Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 5 )(Page 1)( Jock's Schooldays )

After that day no one spoke of "The Rat" or "The Odd Puppy," or used any of the numberless nicknames that they had given him, such as "The Specimen," "The Object," "Number 6," "Bully-Beef," (because he got his head stuck in a half-pound tin one day), "The Scrap"; and even "The Duke of Wellington" ceased to be a gibe.  They still laughed at his ridiculous dignity; and they loved to tease him to see him stiffen with rage and hear his choky little growls; but they liked his independence and admired his tremendous pluck.  So they respected his name when he
got one. And his name was "Jock." No one bothered about the other puppies' names: they were known as "Billy's pup," "Jimmy's pup," "Old Joe's Darling," "Yellow Jack," and "Bandy-Legged Sue"; but they seemed to think that this little chap had earned his name, fighting his way without anybody's help and with everything against him; so they gave up all the nicknames and spoke of him as "Jock." Jock got such a good advertisement by his fight with the table-leg that
every one took notice of him now and remarked about what he did; and as he was only a very young puppy, they teased him, fed him, petted him, and did their best to spoil him.  He was so young that it did not seem to matter, but I think if he had not been a really good dog at heart he
would have been quite spoilt. He soon began to grow and fill out; and it was then that he taught the other puppies to leave him alone.  If they had not interfered with him he might perhaps have left them alone, as it was not his nature to interfere with others; but the trouble was they had bullied him so much while he was weak and helpless that he got used to the idea of fighting
for everything.  It is probably the best thing that could have happened to Jock that as a puppy he was small and weak, but full of pluck; it compelled him to learn how to fight; it made him clever, cool, and careful, for he could not afford to make mistakes.  When he fought he
meant business; he went for a good spot, bit hard, and hung on for all he was worth; then, as the enemy began to slacken, he would start vigorously worrying and shaking.  I often saw him shake himself off his feet, because the thing he was fighting was too heavy for him. The day Jock fought the two big puppies--one after the other--for his bone, and beat them off, was the day of his independence; we all saw the tussle, and cheered the little chap.  And then for one whole day he had peace; but it was like the pause at low water before the tide begins to flow the other way.  He was so used to being interfered with that I suppose he did not immediately understand they would never tackle him again. It took a whole day for him to realise this; but as soon as he did understand it he seemed to make up his mind that now his turn had come, and he went for the first puppy he saw with a bone.  He walked up slowly and carefully, and began to make a circle round him.  When he got about half-way round the puppy took up the bone and trotted off; but Jock headed him off at once, and again began to walk towards him very slowly
and stiffly.  The other puppy stood quite still for a moment, and then Jock's fierce determined look was too much for him: he dropped the bone and bolted. There was mighty little but smell on those bones, for we gave the puppies very little meat, so when Jock had taken what he could off this one, he started on another hunt.  A few yards away Billy's pup was having a glorious time, struggling with a big bone and growling all the while as if he wanted to let the world know that it was as much as any one's life was worth to come near him.  None of us thought Jock would tackle him, as Billy's pup was still a long way the biggest and strongest of the puppies, and always ready to bully the others. Jock was about three or four yards away when he caught sight of Billy's pup, and for about a minute he stood still and quietly watched.  At first he seemed surprised, and then interested, and then gradually he stiffened up all over in that funny way of his; and when the hair on his shoulders was all on end and his ears and tail were properly up, he
moved forward very deliberately.  In this fashion he made a circle round Billy's pup, keeping about two feet away from him, walking infinitely slowly and glaring steadily at the enemy out of the corners of his eyes; and while he was doing this, the other fellow was tearing away at his
bone, growling furiously and glaring sideways at Jock.  When the circle was finished they stood once more face to face; and then after a short pause Jock began to move in closer, but more slowly even than before. Billy's pup did not like this: it was beginning to look serious.  He
could not keep on eating and at the same time watch Jock; moreover, there was such a very unpleasant wicked look about Jock, and he moved so steadily and silently forward, that any one would feel a bit creepy and nervous; so he put his paw on the bone and let out a string of snarly
barks, with his ears flat on his neck and his tail rather low down.  But Jock still came on--a little more carefully and slowly perhaps, but just as steadily as ever.  When about a foot off the enemy's nose he changed his direction slightly, as if to walk past, and Billy's pup turned his
head to watch him, keeping his nose pointed towards Jock's, but when they got side by side he again looked straight in front of him. Perhaps he did this to make sure the bone was still there, or perhaps to show his contempt when he thought Jock was going off.  Whatever the
reason was, it was a mistake; for, as he turned his head away, Jock flew at him, got a good mouthful of ear, and in no time they were rolling and struggling in the dust--Jock's little grunts barely-audible in the noise made by the other one.  Billy's pup was big and strong, and he was not a coward; but Jock was worrying his ear vigorously, and he could not find anything to bite in return.  In less than a minute he began to howl, and was making frantic efforts to get away.  Then Jock let go the ear and tackled the bone. After that he had no more puppy fights.  As soon as any one of the others saw Jock begin to walk slowly and carefully towards him he seemed
to suddenly get tired of his bone, and moved off. Most dogs--like most people--when their hearts fail them will try to hide the truth from one another and make some sort of effort or pretence to keep their dignity or self-respect or the good opinion of others. You may see it all any day in the street, when dogs meet and stop to `size' each other up.  As a rule the perfectly shameless cowards are found in the two extreme classes--the outcasts, whose spirits are broken
by all the world being against them; and the pampered darlings, who have never had to do anything for themselves.  Many dogs who are clearly anxious to get out of fighting will make a pretence of bravery at the time, or at least cover up their cowardice, with a `wait-till-I-catch-you-next-time' air, as soon as they are at a safe distance.  Day after day at the outspans the puppies went through every stage of the business, to our constant amusement and to my unconcealed pride; for Jock was thenceforth cock of the walk.  If they saw him some
distance off moving towards them or even staring hard and with his ears and tail up, the retreat would be made with a gloomy and dignified air, sometimes even with growls just loud enough to please themselves without provoking him; if he was fairly close up when spotted they wasted no
time in putting on airs, but trotted off promptly; but sometimes they would be too busy to notice anything until a growl or a rustle in the grass close behind gave warning; and it was always followed by a jump and a shameless scuttle, very often accompanied by a strangled sort of
yowling yelp, just as if he had already got them by the ear or throat. Some of them became so nervous that we could not resist playing practical jokes on them--making sudden strange noises, imitating Jock's growls, tossing bits of bark at them or touching them from behind with a
stick while they were completely occupied with their bones--for the fun of seeing the stampede and hearing the sudden howls of surprise and fright. One by one the other puppies were taken away by their new masters, and before Jock was three months old he and Jess were the only dogs with the waggons.  Then he went to school, and like all schoolboys learnt some
things very quickly--the things that he liked; and some things he learnt very slowly, and hated them just as a boy hates extra work in play-time. When I poked about with a stick in the banks of dongas to turn out mice and field-rats for him, or when I hid a partridge or a hare and made him find it, he was as happy as could be; but when I made him lie down and watch my gun or coat while I pretended to go off and leave him, he did not like it; and as for his lessons in manners! well, he simply hated them. There are some things which a dog in that sort of life simply must learn or you cannot keep him; and the first of these is, not to steal.  Every
puppy will help himself until he is taught not to; and your dog lives with you and can get at everything.  At the outspans the grub-box is put on the ground, open for each man to help himself; if you make a stew, or roast the leg of a buck, the big three-legged pot is put down handy and left there; if you are lucky enough to have some tinned butter or condensed milk, the tins are opened and stood on the ground; and if you have a dog thief in the camp, nothing is safe.
There was a dog with us once--a year or two later--who was the worst thief I ever knew.  He was a one-eyed pointer with feet like a duck's, and his name was Snarleyow.  He looked the most foolish and most innocent dog in the world, and was so timid that if you stumbled as you
passed him he would instantly start howling and run for the horizon. The first bad experience I had of Snarley was on one of the little hunting trips which we sometimes made in those days, away from the waggons.  We travelled light on those occasions, and, except for some
tea and a very little flour and salt, took no food; we lived on what we shot and of course kept `hunter's pot.' `Hunter's pot' is a perpetual stew; you make one stew, and keep it going
as long as necessary, maintaining a full pot by adding to it as fast as you take any out; scraps of everything go in; any kind of meat--buck, bird, pig, hare--and if you have such luxuries as onions or potatoes, so much the better; then, to make the soup strong, the big bones are
added--the old ones being fished out every day and replaced by a fresh lot.  When allowed to cool it sets like brawn, and a hungry hunter wants nothing better. We had had a good feed the first night of this trip and had then filled the pot up leaving it to simmer as long as the fire lasted, expecting to have cold pie set in jelly--but without the pie-crust--for early breakfast next morning before going off for the day; but, to our amazement, in the morning the pot was empty.  There were some strange kaffirs--camp followers--hanging on to our trail for what they could
pick up, and we suspected them.  There was a great row, but the boys denied having touched the pot, and we could prove nothing. That night we made the fire close to our sleeping-place and moved the kaffirs further away, but next morning the pot was again empty--cleaned
and polished as if it had been washed out.  While we, speechless with astonishment and anger, were wondering who the thief was and what we should do with him, one of the hunting boys came up and pointed to the prints of a dog's feet in the soft white ashes of the dead fire.  There
was only one word: "Snarleyow."  The thief was lying fast asleep comfortably curled up on his master's clothes.  There could be no mistake about those big splayed footprints, and in about two minutes Snarleyow was getting a first-class hammering, with his head tied inside
the three-legged pot for a lesson. After that he was kept tied up at night; but Snarleyow was past curing. We had practically nothing to eat but what we shot, and nothing to drink
but bush tea--that is, tea made from a certain wild shrub with a very strong scent; it is not nice, but you drink it when you cannot get anything else.  We could not afford luxuries then, but two days before Ted's birthday he sent a runner off to Komati Drift and bought a small
tin of ground coffee and a tin of condensed milk for his birthday treat. It was to be a real feast that day, so he cut the top off the tin instead of punching two holes and blowing the milk out, as we usually did in order to economise and keep out the dust and insects.  What we could not use in the coffee that day we were going to spread on our `dough-boys' instead of butter and jam.  It was to be a real feast! The five of us sat down in a circle and began on our hunter's pot,
saving the good things for the last.  While we were still busy on the tew, there came a pathetic heartbreaking yowl from Snarleyow, and we looked round just in time to see him, his tail tucked between his legs and his head high in the air, bolting off into the bush as hard as he
could lay legs to the ground, with the milk tin stuck firmly on to his nose.  The greedy thief in trying to get the last scrap out had dug his nose and top jaw too far in, and the jagged edges of the tin had gripped him; and the last we saw of our birthday treat was the tin flashing in
the sunlight on Snarley's nose as he tore away howling into the bush. Snarleyow came to a bad end: his master shot him as he was running off with a ham.  He was a full-grown dog when he came to our camp, and too old to learn principles and good manners. Dogs are like people: what they learn when they are young, whether of good or of evil, is not readily forgotten.  I began early with Jock, and--remembering what Rocky had said--tried to help him.  It is little
use punishing a dog for stealing if you take no trouble about feeding him.  That is very rough on the dog; he has to find out slowly and by himself what he may take, and what he may not.  Sometimes he leaves what he was meant to take, and goes hungry; and sometimes takes what was not intended for him, and gets a thrashing.  That is not fair.  You cannot expect to have a good dog, and one that will understand you, if you treat him in that way.  Some men teach their dogs not to take food from any one but themselves.  One day when we were talking about training dogs, Ted told one of the others to open Jess's mouth and put a piece of
 eat in it, he undertaking not to say a word and not even to look at her.  The meat was put in her mouth and her jaws were shut tight on it; but the instant she was free she dropped it, walked round to the other side of Ted and sat close up to him.  He waited for a minute or so and,
without so much as a glance at her, said quietly "All right."  She was back again in a second and with one hungry bite bolted the lump of meat. I taught Jock not to touch food in camp until he was told to `take it.' The lesson began when he got his saucer of porridge in the morning; and
he must have thought it cruel to have that put in front of him, and then to be held back or tapped with a finger on the nose each time he tried to dive into it.  At first he struggled and fought to get at it; then he tried to back away and dodge round the other side; then he became dazed, and, thinking it was not for him at all, wanted to walk off and have nothing more to do with it.  In a few days, however, I got him to lie still and take it only when I patted him and pushed him towards it; and in a very little time he got on so well that I could put his food down
without saying anything and let him wait for permission.  He would lie down with his head on his paws and his nose right up against the saucer, so as to lose no time when the order came; but he would not touch it until he heard `Take it.'  He never moved his head, but his little browny dark eyes, full of childlike eagerness, used to be turned up sideways and fixed on mine.  I believe he watched my lips; he was so quick to obey the order when it came. When he grew up and had learned his lessons there was no need for these exercises.  He got to understand me so well that if I nodded or moved my hand in a way that meant `all right,' he would go ahead: by that time
too he was dignified and patient; and it was only in his puppyhood that he used to crouch up close to his food and tremble with impatience and excitement. There was one lesson that he hated most of all.  I used to balance a piece of meat on his nose and make him keep it there until the word to take it came. Time after time he would close his eyes as if the sight of the meat was
more than he could bear, and his mouth would water so from the savoury smell that long streels of dribble would hang down on either side. It seems unnecessary and even cruel to tantalise a dog in that way; but it was not: it was education; and it was true kindness.  It taught him
to understand his master, and to be obedient, patient, and observant; it taught him not to steal; it saved him from much sickness, and perhaps death, by teaching him not to feed on anything he could find; it taught him manners and made it possible for him to live with his master and be
treated like a friend. Good feeding, good care, and plenty of exercise soon began to make a
great change in Jock.  He ceased to look like a beetle--grew bigger everywhere, not only in one part as he had done at first; his neck grew thick and strong, and his legs straightened up and filled out with muscle.  The others, seeing him every day, were slow to notice these
things, but my sand had been changed into gold long ago, and they always said I could not see anything wrong in Jock. There was one other change which came more slowly and seemed to me much more wonderful.  After his morning feed, if there was nothing to do, he used to go to sleep in some shady place, and I remember well one day watching him as he lay.  His bit of shade had moved away and left him in the bright sunshine; and as he breathed and his ribs rose and fell, the tips of the hairs on his side and back caught the sunlight and shone like polished gold, and the wavy dark lines seemed more distinct and darker, but still very soft.  In fact, I was astonished to see that in a certain light Jock looked quite handsome.  That was the first time I
noticed the change in colour; and it made me remember two things.  The first was what the other fellows had said the day Billy gave up his pup, "You can't tell how a puppy will turn out: even his colour changes;" and the second was a remark made by an old hunter who had offered to buy Jock--the real meaning of which I did not understand at the time. "The best dog I ever owned was a golden brindle," said the old man thoughtfully, after I had laughed at the idea of selling my dog.  I had got so used to thinking that he was only a faded wishy-washy edition of
Jess that the idea of his colour changing did not occur to me then, and I never suspected that the old man could see how he would turn out; but the touch of sunlight opened my eyes that day, and after that whenever I looked at Jock the words "golden brindle" came back to my mind, and I pictured him as he was going to be--and as he really did grow up--having a coat like burnished gold with soft, dark, wavy brindles in it and that snow-white V on his chest. Jock had many things to learn besides the lessons he got from me--the lessons of experience which nobody could teach him.  When he was six months old--just old enough, if he had lived in a town, to chase a cat and make a noise--he knew many things that respectable puppies of twice
his age who stay at home never get a chance of learning. On trek there were always new places to see, new roads to travel, and new things to examine, tackle or avoid.