100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (13 page)

Rin Tin Tin became the canine lead of the film, called
Man from Hell's River
. It was a huge hit for its studio, Warner Bros.—though “studio” was perhaps too grandiose a name for a shoestring operation consisting of a handful of employees, a few cameras, and four immigrant brothers from Poland named Harry, Albert, Sam, and Jack Warner. Rin Tin Tin would make twenty-six pictures for the company over the next decade, becoming both a wonder dog and a cash cow. At studio headquarters, no one doubted that the only thing keeping the wolf from the door was the work of a single, very talented German shepherd—a German shepherd who was fondly referred to around the water cooler as “the mortgage lifter.”

At one time Rinny was as big a name as any to be found today on Hollywood Boulevard's Walk of Fame—the dog received some ten thousand pieces of fan mail during his heyday. He kept working
until he died unexpectedly on Friday, August 10, 1932. The following Monday he'd been scheduled to start shooting his next film.

Rin Tin Tin's progeny attempted to continue his legacy. A son, dubbed Rin Tin Tin II, briefly carried on in films. During World War II another son, Rin Tin Tin III, joined Duncan in training some five thousand canines and their human handlers as war dogs. But Rin Tin Tin's true legacy resides on the silver screen. Without him, Warner Bros. would have gone under—and such Warner Bros. classics as
Casablanca
and
Rebel Without a Cause
might never have been made.

The ancient Scottish cemetery known as Greyfriars Kirkyard (churchyard) has accepted tenants for hundreds of years. Today the Edinburgh landmark serves as the final resting place for many great names, but none can match the fame of a humble dog known as Bobby, whose devotion to his deceased master made him an undying symbol of fidelity.

The saga of Greyfriars Bobby began around 1856, when a gardener named John Gray moved to Edinburgh with his family and took a job as a night watchman. To keep him company on patrols, he took along his tiny, furry Skye terrier, Bobby. The two were inseparable and became a fixture on the city's streets. But years of walking his beat in all kinds of weather took their toll on Gray, who contracted tuberculosis and died in 1858. He was buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard.

Bobby refused to accept his companion's passing. He began to frequent the cemetery, never straying far from Gray's grave, in spite of the cemetery's staff energetic efforts to evict him. Finally, his devotion won the hearts of the local citizenry. A shelter was erected for Bobby close to
his master's final resting place, and the terrier was given regular meals at a nearby coffeehouse where he and his master had once dined together. As his fame grew, tourists would gather at the entrance of the churchyard around 1
P.M.
, waiting for Bobby to march, like clockwork, from the cemetery to the restaurant.

The faithful dog kept his vigil until his own death on January 14, 1872, at the age of sixteen. Because canines were forbidden burial on consecrated ground, he was given a grave near the churchyard's entrance. His headstone reads: “Greyfriars Bobby, died 14th January 1872, aged 16 years. Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson
to us all.”

The headstone's inscription seems to ring true. Almost a century and a half have passed since Bobby's departure, but his deeds live on. In 1873 a bronze sculpture of the loyal canine—modeled from the original, still-living Bobby—was raised just outside the entrance to Greyfriars Kirkyard. The coffee shop where the little dog and his master took their meals is still in business. It is now called, simply, Greyfriars Bobby.

The 1966 World Cup is fondly remembered for exploits both on and off the soccer field. Held in Great Britain, it featured an unexpected tournament victory by the home team. But the off-court antics were even more riveting. Before the tournament, the priceless Jules Rimet Trophy, which was traditionally awarded to the winning team, was stolen—and it might never have been found, if not for the curious nose of a mutt named Pickles.

Three months before the World Cup was set to begin, the trophy was placed on display at Central Hall in Westminster, London. A team of guards was supposed to watch it at all times, because it was very valuable—both for sentimental reasons and because the piece, made of gold-plated sterling silver and set with lapis lazuli, was worth a small fortune. Yet, somehow, on March 20, 1966, someone managed to pry open the case in which it was housed and make off with it.

The theft ignited an international media firestorm and triggered a massive manhunt. A ransom note for £15,000 arrived, and a police sting led to the capture of the man who authored it. However, he claimed to be only an intermediary for the real thief, whom he knew only as “The
Pole.” In spite of intense questioning, the man responsible for the ransom note refused to give up the cup before the police offered him a deal on prison time and privileges.

As it turned out, the authorities didn't need his cooperation. A week later, as David Corbett, a resident of Norwood, South London, was out for a walk with his dog, Pickles, the canine found a newspaper-wrapped package under a garden hedge. Corbett pulled it out, tore off the wrapping, and found a statue of a woman holding a dish over her head—a woman who appeared to be made of gold. Being a soccer fan, he instantly realized his dog had found the World Cup.

Pickles became an overnight celebrity and even got to attend the victory party for the British team. Corbett used the reward money from the discovery to buy a house. However, the Jules Rimet Trophy refused to stay found. In 1983 it was stolen in Rio de Janeiro, and hasn't been seen since.

Some company logos, such as the Nike “swoosh” and the Mercedes-Benz three-pointed star, are known around the world. But few corporate symbols are as enduring, or as loved, as the one featuring a mixed-breed British dog named Nipper staring at an old-fashioned record player. For more than a century, this picture, called “His Master's Voice,” has been one of advertising's most indelible images.

It all began in 1887 when British artist Francis Barraud inherited a small, mixed-breed dog named Nipper (because he nipped people's legs). The dog came from the estate of his deceased brother, Mark, along with an Edison Bell cylinder phonograph that included some recordings of his late brother's voice. Nipper lived with the artist and his family until his own passing in 1895. Several years later, in 1898, Barraud executed a painting of Nipper listening curiously to his master's voice on the cylinder phonograph. The piece, originally titled
Dog Looking at and Listening to a Phonograph
, was shopped around to various recording firms, but to no avail.

Frustrated, Barraud changed the painting's name to the catchier
His Master's Voice
. Finally, in 1899,
the new Gramaphone Company decided to buy all rights to the work—but only if the artist replaced the Edison machine in the original painting with a more modern-looking model. The artist complied and was paid fifty pounds for the painting and another fifty for the full copyright. The picture was used in various advertising pieces and became an immediate success. In a few years it found its way onto all of Gramaphone's new releases and became so ubiquitous that the company, though it never officially changed its name, became known as HMV (short for His Master's Voice).

The symbol became even bigger in the United States, where rights to the image were acquired by the Victor Talking Machine Company, which plastered it on all of their records. Nipper became so intimately associated with the company that their magazine advertisements told buyers to “Look for the dog.” Today Nipper's reputation still looms large. In the United States he's strongly associated with Victor's corporate successor, RCA. In Europe, the company that eventually acquired Gramaphone, EMI, now uses Nipper to promote its line of retail stores, appropriately called HMV.

These days Rin Tin Tin is the only canine silent film star that most people remember. But another German shepherd, Strongheart, had his name up in lights years earlier.

His owner, animal trainer Larry Trimble, had set out to create a star. In 1920 he began a careful search for an animal with movie idol pizzazz. He found just what he was looking for in Germany, where he met a powerful, 125-pound (57 kg), three-year-old attack dog named Etzel von Oringer. The dog was more comfortable biting people than doing scenes with them, but Trimble saw something he liked in Etzel. He changed the canine's name to the more marquee-friendly Strongheart and brought him to Hollywood.

It took months of training to take the edge off the dog's suspicious, police-dog personality, but in time Trimble succeeded in transforming Strongheart from a dangerous fighting machine into a friendly, loving pet and budding thespian. Interestingly, one trait from his days in law enforcement never left Strongheart—the dog could size up the character of strangers unerringly and made a habit of glaring at, and even stalking, those he didn't trust.