The Pawprints of History: Dogs and the Course of Human Events by Stanley Coren, Andy Bartlett (Illustrator), Andy Bartlett (Illustrator)

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Did you know that Sigmund Freud’s chow-chow Jo-Fi attended all his therapy sessions and that the father of psychoanalysis admitted that he often depended on his pet for an assessment of a patient’s mental state? Did you know that Richard Wagner ended his marriage after his wife maliciously poisoned his beloved toy poodle? Or that King Charles II gave hereditary titles of nobility to his pooches? Stanley Coren, the companionable author of How to Speak Dog, contributes another book for pet owners to joyfully ponder. A canine ten.

From the Publisher

The Pawprints of History shines a new light on a favorite subject — the relationship between humans and their four-legged best friends. Stanley Coren, a renowned expert on dog-human interactions, has combed the annals of history and found captivating stories of how dogs have lent a helping paw and influenced the actions, decisions, and fates of well-known figures from every era and throughout the world.

As history's great figures strut across the stage, Coren guides us from the wings, adoringly picking out the canine cameos and giving every dog of distinction its day. In this unparalleled chronicle, we see how Florence Nightingale's chance encounter with a wounded dog changed her life by leading her to the vocation of nursing. We learn why Dr. Freud's Chow Chow attended all of his therapy sessions and how the life of the Fifth Dalai Lama was saved by a dog who shared his bed. Dogs have even found their way to the battlefield — great military leaders such as Robert the Bruce and Omar Bradley have shared their lives, exploits, and gunfire with dogs. From Wagner, who admitted that one of the arias in the opera Siegfried was "written" by one of his dogs, to the dogs that inspired and lived with Presidents Lincoln, Roosevelt, Johnson, and Clinton, these loving canines do double duty as loyal pets and creative muses.

From war to art, across the spectrum of human endeavor and achievement, there often stands, not only at his side but leading the way, man's beloved "best friend." For those who believe that behind every great person is a good dog, the uplifting stories in The Pawprints of History will be a lasting delight.

Publishers Weekly

Spiced with wit and mellowed with charm, Coren's anecdote-laden survey of canine-human interspecies history is a solid read. From stories about the diminutive 18th-century intellectual poet Alexander Pope and his protective Great Dane, Bounce, to Teddy Roosevelt's mixed breed, horseback-riding companion, Skip, Coren (How to Speak Dog) deftly draws the reader into both literary salons and political realms alike. The book ranges from ancient Egypt and medieval Japan to 19th-century Vienna and 21st-century Washington, D.C. Here are dogs of every breed as well as their owners, who include emperors, scoundrels, saints and artists: a Newfoundland named Robber offered Richard Wagner company while he was in Paris completing Rienzi and The Flying Dutchman. Coren recounts stirring sagas of dog heroism in everyday life as well as in wartime, from antiquity to the modern era (the Spanish conquistadors fortified their military with dogs, and "the cruellest of the Spanish leaders would use the dogs as a means of public execution. This was known as `dogging' "). The tales are well told and thoughtfully constructed, nicely balanced with solid historical research. Each chapter works nicely as a self-contained essay, and these vignettes build to tell an informative and entertaining story of canine camaraderie. Illus. not seen by PW. (Apr.) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Coren (Why We Love the Dogs We Do, 1998, etc.) argues, with no discernible irony, that events and people as disparate as Waterloo and Richard Wagner would have been very different without the influence of dogs. When Napoleon was escaping from Elba, he fell into the water, a dog jumped in and began the rescue effort, and the diminutive Corsican survived to meet his Waterloo. Just think . . . if he had only drowned that day! That is the level of analysis in this truly dreadful example of what-if? history. If the author had adopted a lighter tone and confined himself to amusing stories, odd coincidences, and the little-known obsessions for dogs held by some of history's more engaging figures from Cromwell to Custer, this volume might have been mildly entertaining. Instead, we get solemn pronouncements such as: "Dogs do have a way of weaving their influence through human events and subtly altering the course of history." This is not to say there are no chewy biscuits in the bowl: Florence Nightingale may indeed have been inspired to become a nurse by the sight of an injured dog, and it is interesting to learn that Alexander Graham Bell taught a dog to say "How are you, grandmamma?" But it's quite a stretch from there to speculate that dogs played a significant role in the development of Freud's psychoanalytic theories. All bark and no bite. (line drawings)

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Table of Contents

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Prologue

A grizzled, unshaven man sits in a crude hut and huddles next to a tiny fire. He is clothed only in the skin of an animal. Nearby his wife sleeps, and on the other side of the shelter sleeps his nearly grown son with his younger son and tiny daughter.

Sharing the fire with him is a dog with pointed ears, but of no recognizable breed. It has just awakened and is now standing and looking in the direction of a faint sound, one too weak for the man to hear. The dog sits back down, its head still cocked to follow the sound. Then, as humans have always done, the man speaks to the dog quietly: "What do you hear, my dog? You will tell me if I should worry?"

Bones and artifacts suggest that this scene could have taken place in Iraq fourteen thousand years ago, in France or Denmark twelve thousand years ago, in Utah eleven thousand years ago or in China ten thousand years ago. It has been that long that the group of animals that we know as dogs have been sharing our living space and shaping the individual and collective histories of humans.

As the scene (which could have happened thousands of times in our past) unfolds, the man looks at the guardian and hunter beside the flickering fire. Talking to the dog again for company, he asks: "What would life be like without you?

"I remember the stories of the grandfathers. They said that there was a time when there were no dogs. Then men had no warning when animals came to hunt them, or when other tribes came to raid us. But then your grandfather came with his family. They ate the garbage, the bones and skin from our hunts that we tossed outside the village. My grandfathers thought that thiswas good. It kept the smells down and kept the insects away. They said that because you ate the leavings, we could stay in a village for a much longer time before we had to move.

"Then my grandfathers heard you bark. Every time an animal or a man approached, you barked. What a wonderful thing, they thought. If you stayed close and barked, then nothing could surprise us in the dark. So, to keep your family close we threw extra food to you. Soon the grandfathers took some of your ancestor's puppies and brought them into their homes. They thought, 'If a dog will protect the village with its bark, then another dog will protect my own home.' Soon the puppies who lived with us were no longer wild.

"The grandfathers say that it happened one day that we were chasing a wounded deer, and your grandfathers had trailed behind us. The deer was clever, like many are, and turned off the path. My grandfathers did not see this and ran past, but your grandfathers knew in their noses where the deer had gone and ran after it. My grandfathers followed your ancestors, and ever since we have learned to hunt together.

"The grandfathers say that there used to be other, ugly men [Neanderthals] here. But they are gone now because they never had dogs to protect them or help them hunt. So they were killed by great beasts or men who hid in ambush, and when the animals that we hunt became few, they starved.

"Today I watched you and your brothers hunt the little sheep. I saw how you circled their flock to keep them together, then drove them toward the trees where you could slow them and scatter them to make them easier to kill. And I thought, my dog, if I could get you to do this gathering of sheep without killing them, then perhaps we could keep some alive, to give birth to other sheep. Then we would not need to hunt so often. We must try this soon."

The dog settled to the ground, placing its head down on its paws, and the man knew that there was no danger near. He yawned and stirred the fire, then lay down to sleep as well, secure in the knowledge that his guardian would warn him if anything dangerous lurked by. In the morning they would hunt together and, if they were successful, in the afternoon his dog and his daughter would have time to play together. His rough hand reached out and stroked the dog's fur, and that touch made them both feel content.

The history of men and dogs had begun. Their fates would be entwined as long as each species chose to share the other's company. At some time in the far future, the history of even kings or nations might show the pattern of a dog's pawprints on it.

Copyright © 2002 by SC Psychological Enterprises, Ltd.

Chapter One: Sentinels and Symbols

How many times has the fate of a man, or even a nation, hung from the collar of a dog? Had it not been for dogs, the last imperial house of China might not have fallen; Columbus's first attempts at colonizing the Americas not have been so successful; some of Wagner's operas might never have been written; the American Revolution might not have been fought; the freeing of the American slaves might have been delayed for decades; the way that we educate deaf children might be different; and great and well-loved books like Ivanhoe might never have been written.

Most people know and accept in a general way the fact that dogs have changed human history by fulfilling needed functions in human activities such as hunting, herding, exploration, or the waging of war. When it comes to political, social, or cultural history, however, few people would expect any evidence of canine influences. Yet there are many instances where the actions of a single dog changed the life of a single human, who in turn went on to shape human history. These seldom-told stories are the most fascinating.

Consider, for example, the case of Alexander Pope, the brilliant satirist who is considered by many to be the greatest English poet of the eighteenth century. One of the most quotable poets of all time, Pope is the source of such familiar epigrams as "A little learning is a dangerous thing," "To err is human, to forgive, divine," and "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Many of his poems, such as The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad, as well as his Essay on Man and Essay on Criticism, are still popular classics and required reading for anyone seeking a degree in literature in most universities.

Pope was born in London in 1688. His interest in literature and writing was probably in part the result of his poor physique. While still quite young, Pope developed a form of tuberculosis that affects the spine. This condition stunted his growth; his full-grown height was only four feet six inches. In addition, Pope was condemned to suffer from headaches throughout his life, and he was abnormally sensitive to pain. His spinal condition made bending and physical exertions a source of agony. He often needed assistance to rise from his bed or chair and was obliged to have a servant help him dress and undress.

Nevertheless, Pope could be a charming social companion and host. Despite his lack of height, he had a handsome face and an attractive appearance so that people did not feel uncomfortable in his presence. At his large estate at Twickenham on the Thames (only a short distance from London), Pope entertained many celebrated guests, from poets and philosophers to high government officials, society belles, and even royalty. On any visit to him one might have met the likes of Jonathan Swift, the satirical author of Gulliver's Travels; Henry St. John the Viscount Bolingbroke, a statesman and orator who later became an author; Robert Harley, the first earl of Oxford, who would one day be the Lord Treasurer; and even Frederick, the Prince of Wales. Pope's many visitors would often convene in the great garden that he had carefully designed, and then the whole party would spend hours in sprightly conversation.

When he was not in a social setting, however, Pope's painful physical condition made him touchy and easily angered. Close associates would hear him rage at even the slightest perceived insult. His temper would often flare at a critic, then be redirected to whatever innocent target happened to be near -- frequently a servant. The resulting high level of turnover among his personal staff as employees quit or were fired made maintenance of a household routine difficult.

Pope had other personal quirks as well. Despite his personal wealth and his lavish entertainment of guests, for example, he was quite miserly in some of his personal habits. Thus he often would not buy writing paper, but rather write his poetry on old envelopes from his voluminous correspondence. He distrusted financial institutions, such as banks, and only did a minimal amount of business with them. Instead, he kept much of his wealth in a strongbox built into a wall of the mansion, wearing the key on a chain around his neck at all times.

Although he loved dogs all of his life, Pope's favorite was an unlikely choice, given his size and physical condition. It was a large Great Dane that he named Bounce. When Bounce and Pope stood facing each other, their eyes were nearly at the same level. Bounce, however, proved to be a fine companion. He was quiet and unobtrusive when his master worked, but was always present to greet company and to socialize when anyone showed him any attention. Prince Frederick was so impressed by Bounce's good manners and stately appearance that he expressed a desire to own a dog just like him. Pope was flattered, and some time later the prince returned from a visit to Twickenham carrying one of Bounce's puppies -- a gift from the poet. The puppy was installed at the royal kennel at Kew, which was the summer residence of the royal family. Shortly thereafter, Pope sent another gift, a collar for Frederick's dog with the following couplet engraved on it:

I am his Highness' dog, at Kew.

Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Although Bounce was generally friendly, he could be quite protective of his master. Since Jonathan Swift was now around sixty and had grown quite deaf, Pope had to raise his voice to communicate with him on his visits. This shouting made Bounce very suspicious of Swift, and so he would protectively lie between his master and the writer. If Swift gestured too broadly as he spoke, Bounce would rise to his feet as if ready to intervene on Pope's behalf and might even give a warning growl.

Although Pope did not need protection from Swift, Bounce's role of guardian would ultimately prove to be a blessing. One day, the temperamental poet had dismissed his latest valet, amid some name-calling and abusive language. When a new manservant was quickly hired from a short list of available applicants, Bounce sniffed at the man, then withdrew beside his master in an untypical show of dislike. Nonetheless, the valet seemed to know his job and appeared to be quite conscientious. As night fell, the valet lifted Pope from his chair and assisted him to the bedroom, where he helped the poet undress for the night and placed him on his bed. After pulling the heavy curtains around the canopied bed to shut out the night drafts, the valet quietly slipped out of the room.

Bounce, who normally stayed downstairs by the fireplace at night to soak up the last heat of the dying embers, abandoned his usual place of rest this evening. As the valet left, the dog slipped into Pope's bedroom and crawled under the bed to sleep. Much later that night, Pope thought that he heard a noise. When he slightly parted the bed curtains to peek out, what he saw paralyzed him with fear. The dark figure of a man stealthily approaching the bed was dimly visible. In his hand, Pope could make out the shape of a large knife, glittering in the moonlight. Because of his physical frailties, the poet was helpless to rise and protect himself. He could only scream for his valet, who slept in the next room, to come and help him.

At the sound of his master's cry, Bounce sprang from under the bed and leaped at the man, who toppled over and lost his grip on the knife. Then Bounce held him there on the floor, alternately growling at the man and barking loudly for help. When the commotion brought other members of the household staff to the rescue, the man with the knife turned out to be the new valet of whom Bounce had been suspicious. Hearing that Pope kept a great deal of money in the house, the man had decided to kill him, steal the strongbox key that he wore, and then flee before anyone else awakened.

Because of Bounce, Pope would live to write more great poetry. In addition, another epigram would be penned by the dog's master, who wrote, "Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends."

The concept of a dog as a protector is found in virtually every culture. For many people, the most important function a dog serves is to warn its family of any danger. An example of this view can be found in a story that was being told by the Mik'Maq Indians of North America long before the Europeans reached the American continent.

The legend begins with Gisoolg, the great spirit god and creator, who created Ootsitgamoo (the earth), then filled it with all sorts of animals. The work was difficult, so he rested and slept awhile. While Gisoolg was sleeping, though, the great snake that he had created became ambitious and greedy. It used magic to add deadly venom to its bite, so that it could kill the largest animals and in this way become the chief among all living things.

When Gisoolg awoke, he decided to make some beings that would rule over the animals. So first he gathered some clay from a sacred hidden place, and then he spent a full day forming the shape of a man from the clay. He gave the man life, but the man was too weak to move yet, so he lay on the ground gathering his strength. Gisoolg then went to sleep again.

The snake did not like the idea that Gisoolg was creating a creature that would be more intelligent and more powerful than any of the animals, so in the dead of the night it crept up and killed the man. When Gisoolg awoke he was distressed at the loss of the man, but spent another long day shaping another and then again went to sleep. Again the man became the victim of the cunning snake. On the third day Gisoolg rose early, and before he began to recreate the man, he first created a guardian in the form of a dog. By the time he had reformed the man, the dog had gathered enough strength to stand watch. So again Gisoolg went to sleep.

Now the snake again approached through the long grass, with murder in its heart and venom dripping from its fangs. But this time it was confronted by the dog, who barked loudly to sound the alarm and then slashed at the snake with its teeth. Now the serpent was slowed by its wounds and had lost the element of surprise. Even worse, the dog's barking awakened Gisoolg, who came forward at once.

"Evil serpent, you have no right to interfere with that which I am creating. As a penalty for your wickedness I will strike off your legs, so that you, and all of your family after you, will be forced to slither on your bellies for eternity. Furthermore, be warned that I have given the man, whom I shall name Glooscap, this guardian, E'lmutc. The dog will be with him always and keep him safe. If you are foolish enough to try to hurt Glooscap or his family, E'lmutc will know that you have come. He will sound the alarm, and I will grant Glooscap the wisdom and the weapons to protect himself. Be warned, serpent, next time, if E'lmutc's teeth do not slay you, then Glooscap's hand will."

In this story, there would have been no humans at all if not for the protection provided by a dog. While this is obviously just a myth, the idea that a dog's God-given duty is to serve as a guardian of man somehow comes to mind when one reads the lives of many historical individuals.

The biography of Saint Giovanni Melchior Bosco (commonly called Don Bosco or John Bosco) has a dog that appears from nowhere, like a guardian angel, to protect him. The story begins in the 1840s, when the slums of Turin, Italy, were rife with the kind of poverty and cruelty that one finds associated with sweatshop factories -- their hazardous machinery, their abusive practices of child labor, and their starvation wages. When he was a young boy, Bosco was inspired by a series of dreams to help young children who had been trapped in this terrible poverty. After he had taken his vows as a priest, Bosco wandered the streets, visiting factories and prisons where young boys in trouble were to be found. He soon arranged to meet weekly with a growing band of ragged youngsters. In the beginning these meetings floated from place to place. There was no one permanent home for the group because in those troublesome times people were afraid of a large gathering of poor working boys. Bosco would convene the group in a different place every Sunday -- sometimes a city church, or a cemetery chapel, or even an empty lot. There, the priest would hear their confessions and say a simple Mass for them. This would be followed by an hour of religious instruction, which was presented in plain language and often punctuated with a bit of juggling or a magic trick to keep the boys' interest. Then Bosco would take his ragtag band out to the countryside near the city for an outing with food and games.

By 1846, Don Bosco managed to raise enough money to buy a lot in an underdeveloped section of the city. Empty except for a ramshackle shed, it was next door to a saloon and across the street from a hotel with a shady reputation. It was a beginning, however, and furthermore, he had been assured in a dream that this was holy ground because it was the burial ground of the martyrs of Turin. Bosco then proceeded to convert the shed into a chapel, digging out space for a congregation to gather, and a tiny anteroom. Now every Sunday around five hundred poverty-stricken boys would squeeze into it for Mass.

It was around 1848 when the dog who played a role in his life appeared. He was a huge hulking gray mongrel whom Don Bosco would give the name "Grigio." Where Grigio came from originally, no one seems to know. His pedigree, parentage, and origin were as obscure as those of the many homeless children that the saint tended to gather around him.

Grigio's involvement began one evening as Bosco wended his way through the narrow streets toward his chapel. Unfortunately, some of the more criminal elements in the neighborhood had concluded that between his building and his provision of food for the children, Don Bosco must have accumulated a lot of money. As he passed by a dark alley, a man leaped from hiding. He grabbed the future saint and demanded money. Don Bosco virtually never had any money of his own, since all that he obtained went immediately to the children he was trying to help. When he denied having anything to give his attacker, the thief waved a knife in the priest's face: "If you have no money then you are of no use to me and I will kill you. Give me money, or show me where you have hidden it in that little chapel of yours, and you can buy your life." Bosco would later remember only that he closed his eyes and murmured a prayer, knowing that his life was about to end.

Suddenly, a savage gray blur hurled itself at the thief, knocking him down and causing the knife to fall from the man's hand as he crashed to the ground. The blur turned out to be a huge, snarling mongrel, which interposed himself between the priest and his attacker. The thug made one lunge toward the knife, but a growl and the snap of the dog's teeth made him reconsider any attempt at continuing his original course of action. He quickly clambered to his feet and then disappeared down the street, running as fast as he could.

Don Bosco did not know whether to be thankful or even more terrified. As the dog turned to face him all that he could focus upon was the dog's great muzzle and long teeth and the priest considered joining the thief in flight. However, the dog closed its mouth, lowered its head slightly, and gave a reassuring wag of its tail. Bosco then, hesitantly, reached out and stroked its coarse gray coat, and the dog responded with a contented whimper. It then silently followed the saint home to share a humble meal.

From that moment on Grigio was always at hand when Bosco was in danger -- which apparently was quite often, since others in the vicinity would sometimes try to accost him and to steal his nonexistent wealth. He was also often with Bosco on those rare occasions when he actually had to carry valuables for those in his care, and few would approach with harmful intent given the size of the dog. Often the dog would seem to wander off, but suddenly appear (as he had on that first day) to defend Bosco from attack.

At times, some of the more unscrupulous local factory owners believed Don Bosco's ministry was becoming intrusive. His attempt at raising the standard of living of the children in the area was threatening their supply of cheap labor. On one evening Bosco was returning from a visit to a sweatshop, where he had lectured the owner about the dangers that the children were facing because of unsafe equipment and the long hours that they were required to work. As he was about to turn down a street that he always used on his return home, Grigio sprang forward and blocked his way. The priest tried to push past him but the big dog would not allow him to continue. Since both Don Bosco and Grigio were familiar sights on the street, this disagreement between them drew the attention of passers-by, and the small crowd attracted a policeman. Someone from one of the houses then turned up a light -- and there, lurking in the shadows, were two armed men. It would later be learned that they had been hired to set an ambush by one of the factory owners who wanted the meddling priest killed.

Ultimately, Don Bosco convinced the government that he could be trusted to run his schools. His educational and other projects were now functioning well and safe from interference. In addition, the general public and even the criminal element recognized Bosco's altruistic motives, and so they no longer treated him as either a threat or a target of opportunity. If one had a bent toward a mystical connection associated with Grigio's appearance, then one might conclude that now, with things beginning to go well, the dog's heroic services were no longer needed. Be that as it may, as the saint sat in the refectory one evening at dinnertime, Grigio came to him once more. The dog rubbed his grizzled gray head against the saint's habit, licked his hand quietly, and placed a tentative paw on his knee. Then, without a sound, the huge brave dog turned and wandered out into the night, never to be seen again.

By the time of Don Bosco's death in 1888, there were 250 houses to help underprivileged and undereducated children under the auspices of what had come to be known as the Salesian Society. These hospices and schools were scattered through several different countries. The total number of children in their care was around 130,000, from which 18,000 finished apprentices left annually with the knowledge that they needed to earn their own living. In the main house in Turin, Don Bosco had placed the brightest of his pupils and had taught them Italian, Latin, French, and mathematics. This group eventually formed a teaching corps for the newer homes. By the time that he died more than six thousand priests had completed the seminary program at Don Bosco's institutions, twelve hundred of whom had remained in the society. Yet none of this might have come to pass had it not been for a mysterious dog named Grigio.

It is not only big dogs, like Pope's Great Dane or Don Bosco's great gray mongrel, that can intervene to save their master's life and thus let him continue on some history-shaping mission. Even small lapdogs can change the future, as in the case of William I, Prince of Orange (who is also called William the Silent) in the Netherlands. William is known as one of the principal founders of Dutch independence and is also remembered for the first formal attempts to institutionalize religious tolerance.

William was born in 1533 and, although his parents were Protestant, he was reared as a Roman Catholic and sent to the court of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V at Brussels. William soon became the emperor's favorite, performing well the social, military, and diplomatic duties that were expected of him. He continued to do so under Philip II, the emperor's son and successor as king of Spain and lord of the Burgundian dominions. In part because of this service, in 1555 William was made stadtholder (the equivalent of governor and commander in chief) of Holland, Zeeland, and Utrecht.

By the 1560s, William and the other principal lords of the region began to offer some opposition to Philip's rule. Philip was hard and inflexible and did not like to share power. Civil rights were being suspended, there was no true local representation in government, and personal freedom (as it was then known) was being threatened. Furthermore, because Philip would not tolerate any deviation from strict Catholicism, the Spanish Inquisition had been brought to the Netherlands, and many Protestants and even "moderate" Catholics were being tried and executed for heresy. Having been influenced by the thoughts of the humanist philosopher Desiderius Erasmus, William leaned toward more religious tolerance. When popular resistance arose to the harsh controls he had imposed, Philip appointed the Duke de Alba to quell the dissent. The duke set up a special court, the Council of Troubles, to try all cases of rebellion and heresy, and this court was responsible for more than a thousand executions.

With both political liberty and religious freedom at issue, William took the field against Philip. It would be a long fight, with many military reverses and political intrigues. Ultimately, the Spanish would be pushed out and a peace treaty, the Pacification of Ghent, would be the result. It would provide for the union of the seventeen states that were called the Netherlands under one national government. William would survive all of the dangers of that period and become the hereditary ruler of the Netherlands -- however, for this to happen required the intervention of a dog.

As many rulers of his time, William had a variety of dogs. Many were used in hunting, but William also had small dogs (which he referred to as "indoor" dogs) simply for companionship. His favorites were the pugs, which had recently been introduced from China. These little dogs were then called Camuses, which means "flat-nosed." William often took one or more of these dogs with him as company, even on military maneuvers. The incident that we are interested in occurred in 1572, when William had set up camp at Hermingny. In 1618 Sir Roger Williams, who had served with William and knew him well in later years, described what happened in his history Actions of the Low Countries:

The Prince of Orange being retired into the camp, Julian Romero [one of de Alba's most daring generals], with earnest persuasions, procured licence of the Duke de Alba to hazard a camisado or night attack upon the Prince. At midnight Julian sallied out of the trenches with a thousand armed men, mostly pikes, who forced all the guards that they found in their way into the place of arms before the Prince's tent, and killed two of his secretaries. The Prince himself escaped very narrowly, for I have often heard him say that he thought but for a dog he should have been taken or slain. The attack was made with such resolution that the guards took no alarm until their fellows were running to the place of arms with their enemies at their heels, when this dog [who always slept on the bed with the Prince], hearing a great noise, fell to scratching and crying, and awakened him before any of his men; and though the Prince slept armed, with a lackey always holding one of his horses ready bridled and saddled, yet at the going out of his tent with ado he recovered his horse before the enemy arrived. Nevertheless, one of his equerries was slain, taking horse presently after him, as were diverse of his servants. The Prince, to show his gratitude, until his dying day, kept one of that dog's race, and so did many of his friends and followers.

An effigy of William with his pug at his feet is carved over his tomb in Delft Cathedral. When his son and successor, William II, landed at Torbay to be crowned as king of England he brought with him a full retinue, which included a number of pugs. Because of this royal patronage, pugs would be a fashionable breed in England for several generations.

This same story, where a small and apparently insignificant dog saves the life of an individual who changes the world, has been repeated many times in many different cultures around the world. For example, in the seventeenth century the fifth Dalai Lama, Ngag-dbang-rgya-mtsho, had engaged in a series of political actions that would lead to a political alliance with the Mongols. While these steps resulted in political dominance of his religious order in Tibet, they also earned him a number of bitter enemies. The Dalai Lama kept as companion dogs the little Lhasa Apsos, who actually get their name from the city of Lhasa, where the Lama built his summer palace. It was there, that one night, while the Dalai Lama was sleeping, assassins stole into the wing of the palace that held his living quarters. They silently killed the group of soldiers on the outer perimeter, then stealthily approached guards outside the Lama's bedroom. Suddenly a loud barking broke out from one of the little Lhasa Apsos who slept in the Lama's chambers. This alerted the Lama's personal guards to a problem and caused others to come from nearby, foiling the attack. It was in this way, as the personal watchdog of the ruler of a nation and the leader of a religion, that a dog which is only ten inches at the shoulder and weighs less than fifteen pounds, could shape the destiny of a region of the world. This brave act is commemorated in Tibet in the name which they give to this tiny breed of dog, abso seng kye, which translates as the "barking lion sentinel dog."

While we have seen that a single dog can save the life of an individual and thus alter history, it is also the case that a single dog, acting in its traditional task of sentinel, can save whole cities. From the earliest times of our association with dogs they have served as perimeter guards for villages and settlements, ready to sound the alarm if any invaders should try to approach. Dogs are convenient in this regard since they require only a minimal amount of human control to perform such sentinel duty.

One example of this involved the city of Corinth, which is now a hub of communications between northern and southern Greece and is the primary point of export for local fruit, raisins, and tobacco. In the year 456 B.C., during the Greco-Persian wars, Corinth was strategically important because it controlled not only the land traffic between Attica and the Peloponnese, but also the traffic between the Aegean and Ionian seas. Because of Corinth's location on an isthmus, ships and cargoes could be speedily moved by being hauled overland on the stone roadway between the harbors on either side of the city. This process spared seafarers the arduous voyage around the southern tip of the Peloponnese.

Approximately fifty dogs were posted around the city to warn if any invaders appeared. One night, the Persians sent a small company of invaders to steal in under cover of darkness, then hold the city long enough so that a larger army might launch a quick surprise attack on Greece. The Persian intelligence had indicated the existence of the canine sentinels, and so the first task of the invaders was to eliminate them and prevent the rallying of any organized defense. Although the dogs were well trained, the invaders managed to kill all but one of them -- a dog named Soter, who managed to escape and to wake up the soldiers. Thus alerted, the Corinthian garrison successfully repelled the invading forces; they also had time to send messengers to bring reinforcements from nearby allies before the city gates were sealed. Soter was honored with a pension and a silver collar inscribed, "To Soter, defender and savior of Corinth, placed under the protection of his friends." More than two thousand years later, Napoleon would remember this incident and post dogs around the perimeter of Alexandria to alert his garrison of any attempted surprise attacks.

Yet sometimes the influence of a dog on a person (and on history) is much more indirect. It can occur when the dog is acting not as a guard, but as a companion and a comfort in times of stress. It can happen when the dog is simply doing its job as a shepherd or hunter. It can happen when the dog misinterprets an event and acts rashly. It can also happen when an event involving a dog takes on a symbolic meaning. It is in the subtle role as a symbol that a dog affected a young girl who would go on to save many lives.

Most people remember Florence Nightingale, the English nurse who is considered to be the founder of modern nursing. Her life was dedicated to the care of the sick and war-wounded. She is best known for her activities during the Crimean war, when in 1854 she organized a unit of thirty-eight female nurses. By war's end she had become a legend. She was remembered by so many soldiers for her habit of carrying a lamp at night as she visited the wounded that she ultimately was given the nickname "The Lady of the Lamp." After the war she established a nursing school at St. Thomas's Hospital in London, where her contributions were so great that in 1907 she became the first woman to be given the British Order of Merit. Yet none of this might have happened except for her encounter with a dog.

Florence Nightingale was born as the second daughter of William Edward Nightingale and his wife, Frances, during a brief stay in Italy. Named after the Italian city in which she was born, Florence grew up in the countryside of Derbyshire, Hampshire, and in the city of London; her well-to-do family maintained comfortable homes in both locations. She was educated largely by her father, who taught her several languages (including Greek, Latin, French, German, and Italian) as well as history, philosophy, and mathematics. Throughout her life she read widely; however, her social life was generally unsatisfying, and she felt unfulfilled.

One afternoon in early February of 1837, when Florence was seventeen years of age, she had an encounter that foreshadowed her future. It involved a sheepdog named Cap. The dog was owned by a shepherd named Roger who lived near Matlock in Derbyshire, not far from the place where Florence's parents had a home. Roger lived alone except for his dog in a cottage near the edge of the woods. One day some village boys noticed Cap sleeping on the doorstep; in an act of cruel mischief, they began to throw stones at him. The dog stood up to dodge the onslaught, but one of the stones hit Cap's leg, damaging it so badly that he couldn't put it down on the ground. Despite his love for the dog, Roger couldn't survive without a working sheepdog, and he was too poor to keep a dog that couldn't work. With great regret, he went off to pasture the sheep by himself, and to get a bit of rope to hang Cap.

While Roger was out with his sheep, Florence rode past the field in the company of a local clergyman. Since they knew the shepherd, they stopped to chat for a few minutes. Florence liked dogs and had often stopped to play a bit with Cap, so she asked where the dog was. As Roger told them his story, Florence grew extremely distressed. As she and the clergyman continued their travels, she convinced her companion that they ought to at least take a look at Cap and see if anything could be done. The two of them rode over to Roger's cottage after borrowing a key from a neighbor to get in.

As the pair entered the room, Cap recognized them and crawled out from beneath the table to give them a pained greeting. While Florence held Cap's head, the clergyman examined the dog's leg. He explained to the young woman that the injury was not a break in the bone, as Roger had assumed, but merely a bad bruise. He predicted that hot compresses would cure the dog in a few days. Then, under his direction, Florence tore up some old flannel for bandages, lit the fire with the shepherd's tinderbox, and boiled some water. She then applied the bandages, wrung out in hot water, to the injured leg.

As they left the cottage to return home, they met Roger, who was walking with his shoulders slumped and ominously carrying a piece of rope. They persuaded Roger not to hang his dog and promised to return the next day to renew the compresses with fresh flannel. Two days later, on February 6, they met Roger and his flock on the hillside. An excited Cap, still limping slightly but clearly almost healed, bounded up to Florence and expressed his gratitude by leaving pawprints on her dress. She looked down at the first patient that she had ever nursed back to health and grinned happily.

The very next night, on February 7, 1837, Florence Nightingale had a dream -- or perhaps it was a vision -- that caused her to believe she had heard the voice of God informing her that she had a mission. Perhaps it occurred simply because she was still bathed in the warm feeling from having saved Cap's life. Into her mind sprang the belief that this whole incident was a sign from God to tell her that she should devote her life to healing others. Her father, however, refused to allow her to study nursing at a hospital, pressuring her to pursue a study of parliamentary reports instead. She reluctantly agreed, and after only three years of such study, influential friends regarded her as an expert on public health and hospitals.

It would not be until nine years later that her sense of mission would return. In 1846, a friend sent Florence the yearbook of the Institution of Protestant Deaconesses at Kaiserswerth in Germany. This was a group that trained country girls of good character to nurse the sick. That night she remembered the vision that had been triggered when she had nursed the sheepdog, and this time she could not be talked out of her decision. A short time later she entered the institution, went through the full course of training, and began her career as a nurse. Once again, as in the case of Saint Giovanni Bosco, the combination of a dog and a dream would change history.

Copyright © 2002 by SC Psychological Enterprises, Ltd.

Chapter Two: The Saint and the Irish Dogs

Traditionally dogs are supposed to be able to see evil approach, which is why the howling of a dog is often believed to be an omen that something bad (such as a death in the family) is about to happen. The flip side of this coin is that dogs are similarly supposed to be able to recognize sanctity and truth. It is in this way that dogs have worked their way into the lives of many saints and holy people.

Some stories of dogs and saints are well known, such as the tale of Saint Roche. He was born at Montpellier around 1295, and had a bright red mark on his chest in the shape of a cross. Many people believed this mark indicated that he would be a holy man who was destined to do great deeds. When he was about twenty years old, his parents died. He wondered whether their early deaths may have been a judgment visited on him because he had failed to follow the life in the church that had been suggested by his birthmark. (He had instead taken an easier path to a career in government, which was available to him because of his father's position as governor of the city.) Reconsidering his life, he decided to distribute his fortune among the poor, and to hand over all government responsibilities to his uncle. Keeping only the family dog as a reminder of his past life, he dressed himself simply and set out on a pilgrimage to Rome.

On the way he stopped at Aquapendente, where the population was suffering from the Plague of the Black Death. He tried to offer assistance to plague victims in the usual ways of that time. He noted, however, that his dog had no hesitation about approaching the sick and licking at the abscessed spots on their skin. People did not withdraw from this, because there had been a long tradition (going back to the temples of Asklepios in Athens) where the lick of a dog was used to cure wounds and heal sores. We now know that this has some true medicinal effect -- not just by acting to clean out the wound, but also because scientists have actually found a chemical in dogs' saliva that seems to inhibit infections. To Roche, however, this ministration of the dog seemed to represent a sign that what was needed was his touch. So he carefully traced the sign of the cross on each sick individual's body while praying for deliverance. The effect was miraculous, for the sores began to heal and people began to recover from their illness. He next visited Cesena and some of its neighboring cities, finally making his way to Rome. In every city the story was the same. Roche and his dog visited the places where the sick had gathered. Then, his touch, his prayers, and the sign of the cross seemed to drive the sickness away. He now felt that he knew what his mission was in life, and he and his dog continued to go from city to city on his healing mission.

Unfortunately, near Piacenza, Roche himself was stricken with the plague. He considered going into the city, but he felt weak and did not want to impose his own suffering on others. Instead he found a small hut, the kind of rude shelter that is used by foresters as a temporary shelter when the weather is very bad, or to store cut wood until it is dry and ready for sale. He crawled inside, covered himself and went to sleep. Soon he awoke. There was a rain barrel nearby, so that Roche had water, but he was now too weak to get up to scrounge for food. His dog licked at his open sores and seemed to want to comfort him.

As the sun began to go lower in the sky, Roche's dog got up and left his feverish master. He wandered down the road, not more than a mile, to a castle owned by a minor aristocrat named Gothard. The dog entered the main gate and then walked into the building. People were gathering in the dining hall for dinner, and as they watched in amazement, the dog placed his paws on the edge of the table and helped himself to a loaf of bread. Then, without stopping to eat it, he trotted back out of the open door. Gothard was amused, but his amusement turned to astonishment when this theft was repeated several days in a row. The aristocrat went to the window to watch the dog leave and was amazed to see that the dog never stopped to take a bite out of the bread, but rather proceeded down the road and disappeared along a path into the woods. On the fourth or fifth night that this had occurred, the nobleman followed the dog. The faithful animal went directly back to the shelter where his master lay. Gothard watched the dog drop the bread and then proceed to tenderly lick Roche's plague sores.

Gothard was so moved by the care shown by the dog that he set about to have Roche's needs supplied. To the amazement of everyone, Roche recovered and did not even show any of the scars that the abscesses caused by the plague usually left. Gothard would be so inspired that he eventually entered the service of the church himself.

Eighty-seven years after Roche's death, the plague returned and hit the city of Constance. The city council ordered public prayers and processions in honor of Saint Roche, and immediately afterward the plague ceased. The dog, whose name has not been preserved, was not mentioned during the prayers. However, it does live on in most of the artistic representations of Saint Roche, which show him being gently licked by his faithful companion.

Often the influence of a dog involves a life of companionship but only one or two notable incidents, as in the legend of Saint Margaret of Cortona. She was a beautiful peasant girl who was born in Tuscany in 1247. Her father was a farmer, and her mother died when she was seven years old. Her father remarried, but his new wife gave little attention or affection to the high-spirited girl. Margaret was one of those people who crave affection and so sought it outside of the home. When she was about seventeen years of age she made the acquaintance of a young cavalier. They had a passionate relationship that continued for several years, resulting in the birth of a son. Although she frequently tried to convince her lover to marry her, he always avoided the issue. Despite this, she was really quite devoted to the cavalier, and her kindly nature also endeared her to the residents of the castle and the surrounds. She often went out walking with one of the young lord's favorite dogs and would pleasantly socialize with peasants and nobles alike.

After nine years of living with her lover, he disappeared. He had actually been murdered under mysterious circumstances, and the body was not immediately discovered. The cavalier's dog, the one who had been the favorite of both his master and Margaret, still continued to search for the nobleman. Eventually he found the body, and then sought out Margaret. The dog tugged at the hem of her skirt until she followed it to the place where her lover lay dead.

Margaret was devastated. She began to loathe her own beauty, which she felt had drawn her lover away from a more acceptable way of living. Ultimately she returned all the jewels and property he had given her to his relatives, then left his home. She took with her only some clothes, her little son, and the dog who had discovered the crime. Her stepmother rejected her, though, when she tried to return to her father's home.

Without any means of sustaining herself, Margaret became quite desperate. She thought about trading on her beauty, and went into town with the idea of getting employment in a local bordello simply to stay alive. On the way, however, the dog once again grabbed the hem of her skirt and began to pull her. Remembering the previous time this had happened, she allowed the dog to lead her to the door of a church. Puzzled, she wandered inside and knelt down to pray.

As Margaret prayed for guidance, she believed that she heard a voice telling her to seek absolution. She rose, lovingly stroked the dog, and set off to put herself under the spiritual direction of the Franciscan friars at Cortona. She later took the veil and led a life of extreme piety, which eventually led to her sanctification. She would ultimately become the patron saint of the homeless and single mothers. The dog remained with her throughout its life, serving as a comfort and companion. Most of the traditional drawings and sculptures of Saint Margaret usually include the dog pulling at her hem, or on a leash by her side.

For some holy people, the contributions of dogs are woven tightly through the fabric of their lives. Perhaps one of the most striking examples of this was a young man, named Sucat at birth, who would later become Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. There is much that we do not know about Patrick's life, but from his sparse writings, the written records of others, and the ballads and oral histories that have been retrieved, it appears that his life and his legends are strangely entwined with dogs.

Patrick was born around the year 387 A.D., at a place not far from Dumbarton in Scotland. His father, Calpornius, was originally from an aristocratic Roman family and held the office of deacon in Britain. His mother, Concessa, was from a devout family and a near relative of the man who would become Saint Martin of Tours, the patron saint of France. Perhaps because of this, the young boy received some Christian education. Patrick's normal upbringing and education were all cut short at the age of sixteen, however, when he was abducted by Irish marauders.

Upon their return to Ireland, the raiders sold Patrick as a slave to a local chieftain named Milchu, and he was set to work as a shepherd. For the next six years he tended Milchu's flocks near what is now the town of Ballymena. This was lonely work, and for weeks at a time his sole companion was a black and white, longhaired sheepdog. During his long vigils he had time to meditate, and this strengthened his faith. At other times he would practice speaking the Celtic language of Ireland by having "conversations" with his dog, during which he instructed his companion about his insights regarding God and Christianity. How much enlightenment the dog achieved through these passionate preachings, we will never know. Patrick did achieve a perfect fluency in the Celtic tongue through these sermons, however, and this would serve him well in the future.

Around 407 or 408 A.D., Patrick had a dream (or was visited by an angel), receiving the clear message that he must travel to the coast. A ship that would be waiting there would be the first step in his return home and his entrance into his service of God. Although he had been torn from his family and pressed into slavery, Patrick still felt an obligation to his master, Milchu, who had treated him relatively fairly by the standards of the time and had not abused him. Obviously, if he took the time to return the flock to Milchu's holding, suspicions would be aroused, and it would be more difficult for him to escape his situation. Thus all he could do was to entrust the flock to his faithful sheepdog. He whispered in its ear, "Guard them well and take them home," and then murmured a prayer to God to guide the dog to do what had to be done. With several glances over his shoulder to make sure that the dog was not following him, he set off on his escape. Two hundred miles later in Westport, Patrick found the ship his dream had told him about.

To understand what happened next, you must understand some changes that had taken place during the Roman domination of Europe. Hunting was the most important sport of the aristocracy, while the principal amusement of the general population was the gladiatorial games. Over the years the novelty of seeing men in combat in the arena had worn off, so often exotic animals were brought in to fight. Dogs were popular combatants and often put on performances that excited the spectators. As the demand for new and more powerful canine gladiators began to grow, the prices that were being offered for large dogs (such as the heavy mastiff types and tall wolfhounds) began to rise sharply.

Changes in the nature of the hunt also increased the demand for dog breeds that were not common in the Roman Empire. As first practiced by the Romans, hunting was a very slow operation that involved the setting up of snares in advance. Beaters (men with drums or other noisemakers) and dogs (principally greyhounds) would then be used to drive the game in the direction of the nets. The function of the hunt was to obtain meat and to control animals that might damage crops or livestock, rather than the sporting enjoyment of a lively chase. This all changed when Rome expanded into Gaul (which is now mostly France) and Britain. There the Romans found several varieties of hounds, from which we would later develop deerhounds, wolfhounds, and harriers -- dogs that are designed to chase game. By the end of the first century A.D. the hunt had become a wild scramble that required fast horses and accomplished riders to keep up with the fast-running hounds being imported from these provinces. This new manner of hunting made for great entertainment among those who could afford to keep the horses and hounds that would be needed. Thus Hadrian, the Roman emperor whose reign extended from 117 to 138 A.D., wrote about the thrill of riding his favorite horse, Borysthenes, who would "fly across the plains" in close pursuit of the dogs who had flushed out deer or wild boar.

The Romans' desire for swift and powerful dogs was insatiable. Julius Caesar mentioned dogs as among the better prizes to be won by expanding westward and into the British Isles. There are some reports that the Roman emperors actually maintained a special officer at Winchester whose title was Procurator Cynegii, or "Procurer of Dogs." His sole function was to select and export large mastiffs to fight in the arena, and fleet-running hounds for the nobility to use on their hunts.

The demand for fast hounds from the British Isles outlived the Roman Empire and the Roman gladiatorial games. Dogs that were not only fast but also strong enough to take on stags and wild boar were bringing fabulous prices on European markets. Because these quarry were themselves very powerful and dangerous even the best of dogs were at risk of being injured or killed in the hunt. This meant that the useful life of a hunting dog was only three to five years, and since packs often included several dozen dogs, the demand far exceeded the available supply. There was also a certain glamour associated with having the largest, fastest, and strongest dogs in a region, and the wealthy were willing to pay large sums of money for that honor.

The dogs that fetched the highest prices were the ones that we know today as Irish wolfhounds. The ship that Patrick found as he fled his slavery was a curagh, just like the one used by the Irish raiders that had carried him off. The boat was moored and waiting because the captain was trying to get a full cargo of wolfhounds to take back with him to Gaul. Taking advantage of this delay, Patrick approached the captain to ask if he could journey with the ship when it sailed. It is not surprising that being only a penniless runaway slave, he was received rather unsympathetically. He had no experience as a sailor, so the idea of exchanging his labor for the cost of the trip was out of the question. Patrick was saddened, and his faith was weaker, as he walked down the gangway to leave the ship. He had barely taken a step on the shore, though, when he was unexpectedly called back. The reason was the dogs.

Not only was the boat similar to those used by Irish raiders, but the morals of the captain, it seems, were similar to those of the marauders that took youths such as Patrick as slaves. To maximize his profit, the captain had opted for stealing, rather than purchasing, many of the hundred-plus Irish wolfhounds that now packed the holds and filled the deck of the ship. Wolfhounds are not toy dogs or spaniels that are easily ignored. Among today's dog breeds the Irish wolfhound is known as the tallest dog, with a shoulder height that can exceed three feet and a weight of about 135 pounds. However, this modern version is a reconstruction, since by the middle of the nineteenth century the breed had become almost extinct. The near extinction of the breed was due to the fact that the wolves, boar, and elk that it had been used to hunt for were now gone from the scene. A few samples of the breed were found and saved by a Scottish dog fancier, Captain George A. Graham, who altered the shape of the dog to its present, more manageable size. From descriptions of the dog that were written during the fourth century, however, we are led to believe that the earlier dogs were actually taller by about five inches and heavier by about thirty-five pounds. Obviously, a dog of that size could be difficult to handle if it were upset or angry.

Taken from their masters and familiar surroundings, the giant dogs on the boat were frantic and furious, and the situation was becoming intolerable. Some of the sailors had noticed that during Patrick's brief visit, however, he had spoken with some of the dogs and seemed to have a calming effect upon them. For the first time since they had been on board, some of the dogs actually wagged their tails as they allowed the young man to approach. Perhaps it was, as legend tells us, that the dogs recognized the saintly nature of this ragged person, or perhaps spending the last six years mostly in the company of animals provided him with some empathy for them. Whatever the reason, it seemed as if he could safely interact with the dogs and keep them under control. Therefore, in exchange for Patrick's services (which would involve feeding, cleaning up after, and otherwise caring for the dogs), he was given passage to the continent.

The anchor was lifted that same day, and the journey began. The ship was badly underprovisioned because it had taken longer than expected to get a full cargo of dogs, and furthermore, the huge dogs themselves consumed much more than the captain had expected. After only a few days of sailing, food began to run short, and fresh water was also becoming a problem. At the first opportunity that presented itself, the ship landed on a deserted piece of the coastline of Gaul. Such stretches of shore with few inhabitants were not unusual because the ceaseless activities of barbarian sea-raiders often made living near the sea quite dangerous unless you were in a fortified city. Patrick's ship arrived with its stores completely exhausted, and there had been nothing left to feed dogs or men for a day or so before landfall. Furthermore, the hungry voyagers could see no sources of replenishment on this barren shore.

Because the dogs were worth more than the ship, the crew took as many of the animals as they could handle, abandoned the vessel, and set off inland on foot. Unfortunately, after a long day they could still find neither inhabitants nor food in the area. Now the dogs and men were all in jeopardy of starvation.

The shipmaster, who had learned that Patrick was a Christian, then taunted him by saying, "If your God is so great, then pray to him to send us food." Patrick was not dismayed at this request, and he began to pray out loud. Tradition has it that as a result of his prayer a miracle occurred, although a skeptic might suggest that it was just a chance occurrence. Out of the trackless wilderness, a herd of wild pigs appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Instead of bolting and running, as one might have expected, the swine stayed within reach long enough for the starving men (with the assistance of the dogs) to kill a number of them. This provided meat, comfort, and salvation for all of the members of the party, canine and human alike.

As you might guess, the crew's opinion of Patrick rose considerably. They had considered selling him as a slave in the first town that they reached in order to make up for some of their costs, but now he was treated as one of the regular crew. After the dogs were marketed, the sailors even gave some food and a bit of money to help him on his way.

Patrick's association with dogs did not end in Gaul, however. Many years later, after a number of adventures and extensive training in church doctrine under the guidance of Saint Germain, he returned to Ireland. He had been having dreams in which he heard the people of Ireland calling him, saying, "O holy youth, come back to Erin, and walk once more amongst us." Now he had been charged by the church to "gather the Irish race into the one fold of Christ." This had already been tried before, but those who had gone to preach Christianity in Ireland had been met with fierce opposition. The local chieftains who still believed in the old religion of the Druids felt no moral restraint about taking any action, including murder, to ensure the supremacy of their religion. It had now fallen to Patrick to take on the daunting task of bringing Christianity to this hostile realm.

It was probably in the summer of 433 that he landed again in Ireland with a small band of other priests. The local Druids immediately began to mount a resistance. Strangely, Patrick's first victory would come because of his rapport with dogs. It seems that there was a certain Irish chieftain named Dichu who was told that a strange ship had just landed. From this ship there had emerged white-robed men with shaved heads, and these men chanted in a strange tongue. The Druids assured him that they had come to attack the old religion and would bring ruin to the country. This rallied Dichu, who then went to the coast to see if some action was needed.

Dichu reached the edge of the rocky shore just as Patrick's party was approaching. As always, his favorite dog, Luath, a large Irish wolfhound known for his ferocious nature, accompanied Dichu. Luath wore a heavy metal collar with sharpened spikes, and also hardened leather body armor to protect him from blows and knife wounds when he went into battle. He had often been used against Dichu's opponents, and the sight of such a great beast never failed to terrorize the people that he was sent against.

As he observed Patrick's missionary group, Dichu decided that the simplest course was to kill these odd clerics and be done with it. With a wave and a shout, he signaled Luath, who leaped forward in full fury with a growl that sounded like the roaring of a tiger. Dichu drew his sword and waited for the priests to scatter in response to the dog's attack, at which point he would order his men to charge and easily dispatch them. Tradition has it that it was then that Patrick's first miracle in Ireland occurred. According to the story, Patrick knelt down and uttered a short prayer. As if mesmerized, the dog halted, then quietly approached and nuzzled Patrick's hand. Dichu, whose sword was already raised, was frozen in place by the scene in front of him and could not move for many seconds. A skeptic might note that Patrick already had a history of dealing with large, angry dogs, most of which were the same breed as Luath. By kneeling and remaining still, he showed the dog that he was no threat. Whether Patrick was actually uttering a prayer or was simply making calming sounds would make no difference to the dog, since the soft singsong tones of a gentle human voice can often soothe and pacify dogs. But whether the event was due to divine intervention or the knowledge of an experienced dog handler, the effect was the same. Dichu was emotionally touched by this scene and suspended the attack. In fact, he was so impressed by the event that he asked for instruction in this new religion.

A short time later, Dichu gave Patrick a barn to serve as his church and meeting place. This sanctuary established Patrick's credibility and gave Christianity its first real foothold in Ireland. In later years, this hall would become one of the saint's favorite places to return to for meditation. A monastery and church were erected there. The Celtic word for barn is sabhall (pronounced saul), and, even today, this site is still known under the name Sabhall.

Much of Saint Patrick's life is known only through legend and oral tradition, so it is difficult to separate the myths from the reality. However, if we believe some of the legends, he had two more significant encounters with dogs. The first occurred at Ard Mhacha, which we now call Armagh. It was here that Daire, the chieftain of the district, had given Patrick some land to construct a church. The land was in a valley at the foot of a hill, but for some reason Patrick was not happy with this site. He was walking the area with Benan, a young convert, who would later become one of the saint's successors in the church hierarchy. Patrick was musing about the site of the new church as the afternoon grew late and the sun sank toward the horizon.

"This place is not right," he said. "We need a special place to sing praises to our Lord." At that very moment they heard a loud and ecstatic howling, and the two men looked up the hill. There, at the very top, was a great gray dog with a white blaze on its chest. The white patch was oddly shaped, being wider in the middle than at the top or bottom, so that to the two men it looked like a cross. Patrick took this as a sign that the church should be placed on the hilltop, where this dog was now singing praises to God. He would later convince Daire that this was a true message from heaven, and the most significant church in Ireland would be constructed on that hilltop in Armagh.

The story of Patrick's death and burial, at least according to tradition, includes this same dog. The saint's health was failing when he had a vision of the angel Victor, who told him that he was destined to die not in Armagh but at Sabhall, his first church in Ireland. Patrick then instructed the faithful Benan that when he was dead, his body was to be laid on a wagon hitched to two oxen. These beasts were not to be guided by Benan or any other man, but instead allowed to pull the wagon wherever they chose. Where they finally stopped was to be the place where Patrick should be buried.

On March 17, 493, Patrick died. Benan did as he was told, and all that night a shimmer of angels kept the darkness from falling on his body as it rested outside on the oxcart. Just as the morning sun rose, a great gray dog appeared. Benan was astonished, because it appeared to be the same gray dog with the blurry white cross on its chest that he and Patrick had seen before -- but that had been nearly fifty years earlier! The dog walked up to the wagon, stopped, and then, as if it had been planned, he took a position in front of it. The oxen fell in behind him, and this funeral procession began to move. They walked slowly and deliberately for about two miles until they reached a place known as Dún Leathghlaise, or the "Chieftain's Fort." At that point the dog stopped, gave a howl (which sounded to Benan much like the one he remembered from the top of the hill at Armagh so many years before) and then dashed away. The oxen moved no farther, so there St. Patrick was laid to rest.

The place, which this dog had designated, was clearly a most holy place, since it is said that in this very location the body of two other saints would later be buried -- namely Saint Bridget and Saint Columbia. However, no legends suggest that the bodies of these other holy people were guided to their final resting place by a great gray Irish dog or a dog of any other sort.

Copyright © 2002 by SC Psychological Enterprises, Ltd.

Read a Sample Chapter

How many times has the fate of a man, or even a nation, hung from the collar of a dog? Had it not been for dogs, the last imperial house of China might not have fallen; Columbus's first attempts at colonizing the Americas not have been so successful; some of Wagner's operas might never have been written; the American Revolution might not have been fought; the freeing of the American slaves might have been delayed for decades; the way that we educate deaf children might be different; and great and well-loved books like Ivanhoe might never have been written.

Most people know and accept in a general way the fact that dogs have changed human history by fulfilling needed functions in human activities such as hunting, herding, exploration, or the waging of war. When it comes to political, social, or cultural history, however, few people would expect any evidence of canine influences. Yet there are many instances where the actions of a single dog changed the life of a single human, who in turn went on to shape human history. These seldom-told stories are the most fascinating.

Consider, for example, the case of Alexander Pope, the brilliant satirist who is considered by many to be the greatest English poet of the eighteenth century. One of the most quotable poets of all time, Pope is the source of such familiar epigrams as "A little learning is a dangerous thing," "To err is human, to forgive, divine," and "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." Many of his poems, such as The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad, as well as his Essay on Man and Essay on Criticism, are still popular classics and required reading for anyone seeking a degree in literature in most universities.

Pope was born in London in 1688. His interest in literature and writing was probably in part the result of his poor physique. While still quite young, Pope developed a form of tuberculosis that affects the spine. This condition stunted his growth; his full-grown height was only four feet six inches. In addition, Pope was condemned to suffer from headaches throughout his life, and he was abnormally sensitive to pain. His spinal condition made bending and physical exertions a source of agony. He often needed assistance to rise from his bed or chair and was obliged to have a servant help him dress and undress.

Nevertheless, Pope could be a charming social companion and host. Despite his lack of height, he had a handsome face and an attractive appearance so that people did not feel uncomfortable in his presence. At his large estate at Twickenham on the Thames (only a short distance from London), Pope entertained many celebrated guests, from poets and philosophers to high government officials, society belles, and even royalty. On any visit to him one might have met the likes of Jonathan Swift, the satirical author of Gulliver's Travels; Henry St. John the Viscount Bolingbroke, a statesman and orator who later became an author; Robert Harley, the first earl of Oxford, who would one day be the Lord Treasurer; and even Frederick, the Prince of Wales. Pope's many visitors would often convene in the great garden that he had carefully designed, and then the whole party would spend hours in sprightly conversation.

When he was not in a social setting, however, Pope's painful physical condition made him touchy and easily angered. Close associates would hear him rage at even the slightest perceived insult. His temper would often flare at a critic, then be redirected to whatever innocent target happened to be near — frequently a servant. The resulting high level of turnover among his personal staff as employees quit or were fired made maintenance of a household routine difficult.

Pope had other personal quirks as well. Despite his personal wealth and his lavish entertainment of guests, for example, he was quite miserly in some of his personal habits. Thus he often would not buy writing paper, but rather write his poetry on old envelopes from his voluminous correspondence. He distrusted financial institutions, such as banks, and only did a minimal amount of business with them. Instead, he kept much of his wealth in a strongbox built into a wall of the mansion, wearing the key on a chain around his neck at all times.

Although he loved dogs all of his life, Pope's favorite was an unlikely choice, given his size and physical condition. It was a large Great Dane that he named Bounce. When Bounce and Pope stood facing each other, their eyes were nearly at the same level. Bounce, however, proved to be a fine companion. He was quiet and unobtrusive when his master worked, but was always present to greet company and to socialize when anyone showed him any attention. Prince Frederick was so impressed by Bounce's good manners and stately appearance that he expressed a desire to own a dog just like him. Pope was flattered, and some time later the prince returned from a visit to Twickenham carrying one of Bounce's puppies — a gift from the poet. The puppy was installed at the royal kennel at Kew, which was the summer residence of the royal family. Shortly thereafter, Pope sent another gift, a collar for Frederick's dog with the following couplet engraved on it:

I am his Highness' dog, at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

Although Bounce was generally friendly, he could be quite protective of his master. Since Jonathan Swift was now around sixty and had grown quite deaf, Pope had to raise his voice to communicate with him on his visits. This shouting made Bounce very suspicious of Swift, and so he would protectively lie between his master and the writer. If Swift gestured too broadly as he spoke, Bounce would rise to his feet as if ready to intervene on Pope's behalf and might even give a warning growl.

Although Pope did not need protection from Swift, Bounce's role of guardian would ultimately prove to be a blessing. One day, the temperamental poet had dismissed his latest valet, amid some name-calling and abusive language. When a new manservant was quickly hired from a short list of available applicants, Bounce sniffed at the man, then withdrew beside his master in an untypical show of dislike. Nonetheless, the valet seemed to know his job and appeared to be quite conscientious. As night fell, the valet lifted Pope from his chair and assisted him to the bedroom, where he helped the poet undress for the night and placed him on his bed. After pulling the heavy curtains around the canopied bed to shut out the night drafts, the valet quietly slipped out of the room.

Bounce, who normally stayed downstairs by the fireplace at night to soak up the last heat of the dying embers, abandoned his usual place of rest this evening. As the valet left, the dog slipped into Pope's bedroom and crawled under the bed to sleep. Much later that night, Pope thought that he heard a noise. When he slightly parted the bed curtains to peek out, what he saw paralyzed him with fear. The dark figure of a man stealthily approaching the bed was dimly visible. In his hand, Pope could make out the shape of a large knife, glittering in the moonlight. Because of his physical frailties, the poet was helpless to rise and protect himself. He could only scream for his valet, who slept in the next room, to come and help him.

At the sound of his master's cry, Bounce sprang from under the bed and leaped at the man, who toppled over and lost his grip on the knife. Then Bounce held him there on the floor, alternately growling at the man and barking loudly for help. When the commotion brought other members of the household staff to the rescue, the man with the knife turned out to be the new valet of whom Bounce had been suspicious. Hearing that Pope kept a great deal of money in the house, the man had decided to kill him, steal the strongbox key that he wore, and then flee before anyone else awakened.

Because of Bounce, Pope would live to write more great poetry. In addition, another epigram would be penned by the dog's master, who wrote, "Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends."

The concept of a dog as a protector is found in virtually every culture. For many people, the most important function a dog serves is to warn its family of any danger. An example of this view can be found in a story that was being told by the Mik'Maq Indians of North America long before the Europeans reached the American continent.

The legend begins with Gisoolg, the great spirit god and creator, who created Ootsitgamoo (the earth), then filled it with all sorts of animals. The work was difficult, so he rested and slept awhile. While Gisoolg was sleeping, though, the great snake that he had created became ambitious and greedy. It used magic to add deadly venom to its bite, so that it could kill the largest animals and in this way become the chief among all living things.

When Gisoolg awoke, he decided to make some beings that would rule over the animals. So first he gathered some clay from a sacred hidden place, and then he spent a full day forming the shape of a man from the clay. He gave the man life, but the man was too weak to move yet, so he lay on the ground gathering his strength. Gisoolg then went to sleep again.

The snake did not like the idea that Gisoolg was creating a creature that would be more intelligent and more powerful than any of the animals, so in the dead of the night it crept up and killed the man. When Gisoolg awoke he was distressed at the loss of the man, but spent another long day shaping another and then again went to sleep. Again the man became the victim of the cunning snake. On the third day Gisoolg rose early, and before he began to recreate the man, he first created a guardian in the form of a dog. By the time he had reformed the man, the dog had gathered enough strength to stand watch. So again Gisoolg went to sleep.

Now the snake again approached through the long grass, with murder in its heart and venom dripping from its fangs. But this time it was confronted by the dog, who barked loudly to sound the alarm and then slashed at the snake with its teeth. Now the serpent was slowed by its wounds and had lost the element of surprise. Even worse, the dog's barking awakened Gisoolg, who came forward at once.

"Evil serpent, you have no right to interfere with that which I am creating. As a penalty for your wickedness I will strike off your legs, so that you, and all of your family after you, will be forced to slither on your bellies for eternity. Furthermore, be warned that I have given the man, whom I shall name Glooscap, this guardian, E'lmutc. The dog will be with him always and keep him safe. If you are foolish enough to try to hurt Glooscap or his family, E'lmutc will know that you have come. He will sound the alarm, and I will grant Glooscap the wisdom and the weapons to protect himself. Be warned, serpent, next time, if E'lmutc's teeth do not slay you, then Glooscap's hand will."

In this story, there would have been no humans at all if not for the protection provided by a dog. While this is obviously just a myth, the idea that a dog's God-given duty is to serve as a guardian of man somehow comes to mind when one reads the lives of many historical individuals.

The biography of Saint Giovanni Melchior Bosco (commonly called Don Bosco or John Bosco) has a dog that appears from nowhere, like a guardian angel, to protect him. The story begins in the 1840s, when the slums of Turin, Italy, were rife with the kind of poverty and cruelty that one finds associated with sweatshop factories — their hazardous machinery, their abusive practices of child labor, and their starvation wages. When he was a young boy, Bosco was inspired by a series of dreams to help young children who had been trapped in this terrible poverty. After he had taken his vows as a priest, Bosco wandered the streets, visiting factories and prisons where young boys in trouble were to be found. He soon arranged to meet weekly with a growing band of ragged youngsters. In the beginning these meetings floated from place to place. There was no one permanent home for the group because in those troublesome times people were afraid of a large gathering of poor working boys. Bosco would convene the group in a different place every Sunday — sometimes a city church, or a cemetery chapel, or even an empty lot. There, the priest would hear their confessions and say a simple Mass for them. This would be followed by an hour of religious instruction, which was presented in plain language and often punctuated with a bit of juggling or a magic trick to keep the boys' interest. Then Bosco would take his ragtag band out to the countryside near the city for an outing with food and games.

By 1846, Don Bosco managed to raise enough money to buy a lot in an underdeveloped section of the city. Empty except for a ramshackle shed, it was next door to a saloon and across the street from a hotel with a shady reputation. It was a beginning, however, and furthermore, he had been assured in a dream that this was holy ground because it was the burial ground of the martyrs of Turin. Bosco then proceeded to convert the shed into a chapel, digging out space for a congregation to gather, and a tiny anteroom. Now every Sunday around five hundred poverty-stricken boys would squeeze into it for Mass.

It was around 1848 when the dog who played a role in his life appeared. He was a huge hulking gray mongrel whom Don Bosco would give the name "Grigio." Where Grigio came from originally, no one seems to know. His pedigree, parentage, and origin were as obscure as those of the many homeless children that the saint tended to gather around him.

Grigio's involvement began one evening as Bosco wended his way through the narrow streets toward his chapel. Unfortunately, some of the more criminal elements in the neighborhood had concluded that between his building and his provision of food for the children, Don Bosco must have accumulated a lot of money. As he passed by a dark alley, a man leaped from hiding. He grabbed the future saint and demanded money. Don Bosco virtually never had any money of his own, since all that he obtained went immediately to the children he was trying to help. When he denied having anything to give his attacker, the thief waved a knife in the priest's face: "If you have no money then you are of no use to me and I will kill you. Give me money, or show me where you have hidden it in that little chapel of yours, and you can buy your life." Bosco would later remember only that he closed his eyes and murmured a prayer, knowing that his life was about to end.

Suddenly, a savage gray blur hurled itself at the thief, knocking him down and causing the knife to fall from the man's hand as he crashed to the ground. The blur turned out to be a huge, snarling mongrel, which interposed himself between the priest and his attacker. The thug made one lunge toward the knife, but a growl and the snap of the dog's teeth made him reconsider any attempt at continuing his original course of action. He quickly clambered to his feet and then disappeared down the street, running as fast as he could.

Don Bosco did not know whether to be thankful or even more terrified. As the dog turned to face him all that he could focus upon was the dog's great muzzle and long teeth and the priest considered joining the thief in flight. However, the dog closed its mouth, lowered its head slightly, and gave a reassuring wag of its tail. Bosco then, hesitantly, reached out and stroked its coarse gray coat, and the dog responded with a contented whimper. It then silently followed the saint home to share a humble meal.

From that moment on Grigio was always at hand when Bosco was in danger — which apparently was quite often, since others in the vicinity would sometimes try to accost him and to steal his nonexistent wealth. He was also often with Bosco on those rare occasions when he actually had to carry valuables for those in his care, and few would approach with harmful intent given the size of the dog. Often the dog would seem to wander off, but suddenly appear (as he had on that first day) to defend Bosco from attack.

At times, some of the more unscrupulous local factory owners believed Don Bosco's ministry was becoming intrusive. His attempt at raising the standard of living of the children in the area was threatening their supply of cheap labor. On one evening Bosco was returning from a visit to a sweatshop, where he had lectured the owner about the dangers that the children were facing because of unsafe equipment and the long hours that they were required to work. As he was about to turn down a street that he always used on his return home, Grigio sprang forward and blocked his way. The priest tried to push past him but the big dog would not allow him to continue. Since both Don Bosco and Grigio were familiar sights on the street, this disagreement between them drew the attention of passers-by, and the small crowd attracted a policeman. Someone from one of the houses then turned up a light — and there, lurking in the shadows, were two armed men. It would later be learned that they had been hired to set an ambush by one of the factory owners who wanted the meddling priest killed.

Ultimately, Don Bosco convinced the government that he could be trusted to run his schools. His educational and other projects were now functioning well and safe from interference. In addition, the general public and even the criminal element recognized Bosco's altruistic motives, and so they no longer treated him as either a threat or a target of opportunity. If one had a bent toward a mystical connection associated with Grigio's appearance, then one might conclude that now, with things beginning to go well, the dog's heroic services were no longer needed. Be that as it may, as the saint sat in the refectory one evening at dinnertime, Grigio came to him once more. The dog rubbed his grizzled gray head against the saint's habit, licked his hand quietly, and placed a tentative paw on his knee. Then, without a sound, the huge brave dog turned and wandered out into the night, never to be seen again.

By the time of Don Bosco's death in 1888, there were 250 houses to help underprivileged and undereducated children under the auspices of what had come to be known as the Salesian Society. These hospices and schools were scattered through several different countries. The total number of children in their care was around 130,000, from which 18,000 finished apprentices left annually with the knowledge that they needed to earn their own living. In the main house in Turin, Don Bosco had placed the brightest of his pupils and had taught them Italian, Latin, French, and mathematics. This group eventually formed a teaching corps for the newer homes. By the time that he died more than six thousand priests had completed the seminary program at Don Bosco's institutions, twelve hundred of whom had remained in the society. Yet none of this might have come to pass had it not been for a mysterious dog named Grigio.

It is not only big dogs, like Pope's Great Dane or Don Bosco's great gray mongrel, that can intervene to save their master's life and thus let him continue on some history-shaping mission. Even small lapdogs can change the future, as in the case of William I, Prince of Orange (who is also called William the Silent) in the Netherlands. William is known as one of the principal founders of Dutch independence and is also remembered for the first formal attempts to institutionalize religious tolerance.

William was born in 1533 and, although his parents were Protestant, he was reared as a Roman Catholic and sent to the court of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V at Brussels. William soon became the emperor's favorite, performing well the social, military, and diplomatic duties that were expected of him. He continued to do so under Philip II, the emperor's son and successor as king of Spain and lord of the Burgundian dominions. In part because of this service, in 1555 William was made stadtholder (the equivalent of governor and commander in chief) of Holland, Zeeland, and Utrecht.

By the 1560s, William and the other principal lords of the region began to offer some opposition to Philip's rule. Philip was hard and inflexible and did not like to share power. Civil rights were being suspended, there was no true local representation in government, and personal freedom (as it was then known) was being threatened. Furthermore, because Philip would not tolerate any deviation from strict Catholicism, the Spanish Inquisition had been brought to the Netherlands, and many Protestants and even "moderate" Catholics were being tried and executed for heresy. Having been influenced by the thoughts of the humanist philosopher Desiderius Erasmus, William leaned toward more religious tolerance. When popular resistance arose to the harsh controls he had imposed, Philip appointed the Duke de Alba to quell the dissent. The duke set up a special court, the Council of Troubles, to try all cases of rebellion and heresy, and this court was responsible for more than a thousand executions.

With both political liberty and religious freedom at issue, William took the field against Philip. It would be a long fight, with many military reverses and political intrigues. Ultimately, the Spanish would be pushed out and a peace treaty, the Pacification of Ghent, would be the result. It would provide for the union of the seventeen states that were called the Netherlands under one national government. William would survive all of the dangers of that period and become the hereditary ruler of the Netherlands — however, for this to happen required the intervention of a dog.

As many rulers of his time, William had a variety of dogs. Many were used in hunting, but William also had small dogs (which he referred to as "indoor" dogs) simply for companionship. His favorites were the pugs, which had recently been introduced from China. These little dogs were then called Camuses, which means "flat-nosed." William often took one or more of these dogs with him as company, even on military maneuvers. The incident that we are interested in occurred in 1572, when William had set up camp at Hermingny. In 1618 Sir Roger Williams, who had served with William and knew him well in later years, described what happened in his history Actions of the Low Countries:

The Prince of Orange being retired into the camp, Julian Romero [one of de Alba's most daring generals], with earnest persuasions, procured licence of the Duke de Alba to hazard a camisado or night attack upon the Prince. At midnight Julian sallied out of the trenches with a thousand armed men, mostly pikes, who forced all the guards that they found in their way into the place of arms before the Prince's tent, and killed two of his secretaries. The Prince himself escaped very narrowly, for I have often heard him say that he thought but for a dog he should have been taken or slain. The attack was made with such resolution that the guards took no alarm until their fellows were running to the place of arms with their enemies at their heels, when this dog [who always slept on the bed with the Prince], hearing a great noise, fell to scratching and crying, and awakened him before any of his men; and though the Prince slept armed, with a lackey always holding one of his horses ready bridled and saddled, yet at the going out of his tent with ado he recovered his horse before the enemy arrived. Nevertheless, one of his equerries was slain, taking horse presently after him, as were diverse of his servants. The Prince, to show his gratitude, until his dying day, kept one of that dog's race, and so did many of his friends and followers.

An effigy of William with his pug at his feet is carved over his tomb in Delft Cathedral. When his son and successor, William II, landed at Torbay to be crowned as king of England he brought with him a full retinue, which included a number of pugs. Because of this royal patronage, pugs would be a fashionable breed in England for several generations.

This same story, where a small and apparently insignificant dog saves the life of an individual who changes the world, has been repeated many times in many different cultures around the world. For example, in the seventeenth century the fifth Dalai Lama, Ngag-dbang-rgya-mtsho, had engaged in a series of political actions that would lead to a political alliance with the Mongols. While these steps resulted in political dominance of his religious order in Tibet, they also earned him a number of bitter enemies. The Dalai Lama kept as companion dogs the little Lhasa Apsos, who actually get their name from the city of Lhasa, where the Lama built his summer palace. It was there, that one night, while the Dalai Lama was sleeping, assassins stole into the wing of the palace that held his living quarters. They silently killed the group of soldiers on the outer perimeter, then stealthily approached guards outside the Lama's bedroom. Suddenly a loud barking broke out from one of the little Lhasa Apsos who slept in the Lama's chambers. This alerted the Lama's personal guards to a problem and caused others to come from nearby, foiling the attack. It was in this way, as the personal watchdog of the ruler of a nation and the leader of a religion, that a dog which is only ten inches at the shoulder and weighs less than fifteen pounds, could shape the destiny of a region of the world. This brave act is commemorated in Tibet in the name which they give to this tiny breed of dog, abso seng kye, which translates as the "barking lion sentinel dog."

While we have seen that a single dog can save the life of an individual and thus alter history, it is also the case that a single dog, acting in its traditional task of sentinel, can save whole cities. From the earliest times of our association with dogs they have served as perimeter guards for villages and settlements, ready to sound the alarm if any invaders should try to approach. Dogs are convenient in this regard since they require only a minimal amount of human control to perform such sentinel duty.

One example of this involved the city of Corinth, which is now a hub of communications between northern and southern Greece and is the primary point of export for local fruit, raisins, and tobacco. In the year 456 B.C., during the Greco-Persian wars, Corinth was strategically important because it controlled not only the land traffic between Attica and the Peloponnese, but also the traffic between the Aegean and Ionian seas. Because of Corinth's location on an isthmus, ships and cargoes could be speedily moved by being hauled overland on the stone roadway between the harbors on either side of the city. This process spared seafarers the arduous voyage around the southern tip of the Peloponnese.

Approximately fifty dogs were posted around the city to warn if any invaders appeared. One night, the Persians sent a small company of invaders to steal in under cover of darkness, then hold the city long enough so that a larger army might launch a quick surprise attack on Greece. The Persian intelligence had indicated the existence of the canine sentinels, and so the first task of the invaders was to eliminate them and prevent the rallying of any organized defense. Although the dogs were well trained, the invaders managed to kill all but one of them — a dog named Soter, who managed to escape and to wake up the soldiers. Thus alerted, the Corinthian garrison successfully repelled the invading forces; they also had time to send messengers to bring reinforcements from nearby allies before the city gates were sealed. Soter was honored with a pension and a silver collar inscribed, "To Soter, defender and savior of Corinth, placed under the protection of his friends." More than two thousand years later, Napoleon would remember this incident and post dogs around the perimeter of Alexandria to alert his garrison of any attempted surprise attacks.

Yet sometimes the influence of a dog on a person (and on history) is much more indirect. It can occur when the dog is acting not as a guard, but as a companion and a comfort in times of stress. It can happen when the dog is simply doing its job as a shepherd or hunter. It can happen when the dog misinterprets an event and acts rashly. It can also happen when an event involving a dog takes on a symbolic meaning. It is in the subtle role as a symbol that a dog affected a young girl who would go on to save many lives.

Most people remember Florence Nightingale, the English nurse who is considered to be the founder of modern nursing. Her life was dedicated to the care of the sick and war-wounded. She is best known for her activities during the Crimean war, when in 1854 she organized a unit of thirty-eight female nurses. By war's end she had become a legend. She was remembered by so many soldiers for her habit of carrying a lamp at night as she visited the wounded that she ultimately was given the nickname "The Lady of the Lamp." After the war she established a nursing school at St. Thomas's Hospital in London, where her contributions were so great that in 1907 she became the first woman to be given the British Order of Merit. Yet none of this might have happened except for her encounter with a dog.

Florence Nightingale was born as the second daughter of William Edward Nightingale and his wife, Frances, during a brief stay in Italy. Named after the Italian city in which she was born, Florence grew up in the countryside of Derbyshire, Hampshire, and in the city of London; her well-to-do family maintained comfortable homes in both locations. She was educated largely by her father, who taught her several languages (including Greek, Latin, French, German, and Italian) as well as history, philosophy, and mathematics. Throughout her life she read widely; however, her social life was generally unsatisfying, and she felt unfulfilled.

One afternoon in early February of 1837, when Florence was seventeen years of age, she had an encounter that foreshadowed her future. It involved a sheepdog named Cap. The dog was owned by a shepherd named Roger who lived near Matlock in Derbyshire, not far from the place where Florence's parents had a home. Roger lived alone except for his dog in a cottage near the edge of the woods. One day some village boys noticed Cap sleeping on the doorstep; in an act of cruel mischief, they began to throw stones at him. The dog stood up to dodge the onslaught, but one of the stones hit Cap's leg, damaging it so badly that he couldn't put it down on the ground. Despite his love for the dog, Roger couldn't survive without a working sheepdog, and he was too poor to keep a dog that couldn't work. With great regret, he went off to pasture the sheep by himself, and to get a bit of rope to hang Cap.

While Roger was out with his sheep, Florence rode past the field in the company of a local clergyman. Since they knew the shepherd, they stopped to chat for a few minutes. Florence liked dogs and had often stopped to play a bit with Cap, so she asked where the dog was. As Roger told them his story, Florence grew extremely distressed. As she and the clergyman continued their travels, she convinced her companion that they ought to at least take a look at Cap and see if anything could be done. The two of them rode over to Roger's cottage after borrowing a key from a neighbor to get in.

As the pair entered the room, Cap recognized them and crawled out from beneath the table to give them a pained greeting. While Florence held Cap's head, the clergyman examined the dog's leg. He explained to the young woman that the injury was not a break in the bone, as Roger had assumed, but merely a bad bruise. He predicted that hot compresses would cure the dog in a few days. Then, under his direction, Florence tore up some old flannel for bandages, lit the fire with the shepherd's tinderbox, and boiled some water. She then applied the bandages, wrung out in hot water, to the injured leg.

As they left the cottage to return home, they met Roger, who was walking with his shoulders slumped and ominously carrying a piece of rope. They persuaded Roger not to hang his dog and promised to return the next day to renew the compresses with fresh flannel. Two days later, on February 6, they met Roger and his flock on the hillside. An excited Cap, still limping slightly but clearly almost healed, bounded up to Florence and expressed his gratitude by leaving pawprints on her dress. She looked down at the first patient that she had ever nursed back to health and grinned happily.

The very next night, on February 7, 1837, Florence Nightingale had a dream — or perhaps it was a vision — that caused her to believe she had heard the voice of God informing her that she had a mission. Perhaps it occurred simply because she was still bathed in the warm feeling from having saved Cap's life. Into her mind sprang the belief that this whole incident was a sign from God to tell her that she should devote her life to healing others. Her father, however, refused to allow her to study nursing at a hospital, pressuring her to pursue a study of parliamentary reports instead. She reluctantly agreed, and after only three years of such study, influential friends regarded her as an expert on public health and hospitals.

It would not be until nine years later that her sense of mission would return. In 1846, a friend sent Florence the yearbook of the Institution of Protestant Deaconesses at Kaiserswerth in Germany. This was a group that trained country girls of good character to nurse the sick. That night she remembered the vision that had been triggered when she had nursed the sheepdog, and this time she could not be talked out of her decision. A short time later she entered the institution, went through the full course of training, and began her career as a nurse. Once again, as in the case of Saint Giovanni Bosco, the combination of a dog and a dream would change history.

Copyright © 2002 by SC Psychological Enterprises, Ltd.