# The red book of animal stories/Thieving Dogs and Horses

THIEVING DOGS AND HORSES
It is now about eighty years since Sir Walter Scott told some curious stories, proving how animals could be deliberately trained by their owners to break the law, or to help them to break it, all the while thinking they were acting from the best motives, and only doing their duty. It is, if we come to reflect, very difficult for a dog to learn that he is worthy of praise if he defends his master’s property, while he is doing a very wicked thing if, at that very master’s bidding, he tries to get possession of somebody else’s. His only idea of the whole duty of dog is to do what he is told. And a very good idea it is, too, only it sometimes leads to trouble. Why, only a few days ago a large boar-hound was trained by some Paris thieves to fly at a man’s throat at a given signal. The man was nearly killed, but not before the dog and his owners bad been caught by the police. The thieves were taken to prison, and the dog to the lethal chamber.
This little incident shows that the nature of dogs, as well as that of men, is pretty much the same as when Sir Walter was writing about them. Somewhere about the year 1817 a constable made a complaint to the police magistrate of Shadwell, a large district in the East of London, that a horse in the neighbourhood had become a confirmed hay-stealer. Every night, declared the constable, that horse would walk boldly up to the stands of hackney coaches in the parish of St. George’s-in-the-East, and eat as much hay as he wanted, after which he ​instantly galloped away. More than once a party of men had set out to catch him, but in the end they had been obliged to give this up, for if they attempted to interfere with him when he was eating, he would first turn round and charge them, and then kick furiously at them; and if this did not do, he would end by biting them. So, not knowing what to do, they had sent the constable to the magistrate to ask his advice.
It was not of much use when he got it. The magistrate thought it was a very shocking state of things, and directed that the offending horse should be brought into court to answer these grave charges, if he could be caught; but this was exactly the difficulty, and as there is no record at the Shadwell Police Court of the case being tried, it is probable that one of two things happened: either the horse was shot by one of the angry drivers, or he went on stealing hay as long as it pleased him.
The next time we hear of a four-footed robber being charged in a police court it is at Hatton Garden, a part of London that is inhabited by Italians and diamond merchants, and on this occasion it was a dog who was the thief. Two ladies appeared one morning before the magistrate, and one of them stated that as she and her sister were returning from St. Pancras Church the evening before, and were walking down the road to Battle Bridge about six o’clock, a hairy dog, not unlike a collie, had suddenly jumped up from the roadside where he had been lying in wait, and seizing a small bag (or reticule, as it was called in those days) which one of the ladies held in her hand, dashed off with it across the road, and was lost to sight in the darkness. Her loss was heavy, for she was not rich, and the reticule contained a sovereign, eighteen shillings in silver, a silver thimble, a pair of silver spectacles, and two or three other small things. Perhaps she had been spending the afternoon at one of the little card-parties which at that date had hardly ceased to be the fashion.
​When she had told her tale, a constable came forward and stated that, only the Saturday before, a dog answering to the same description had attacked a poor woman in the neighbourhood, and snatched from her a bundle containing two shirts, some handkerchiefs, and other articles of dress, and had run off with them, leaving the woman so frightened that she had nearly died of terror. And these charges were not the only ones that were lodged against this dog. Four or five more complaints of robbery were brought against him, and though no man had ever been seen in his neighbourhood, at the time the thefts were committed, it was supposed that he must have been carefully trained to the work, and also to bring his spoil back to his master, who would be hiding in some place not far distant. In the end, the constable undertook to stop his pranks, or else to shoot him.
Sometimes, however, it is not possible for the master (and real offender) to keep entirely in the background, and instances have been known of the punishment falling on the right head.
Towards the close of the last century two men and a dog were tried for sheep-stealing before one of the most celebrated Scotch judges of the day.
One of the men, Murdieston by name, lived on a farm on the north bank of the Tweed, nearly opposite the beautiful old castle of Traquair; the other, who was called Millar, was his shepherd. They were much respected by their neighbours as quiet industrious people, but in reality had carried on the business of sheep-stealers for many years without exciting the suspicion of any one. Indeed, they were so very cautious that, even in the middle hf the night, they would never drive the stolen animals along the high road, lonely though the country was, but preferred to keep to the side of the bare hills that lie between the little river of Leithen and the Tweed. Not that they were safe even here, for a careful shepherd would often make the round of his flocks by night, or it ​would happen that the sheep gave more trouble than Millar expected, and precious time was lost, so dawn would come while the farm was still many miles away. Then he would make his way to the bank of the river, which lay in an opposite direction, and leave his dog Yarrow to bring the sheep back to the ground belonging to Murdieston, where they would be quite safe from suspicion if any one passed by.
A short distance from the river was an old square tower, to which the farm-house had been afterwards added, and under the tower was a large cellar, where the stolen sheep were generally concealed. On Sunday mornings, when everybody was off to church, the thieves busied themselves with changing the marks that are always put upon sheep, and replacing with their own those of the real owner. During this operation Yarrow kept watch outside, and never failed to give a warning bark when he caught sight of a stranger on the road or on the hill.
Of course Millar knew quite well that if he went on keeping his robberies to one district he would certainly end by being found out, and that before very long. So, one night, he crossed the Tweed to a lonely farm in the hills of Selkirk, where he managed to get hold of several sheep, and prepared to drive them home. Now sheep have a strange objection to coming down a hillside at night, and still more to crossing a river; so, when Millar, after steering his flock with some difficulty round the shoulder of Wallace’s hill, tried to induce them to swim a pool of the Tweed, the elder members of the party became obstinate, and stubbornly refused to budge one inch. It was to no purpose that Millar and Yarrow did everything they could think of to force or persuade. Across that river they would not go, and, to his despair, Millar saw the day breaking over the east, and knew that he must fly at once, if he did not wish his own neck to be in danger. Yet he could not bear to give up his booty just at the last, when he was hardly a quarter of a ​mile from the tower, so, leaving Yarrow in charge, he went home, calling directions to the dog as long as he dared.
Left to himself, and feeling that he was put upon his honour, Yarrow rushed furiously at the oldest and most obstinate ewe on the ground, and drove her into the water, frightened out of her wits, for she thought she was going to be bitten; struggling to get away, two others tumbled over the bank after her, and were drowned in the stream; the rest became wilder than ever, and as by this time the sun was well above the horizon, Yarrow knew that he too must follow his master, and leave the sheep to their fate.
Late that same evening the sheep might have been seen wending their way wearily home with new marks on their bodies, hastily daubed on by Millar in a lonely hollow of the hills.
The thieves thought that they had escaped before any prying people were up and about; but they must have been watched by some unseen person, for information of their misdoings was given, and they were soon lodged safe in gaol. The case was easily proved, and both Millar and his master condemned to death, for in those days there were very few crimes which did not lead to the gallows. When he saw that it was useless to deny the fact any more, Millar told the whole story to a respectable sheep farmer who came to visit him in prison, and they both agreed that they did not know which was most surprising, the obstinacy of the sheep in refusing to cross the river, or the perseverance of the dog in trying to force them to do it!
The two thieves were hanged on the appointed day; but Yarrow was bought by a sheep farmer in the county, who hoped to train him to honest work. But it was too late; his teaching had all been in one direction, and when he found he was not allowed to show his cunning in driving away other people’s property, he grew quite stupid, and could never be trusted to do even the com​monest everyday tasks which fall to the lot of every collie.
However, it is not only collies which can be taught to steal, though, of course, dogs are like children, and some of them learn much more quickly than others. Some years after Millar’s bad conduct had met with the reward it deserved, a rich young man, living in Edinburgh, saw a beautiful and clever little spaniel which took his fancy, and he never rested until the owner had agreed to sell it. The animal had been in his new home only a few days when its master was astonished and shocked at its bringing home a pair of new gloves, three silk handkerchiefs, and, shortly after, a lady’s gauze scarf. At first he tried to believe this was an accident; but as the collection grew larger and larger, he soon understood that thieving had formed the largest part of the dog’s education, and that most likely it would be quite impossible to cure the animal of its bad ways, now that it had grown up.
So, when the spaniel next began whining and sniffing at the door, and showing all the usual signs of wanting to go out for a walk, the young man took down his hat, and turned into the streets, watching all the while what his dog was doing, though very careful never to turn his head in that direction.
And what the dog did was very curious to see. It loitered through the town in the purposeless way that all dogs think is a proof of gentlemanly behaviour, stopping every now and then either to speak to a friend, or to examine something strange that lay in the gutter. The young man walked steadily on, and entered a shop where he was well known, telling the shopkeeper, hastily, to take no notice if the dog should enter, as he would of course pay for any of its robberies. He then began to turn over some of the articles for sale, so that the animal’s suspicions might not be awakened if it came in, which it presently did, in the same lounging, careless manner that had marked its walk through the streets, ​treating its master as if he was a person whom it really was not respectable to know. While the spaniel was thus poking round the shop with its eyes apparently turned in another direction, the young man was turning over some articles at the counter. Suddenly he glanced at the dog, touching, as if without thinking, a small parcel that lay there. Soon after he left the shop.
The dog, who from first to last had given no sign that it and its master knew each other, sat down peacefully at the door, in a position where it could see all that was going on inside. At length the shopkeeper went for a moment to an inner room to fetch something he wanted. In an instant the spaniel had placed its fore-paws on the counter, seized the parcel, and crept out noiselessly to rejoin its master, bearing the stolen property triumphantly in its mouth.
“We are not told whether in the long run the young man was ever caused any serious trouble by this magpie of a dog; but a gentleman who became famous as a lawyer at the end of the eighteenth century very nearly fell a victim to the too faithful memory of his horse.
In the days of his youth, somewhere between 1750 and 1760, the journey between Edinburgh and London was made on horseback. If a man was rich enough he hired horses to meet him and his servant at certain places on the road, but if he was poor, he bought a horse at the beginning of his journey, and sold him for what he could get at the end of it.
Now this gentleman had been brought up in the country, and nobody was a better judge of a horse, so when the business which had brought him to London was finished, he set out for Smithfield, where the great horse market then was, to buy a mount for his return journey next day. He instantly picked out a handsome creature with a beautiful head, and stopped to look at it, though he felt, with a sigh, that the sum asked would be certain to
THE HIGHWAYMAN’S HORSE
​be far higher than he could afford. The horse dealer, however, at once came up, and, while praising the horse, named such a low price for it that the gentleman could hardly believe his ears, and made sure the animal must have some serious drawback. He examined it carefully all over, but could find no drawback anywhere—it was beautifully proportioned, and its knees were quite sound. The dealer, mistaking the reason of his silence, was so anxious to have the bargain concluded that he agreed to accept a still smaller sum, and the young man, feeling that there was some mystery somewhere, paid the money down, and the following morning took the Great North Road to Edinburgh.
For the first few miles out of London the way was full of people, and no man was better mounted than himself, or had a horse with better paces. In fact, the more pleased the young man got, the more puzzled he became. As they approached Finchley Common the number of riders fell off, and by the time the young man reached a dip in the road not a soul was in sight but a clergyman driving a one-horse chaise, which was travelling in the opposite direction. As they came close to each other, the ridden horse stopped dead in front of the driven one, thus preventing it from going on its way. The clergyman, taking for granted that he had to do with one of the highwaymen who in those days were the terror of every country district, quietly got out his purse, and assured the young man, who all this while was speechless from astonishment, that it would not be necessary for him to use force. The shame caused by this remark loosened the rider’s tongue, and, with a hasty apology and a confused explanation, he whipped up his horse and went his way.
On the next occasion, however, that the horse thought fit to exercise the profession for which he had been educated, things took a graver turn. This time he halted in front of a coach, and before his rider knew what he was at, or was ​able to get him under way again, a blunderbuss was aimed at the poor man’s innocent head, and he was informed that the occupants of the coach would sell their lives dearly! And, as if this was not enough, it appeared that the horse was well known all along that very road, and when he had escaped from the firearms of passengers, it was only to be stopped by the officers of the peace, hoping at last to capture the notorious highwayman who had so many times contrived to slip through their fingers.
It can easily be imagined that by the time York was reached the poor young man had had quite enough. He parted with his prize for a mere trifle, less even than what he had paid, and was glad to buy for a much larger sum a horse that was not indeed so handsome to look at, but had been better brought up.
Yet it would be unjust to think that an animal’s misdoing is always the fault of its master and mistress. Here and there we find a creature who is naughty or tiresome just because it likes it, and who will not suffer itself to be taught better ways. Not long ago a dog was living at the mouth of a short street in London which was open only at one end, and was the home of a great many children. If any child tried to pass him he would run at it and snap, and if he did not actually bite them, the nurses always thought that he had done so. At length every one became so frightened that the father of one of the little girls had to go before a magistrate and beg that the owners of this terrible animal might be forced to get rid of him, as it was not fair that the whole street should be kept in a state of siege, only for the amusement of one dog. The magistrate agreed that it certainly was unreasonable, and from that day the children could come and go as they chose, without any fear of suddenly being sent sprawling on the pavement.