Dog Stories

Story time, as I'm deep into the creation of pages on dogs.

There's a story of a hound named Gelert, who belonged to Llewellen, son-in-law of King John ... yes, the one from Robin Hood.  The master going to hunt could not find his favourite greyhound, and was obliged to depart without him.

Returning from the chase, Llewellen found his dog in the front doorway, covered in blood.  Following the blood, Llewellen found it led to the chamber where his infant son lay in his cradle.  All about, the chamber showed signs of violence: the furniture turned over, scratches upon the crib, the clothes within were disturbed and bloody ... and when Llewellen called for his child, no response was heard in the house.  In a rage, Llewellen pulled his sword and plunged it into the hound ... which, as it lay dying, looked reproachfully into it's master's face.

A closer search found the infant sleeping quietly beneath the bloody clothing ... and a gaunt wolf laying dead nearby, showing that the faithful hound had remained a home to protect and save the life of the young heir of the Welsh principality.

Perhaps poetical, but yet believable enough to be true.

There were two magnificent dogs of fame, stag-hounds, that it's told Shakespeare wrote about in a Midsummer Night's Dream, act 4, scene 1:

    Theseus: My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung 

With ears that sweep away the morning dew, 

Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls, 

Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,

Each under each. A cry more tunable 

Was never hollaed to, nor cheered with horn.

It's related that these dogs, in a hunt, chased a dear from Kingfield park in Northumberland to Annan in Scotland and back, a distance of more than a hundred miles.  In returning, the deer leaped the wall of the park from which he'd started and died.  One of the hounds pursued to the wall and expired there, unable to leap the barrier ... and the other hound was found dead from exhaustion a short distance to the rear.

Not a very happy story, but I've read one other like it: in 1482, a deer was pursued fifty miles across the country in four hours, by a pack of stag-hounds without a break.  The severity of the pursuit may be understood from the fact that nearly 20 horses died in the chase.  But I'm sure that's a tall tale.

I'll add a happier tale to wrap this up.  Edward Jesse tells a story in his 1843 book, Gleanings in Natural History.  An old friend of his had a very wise pointer, which was kept in a kennel with several other dogs.  His gamekeeper, having gone one day into the kennel, dropped his watch by some accident.  On leaving the place, he fastened the gate as usual, but had not gone far from it when he heard it rattling.  On looking around, he saw his favourite pointer standing with her forepaws on the gate and shaking it, evidently to attract his attention.  On going up to the dog, he found her with his watch in her mouth, which she restored to him with much seeming delight.

It's been very busy; I've had extra work that drove me through the weekend, and every spare hour I've had has gone to the book and nothing else, not even maps.  I should return to my usual schedule Wednesday, or perhaps as late as Thursday ... and in the meantime I can at least add stories to the wiki that won't be published in the Streetvendor's Guide.  Nearly every day I found odd stuff like this, as I'm researching 19th century books to get the descriptions and details I want, as modern materials are that much further removed from what the 13th to 17th centuries might have been.

P.S.

Gotta add one more:

A number of pointers and setters have refused to work longer, when loaned to a person who proved an indifferent marksman.  Looking back in astonishment at the bird marksmanship, after a few ineffectual attempts to bring down the bird, the dogs trotted back home and no coaxings, blandishments or commands could call them back.  A case is reported in which a pointer became so incensed at his master's bad shooting, as several times to have attacked him in a manner not to be mistaken.