A. J. Dawson - Jan

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"She certainly doesn't seem to want me," he thought. And he tried to
brace himself by means of resentful recollection of the eager way she
had taken the bone he brought her. But much as he would have preferred
to sniff, look coldly down his muzzle, and walk off, he found himself
licking one of Desdemona's heavily pendulous ears in quite a humble and
solicitous manner. It was really rather annoying.

She jerked herself nervously away from him, with no more of deference
than she might have shown some too effusive and presumptuous puppy. And
yet, and yet the great wolfhound's bowels yearned in kindliness toward
this ungracious bloodhound mate of his; and when he did finally accept
her numerous hints and take his leave, it was with no thought of
resentment in his mind, but, on the contrary, with many a backward
glance over his wire-coated shoulder, and several low whines of farewell
from deep down in his throat. Altogether the evening, like the day
preceding it, was a depressing one for Finn, and he was not sorry when
the time came to stretch his great length upon his bed by the door of
the Master's room and sleep.

But when morning arrived Finn surprised his friend the cook by not
waiting for his customary dish of milk. Directly the back door was
opened he slipped out into the sweet, early sunshine of that fragrant
neighborhood, and was off at a good loping gait for the Downs. (It was a
thousand pities he could not have carried his milk with him as a morning
draught for Desdemona.)

There was no sign of the bloodhound near the mouth of the cave when Finn
breasted the steep rise it faced. But as he drew nearer there came
sounds from out the cave which, while altogether bewildering in
themselves, did at least indicate Desdemona's presence there. The first
sound to reach him was a hoarse and threatening growl, a quite
unmistakably minatory growl, from the throat of his own mate as she got
her first wind of his, Finn's, approach to the cave he had helped to
make a home. Finn paused for a moment, head raised and ears cocked, to
consider this truly remarkable manifestation. And as he listened, there
issued from the den other small sounds of a totally different kind:
mild, twittering little bleatings; several voices, each weak and thin,
and in some subtle way most curiously appealing to the wolfhound.

Then, in one flash of memory and reason, came vivid understanding of the
whole business; as usual, in the form of a picture, Finn saw again, from
that sun-washed English hill-side, the gaunt, bald foothills around
Mount Desolation. He saw the heat shimmering above the scorched rocks on
which he slew Lupus in open fight, and witnessed the terrible
disintegration of that fighter's redoubtable sire, Tasman, under the
foaming jaws and flashing feet of his own dingo mate, Warrigal. But the
picture did not show Finn any fighting. It showed himself, at the den's
mouth, gazing in upon Warrigal, and Warrigal's curved flank supporting a
little bunch of wolfhound-dingo pups, helpless, blind, new-born, and
cheeping thinly like caged birds. Again came the sound of the small
bleatings from the cave on the South Downs. The Australian picture faded
out from Finn's excited mind, its task accomplished. He knew now; and
into the gentle whining which escaped his throat as he stepped forward
to the cave's entrance Finn introduced a note of reassurance and
soothing understanding which even human ears would have comprehended and
been satisfied by.

"All right, my mate," said Finn's gentle whining. "I know, I know. I'll
be very careful."

And then came Desdemona's answer as Finn's great bulk blocked the
entrance. This time her voice struck a note quite new to her. She
understood now that Finn understood; she knew she was not to be called
upon to shield that which she cherished in the cave there from immediate
peril. There was rest and thankfulness in Desdemona's voice now; but
withal, as Finn entered, there was more.

"Oh, please be very careful! Be very careful!" said her whine, as her
swimming eyes, with their deep-pouched crimson haws, looked up at Finn.
It would have been hard for Desdemona if she had been obliged now to
take the defensive, for Finn found the beautiful bitch most utterly
exhausted. But, as he well knew, it had gone hardly too with the man or
beast who should have forced the Lady Desdemona to her defense. Weak and
exhausted though she clearly was, the mother-passion looked out from her
brimming eyes, and the call of need would have found her a living flame
for valor, a most deadly force in a fight.

"All right! All right! Don't stir, my mate," said Finn's low whine. And
then he entered the cave and gazed down upon the miracle the night had
brought. Five sleek-sided puppies nestled in a row within the Lady
Desdemona's carefully curved flank. They were so new to the world as to
be no more than a few hours' old; they were blind and helpless as
stranded jellyfish. But they were vigorously breakfasting, none the
less; and as Finn gazed down upon them from his three-foot height, their
mother proceeded to wash and groom their fat bodies for the twentieth
time that morning, interrupting herself from time to time to glance
proudly up into her mate's face, as who should say: "See what I have
given you! Now you understand. These, my lord, are princes of your royal
blood and mine."

Neither she nor Finn could realize, of course, just why these children
of their union--their lamentable _mesalliance_, as the fanciers would
have said--were the first of their kind the world had ever seen: the
offspring of an Irish wolfhound champion and a daughter of generations
of bloodhound champions. But to Desdemona it was clear enough that a
miracle unique in history had occurred; and as for Finn, he looked and
looked, and his bowels yearned over the group at his feet even more
mightily than over Desdemona, his mate, on the previous evening.

Here certainly was food for wonder and astonishment. Two dog people had
met outside this lonely cave the night before; and here there were
seven. The new-comers were, with one exception, black and golden-brown
in color, like their mother; yet their short coats were sensibly
different from hers in texture. The exception was black as to his saddle
and head, but iron-gray for the rest, a blend one sometimes sees in
other hounds. And Finn noticed that this exception was somewhat larger
than either of his four brothers and sisters. (Two of them were
brothers, and two sisters; the black-and-gray fellow was a brother.)

Finn gently licked the round back of one of the pups. A moment before
Desdemona's tongue had crossed the same fat back. Yet its blind little
owner whimpered instant complaint at the very gentle touch of Finn's
tongue.

"Be very careful!" whined the mother.

So Finn turned to the bigger pup, the black-and-gray, and licked him
carefully. There was no sign of a whimper from this sturdy chap. On the
contrary, he wriggled over on his round back and presented his equally
round, gray belly for the same treatment. So Finn gravely licked his
largest son all over in the approved maternal fashion, while Desdemona
looked on with a quaint mixture of expressions in her pain-drawn eyes.
The mixture was of pride and jealousy, approval and solicitude,
motherhood and matehood--quite a curious little study in expression.

And then came an odd, rather touching little incident. Using infinite
care to avoid disturbing or unsettling her full-fed little ones, the
bloodhound mother slowly, gently, and with much effort, raised her
aching body from the ground and stood a moment tremulously resting. Then
she nudged Finn with her nose, and gently, but quickly, nervously, edged
him out to the mouth of the cave. There the appeal of her liquid eyes,
no less than the meaning little whine which escaped her, said, plainly:

"Don't go inside! Stay there, on guard!"

And with a rush (despite her pain-racked state) Desdemona ran down the
slope in obedience to an imperative natural call. A few seconds later
and she stood drinking eagerly, quickly, beside the dew-pond. But for
all her haste and her parched throat and aching body, the mother bitch
was careful not to wet her coat, since that might have made their bed
chilly for the pups. Returning hotfoot, she found Finn immovable beside
the mouth of the cave, a formidable sentry.

But while yet distant some ten or twelve yards, Desdemona heard a
whimper from within-sides (doubtless a pup had turned over on its back
and forgotten how to roll round again); and accordingly her weary limbs
must lift her up the steep slope almost at a bound, leaving her no time
for thanks to Finn, and care for nothing but her little ones.

To see her lower herself again to make of her aching body a nest and
bulwark for the pups was to see a really beautiful study of animal
motherhood. The deep wrinkles of her long forehead were all twisted from
the pains of the night; but not by one hair's-breadth did she
miscalculate the place for her descent to earth, or the nice disposition
of her body to secure the maximum of comfort and shelter for her brood.

If her mate looked for any companionable attention now, he looked in
vain. Each of the five young ones must be scrupulously washed and
groomed once more to make up for the neglect of the past few minutes.
And by that time they were greedily pounding at her dugs for another
meal. However, Finn understood now; and as sentry he spent the rest of
the forenoon by the cave.

IX

THE LONE MOTHER

Through many, many generations past the forebears of the Lady Desdemona
had been wont at all such crises in their lives as she was now
experiencing to receive the closest and most unremitting human care and
supervision. In the Shaws breeding-kennels, for example, there would
always be at such times an abundance of fresh warm milk, clean, warm
bedding for the new arrivals and their mother, and every other sort of
comfort and attention which men-folk have devised for the benefit of the
aristocrats among dog-folk.

Thus, if the alliance between the Lady Desdemona and the great champion
of her race, Windle Hercules, had been consummated, a foster-mother
would have been held in readiness to share the task of nursing her
family when it came. Two or three pups would have been left with
Desdemona; the others would have been taught to derive their nutriment
and nursing from some plebeian little shepherd bitch, specially bereaved
of her own offspring for this purpose. But in the cave on the Downs, and
in the aftermath of the runaway match of Finn and Desdemona, no human
eye saw Desdemona's family, and no human care played any part in its
rearing. Now, since we are all, in greater or less measure, the product
of our respective environments, and as for centuries before her time
Desdemona's ancestors had been accustomed to the fostering care of
humankind, she and her family must have been profoundly affected by the
peculiar circumstances of her first maternal experiences.

It did not take long for Finn to realize that his mate attached more
importance than she ever had before to the food-supply question. It was
easy to bring her a bone from his own daily supply at Nuthill, though
that did involve carrying the bone over four or five miles of Downs.
But, as was natural, Desdemona wanted more than bones. It was not for
nothing that five little mouths (armed with teeth like pin-points)
tugged and pounded at her dugs by day and by night. Whenever Finn
thought of it, he would run down and kill a rabbit for his mate, and for
these the bloodhound was duly grateful. But dogs do not discuss such
needs. Finn himself was well fed each day at Nuthill, as a matter of
course. Frequently though he visited the down-ridge cave, he did not
live there, and being still attached to a regular man-made home, he
never adopted any set hunting routine, any more than he reverted to any
other among the habits of wild life. He did not reason with himself
regarding Desdemona's position or needs. When he thought of it, he gave
her food; but these thoughts of his were, quite naturally, less frequent
than the recurrence of Desdemona's conscious needs, underlined and
emphasized as these were by the tireless assertiveness of her five
children.

One result was that, within three days of the arrival of the puppies,
Desdemona was doing a certain amount of hunting on her own account,
especially in the seasons of twilight, both morning and evening. In her
movements she was, of course, infinitely slower than her wolfhound mate.
He could easily have run circles round her when she was traveling at her
fastest. Her sense of smell and tracking ability were immeasurably ahead
of Finn's powers in these directions, and in some countries this would
have stood her in good stead. It was no very great help to her, however,
in rabbit-hunting; and many a long and patient tracking ended for
Desdemona in nothing more nutritious than a view of her intended quarry
disappearing into the security of its earth or burrow while the hungry
hunter was still twenty paces distant. Then, perforce, poor Desdemona
would hurry back to her nursing, hungry as when she left it.

If Finn should arrive with food on such an evening or morning, so much
the better. If not--well, Desdemona gave herself utterly to her puppies.
There was no thought of grievance or complaint in her mind, but only the
earnest endeavor to satisfy, so far as she was able, all the calls of
her little blind tyrants. Her will to succeed as a mother was at least
equal to that which any creature of the wild could have known. But her
powers of contrivance, her cunning, endurance, and, in short, her
command of success, in conditions approximating to those of motherhood
in lined and emphasized as these were by the tireless assertiveness of
her five children.

One result was that, within three days of the arrival of the puppies,
Desdemona was doing a certain amount of hunting on her own account,
especially in the seasons of twilight, both morning and evening. In her
movements she was, of course, infinitely slower than her wolfhound mate.
He could easily have run circles round her when she was traveling at her
fastest. Her sense of smell and tracking ability were immeasurably ahead
of Finn's powers in these directions, and in some countries this would
have stood her in good stead. It was no very great help to her, however,
in rabbit-hunting; and many a long and patient tracking ended for
Desdemona in nothing more nutritious than a view of her intended quarry
disappearing into the security of its earth or burrow while the hungry
hunter was still twenty paces distant. Then, perforce, poor Desdemona
would hurry back to her nursing, hungry as when she left it.

If Finn should arrive with food on such an evening or morning, so much
the better. If not--well, Desdemona gave herself utterly to her puppies.
There was no thought of grievance or complaint in her mind, but only the
earnest endeavor to satisfy, so far as she was able, all the calls of
her little blind tyrants. Her will to succeed as a mother was at least
equal to that which any creature of the wild could have known. But her
powers of contrivance, her cunning, endurance, and, in short, her
command of success, in conditions approximating to those of motherhood
in the wild, were necessarily not equal to those of wild-born folk.

For the first time in her life the Lady Desdemona was now living hardly,
but it must not be supposed that this meant unhappiness for her. That
would be far from the truth. The modern hound's sophisticated ancestry
is almost as ancient as that of men-folk; but withal he remains very
much nearer in every way to the life of the wild, and can revert to it
with far more ease. There are penalties attaching to the process,
however, and even at the time her puppies were born the Lady Desdemona
had grown noticeably less sleek than her habit had been at Shaws; just
as even a few days of unsheltered life in the woods--nay, even
twenty-four hours without a bedroom--will make a man or woman notably
less sleek.

The fact was that, upon her present diet, at all events, the young
bloodhound was not quite equal to the task of nourishing five puppies.
No doubt Nature--whose wisdom so often is mistaken for ruthlessness by
pessimistically inclined observers of the surfaces of things--had a
watchful eye upon Desdemona in her cave.

On the morning of the fifth day of the puppies' lives Desdemona was out
and about before the sun, and her hunting took her somewhat far afield.
While she hunted--doubtless introducing fear into several rabbit earths,
and tragedy into one--Destiny came knocking at the door of her own cave,
and left his sign manual there in letters of blood. On her homeward way,
the half of a young rabbit gripped between her jaws, Desdemona suddenly
picked up a fresh trail close to the cave. In the same instant the
half-rabbit fell from her parted jaws and her nose went to earth, while
premonition of disaster smote at her heart and all the channeled lines
of her forehead deepened.

A few urgent bounds carried her to the mouth of the cave. Two more
steps, and the events of the last half-hour lay plain before her eyes.
Two of her puppies lay dead, and in the throat of one of them there
still were fastened the teeth of their slayer: a full-grown,
tawny-coated stoat. The blood-drinking stoat was of no greater length
than one of Desdemona's low-hanging ears, yet without the smallest
flicker of hesitation the terrible little beast wheeled about to attack
the bereaved mother of his quarry. With bared fangs--flecked now with
blood--the stoat crouched, breathing quite fearless defiance.

For the moment Desdemona gave no thought to the stoat, but lowered her
massive head to the inspection of the dead puppy which lay nearest. In
that moment the fearless stoat saw his chance. Brave though he was--and
no creature is more brave--the stoat did not court death; and so, like a
yellow snake, he slid out of the cave and down the steep slope beyond.
But, being fearless, he halted when he came to the remains of
Desdemona's rabbit. Fresh-killed meat was something he could not pass,
even though the investigation should cost him his life.

In the cave, a very few seconds showed Desdemona that two of her pups
were dead. A frantically hurried licking sufficed to assure her that the
remaining three were unhurt. And then, the fire of judgment in her
red-brown eyes, she swept out from the cave on the trail of her enemy.
In three bounds she reached the stoat, who was perfectly prepared now to
fight an elephant for possession of the half-rabbit he had found. The
tiny creature did, as a fact, draw blood, with one slashing bite, from
Desdemona's muzzle. And then he died (snarling defiance), his spine
smashed through in two places between the bloodhound's powerful jaws.

Without a moment's pause, after completing this act of vengeance,
Desdemona hurried back to her young. With a fine effort of will she
ignored the two corpses and settled herself down, as though thoroughly
at ease in mind and body, to the task of suckling her three remaining
youngsters. It is worth noting that, whereas a tithe of the strain and
shock she had sustained during the past hour would have made worse than
useless the ministrations of a human nursing mother, there was no fault
in the quality of this particular meal taken by the puppies, nor any
momentary imperfection about the manner in which it was made available
to them, or the way in which they were washed and groomed after it, and
disposed for their nap.

That Desdemona was none the less acutely conscious of her bereavement is
proved by the fact that, so soon as her three full-fed pups were asleep,
she rose very deftly and carefully, and drew out to the mouth of the
cave the body of the puppy at whose throat she had found the stoat.
Depositing the limp little body upon the chalky ledge before the cave,
Desdemona regarded it mournfully, sitting on her haunches the while, her
muzzle pointing earthward, her splendid brow deeply wrinkled--a true
bloodhound.

After a few minutes given to sad contemplation she went inside again,
and carried out the other little corpse, laying it near by its fellow
and nosing it sadly, till the two were touching. There was another
interval of melancholy contemplation. And then, suddenly lifting her
muzzle heavenward, so that its deep flews swayed in the breeze,
Desdemona broke into vocal mourning, in a long, deep, baying howl; a
less eerie sound, perhaps, than the siren-like howl of an Irish
wolfhound in distress, yet withal, in its different, deeper, more
resonant way, a cry quite equally impressive.

It was at this employ that Finn found his mate when he arrived at the
cave that morning from Nuthill. For some moments Finn also gazed down at
the victims, pondering over their immobility and his mate's mournful
cries. Then, very tenderly at first, he nuzzled the dead puppies. That
process flashed a picture into his mind, and he saw again Warrigal's
dead children in the Mount Desolation cave. So he understood. His head
moved now far more vigorously, almost roughly, indeed, as he pushed the
little bodies forward with his nose, thrusting them out upon the turf,
so that they rolled, one over the other, down the steep part of the
slope.

Then Finn turned to his mate and affectionately licked her low-hanging
ears, flews, and dewlap. It was perfectly obvious that he understood her
grief and sought to assuage it. Finding that she paid no heed to him,
Finn turned from her gravely and walked within to where the three
remaining pups lay. Carefully he licked the big black-and-gray dog pup.
Still Desdemona remained outside. So Finn proceeded to lick one of the
other pups, the weakling of the group. This produced at once a faint
whimpering from the puppy, and that brought her mother quickly to her
side. Standing aside now, Finn watched the bloodhound settle herself
down to the task of nursing. Contented then, he walked to the mouth of
the cave and lay down there, gazing out reflectively across the green
ridge to the far-off Sussex weald.

It is easy for scientists to affirm that dogs cannot think. Call the
process what one may, Finn saw and understood his mate's grief. He
recognized that he could not give her comfort. He knew that if Desdemona
would not answer to a call from him she would respond immediately to the
claims of her offspring, and to her offspring he led her. This is what
actually occurred, and no matter what the theorists may say in their
learned generalizations, the rest of us are free to draw our own
conclusions.

What happened was that Finn led his mate from the abandonment of her
lonely mourning to renewed absorption in her motherly duties. It is true
enough that nature was at work on Finn's side in this matter, and
without the wolfhound's aid would presently have achieved the same
result. But Finn assisted and hastened the process; and is that not as
much as one can often say of the high task of the physician?

X

FAMILY LIFE--AND DEATH

In the very early morning of their ninth day in the world, one of
Desdemona's three pups died--it was the weakling sister--and the eyes of
the big black-and-gray dog pup began to open. It seemed he had absorbed
all the strength of his weakling sister to add to his own, and, as is so
often the case with the largest pup of a litter, he thrived apace;
growing almost visibly "like a weed" as the breeders say.

Desdemona paid very little heed to the puppy that died. Had it been a
human child, skilled nurture would likely have sustained its weakling
life, possibly for many years. But it was not part of Nature's plan that
any of the bloodhound mother's energies should be wasted over the
weakling of her little brood. The race is to the swift in Nature's
scheme. The black-and-gray pup always secured the most warmth because he
burrowed forcibly under his brothers and sisters. He secured the lion's
share of nutriment because he was strong enough to force his way from
teat to teat, ousting all other comers, till his lusty appetite was
satisfied. He secured the most of his mother's attention, partly because
of his ability and will to thrust himself to the fore at all times, and
partly, it may be, by compelling her prideful admiration.

When Finn found the little dead body he silently nosed and drew it out
from the cave. Out there on the open turf of the Down Nature would see
speedily to its sepulture, for Nature employs many grave-diggers and
suffers no unseemly waste. She works on a huge scale, but only the
superficial see wastefulness in Nature's plans.

So now Desdemona's family was reduced to two--the big black-and-gray dog
pup and one black-and-tan bitch pup. The reduction was probably a
beneficent one for Desdemona, for her flanks were very hollow now. Two
puppies were quite enough for her to nourish, more especially since one
of the two already demanded as much nourishment as any two ordinary
youngsters of his age. The sunken hollows of the Lady Desdemona's sides
gave extraordinary prominence to her low-hanging and not too well-filled
dugs. Her shape and general appearance were strangely different from
those of the sleek and shining young bitch whose beauty had aroused so
much enthusiasm in the minds of all judges who had seen her at Shaws. An
uninformed outsider would scarcely have recognized her as the
satin-coated beauty whose supple grace had so impressed Finn a few
months back, in the walled inclosure above the stables.

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