ny liberty I please to take. I do not attribute my escape
to any charm that I possess; but account for it simply by my knowing and
respecting the natural temperament of the beast with which I have to
interfere.

This natural respect for the feelings of a most affectionate creature,
with such a power of observation as will enable the individual to
recognise the presence of lamentable sickness in an animal that has with
truth been called "the companion of the home," shall at all times enable
the uneducated in such matters to recognise a mad dog, and, unless luck be
dead against the individual, save him from being bitten.

It is no pleasure to a dog to go mad. Quite the reverse. Dreadful as
hydrophobia may be to the human being, rabies is worse to the dog. It
makes its approach more gradually. It lasts longer, and it is more intense
while it endures. The dog that is going mad, feels unwell for a long time
prior to the full development of the disease. He is very ill, but he does
not know what ails him. He feels nasty; dissatisfied with everything;
vexed without a reason; and, greatly against his better nature, very
snappish. Feeling thus, he longs to avoid all annoyance by being alone.
This makes him seem strange to those who are most accustomed to him.

The sensation induces him to seek solitude. But there is another reason
which decides his choice of a resting-place. The light inflicts upon him
intense agony. The sun is to him an instrument of torture, which he
therefore studies to avoid, for his brain aches and feels as it were a
trembling jelly. This induces the poor brute to find out the holes and
corners where he is least likely to be noticed, and into which the light
is unable to enter. In solitude and darkness he passes his day. If his
retreat be discovered and the master's voice bids him to come forth, the
affectionate creature's countenance brightens; his tail beats the ground,
and he leaves his hiding-place, anxious to obey the loved authority; but
before he has gone half the distance, a kind of sensation comes over him,
which produces an instantaneous change in his whole appearance. He seems
to say to himself, "Why cannot you let me alone? Go away. Do go away. You
trouble, you pain me." And thereon he suddenly turns tail and darts back
into his dark corner. If let alone, there he will remain; perhaps frothing
a little at the mouth, and drinking a great deal of water, but not issuing
from his hiding-place to see