100 Dogs Who Changed Civilization (6 page)

Afterward he lived with Eleanor Roosevelt and was often mentioned in her long-running syndicated newspaper column,
My Day
.

Yet throughout the remainder of his long life, Fala never forgot FDR. When the two had traveled together, their car was almost always escorted by police with sirens blaring. Even in old age, Fala's ears would perk up when he heard the sound of sirens, as if he believed Roosevelt might be coming home.

The two were finally reunited in 1952, when Fala passed away and was laid to rest beside Roosevelt in Hyde Park, New York. Today, at the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial in Washington, D.C., a life-size statue of Fala sits dutifully beside a likeness of his master, just as in real life.

More than twenty years before Watergate, Richard Nixon found himself embroiled in a political scandal so damaging that he had to call upon his dog, Checkers, to save his career.

As the vice-presidential running mate of Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1952, Nixon was accused of accepting some $18,000 in illegal campaign contributions. The charge severely injured his reputation, so much so that Eisenhower seemed ready to drop him from the ticket. Something extraordinary had to be done.

On September 23, 1952, Nixon offered a nationally televised response that came to be called the “Checkers speech.” He revealed his rather modest finances, giving the impression of being a middleclass “man of the people” in the process. But what really won over Joe Public was his reference to Checkers, a cocker spaniel given to his family by a well-wisher. “The kids, like all kids, love the dog and I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we're gonna keep it.”

The speech preserved Nixon's career—at least for a while. And it won Checkers a place in political history.

The story of the Spanish conquest of Central and South America is written in blood—most of it Native American. Nations large and small fell to the conquistadors, who again and again crushed numerically superior forces using European “wonder weapons” such as firearms and cavalry.

One of the greatest of these wonder weapons was the war dog—huge canines who were incredibly strong, seemingly immune to physical pain, and trained to fight alongside their masters in battle. They proved devastating against lightly armed and armored Native American warriors. The conquistadors, knowing that the locals were terrified of these enormous, bloodthirsty killers, took them with them wherever they went. They were as useful for intimidation as they were for battle.

One of the most famous was named Becerrillo (“the little bull”). During Becerrillo's time in the New World, his bloody reputation loomed so large that enemies would flee the field at the very sight of him. “He attacked his foes with fury and rage and defended his friends with great valor,” says the famous account,
A Brief Chronicle of the Destruction of the Indies
. “The Indians were more afraid of ten Spanish soldiers accompanied by
Becerrillo than by 100 soldiers without him.”

After fighting in numerous engagements, Becerrillo's body was covered with battle scars. In exchange for his service, he was treated like a regular soldier and even got a cut of the booty—though what use a dog might have for such possessions is hard to imagine.

Although the huge fighting dog gained a well-deserved reputation for ferocity in battle, there were some actions to which he wouldn't stoop. The story is told of how, after a rout of Native American fighters on the island of Puerto Rico, Becerrillo's handler, Diego de Salazar, thought up a “game” for the entertainment of his comrades. In the aftermath of the battle, Salazar and his friends had nothing to do but await the arrival of the territorial governor—the legendary Juan Ponce de León. Salazar called over an old Native American woman, gave her a piece of paper, told her it contained a message for the governor, and ordered her to take it to him immediately, on pain of death. The terrified woman started walking. A few moments later, Salazar commanded Becerrillo to attack her.

According to tales from the time, the great dog launched himself at his target with fangs bared, and the old woman fell to her knees and begged her would-be killer for mercy. Then something strange happened. Incredibly, Becerrillo, who is reckoned to have slaughtered scores of human
beings in battle, defied his master's instructions. He sniffed curiously at the woman, then turned around and walked away.

His conquistador friends were aghast, to say the least. Some were so shaken by the dog's actions that they claimed it must have been caused by divine intervention. Others were ashamed that a dog refused to commit the sort of cold-blooded murder that his human compatriots would have done without a second thought.

Not long afterward, Ponce de León arrived and was told the story. He ordered the old woman to be freed and returned to her people, then commanded that no further acts of vengeance be carried out against the local population. “I will not permit the compassion and forgiveness of a dog to outshine that of a true Christian,” he reportedly said.

Becerrillo was, indeed, a killer. But unlike his friends, he wasn't a murderer.

Ancient Viking chronicles tell a strange tale of twelfth-century political intrigue. There are various versions of the story, but the most common goes like this: When Norwegian king Eystein Magnusson conquered the land of Throndhjem, he appointed his son, Onund, to rule in his stead. But the people killed Onund and rose in rebellion. Magnusson, who was more than a little angry about the revolt and the loss of his child, crushed all resistance with great ferocity.

After the fighting stopped, the irate king offered the survivors a choice of leadership. They could either bow and swear eternal loyalty to his slave—a man named Thorer Faxe—or they could take as their leader the sovereign's dog, Saur (an obscenity that means “excrement”).

The people reportedly accepted the dog, on the notion that because dogs don't live all that long, they would be free of him sooner. History doesn't say how long they had to endure this humiliation. But it does state that Saur was given a throne, a court, a lavish home, and even a collar of gold.

For centuries, the country we now call Germany was nothing but a loose collection of tiny kingdoms, municipalities, and city-states. Not surprisingly, they were easy prey for the larger European nations surrounding them. It wasn't until the sixteenth century that the Kingdom of Prussia, a miniscule bit of territory on the periphery of Central Europe, began a long rise to prominence that would culminate in its forging a united German Empire in the late nineteenth century.

Prussia didn't begin life as a great power, however. The kingdom had to survive for centuries as a relatively powerless flyspeck caught between not-always-friendly giants, including France, Russia, and Austria. Fortunately, it was ably led. One of Prussia's greatest rulers was King Frederick II—better known as Frederick the Great. He was an astute politician and military leader who did everything from reform his nation's school system to increase Prussia's influence through victorious wars of expansion during his forty-six-year reign. But Frederick wasn't infallible—one coarse, dog-related pun nearly cost him his throne.

The sovereign spent most of his life walking a political tightrope. Shortly after ascending to the kingship in 1740, he wrested some territory from the Austrian Empire in a short, bitter conflict. Austria's ruler, Empress Maria Theresa, never forgot the humiliation. For years she plotted her revenge, building up her own army, arranging a military alliance with Russia, and desperately trying to reach a similar understanding with France.

Frederick's love of dogs—and his own loose lips—would help the empress close the deal. The Prussian king had few friends and displayed no interest in women. His strongest emotional bond was with his pack of Italian greyhounds. The little creatures followed him everywhere and even shared his bed. His personal favorite was a female named Biche, who was allowed to sit on his lap during state meetings.

Unfortunately, Frederick had a sarcastic streak that he sometimes applied to people who didn't take kindly to kidding. One evening during a reception at his palace, the conversation turned to King Louis XV of France and his mistress, Madame de Pompadour. She had started out merely as the king's paramour, but her astute political instincts transformed her into one of Louis's most influential advisors. But that evening Frederick offered a far-less-flattering estimation to his dining companions—gesturing toward Biche, who sat near him, he said that the dog was
his
Madame de
Pompadour. The only difference was that instead of bestowing her the title of Marquise, he'd given his “advisor” the title of Biche. Which, of course, translates to “bitch” in English.

Not surprisingly, word of this incident quickly got back to Pompadour. Incensed, she convinced the French king to join the anti-Prussian alliance. In a little dustup that would come to be called the Seven Years' War, Austria, France, Russia, and several smaller powers united to wipe Prussia off the map. Only Frederick's brilliant generalship—and the timely death of the Russian Czarina, who despised him almost as much as Maria Theresa—saved his kingdom from annihilation.

During the desperate conflict Biche served alongside the king. She followed his horse into battle, narrowly escaping death on several occasions. Once she was even captured by Hungarian troops but was repatriated to the overjoyed Frederick after lengthy negotiations. Apparently, though Madame de Pompadour never forgave Frederick for comparing her to a dog, the dog didn't mind being compared to a French mistress.