Dog and I by Roy Macgregor Page B

not expecting the impossible. It would be unlikely, for example, that she might ever start her own church, though Stanley Coren makes an excellent case that the very existence of Protestantism is directly tied to the intervention of a greyhound called Urian.
    According to the Coren interpretation of religious history, Protestantism would never have been necessary to invent had Pope Clement VII only seen fit to grant Henry VIII the divorce he was seeking in order to marry the charming Anne Boleyn. All that was required was for the Pope to grant an annulment on whatever cocked-up and cooked-up basis would suffice. The king dispatched his main churchman, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, off to Rome to ask the favour and Wolsey, a great dog lover, insisted on taking along Urian, his rather overprotective pet.
    Custom demanded that supplicants approach the papal throne and kiss the Pope’s toe. Wolsey, a good Catholic and a Cardinal, naturally had no difficulty with this, but poor Urian misunderstood the bare foot swinging out toward his master’s lips, leapt over his master, and smartly bit Pope Clement VII on the leg. The Pope blew a fuse, threw the Cardinal out, and refused to grant Henry his wish—thereby leading to the creation of the Church of England.
    I do not expect a church; I just pray that she one day amounts to something .
    I have read aloud to Willow the story of Bounce, the dog who saved Alexander Pope from a knife-wielding valet, and of Cap, the sheepdog who inspired Florence Nightingale to take up nursing. I have read to her the remarkable tale of Biche, Frederick the Great’s beloved Italian greyhound, who was so valued in battle that, when Biche was captured during the Battle of Soor in 1745, Frederick called it “the kidnapping of a member of the royal family” and arranged a “prisoner exchange” to get the dog back.
    I have read to her—sometimes while she sleeps, legs straight up—the story of Peps, who so inspired Wagner when he was at the piano that the great composer once actually claimed that Peps was co-author of Tannhauser . (Whether Peps would want such credit is open to speculation.) She has also heard, both while sleeping and awake, the story of Tuck, the Scottish greyhound who stood, and died bravely, fighting with General George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of Little Big Horn.
    I have read aloud to her so that she will appreciate the deep connection between great dogs and great men— and if I can still aspire, in my advancing years, to be one of these two, then she should aspire to be the other.
    I have told her about the Skye terrier that Alexander Graham Bell taught to say “How are you, Grandmama?” while the little dog growled and Bell manipulated its lips, and I have explained to her how all this led, eventually, to the invention of the machine I sometimes call her on from out of town in the hopes that she will recognize my voice and remember me. I have told her the story of Sigmund Freud and how he would hold birthday parties for his various inspirational dogs, great man and dogs sitting around the table wearing silly paper hats, Freud writing special poems for each dog that he would read aloud with great drama while the dogs checked the meter and rhyme schemes.
    We have read together the story of Pat, who some claim was the true prime minister of Canada in the days of William Lyon Mackenzie King. The way things have been going around here lately, I have told Willow, it is not entirely out of the question for her to dream of one day holding higher office.
    And, as well, we have read together the stories from Mr. Coren’s delightful book on the incredible number of dogs—he estimates 230—who have lived at the White House. She has heard all about Skip, the famous mutt Teddy Roosevelt called “a little dog—by that I mean a little of this, and a little of that.” She has listened to the stories of Fala, FDR’s little dog