07 November 2024
‘Essential reading’ John Bradshaw, author of In Defence of Dogs
‘Fascinating’ Telegraph
‘Funny, irreverent and enthusiastic, [Pearson] parades his love for all things canine’ The Times
‘Thought-provoking and often surprising’ Country Life
In Collared, historian and dog lover Chris Pearson reveals how the shifting fortunes of dogs hold a mirror to our changing society, from the evolution of breeding standards to the fight for animal rights. Wherever humans have gone, dogs have followed, changing size, appearance and even jobs along the way – from the forests of medieval Europe, where greyhounds chased down game for royalty, to the frontlines of twentieth-century conflicts, where dogs carried messages and hauled gun carriages.
Despite vast social change, however, the power of the human-canine bond has never diminished. By turns charming, thought-provoking and surprising, this is the fascinating tale of how we made the modern dog.
Read an extract below, taken from Chapter 5: Constant Companions.
In 1944, the New York Times reported how the American army granted Private Gregory Osterman a week’s furlough so that he could return home to the Bronx to comfort Snowflake, his Spitz dog who pined terribly for him. Osterman’s father had implored his son to come home: ‘He misses you and eats hardly enough to keep him alive . . . come home and save your pal’s life.’ Snowflake’s emotional needs trumped the American war effort, and once Osterman returned home the lonely pooch soon ‘perked up’ and ‘again showed signs of enjoying life. He rarely let his master out of his sight.’ However, disaster beckoned when the reinvigorated Snowflake escaped the family apartment, unmuzzled, while his master was having his morning shave. An ASPCA agent named William Comiskey seized Snowflake, who was in breach of New York’s dog-control laws. Half-dressed, Osterman ran out in pursuit of his beloved pooch. He asked Comiskey to return Snowflake, but the agent refused. Seeing red, Osterman punched Comiskey in the face and was subsequently arrested, while Snowflake was transported to the Bronx ASPCA shelter. Following appeals from Bronx residents, Snowflake was released and, after Osterman apologised profusely in court, the judge dismissed the charges against him. Osterman and Snowflake were happily reunited. This fraught but ultimately heartwarming episode is illustrative of the new model of petkeeping that emerged in the West. Dogs, as deeply emotional creatures, have always formed bonds of incredible strength with their humans, and this form of companionship required maintenance and respect. Owners, meanwhile, now had greater obligations towards their pets and wider society.
By the time of Snowflake’s brush with the law, the contours of modern Western dog ownership had crystallised. Petkeeping, a once marginal corner of human-canine relations, had now become the dominant mode of human-canine companionship. The collar, alongside the leash, connected pet dog to human. It enabled the latter to direct the former through the city, and was designed to make sure that the pet did not run off to frolic or fornicate. It was a physical and visual way for owners to demonstrate that they cared for their dog and for their fellow citizens. In practice, however, dogs still roamed.
But, on the whole, if pet dogs were now part of the family, they too would need to follow the sensibilities of a proper middle-class life. With animal protectionists and overzealous authorities set on reducing the number of street dogs in the city, proper petkeeping sidelined the informal human–canine camaraderie of plucky street dogs and friendly scavengers. Sceptics might have mocked the new army of petkeepers and their pampered pooches, but they could not dislodge their new place at the centre of modern Western dogdom. Pets were here to stay.
Despite the fear of rabies, plenty of working people invited animals into their home in the Victorian age. Dogs were, of course, familiar companions, whether or not they worked as guard dogs, cart-dogs or as fighters, but middle-class commentators were dubious about working-class people owning dogs in any case. They accused poorer people of wasting food and money on supposedly useless animals, of allowing them to breed indiscriminately, and of letting them wander the streets spreading disease and disorder. In 1813, French army officer Alexandre Roger grumbled about the dogs who roamed Paris. He blamed the city’s poorest residents, who he branded the canaille (a term meaning ‘rabble’ or ‘riff-raff’ that has its roots in the Italian word for a pack of dogs, canaglia) for the problem. He demanded, unsuccessfully, that police approval be a condition of dog ownership. Wealthy Londoners also berated the dogs of the poor during the rabies scare of 1830. Physician Anthony Todd Thompson called for their number to be reduced, while Union Hall Magistrate Lancelot Baugh Allen lamented the ‘great number of loose dogs, who follow persons, particularly idle and disorderly persons’. Although such experts were keen to present their views as neutral and objective, they in fact dripped with condemnation of the dogs owned by the working classes, who they felt were to blame for the large street-dog population.
However, flying in the face of such criticisms, a vibrant working-class dog-keeping culture emerged. The British working classes made dogs household family members, appreciating their affection, loyalty and companionship. They fed them food scraps and horsemeat purchased from cats’ meat sellers, as well as improvising leashes from pieces of string or rope. Men tended to control tight family budgets and spent their leisure money on their dogs, sometimes paying to be photographed with their beloved canine companions. However, most of the day-to-day work usually fell to women. A dog in the home meant that they had one more mouth to feed, an extra body to clean, and another bed to find (unless the dog slept outside in a kennel). But men did sometimes take charge of washing and grooming dogs. These acts of care became times for fathers to bond with their children, who would lend a hand, and offered dads a chance to show their softer sides. A Durham tea dealer, for instance, chewed up food for his elderly terrier during the mealtimes they shared. Working-class women also showed great affection for dogs. Sidney Day, who was born in London, remembered how his mother took in a stray Whippet called Nel, who she invited into her bed to keep her feet warm at night. For all the added work they made, dogs were a beloved part of working-class homes, and caring for them brought families together. Some things haven’t changed.
Occasionally, a working-class dog found fame. Take Greyfriars Bobby. His owner, John Grey, died of TB in 1858, and was buried in Old Greyfriars churchyard in Edinburgh. The story went that Bobby returned each day to his deceased master’s grave. Although dogs were banned from the graveyard, its custodian, James Brown, took pity on the starving and bedraggled terrier and allowed him to stay. Bobby kept a constant vigil at the unmarked grave for fourteen years, even in the Scottish rain: ‘Nothing can induce him to forsake the hallowed spot.’ Local restaurateur John Trail made sure that Bobby’s tummy was full. When questions arose about who owned Bobby (and therefore who had to pay the annual dog tax), Edinburgh’s Lord Provost stepped in to foot the bill. The locals’ devotion overlooked Bobby’s lowly origins, and wealthy philanthropist Baroness Burdett-Coutts erected a statue in his honour, which remains a much-loved feature on the Edinburgh tourist trail. The veracity of the story has been questioned, but Bobby’s tale has reached far beyond Edinburgh as a legend of canine love and devotion.
