The Greenville Enterprise

Eastern Dogs.

Eastern dogs are all of one class; not subdivided into species like the dog families of the West. They are strictly exclusive, and will neither associate with nor tolerate dogs of any other persuasion. Like certain bodies of a nobler sort, they show a wonderful uniformity, but not much unity.

A toy terrier running about the streets of Cairo would be a preposterous supposition. One of those woolly-haired poodles so dear to certain of our beloved country women might, I apprehend, feel about as much at home there as an Alderman would dining in the desert, with a select circle of admiring Arabs watching every mouthful. But with all this exclusiveness—and it goes so far, that I will be bound to say an English dog set down unprotected in any busy part of the City of the Faithful would be mobbed by his fellows and killed in ten minutes—they are the veriest curs imaginable.

The Americans describe the city of Alexandria as being powerful in dogs. Alexandria, however, is nothing to some of the villages up the Nile. Siout, for example, beats it hollow; and in the towns near Nubia, where, from increased heat or other causes, human beings lapse into an apathetic ease, and pass a lotus eating life, dog-nature, on the contrary, seems most exuberantly to quicken and thrive. In the hamlets by the river-side of the Thebaid, you cannot step on shore from your boat without being greeted by a howl. The distant perspective furnishes always its quota of dogs, and in the suburbs of villages, these canine vagabonds gather thick as flies on a basket of summer fruit. They go round about the city and grin—that is the very word—grin at you with clenched teeth and muzzle set all ajar. Grinning, however, is their most formidable effort except a detestable bark they have, which is neither deep-mouthed nor yappish, but rasping to your nerves as a cracked bell. Expostulate but mildly with a dog, and he bolts with startling agility, giving a premonitory yelp, in the thought that you are going to beat him—the which, indeed, if you neglect to do, he will think meanly of you, and accordingly return to his grinning more hideously than before.

The profound aversion of Eastern dogs to Western travellers is remarkable. No sooner do you round a corner into view than the whole fry is in an uproar. While the vilest dressed or undressed Arab, tattered or leprous, may pass within an inch of their noses without comment, the moment that you, an individual, clad, you flatter yourself, irreproachably, loom out of the obscure, these dogs protest against you. Nomad bull in the matter of red cloth could show more marked antipathy.

That which exasperates them most, however, is the sight of a man in full evening dress. They haven't a shred of reverence for it—proof positive of degeneracy of breed. A friend of mine, after some evening solemnity on board a neighboring hospital boat, took it into his head to go ashore and study moonlight effects among the palms. We accompanied him, but these canine Philistines picked him out at once, and—well, seriously injured his ceremonial vestments. City dogs, with scarcely an exception, go about "on their own hook," without master, and live by scavenging and mendicity. They are grateful for any favor. If they are kicked from one door, they pocket the affront, and try the next. Likely enough this independence gave rise to the first organization of a common government. For that there is a doggish republic is a fact, I assure you, and no fiction.

For instance, it is clear that the city is portioned out into districts, and no dog may stray out of his own district into his neighbor's on any pretense. Policemen and sentinels are always watching.— Particular bark of alarm that they give, all the vicinity will muster in force, bristling up with all the conceit and fussiness of dog nature, and enforce the law. A stray dog caught foraying out of bounds will sometimes hardly escape with his life. It is against dog-law, too, as I have often seen—a point of honor with them—not to rob one another. A big dog dare not take a bone from his weaker brother. I have seen a little cur parade his bone before a dog big enough to eat him, for the simple purpose of exciting envy. Often, of summer afternoons, in the gardens of the Esbekieh, I used to watch the ways of these Ishmaelites. They take kindly to the Esbekieh, which is a glorious oasis of tropical greenery, shadowy and cool, clustered amid a golden light of encompassing minarets in the City of the Faithful. You find these dogs there by dozens on the flowerbeds lying asleep, minding their pups, or engaged at some preposterous game of play. Well, the policeman's bark will be heard, and in an instant all scuttle off, puppies tumbling along after the hindmost. Once, when I followed, it was a pig that had caused all the uproar. Some people were driving a pig—a rarer sight in Cairo than a camel in Cheapside—through the streets. The dogs, I suppose had never seen a pig in their lives, and their terror and madness at sight of it were ludicrous. The barking of the sentinels had brought up supports from every quarter, and I will be bound to say there were at least forty dogs baiting that unhappy pig.

But night is the time when the strictest watch is kept. Policemen are tolled off after dark all along the bounds, and night is made hideous with their quarrels with unprincipled dogs who roam out of quarters.

[Chambers' Journal.]