Dog Spelled Backwards : Soulful Writing by Literary Dog Lovers

by Mordecai Siegal

• ISBN13: 9780312281793
• ISBN10: 031228179X
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2007-08-07
• Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Summary

'To err is human, to forgive canine.'--Anonymous A classic collection of the best of canine literature celebrating the soulful nature of dogsIn Dog Spelled Backwards, author Mordecai Siegal presents a warm, wise, witty and wonderful collection of writing about the divine nature of dogs from the best of American and English literature and song. Siegal's choices for this compilation are rich and colorful, and contain some of the most knowing and astute writing about dogs ever published. Selections from both fiction and nonfiction, prose and poetryinclude:--'Memoirs of a Yellow Dog' by O. Henry--'My Buddy' by Murray Weinstock--'Old Dog Tray' by Stephen Collins Foster--'To Flush, My Dog' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning--'The Call of the Wild' by Jack London--'The Power of the Dog' by Rudyard Kipling--'Three's Company' by Steve Dale A trusted and respected voice for three decades, Mordecai Siegal has given pet owners advice on selecting, training and caring for the animals in their lives in more than thirty books. Here Siegal has moved from the practical to the pleasurable, writing and compiling a tribute destined to become a classic. Dog-lovers and literature-lovers alike will welcome Dog Spelled Backwards as a gift of a book to help them understand that sometimes dogs are like furry angels. All that's missing are the wings and the feathers.

Author Biography

Mordecai Siegal is President Emeritus of the Dog Writers Association of America. He is the author of more than thirty dog and cat books including the bestsellers Good Dog, Bad Dog and I Just Got a Puppy. What Do I Do? He has written monthly pet columns for House Beautiful and Good Housekeeping, as well as numerous pet articles for leading magazines. He hosted Vets and Pets, an interview/call-in show on WNYC radio in New York, and his column The View from Mordecai Siegal appears on www.goodnewsforpets.com.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments	p. xiii
Introduction	p. xv
Genesis of the dog-eared heart
Halfway to Heaven: The Story of the St. Bernard	p. 3
The Coming of Riquet	p. 15
John Scott's Affectionate Pup	p. 30
Memoirs of a Yellow Dog	p. 33
From A Midsummer Night's Dream	p. 39
A Tribute to the Dog	p. 40
Brave and sacred hearts
Bum: A Brooklyn Dog	p. 45
My Buddy	p. 58
For the Love of a Man	p. 60
Stop Kicking My Dog Around	p. 74
A breed apart
Remarkable Dog	p. 77
Gulliver the Great	p. 80
Old Dog Tray	p. 94
The Westminster Kennel Club	p. 96
Four on the Floor	p. 103
Poetry in motion
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and a Spaniel Named Flush	p. 107
To Flush, My Dog	p. 111
Flush or Faunus	p. 117
From Flush: A Biography: The Back Bedroom	p. 117
To My Dog	p. 121
From A Midsummer Night's Dream	p. 122
The world according to dogs
The Bar Sinister	p. 127
Angel on a Leash	p. 159
Three's Company	p. 160
When I Get to Heaven: Questions from an Anxious Dog	p. 165
Old Blue	p. 167
Love unleashed
Garm-A Hostage	p. 171
The Power of the Dog	p. 188
The Checkers Affair: A Cocker Spaniel, a Speech, and the Political Survival of Richard M. Nixon	p. 190
Another Speech, Another Dog	p. 197
Dog Names of the Great and Not So Great	p. 199
God is coming, look busy
The Soul of Caliban	p. 203
The Barking Dog	p. 217
For Ashley Whippet: A Testimonial	p. 218
A Dog's Best Friend	p. 221
A Prayer for Animals	p. 222
Litter-ature
From Peter Pan: Peter Breaks Through, and The Shadow	p. 225
That Spot	p. 235
Underdog	p. 246
Dandy: The Story of a Dog	p. 246
Heavenly days
The Bonding	p. 255
Going Home	p. 259
To My Dog	p. 261
Enter Tarzan	p. 262
Erica's Song	p. 271
From Old Dogs, Old Friends: Enjoying Your Older Dog: Memories Are Forever, and Grow Old with Me	p. 273
Copyright Acknowledgments	p. 281
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.

Excerpts

Chapter One Halfway to Heaven The Story of the St. Bernard Ruth Adams Knight Halfway to Heaven is about the St. Bernard Hospice at the Mons Iovis pass between Italy and Switzerland and the legendary monk Canon Joseph and the great St. Bernard Barry der Menschenretter (lifesaver). Ruth Adams Knight (1894–1974) began her long career as a journalist writing news and feature stories for the Toledo Times. Eventually, she wrote for radio, and in 1936, she began writing for various network programs. She wrote numerous books for adults and teenagers, including Halfway to Heaven and A Friend in the Dark: The Story of a Seeing Eye Dog.   . . .The startling thing was that Barry never failed him. The list of his rescues grew long. Barry worked alone, he worked with other dogs, he worked with any monk on a rescue mission. But most beautifully of all he worked with Canon Joseph. On the trail, through the grim passages, it made no difference to Barry. He knew the valley as wild animals know their own haunts. Storms never frightened him, he ran with the wind, snow was his natural element. If there was life under a wide expanse of snow he detected it and found the lost one. Many a traveler made his way to the Hospice by clutching Barry’s tail and stumbling along behind him. For all his heroism he was a gay and friendly dog. But he owed allegiance to one man only, and that man was Canon Joseph. A Canon and on his way to be a priest. A young man commended by the new Prior, and the right hand of Father Henri, who still was Abbé. Canon Joseph, who went down both sides of the mountain now on errands of business and of mercy, who had come to know the way to Martigny as well now as the familiar path to Aosta, and who loved and was loved by many in both directions. No longer did Joseph feel he was Italian and an alien in Helvetia. Often he forgot he was not Swiss as he was sure the Swiss forgot he was Italian. Switzerland he had come to love and the Swiss people. It was a magnificently beautiful country, and a bold free country. It would not tolerate domination for long. But Italy still held his roots. Here on the frontiers of both he was happy, regarding no land as his own, since a monk’s kingdom must be the Kingdom of Heaven. And with the years Joseph had grown almost as valiant as Barry. His single ancient fear had never been completely conquered. He knew that without Barry he would be much less a man. But no other thing challenged him. He would work here and work hard as long as he was able. And he would be able as long as Barry was, he assured himself. Afterward he would serve as a priest, or be assigned to Martigny. And there by some special dispensation Barry must be with him always. “He is brave and selfless, that one,” the new Prior observed to Father Henri, watching Joseph go with Barry down the slope one day. “He fears one thing only. His heart clings to the dog. It is an ancient love. If something should happen there—” The Abbé’s gesture was one of helplessness. “It is hard to censure him for it. Canon Joseph is loved by everyone, except perhaps—” The two men looked at one another. “Canon Emil wished to be Keeper,” the Abbé said. “These disappointments require self-discipline. There is rivalry too between the dogs.” But most of this Joseph had trained himself to disregard. As Keeper he was busy every moment, absorbed. When Barry was on a mission without him, when the thunder roared and the wind swept down from the peaks, he still clenched his hands in apprehension and his heart seemed a stone in his breast, but that was still Joseph’s secret from almost everyone. If the Abbé remembered and understood no word was said. Winter, summer, winter, summer. Barry’s list of rescued grew to twenty-seven. No dog had done so much. The lifesaver, they began to call him, as Joseph had dreamed they would. Barry the rescuer. “I must go with him always,” Canon Joseph told himself. “When I am with him the fear vanishes, no matter how bad the storm. It is only when he faces the Alps alone that I am terrified for him.” And for many months they went side by side. It had been a day of snowfall, one in which the danger of slides built to great proportions. It seemed wise to send out several dogs to reconnoiter. If a traveler was found who could not follow the dogs back, an animal always came to the Hospice to summon the monks. Barry was not to be one of the group tonight, Joseph decided, and defended his decision because Barry had already made a trip that morning. He opened the door of the kennels and ordered all the dogs into the enclosure. They advanced eagerly, Barry at their head. Then abruptly, as though at a sharp command, they retreated. They actually leaped back into the kennel. Barry alone hesitated. He caught Canon Joseph’s sleeve in his teeth and dragged him into the kennel with him. Joseph shouted but the exclamation of rebuke had hardly reached his lips before he understood. Snow that had drifted all day suddenly came roaring down the mountain in a gigantic slide. It crashed along the side of the monastery and down the slope. There was the sound of rending timber. Everything which had been in the enclosure it carried with it. “But how do they know?” one of the novices asked, coming to help clear away the debris. “How could the dogs tell the avalanche was coming?” How could anyone have known, unless he could read the mind of God? But if Barry had not known, both he and Canon Joseph would have been lying under tons of ice and snow, far down the valley. As it was, the dogs still had to go out. Canon Joseph selected them, made them ready. Canon Emil stood watching. Then abruptly, without waiting for orders, he swung open the kennel door. The dogs shot out and away. But not as Joseph had planned. For with them, leading them, went Barry the lifesaver. It happened so swiftly, so unexpectedly there was no time to call him back. He vanished into the growing darkness. Had Canon Emil deliberately let Barry go? Joseph could not ask him. There was nothing to do about it now. “I will not grow anxious until midnight,” Canon Joseph thought. Since it was a night of real danger several of the Brothers waited with him for the dogs to return. Within a couple of hours one came back followed by a half-dead soldier. Obviously a deserter, but he was fed and warmed and put to bed. After a while one more came in with a workman. And the last two of the dogs returned leading a young couple, hysterical with fear and grief. It was an avalanche, the woman was crying. She caught at Canon Joseph’s robe. “Oh save my baby, my little girl! I had her in my arms. When the slide came it swept us away. I lost my hold. When I was conscious again I was alone in the snow. Finally my husband found me. We searched and searched. But the snow fell too fast and the wind blew. When at last the dogs came we followed them for help. Oh save her. Save her!” Canon Joseph organized a party immediately. After a time they became separated. Alone, Joseph searched for endless hours. Never had he faced a worse storm. He could see only in glimpses. But he persisted, walking on and calling until it seemed to him hope no longer was in him. That not only would he not find the child, but that Barry too must be gone. He had prayed for a long time, but now it seemed to him words would no longer come. He himself felt drowsy, overwhelmed. He had been exhausted when he started out and he knew this gradual slipping away was a danger signal. But he could not fight it. He thought vaguely, “I am a young man still. I have much to do,” but waves of blackness swept over him. He stumbled to his knees and could not rise again. His head fell lower and lower. . . .  Was this then the end? He knew himself going. There was nothing more he could do. Sinking, he clung to consciousness. He tried to pray. . . .  “Our Father—in Heaven—Thy will be done—” Suddenly a thought came simple and clear. God’s will must be done, always. There was no other power. What more was there to say then? He lay still, at peace. There was a lull in the wind. He heard a sound. It was not loud, but it was distinct and familiar. It echoed from somewhere beyond and below him. An instinct told him he might be near the edge of the canyon. Painfully he inched his way forward. He was. He peered down. On a ledge below him lay the little lost girl. Beside her stood Barry. He was covered with snow, an icy image of a dog. But an active one. He was trying to rouse the child by pulling and tugging at her clothing and by licking her face. She seemed to stir. Then Canon Joseph heard her cry and as he watched she sat up and threw her arms about the great animal’s neck. It was what Barry wanted, what he had been working for. He turned his body so that his head was beside hers and began an attempt to get her on his back. At first it appeared hopeless. But finally the child seemed to understand and she began to try too. And finally she did lie there, her head on his great head, her small body extended along his back, her arms clasped tightly about his neck. The fog in the Canon’s mind cleared. He was alert now, hypnotized, hardly breathing with excitement and with hope. Slowly, carefully, Barry worked his way along the ledge carrying his precious burden. Below him on one side was a deep, narrow crevasse; on the other side was the ice wall. One misstep was all that was needed to send them both plunging into eternity. But Barry made no misstep. His great paws went down cautiously. And they were at the end of the ledge. A scramble, and they were out of the canyon and on the solid snow. Only then did Joseph speak to him. The big dog brought his burden to him and Joseph lifted the child in his own arms. Joy gave him strength as he strode toward the Hospice. Joy and a new understanding. Ahead of them Barry rushed proudly. The Hospice windows showed gray and the child was warm and safely asleep as were her exhausted parents when at last the Abbé came, sent by the Prior to commend Canon Joseph and to give him permission to take one hour from duty for sleep, a concession made only on rare occasions. “Canon Emil released Barry deliberately,” he said. “When we thought you were lost Emil came to me and confessed.” “It is of no matter. Emil’s enmity can never reach me again,” Joseph said and knew he spoke the truth. “You and Barry should be happy and satisfied,” the Abbé said. Canon Joseph’s eyes met his and in them was a look the Abbé remembered well, the frank look of boyish innocence. The dark head nodded wearily. “Barry finds his joy in service, as we all do.” A smile flickered. “And Father Henri, this is childish, but I can say it to you, for it is a thing we spoke of on a night long ago. I shall not face fear again. Tonight at last I have come to feel faith.” His face shone. “It is as you said, very simple. It is but to say—and know—‘Thy will be done.’”   The years were all the same. They were the beads on a rosary. Joseph told them over and over, remembering their rich rewards, amazed as they slipped through his fingers. Life at the Hospice was timeless, it was now and it was forever. In this spot existence became caught and held in eternity, Joseph sometimes thought. Yet he realized he had grown older and that Barry, whose span of life was so much shorter than his own, was no longer a young dog. He was a famous and heroic one. He was Barry der Menschenretter, and the count of the lives he had saved mounted steadily—thirty, thirty-five, forty. . . .  It was inconceivable, yet it was true. One day life here must be over for both of them. Father Joseph would go, to the valley, to Martigny, and Barry would go with him. They would have many duties there, but their days of rescue would be finished. Neither of them could be called ancient, but twelve years of service on the heights was the limit of what could be endured. And then their last winter at the Hospice came. Father Joseph felt no regrets. He accepted it as he had come to accept the entire pattern of his life, recognizing its inevitability. Both of them felt the cold intensely now. The resistance which they had built up during the early years was dissipated and the chill pierced them through and through. A few more weeks and the Hospice would know them no more except as visitors. Only in the fair weather would they still climb the heights together, a link between the Hospice itself and the authority below. But though spring was approaching there was no sign of it now at the Pass. The terrific gales were blowing. And with the ardor with which he had so long met the challenge of the storm Father Joseph felt his spirit respond to it. There came a night when he would not even ask for volunteers. Tonight, he decided, would belong to him and to Barry. They would go into the storm as they had so many times before, to search for the lost ones. Father Joseph took his cloak and lantern and made his way to the kennel. He did not need to call; at the sound of the lock opening Barry was beside him, eager and ready. Side by side they passed through the great outer door, and were at once in the heart of the tumult. They moved down the slope, the chain collar Barry wore to protect him from wild animals clanking in the stillness. Snow blew about them and blinded them, the same snow they had battled so long. Its sting was a familiar pain. Father Joseph pulled his hood low; he felt his way with his staff; the light of his lantern glowed dimly. Ahead the fawn patches of Barry’s coat showed dark against the snow. They were away from the Hospice now, Barry pressing on steadily, not too fast, not too slow, accommodating his pace to his master as he had done a thousand times before. The snow was deeply drifted, the way steep and all landmarks obliterated. But Barry would find the trail. Guided by an instinctive knowledge deeper than any human intelligence, Barry was unfailing, invincible. They had walked for an hour when Father Joseph recognized they had reached a danger spot. Here snow piled in a deep valley and travelers frequently became lost. Barry was pushing on fast now and Father Joseph raised his lantern and peered. At first he saw nothing. Then below him in the snow he made out a black, huddled object. “God be thanked,” Father Joseph said, as he always said it when one who otherwise would have been lost was rescued. “Thank God we were guided here.” Barry began running, Barry the lifesaver, speeding to the rescue. In the snow a man stirred. A soldier on leave had been foolish enough to think he could go over the Pass and visit his mother in Martigny. He had started out valiantly but the storm had closed in on him. The drifts were deep, he had missed the way. He had floundered and, floundering, become exhausted. When he realized he could go no farther he was frightened, but the numbing cold dulled his senses. He tried to call. There seemed no one to answer but there was a chance the good monks of St. Bernard might be searching for travelers, might manage a rescue. If he could make them hear him. He shouted but faintly, and then his voice was gone. He lay in the snow to die. He dreamed then and in his dreams he was a child again, tending sheep on his father’s hillside. He cared for them lovingly and watchfully, for there were many wolves and he had to keep constant guard. He sat on the hillside, relaxed but alert. And when without warning a great beast sprang out of the darkness at him, he was magnificently ready. The knife he carried in his belt fitted his hand, he held it strongly. He had never killed a wolf but he would certainly kill this one. He saw its glowing eyes, its great mouth open, its dripping fangs, felt its hot breath, and the knife plunged. . . .  There was a cry, long, tortured, mortal. It was no wolf cry. He struggled up. In an anguished flash Father Joseph coming up saw what had happened. He saw the blood on the white fur, and the eyes that looked at him in wondering suffering, and the drooping head. And in the last moment before Barry der Menschenretter fell he saw him move to guide the man who had killed him in the direction of the Hospice of St. Bernard. Copyright © 2007 by Mordecai Siegal. All rights reserved.       
 

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Excerpted from Dog Spelled Backwards: Soulful Writing by Literary Dog Lovers
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.