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  Mustard Seed has a heritage to justify his strut. In fact, Bobby Ann painted a picture of his famous ancestors—the great sledge dog of the North and the Wolf-Spitz, who drove cattle in Germany. It was in Germany, in the province of Pomerania, that fanciers bred the Spitz down to toy size.

  But in all this evolution the little Pom never lost his resemblance to the big dogs of the Arctic. You can see it in the deep furred coat, in the plume of a tail curled rakishly over his back, in the eager look on his fox-like face.

  Verily, he is still the majestic dog of the North—in miniature!

  THE GREAT DANE

  THIS IS THE STORY OF a Great Dog. It is full of danger and violence, fun and bravery. And it begins centuries ago, in a Roman arena. It is the day of a lion fight. The Romans are surging toward the ring like ants swarming. For this is no ordinary fight between lion and lion. It is a fight between the king of beasts and a dog.

  The dog is of great size. His color is one with the lion, and he leaps and runs with leonine swiftness. But the match is uneven, for the lion has four sets of claws, like multiple swords, and his teeth are stilettos.

  Yet the Great Dog wins, and the people cry: “He is not dog; he is the god, Vulcan!”

  The chief thrill of this story is that it repeats itself. Centuries later, in Germany, the Great Dog is again in combat. This time the odds are almost insuperable. His enemy is the murderous boar, running wild in the Black Forest. Now, instead of charging a lion in an arena, he is the target. And the forest is vast and deep.

  A dog’s teeth are no match for a boar’s tusks. Yet the Great Dog learns to spin and dodge and hold the boar at bay until the hunter rides up with bow and arrow.

  With rare skill the Germans trained the Great Dog. They devised a tuskproof vest made of whalebone, and they tied it around the plump bodies of the puppies so they could learn very early the art of dodging the mighty tusks.

  By the year 1600, boar hunting became the sport of kings and nobles. German Duke Henry Julius had six hundred boarhounds in his kennel. In one season a hunting party with a pack of hounds actually killed 1,100 boars.

  It wasn’t very long until the ferocious beast was practically wiped out. Then the Great Dog tackled bear and bison and wolf until at last the Black Forest was safe . . . even for little Red Riding-Hood!

  In all these years the Germans developed several strains of the hounds, and each was given a name. The solid-colored hounds were Ulmers, Bauerhunds, and Saupackers. The Tiger Dogges were so called because they were white with black splotches.

  But the most common name for all was simply Deutsche Dogge.

  Then, by a whim of fate, a fawn-colored hound was shipped to Denmark. Her puppies, including a white-and-black-spotted one, were later sent to France. Immediately the French labeled them Grand Danois, meaning “Big Danish.” The Tiger Dogge they called Harlequin. And that is how the German names were dropped and the term “Great Dane” came into being.

  Noble and dignified as he is, the Great Dane has a delicious sense of what is fun. To him small dogs and cats are fun. He rolls them over as if they were tumbleweeds, and he considers them his pets.

  One owner says of her Dane, “My King Haakon is a regal fellow. He scorns toys of any kind, but a pet cat is essential to him. When he looks up from playing with her, he seems to ask: ‘Is this so unthinkable? After all, kings do have pets, you know.’

  “Then quickly comes my reply: ‘But, of course! Of course, kings have pets. It is their divine right!’ ”

  THE TINY PUP FROM CHIHUAHUA

  ONCE THERE WAS A WEE slip of an opera singer and her name was Madame Patti. Her singing made so many people happy that they, in turn, wanted to make her happy. Everywhere they lavished gifts upon her. Kings and queens gave her diamonds and pearls. Poor people brought home-baked bread and purple grapes and laid them at her dressing-room door.

  But, of all gifts, the midget of Mexico delighted her soul. And this was the way of it:

  On a soft, gentle night in Mexico City, when a sickle moon shone in the sky and the wind showered apple blossoms across the grass, the little diva, as they called Madame Patti, was moved to sing in a kind of triumph—perhaps for the beauty of the night, perhaps for sheer gladness.

  Whatever the reason, her joy notes reached out and stirred the listeners, too, and one among them left the opera hall and gathered together the loveliest bouquet he could find. In the center of it he tucked a memento from Mexico—a Chihuahua dog, the tiniest breed in the whole world. It was a delicate fawn color, and so tiny that its legs were scarce bigger than flower stems and its head no larger than a blossom.

  With the dog still held fast among the flowers, the man arrived back at the opera hall in time to hear the grand finale of The Barber of Seville. He watched the whole audience rise with huzzahs and handclappings to pay homage to Madame Patti, and he waited while the curtain had to be rung up to the sum of five times.

  When the clamoring finally ceased and the flutes and violins had played their last notes, a great stillness fell over the hall as the man with the bouquet marched down the aisle.

  Madame Patti stepped in front of the curtain and impulsively gathered the flowers to her. Just as she brought them to her face, a piquant little head peered out and a pair of dark eyes studied her with a droll and saucy expression. How she laughed and laughed, while the audience stamped and cheered, and the bewildered pup cocked his head from side to side.

  Now in the bright circle of light the two diminutive creatures welcomed each other, one with a quick curling of his tongue, the other with kisses and soft murmurings.

  At last Madame Patti lifted the Chihuahua out from the bouquet and said, “Dear friends! From each country I like to take with me a token of remembrance, but never before”—and here her eyes sparkled—“no, never have I been given a live one. ‘Butterfly’ I shall call him, for his ears flare out exactly like butterfly wings. No?” she asked with a lifting of her brows.

  “Si! Si!” the audience cried in rapture. Here was a fairy tale come true! Their own native dog from the state of Chihuahua going home with the little diva whom they adored!

  And when, for her encore, she sang Home, Sweet, Sweet Home, the Chihuahua’s eyes grew big and luminous as if already he knew that he had found home.

  HERR DOBERMANN’S PINSCHER

  SOME SIXTY-ODD YEARS AGO, IN the city of Apolda, Germany, there lived a man with derring-do. His name was Herr Louis Dobermann, and he had a dream. He longed to create the most perfect species of dog in the whole world.

  Why couldn’t he do it, he asked his two best friends, the grave digger and the bell ringer.

  The men shrugged and repeated the question. Why couldn’t he? Was not Herr Louis the town’s dogcatcher? Did he not have all manner of dogs to work with?

  He did, indeed, but that made his task of selection all the harder. What he really had in mind was to produce a “sharp” dog, and by “sharp” he meant a dog that would attack as quickly as a struck match bursts into flame. For the city of Apolda was rich in factories and warehouses and fine homes, and their owners wanted day-and-night protection from thieves. They were continually asking Herr Louis for good watchdogs.

  So one day he put on his thinking cap and began to plan, exactly like some chef concocting a new dish. For his perfect dog he needed swiftness and agility, which Terriers could provide. And he needed the keen mind of the German Shepherd, and the strength of the big dog known as the Butcher’s Dog. But could all these traits be blended?

  As luck would have it, he had recently caught in his net one of the lively Terriers known as “Pinschers.” Her name was Schnupp, and if she were mated with bigger dogs, her offspring might well be giant Pinschers—not clumsy at all, but lithe.

  Herr Dobermann’s dream did not come true in a flash. Schnupp did become the matriarch of the new breed, but it was many, many generations before the great Doberman Pinscher emerged as we know him.

  Today the Doberman is young as breeds go, b
ut he is most distinctive and distinguished. He is the lean aristocrat, tall and well proportioned. His coat is short and hard, and lies so close to the skin it looks as if some master tailor had just turned him out. Generally this coat is black as polished ebony, with tan markings for emphasis. His tail is docked very short, and his ears are cropped and set high in erect points. This makes him look always ready to take off.

  Nimble as a gazelle, he can run with the same speed. In every galloping stride his hind legs actually leap ahead of his forelegs! It is a handsome sight to see him flash in and out of a hedge, like some black needle in the sun.

  Fierce he can be, but only when he is trained and then ordered to attack. He is too much the gentleman-detective to bite people promiscuously. “Watchdog supreme” is his title, and he wears it with dignity.

  In factories and big stores he and the night watchman are ever on the alert. Guns can’t hear and they can’t smell, and sometimes they jam and don’t go off. But Herr Dobermann’s Pinscher is sure-fire.

  Yet with all his quick trigger action, he is a thinker, too, not a killer—except on command. The sharpness that Herr Louis wanted is there, and with it a high fidelity for his job, even unto death.

  LITTLE DIE-HARD, THE SCOT’S TERRIER

  HE HAILS FROM THE WINDY moors of Scotland, this rough-haired fellow with the jaw that says do-or-die. He has a single purpose in life—to “go to earth” and drag foxes and rats from their holes. Nature built him short-legged for his underground work, with feet strong and tough for digging. And she grizzled his coat so that in heather or hedgerow his busyness would be unnoticed.

  “Earth dogges” is the way King James VI described his own Scotch Terriers. He was a learned man and liked to explain that the very name “Terrier” came from the Latin word terra, meaning “earth.”

  This young King of Scotland was a clever one with dogs, and a clever one with talk. When he entertained royalty from countries known for their big dogs, he always managed to get in a word about his own wee Scotties.

  “Gude gear comes in bittic bundles,” he would chuckle. “ ’Tis an old Highland saying, that, and it fits our towsy tykes the way a ring fits its finger.”

  The world over, the Scotch Terrier answers to names like Tousle or Whiskers. In fact, the more whiskers he grows, the better he is liked. Chin whiskers add greatly to his determined look, and two clumps of bushy brows make his shoe-button eyes gleam like black diamonds. For practical purposes the heavy brows are watersheds in case of rain, and mudguards when he is tunneling. His whole body is covered with bristles so that his enemies can never get a good hold on him. To them he is a slithery fellow, most exasperating!

  For exhibitions Scotties are often trimmed and plucked so that their underwear shows. This is soft as lamb’s wool. But a working Terrier is never plucked, for then rats and foxes with their needle-like teeth might tear him to pieces. His teeth, by the way, are as wondrous as his coat. They are extremely strong and large, larger even than a Collie’s! As for his heart, it is game and fearless. He always faces the battle with stubborn courage, a trait which has earned him the title of Little Die-Hard.

  Has all this talk of fighting misled you? The Scotch Terrier is not only a fighter. He can be the most dependable baby sitter, alert and wide-awake until relieved of his duty. One Scottie I know will let the baby play with enticing squeak toys—rabbits and mice and teddy bears—and though the noises set him a-quiver, he never snatches the toys away. He just looks on, old and wise in the ways of babies.

  Some people feel that Scotties are born old. From the time they are puppies they seem solemn and dignified. Perhaps it is the beetling brows and square jaws which make them look like sober businessmen. What if their business is rats? Is not the work of the exterminator a praiseworthy occupation?

  King James thought so. He was exceedingly proud of his dog, Jowler, who was, of course, a great ratter. Jowler had the entire run of the castle, including the banquet halls. Yet the King, holding both his sides in laughter, would taunt his chief cook, “Listen, mon! Jowler prefers my stable to your table!”

  THE ARCTIC SLED DOGS

  A TEAM OF HUSKIES STANDS howling in harness. It is the year 1925, late January. The place is Nenana, a bleak Alaskan village.

  The driver is working fast, loading a small package on the sled, wrapping it in furs. If he does not take the handlebars soon, the dogs will begin chewing at their harness. They are wild to go! It is as if they knew the package contains life-saving serum to be rushed to Nome. An epidemic of diphtheria is raging, and only the serum can halt it.

  Over at the airstrip the plane scheduled to carry the package is grounded by storms. But weather is no barrier to the Arctic sled dogs. At the command “Mush!” they’re off, streaking across the snow, jumping over ice hummocks, galloping for the sheer fun of it.

  Along the trail other teams stand ready. At Shaktolik, the famous racer Seppalla waits with his lead dog Togo and a team of twenty. Seppalla has a message from Nome: DON’T CUT ACROSS NORTON BAY. HURRICANE WINDS BREAKING UP ICE. But Seppalla pays no heed. Going around would mean hours! He cracks his whip, shouts, “Let’s go!”

  Across the glare ice Togo feels his way. He knows this short cut well, but today the ice is buckling, splinters are tearing loose, ripping the pads of his feet. With paws bleeding he and his teammates finish the sixty-mile lap, howling not in pain, but in jealousy that a new relay is taking over.

  Night comes. And morning. And night again. Team after team carries the precious cargo. The wind grows angrier—sixty miles an hour, then eighty! The temperature falls to fifty below. Gunnar Kasson is the new driver with big black Balto his leader.

  But let Gunnar tell his own story.

  “I took the serum at Bluff. The snow was raging. I hitched the dogs. I wanted to get to Point Safety before the trails got impassable.

  “I stuck to the coast, figuring it would be good going. The wind was howling in from the north, picking up the snow like it was a comb. I didn’t know where I was. But Balto sniffed the trail through the snow and kept pushing ahead.

  “The sled spilled over, and I had to untangle the dogs’ harness and lift the stuff back and get going again. It was black night. When we got to Point Safety I mushed by the roadhouse. Everything was dark. Balto and the others were going good now. I decided to go on instead of waking the next driver for the last twenty miles.

  “By now the snow had drifted and the air was stinging cold. Two dogs began to stiffen up. I made a rabbit-skin covering for them, but the cold went through it. Somehow, at 5:36 on the morning of February second, we staggered into Nome.”

  A wildly cheering huddle of humanity greeted Gunnar Kasson. But he did not hear. His arms were around Balto and he was half crying as he rubbed the dog’s legs.

  Today, in Central Park, New York, a large statue of a Husky commemorates the thrilling race. The inscription on it reads:

  Dedicated to the indomitable spirit of the sled dogs that relayed antitoxin 600 miles over rough ice, through Arctic blizzards, from Nenana to the relief of stricken Nome.

  Some say the statue is of Balto, and some say, “No! It is Togo, or Fox, or Scotty.” But what does it matter? Even Gunnar Kasson or Seppalla would say, “It fits them all!”

  THE DACHSHUND—BIG ENOUGH

  PANIC CAME OVER ME. I did not want a little dog. I wanted a great, big dog—one to sprawl by the fire, one so big that I could sit on the floor and rest my heavy riding boots on his belly without hurting him in the least.

  But the telegram trembling in my hand said: AM SENDING YOU A DACHSHUND PUP. UNLESS YOU WIRE WILL SHIP TOMORROW. HE’LL ARRIVE MIDNIGHT CHICAGO AIRPORT. DON’T WORRY IF PUP IS AIRSICK. WON’T HURT HIM AT ALL. HIS KENNEL NAME IS JANDELO’S ALEX.

  A Dachshund pup! I could see him now. A caricature of a dog, an animated sausage! I read the telegram again. UNLESS YOU WIRE . . . The phone was at my elbow. Ten little words would keep him away. Just pick up the receiver. Do it!

  But I seemed unde
r a spell. In my mind I already saw the crate, with the frightened eyes looking out, and the pup not really airsick, just bewildered and lonely for his litter brothers and sisters.

  When Alex arrived, he was not bewildered at all. With wagging tail he strutted out of the crate—a gnomelike little fellow, except for his proud chest, which stuck out like a prize fighter’s.

  For good reason we had called our place Mole Meadow. But, even as a pup, Alex declared war on the moles. Yapping and barking in excitement, he found their winding runs. Then making a ditch digger of himself, he shoveled the dirt away with his forepaws. As for his nose, it pushed on ahead, like some pointed plow, until it came upon the culprit.

  Mole Meadow is a misnomer now. We haven’t seen one in so long that I’ve forgotten what they look like. No, I’ll take that back. I do remember. They have softly padded feet with hard claws for digging, just like Alex. And they have a pointed muzzle—like his, too. But there the resemblance ends. He is all merry light-heartedness, and they are dark and drab as the tunnels they burrow.

  In ridding our place of moles and mice and woodchucks and rabbits, Alex is living up to his inheritance. His family tree goes back to the fifteenth century, to the badger hounds who were bred by the foresters of Germany.

  In German, dachs means “badger” and hund means “dog.” Hence the name of this courageous little hunter who is built long and low for the special purpose of burrowing into badgers’ holes.

  In spite of their short legs, Dachshunds can leap and bound and run fast enough to follow the trail of a horse or a deer. Always when I go riding, Alex trots along, tracking our scent even when we gallop out of sight.

  On fall nights, after a brisk hour across country, he likes to toast his bones by the fire. As for me, nothing is so nice as to pull off my boots and wriggle my toes under his warm body. Too small? No, indeed. He’s just the right size!