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