The Dogs of the Frontier

Dogs of the Old Southwest

the mirage appeared once more, "our poor dogs were again off in search of water. In the Tombstone of the 1870s, dogs were scarce, highly valued, and often stolen. Miners living on the edge of town depended on their barking to warn them of approaching Apaches. But a few years later, dogs had so multiplied that a license tax was levied on the animals. Gratitude for past good deeds was obviously short lived as the ordinance provided that all unlicensed dogs were to be impounded and killed.

the relationship between the dog and the United States Army adds anoth-er chapter to Arizona canine history, one that sometimes did not end happily for the mongrels. Acquiring a stray dog was a common occurrence among lonely soldiers far from home. At Fort Bowie, near the Chiricahua Mountains in southeastern Arizona, a number of the men of the Sixth Cavalry were keeping dogs as pets. These were in addition to the pooches that were the property of the New Mexican Volunteers. A "canine contingent as remarkable for breed and color as for ugliness and utter worthlessness," according to one observer.

all might have gone well with this informal arrangement of men and dogs had not a drum major decided to teach bugle calls to two New Mexican Volunteers. After days of practice away from camp, the drum major announced he was ready "to perform a retreat at the close of the usual sunset parade. But . . . as soon as the bugles started to give forth sounds that seemed to come from the subterranean caverns of the damned, all the dogs in the immediate vicinity, to the number of about 30, squatted on their haunches and broke forth in the most heartrending howls. The commanding officer turned purple with fury." The drum major was "relegated to the ranks," and all the dogs were shot, except for a mastiff and two hunting dogs.

Another dog story involving a drum major unfolded in 1883 at Fort Lowell, which at the time was overrun with an assortment of Indian dogs. The trouble started when one of the dogs found its way into a fenced-off area behind the telegraph office where the telegraph's battery containing some 60 glass cells was stored on shelves. In its terror at being confined, the dog careened about, knocking cells to the ground. Will Barnes, the telegraph operator, decided to teach that particular dog "where home was." Attaching a tin can to its tail, Barnes and a repairman dragged the dog outside and pointed it in the direction of an Apache camp. The rattling of the can and the loud "howls of terror" caused a great commotion. Soon the Indians were emulating the tactic, rounding up dogs and tying cans to their tails. Everyone was entertained, and the dogs soon gave the telegraph office "a wide berth."

"Canning" dogs, a practice that would be seen as cruel today, appeared to enjoy a vogue in the Territory. Among newspaper accounts on the subject was one in Phoenix: "A tin can with a dog fastened to it rushed down Monroe Street this morning. This is a very dangerous sport and should not be allowed, as a runaway of teams is generally the result."

Following the tin can incident at the telegraph shack, Will Barnes' Sixth Cavalry, including its band, moved to Fort Apache. Many imposing dress parades took place there, watched with great interest by the entire community, including admiring wives, young women visitors, and many Apaches. One summer evening, the full band was passing in review when the door of the telegraph office opened. "From it burst a large, active Apache dog . . . leading a good-sized tin can which someone had fastened to its rather bushy tail. . . . The band was far down the line, and was countermarching. The drum major, holding his long baton high over his head, was walking backward in front of the musicians. The dog flew down that line of soldiers like a canine thunderbolt. The can rattled over the gravelly parade ground, and the wild yelps of the dog added to the racket The animal dashed straight at the band, passing between the legs of the drum major, upsetting him in all his official and musical dignity, and plowing a groove through the massed musicians that completely broke up the formation and stopped all further musical efforts. Shrieks of laughter rose from the onlookers A good time was had by all."

Although the history books pay little attention to the dogs of the 19th century, it is clear they left their pawprints on frontier Arizona.