# The red book of animal stories/The Life and Death of Pincher

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PINCHER
Pincher was a native of Edinburgh, and was born about 1880. It is unfortunate that Dr. John Brown did not write the biography of Pincher, whom he probably knew, while I myself was unacquainted with the hero. This life is based on the recollections of the bereaved survivors of an illustrious hound.
On the mother’s side, Pincher came of an old family of fox-terriers. His paternal descent is wrapped in mystery, but those who know the circumstances best believe that Pincher had bull-terrier blood in his veins. His ears were large and loosely flapping; his tail was short, thick, and columnar—that heroic tail which never but once was seen between his legs.
In very early youth Pincher was bestowed on a lady of mature age and maiden dignity, who dwelt in London. She became much attached to Pincher, but soon restored him to Edinburgh. On consulting her friends, and her own sense of propriety, she did not think it becoming that she should constantly appear in police courts. Yet this was her portion in life, owing to the military instincts of Pincher, still uncontrolled by knowledge of the world. Pincher drank delight of battle with his peers, and Wallace rejoiced not more in the blood of Englishmen than Pincher in the gore of English dogs. Through wide Bayswater he kept avenging Flodden, and was in police courts often. He was therefore restored to the bosom of his family, who resided in Douglas Crescent.
Reflection had taught Pincher that a refined Crescent ​was no fit arena for military prowess. Besides, he had reduced the dogs of the district to order, and his appearance, like that of the British Flag on the high seas of old, was saluted by tails down. Pincher looked for new worlds to conquer. He took his stand, like some adventurous knight of old, in a pass perilous. He kept that thronged thoroughfare, the Dairy Road, against all comers. No collie, or bull-terrier, or Dandie could pass, but must cross teeth with Pincher. In the Dairy Road he compromised nobody; unrecognised, like the Black Knight at Ashby-de-la-Zouch in ‘Ivanhoe,’ he reaped his laurels.
Battle was not Pincher’s only joy. He loved sacred music. Certain anthems and hymn tunes, when performed on the piano, moved Pincher to an ecstasy which he expressed in rhythmic howls. To secular music he was deaf, or dumb; he did not wed his voice to profane melody. Hence he for long remained apparently indifferent to barrel-organs. But, at last, Pincher was missing from his wonted stand. He kept the pass of the Dairy Road no longer. He had found a wandering musician, proprietor of a barrel-organ, who had the ‘Old Hundredth’ in his machine. Him Pincher constantly attended in George Square, in Princes Street, in The Pleasance, everywhere. Pincher’s family would meet an enthusiastic crowd, who listened with rapt attention while Pincher accompanied the ‘Old Hundredth’ with vocal and heartfelt psalmody. The musician profited not a little by Pincher’s performances.
Pincher could not abide his neighbour, Professor Blackie. The extraordinary liveliness of that scholar found vent in a kind of dance, a sort of waltz in which he indulged as he paced the street. Observing this, and not liking it, Pincher would rush from his lair in the area, circling round the Professor, and leaping up at the tails of his plaid. The learned Professor was obliged to walk like other men in Pincher’s neighbourhood.
The Highlands were the home of Pincher’s most ​celebrated feats, and the Pass of Glencoe witnessed what he doubtless deemed the most tragic event in his crowded life. Here he, who never feared the face of living dog, fled from the dead, as he (erroneously) believed. He was not inaccessible to the terror of superstition, nor could he encounter the foe whom he had already seen stretched lifeless at his feet. But this adventure needs some preface and explanation.
The Coe, after threading the Pass where the massacre took place under tremendous and beetling crags, reaches the sea at Invercoe, above which it is spanned by a bridge. At Invercoe dwelt a family akin to that owned by Pincher. They possessed a Scotch terrier named Jack, between whom and Pincher reigned an inveterate feud. To keep these enemies apart was the great, object of all friends of peace. Pincher’s family lived on the left, Jack’s on the right of the river. One day both families were taking tea in the open air, the table being spread just under the window of a cottage in the village. Pincher was left in the cottage, Jack on the other side of the stream. As the guests partook of the innocent feast, a kind of hairy hurricane sped from above, the urn and teapot were overset, a heavy body landed on the table, and, when the affrighted tea-party recovered the use of their senses, Pincher and Jack were found engaged in a death struggle. Jack, unobserved, had come up the road, Pincher, beholding or scenting him from an upper window, had leaped to the fray!
“What could be done was done. Both hounds were lifted from the earth by their tails. Pepper was applied to their nostrils, water was poured over them. But Pincher did not leave his hold till Jack lay motionless at his feet. Then Pincher let himself be dragged off, while medical attendance was called in for Jack, the doctor’s house being hard by. The skill and perseverance of that excellent physician were at last rewarded. Jack breathed, he stirred, and, unknown to the relentless Pincher, was ​conveyed by a band of sympathisers to his own home, very unwell.
After this event Jack and Pincher were carefully kept apart, and Pincher firmly believed that his enemy was dead. But, in the following year, Pincher crossed the bridge, and, in the view of several credible witnesses, he encountered Jack. Instantly that short tail of Pincher’s drooped, he trembled, turned, and fled. He had slain Jack, that he knew, and yet here was Jack again, re-arisen from his grave. Now, and never before, men saw Pincher fly from a foe. The inference is obvious: he regarded Jack as a visitor from the world of spirits. Brutus was not afraid of the ghost of Cæsar, but in this one respect Pincher fell short of the Roman courage.
Pincher, though alarmed, was unconverted. Though gentle to small dogs, and the attached friend of little children, Pincher reigned the tyrant of the glen. When he marched down the middle of the village street, dogs and cats fled to back gardens and under beds in cottages. At the age of fourteen Pincher died. It was his habit to jump at the noses of trotting horses; enfeebled by years he ‘missed his tip,’ was kicked by the justly irritated horse, and never recovered from the injury. Pincher was brave to a fault, tender, faithful, and the patron of at least one of the fine arts: sacred music. When he first landed in the Highlands, the barque which bore him glided through clear water over a green field, submerged at high tide. In the mirror-like expanse Pincher beheld his own reflected shape, conceived it to be a hostile hound, and leaped to battle. His perplexed expression when he rose to the surface is said to have been extremely comic. His old age was gloomy, as he no longer dared to keep the crown of the causeway, dreading the reprisals of the young. The time came to this conqueror when, like Rob Roy in his last days, he had enough of fighting. Such, as drawn by a feeble but impartial hand, were the Life and Death of Pincher.