100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (8 page)

During the English Civil War, one of the most able men in the service of the king was Prince Rupert of the Rhine. King Charles appointed Rupert, a born warrior and expert horseman, to lead the Royalist cavalry in 1642. The bold and audacious Rupert won numerous battles against Charles's enemies.

Some ascribed his success to brilliant tactics, but others saw something more sinister. According to history, Rupert's constant companion was a white standard poodle named Boye. The prince's enemies believed that the dog was a demon who assisted him with magic. Drawings of Rupert from that time routinely show him in the company of the dog. Interestingly, pictures rendered by his opponents portray Boye not as a poodle, but as some sort of macabre wolf-dragon hybrid.

Perhaps Rupert's adversaries were on to something. The general and Boye advanced from victory to victory until the fateful battle of Marston Moor. There, the poor dog was shot and killed by enemy soldiers, and Rupert, for almost the first time in his military career, went down in defeat.

Sometimes, very small dogs can play very large roles in human history. Consider the life of Fortune, a pug who belonged to a French noblewoman named Marie-Josephe-Rose de Beauharnais. Rose, as she was known, was imprisoned after the French Revolution simply because she was an aristocrat, as was her husband, Vicomte Alexandre Beauharnais.

But worse was to come. Alexandre Beauharnais was guillotined, and it looked like his wife would soon follow him unless she was able to do something to save her life. Rose was forbidden to send letters to those in the outside world, and she was allowed to receive only a handful of closely scrutinized human visitors. However, she was permitted routine visits with her pug, Fortune. Her jailors never realized that most days the little dog left her company with a note from Rose tucked under her velvet collar, addressed to her influential friends who remained in power. When a change in the French government removed the threat of imminent execution, her associates were able to secure her release.

It's no wonder, then, that Rose prized her tiny coconspirator so highly. The little dog slept with
her, and nothing, not even the presence of a new husband, could change that—even though the new husband happened to be Napoleon Bonaparte, soon-to-be emperor of France. Napoleon, whom she met shortly after her release from jail, preferred to call his bride Josephine rather than Rose. The two were married on March 9, 1796; but there was a slight problem on their wedding night. Fortune, accustomed to sleeping alone with Josephine, wasn't inclined to give up her spot to a usurper. Nevertheless, Napoleon, uninterested in having an audience on his honeymoon, wanted her removed. Josephine, according to legend, told the emperor, “If the pug doesn't sleep in our bed, neither do I!”

Napoleon, undeterred, attempted to scoop up Fortune in his arms. And for his troubles, he received a savage bite, the scar from which he would carry for the rest of his life. Thus the great conqueror went down in defeat in the bedroom.

One of the most curious dog-related incidents that took place during the American Revolution occurred on October 4, 1777, at the Battle of Germantown. Fought just outside of Philadelphia, it pitted the British army, commanded by General William Howe, against the Continental Army, under the command of General George Washington. The bloody all-day struggle finally ended when the Americans, outmaneuvered and running low on supplies, were forced to disengage.

In the confusion that followed, one of the battle's participants took the opportunity to switch sides. Howe's dog followed his master onto the battlefield, but after the melee, the confused canine—who was no doubt much less interested in the political ramifications of the conflict than his human associates—retired from the field with the wrong army. Sometime later he was picked up by an American patrol, which quickly noted that his collar was inscribed with a silver tag stating that he belonged to the British commander. The animal was taken straight to Washington, and the entire matter (along with the dog) placed in his hands.

Some thought was probably given to keeping the canine as war booty. Instead, Washington, a dedicated dog lover, did something utterly unwarlike. After seeing that the animal was fed and cared for, he ordered it returned to the British lines with the following note: “General Washington's compliments to General Howe. He does himself the pleasure to return him a dog, which accidentally fell into his hands, and by the inscription on the Collar appear to belong to General Howe.”

Reportedly, Howe was overjoyed at the unexpected return of his pet. And some say that he also found a second message from Washington secreted under the dog's collar on a tightly folded piece of paper. Its contents, if the story is true, are lost to history. But what is known is that Howe, who began his work in the Colonies intent on pursuing the rebellion to utter destruction, from that day forward seemed far less inclined to serve as the architect of the revolution's demise. Perhaps the simple act of returning the general's dog helped him see his enemies as humans, rather than merely as rebels.

Everyone knows that England's Henry VIII had plenty of wives, but some might not realize that he went through so many paramours because he was desperate to find a woman who could give him a male heir. In 1525, angered at the inability of his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, to produce a son, he started dallying with a young courtier named Anne Boleyn. Soon he talked openly of divorcing Catherine and marrying his new love (or more likely, lust) interest.

Trouble was, he'd need to have the marriage annulled by the pope. But the Catholic Church refused to grant his request, especially since Henry had received a special dispensation to enable him to marry Catherine in the first place. Nevertheless, Henry spent years and a great deal of money trying to get Pope Clement VII to see things his way. Finally, after endless negotiations by Cardinal Wolsey, the king's deputy, Henry seemed on the verge of getting what he wanted. Legend says Wolsey was to meet with Clement personally to hammer out the last details.

According to the story, Wolsey brought his favorite greyhound, Urian, with him on his visit to the pope. Like a proper gentleman, he tied the dog
discreetly at the door and approached the pope with the intent of kissing the pontiff's foot.

Unfortunately, Urian didn't understand what was going on. When he saw the pope raise his foot, the dog jumped to the conclusion that the pontiff planned to attack his master. Urian struck first, streaking into the room and savagely biting the pope's ankle. Clement, bleeding and in pain, hobbled away as fast as his wounded appendage would carry him, all the while vowing never to make a deal with Henry VIII.

Wolsey was disgraced, and Henry, still intent on producing an heir, was forced to take drastic measures. In 1533 he married Anne Boleyn, cut
ties with the Catholic Church, and, shortly thereafter, declared himself head of the new Church of England. One wonders if, once faced with the ramifications of his anger, the pope ever wished he'd simply wrapped a bandage around his foot and continued with his meeting.

For a long time the little principality of Guffey, Colorado, was more ghost town than town. Located on the southern end of a large mountain valley called South Park (the one after which the animated television series is named), Guffey reached its high point at the end of the nineteenth century, when gold prospectors turned it into a classic frontier boomtown. Unfortunately there wasn't enough ore in the ground to sustain the town's growth, and the community was just about deserted only a few years after its heyday.

Today the town is known for three things—its Old West–style architecture, which the handful of locals endeavor mightily to preserve; an annual Chicken Fly festival, in which live chickens are tossed off a fifteen-foot-tall (4.6 m) tower to see how far their stubby wings can carry them; and the fact that during the 1990s the community's “mayor” was a golden retriever named Shanda.