DOG’S POINT OF VIEW

Greymouth Evening Star, 12 September 1927, Page 9

DOG’S POINT OF VIEW

MOTORISTS’ CHARGES REFUTED. Are dogs guilty of the base charges levelled at them by some motorists and others, who assert that they frequently make determined efforts at suicide? (asks J. L. Cunningham, in the “Morris Owner”). With a view to ascertaining the truth, I have managed at great trouble and expense, to interview some leading members of the canine race.

“It is a libel,” remarked a fox terrier, whose opinions on the subject I canvassed first.’“Not only are we more agile than in ray great-grand-father’s day, but we are also more intelligent.” And he resumed his pleasant task of exhuming a ripened bone, as if the final word on the subject had been said.

Finding that I still lingered, he went ’on talking. “My great grandfather died the year’ before I was born,” he said, wiping his muddy nose on my trouser legs, “but they say that he simply didn’t understand the sound of a motor-horn. He would actually dart across the road just as if there was nothing about except horses.”

“And how did he pass away?” I asked, note book and pencil in hand. “Motor-bus,” said the fox terrier, laconically.

“My grandfather was a bit better,” he continued, scratching an ear rel- - with a hind leg, “but I can well remember as a puppy running out with him, and being terrified because he would persist in crossing the road without looking’where he was going.” “Ah,” I said, “and do you never' do that?”

“The modern dog,” he barked, “is entirely different. He looks before he leaps. He even stops on the edge of the curb before going to visit the butcher’s shop opposite. He looks both ways, and he keeps his ears open as well. Nor does he stop half-way unless he meets a friend.” “Quite so,” I interposed,” and what tlieu “Well,” he replied thoughtfully. “It’s rude to pass a friend without saying good morning, isn’t it? And sometimes when one is busy growling with a pal one doesn’t always notice a motor-horn.” “That’s where accidents happen, 1 said, wisely. “Quite, quite,” he responded. But I wish that motorists would bark at us more often. The polite ones don’t trouble about the horn, but just say ‘wow-wow’ or ‘woof-woof,’ very shrilly, and we always hear' that.” I promised to bark at unobservant dogs in future and said good-morning, leaving my informant snuffling hisripe bone. I then proceeded to the house of an aristocratic Alsatian that

I knew. .. . x “It all resolves itself into a question of heredity,” he asserted, in answer to my enquiry as to whether the modern dog notices the motorhorn. “Nearly all dogs with an urban ancestry,” he continued, “answer promptly to either sound of bulb-horn or electric hooter. The instinct is inbred in their subconscious selves. lor several generations their forbears have strenuously avoided the automobile with varying measures of success and those that have escaped have transmitted the instinct to then descendants.” “Very interesting,” I said. But tell IDG — n “Observe, for instance,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “those two gutter-dogs disporting themselves in the highway. An automobile is approaching. Is life 01 limb imperilled? No! At the sound of the warping signal they both pro ‘. ceed expeditiously to the neighbouring pavement. But in remote country districts I understand that such breeds as the sheepdog are still apt to become confused in the presence of tratfic ** • • I thanked him, and later paid a visit to a country farm to ask an old sheepdog his views. i “No, sir, ’e be not right, for sure, replied the. shaggy veteran thoughtful- | ly, when I repeated to him the Alsatian’s views. “Why, look ’ee, sir, no told me. i £oes t’ market every Saturday as ever is, in maister's old van, an there be terr’ble lot o’ cars in town market days, sir. ... , “I ’ears better’n most o they town dogs,” he constinued quietly. Why, look ’ee, sir, it’s my job t’ clear sheep off t’ road when a car a cooming. 1 bain’t able t’ sea as well qs some, ’cos me eyebrows keeps arrowing down me face, but lor’ bless ee, sn, I 'ears ’em cooming a mile away. I retired a little abashed, but, feeling that my report would be incomplete without the views of a lap-dog, I made a-point of calling on my aunt s prize Pekinese. “What?” the creature snapped, sitting up in his basket'. “Motor-horns? Nasty vulgar noisy things that upset by afternoon’s nap. No! I never take any notice of them. “When I want to cross the road I just go,” he snorted angrily, “and I don’t hurry, either. I make the cars get out of my way,” he added, haughtily, and relapsed into a somnolent snuffle once more.