100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization

Humanity's long, fruitful, extremely complex relationship with canines began strictly as a business deal. It probably went something like this: Tens of thousands of years ago, for reasons unknown, a pack of wolves joined forces with a group of cavemen. This intermingling created what modern business executives call synergy. The wolves possessed keen senses, speed, and strength. The humans possessed freakishly big brains and wielded deadly weapons.

Nature's odd couple proved an unbeatable combination. But on the way to global dominance, something strange happened. The wolves turned into dogs—domesticated canines physically and emotionally tailored to meet specific human needs. We still hunted together, but we also herded, toiled, and even marched off to war side by side. And somewhere along the line, humans stopped seeing dogs as mere tools. They regarded them as colleagues, confidants, and friends. Even, dare we say, as man's best friend.

The feeling, apparently, is mutual. Of course there's no telling exactly how dogs regard us, because they can't speak for themselves. One can only judge them by their actions. Actions that, over the centuries, have included displays of devotion, courage, and selflessness that put the deeds of many human heroes to shame—and made a book such as this not only possible, but plausible.

What have canines done? They have rescued some of us from eminent death. They've saved even more of us from boredom and loneliness. Their presence has been a stirring example on the battlefield and a comfort in the home.

The average dog performs acts of everyday heroism far from the spotlight, but some have become deservedly famous for their deeds. One can say without exaggeration that the fates of nations and empires have sometimes rested in capable canine paws. Alexander the Great lived long enough to earn his title only because his war dog,
Peritas
, saved his life in battle. Napoleon would never have met his Waterloo had a
fisherman's
dog not rescued him from drowning. And William the Silent, father of the Dutch nation and ancestor of King William III of England, would have been slain in his bed by assassins without his
pug's
timely warning.

Other great canines left their marks in more unexpected but equally remarkable ways. Movies ranging from
Casablanca
to
The Matrix
might
never have been made had a German shepherd named
Rin Tin Tin
not singlehandedly saved Warner Bros. Studios from bankruptcy. The English poet Alexander Pope would have been struck down in midcareer had it not been for his Great Dane,
Bounce
. And the operas of Richard Wagner might have turned out very differently without the artistic input of his furry collaborators,
Peps and Fips
.

Dogs figure prominently in many of humanity's most remarkable political, cultural, and artistic endeavors, and their influence is almost always for the good. But that shouldn't surprise us, because almost every dog, whether he changes history or not, positively influences the harassed humans around him. In exchange for a pat on the head, we get unstinting devotion. In exchange for a bowl of food, we gain an unflinching ally. In exchange for a spot by the hearth, we get a lifetime's worth of love. It's been a profitable relationship for both of us. But humans definitely got the better part of the deal.

We know deep down that we're unworthy of such a friend. But maybe, just maybe, dogs can inspire us to be more like the people they
think
we are.

Dog fanciers like to think that every canine is unique. But that can't be said for Snuppy, the world's first cloned dog.

Born on April 24, 2005, Snuppy was the product of years of work by scientists at South Korea's Seoul National University (SNU)—the name
Snuppy
is a fusion of
SNU
and
puppy
. In order to produce this single clone, researchers transferred more than one thousand dog embryos into 123 female canines. This produced a paltry three pregnancies, only one of which proved successful. Snuppy, an Afghan hound created from an ear cell belonging to another hound named Tai, was carried to term by a yellow Labrador retriever.

One might wonder why they bothered. The scientists said it was because such clones could be used to study human diseases, or perhaps to produce human-compatible stem cells. The man in charge of the project, Hwang Woo-suk, was soon to be discredited by revelations that he'd faked research on the cloning of human stem cells. But while Hwang fibbed about his work with humans, follow-up studies proved that his claims about Snuppy were all true.

After more than half a century of space exploration, many people forget that the first creature to reach orbit was canine rather than human. The dog who opened the high frontier was a tiny stray from the streets of Moscow named Laika.

Her flight was a high-tech publicity stunt, designed to spotlight the Soviet Union's lead in rocketry. Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev informed the Russian scientists responsible for the space-race–inaugurating
Sputnik
satellite that he wanted a new ship launched on November 7, 1957, to mark the fortieth anniversary of the communist revolution. Though the scientists weren't yet ready to launch the new, more sophisticated vehicle they'd been developing, saying “no” wasn't an option. So they cobbled together another space ship in about a month. The rough-and-ready craft contained rudimentary life-support systems so it could carry a living organism into space, but time didn't permit the development of a heat shield and parachute system that would allow for that passenger's safe return. Whoever rode the ship, designated
Sputnik II
, would make a one-way trip.

The unfortunate space pioneer was picked from a pack of Moscow street mutts rounded up and trained for experimental flights. Dogs were the
selected species because the scientists believed they possessed the intelligence and discipline to cope with space travel, along with the ability to handle long periods in confined spaces. The first flight was “awarded” to a female husky mix who weighed about thirteen pounds (6 kg)—perfect for the satellite's cramped quarters. At first called Kudryavka (Little Curly), her name was later changed to Laika (Barker) when her original moniker proved too tricky for members of the international media to spell or pronounce. In America, she came to be known as Muttnik.