In 1877, at his English home, I first made the acquaintance of “Max,” a fine specimen of a Dandy Dinmont dog. He was of the usual size, with brown, velvety eyes—very expressive—a long body, tail, and ears, coarse hair of a blackish brown and light-tan color, and with short legs, not particularly straight. The ancient Greeks, with their severe ideas regarding lines of beauty, would not have called him beautiful to the sight. But, notwithstanding his looks, he was, to all who knew him well, very beautiful; for he was a dog of marked intelligence and superior moral character. So fine was his sense of integrity that a most delicious and canine-tempting bone might remain within his reach for days without his touching it, no matter if he were ever so hungry.

His usual daily occupation commenced with a very early walk with his master. Then, in regular order, after the family and guests had breakfasted, the butler would give him his napkin, folded in his own private ring, which he would carry from the dining-room to the kitchen, where it would be spread upon a table, slightly raised from the floor, arranged for serving his food. After the morning meal had been eaten, his napkin would be refolded, and he would return it to the butler. The same routine was always repeated for dinner. His time until evening, if possible, was devoted to his master, of whom he was exceedingly fond, but he would sometimes walk with the guests when told to do so by his master, to whom he always appealed when invited for a promenade by a stranger.

Every day, after dinner, when the family and guests had assembled in the drawing-room, “Max” would insist upon giving his regular daily exhibition, and there was no peace from his importunities until he had completed the usual performance. His master always carried with him from the dinner table a biscuit which, in the drawing-room, he would hold up and say: “Max, I have a biscuit for you. Can’t you give us a little dance and a song?” Whereupon he would commence to turn around upon his hind feet, at the same time doing his best in the direction of singing a very doleful sort of a song, all the while looking exceedingly grave, the result of his abnormal effort. This part of the daily programme was so exceedingly comical that it always excited unbounded applause from the audience. The dance would go on until the master called out “enough,” when the performer would stop and look imploringly into his master’s face, as if asking him if he might continue the performance, which consisted of his master going through the motion of firing, accompanied with a noise which passed, in the doggish mind, for the explosion of a gun, and was a signal for the actor to fall down apparently dead, with eyes firmly closed, and keeping perfectly quiet. In this position he would remain until his master told him to come to life. The biscuit would then be given him, and that would end each day’s work, by which he, we may infer, believed he earned his daily bread.

With passing time my little friend took on the garb of age, and, a few years before his end, became totally blind, and among the most pathetic sights I ever witnessed were his attempts to see his friends. I had been so many times at his home that he had come to know me almost as one of the family, and at each visit, after his loss of sight, as the carriage drove up to the front door, when recognizing my voice, as I spoke to his master, he would put his paws upon the steps of the carriage and wag me a hearty welcome, at the same time trying his best to see me.

His career ended in November, 1883, when his master buried him near a garden gate, put a neat wire fence around his grave, and planted flowers over his remains. And now those who may chance to go to Toddington will find embedded into the garden wall a handsome marble slab, with a mortuary inscription and a verse composed by his kind master engraved upon it, which runs as follows:

One bright morning in the month of November, 1879, the front door of my house was opened, and there came bounding through it and up the flight of stairs, the most vivacious, clean, and inquiring little dog imaginable. As soon as he arrived upon the second floor, calls came to him from several directions at the same time, and he did his best to answer them all at the same moment; all the while barking and dancing around in the most frantic and delighted manner. Within five minutes after his dÉbut, he was perfectly at home and upon the best of terms with the entire household.

The name of this new member of the family was “Phiz,” and his alleged place of nativity Yorkshire, England. In other words, he was a pure Yorkshire terrier in descent, a mixture of blue, light gray, and silver in color; in size a little larger than the average dog of that breed, and, as one of his dog-expert friends often remarked: “He is one of the doggiest dogs of his size I have ever known.” This was literally true, for there never was a more manly and courageous little animal. In his prime, his bravery was far beyond the point of reckless indiscretion, and any dog whose appearance did not happen to please him, he would attack, no matter how large, or under what disadvantageous circumstances. The severe shakings and rough tumbles of to-day were forgotten by the morrow, which found him ever ready for a new encounter.

The red-letter events in his active life occurred in Madison Square, which he would enter as though shot from a catapult; and woe of woes to the unfortunate plethoric pug which might happen to pass his way! It was his habit when he saw one of these stupid and helpless unfortunates to “ring on full steam and board him head-on mid-ships.” For a few seconds after the coming together, there would be visible a comical mixture of quick moving legs, tails, and ears, and a frantic attempt on the part of the astonished pug to emit a wheezy sound of alarm, followed by a condition of most abject submission. “Phiz,” standing over the prostrate body of his victim, head erect, tail and ears stiffened with pride of victory, made a picture of doggish vanity, once seen, never to be forgotten. These scenes, in the warm season, were almost of daily occurrence, much to the chagrin of many pug-loving dames.

“Phiz” only amused himself with the innocent pug (for he never was known to offer to bite one), but he was always savagely in earnest in his demonstrations of detestation of the face-making, ever-yelling average street small boy. And he had no special love for the undersized butcher’s and grocer’s assistant, whom he delighted to attack whenever he could waylay them in a dark passage between the kitchen and front basement hall. Some of these attacks were so sudden, fierce, and unexpected, and were attended with such a volume of snarls and barks, that the grocer’s boy had been known to drop his basket of eggs, and run as if pursued by a terrible beast of huge dimensions.

As the subject of this sketch took on additional years, he accumulated much knowledge, and, by the time he had accomplished the mature age of six, he was far more wise than any serpent the writer had ever known. He had never been taught to perform tricks, nor had been in any manner trained, but by his own observation he had managed to pick up a world of useful information, which proved of great value to him. Among his acquirements he had learned how to make known, in an original and intelligent manner, all the wants of a well-bred dog. He could tell those around him when he desired to go up or down stairs, call for water or food, ask to go out, and give a note of warning when a stranger was coming up the street steps, but he was never known to bark at the like approach of one of the family or a friend.

One of his undeviating customs was the morning call at the chambers of his master and his mistress, when he would first make himself known by a very delicate scratch upon the door. If not answered, then another and more vigorous scratch; still no response, then a gentle bark of interrogation, and then, if the door was not opened, would come a most commanding full-voiced bark, saying as plainly as possible: “Why don’t you let me in?” These gradations from the lesser to the greater in effort and tones, all in the direction of asking for a certain thing, proves conclusively the presence of powers to reason developed to a considerable degree.

“Phiz” was selfishly interested in three things: a walk, cats generally, and dogs particularly; and no conversation relating to these could take place in his presence without exciting his active attention. When these subjects were being discussed he would leave his couch and go from one conversationalist to another, looking up into their faces in the most inquisitive manner, all the while making a great mental effort to understand exactly what they were saying.

His most remarkable manifestations of intelligence would occur at the time when his master and mistress were about to leave their home for their usual summer absence of about six months. On the first two or three occasions of this kind he came to the carriage to wag a good-bye. Later he must have arrived at the conclusion that certain preparations meant a long period of loneliness for him, and then, from the commencement of “putting things away” and packing boxes, he would appear very much dejected—no more cheery barks and frisky wags, but, on the contrary, he would show great depression of spirits, and, finally, when the time arrived for the carriage and for carrying out the baggage, “Phiz” would hide in some out-of-the-way place, there to nurse his grief, undisturbed and unseen.

The subject of this sketch reached the ripe old age of eleven with all functions and faculties unimpaired, save sight, which, we are compelled to record, was totally obscured. I happened to be with him when he came to the painful realization of his great misfortune. It was during his accustomed late-in-the-afternoon walk. Failing to find his way along the sidewalk he had stopped, while I, without seeing him, had passed on, but only for a short distance, when I was attracted by a most pitiful and grief-stricken cry. I looked around, and there was my poor little friend and companion, sitting close to the lower stone of a flight of steps, with his nose pointed straight up to the heavens, and crying as though his heart would break. I hurried to him, took him gently in my arms, and carried him to his box, which he hardly left for many days. His grief was so intense that he refused to eat or be cheerful, and made very faint responses to the most affectionate advances. Within a week or more, however, he began to resume his interest in affairs, having, no doubt, like human beings similarly afflicted, through process of reasoning, become reconciled to his misfortune.

If he had been a man instead of a dog, he would have had an easy chair, a pipe, and, in his moods of vainglory, fought his many battles over and over again. But, as he was only a dog, he found his way about the house as best he could, varying occasionally his dull routine by a short promenade over the paths which were once the race-track of his wild and gleeful prancings. And thus he passed on to that everlasting night, from whence no dog whether good or bad has ever returned to wag a solution of the mysteries which must have puzzled the minds of many generations of wise and philosophical dogs.