REASON OR INSTINCT, OR BOTH.
By H. Clay Hall
SOME twelve years ago, when the little daughter of the household was seated upon the horse block in front of our humble residence, a small dog came to her and jumped upon her lap. He was gaunt, and there were cruel marks upon his side; but his whole conduct seemed to intimate that he had been the pet of someone. At first she tried to drive him away, but he persisted in his loving demonstrations, until the good mother of the house was appealed to that he might be kept until some owner should appear. He soon made himself at home, but his attachment for the little girl was apparently greater than for any other. The master of the house, in going to his daily business, would not allow the dog to follow him at all; but on Sunday mornings, when he was accustomed to go for his mail, he would permit the dog to accompany him. Hardly four months had elapsed when that dog seemed to have learned the days of the week, and, while he would never offer to accompany his master on any of the secular days, he was anxious and ready every Sunday morning for his trip to the post office. How did he keep the record? No bells had sounded up to the time we left; he simply knew it was his day. He had been with us some three years when some miscreant poisoned some very valuable dogs in our immediate neighborhood. In discussing this event at our home one evening, I said I wished Jip would stay at home for a while, and not go off the premises. At the time of the discussion the dog was lying upon a rug, with his intelligent eyes wide open, and for over three weeks he neglected his trips to the post office. Believing that he had understood what had been said—and I did and do believe it—I said one morning at breakfast, "Now, Jip, don't you eat a piece of meat or anything else unless you get it at home." His little paws came up by way of acknowledgment, and I resolved to try him. Contrary to my rule, I took him with me, and at the butcher's shop I told the butcher to give him a little piece of raw meat. He was willing, of course, and, cutting a nice piece of beef, extended it to him, but the dog paid no more attention to it than if it had been a stone. Was that instinct or recollection? At any rate it showed understanding. So for all these years he has seemed to improve in knowledge. He has been in the habit, in the evening, when the family were together, of sleeping upon a rug near the stove until bedtime, and when the family were ready to retire, he would be told to go to his bed, and would leave the room. In order to test his memory, as we sat around the table, I said, "We will see if he does understand that it is bedtime." The words had scarcely escaped me when he got up and started for his sleeping place. Did he not understand? These isolated instances, and many others which might be given you, have convinced me that a dog, kindly treated (and who has had no different treatment), does really understand what is said to him, although it is not spoken in stern tones of command, and also that he listens to and appreciates what is said before him. I am no psychologist. I cannot account for these things. I only give them to you as they are. They show at least the power of kindness to make a friend even of a dog.—Our Animal Friends.