Synopsis
Book by Stanley Coren
Extrait
Chapter One: Sentinels and Symbols
How many times has the fate of a man, or even a nation, hung from the collar of a dog? Had it not been for dogs, the last imperial house of China might not have fallen; Columbus's first attempts at colonizing the Americas not have been so successful; some of Wagner's operas might never have been written; the American Revolution might not have been fought; the freeing of the American slaves might have been delayed for decades; the way that we educate deaf children might be different; and great and well-loved books like Ivanhoe might never have been written.
Most people know and accept in a general way the fact that dogs have changed human history by fulfilling needed functions in human activities such as hunting, herding, exploration, or the waging of war. When it comes to political, social, or cultural history, however, few people would expect any evidence of canine influences. Yet there are many instances where the actions of a single dog changed the life of a single human, who in turn went on to shape human history. These seldom-told stories are the most fascinating.
Consider, for example, the case of Alexander Pope, the brilliant satirist who is considered by many to be the greatest English poet of the eighteenth century. One of the most quotable poets of all time, Pope is the source of such familiar epigrams as "A little learning is a dangerous thing," "To err is human, to forgive, divine," and "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Many of his poems, such as The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad, as well as his Essay on Man and Essay on Criticism, are still popular classics and required reading for anyone seeking a degree in literature in most universities.
Pope was born in London in 1688. His interest in literature and writing was probably in part the result of his poor physique. While still quite young, Pope developed a form of tuberculosis that affects the spine. This condition stunted his growth; his full-grown height was only four feet six inches. In addition, Pope was condemned to suffer from headaches throughout his life, and he was abnormally sensitive to pain. His spinal condition made bending and physical exertions a source of agony. He often needed assistance to rise from his bed or chair and was obliged to have a servant help him dress and undress.
Nevertheless, Pope could be a charming social companion and host. Despite his lack of height, he had a handsome face and an attractive appearance so that people did not feel uncomfortable in his presence. At his large estate at Twickenham on the Thames (only a short distance from London), Pope entertained many celebrated guests, from poets and philosophers to high government officials, society belles, and even royalty. On any visit to him one might have met the likes of Jonathan Swift, the satirical author of Gulliver's Travels; Henry St. John the Viscount Bolingbroke, a statesman and orator who later became an author; Robert Harley, the first earl of Oxford, who would one day be the Lord Treasurer; and even Frederick, the Prince of Wales. Pope's many visitors would often convene in the great garden that he had carefully designed, and then the whole party would spend hours in sprightly conversation.
When he was not in a social setting, however, Pope's painful physical condition made him touchy and easily angered. Close associates would hear him rage at even the slightest perceived insult. His temper would often flare at a critic, then be redirected to whatever innocent target happened to be near -- frequently a servant. The resulting high level of turnover among his personal staff as employees quit or were fired made maintenance of a household routine difficult.
Pope had other personal quirks as well. Despite his personal wealth and his lavish entertainment of guests, for example, he was quite miserly in some of his personal habits. Thus he often would not buy writing paper, but rather write his poetry on old envelopes from his voluminous correspondence. He distrusted financial institutions, such as banks, and only did a minimal amount of business with them. Instead, he kept much of his wealth in a strongbox built into a wall of the mansion, wearing the key on a chain around his neck at all times.
Although he loved dogs all of his life, Pope's favorite was an unlikely choice, given his size and physical condition. It was a large Great Dane that he named Bounce. When Bounce and Pope stood facing each other, their eyes were nearly at the same level. Bounce, however, proved to be a fine companion. He was quiet and unobtrusive when his master worked, but was always present to greet company and to socialize when anyone showed him any attention. Prince Frederick was so impressed by Bounce's good manners and stately appearance that he expressed a desire to own a dog just like him. Pope was flattered, and some time later the prince returned from a visit to Twickenham carrying one of Bounce's puppies -- a gift from the poet. The puppy was installed at the royal kennel at Kew, which was the summer residence of the royal family. Shortly thereafter, Pope sent another gift, a collar for Frederick's dog with the following couplet engraved on it:
I am his Highness' dog, at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Although Bounce was generally friendly, he could be quite protective of his master. Since Jonathan Swift was now around sixty and had grown quite deaf, Pope had to raise his voice to communicate with him on his visits. This shouting made Bounce very suspicious of Swift, and so he would protectively lie between his master and the writer. If Swift gestured too broadly as he spoke, Bounce would rise to his feet as if ready to intervene on Pope's behalf and might even give a warning growl.
Although Pope did not need protection from Swift, Bounce's role of guardian would ultimately prove to be a blessing. One day, the temperamental poet had dismissed his latest valet, amid some name-calling and abusive language. When a new manservant was quickly hired from a short list of available applicants, Bounce sniffed at the man, then withdrew beside his master in an untypical show of dislike. Nonetheless, the valet seemed to know his job and appeared to be quite conscientious. As night fell, the valet lifted Pope from his chair and assisted him to the bedroom, where he helped the poet undress for the night and placed him on his bed. After pulling the heavy curtains around the canopied bed to shut out the night drafts, the valet quietly slipped out of the room.
Bounce, who normally stayed downstairs by the fireplace at night to soak up the last heat of the dying embers, abandoned his usual place of rest this evening. As the valet left, the dog slipped into Pope's bedroom and crawled under the bed to sleep. Much later that night, Pope thought that he heard a noise. When he slightly parted the bed curtains to peek out, what he saw paralyzed him with fear. The dark figure of a man stealthily approaching the bed was dimly visible. In his hand, Pope could make out the shape of a large knife, glittering in the moonlight. Because of his physical frailties, the poet was helpless to rise and protect himself. He could only scream for his valet, who slept in the next room, to come and help him.
At the sound of his master's cry, Bounce sprang from under the bed and leaped at the man, who toppled over and lost his grip on the knife. Then Bounce held him there on the floor, alternately growling at the man and barking loudly for help. When the commotion brought other members of the household staff to the rescue, the man with the knife turned out to be the new valet of whom Bounce had been suspicious. Hearing that Pope kept a great deal of money in the house, the man had decided to kill him, steal the strongbox key that he wore, and then flee before anyone else awakened.
Because of Bounce, Pope would live to write more great poetry. In addition, another epigram would be penned by the dog's master, who wrote, "Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends."
The concept of a dog as a protector is found in virtually every culture. For many people, the most important function a dog serves is to warn its family of any danger. An example of this view can be found in a story that was being told by the Mik'Maq Indians of North America long before the Europeans reached the American continent.
The legend begins with Gisoolg, the great spirit god and creator, who created Ootsitgamoo (the earth), then filled it with all sorts of animals. The work was difficult, so he rested and slept awhile. While Gisoolg was sleeping, though, the great snake that he had created became ambitious and greedy. It used magic to add deadly venom to its bite, so that it could kill the largest animals and in this way become the chief among all living things.
When Gisoolg awoke, he decided to make some beings that would rule over the animals. So first he gathered some clay from a sacred hidden place, and then he spent a full day forming the shape of a man from the clay. He gave the man life, but the man was too weak to move yet, so he lay on the ground gathering his strength. Gisoolg then went to sleep again.
The snake did not like the idea that Gisoolg was creating a creature that would be more intelligent and more powerful than any of the animals, so in the dead of the night it crept up and killed the man. When Gisoolg awoke he was distressed at the loss of the man, but spent another long day shaping another and then again went to sleep. Again the man became the victim of the cunning snake. On the third day Gisoolg rose early, and before he began to recreate the man, he first created a guardian in the form of a dog. By the time he had reformed the man, the dog had gathered enough strength to stand watch. So again Gisoolg went to sleep.
Now the snake again approached through the long grass, with murder in its heart and venom dripping from its fangs. But this time it was confronted by the dog, who barked loudly to sound the alarm and then slashed at the snake with its teeth. Now the serpent was slowed by its wounds and had lost the element of surprise. Even worse, the dog's barking awakened Gisoolg, who came forward at once.
"Evil serpent, you have no right to interfere with that which I am creating. As a penalty for your wickedness I will strike off your legs, so that you, and all of your family after you, will be forced to slither on your bellies for eternity. Furthermore, be warned that I have given the man, whom I shall name Glooscap, this guardian, E'lmutc. The dog will be with him always and keep him safe. If you are foolish enough to try to hurt Glooscap or his family, E'lmutc will know that you have come. He will sound the alarm, and I will grant Glooscap the wisdom and the weapons to protect himself. Be warned, serpent, next time, if E'lmutc's teeth do not slay you, then Glooscap's hand will."
In this story, there would have been no humans at all if not for the protection provided by a dog. While this is obviously just a myth, the idea that a dog's God-given duty is to serve as a guardian of man somehow comes to mind when one reads the lives of many historical individuals.
The biography of Saint Giovanni Melchior Bosco (commonly called Don Bosco or John Bosco) has a dog that appears from nowhere, like a guardian angel, to protect him. The story begins in the 1840s, when the slums of Turin, Italy, were rife with the kind of poverty and cruelty that one finds associated with sweatshop factories -- their hazardous machinery, their abusive practices of child labor, and their starvation wages. When he was a young boy, Bosco was inspired by a series of dreams to help young children who had been trapped in this terrible poverty. After he had taken his vows as a priest, Bosco wandered the streets, visiting factories and prisons where young boys in trouble were to be found. He soon arranged to meet weekly with a growing band of ragged youngsters. In the beginning these meetings floated from place to place. There was no one permanent home for the group because in those troublesome times people were afraid of a large gathering of poor working boys. Bosco would convene the group in a different place every Sunday -- sometimes a city church, or a cemetery chapel, or even an empty lot. There, the priest would hear their confessions and say a simple Mass for them. This would be followed by an hour of religious instruction, which was presented in plain language and often punctuated with a bit of juggling or a magic trick to keep the boys' interest. Then Bosco would take his ragtag band out to the countryside near the city for an outing with food and games.
By 1846, Don Bosco managed to raise enough money to buy a lot in an underdeveloped section of the city. Empty except for a ramshackle shed, it was next door to a saloon and across the street from a hotel with a shady reputation. It was a beginning, however, and furthermore, he had been assured in a dream that this was holy ground because it was the burial ground of the martyrs of Turin. Bosco then proceeded to convert the shed into a chapel, digging out space for a congregation to gather, and a tiny anteroom. Now every Sunday around five hundred poverty-stricken boys would squeeze into it for Mass.
It was around 1848 when the dog who played a role in his life appeared. He was a huge hulking gray mongrel whom Don Bosco would give the name "Grigio." Where Grigio came from originally, no one seems to know. His pedigree, parentage, and origin were as obscure as those of the many homeless children that the saint tended to gather around him.
Grigio's involvement began one evening as Bosco wended his way through the narrow streets toward his chapel. Unfortunately, some of the more criminal elements in the neighborhood had concluded that between his building and his provision of food for the children, Don Bosco must have accumulated a lot of money. As he passed by a dark alley, a man leaped from hiding. He grabbed the future saint and demanded money. Don Bosco virtually never had any money of his own, since all that he obtained went immediately to the children he was trying to help. When he denied having anything to give his attacker, the thief waved a knife in the priest's face: "If you have no money then you are of no use to me and I will kill you. Give me money, or show me where you have hidden it in that little chapel of yours, and you can buy your life." Bosco would later remember only that he closed his eyes and murmured a prayer, knowing that his life was about to end.
Suddenly, a savage gray blur hurled itself at the thief, knocking him down and causing the knife to fall from the man's hand as he crashed to the ground. The blur turned out to be a huge, snarling mongrel, which interposed himself between the priest and his attacker. The thug made one lunge toward the knife, but a growl and the snap of the dog's teeth made him reconsider any attempt at continuing his original course of action. He quickly clambered to his feet and then disappeared down the street, running as fast as he could.
Don Bosco did not know whether to be thankful or even more terrified. As the dog turned to face him all that he could focus upon was the dog's great muzzle and long teeth and the priest considered joining the thief in flight. However, the dog closed its mouth, lowered its head slightly, and gave a reassuring wag of its tail. Bosco then, hesitantly, reached out and stroked its coarse gray coat, and the dog responded with a contented whimper. It then silently followed the saint home to share a humble meal.
From that moment on Grigio was always at han...
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