Dogs You'd Like to Meet

By Rowland Johns

This vintage book contains a collection of true stories concerning the unbelievable feats and accomplishments of various dogs, many of whom were known by the author. From firefighting and life-saving to catching thieves and beyond, these uncanny stories illustrate just how amazing man's best friend can really be. "Dogs You'd Like to Meet" is highly recommended for dog lovers of all ages and would make for a charming addition to any collection. Contents include: "The Mystery of Friday", "A Scottish Swimmer", "An Irish Hero-Dog", "Bolo", "Why Paddy Budged", "Sanctuary", "The Stolen Sheep", "Wun Lung's Dog-A Films Drama", "The Greater Courage", "Child-Saver and Thief-Catcher", "Helping Each Other", "Fire-Fighting Jack", "Biddy-cum-Sirius", et cetera. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. We are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with its original artwork and text. First published in 1907.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vintage Dog Books
• Release date: Sep 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781473340831

Book preview

MEET

THE MYSTERY OF FRIDAY

FRIDAY was missing; big black Friday, the retriever, named after Robinson Crusoe’s servant because of his colour. It was a sweltering night, and every one on the Warwickshire farm was too dog-tired to go out and hunt for him. Besides, they all felt that he could find his way home, just as Scot, the sheep-dog, had done. He would be home in the morning, they all said, so why worry?

Morning came, prompt to time, but Friday did not, and the people at the farm became anxious about him.

They said to Scot, the sheep-dog:

Where’s Friday?

The sheep-dog looked very wise, as much as to say, I know, but I can’t tell you. It’s a secret between friends, you know.

The farmer looked at the wall where Friday had been chained the day before. It had been a good wall in its day, but old age had made it tottery and crumbling, and Friday had torn from its place the iron cross-piece by which his chain was fastened. There were witnesses to prove that he and Scot had gone off together toward the woods on the previous afternoon, Friday trailing behind him his heavy chain and the iron cross-piece.

The farmer was not one of those people who keep poor dogs on chains for long weeks and months, but he used to have Friday put on the chain sometimes so that he and Scot should not spend too much time hunting in the woods. If one were chained the other would not think of going off alone and selfishly enjoying a chase after a rabbit. On the previous day, however, we can imagine that Scot had gone to Friday and said:

Why are we staying here, panting in the hot sun, when we might be in the shady green woods? Can’t you smell the cool moss and hear the brook murmuring through the glade?

And Friday must have answered:

Those rabbits are having a lazy time, thinking that we are miles away. I’d love to give them a surprise call.

At this he pulled very hard at his chain, in the hope that it would break off near the collar, which it might have done only that the wall, being an old and cantankerous wall, with no consideration for the feelings and rights of dogs, gave way suddenly, and Friday was condemned to wear, not only a collar and chain, but also a heavy cross-piece of iron which dragged along the ground in a most disagreeable manner.

Most dogs would have given up the idea of hunting in the woods, but Friday was not discouraged.

Must make the best of it, he said to his friend. It will scare the bunnies out of their skins.

Yes, and into their holes, remarked Scot regretfully. Never mind, we will have a glorious afternoon. Come along, you canine collector of marine stores.

THE MYSTERY OF FRIDAY

And off the two went, singing to themselves the doggy version of A-hunting we will go. . . .

That is how the story seems to have begun, but it looked to the people at the farm as if it had ended suddenly and with ill-fortune for Friday. A search-party was organized to look for him.

Now, if that dog would only bark, said the searchers, as they thrashed about in the high bracken which grew between the trees.

He never did bark, the farmer answered. No one ever heard him make such a sound. I expect that the chain and cross-piece have been caught up in some of these bramble-bushes and poor Friday is as much a prisoner as anyone ever was in a dungeon.

Long was the search and evening came without any success.

The next day the search-party went out again, but once more they returned to the farm and told the women-folk that Friday could not be found.

A reward was offered for his recovery, and the local newspapers told their readers to be on the look-out for him, but Friday was still missing and, as the days of intense heat and drought passed by, the farm-folk gave him up for lost. They told each other that no dog could live through such hot weather without a. drink—yes, many drinks—of water. The farm-folk seemed to have reason on their side, for a dog needs plenty of water to drink, and besides, how could a dog live without food?

During the twelve days which had passed since Friday had gone away Scot’s work had been doubled. At six every morning he went around the green meadows and drove the cows to the farm for milking. The cows were not very good-tempered in the exceptionally hot weather, and Scot had to be very firm with them. Then there was breakfast, and after that, at eight o’clock, there was the shepherd to be helped with the sheep. Scot had a great deal to do later in the day; in fact, he was always doing something useful, either for his human or his animal friends, who did not, of course, include the rabbits in the wood.

On the second day of July, the thirteenth day after Friday’s disappearance, the farmer went along to the shepherd and asked where Scot was. The old grandfather clock in the kitchen had just struck eight, and at this time every morning Scot was supposed to be helping the shepherd. There seemed to be no excuse for his absence. Even if dogs have no watch they are always supposed to know the right time, and shepherd-dogs are always expected to know when their work is due to begin.

The shepherd said that the dog had never before been late for work; he was always with the sheep at 8 a.m., but he must admit that he had several times been unable to find him at other times in the day, just at the very moment when he wanted him.

Turning poacher, I expect, said the shepherd.

Both men whistled loudly, but no Scot came, and a haunting fear crept into the shepherd’s mind that the dogs might have been bewitched and spirited away by some wicked fairy, or perhaps a dog-thief from Birmingham.

The farmer went away in a bad humour, and a few minutes later saw Scot coming from the direction of a wood. The farmer thought that he had been poaching by himself, and as the weather had been very trying his anger was aroused at the sight of the sheepdog sauntering along as if it were a half-holiday and there were no sheep to be looked after.

He had never before beaten Scot, but now he did so. So astonished was Scot that he howled and yelped, and yelped and howled, in a way which made every one in the farm-house scurry out to see what the noise was about.

They heard Scot yelp again, and from the direction of the wood whence he had just come they heard an echoing cry. They listened, and again the cry came, very faint and far away.

The farmer listened carefully.

There’s a dog in that wood, he said at last. A new chum of Scot’s, no doubt. Let’s go and see. We could do with another dog, if this one has no owner.

They went—the farmer and his men—into the wood, which covered fifty acres and was very thick in many places. It was difficult going, but they penetrated to the middle of the wood, where they found the ground soft and boggy, with rushes growing thick and high, reaching nearly ten feet from the marshy ground, through which a small brook oozed its way.

The growth of rushes and bushes prevented them from seeing much, but on a clear piece of ground they discovered bits of fur and a number of pieces of bone.

Then they understood why Scot had been absent from the farm so often, for there, crouching down, with his eyes looking appealingly at them, was a dog, ready to spring up with joy as soon as he could be released from the bonds which imprisoned him.

The dog was Friday. His cry in answer to Scot—perhaps a cry of sympathy—had led to his discovery, and the pieces of fur showed that Scot had been bringing him young rabbits, while other signs showed that he had been brought food from the farm by his good friend. The chain and fastening had caught in a thicket and held him prisoner. The water of the brook, which he could just reach, had saved him from dying of thirst. Scot seemed to have fed him well, for he was not ravenous when food was given to him by the farmer.

There were great rejoicings, both human and canine, when he returned to the farm. There was also joy in the wood—notably amongst the rabbits.

A SCOTTISH SWIMMER

IF you were to see a swimming match between a spaniel and a retriever, you would find it very hard to say which was going to win, because both breeds are very swift in the water and can keep on swimming for a long while at a great speed. Some-times you will see a dog who is half-spaniel and half-retriever, and a better dog in the sea or river could not be found.

Bob was half-retriever and half-spaniel, with a glossy blue-black coat and lustrous dark eyes. He lived near Aberdeen, and was always keen for a walk along the bank of the river Dee.

One day his master took him along the bank and Bob kept a keen eye on the swirling waters, which rushed along with great force, for the river was flooded by heavy rains.

His master was not inclined to send Bob in for a swim, and Bob, who was not at all afraid of being drowned, even in a flooded river, kept looking at the water, and then at his master, as if he were saying.

Will there no be a wee swim the morn?

His master pretended not to see how keen the dog was upon going into the water, and walked along at a rapid pace.

Lumbering on behind, Bob appeared to have accepted the no-swim-the-morn judgment, when suddenly his master heard him make a sound—more like a husky cough than a bark, and away went the dog along the bank of the river, his whole frame vibrant and alert.

Gone off for a swim by himself, thought his master, as he hurried forward in an effort to keep pace with his canine friend.

He saw Bob steady himself on the river-bank, crouch down, and then hurl himself with a mighty leap into the swift current. It was a fine jump, and when his master came nearer he discovered why Bob had taken it. In mid-stream a dark object was being swept along by the rushing water, and toward this Bob was making rapid progress.

He soon reached the drifting object, and seized it, then swam shoreward aslant the current. It was slow and strenuous work, for the current was strong and hard to battle against and the object was heavy. Yet Bob made a brave fight to reach the shore, and his great strength, combined with the skill in retrieving which he had inherited from both sides of his mixed parentage, were of great value in this struggle against the foaming torrent.

Several people came to the bank and waited the chance to help him ashore. They saw that his prize was a little child, and they hurried to aid Bob, who had now come close to the bank. They lifted the little child out of the water, laid it on the bank, and some experienced ̶first-aid" workers applied artificial respiration. Bob shook himself and then stood by, with his coat glistening and his eyes keenly fixed on the child, until the workers made the blood beat once more in the arteries of the child. Then he turned away and begged his master to resume his walk. He pretended not to know that he had done a very brave deed in saving a three-year-old child from drowning.

AN IRISH HERO-DOG

THE boys were sure that his name was Pat.

Sure and he must be Pat! Would there be two dogs like him lost an’ strayed the same time? exclaimed the leader of the group. The rest of them wanted to believe that the big, yellow-coated sheep-dog was in truth the missing Pat, and they were not going to split hairs by questioning the logic of the speaker, for was not there a reward offered for the return of Pat to his home, only two miles from where they sat?

They were unanimous. Pat’s a dog, this is a dog; Pat’s lost, this one’s lost. This must be Pat, sure enough. It’s only a step of two miles farther on to the house of the murdherin’ joker that owns him, an’ then—hurroo for the reward!

The dog lolled on the hot pavement and hung out his tongue. Hot and thirsty was the day, and he had walked along for five miles with these boys and their little grey dog. He had forgotten how many miles he had travelled before they found him, but he was dog-tired and lame and wished that he could find his home. The boys were tired, too, for they had trudged all the road from Dublin to Kingstown. The journey had been illuminated by the finding of the yellow dog, whose golden coat itself suggested that he was a giltedged investment. There had been considerable enthusiasm as they formed a syndicate to exploit the golden prospect, and applications for shares were supported by the claim of each boy to have been the first to see the dog.

ROVER, AN IRISH HERO-DOG

Whisht your blatherin’, cried the eldest boy. Did not myself alone see the Ree-ward, an’ where would you be but for myself studyin’ the paper on wan side while Micky Dolan was lookin’ at the price of the horses on the other?

Hould on, Davey lad; don’t be deludering of us. Faith an’ I saw the notice on the polis-station. Where would you be but for myself?

This boy was nearly as big as the eldest one, and his ability as a budding pugilist had already secured for him a large allotment of shares on the Pat Ree-ward Syndicate.

You’ll have your share, Nat, conceded the big lad and added, You’ll be rich like myself will be, with the Ree-ward for Pat. He’s a fine dog, so he is, only for his bad foot, an’ his owner will be glad to pay for him. It’s myself will go up to the joker an’ touch me cap an’ get the Ree-ward—in these same hands, so I will.

The other boys protested. They had all found Pat first and they were all going to share in the joy—and profit—of his restoration. They were all to share . . . and then, just as they agreed upon the division of the spoils, the syndicate received a crushing blow.

A lady, who had been standing near-by and watching the party with interest, explained to them that the dog was not at all like Pat; she had the pleasure of knowing Pat very well indeed, for he had been one of her greatest dog-friends. Great sorrow descended like a cloud upon the group of boys, who sank back wearily upon the flight of steps on which they had held their conference. The brightly-coloured bubble of prospective wealth had burst, the syndicate had dissolved, and disillusion’s pangs stabbed sharply into their souls.

Weariness took the place of hope; hunger and thirst stepped into the throne vacated by their joyous anticipation. El Dorado had become a howling wilderness.

But Miss Margaret Mahoney understood the nature of boys, and she was generous. Even if El Dorado had proved to be a desert, she could try to make the journey through it more pleasant and easy, and with this intention she led the way to a dairy not far away, followed by a tatterdemalion and unkempt procession of hungry boys and thirsty dogs.

Under the benign influence of buns and milk the boys began to look upon life with a renewed optimism, and the big, cross-bred, yellow sheep-dog, as well as the little grey nondescript, basked in the sunshine of unexpected hospitality.

The big yellow one we found five miles from here, but the little joker belongs to my father, an’ if anything happens to him it’s murderin’ me he’ll be. The boy