Album of Dogs

by Marguerite Henry

  But, more important, they are both intensely competitive in spirit. In Field Trials each one has a burning desire to be first to find partridge or quail or woodcock. Each one wants to find the birds faster than the dog he is matched against.

  For years the short-haired Pointer and the long-haired English Setter have been the two pointing dogs most eager to win. Even their puppies, entered in the “Nursery Stakes” of Field Trials, show a lively competitive spirit. Of course, sometimes they are scatterbrained and chase bumblebees or swallows instead of game birds, but all is forgiven in the Nursery Stakes.

  What of the Irish Red Setter? And what of the Scotch Black-and-Tan Gordon? Are they not competitors at the big trials? In all honesty, no. Perhaps one day soon they will step out and challenge their English cousins to a win, but meanwhile they are more petted at home than praised afield.

  The beauty of the Red Setter has almost been his undoing as a hunter. That rich mahogany coat became such a temptation to Show Dog fanciers that they kept breeding for color instead of for bird sense. Of course, they could not breed out the hunting instinct entirely, but today’s Irish Setter is happier to place his head on his master’s knee than to thrash through brush and brier after bird scent. The hunter himself is quite willing to leave his loving Irishman at home, for when the landscape is all red and gold with autumn, a careless friend might shoot the dog because of his invisibility.

  Like the Red Setter, the Black-and-Tan Gordon is also color-handicapped. He seems part of the landscape, especially at dusk when hunting is at its best. Then his black and tan color melts into burned-over tree stumps and dense cover.

  All three of the Setters are descended from the famed Setting Spaniels who, in days long ago, crouched, or “set,” as they neared a covey of birds. The fowler would then throw a huge net over the birds and the dogs both, and so gather them all in.

  But with the invention of firearms the net was discarded, and the dogs were taught to stand on point instead of to crouch. This was a simple step in training, for a dog naturally stops a moment before springing his game.

  There is magnificence in the restraint of the pointing dog. Eagerly, hour after hour, he hunts his heart out, but when he finds the birds he stiffens into a direction flag. Rightfully, those birds are his. If he were a child, he might scream: “They’re mine! Mine! Let me at ’em!” Instead, he suppresses his natural instincts and gives the glory to his master.

  Of all pointing breeds the speedy Pointer is generally conceded to be the best bird finder. Why, then, does anyone choose a Setter?

  One reason may well be that the Setter loves the master for himself, while the Pointer likes any man with a gun.

  Then, too, not every hunter insists upon a wide-ranging fellow. Some prefer a dog who works in close and looks often to the master for help and direction. The bold, swashbuckling Pointer is fine if it’s a big bag of birds you’re after, but if you prefer that look in the eye that speaks of eternal devotion, then a Setter is the happy answer.

  So there you have them—the long-haired English, Irish, and Scotch Setters, and the short-haired Pointer. Good, honest, game dogs all, and yours for the choosing.

  SPEAKING AS A SPRINGER

  DEAR READER: I’d like to set paw to paper and do my own chapter in my own way. I am a Springer Spaniel, white with black tickings. Tickings are little splashes of color, as if someone had shaken his fountain pen all over you.

  “Baldwin of Lockridge” is my kennel name. But The Gunner (he’s my boss) calls me “Boy.” He calls me other things too. Whenever he asks me to teach a puppy how to spring a rabbit or flush a bird, then he calls me “The Professor.” I’d rather not be The Professor. Please don’t misunderstand. I like puppies. But they puzzle me! When the air is delicious with the smell of pheasant, how can they possibly stalk a butterfly? How can they do it?

  Me? I just live to hunt! Give me a crisp day, and The Gunner at my heels, and I’m in my glory. There’s one hunt I’ll never forget.

  I can still see everything, right from the start. The Gunner puts me down in a cornfield and says, “Spring ’em out, Boy!”

  It was a world of smell. Hardly had I sampled the air before I knew we’d found birds. With a rush I was on the scent, my tail wagging to The Gunner to come along.

  Everything happened fast. The birds were there all right, a big covey of partridge. I sailed into them, and as they soared squealing into the air, I heard the gun crack twice. All but one kept on soaring. He began fluttering earthward. And then he did a strange thing. He wheeled back toward the cornfield, where he swooped in for a landing.

  I marked the spot, raced toward it, but when I got there I saw nothing but the dust he was raising. What a runner he was! Only the tip of his wing had been hit and he could go like the wind. He dived now, down the corn rows, then doubled back again. I sprinted after him, twisting and turning until I was dizzy.

  In the distance I could hear The Gunner calling me in. There was disgust in his voice. But I couldn’t go back now!

  The partridge was trying to trick me. I had to outwit him! I circled far around, and when he came plummeting head-on toward me, I jumped him and grabbed his plump body with my teeth. Then in triumph I fetched him back to the hands of The Gunner.

  Well, you should’ve heard him! He laughed like a brook, and the pride in his voice made me wag from stem to stern.

  “Boy,” he said huskily, “you’ve got character! You had to be disobedient to me or to your job, and you made the right choice. If every gunner had a dog like you, fewer birds would be wasted.”

  This story makes me out a hero, but in all honesty I have my limitations. First, I cannot take the place of a Pointer or a Setter because I don’t point my birds. I spring them.

  Second, I am not as great a retriever in icy waters as, say, the Labrador. I just haven’t his coat. Or his size.

  What I always do when I meet a Pointer or a Retriever is walk right up to him, give his nose a poke and a sniff, and say, “All right! Suppose you can do your particular job better than I can. I’m an all-around bird dog. I find, flush, and retrieve. I can give The Gunner as much good hunting as two or three specialists! That’s me, fellow. A lot of dog in one.”

  Honestly yours,

  BALDWIN OF LOCKRIDGE

  P.S. Only one thing I refuse to do, and that is to be a watchdog. I just can’t bark at burglars. I like them! Even burglars have some good in them. Well, I just like people—that’s all.

  THE LABRADOR, KING OF RETRIEVERS

  ON THE FAR-OFF ISLAND OF Newfoundland there was once a big breed of black dogs used as fishermen’s helpers. They swam from ship to shore, dragging nets of cod and salmon, herring and lobster.

  “St. John’s Water Dogs” they were called, after St. John’s, the capital of Newfoundland. But the name did not hold—all because of an Englishman, the Earl of Malmesbury. He liked to watch the ships from Newfoundland unloading their cargo at Poole Harbor, England. But it was not the cargo that fascinated him; it was the fishermen’s dogs! They could retrieve anything, in any kind of water, in any weather.

  The Earl had been wanting just such help. His own brace of Spaniels were fine at flushing a bird into the air, but when it fell into rough or icy waters, he needed a true water dog to fetch it.

  So he negotiated with the ship’s captain and bought several of the coal-black dogs. Instead of calling them “Newfoundlands,” he misnamed them “Labradors.” But the “Retriever” in the dog’s name fits exactly, for his work in life is to bring back the birds from wherever they fall.

  The Earl never ceased to marvel at his new breed. “With a few shakes,” he wrote, “the dogs can shed water like oil.”

  The real miracle of today’s Labrador, however, is not his coat but his self-control. A whole flock of ducks can whiz right past his nose, and he will remain steady as a tree stump. Even when the guns fire, and ducks tumble out of the sky, he neither flinches nor pursues. He waits. Then at the command, “Fetch!” he’s off like
a bullet, crashing through the brush, leaping into the water, heading for the bird.

  On windless days he brings it back with lightning speed. But when the wind is high and the tide strong, the fallen bird often drifts out of his sight. Howling for help, he looks ashore, his raised head asking, “Where, Boss? Where?”

  “It’s over there!” the boss signals with a wave of his arm. To signal after signal the dog responds, until at last he finds the duck bobbing on the water. Then with tender mouth he carries it back to his master.

  “For me,” one hunter says, “the teamwork between us is the thrill of the sport.”

  Another hunter, a white-haired veteran, claims that his thrill comes when the bird is delivered so gently that not a feather is ruffled. “What other animal,” he asks, “would bring such a tasty morsel to me instead of gobbling it up himself?”

  Most Labradors are naturally tender with their birds. For proof, the same old hunter tells a remarkable story. Satin-Soot, a frolicsome pup, was at play one day with two of his litter sisters. Romping in and out of a creek, the sisters were chasing Satin-Soot, who had something in his mouth.

  Curious, the old man called the puppy in and took from between his teeth a live baby thrush, whole and unhurt! With words of praise he made this incident the puppy’s first lesson in retrieving.

  Because the Labrador is both gentle and teachable, he is the hunter’s fine retriever and everyone’s friend.

  BOSTON TERRIER—ALL AMERICAN

  ONCE UPON A TIME A steamship was plowing along the waters of the Atlantic between Liverpool and Boston. The captain, a stern fellow who disliked dogs, thought that his cargo consisted only of woolens and worsteds. Little did he know that down in the engine room a coal stoker had smuggled aboard a bull-and-terrier dog. This was no ordinary pet; he was a professional fighter!

  The stoker knew, of course, that a good fighter would bring good money in Boston. He had sold others there before. But what he never dreamed was that this particular dark-brindled chap would turn out to be the foundation sire of a new American breed.

  When the steamer docked, a man named Hooper bought the stowaway, not because he wanted a prize fighter of a dog but because he liked the dapper look of him—the snow-white bib, the white blaze up his face, the ears cropped, and the screw tail. Here, he thought, was a handsome, bare-fisted fellow with plenty of character. It would be a fine thing to have pups in his image! So he bred the dog, whom he called Judge, to a pure-white Terrier. Sure enough, the pups were not only brindle in color but they took on the character of their sire.

  In due time dog fanciers bought up Judge’s pups and his grandpups, too. They determined to create a new breed, one that would combine the courage of the Bulldog and the liveliness of the Terrier. This they did. Moreover, the bullishness of the fighter was bred out, and gentleness bred in. The new dog they named the Boston Terrier.

  Toby Timmons is the best example I know of this all-American breed. He is no longer alive, but I can still see him gazing up at me, one ear pricked, one flopped over.

  Toby was all things to all people. With the youngsters who came to his house he was a boisterous playfellow, jumping and pouncing all over them. To prowlers he was a fierce, growling guardsman.

  But with Grandma, a fragile little lady, he was gentleness itself. When she fell one day and broke her hip, he licked her face until she awoke. Then he ran for help.

  When Grandma returned home from the hospital, Toby never once dove between her crutches, nor even so much as brushed up against them. Instead, he hovered about her like some diminutive nurse, barking encouragement as she hobbled from room to room.

  The only time he left her side was when the ladies of the sewing circle met. The click of shears seemed to fill his small soul with terror, reminding him no doubt of the day his ears were cropped. So always on sewing day Toby slunk off and went fishing.

  Patiently he fished the afternoon away. Sometimes perch leaped right at him, surprising him nearly out of his wits. The big ones always got away, but the little ones he caught and fetched home. Then, when the ladies were gone, Grandma rolled the fish in crumbs and fried them for their supper.

  In little ways like this, Toby gave Grandma good reason to live on for a long, long time. When at last she died, he soon followed. And these are the words on his grave:

  Here lies Toby Timmons—fisherman, friend, and all-around American

  THE SAINT BERNARD, DOG OF MERCY

  BLACK NIGHT OVERTOOK THE LITTLE band of pilgrims toiling their way over the Swiss Alps to Rome. The year was 962, and the mountain pass lay buried in snow.

  Suddenly out of the night a pack of robbers waylaid the pilgrims, murdering some, stealing meat and bread from the others.

  In panic, the survivors fled to Italy and told their tale of horror to a saintly man named Bernard. He was quiet-faced and mild. Yet there was a terrible courage in him. Before morning he stormed up the mountain with only a handful of men. And when he came upon the bandits, his very fearlessness awed them. He seemed a supreme being, and they fled from his sight.

  Bernard was indeed a superior being. When aroused he had the power of an avalanche. Now he was fired with a plan. He would build a shelter for travelers at the summit of the pass.

  In time the shelter grew. It was a monastery, bleak on the outside but warm and friendly within. Here laborers crossing the mountain to find work on the other side, or pilgrims going to Rome, or any wayfarer could find comfort and security.

  News of the sanctuary spread, and as the years went by more and more travelers braved the pass. Some never reached the shelter house but were lost in snowslides, and some died of cold and exhaustion.

  The monks were troubled. If only they could do more! Were dogs the answer? Could the big Swiss hounds be of help? They were descendants of the huge Molossus dogs of Asia and were famous for their scenting powers. Hopefully, the monks knocked at cottage doors in the lowlands, asking, “Would you give us one of your big dogs to run errands of mercy?”

  Some of the farmers willingly agreed. And from these Alpine hounds the monks developed a staunch breed, one that could battle the icy world of peaks and crags and eternal snows. Keen of scent, the dogs tracked footsteps even three days old. And when the trail ended in a drift, they pawed the snow away until they found the traveler beneath. Then with warm tongues they licked him awake and led him to the hospice.

  For centuries these dogs of mercy went on saving lives. History pictures them with a little wine cask tied about their necks and food strapped to a harness. Always they were enormous fellows with great, kindly faces.

  Near the hospice stands a life-size statue of the famous dog, Barry. During his lifetime Barry saved forty victims of snow sleep. Later the dogs were often called “Barry Hounds” in his honor. Only recently were they given the name “Saint Bernard.”

  Today, with telephone lines going up the Alps and railroads tunneling through, the Saint Bernard has less work to do. But the breed still wears a halo of glory. A new hospice has been built in the high Himalayas, where he is carrying on his mission.

  Here in America the Saint Bernard is found in country homes, wherever there is room for a mammoth dog. He romps with the children, and when they are hurt, he gently licks their tears away. By instinct he knows that his role is the comforter.

  MUSTARD SEED, THE PET POMERANIAN

  NOT EVERYONE CAN RIDE A high-mettled horse. And not everyone can handle a big, strong dog. Bobby Ann was a teenager who could do both. She had ridden since she was three, and she had owned big dogs—Danes and Dalmatians, even Saint Bernards.

  The strange thing about people like Bobby Ann is that you never really know them until their spirit is tested. Just when life stretched out before her with happy, beckoning trails, she was stricken with polio. After the fever burned itself out, she was helpless. Except for one arm.

  But now a brave, new Bobby Ann emerged. Of course she had been brave when she took the high jumps on her Thoroughbred. But then it was
the horse who had the look of eagles. Now Bobby Ann has it!

  With spirit beyond measure she began to plan a new life. She called for paints and an easel; she called for books of adventure. Then, wistfully, she called for pamphlets on dogs. Surely there must be a tiny dog, one easy to lift, yet all that a dog should be.

  She studied the toy breeds, and it was the Pomeranian that won out. He arrived on her birthday, with his kennel name, “Mustard Seed,” printed in big letters on his crate.

  “We’ll keep that name!” Bobby Ann shouted, hugging the ball of fluff close.

  “Suits him well,” agreed her father. “He’s not much bigger than a seed.”

  “And his coat’s the color of mustard blossoms,” the mother added.

  Bobby Ann was silent. Then, barely lifting her eyes from the dog, she asked, “Do you remember when I was sick?”

  She expected no answer and got none.

  “Well, one day the minister came and he said to me, ‘If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, nothing shall be impossible unto you.’ ” Bobby Ann stroked the wise little face. “And now nothing shall!” She laughed and cried all at the same time.

  Mustard Seed is serving his purpose well. He thinks he owns Bobby Ann, instead of the other way around. Each morning he fetches his comb and insists upon having his bushy coat groomed. And when things are too quiet, he barks in a high-pitched voice, “Look at me!” Then he turns a string of somersaults—a trick Bobby Ann taught him.

  Life to him is busy and full of glee. He growls ferociously at all the delivery men, and he carries notes for Bobby Ann to her mother and proudly brings back the things she requests. All day long he goes around strutting big to make up for his littleness.