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  For this savage sport of “pinning the bull” men developed a special breed—a Bulldog. His body had to be low to the ground so that it would not be a target for death-dealing horns. And his nose had to be flat so that he could breathe with his face up against a bull’s.

  Dramatic and exciting as the sport was, it could not last. Men began to feel ashamed at matching a small dog against a big bull forty times its weight. Even though the dogs were not often killed, the pain they endured was too cruel.

  And so, in 1835, the “butcherly” sport was ended by law. But dog-lovers did not let the Bulldog die out for want of a job to do. They bred the gentlest to the gentlest until they developed the mildest dog in the kingdom.

  The Bulldog is still the symbol of British tenacity. Yet today he is the children’s pet—a wrinkled, endearing fellow with a toothy smile and a great, gentle heart.

  THE COCKING SPANIEL

  IN DAYS LONG GONE BY, the diminutive little Cocker with the big soulful eyes was a gun dog. By instinct he was a hunter, and by training he became an expert.

  In England, where woodcock abounded, he would thrash into the thickest brush to rout a cock from its hideaway. Often he emerged scratched and bleeding, but his stump of a tail wagged happily. Had he not flushed the woodcock into the air? Had not his master shot it?

  “All right then!” his dark eyes said as he delivered the fallen bird into his master’s hands. “Let’s do it again!”

  And with the same eager, bustling happiness he plunged into the thicket again, unmindful of the thorns and cockleburs that latched onto his long, floppy ears.

  Because this tireless little hunter was such an expert on woodcock he became known as a Cocking Spaniel. The “Spaniel” part of his name came from Spain, the country of his birth.

  When the Cocker was introduced into America, a curious thing happened to him. Over in England his pleasing appearance had been taken for granted. But here in America children, and grownups, too, found him irresistible. They liked his silky coat and his handy size, but what really intrigued them was that he looked so sad and glad all at the same time! His face wore a mournful expression, yet his tail was perpetually merry. Americans everywhere took him right out of the fields and into their homes.

  Pixie, a wavy-coated blonde, became a typical Cocker pet who never worked the fields at all. As a roly-poly pup she had been full of mischief—chewing new and old slippers, sneaking candies off the table, tipping over wastebaskets and garbage cans.

  Knowing how sensitive she was, the family decided to punish her exactly as they punished their own children. In a corner of the living room between soft, comfortable chairs stood an antique one with a hard scoop seat. After each offense Pixie was made to sit on the chair, like any naughty child.

  Of course she hated the “Naughty Chair.” It made her feel such an outsider! Life went on all about her, the children romping and playing without so much as a look in her direction. Always, as the minutes wore on, the scoop seat grew harder and harder and she grew lonelier and lonelier until life became unbearable.

  Never did a wrongdoer learn more quickly! In a matter of weeks she outgrew her puppy tricks until the Naughty Chair was seldom used. Eventually she ignored it completely, sauntering by, high-nosed, as if it did not exist.

  But in the far recesses of her mind Pixie never really forgot. On the day when she found her puppy chewing on a red satin slipper, she could not resist the fun. Dancing around him in dizzy delight, she snatched the slipper away and gave it a fierce shake to show him just how it should be done. Then, heartily ashamed of her crime, she leaped up onto the Naughty Chair to take the punishment for them both!

  THE GERMAN SHEPHERD

  ALWAYS THE GERMAN SHEPHERD HAS lived in a kind of dog heaven. On the boundless sheep ranges of Germany his career began—herding sheep, driving them, guarding them with his life. Yes, he knew footsoreness and weariness, and he had to fight wolves and wind and storm. But wasn’t his master right there, commanding him, praising him for work well done? And at the tag end of day, when the flock was all bedded down for the night, didn’t his master share black bread and cheese with him? And didn’t they, side by side, hug the fire and watch the moon come up?

  Life was all good for the German Shepherd—the work, the sameness of his days, and, over and above everything, the ecstasy of sharing earth and sky with his master.

  Then Time changed the face of Germany. Steam trains came whistling across the ranges, carrying livestock to market. They made sheep driving unnecessary. And settlers began pushing outward from the cities, shoving the sheep farms back into the hinterlands. With the years the farms became smaller and smaller, until finally they were boxed in by fences. Now there was no need for protecting the sheep, and so no need for the shepherd dog!

  The breed might have petered out if the German police force had not foreseen a new role for this big fellow. They trained him to attack criminals with the same ferocity he had once attacked wolves. And soon the whole world knew of him, not as a shepherd but as a police dog.

  Then war came. World War I it was called. The new police dog seemed ideally trained. The military began drafting him to serve as scout and sentry, as messenger and medical aide.

  But it remained for the blinded men left over from war to raise the police dog to his full glory. Once again he became a shepherd—leading, guiding, protecting.

  Today, in a half dozen countries, thousands of German Shepherds are going to Seeing-Eye schools. They are such bright and eager pupils that in a matter of months they learn to signal down-curbs by sitting down and up-curbs by stopping. More important, they are capable of fine reasoning. While they can walk under a scaffold or a low awning, they learn to swing clear of it for their blind masters.

  You yourself may know one of these dog graduates. You may have watched him striding along at an even, machine-like pace as he leads a blind person through the snarls of city traffic.

  But the great miracle of the Shepherd’s work is his aloofness to dog temptations—to tantalizing meat and gravy smells wafting out of restaurants, to cats streaking across his path or spitting in his face, even to the come-play-with-me bark of some friendly mongrel. These distractions seem unworthy of his notice. He actually prefers the companionship of his sightless master! Heads up, eyes forward, they go marching along together, a man-dog team held close not by harness and handle, but by love.

  Once again the German Shepherd has found his dog heaven.

  LITTLE LION OF PEKING

  THE PEKINGESE IS A PARADOX. He looks like a morsel of fluff, but lift him up and you find him surprisingly heavy. He is built like a lion, massive in front with an enormous shaggy mane. And he is lion-hearted, too. I knew of one who defied even a Great Dane. He would bring out his playthings—his rubber bones and tinklebells—and taking a war-like stance, forefeet wide apart, he would roar in the big fellow’s face.

  Luckily the Great Dane always loped off in disgust. But “little lion” was supremely happy, believing his fierceness had frightened the big dog away.

  In the heart of the household, however, the Pekingese is all play and gentleness, more kitten than lion. Fastidiously he washes his face and paws after eating, and he picks his way among fine bric-a-brac nimbly as a cat.

  Perhaps he is at home with fine things because his ancestors lived among porcelain and jade, teakwood and carved crystal. They were the palace dogs of China, the pampered pets of emperors and empresses, and they lived in great splendor and luxury.

  “Is not Buddha our teacher?” the high priests said. “Is not the lion his protector? Therefore we hold the little lion dog sacred and guard him with our lives.”

  Emperor T’ai Tsung thought so much of the tiny dogs as religious symbols that he used four of them as his escorts. Bamboo Leaf and Plum Flower strutted ahead of him, heralding his arrival with short barks. Pomegranate and Precious followed in his wake, bearing the hem of the royal robe in their teeth. The people made way and bowed in reverence to emperor
and dogs alike.

  Empress Tzu Hsi was moved to write a poem about the lion dog, and, strangely enough, today’s standard for the Pekingese is taken from her description.

  “Let the lion dog be small,” she wrote. “Let it wear the mane of dignity around its neck. Let the tail billow over its back. Let the muzzle be black and appear to be sliced with a knife downward from the forehead.

  “Let its eyes pop and its ears be set like the sails of a war junk.

  “For its color let it be that of the lion, a golden yellow; or let it be red or sable or apricot, or striped like a dragon, so that there may be dogs appropriate to each of the Imperial robes.”

  The Empress ended her poem by prescribing a wondrous diet:

  “Let his meat be the breast of quail and sharks’ fins and curlew livers. And let his drink be tea brewed from peach buds, and broth from the nests of sea swallows.”

  For centuries the little lion dog thrived in the seclusion of the Imperial Court. Then in 1860, near the close of the Chinese war, English troops entered Peking and looted the palace. They found five little dogs waddling forlornly about the deserted courtyard. To the English captain they seemed like exquisite pocket charms to take home as mementos.

  It was these little refugees that founded a new breed in the Western world. And so popular has it become that the Peke is now the toy dog of the day, lionized by all who admire great courage and quiet dignity in one so small.

  THE SPOTTED DOG OF DALMATIA

  ONCE THERE WAS A MOTHER dog named Polka Dot. Each year her owners went off on a summer’s holiday to England. The leave-taking at the boarding kennel was both sad and brave. The dog did not whimper. Nor did the two boys cry. Solemnly they each placed in her cage one of their old tennis shoes for memory’s sake. Then, wordlessly and without a backward glance, they walked away.

  But one year the family could not bring themselves to leave Polka Dot at a kennel. She was about to have puppies, and they wanted her to be in a home as nearly like theirs as possible. Besides kind-hearted parents, there had to be two children at least, and there had to be horses! For Polka Dot was a Dalmatian, a coach dog, and everyone knows Dalmatians like horses the way bees like flowers.

  Polka Dot’s summer home turned out to be a happy refuge. Wesley Dennis was chosen to care for her, not only because he is a dog’s kind of man but because he has two boys and six horses!

  In her new surroundings Polka Dot found complete happiness. She soon gave birth to her puppies—eight chubby ones—right in Wesley’s studio. To his amazement, but not to hers, they were pure white with no indication of the black spots to come!

  The summer days lazied themselves away. Through the open windows Polka Dot breathed in the good smell of the horses, and she brought up her puppies to like it, too.

  Then one day came word from England: “When Dot’s puppies are weaned, you can give them away.” Sorrowfully Wesley gave his best friends their choice until only one pup was left. Suddenly he realized how empty and lonely the studio would be without a pup tearing his paint rags or sleeping at his feet. “I’ll keep the last one myself!” he decided. “And I’ll name him Dice.”

  And so, when Polka Dot went back home to her people, little Dice was left as a keepsake.

  By show standards Dice is not a good Dalmatian. His spots run together. “But he wouldn’t like dog shows anyway,” shrugs Wesley, “and neither do I. His love is horses. The big thing in his day is the canter we take every morning. He is so afraid I will go off without him that, right after breakfast, he starts sitting by my boots. If I’m delayed, he goes to sleep on top of them.

  “Riding with him is fun,” Wesley says. “He doesn’t get under the horse’s feet at a full gallop or run way ahead and chase sheep, as my other dogs did.

  “We are never far apart, if it can be avoided. When I went to the Grand Canyon on the Brighty story, I missed him so much I used to send him bones by parcel post.

  “One thing is strange about Dice. He can’t stand anything wet, even a drop of water. It is funny to see him try to cross a brook without getting his feet wet. And when it’s raining, he tries to run under the rain. He’s had only two baths in eight years. He suffered so much, I just gave them up.

  “Even so,” laughs Wesley with a wink at Dice, “he always looks clean, though I can’t say he’s spotless!”

  FOX TERRIER—DOG WITH A PAST

  WE WERE STANDING ON THE busiest corner in Cleveland, a mounted policeman and I. Traffic screeched to a noisy stop, and moved on as the lights changed from red to green. People bunched up at the curb, then swarmed across the intersection. Horns shrilled. Motors roared and coughed up fumes which mingled with the haze of city smoke.

  Yet, here, in all the noise and bustle a drama was taking place. A gay little Fox Terrier, was reaching up to touch noses with an obviously delighted horse. The two creatures were of one world and one mind, and for them this other world of busyness did not exist.

  “What are they saying?” I asked Tony, the cop, for there were definite little snortings on the part of both.

  “At first I couldn’t tell either,” admitted Tony, “but now I understand.”

  “You understand what?”

  “What they say, of course.”

  “But what do they say?”

  The policeman hesitated. He had one eye on traffic, one on the little scene before him. “Each day it’s different. Sometimes it’s just pleasantries. But you . . .” He smiled in embarrassment. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “All right. But if you doubt or laugh, I don’t go on.”

  “Hmmm,” I nodded. And that was the last sound I uttered until he finished.

  “Pete is a city dog. Sure, I know lots of Fox Terriers are city dogs. But Pete is a downtown dog. Never saw a tree. It’s like living in a canyon, the way he lives—a canyon of stone buildings. Think of it! No trees! Not even a bush or a blade of grass. Plenty of fireplugs, concrete sidewalks, but no trees!

  “My horse, Skippy here, is his only link with the green world outside. Skippy seems to give him all that he misses. When Skippy talks, his breath is sweet with hay and clover. And what he says is full of danger, excitement, and adventure. Why, the day after the circus fire, when Skippy rescued nineteen horses, he told Pete all about it. How do I know? Well, first Pete smelled Skippy’s burned forelock and said, ‘What’s this strange smell I smell?’

  “And then I swear Skippy told him the whole story. Else why did Pete begin to lick the burned places on Skippy’s neck, and why did he whine and whimper and make over him exactly like he was a hero? Which he was!

  “Pete feels as if Skippy here is a link to his past. Over in England, Fox Terriers knew danger and excitement too. They traveled with horses and hounds, tracking the fox to his den and then bolting him out of it. That’s why they were bred.

  “But Pete? Why, he’ll never even snuff a fox. Mice is the best he can do. He’s city-bred and like as not will live out his days in that swell hotel over yonder. No trees. No grass. Not even a shrub.”

  The policeman sighed. “But look at him. He’s happy, living part of his life by proxy, the way some folks live through the books they read. It’s just lucky for him that he found Skippy, a horse that can talk!”

  THE POINTING DOGS

  AT THE FIRST BREATH OF autumn, when a blue fog throws a halo over the landscape, a stirring feeling gets into the heart of bird dogs. If their masters do not come for them, they pace restlessly up and down their kennel runs, and at night their sleep is broken by dreams. But their masters nearly always do come, for they, too, are stirred by the same urgency to taste the autumn air and to range over exciting game country.

  All dogs have the hunting instinct. But in some it reaches a transcendency. In the big-limbed Pointer, hunting is the stuff and purpose of his life. Should his master fail him, he often breaks free of high wire fences and hunts on his own. So great is his need.

  How well and how simply he is named!
La punta, in Spanish—“The Point.”

  Did he come originally from Spain, this bird-finding fellow? Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. But in England he was perfected. When first we hear of him, he was a slow-going, rather awkward hunter with an irritable, even a fierce, disposition. But English fanciers bred him to Foxhounds, and then he worked faster and surer. Later they crossed his blood with Setter blood, and then his disposition sweetened.

  One Englishman, Sam Price by name, bent all his efforts to create a Pointer with a nose so quick and sensitive that he would have to gallop across fields in order to keep up with it!

  By some miracle he produced Champion Bang. Bang had everything. Nose, and speed, and joy of working. He quartered a field like a zigzag of lightning. And when he came upon his birds, he froze in his tracks, hypnotized by the scent. His tail went rigid and his whole body pointed as if a tight thread were stretched from his nose to the bevy of birds. He was invincible, and he worked with Sam Price as an equal, not as dog and master.

  When Bang’s son, Bang-Bang, arrived in America, he set the style for a dog who loved to hunt, even better than he loved his master.

  Is the Pointer the only dog who has learned the art of saying: “Here they are, partner . . . come and get them”?

  On the contrary, there are three Setters—the English, the Irish, and the Scotch—who also point their game. They all have the same heritage and the same desire to hunt. Yet how different they are!

  Strangely, it is the English Setter and the Pointer who are more nearly alike. Both are white-bodied and both are freckled—sometimes with black, sometimes with liver or lemon. Against the russet tones of autumn their white coats stand out sharply.