. The dog was a well-bred
fox-terrier, and the cat a tabby of nothing beyond ordinary
characteristics, save in her early life having been fostered by a hen,
and in her prime the staunch friend and comrade of poor old Foxie, the
terrier. If there are "happy hunting-grounds" for the animals hereafter,
and such things are allowed in them, no doubt they will renew their
intimacy, if not their poaching forays, together there.

          R. J. GRAHAM SIMMONDS.


          [_March 14, 1885._]

I have been much interested in the communications which have appeared
from time to time in the _Spectator_ in reference to "animal
intelligence." Recently my attention has been called to a somewhat
striking illustration of it, in the case of my own dog and his canine
neighbour next door. Wallace is an Irish staghound, and is about a year
old. My neighbour's dog is a pointer, and is considerably advanced in
life. There is no hedge nor fence separating the two estates. The
dividing line runs between two stone posts about a foot in height, and
more than two hundred feet from each other. The dogs have never been
friendly, the pointer having repeatedly driven Wallace back over the
boundary when he has caught him trespassing. Both dogs, even when going
at full speed, stop the moment my dog has crossed the line. How does
the pointer know where the line runs, and how does Wallace know when he
is safely across it?

          F. TUCKERMAN.



  Affection, 106

  Affection, A Dog's, 105

  Alpine Dog, An, 63

  Animal Intelligence, 68

  Animals and Language, 72

  Animals, Communication with, 77

  Animals, Friendships of Dogs with other, 135

  Animals, How our Meaning is Conveyed to, 65

  Animals, The Courage of, 217

  Are Dogs Colour-blind? 213

  Arts, Dogs and the, 119

  Australian Dog Story, 203

  Automata, Conscious, 136

  Biography of Sprig, 237

  Boundary, Sense of, in Dogs, 260

  Bully's Short Cut, 30

  Canary, Dog and, 150

  Canine Friendship, An Act of, 153

  Canine Intelligence, 32

  Canine Jealousy, 113

  Canine Member of the S.P.C.A., 110

  Canine Nurse, A, 147

  Canine Sightseer, A, 44

  Cat-and-Dog Friendship, 256

  Cat-and-Dog Love, 151

  Cat's Paw, A Story of a, 233

  Cautious Dogs, 61

  Character of a Dog, Features in the, 26

  Collies at Work, 191, 192

  Colour-blind? Are Dogs, 213

  Commercial Treaty between Dog and Hen, 19

  Communication, Teaching Dogs a Method of, 74

  Communication with Animals, 77

  Conscience-stricken Dog, A, 103

  Conscious Automata, 136

  Courage of Animals, The, 217

  Courtesy, A Dog's, 112

  Cow's, A, Jealousy of a Dog, 200

  Cunning Dogs, 170

  Curious Friendship, A, 148

  Curious Habits of Dogs, 155

  Cut, Bully's Short, 30

  Deceivers, Dog, 173

  Dinner, A Dog and his, 163

  Dog, A, and a Rabbit, 141

  Dog, A, and a Whip, 170

  Dog, A, and his Dinner, 163

  Dog, A Conscience-stricken, 103

  Dog, A Jealous, 115

  Dog, A, Obeying a Summons, 210

  Dog, A, on Long Sermons, 17

  Dog, A Parcel-carrying, 47

  Dog, A Rusé, 171

  Dog, A Sunday, 197

  Dog, A, that Scorned to be Jealous, 116

  Dog, An Alpine, 63

  Dog and Canary, 150

  Dog and Hen, Commercial Treaty between, 19

  Dog and Kittens, 145

  Dog and Pigeon, 139

  Dog and the Ferry, 33

  Dog Consciousness, 228

  Dog, Cow's Jealousy of a, 200

  Dog Deceivers, 173

  Dog, Features in the Character of a, 26

  Dog Friends, 133

  Dog Friendships, 131

  Dog, Intelligent Suspicion in a, 61

  Dog Nurse, A, 20

  Dog Story, A, 230

  Dog Story, A, 254

  Dog Story, An Australian, 203

  Dog, Sympathy in a, 107

  Dog, The, that Buried the Frogs, 157

  Dog's Affection, A, 105

  Dog's Courtesy, A, 112

  Dog's Humanity, A, 108

  Dog's Remorse, A, 101

  Dogs and Language, 64

  Dogs and Looking-glasses, 164

  Dogs and the Arts, 119

  Dogs, Cautious, 61

  Dogs, Cunning, 170

  Dogs, Curious Habits of, 155

  Dogs, Emotion and Sentiment in, 99

  Dogs, Guardian, 179

  Dogs, Hospital, 22

  Dogs, Humour and Cunning in, 165

  Dogs, Instinct of Locality in, 83

  Dogs, Music and, 121

  Dogs, Power of Imitation in, 167

  Dogs, Purchasing, 51

  Dogs, Railway, 94

  Dogs, Reason of, 37

  Dogs, Reasoning Powers of, 49

  Dogs, Recognition of Likenesses by, 124

  Dogs, Sense of Boundary in, 260

  Dogs, Sense of Humour in, 168, 169

  Dogs, Sentiment and Emotion in, 99

  Dogs, Syllogistic, 14

  Dogs, Teaching a Method of Communication to, 74

  Dogs, Two Anecdotes of, 206

  Dogs, Useful, 177

  Emotion and Sentiment in Dogs, 99

  Explanation, An, 159

  Features in the Character of a Dog, 26

  Ferry, Dog and the, 33

  Foreknowledge of Death? Have Animals a, 221

  Four-footed Friends, Our, 224

  Friends, Dog, 133

  Friendship, A Cat-and-Dog, 256

  Friendship, A Curious, 148

  Friendship, An Act of Canine, 153

  Friendships, Dog, 131

  Friendships of Dogs with other Animals, 135

  Frogs, The Dog that Buried the, 157

  Guardian Dogs, 179

  Habits of Dogs, Curious, 155

  Have Animals a Foreknowledge of Death? 221

  Hen and Puppies, 137

  Hen, Commercial Treaty between Dog and a, 19

  Hospital Dogs, 22

  Humanity, A Dog's, 108

  Humour and Cunning in Dogs, 165

  Instinct, Maternal, in Animals, 219

  Instinct of Locality in Dogs, 83

  Instinct, or Reason? 21

  Intelligence, A Pug's, 211

  Intelligence, Animal, 68

  Intelligence, Canine, 32

  Intelligent Suspicion in a Dog, 61

  Jealous Dog, A, 115

  Jealous, Dog that Scorned to be, 116

  Jealousy, Canine, 113

  Kittens, Dog and, 145

  Language, Animals and, 72

  Language, Dogs and, 64

  Likenesses, Recognition of, by Dogs, 124

  Locality in Dogs, Instinct of, 83

  Looking-glasses, Dogs and, 164

  Love, Cat and Dog, 151

  Lucky and Unlucky, 214

  Maternal Instinct in Animals, 219

  Meaning, How Conveyed to Animals, 65

  Method of Communication, Teaching Dogs a, 74

  Music and Dogs, 121

  Nurse, A Canine, 147

  Nurse, A Dog, 20

  Our Four-footed Friends, 224

  Parcel-Carrying Dog, A, 47

  Pictures, Recognition by Animals of, 129

  Pigeon, Dog and, 139

  Pigeon Story, 144

  Plan, Thinking out a, 45

  Power of Imitation in Dogs, 167

  Powers, Reasoning, of Dogs, 49

  Pug's Intelligence, A, 211

  Puppies, Hen and, 137

  Purchasing Dogs, 51

  Rabbit, A Dog and a, 141

  Railway Dogs, 94

  Reason, Instinct or, 21

  Reason of Dogs, 37

  Reasoning Powers of Dogs, 49

  Recognition by Animals of Pictures, 129

  Recognition of Likenesses by Dogs, 124

  Remorse, A Dog's, 101

  Sense of Humour in Dogs, 168, 169

  Short Cut, Bully's, 30

  Sight-seer, A Canine, 44

  S.P.C.A., A Canine Member of the, 110

  Sprig, Biography of, 237

  Summons, A Dog Obeying a, 210

  Sunday Dog, A, 197

  Suspicion, Intelligent, in a Dog, 61

  Syllogistic Dogs, 14

  Sympathy in a Dog, 107

  Teaching Dogs a Method of Communication, 74

  Thinking out a Plan, 45

  Treaty, Commercial, between Dog and Hen, 19

  True, A, Watch-dog, 188

  Unlucky, Lucky and, 214

  Useful Dogs, 177

  Watch-Dog, A True, 188

  Whip, A Dog and a, 170

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Dog Stories from the "Spectator" - being anecdotes of the intelligence, reasoning power, - affection and sympathy of dogs, selected from the - correspondence columns of "The Spectator"" ***

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