Sarama and Her Children Read online

  These alaunts also figure in a book written in 1406 by Edmond de Langley, Duke of York, and one of the sons of Edward III. This book, Mayster of Game, was the first book on dogs in the English language, but seems to have been plagiarized from an earlier French book by Gaston Phoebus, Comte de Foix. However, discussions about dogs were still in the context of hunting. The first exception was perhaps De Canibus Britannicis, published in 1576 by Dr John Caius (John Keys), the founder of Gonville and Caius College in Cambridge and physician to many kings and queens. This treatise classified dogs.

  That takes one to William Shakespeare’s (1564–1616) time and Shakespeare’s world was also populated by dogs. There is much more to Shakespeare and dogs than the oft-repeated quote of crying havoc and letting loose the dogs of war. In the singular, Shakespeare mentions the word 151 times. In the plural, if ‘dogs’ rather than ‘dog’ are counted, there are more than two hundred references. Beagles are mentioned in Twelfth Night, greyhounds in The Merry Wives of Windsor, mongrels and curs in Macbeth, hounds in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and spaniels in Anthony and Cleopatra. Spaniels at the time of Anthony and Cleopatra are an anachronism, since spaniels did not evolve until much later. The compound word ‘watchdog’ figures in The Tempest. But the only dog to actually appear in one of Shakespeare’s plays is Crab in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Crab was owned by Valentine’s servant Launce and seems to have been an unadulterated mongrel. Launce’s monologue (Act IV, scene 4), or conversation with Crab, is extremely engaging.

  When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard; one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely ‘Thus I would teach a dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg. O! ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hang’d for’t; sure as I live, he had suffer’d for’t; you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the duke’s table; he had not been there—bless the mark, a pissing-while, but all the chamber smelt him. ‘Out with the dog!’ says one; ‘What cur is that?’ says another; ‘Whip him out’ says the third; ‘Hang him up’ says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: ‘Friend,’ quoth I ‘you mean to whip the dog?’ ‘Ay, marry do I,’ quoth he. ‘You do him the more wrong,’ quoth I; ‘twas I did the thing you wot of.’ He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I’ll be sworn, I have sat in the stock for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t. Thou think’st not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you serv’d me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman’s farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick?

  Adam Smith (1723–90) is regarded as the father of modern economics. He published An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations in 1776. This book includes a discussion about specialization and the benefits of trade exchange and we have the following quote: ‘Man is an animal that makes bargains; no other animal does this—one dog does not change a bone with another.’ From being used for functional roles, the dog had become a companion and a pure pet by that time. Like Old Drum. Earlier, a dog was what economists call producer goods. They performed a useful role as herd dogs, watchdogs or hunting dogs. Now, they became consumer goods, and performed a role of companion cum friend. A bit like moving up Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

  Hence, William Wordsworth (1770–1850) wrote in “A

  Tale by the Fire-Side”, ‘A dog too, had he; not for need, But one to play with and to feed; Which would have led him, if bereft/ Of company or friends, and left/ Without a better guide.’ Emily Bronte (1818–48) painted a watercolour of her dog in 1838, titled “Keeper”. In Charlotte Bronte’s (1816–54) Jane Eyre, we have Pilot as Rochester’s dog. We still cannot help smiling at Elizabeth Gaskell’s (1810–65) description of Carlo in Cranford. ‘As soon as Mr Mullliner came in, Carlo began to beg, which was a thing our manners forbade us to do, though I am sure we were just as hungry; and Mrs Jamieson said she was certain we would excuse her if she gave her poor dumb Carlo his tea first. She accordingly mixed a saucerful for him, and put it down for him to lap; and then she told us how intelligent and sensible the dear little fellow was; he knew cream quite well, and constantly refused tea with only milk in it: so the milk was left for us; but we silently thought we were quite as intelligent and sensible as Carlo, and felt as if insult were added to injury when we were called upon to admire the gratitude evinced by his wagging tail for the cream which should have been ours.’ In William Cowper’s (1731–1800) poem, “The Diverting History of John Gilpin”, when John Gilpin rode out, ‘the dogs did bark’. Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) paid a tribute to dogs in “The Power of the Dog”.

  There is sorrow enough in the natural way

  From men and women to fill our day;

  But when we are certain of sorrow in store,

  Why do we always arrange for more?

  Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware

  Of giving your hearts to a dog to tear.

  Buy a pup and your money will buy

  Love unflinching that cannot lie—

  Perfect passion and worship fed

  By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

  Nevertheless it is hardly fair

  To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

  When the fourteen years that nature permits,

  Are closing in asthma, or tumor, or fits,

  And the Vet’s unspoken prescription runs

  to lethal chambers or loaded guns,

  Then you will find—it’s your own affair

  But—you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

  We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way

  When it comes to burying Christian clay.

  Our loves are not given, but only lent

  At compound interest of cent per cent,

  For when debts are payable, right or wrong,

  A short time loan is as bad as a long—

  So why in Heaven (before we are there)

  Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

  When the body that lived at your single will,

  When the whimper of welcome is stilled

  (HOW STILL!)

  When the spirit that answered your every mood

  Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,

  You soon discover how much you care,

  And give your heart to a NEW dog to tear.

  Not everyone was like Kipling. The essayist Robert Lynd (1879–1949) certainly was not. One of Lynd’s essays was titled “Liking Dogs” and this is what it said. ‘As I glanced over Mr Kipling’s collection of his stories about dogs, I could not help wondering how it came that I never enjoyed those emotional experiences that seem to heighten life for the dog-lover. It is not that I have a positive dislike of dogs: it is merely that they mean nothing to me and that I have no wish for their company. If a dog approaches me with a proper good will shown by the movements of his tail, I can pat him on the head with any man. But there is no genuine warmth of affection in my patting: I am relived rather than otherwise when he transfers his attentions to somebody else … I do not know whether it is natural to like dogs. When one reflects for how many centuries the word ‘dog’ has been used in an opprobrious sense—that ‘hound’, ‘cur’, and ‘puppy’
are alike still words of offence—one cannot help wondering whether the relations of dogs and men can always have been as cordial as they are in these highly civilized days … Add to this the fact that, about the same time, scares about mad dogs were common.’

  Walter Scott’s (1771–1832) poem “Hunting Song” has a line that says, ‘Hounds are in their couples yelling’. And there are dogs in Ivanhoe, Talisman and The Antiquary. Ivanhoe links dogs with impending evil. ‘In the present instance, the apprehension of impending evil was inspired by no less respectable a prophet than a large lean black dog, which, sitting upright, howled most piteously as the foremost riders left the gate, and presently afterwards, barking wildly, and jumping to and fro, seemed bent upon attaching itself to the party.’ Ivanhoe also has the dog Fangs, ‘a ragged wolfish-looking dog, a sort of lurcher, half mastiff, half greyhound’, and there is a mention of the practice of disabling dogs by cutting off their foreclaws, known as ‘lawing’, so that dogs did not harm deer. And from Talisman,

  ‘Nay, your Majesty will pardon me to remind you that I have by mine office right to grant liberty to men of gentle blood to keep them a hound or two within camp, just to cherish the noble art of venerie; and besides, it were a sin to have maimed or harmed a thing so noble as this gentleman’s dog.’ ‘Has he, then, a dog so handsome?’ said the King. ‘A most perfect creature of Heaven,’ said the baron, who was an enthusiast in field-sports, ‘of the noblest Northern breed—deep in the chest, strong in the stern—black colour, and brindled on the breast and legs, not spotted with white, but just shaded into grey—strength to pull down a bull, swiftness to cote an antelope.’ The King laughed at his enthusiasm. ‘Well, thou hast given him leave to keep the hound, so there is an end of it.’

  Sir Walter Scott’s marble statue in Edinburgh has his favourite dog, Maida, at his feet. Lord Byron (1788–1824) wrote a poem titled, “Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog”. This dog was named Boatswain.

  Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who

  possessed Beauty without Vanity,

  Strength without Insolence,

  Courage without Ferocity,

  and all the Virtues of Man,

  without his Vices.

  This Praise, which would be unmeaning

  Flattery if inscribed over human

  ashes is but a just tribute to the Memory

  of Boatswain, a Dog.

  Many of Matthew Arnold’s (1822–88) poems have references to dogs. ‘The mower’s cry, the dog’s alarms’ in “Bacchanalia” or ‘And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest’ in “The Scholar-Gypsy” are but two examples. Sir William Watson (1858–1935) had an epitaph to a dog.

  His friends he loved. His fellest earthly foes—

  Cats—I believe he did but feign to hate.

  My hand will miss the insinuated nose,

  Mine eyes that tail that wagged contempt at Fate.

  Daniel Defoe’s (1660–1731) Robinson Crusoe had a dog as a companion. ‘He jumped out of the ship of himself and swam on shore to me the day after I went on shore with my first cargo and was a trusty servant to me for many years; I wanted nothing that he could fetch me, nor any company that he could make up to me; I only wanted to have him talk to me, but that would not do … My dog who was now grown very old and crazy and had found no species to multiply his kind upon, sat always at my right hand.’ In Johann Rudolf Wyss’s (1781–1830) Swiss Family Robinson, there were the dogs Turk and Flora. Even if you are going to be marooned on a desert island, you need a dog. So in Jules Verne’s (1828–1905) The Mysterious Island, we had Top. There are other dogs in Jules Verne books—Dingo, Duk, Phann, Diana, Satellite and Artimon. “Ah, Diana! Ah, Satellite!’ he exclaimed, teasing them; ‘so you are going to show the moon-dogs the good habits of the dogs of the earth! That will do honour to the canine race! If ever we do come down again, I will bring a cross type of ‘moon-dogs,’ which will make a stir!” Although relatively less important, dogs also feature in Alexander Dumas’s (1824–75) novels. Dumas himself had a dog and it is buried in the ‘Cemetery of Dogs’ (Le Cimetiere des Chiens) in Paris, although non-dog animals are also buried there.

  Sir Isaac Newton’s (1642–1727) dog Diamond is almost as famous as Newton. There are two stories about Diamond, the first more well-known than the second. In the first story, one night, Diamond knocked over a candle on Newton’s desk, destroying many years of work through the resultant fire. Newton is supposed to have said, ‘O Diamond, Diamond, thou little knowest the damage thou hast done.’ In the lesser known story, Newton bragged to his friend Wallis about Diamond: ‘My dog Diamond knows some mathematics. Today he proved two theorems before lunch,’ said Newton. ‘Your dog must be a genius,’ replied Wallis. ‘Oh I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Newton. ‘The first theorem had an error and the second had a pathological exception.’

  Speaking of the rich and the wealthy, we often forget an insignificant little detail from Tolstoy’s (1828–1910) Anna Karenina, when Vronsky and Anna Karenina first meet on a railway platform. In the luggage van of the train a dog was whining and this dog was carried out, not by anyone belonging to the family, but by the maid. The first part of Tolstoy’s autobiographical trilogy is titled Childhood, Boyhood and Youth and this has references to dogs used in hunting. In Memoirs from the House of the Dead, Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821–81) described his giving his heart to a prison-dog named Sharik. When Florence Nightingale fell ill during the Crimean War, a terrier was sent to her from England, as a companion. And when she returned from the Crimea, she brought back a large Crimean puppy.

  Perhaps a digression on the name Sharik is in order.

  The three dog names in the title have not been chosen fortuitously. Sharik is the traditional name for a mongrel in Russia. Bim, after the publication of Grigory Troyepolsky’s wonderful story “A White Gordon with Black Ear”, has become the symbol of a noble hunting dog, while Rex was the name of the dog in the film about frontier guards known to all Soviet children, and symbolizes a service dog … Yes, dogs blew up tanks. Most efficiently, too. It was a complete surprise for the Nazis … In 1944 there were 60,000 service dogs registered in the Soviet army … Here are the official figures: during the Second World War service dogs blew up 300(!) enemy tanks, discovered 4 million mines and, consequently, helped people to render them harmless, carried 680,000 wounded men from the battle-fields, brought 3,500 tons of supplies, including ammunition, to the front line; communication dogs unwound nearly 8,000 kilometres of telephone wiring.1

  There is also a War Dog Memorial in Hartsdale in the United States, dedicated to the memory of dogs that served in World War I. Under the bronze statue of a dog, there is an inscription that states, ‘Erected by public contributions by dog lovers to man’s faithful friend for the valiant services rendered in World War, 1914–1918’.

  To move back in history, the dog became a companion not only to the rich and the well-off, like Dora in David Copperfield, but also to those who had fallen on bad times or were somewhat disreputable, like Rochester’s dog in Jane Eyrc or the dogs possessed by Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist and Long John Silver in Treasure Island. Several dogs figure in assorted Charles Dickens (1812–70) novels. This does not make Dickens special, it makes Dickens representative. In David Copperfield, the dog Jip was always inseparable from Dora. When Dora dies, so does Jip. Instantly. ‘How the time wears, I know not, until I am recalled by my child-wife’s old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house, and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs … He lies down at my feet, stretches out as if to sleep, and with a plaintive cry, is dead.’ Bill Sikes was a scoundrel, but his dog Bull’s Eye behaved no differently from Jip. When Sikes died, so did Bull’s Eye, although that incident was more like an accident. In A Christmas Carol, we have this description of Scrooge. ‘Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and, when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts.’ Dogs also figure prominently
in Charles Kingsley’s (1819–75) The Water-Babies. Indeed, The Water-Babies ends with a question of what happened to Tom’s dog, apart from dogs being used to hunt Tom. ‘Oh, you may see him any clear night in July; for the old dog-star was so worn out by the last three hot summers that there have been no dog-days since; so that they had to take him down and put Tom’s dog up in his place.’ References to dogs became so common place that we do not even notice them. Washington Irving’s (1783–1859) “Rip Van Winkle” is an example. Everyone knows the story. But how many of us remember that Rip was such a good man that ‘not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood’? How many of us remember that Rip had a dog named Wolf ‘who was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye as the cause of his master’s so often going astray’? When Rip Van Winkle returned twenty years later, the ‘unkind cut’ was that even Wolf failed to recognize him.