“Within a few days the family were all away again. Again Tiger was left in the house alone. When the family returned, Mrs. Creveling again went to her room. Tiger had been there again in her absence. He had again been on the bed. But Tiger’s sheet—the one upon which he slept at night was there too. And the sheet was spread out, covering the bed. And there had been no one to spread out the sheet for Tiger. He had spread it out for himself. Is not here a display of intelligence—of intelligence in activity in employment—of reason? What had Tiger done? He had put his nose under the washstand and pulled the sheet out. He had put the sheet on the bed. He had spread the sheet out over the bed. What had been Tiger’s train of thought? This, or something very much like it: ‘I want to lie on that bed because it reminds me of my absent master and mistress. But I don’t dare to do so. I will give offence if I do so. I will be punished. Why am I not wanted to lie on the bed? Because I soil it. What shall I do? There is the sheet—my sheet. They don’t care if I lie on that. I will spread the sheet over the bed. What a great head I have!’ The reader understands, of course, that I am not claiming that Tiger has sufficient command of the English language to even subjectively express himself as I have represented him. I have only tried to bring as strongly as possible to the reader’s mind the fact that a train of thought must have passed through the dog’s mind. And a train of thought could not pass through his mind if he hadn’t a mind. Having a mind, then what? He thinks. He reasons. What else? If my mind is immortal why not Tiger’s? And remember that I can prove the truth of every detail of this story by three witnesses—Mr. Creveling, his wife, and his wife’s friend. No court would ask more.” Jules Janin’s dog made him a literary man. His favourite walk was in Luxembourg Garden, where he was delighted to see his dog gambol. The dog made another dog’s acquaintance, and they became so attached to each other that their masters were brought together and became friends. The new friend urged him to better his fortunes by writing for the newspapers, and introduced him to La Lorgnette, from which time he constantly rose. In 1828 he was appointed dramatic critic of the Journal des États, and his popularity there lasted undiminished for twenty years. London has a home for lost and starving dogs, for the benefit of which a concert was recently given. Had Richard Wagner been alive, he would have doubtless bought a box for this occasion. One of the greatest sorrows of his life was the temporary loss of his Newfoundland dog in London.