Dogs and I

By Harding Cox

“Dogs and I” is a collection of the authors anecdotes, musings and recollections related to dogs, specifically breeding and showing them. Full of interesting, useful information interspersed with personal stories and other notes, this volume will be of interest to breeders and owners alike, and it would make for a fantastic addition to collections of allied literature. Contents include: “The Eternal Ego”, “Barking Dogs do not Bite”, “Fox Hounds and Cur Dogs”, “The Huntsman and the Greyhound Trainer”, “A Spacious Revenge”, “The Genuine Cynophilist”, “Imposters”, “The Obsession of Dog Showing”, “Dogs do not Bite Judges”, The Bulldog Bumble”, “An Action in Law”, “The Disappearing Lady!”, etc. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new introduction on dog breeding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vintage Dog Books
• Release date: Feb 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528784320

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PREFACE

THE compilation of this rather happy-go-lucky book has not been exactly what we used to term in War Time, a cushy job; but on the other hand, the work has appealed to me as a labour of love. One which I never could have consummated with any sort of satisfaction to myself or to anyone else, had it not been for the sympathetic helpfulness of those who, like myself, are thorough going cynophilists, and enthusiastic breeders and exhibitors.

In the first place, I must take this opportunity of offering my most grateful thanks to the popular and genial Editor of Our Dogs,—my old and esteemed friend and oft times colleague in the Judging Ring,—Mr. Theodore Marples,—for his ready generosity in giving permission for the reproduction of photos of well-known dogs which appeared in the sumptuous Christmas Number of Our Dogs, 1922, and the inclusion of some of my contributions to that journal. As for the respective owners, whose permission I sought for such reproductions, I am happy to say that, in every case, I met with the greatest courtesy and encouragement; many taking the trouble to forward to my publishers the original blocks of their photos on the chance of their proving of some service. I shall always look back upon this phase of my endeavours with the greatest gratitude and satisfaction. My only regret is that, being limited to the number of my illustrations to Dogs and I, I have not been able to insert anything like the number which I have received. If this effort of mine meets with even a modicum of success, it will be entirely due to the encouragement and sympathy of my legion of friends in the Doggy Community.

HARDING COX.

INTRODUCTION

The eternal ego.—Barking dogs do not bite.—Fox Hounds and Cur Dogs.—The Huntsman and the Greyhound Trainer.—A spacious revenge.—The genuine Cynophilist.—Impostors.

DOGS AND I!—Here I am again up against the eternal ego—and in the very title of my book too! But there is an ancient saying that what cannot be cured must be endured; so that I am afraid I must ask readers (if any) of the happy-go-lucky and discursive pages which follow, to bear with me, and the first person singular (very!). Otherwise, how could I trip along with a discourse which is nothing if not personal. All reminiscences bristle with the aforesaid ego. In fact, it may be said that the personal touch is what lends to such endeavours whatever merit they may be supposed to possess.

All said and done, the incorrigible egoist is to be preferred to the writer, who, in order to avoid too frequent repetition of the objectionable little monosyllable, assumes a dictatorial style and makes assertions, where opinions would be decidedly more modest. Such an one will state as an indisputable fact, that (for instance) "barking dogs do not bite; whereas the protagonist of the bare ego will say I am of opinion that dogs which bark, are not usually given to biting." Whereby hangs a tale; which, by your leave, I will interpolate.

Many years ago I was a member of the Show Committee of the Kennel Club, on the occasion of the annual show at the Crystal Palace, when I was detailed to escort a certain Chink, of high standing in the Celestial Embassy, round the benches and to expatiate on the galaxy of canine beauty which graced them. It happened that the Chow section was remote. Before we reached it, my distinguished protégé shook his head sadly:

Ah! he sighed. "Plenty doggie lookee—see, none for chow-chow!"

I thought this rather sweet!

Later on, when rounding the Irish Terrier benches, an obstreperous Paddy, with horrible growls and barkings, made a determined onslaught against the Oriental’s pig-tail (this was in the days before these typical hirsute adornments were bobbed), which he of the slant-eyes was only just in time to whisk aside.

Don’t be alarmed, I exclaimed hastily. "You know our proverb perhaps, which says, ‘Barking dogs do not bite!’"

Ah, my fliend, sadly remarked my companion, readjusting his plaited locks—"You knowee ploverb—Me knowee ploverb—Doggie he knowee no ploverb! We makee go ’nother way!"

This brings me back to my discourse about unabashed egoists, and those who make futile endeavours to appear devoid of personal conceit; and in so doing, only accentuate their own inherent vanity.

It has been my habit, when setting forth reminiscences such as those which appear in the pages of Chasing and Racing—A Sportsman at Large and other such inconsequent scribblings, to throw modesty to the winds, and to use the said first person singular with freedom and gusto! and chance the ducks, as the saying goes. I have even a sympathetic fellow-feeling for the self-enthralled optimist,—an enthusiastic cricketer,—who, when asked the names of the eleven that had been chosen to represent his club in an important match, began his computation by saying "Well, first of all there was me."—Surely the height of egoism, and bad grammar at that!

Our French friends say, "Qui s’excuse, s’accuse. Very well then, let me be indicted by the critics. I shall offer no defence! Now, having dealt with myself as identified by the I in the title, I must say a word about Dogs" and how I propose to deal with them.

A hide-bound fox-hunting friend of mine, when he was told that I was going to write a book under the aforesaid title, wanted to know why I had ignored hounds? Now had I not been thoroughly conversant with the shibboleth of those who go out on horses to harry Charles James, I should have been puzzled. As it was, I assured the seeker after information that, so far from ignoring hounds, I proposed to deal with them very liberally; from the lordly bloodhound to the modest beagle and the slow-going, but persevering, Basset. "But you are going to call your book ‘Dogs and I,’ and hounds are not dogs!"

It was useless arguing with him! Full well I knew that with those of his cult, there are only two sections of the canine community, viz.: Foxhounds and "cur-dogs. I verily believe that some M.F.H. refuse to admit that even such pukka" hounds as harriers and beagles have a right to the distinction; whilst even high-bred members of the canine race in general have no right to exist at all. Which brings to mind another yarn:

A well-known and hard-bitten huntsman was giving his pack road exercise one fine morning when, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon the kennelman of an eminent trainer of Greyhounds, similarly employed with a string of fine long-tails. The Fox-hounds, with hackles erect, sidled up to the long dogs, who, hunching their backs and baring their teeth, were prepared to slash the aggressors, if occasion arose.

Gard away back! shouted the huntsman. "Ware cur-dogs!" The whippers-in got busy, and order was soon restored, as far as the four-footed ones were concerned; but the face of the Greyhound trainer was set and grim!

" ’Eer!’ ’Oo the ’ell are you? Wat-cher mean by callin’ my grey ’ounds cur-dogs?" he shouted.

So they are! retorted the other. A lot o’ lightboned, slab-sided, peak-muzzled set o’ mongrels, a bunch o’ dirty——

’Eer, that’ll do! yelled the foot-passenger. Come you off yer old ’air trunk ’an I’ll soon show you oo’s ’oo and wots-wot!

Oh, that’s yer game, is it! sang out the H.F.H., vaulting to the ground. Here, Jim (to the first whipper-in), catch hold of Majesty, and draw off up the road a bit with the pack, whilst I settle this little argument! Now then, gaiters (to the Greyhound protagonist), "hitch yer blinkin’ cur-dogs to the gate and put ’em up!"

A pretty little scrap ensued, but it was a case of fifty-fifty, and when,—by mutual consent,—the affair was declared closed, by the second whipper-in, who had remained with the combatants to act as referee, it was seen that, as regards emblems of the fray, Jack had proved as good as his master. But gaiters meant to have the last word. "Yer blinkin’ ’ounds don’t know ’ow ter ketch a fox! leastways, it takes two score o’ ’em—great lumberin’ knock kneed blighters,—anything from ’alf an hour to Gawd knows ’ow long, to roll over any fox as isn’t lame or mangey! One o’ these days, me fine feller, I’ll show yer what a slow Grey’ound can do with the fastest dog fox as ever was littered, and don’chew forgit it!" retorted the trainer.

Now comes the sequel.

It was the height of the hunting season and Copstone Briars was to be drawn for an outlying fox which had already given the pack leg-bail on three previous occasions. A grey old varmint, that simply disappeared with a whisk of his luxuriant brush, after affording hounds and followers long and sparkling minutes over the cream of the country. The Stopper had harboured him in the Briars all right, and another glorious burst seemed a stone cold certainty.

Sure enough, no sooner were hounds thrown into the north side of the holt, than Joshua went away from the south, over a hundred acres of fine park land. All held their breath. Not even a holloa was necessary. Hounds and huntsmen knew their fox was away, and were pushing through the undergrowth like animated tanks. All of a sudden, from a gorse patch situated about 100 yards from the south edge of the covert, two long, lithe forms,—one black and the other brindled,—shot out into the open, and stretched away with long, sweeping and intensive strides, after the old fox, who was now some 400 yards out in the open, loping along in an easy gallop; for he knew he had a fair start of the pack, and was therefore harbouring his speed and stamina.

But presently he sensed that some creatures of a very different calibre from Fox-hounds were in his wake; nevertheless he spun round to have a look at what he at first took to be interlopers in the shape of vagrant sheep-dogs.

This manœuvre proved his undoing, for, by the time he realized what was toward, the pursuers were within 50 yards of his brush. He was off like a streak, with his lugs laid back, and his action stretched to its utmost. As he sensed the proximity of the leading Greyhound (the black) he twisted sharply to the right, only to encounter a flank stroke by the brindled.

Although the latter swung out at the turn, respite was only momentary; for black, coming round smartly, caught Mr. Fox fairly over the loins, and bowled him over. Then Charles James drove his fangs into his opponent’s throat. He meant to die game, but it was two to one! Happily the second whipper-in, who had been placed so as to view away, as soon as he perceived what was happening, was just in time to lay his lash across the cur-dogs, causing them to loose their prey. Poor C. J. limped off a very much disgruntled and dishevelled fox. He had no more use for long-dogs. Of course hounds were stopped, and as this outlying covert was miles from any likely draw, hunting was a wash out that day!

In the evening, our huntsman was handed a grimy note by a small boy. It ran:

I told you that your blinkin’ Foxhounds didn’t know how to catch a fox. Why don’t you breed ’em fast. It didn’t take long for my beauties to roll him over, did it?—BILL KENT.

The reader wrathfully tore the slip to pieces and threw them into the fire.

What’s up, Will? asked his wife.

Hell’s up. That’s what’s up—Hell! he snarled.

Oh yes, I shall have plenty to say about hounds in due course, but let it be clearly understood that this is no text book. In dealing with all the different breeds of the canine race, I must of necessity enter upon a brief description and comparison of the respective types which have been so studiously and so carefully evolved. Most breeds are known to me, as are their points and characteristics; but I do not propose to set out official descriptions and scales, with their values. This has been meticulously done, by abler and more concise and methodical pens than mine—times without number. Rather is it my purpose to produce a sort of olla podrida of doggy ingredients, and to so manipulate my material that, to some small extent, it may appeal to the appetite of those who are such enthusiastic cynophilists and cynologists that they are ready to devour even such frothy literary provender as I now forecast.

Ninety per cent. of the British people love dogs! The other ten per cent. profess to do so; but the latter are easily detected. Should you ask a stranger if he is fond of dogs, and he answers, Oh, yes, very! but adds as a sort of afterthought, "In their proper place, I know my man (or woman) at once as an arrant humbug, in whose opinion a dog’s proper place is at a respectful distance, or, better still—chained up to an empty beer barrel! Such as he are no true dog-lovers, my masters! Then there is the more cunning hypocrite who does not qualify in speech his profession of love for the canine race; but watch his actions! You introduce him to your homely, domestic bulldog, a creature of horrific countenance, but possessing a heart and habit of angelic benevolence. Bungo sidles up to him with amiable snorts and snuffles. Your self-styled dog lover, instead of seizing the great skull between his hands, and caressing the dog’s chaps, holds his arm high, whilst he timidly tries to touch the top of Bungo’s head with the tips of his fingers! murmuring in a conciliatory tone, Good doggie!—Good doggie!"

I have far more respect for him—or her—who says boldly—"No, I can’t say I do like dogs; in fact I hate the very sight of them, nasty, smelly things, with no sense of modesty or decency, and greatly over-rated as regards their intelligence, fidelity and honesty.—Give me a nice, comfortable cat, or that most beautiful of all Nature’s little ones,—a two months’ old kitten!" This is honest talking, though it hurts the thoroughly genuine cynophilist sorely. Happily there are very few who hold such views and fewer still who venture to expound them.

The love of dogs is generally inherited. It certainly was in my case, so I had better set the ball rolling, by making an intensive call on memory, to conjure up my earliest experiences of dogs and their manners and customs, their fads and fancies, their virtues and their failings. It is a long trail, but it will be tramped with love and enthusiasm. If the reader fails to follow and turns back, leaving me in the lurch, I must press on with such heart and energy as is left to me, solacing myself with the self-administered assurance that I am doing my best!

DOGS AND I

CHAPTER I

The obsession of dog-showing.—Dogs do not bite judges—with some exceptions.—My first dog.—My first winner—A disappointment—The Bulldog Bumble.—An Action at Law—which collapsed.—A big win!—Tom Verrinder and his Bulldogs.—The disappearing lady!—I have first choice—and pick wrong!—James Berrie and the wonderful Crib.—The first show of the Bulldog Club.—The old style Bull-terrier.—Tarquin the tartar.

I DO not know how or why I became obsessed with the dog-showing hobby. I caught the fever as an almost infantile complaint. Of course, I was always fond of dogs—a fatuous fancy that was born in me. Moreover it was a sign of heredity, for my Dear Old Dads was a worshipper at the canine shrine. He would not, however, have even dreamt of benching one of his favourites, and if he had, I fear that success would not have attended the venture, for his alleged Clumber Spaniels, of which he had a succession, were far from being of the orthodox pattern. The original, which he called Dash, was an institution, and holds the distinction in my memory of being one of the only two dogs that ever wilfully bit me. He had reason for that, for though naturally of an amiable and somewhat phlegmatic disposition, he drew the line at my springing a rat-trap, teeth downwards, on his back—and acted accordingly! I think I was about three years old at the time, and it made no difference to our subsequent friendship; neither of us bore any malice; but our old Somersetshire cook, Mary, who was weak enough to love me with a whole-hearted devotion, such as I have never encountered since, was subjected to a paroxysm of neurasthenia, and shouted for the blood of the spaniel—which was not granted her.

Now I have alluded to the fact that, notwithstanding the hundreds of dogs that I have owned, and the thousands which I have handled in the ring, I have only twice had my blood sampled. My second experience was at the Birmingham Show, after much water had flowed under Father Time’s moss-grown bridge since the episode related above.

The offender this time was a Fox-terrier owned by my old friend Frank Redmond. Whilst I was examining his teeth, and passing my judicial hand over his coat, his bearing (the dog’s—as well as Redmond’s) was friendly; but no sooner did I turn my attention to a neighbouring competitor and my back to him, than he attached himself to the nearest and most prominent portion of my anatomy with such vigour that I was unable to be seated, with any degree of comfort, for some time after.

I have, in all, had some narrow escapes. On one occasion, at the Crystal Palace Show, a most harmless-looking French Bull bitch made a determined attempt to deprive me of half of my somewhat prominent proboscis—her teeth meeting within an inch of that ornate member, as I stooped over to appraise her virtues. Oh, naughty Queenie! purred her fair owner; if you had bitten the judge’s nose off, I’m sure he would not have given you a prize!

There was once a Bull bitch (English), a well-known champion, who was said to be very dangerous: I was not aware of her idiosyncrasies when she was first introduced to me in the ring, and I set about handling her in the orthodox style, which she endured with stoic fortitude. When I had finished the class, an old fancier came over to me and said: You’re lucky, guv’nor. I expected that old devil to fix you every moment. She’s jest red ’ot, she is! This was encouraging; so I asked her owner—one of the fair sex—why she had not warned me. Oh, she murmured, "I did not think it necessary—the old bitch wouldn’t bite you. I don’t suppose any dogs do!" I was not quite sure how to take this remark. Probably I ought to have regarded it as a compliment, but at the time I had an idea that it was meant to imply that no dog would relish the taste of me!

But I am wandering off the track on which I started. "Revenons à nos moutons," as our gallant French friends say. I suppose the charm of dog-showing arises naturally with those who possess the bump of combativeness in excelsis; that competitive spirit which finds its chief delight in besting one’s neighbour. I was always of that cast, and have tried to compete against, and if possible to best my fellows at every conceivable game besides dog-showing, such as scholastic examinations, racing, hunting, shooting, coursing, angling, running, jumping, dancing, and love-making (?), to say nothing of the Arts and Sciences.

It was this spirit that moved me to take a very inferior Fox-terrier puppy (which I had bought from poor old Tom Wootton of Nottingham, for the munificent sum of one sovereign), from Gloucester (where I was cramming for Cambridge) to far off Hanley. This was the first show I had ever been to (A.D. 1873). The judging was in private, so I was in a fever of excitement until the doors were opened. Then I rushed up to the bench and found my beloved Cato—cardless! Oh, the pathos of it! I am often overwhelmed with sympathy when I see a youngster of either sex in the ring for the first time with his, or her, one and only, but impossible specimen of an apocryphal breed! I made no further attempt at exhibiting until I was up at the Varsity, where, of course, I was not long in ferreting out the canine professors of Alma Mater. Callaby was a dog man, but not a true fancier. His stock knew more about rats, badgers and internecine contests than points and pedigrees; but Charlie Lawrence was of another complexion, and often had some very decent specimens to dispose of. From him I purchased a fairly good Bull-terrier, known to his pals as Jack, but whom I christened Crichton. As far as disposition went, he was one of the best. Him I sent all the way to Auld Reekie, in the hope of gaining distinction for him as a prize-winner. I instructed the secretary to send me a wire as to the result. What was my delight when it arrived on reading: Your Bull-terrier took second prize. It, however, was considerably damped when the catalogue came to hand, and I found there were only two entries in the class! Well, I ought to have been thankful to the judge (I believe it was Fred Hincks) for not withholding second prize for want of merit, for Jack had one fatal fault, viz., a butterfly nose. Nothing daunted, I actually entered him at the Crystal Palace, and here, in my innocence, I committed a crime which, had it been discovered, might have ended my ambitions as an exhibitor once and for all. Some unprincipled varlet induced me to cover up Jack’s outstanding blemish by the application of caustic. It came off all right (or, rather, didn’t come off), and the old dog received a v.h.c. card, of which I was inordinately proud. The next day he had a beautiful blister on his boko, whereupon the enormity of my offence dawned upon me, and I swore henceforth to pursue the paths of virtue—an oath which I can conscientiously say I have religiously kept—at any rate as far as dog-showing and judging are concerned. I was still at Cambridge when I bought my first genuine prize-winner. For this I had to put down the respectable sum of Thirty Pounds, which made a big hole in the paternal allowance. Now I considered this a very cheap investment, seeing that the little red Bulldog, King, had won three first prizes at important shows right off the reel. I asked a friend well versed in the fancy, if he did not think I had secured a bargain. He seemed doubtful, and wore a worried look. "He’s too cheap, sir, he ventured. He is worth a cool hundred or nothing! I had to be content with this cryptic saying, but I wondered. I entered my purchase at the K.C. (Crystal Palace) Summer Show, having changed his name to Bumble (I subsequently named all my Bulls after Dickensian characters). Mr. Collins, of Birmingham, was judge. He had previously exalted The Little Red," and sure enough, on this occasion, to my unbounded delight, he again selected him for premier honours. Hardly had my excitement died down when I was faced with an objection to Bumble, on the ground that he was "faked," i.e., that he had been manipulated, like Sheffield Crib and others, by having the frenum of his upper lip cut, and his nose forced back by an implement resembling a thumbscrew.

In my grief I was approached by certain worthy fanciers of the South, who assured me that I had been made the victim of a very shady transaction; that the parties to whom the dog had formerly belonged knew that he was faked and that, having been threatened with exposure if the dog was shown again, they themselves would lodge an objection if he won! Here was a pretty how-d’-ye-do! I was certainly not going to take it lying down, so I set out the facts (as supplied to me by such as were supposed to be in the know) in The Field, and did not hesitate to name those whom I considered were implicated. This brought on an action for libel against The Field and myself. We were well prepared with our defence, and were quite complacent—nay, even confident, when certain circumstances arose which altered the whole complexion of affairs. I have said that a formal objection to Bumble as a K.C. winner had been officially lodged, and in due course the committee proceeded to deal with the case. The dog was submitted to three of the leading veterinary professors of the day, and after a most careful examination was pronounced "not to have been tampered with!" So of course there was a patch-up all round; but it was obvious that the plaintiffs must have believed Bumble to have been faked, otherwise, why should they have ventured an objection, and why was he sold for a sum which, had he not been under suspicion, did not represent half his marketable value? Anyhow, I had the pride of owning a Kennel Club (Crystal Palace) winner, a handsome silver trophy and a medal, and was more than content. What is more, I was now fairly on the war path, and a long, long trail it has proved! I was so encouraged by the successes of the little red Bulldog, Bumble, that I became possessed of an overweening ambition to produce something of the sort, of my own breeding, and so looked about me for stock.

At that time I was living under the paternal roof at my beautiful old home, Moat Mount, about a mile away from which, as the crow flies, but double that distance as that sable bird would hop if he kept to the road, there resided one Tom Verrinder, who presided over a brick kiln near Barnet Gate. Tom was a worthy soul and a lover of Bulldogs. Like some others of his kidney, he possessed many of the salient points of the breed in his own rugged, but honest, features. The resemblance was accentuated by the fact that chronic asthma constrained