The Boston Terrier (A Vintage Dog Books Breed Classic): Vintage Dog Books

By E.J. Rousuck

Originally published in 1926, this scarce early work on the Boston Terrier is both expensive and hard to find in its first edition. VINTAGE DOG BOOKS have now republished it, using the original text and photographs, as part of their CLASSIC BREED BOOKS series. The Boston Terrier is fondly known as "The American Dog." It is supposedly the only dog originally bred in America and, like everything else truly American, they came from Boston Town. The author's aim in this work was to "rehearse the principal factors in both the human and technical sides of the history of the Boston Terrier." It is intended to give the reader an expert's guide as to the rearing, showing, and the fundamentals as to what constitutes a really typical Boston Terrier. The book's two hundred pages contain ten comprehensive and illustrated chapters: - The Melting Pot of Dogdom. - Origins. - Characteristics of the Head. - Characteristics of the Body. - Training and Feeding the Youngsters. - Showing. - Diseases. - Foundation Strains. - Relation of the Present Day Strains to Foundation Strains. - Boston Terrier Standard. - Index. Also present are many black and white photos of Champions plus text illustrations. This is a fascinating read for any Boston Terrier enthusiast or historian of the breed, and also contains much information that is still practical and useful today. Many of the earliest dog breed books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. VINTAGE DOG BOOKS are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781473388680

Book preview

THE BOSTON TERRIER

CHAPTER I

THE MELTING POT OF DOGDOM

FATE took a hand in my future when one day I stood in front of Horticultural Hall in Boston wondering how best to dispose of the next few hours. A large sign directly ahead informed me that within the building a dog show was being held. A dog show then meant little, merely a congregation of those strange kind of dogs which publicity invariably designated as stately Collies, remarkable Shepherds, haughty Chows and the like—names and nothing more. One name alone stuck out in the dim past of my memory, the Boston Terrier, probably because some one had originally referred to him as the American Dog. But he, too, was just a name. A dog was a dog, I thought, and a Dog Show a place where many of them met to bark and test their voices perhaps. As to competition, I knew nothing; as to the points required for any supremacy, I knew less.

Meantime, hordes passed by, turned and went into the building, and so aimless was my intention as to the hours that were to follow, and so willing was I to be swayed by the interest of others, that I, too, turned and went inside. Once there, all misgivings as to the indeterminate nature of my day’s amusement vanished. I straightway became as interested as any and that interest has lasted, even increased, with the years that have gone by.

First to meet my gaze was a large, roped off arena, which looked to me like a pretty good place for a prize fight. Indeed, some one even called it the ring. Closer inspection revealed a small raised platform in the center of the space, and, to one side, a table shining with several silver loving cups and a host of vari-colored ribbons—blue, red, yellow and white. Right behind the tables was a blackboard similar to those used in marking baseball scores, and on its face was written in scrawling hand, Winners class to be judged at eight o’clock. All of this was Greek to me. A mongrelish game, thought I, seeming to borrow the antics and the paraphernalia of fights and baseball games.

In the back of the hall I found rows of stalls on which the dogs sat—were benched I soon learned was the proper term. The flooring of the benches was raised and the sides protected, some of the dogs being alone in a single stall and others side by side in large spaces. Eight together I counted in one stall which was beautifully decorated with royal velvet and brass finish, and with brass markers calling attention to the names of the individual dogs. Royalty and the common folks brushed elbows, for some stalls were not dressed up at all and needless to say, the inmates of these, bedded on ordinary straw, seemed just as happy and somehow more fit. And I venture to say that the heads pillowed on velvet and blanketed like King Kleagles didn’t sleep a whit more soundly than did those who nosed down into clean straw.

Every one seemed happy, perhaps because the issue of the day had not then been decided. Over in one corner two rather plump women stood looking at a dog while a lean fellow stooped over it making gestures to attract its attention. Old men and young greeted each other familiarly as they came in in twos and threes. All classes appeared to mingle as with frantic earnestness, I heard them argue over the merits of this dog and the faults of that. Here was a raw-boned fellow in chauffeur’s livery trying to impress his opinions upon two ladies dressed in the height of fashion, and as he talked he whitened a dog’s head with what looked to me like drop chalk. A burly fellow close by was shaking the contents of a bottle of toilet water over the smooth coat of a dog, rubbing it in until the animal appeared like a piece of satin. These people had a jargon all their own; they used names and phrases I had never heard before—phrases as unknown to those without the pale as are the idioms of a foreign tongue. And all the while, rising and falling at intervals, was that continuous music which binds all parts of a dog show together, the high throated, low throated chorus of the dogs.

Then, with concerted effort, all the people to a man swept by me, in a single direction. They are beginning to judge, some one explained. Following them, I found a place close behind the folding chairs that had been placed beside the ring. An astonishing calm descended. Eyes were centered upon the small platform. I waited, wondering just what was to happen; wondering, too, what kind of a game this was, that could so hold the attention of these many people—people as varied as all the races of the earth are varied. Around me ranged all believable sorts and kinds, some merry, some brooding, some bored, but all waiting upon what was to follow. If this motley crowd was typical of the interest in the Boston Terrier, then here was a dog that could attract from all corners of the globe even as America herself has attracted all peoples and held them in her heart. And from that moment has my estimate of the Boston remained the same—he is the pride not alone of Americans but of all those who have contributed to the breeding of the race.

A tall, important looking man walked into the ring and quietly sat down. This, I heard, was the judge. He appeared quite oblivious of the crowd about him, seemingly rapt in the task ahead. The Ermine Wearer some called him and from the respectful attitude displayed, the name was well and deservedly won. How different, I found, was the reception accorded him the instant the ermine dropped and he became mere man again. One step outside the ring, when all was over, and his authority vanished into thin air; he was subject to the heckling and the pecking of the common herd and his dignity, alas, was no more!

A decidedly paunchy gentleman soon followed the judge into the enclosure and proceeded to busy himself with the paraphernalia on the table. A sort of lieutenant, I supposed, until I heard him called by his official name, the steward. By this time I was so overwhelmed with the seeming intricacy of it all, and so absolutely ignorant of all that was about to transpire, that I thought I had better ask a few questions.

Why do they call this the American Dog, I asked the gentleman on my left, who seemed very much interested and thoroughly at home.

Because he is the only dog originally bred here, the man said, and as I slipped into a suddenly vacated chair beside him, he continued: Two more reasons why we are proud to call him our own are because, like everything else truly American, he came from Boston town and because eventually he will prove to be the most enduring breed of all dogdom. I, myself, am a dog dealer and have seen them come and go from the days of the old Pug, through the craze for the German Shepherd and others that have come and gone between times, and all the while has the Boston been the only true Pound of Sugar in the dog mart. There always has been a demand for him and I believe there always will be. Fashion has invariably turned traitor to the last breed, even while decreeing the next in vogue. This Boston Terrier has never been considered the vogue because from the moment he was bred to any extent he straightway became so perfectly identified with America’s ideals of what a dog should be, that he was accepted without question and given just popularity without hindrance of any sort.

Winners Dogs the steward called.

Now watch, said my newly found friend, they are beginning.

The paunchy gentleman whispered to the judge and the latter nodded, evidently preoccupied with problems of his own. Into the ring filed a number of exhibitors, after the manner of cafeteria ritual, holding out their arms to be decorated, not with a tray and the implements for feeding, but for the purpose of having fastened upon their arms a numbered cardboard. A white-coated individual, resembling at best a hostler, attended to this part of the ceremony and saw to it with eagle eye and not too kindly a countenance that none set foot within that ring who could not call the mystic number to be set upon his arm. Just what the number had to do with the case, of course, I did not know; they might have been so many apt puzzlers set to guess the open sesame into the enchanted circle. In they came, each with a dog under his arm which they presently set down on the floor in order to give the big cardboard an upward shove to keep it out of the way. Being entirely confused I judged some more questions would be to the point.

The numbers, explained my friend, correspond to those entered in this catalogue, and he handed me his book so that I might see for myself. If that little pamphlet was any indication of the propensities of its owner, he surely was a Boston enthusiast! The pages given over to the listing of the little American were dog-eared for fair; worn already almost past reading and marked up with notes and numbers. Those pages had been through the war, it seemed, while the remainder of the book still smelled of the press.

The numbers opposite the names of the dogs corresponded to the insignia on the arm cardboards. That settled that. As to the rest of the information in the catalogue I was a little at sea until I discovered that each tiny paragraph was concerned with the date of birth, the sire and dam, and the breeder of the dog competing. Quite a neat little résumé for those interested, thought I. Thereupon, I decided to buy a catalogue of my own, which I did without delay, and immediately proceeded to maul its pages even as my newly found friend had done.

The first two exhibitors to enter the ring were much alike in size and stature, both short and slight. They further resembled one another in that one was a true onion top and the other a billiard ball, or to be a little more polite, they both were completely and unashamedly bald. But as I learned later, it’s the dog’s hair that counts at a dog show; your own may be of any texture or you need have none at all.

Now you’re going to see some fun, remarked my kind informer. "The dark ‘complected’ fellow is Frank Denelo and the other one is Dr. Dannie Mulligan. There has always been the keenest of rivalry between the Italian and the Irishman, and the competition between these two will be especially edged this year because Denelo