The dog is naturally the most nervous of all the dumb tribe. His intense affection, his ever-watchful jealousy, his method of attack, the blindness of his rage, and his insensibility to consequences, all bespeak a creature whose nervous system is developed in the highest possible degree. I myself once had a little cur, who, as I sat reading, would enter the apartment, jump upon my knee, uttering a low whimper all the time, creep along my waistcoat, rub his little body against my head and face, lick the hand lifted up to return his caresses, and then scamper off, and perhaps not come near me again the whole of that afternoon. What was this but an affectionate impulse seeking a nervous development? The way to manage an animal of this description is, to respect his evident excitability. The instant a dog appears to be getting excited, there should be a sign given, commanding a stop to be put to all further proceedings. If the respect of the animal be habitual, the person who mildly enforces it may enter a room, where the same dog is in a rabid state, and come forth unscathed.

I have hitherto been much among dogs, and, nevertheless, have almost escaped being bitten. The reason is, that I understand and respect the innate nervousness of the animal. When I go into a room, if there be a dog there and he growl, I speak kindly to him, and then seat myself, and bestow on him none of my attention for some time. My request to his master or mistress is, that he or she will not check or seek to stop the symptom of his wrath; but allow him to vent his rage until he is ashamed of it, and from a feeling of remorse is silent. When this takes place, and a sufficient time has passed to confirm him in the new mood into which he has recently entered, I approach him with my hand extended and open; this I bring near to him by degrees, avoiding all sudden movements or anything that might provoke his natural disposition. Generally he crouches, then I speak to him in tones of encouragement. If he display a return of his warlike propensity, I still bring the hand nearer and nearer to him, telling him to bite it if he pleases, if he is not ashamed to injure that which means to do him good. Then, perhaps, he will make a snap at my extended hand, which is not upon this withdrawn, or the jaws would close with nervous violence, but allowed to remain, and the teeth are felt to touch the skin without wounding it. I allow him to hold the hand for any length of time he pleases, telling him "he would lose his character if he were to harm it. That he is a courageous dog, and means no hurt; he would be ashamed to bite." And with this kind of speech, which the animal may not literally understand, but the sense and purpose of which it nevertheless appears to comprehend, I seldom fail of getting my hand safe and sound from the creature's jaws. After that I may pat him, for an intimacy has begun. He allows me to drag him forth, take him on my knees, and permits me any liberty I please to take. I do not attribute my escape to any charm that I possess; but account for it simply by my knowing and respecting the natural temperament of the beast with which I have to interfere.

This natural respect for the feelings of a most affectionate creature, with such a power of observation as will enable the individual to recognise the presence of lamentable sickness in an animal that has with truth been called "the companion of the home," shall at all times enable the uneducated in such matters to recognise a mad dog, and, unless luck be dead against the individual, save him from being bitten.

It is no pleasure to a dog to go mad. Quite the reverse. Dreadful as hydrophobia may be to the human being, rabies is worse to the dog. It makes its approach more gradually. It lasts longer, and it is more intense while it endures. The dog that is going mad, feels unwell for a long time prior to the full development of the disease. He is very ill, but he does not know what ails him. He feels nasty; dissatisfied with everything; vexed without a reason; and, greatly against his better nature, very snappish. Feeling thus, he longs to avoid all annoyance by being alone. This makes him seem strange to those who are most accustomed to him.

The sensation induces him to seek solitude. But there is another reason which decides his choice of a resting-place. The light inflicts upon him intense agony. The sun is to him an instrument of torture, which he therefore studies to avoid, for his brain aches and feels as it were a trembling jelly. This induces the poor brute to find out the holes and corners where he is least likely to be noticed, and into which the light is unable to enter. In solitude and darkness he passes his day. If his retreat be discovered and the master's voice bids him to come forth, the affectionate creature's countenance brightens; his tail beats the ground, and he leaves his hiding-place, anxious to obey the loved authority; but before he has gone half the distance, a kind of sensation comes over him, which produces an instantaneous change in his whole appearance. He seems to say to himself, "Why cannot you let me alone? Go away. Do go away. You trouble, you pain me." And thereon he suddenly turns tail and darts back into his dark corner. If let alone, there he will remain; perhaps frothing a little at the mouth, and drinking a great deal of water, but not issuing from his hiding-place to seek after food. His appetites are altered, hair, straw, dirt, filth, excrement, rags, tin shavings, stones, the most noisome and unnatural substances are then the delicacies for which the poor dog, changed by disease, longs, and swallows, in hope to ease a burning stomach. So anxious is he for liquids, and so depraved are his appetites, that no sooner has he passed a little urine than he turns round to lick it up. He is now altogether changed. Still he does not desire to bite mankind; he rather endeavors to avoid society; he takes long journeys of thirty or forty miles in extent, and lengthened by all kinds of accidents, to vent his restless desire for motion. When on these journeys he does not walk. This would be too formal and measured a pace for an animal whose whole frame quivers with excitement. He does not run. That would be too great an exertion for an animal whose body is the abode of a deadly sickness. He proceeds in a slouching manner, in a kind of trot; a movement neither run nor walk, and his aspect is dejected. His eyes do not glare and stare, but they are dull and retracted. His appearance is very characteristic, and if once seen, can never afterwards be mistaken. In this state he will travel the most dusty roads, his tongue hanging dry from his open mouth, from which, however, there drops no foam. His course is not straight. How could it be, since it is doubtful whether at this period he sees at all? His desire is to journey unnoticed. If no one notices him, he gladly passes by them. He is very ill. He cannot stay to bite. If, nevertheless, anything oppose his progress, he will, as if by impulse, snap—as a man in a similar state might strike, and tell the person "to get out of the way." He may take his road across a field in which there are a flock of sheep. Could these creatures only make room for him, and stand motionless, the dog would pass on and leave them behind uninjured. But they begin, to run, and at the sound, the dog pricks up. His entire aspect changes. Rage takes possession of him. What made that noise? He pursues it with all the energy of madness. He flies at one, then at another. He does not mangle, nor is his bite, simply considered, terrible. He cannot pause to tear the creature he has caught. He snaps and then rushes onward, till, fairly exhausted and unable longer to follow, he sinks down, and the sheep pass forward to be no more molested. He may have bitten twenty or thirty in his mad onslaught; and would have worried more had his strength lasted, for the furor of madness then had possession of him.

He may be slain while on these excursions; but if he escapes he returns home and seeks the darkness and quiet of his former abode. His thirst increases; but with it comes the swelling of the throat. He will plunge his head into water, so ravenous is his desire; but not a drop of the liquid can he swallow, though its surface is covered with bubbles in consequence of the efforts he makes to gulp the smallest quantity. The throat is enlarged to that extent which will permit nothing to pass. He is the victim of the most horrible inflammation of the stomach, and the most intense inflammation of the bowels. His state of suffering is most pitiable. He has lost all self-reliance; even feeling is gone. He flies at and pulls to pieces anything that is within his reach. One animal in this condition, being confined near a fire, flew at the burning mass, pulled out the live coals, and in his fury scrunched them. He emits the most hideous cries. The noise he makes is incessant and peculiar. It begins as a bark, which sound, being too torturing to be continued, is quickly changed to a howl, which is suddenly cut short in the middle; and so the poor wretch at last falls, fairly worn out by a terrible disease.

But now comes the question, How do we know that rabies is a nervous disease? Why, the whole course of the disorder declares it, or if that be not thought sufficient, the dog at one stage very distinctly announces it. He may be sitting down, an unwilling listener to his master's voice, when the brute's eyes will wander; and at length fix themselves upon some object at a distance, which it will keep watching, crouching down as the horror seems, to the excited brain of the poor beast, to draw near; till, having apparently come within bounds, the hateful presence is no longer to be endured, and the vision-haunted animal dashes forward with a howl of execration, as if to seize and tear the terrible spectre. This action being performed, and the dog biting the air, he stands for a moment, shivers, looks stupidly around him, and slinks back. What is this but a power of seeing visions depending on a disordered brain, or positive delirium exemplified by a dumb creature? And the same piece of pantomime the dog may go through fifty times in an hour. No disappointment can teach him; and experience is lost upon the animal that in his sane state was so quick to learn.

Youatt mentions as a symptom, that the dog in all he does is instigated by the spirit of mischief or of malice,—that he desires to do injury, and is prompted by malice in all his acts. This, to an outward observer, will appear a correct judgment; but it is essentially wrong. It is the conclusion reached by one who judges mainly of exteriors; it can be true only to those who are willing to look no deeper than the surface. There can be no malice in a raging fever, which vents itself on every object within its reach, animate or inanimate. Mischief is too playful a term to apply to a consuming wrath that ultimately destroys the life. All pain is lost; as a consequence all fear is gone. The poor beast is urged by some power too mighty for its control, which lashes it on beyond all earthly restraint to pull to pieces, to gnaw, and to attempt to eat every object it can get at; but how far it is urged by malice or mischief, the following anecdote will serve to show:—

A butcher had a large bull mastiff of which he was very fond; but, observing something very strange in his pet's behavior, he came to consult the author about the dog. The man was told to bring the animal for inspection early the same evening. This order was given from no suspicion of the truth, for the owner's description was too confused to be rightly interpreted. The animal was accordingly brought punctual to time, led through the streets by a silk handkerchief carelessly tied round the neck of the beast. The author being at the exact moment of the dog's arrival, fortunately, engaged, the butcher had to wait some few minutes, during which time the writer's eyes were kept upon the huge creature. It was remarked to look round in a strange manner. The eye was retracted and the nose dry. It was at length seen to put its mouth against its master's boot, continue in that position uttering a strange noise, and to move its jaws as if biting at some substance. The butcher all this time stood perfectly still, allowing his favorite to follow the bent of its inclination without rebuke or opposition. When the mastiff's head was removed, the boot it had apparently been biting was perfectly dry. The author observed nothing more than this; but, afraid to confess his dread, lest the cry of mad dog should be raised, and do more, much more, harm than good, he called to the butcher, telling him he was going abroad shortly, and would call upon him. In the mean time, he was to take the dog home, place it where it could do no injury, and in a place whence there was no possibility of escape. The man touched his hair and retired.

No time elapsed before the author paid his promised visit; and when he did so, he was pleased to hear the dog was securely confined in that which ought to have been the front kitchen of the house in which the butcher resided. To this spot the man led the way, and was about fearlessly to open the door, when he was entreated to stay his hand. The author listened at the closed entrance, and from the interior there soon came forth sounds that left no doubt of the poor creature's real condition. The butcher was thereupon informed that his dog was mad. The man was at first wholly incredulous; whereon the writer requested him to look through a chink, and say how the animal was employed. "He is tearing a piece of wood to pieces, and munching it as though he were very hungry. Poor thing, I must go to him! He has taken no victuals or drink these three days." The author interposed, to prevent the master from fulfilling his humane suggestion. With much difficulty he was persuaded to wait the turn of events, and not to unloose the door that night. The next morning the butcher was thoroughly convinced. Neither he nor his family had been able to get any rest on account of the dog's cries; and before that day expired, to anticipate the poor animal's fate, the unfortunate beast was shot.

In this case the dog exhibited no malice, neither did he appear to be prompted solely by mischief. When the muzzle was first lowered to the master's boot, the poor animal doubtless was moved to that action by the irresistible desire natural to the disease. The longing was to bite something, no matter what; any object must be cooler than the heat that burnt within the wretched creature's throat and stomach. The teeth were impulsively prepared to bite, but between the desire and its consummation, reflection came. The affection natural to the dog acted as a restraint. It was unable entirely to destroy the prompting of disease, but it turned the bite which it was prepared to give into a mumble, and the loved master escaped unhurt.

There is also something which must not be quite overlooked in the habitual wanderings that, as the disease grows in virulence beyond the dog's control, causes the animal constantly to leave the home within which its attachment resides. There is something likewise in the disposition, which causes the poor beast to quit the society of all it loves; and to leave the house in which those for whom its life would cheerfully be sacrificed dwell, to inhabit a dark and noisome corner. It is not mischief which makes the creature respond to its master's voice so long as memory has power—even after rabies has set in. There is no malice in the end of the disease; it is blind and indiscriminate fury, which would much rather vent itself on things than upon beings—even finding an unholy pleasure in injuring itself by gnawing, biting, and tearing its own flesh; and so truly is the fury blind, that most frequently the eyes ulcerate, the humors escape, and the rabid dog becomes actually sightless.

Of the causes or treatment of this disorder we know nothing; neither are we likely to learn, when the nature of the disease is considered. The danger of the study must excuse our ignorance; nor is this much to be regretted, since it is highly improbable that medicine could cure what is so deeply seated and universally present. The entire glandular structure seems to be in the highest degree inflamed; and besides these, the brain, the organs of mastication, deglutition, digestion, nutrition, generation, and occasionally of respiration, are acutely involved. The entire animal is inflamed. Some except from this category the muscular system; but such persons forget that paralysis of the hind extremities is often present during rabies. The body seems to be yielded up to the fury of the disease, and it obviously would be folly trying to cure a malady which has so many and such various organs for its prey. Neither are we better informed with regard to the causes which generate the disease. Hot weather has been imagined to influence its development; but this belief is denied, by the fact that mad dogs are quite as, if not more, frequent in winter than in summer. Abstinence from fluids has been thought to provoke it; but this circumstance will hardly account for its absence in the arid East, and its presence in a country so well watered as England, especially when the unscrupulous nature of the dog's appetite is considered. The French have been supposed to set this latter question at rest by a cruelty, miscalled an experiment. They obtained forty dogs, and withheld all drink from the unhappy beasts till they died. Not one of them, however, exhibited rabies, and by this the French philosophers think that they have demonstrated that the disorder is not caused by want of water. No such thing; they have proved only their want of feeling, and show nothing more than that one out of every forty dogs is not liable to be attacked with rabies. They have demonstrated that the utmost malice of the human being can be vented upon his poor dumb slave without exciting rabies. They have made plain that the poor dog can endure the most hellish torments the mind of man can invent without displaying rabies. They have held themselves up to the world, and in their book have duly reported themselves as capable of perverting science to the most hideous abuses, and under its name contemplating acts and beholding sufferings at which the feelings of humanity recoil with disgust.

It is rarely that more than one mad dog appears at a time in England; so, to perfect their experiment, it would be requisite for the French philosophers to procure all the specimens of the canine species in this island, and doom them to torture; since, of the predisposing disposition or circumstances necessary to the development of this disease, man knows nothing. Ignorance is not to be concealed under the practices of barbarity.

Irritation or teazing, by exciting the nervous irritability of the dog, appears more likely than any physical want to excite rabies.

Tetanus.—I have witnessed no case of this description in the dog. Both Blaine and Youatt speak of tetanus as extremely rare in that animal; but both mention having encountered it, and that it was in every instance fatal. Since such is its termination, I am in no hurry to meet with it, and care not how long it remains a stranger to me. If any of my readers were to have a dog subject to this disease, the best treatment would be the application of ether internally as medicine, with slops or light puddings as food. The effects of the ether ought to be kept up for a considerable period at one time, and recommenced so soon as the slightest trace of the disorder reappears.