100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (5 page)

One of the most remarkable facts about the Lewis and Clark expedition is that just a single man was killed among the small group of explorers who traversed the untamed North American continent all the way to the Pacific coast and back. But without the quick thinking of a massive black Newfoundland named Seaman, the record could have been much worse.

Lewis, the cocaptain of the expedition, had purchased the dog in Pittsburgh for the then-princely sum of twenty dollars. The investment paid for itself on May 29, 1805, as the team bivouacked on the banks of the Missouri River in what is now central Montana. While the group slept, an enormous bull buffalo swam the river and charged into the camp, making a beeline for the tent where Clark and Lewis rested. At the last minute, Seaman appeared from nowhere, got between the enraged animal and the tent, and raised such a ruckus that the buffalo veered off into the night, never to be seen again. Twenty dollars may have been a lot of money for a dog in those days, but considering Seaman's contribution to the expedition, it was the best money Lewis ever spent.

King Henri III of France loved papillons. He kept a pack of the little dogs and spent lavishly to maintain them—he also attended council meetings with papillon-filled baskets suspended around his neck, angering his advisors. Perhaps they were upset because there was little time for such frivolity; Henri III lived in turbulent times, and he was almost constantly involved in religious wars between Catholics (whom he championed) and Protestants.

On the night of August 1, 1589, Henri encamped with his army in Saint Cloud on his way to lay siege to Paris. Before he retired, a monk named Jacques Clement, who had asked to see him, was admitted into his presence. Henri's favorite papillon, Liline, took an instant dislike to the man, barking so hysterically that she had to be taken from the room. Ignoring her reaction cost the king dearly.

The monk pulled out a knife and stabbed the king in the stomach. Poor Henri III lingered for several days before finally expiring. It was long enough to reflect on the folly of ignoring the warning of his best advisor—and surest judge of character—tiny Liline.

Holland's unofficial national dog is a fuzzy, medium-sized creature called the keeshond. Used for centuries to guard canal barges, the breed was nearly driven into extinction when it ended up on the losing side of a high-stakes political dispute—the same dispute, ironically, that gave the breed its name.

In the 1770s, populist forces battled the ruling House of Orange for control of the Low Countries. Their leader was Cornelis de Gyselaer, a man who was constantly shadowed by a furry gray dog known by his master's nickname, Kees. The canine, and the breed in general, became the movement's symbol—a fact that almost spelled doom for the dogs when the House of Orange regained power. Suddenly Kees and all his compatriots were very unfashionable. The poor keeshond (translation: Kees's hound) was saved from oblivion in the early twentieth century, when the Baroness van Hardenbroek rounded up surviving examples of the rebel dog and formed a viable breeding population. Today the keeshond is popular again throughout Holland—even though it isn't recognized there as a purebred.

Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected president of the United States for an unprecedented four terms, leading the nation through both the Great Depression and World War II. During his decade and a half in office, his most famous, most beloved associate (after his wife, Eleanor) was most likely Fala, a Scottish terrier who brightened the last five years of his life.

Fala came to the White House on November 10, 1940, the gift of one of Roosevelt's cousins. He was originally named Big Boy, until the president changed it to Murray the Outlaw of Falahill (a reference to a Scottish ancestor), then shortened that mouthful to “Fala.” Shortly after his arrival at the executive mansion, the little dog had to go to the vet for treatment of severe stomach trouble. A quick investigation revealed the cause: Everyone on the White House staff, from presidential aides to kitchen personnel, was slipping him snacks. To avoid such problems in the future, Roosevelt decreed that the only food Fala would eat would come from him.

The little dog accompanied the president everywhere. Fala attended the Atlantic Charter Conference in Quebec and talks with the president
of Mexico in Monterey. Fala was even sucked into a political dustup. During the 1944 presidential election campaign, Roosevelt's Republican opponents put out a story that, during a tour of the Aleutian Islands off the coast of Alaska, the president had diverted a navy destroyer to pick up Fala, who had been left behind at one of his stops.

This “scandal” was put to rest on September 23, 1944, when FDR gave what came to be known as his “Fala speech.” During a Washington, D.C., campaign dinner, he enumerated the various bad things his opponents had said about him, saving the Fala incident for last. “These Republican leaders have not been content with attacks on me, or my wife, or on my sons,” Roosevelt said. “No, not content with that, they now include my little dog, Fala. Well, of course, I don't resent attacks, and my family doesn't resent attacks—but Fala does resent them. You know, Fala is Scotch, and being a Scottie, as soon as he learned that the Republican fiction writers in Congress and out had concocted a story that I had left him behind on the Aleutian Islands and had sent a destroyer back to find him—at a cost to the taxpayers of two or three, or eight or twenty million dollars—his Scotch soul was furious. He has not been the same dog since!”

Fala was not forgotten even after Roosevelt's death in April 1945. The little dog rode the funeral train from Warm Springs, Georgia, to Washington, D.C., and was present for the burial service.