100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (9 page)

The dog's rise to power began in 1988, when Park County officials in the nearby community of Fairplay realized they had lost the town plat for Guffey. A new map was created, placing the town's roughly two dozen residents in a commercial zone rather than a residential one and radically
increasing their taxes. The locals then mounted a rebellion of sorts, establishing their own “existing transitional” zone with a more lenient tax structure. For good measure, they also elected a series of cats as mayor—first a feline named Paisley, then another named Smudge le Plume, and finally a calico named Whifley le Gone. When Whifley left office in 1993 to live on a ranch, the position was usurped by Shanda.

In a coup d'état of sorts, she got the job because her master, Bruce Buffington, purchased the town general store, which also contained the mayor's office. Not surprisingly, putting a dog in charge caught the attention of the media. Buffington and Shanda appeared together on
The Oprah Winfrey Show
. But the dog's reign only lasted through 1998, when the residents of Guffey elected another cat, Monster, to the job. His office is a ratty couch in front of an old garage that houses a store called Last Chance Antiques.

The French presidential election of 2002 proved a decidedly uninteresting, uninspiring affair. The two top candidates were incumbent Jacques Chirac, who was hamstrung by multiple political scandals. His chief rival was the widely disliked, archconservative (at least by French standards) Socialist prime minister Lionel Jospin. Chirac won handily, with 82 percent of the vote. The electorate was so underwhelmed by the choice of contenders that some of Chirac's own supporters backed him with the tepid rallying cry, “Vote for the crook, not the fascist.”

The only other options were supplied by a handful of smaller parties and individuals, none of whom had any real chance of winning, but several of whom were anything but boring. Take, for instance, the candidacy of a dog named Saucisse. This politically minded canine was an electoral veteran, having won 4 percent of the vote in a municipal election in Marseille.

On the strength of this modest performance, Saucisse joined the large pool of small-fry candidates seeking the presidency. At first glance the tiny former stray seemed perfect for the dog-eat-dog world of politics, having already survived the
even more dog-eat-dog world of dog fighting, where the smallish canine (whose name translates to “sausage” in English) was used as bait to motivate the combatants. Alas, his drive for the executive office was short-lived. He was weeded out before the general election for failing to obtain signatures from a minimum of five hundred of France's
grands electeurs
—a group of roughly fifty thousand midlevel politicians, including mayors, deputies, and representatives from the country's overseas territories. The signatures are required to keep “frivolous” candidates out, but opponents call it an undemocratic roadblock to wider electoral participation.

It's too bad five hundred couldn't be talked into supporting Saucisse. Even if his presence on the ballot would have been somewhat frivolous, it would have been interesting. Boredom—and public disillusionment with politicians of the two-legged variety—is what gave Saucisse his (admittedly small) popular appeal. “Saucisse is sending a warning to politicians that unless they do better we would rather vote for a dog,” said the canine's owner, Serge Scotto.

Near the North Wales town of Beddgelert lies a tree-shaded, grass-covered mound that supposedly houses the remains of a noble hunting dog—a dog even more noble than his owner, a prince of Wales. Their tragic misunderstanding provides the grist for one of Wales's saddest legends.

The story is commonly believed to have unfolded in the twelfth century, when King John of England gave a mighty hunting dog named Gelert to his Welsh ally, Llewelyn the Great. The dog and the king became fast friends, and Gelert was soon so trusted that he was tasked with the important job of guarding Llewelyn's infant son. But then one day tragedy struck—the king found the baby's bedchamber overturned, his cradle empty, and Gelert standing nearby with blood on his muzzle. Assuming the worst, the king drew his sword and slew the dog. Only then did he hear the cries of his son. He found him under his cradle, unharmed—with a dead wolf nearby. Gelert had saved him. Llewelyn, overcome with remorse, gave the hound a hero's funeral in the town of Beddgelert (which means “grave of Gelert” in Welsh). It stands as a memorial to canine faithfulness and to the dangers of jumping to conclusions.

Ask almost anyone to name the first collie to make it big in films, and chances are they won't say “Blair.” Yet in 1905, decades before Lassie's big-screen debut, an innocuous family dog by that name became a sensation in the British film
Rescued by Rover
.

The six-minute silent flick was the brainchild of producer Cecil M. Hepworth. Considered one of the lowest-budget films ever made, it featured the story of a dog who saves a baby who's been kidnapped by gypsies.

Rescued by Rover
was very much a family affair. Hepworth's wife came up with the story; she and Hepworth (who also codirected, produced, and helped build the sets) played the stolen baby's parents; their infant daughter, Elizabeth, served as the baby; and the title role of Rover was tackled by the family pet, a diminutive collie named Blair. The entire project was scripted, filmed, and edited in a matter of days, for a reported seven pounds, thirteen shillings, and sixpence.

The movie was an instant sensation.
Rescued by Rover
became so popular that Hepworth had to reshoot it two more times, because the original film was worn out from making endless prints. In all, some four hundred copies were distributed worldwide.

Not surprisingly, the project inspired a couple of sequels. In the first,
Dumb Sagacity
(1907), “Rover” was paired with a horse who had starred a year earlier in Hepworth's shoestring production of
Black Beauty
. A 1908 film with the not-very-imaginative title
The Dog Outwits the Kidnappers
stuck more closely to the first story that made Rover famous. In it, the Hepworth family pet rescued yet another baby by spiriting it away, this time in an automobile. This “special effect” was accomplished by having Blair sit on the driver's seat with her front paws propped on the steering wheel. Hepworth, crouching out of sight on the floorboards, did the actual driving.

Today
Rescued by Rover
is remembered for two major reasons. For one thing, it pioneered some
fairly sophisticated editing techniques that would soon become standard tools in all films. For another, it made Blair's onscreen moniker a household word. Before the movie, almost no one called their dogs Rover. After it, so many people used the name, it became a cliché.