Whether there be anything in their surroundings at sea that makes animals more amenable to the taming process is, perhaps, not a question to be easily answered. But one thing is certain: that nowhere do animals become tame with greater rapidity than they do on board ship. It does not seem to make a great deal of difference what the animal is, whether bird or beast, carnivore or herbivore, Jack takes it in hand with the most surprising results, evident in so short a time that it is often difficult to believe that the subject is not merely simulating tameness in order to exercise his powers upon his master or masters in an unguarded moment.

Of course, on board merchant ships the range of variety among pets is somewhat restricted. Cats, dogs, monkeys, pigs, sheep, goats, musk-deer, and birds (of sorts) almost exhaust the list; except among the whale-ships, where the lack of ordinary subjects for taming lead men to try their hand upon such queer pets as walruses, white bears, and even seal-pups, with the usual success. Few pets on board ship ever presented a more ungainly appearance than the walrus. Accustomed to disport its massive bulk in the helpful wave, and only for very brief intervals hooking itself up on to a passing ice-floe as if to convince itself that it really is one of the amphibia, the change in its environment to the smooth deck-planks of a ship is truly radical. And yet it has often been known not only to survive such a change, but to appear contented and happy therein. Its uncouth gambols with the sailors are not to be described; but they are so funny that no one could witness them without laughter, especially when the sage, hoary appearance of even the most youthful walrus is remembered—and, of course, only very young specimens could possibly be obtained alive. But, after all, the morse has its limitations as a pet. Tamed as it often has been, and affectionate as it undoubtedly becomes, it never survives for a great while its privation of sea-bathing, and to the grief of its friends generally abandons the attempt to become permanently domesticated before the end of the season. The white bear, on the other hand, when caught sufficiently young is a great success as a pet, and develops a fund of quaint humour as well as intelligence that one would certainly never suspect from the appearance of the animal’s head. Bears are notably the humorists of the animal kingdom, as any one may verify for himself who chooses to watch them for a few days at the Zoological Gardens, but among them all for pure fun commend us to Ursa Polaris. Perhaps to appreciate the play of a pet white bear it is necessary to be a rough and tough whaleman, since with the very best intentions his bearship is apt to be a little heavy-pawed. And as when his claws grow a very slight mistake on his part is apt to result in the permanent disfigurement of his playmate, his days of pethood are always cut suddenly short as he approaches full growth. Seal-pups have no such drawbacks. They are pretty, affectionate, and domestic, while an occasional douche of salt water from the wash-deck tub will suffice to keep them in good health and spirits for a long time. Such favourites do they become that it is hard to understand how the same men, who will spend much of their scanty leisure playing with the gentle, amiable creatures, can at a moment’s notice resume the crude barbarity of seal-slaughtering with all its attendant horrors of detail. Apart from his cumbrous movements on deck, the seal seems specially adapted for a ship’s pet. He is so intelligent, so fully in touch with his human playmates, that after a short acquaintance one ceases to be surprised at his teachability; it is taken as a matter of course.

Ordinary merchant ships are, as before noted, confined to a limited range of pets. Chief among them is the harmless necessary cat, about which the present writer has written at considerable length in a recent number of the Spectator. But the cat’s quiet domesticity never seems to take such a firm hold upon seamen’s affections as does the livelier friendship of the dog. A dog on board ship is truly a favoured animal. So much so that dogs will give themselves almost as many airs and graces as the one unmarried young lady usually does in the midst of a number of male passengers, and with much the same results. Once, indeed, the presence of two dogs on board of a large ship on an East Indian voyage nearly led to a mutiny. They were both retrievers, the property of the master. But almost from the commencement of the voyage one of them, a fine black dog, “Sailor,” deliberately cast in his lot with the men “forrard,” where he was petted and spoiled, if a dog can be spoiled by petting. The other dog, a brown, dignified animal called “Neptune,” kept to the officers’ quarters. And presently the two pets by some sort of tacit understanding divided the deck between them, the main hatch constituting a sort of neutral ground beyond which neither might pass without a fight. Now, there were also some pets on board of a totally different kind, to wit, three fine pigs, who, contrary to the usual custom, were allowed to roam unpenned about the decks. A fellow-feeling, perhaps, led “Sailor,” the forecastle dog, to fraternise with the genial swine, and the antics of these queerly assorted playmates gave many an hour’s uproarious amusement. But the pigs loved to stray aft, far beyond their assigned limits. Whenever they did so, but a short time would elapse before “Neptune” would bound off the poop, and seizing the nearest offender by the ear, gallop him “forrard” in the midst of a perfect tornado of squeals and clatter of sliding hoofs. This summary ejectment of his friends was deeply resented by “Sailor,” who, with rigid back and gleaming eyes, looked on as if ready to interfere if “Neptune” should overstep the boundaries of his domain. One day the foreseen happened. In the fury of his gallop “forrard” Neptune reached the galley door before he released the pig he had been dragging, then suddenly recollecting himself, was trotting back with deprecatory demeanour, when he met “Sailor” coming round the after end of the house. The two heroes eyed one another for a moment, but only a moment. “Sailor” felt doubtless that this sort of thing had gone far enough, and with a snarl full of fury they joined battle. The skipper was “forrard” promptly, armed with a belaying-pin, and seizing “Sailor” by the neck, began to belabour him heavily. It was too much for the men, who by this time had all gathered around. They rushed to the rescue of their favourite, forgetting discipline, rights of ownership, everything but the unfairness of the proceeding. The belaying-pin was wrested from the captain’s grasp, the dogs torn apart, and with scowling faces the men stood confronting the raging skipper, who for some moments was hardly able to speak. When he was, he said many things, amongst others that he would shoot “Sailor” on sight; but it is perfectly certain that had he carried out his threat he would have had a complete mutiny on his hands. The matter blew over, but it was a long time before things had quite resumed their normal calm. A keen watch was kept over “Sailor” by the men for the rest of the voyage, lest evil should befall him.

Monkeys are, as might be expected, popular as pets. Unfortunately, they disturb the harmony of a ship more than any other animal that could be obtained. For their weird powers of mischief come to perfection where there are so many past masters in the art of animal training, and nothing affords greater amusement to everybody but the sufferer when “Jacko” takes it into his impish head to get loose and ravage the contents of some fellow’s bunk or chest. So much is this the case that many captains will not allow a monkey on board their ship at all, feeling sure that, however peaceable a lot of men he may have found his crew to be before, one monkey passenger is almost sure to be the fountain and origin of many fights after his advent. The things that monkeys will do on board ship are almost beyond belief. One instance may be noted where a monkey in a ship named the Dartmouth gave signal proof of his reasoning powers. He was a little black fellow from Sumatra, and from the time of his coming on board had seemed homesick, playing but few tricks, and only submitting passively to the petting he received. Passing through Sunda Straits he sat upon the forecastle head looking wistfully at the distant land with quite a dejected pose of body. As we drew near the town of Anjer (it was before the awful convulsion of Krakatoa) he suddenly seemed to make up his mind, and springing up he covered his face with his hands and leapt shoreward. We were only going about two knots an hour, happily for him. He struck out vigorously for the shore, but suddenly realised the magnitude of his task apparently, for he turned sharply round and swam back. One of the officers threw him the end of the main-topsail brace, which he grasped and nimbly climbed on board, a wiser monkey. Thenceforward his behaviour was quite cheerful and tricky, until his lamented demise from a chill caught off the Cape. Goats, again, are great favourites on board ship, when they have been taught to let the running gear alone. But their inveterate habit of gnawing everything largely discounts their amiability. The pretty little mongoose, too, until he begins to fraternise with his natural enemies, the rats, is a most pleasant companion, full of play, and cleanly of habit. So is the musk-deer, but it is so delicate that few indeed of them reach home that are bought by sailors among the islands of the East Indian Archipelago. The same fate overtakes most of the birds, except canaries, that sailors buy abroad, and teach on the passage home no end of tricks. Yet deeply as these exotic pets are loved by forecastle Jack, and great as is the pleasure he undoubtedly derives from them, the majority of them fall into the hands of Jamrach and Cross, or other keen dealers in foreign birds and beasts, when the ship reaches home. For it is seldom poor Jack has a home whereto he may bring his pets.