The Spinning Elephant

Do you have any favourite dog stories? I asked Pliny.

I have many, said Pliny. There was the famous hound of King Lysimachus who so loved his master that he threw himself onto his funeral pyre.

There's loyalty for you, I said.

Indeed, said Pliny. But my personal favourite is the story of a dog that was given to Alexander the Great by the King of Albania. This was a dog was of unusual size, and Alexander was delighted with its noble appearance. He released bears, wild boars, and deer before it, but the dog lay there unmoved. So Alexander ordered the dog to be killed.

But it was a present, I said. Wasn't that rather rude?

Alexander was an impatient man, said Pliny. But listen. I'll tell you what happened next. The king heard of it, and immediately sent another dog, saying that its powers should be tried only on bigger animals like lions and elephants. Furthermore he only had two such dogs and would be obliged if Alexander would not kill the second one, or the breed would become extinct.

It was a bit late to tell him that, I observed.

Yes, said Pliny. It was. But that is not the point of the story. Alexander at once procured a lion, and was delighted when the dog soon tore it to pieces. Then he ordered an elephant to be found. He was even more delighted with what happened next. The dog bristled and barked a mighty bark, then leapt up and attached himself to the enormous beast first on one side and then on the other, biting and snapping, and retreating skilfully at the opportune moment until the elephant became extremely dizzy and, turning round and round, fell down in a heap with a reverberating thump.

Is that it? I asked. Did Alexander think that was funny?

Yes he did, said Pliny. So did I when I first heard it. But it is not a story that would go down well these days.

Probably not, I agreed. But why should dog stories have to be politically correct, if they are true?
I have two dog stories of my own that I have hesitated to tell you because one of them in particular shows me in a less than sympathetic light, but now I feel encouraged to reveal them.

Please do, said Pliny, and I shall be happy to reserve my judgement.

Tomorrow, I said. I will.