In Edinburgh's city center, outside the Grenfell Church, I accidentally found a bronze statue of a small dog, which is small, fluffy, sitting on a stone pillar, staring into the distance, as if waiting for its owner to come back from the market. In my impression, I seldom see people do for the dog statue, even if there is, but also must be tall and powerful, and or had a high rescue, or intended to borrow it to avoid the evil spirits of the disaster and so on, this dog absolutely can't get involved in, is completely a lovely and even some poor look.
I was very interested in the dog, and I learned a very touching story.
Pet Grooming
The dog's name was Bobby, and his owner was John Gray, an ordinary old sheep herder in the mid-19th century. Every Wednesday, John would take his dog to Edinburgh's fairgrounds to do his business, and then to the Terrell Pub for lunch. The people in the pub loved Bobbie and each time Mr. Terrell, the pub owner, would give him a sweetbread. German Shepherds
John died in 1858 and was buried in the churchyard at Grenfell. At noon on the third day after the funeral, Bobbie suddenly appeared alone in Terrell's bar, looking tired, sad and dirty. Terrell takes pity on it and offers a sweetbread as usual. The hungry Bobby did not eat it on the spot, but just wagged his tail at Terrell and left with his head down and the bread in his mouth. Dachshund
The next day, the third day ...... Bobby showed up at the bar at noon every day after that, and each time he left with his head down and bread in his mouth.
Curious, Terrell decided to follow Bobby, only to find that he had gone to the graveyard at Grenfell Church and plopped down next to the owner's headstone to eat the pitifully small lunch. As it turns out, John died without anyone to take care of Bobbi anymore, and Bobbi never left his owner, who had been dependent on him for years. He lay there every day to guard his master's grave, and only when it rained did he find shelter by the church. All it had to eat was the loaf of bread from Terrell's bar.
People were so moved by the dog that many tried to adopt him and take him away from the cemetery, but Bobbie refused to leave, and one day in 1872, Bobbie was found dead in the cemetery, where he had stayed with his master for fourteen years. They made an exception and buried Bobbie in the church and built a statue to commemorate his "loyalty".
After listening to this story, I was touched by the dog's persistence, and even more touched by the Scottish people's sincerity and kindness of the simple feelings, honestly, since I was a child, I have heard and read a lot of legends and stories about the dog, there is almost no story is not better than the dog's wonderful Bobbi. However, I have never seen people for the righteous dog statue. Chinese people seem to take for granted the loyalty of the dog, even if the death of "heavier than Mt. Tai", can fall a whole body, get a few sighs of approval, see a few tears, even if the "funeral", will never bother for a puppy (and still other people's puppies) monument statues. Today, we can see the statue is mostly a powerful emperor and generals or illusory totem, even the generations of literary heroes and artists inventor statues are rare, may not be able to add up to Xi'an, Nanjing for the emperors to keep the spirit of the stone horse more.
Based on a true story, the novel <Bobby the Righteous Dog> Book Excerpt:
The rain had turned to freezing rain. Mr. Terrell couldn't even stand. He first went next door to the famous Book Hunter's Book Kiosk to see if there were any medical students. The book kiosk was open, but there were no customers. He headed for the bridge, but there the county courthouse, the Church of the Martyrs, the various social places, and all the nice stores were closed. Flickering gas lamps shone brightly and dimly on the dark fronts of those buildings. The brutally stormy night had driven all Edinburghers back to their homes.
There was a clear whistling sound behind him, whistling from a pupil at Heriot's Charity School, who had been detained by his teacher after dark because he hadn't been ready for his homework or had done something wrong. He was not a "mere orphan" but "fatherless" and lived with his mother outside the school. Mr. Terrell turned back past his store and headed south towards Forrest Road, on the edge of the narrow part of the churchyard.
It was downhill all the way from the Burleigh Muir area to Grassmarket and Cowgate. So Jodie Ross swung her arms round with gusto, spread her stubby legs and strutted towards home. The drooping part of her knitted sleeves fluttered behind her like brightly colored triangular flags. He looked as if Mercury, the messenger of the gods in Roman mythology, had gone on an urgent errand.
"Son, do you know where I can get a doctor for a shilling or two? I have an old countryman in my store."
"He's that sick?" Jodie asked with the morbid curiosity of a child.
"Yes, he lost his head. Run along child, don't stand there being silly and playing the fool."
Jodie flew across the bridge towards Hay Street. Mr. Terrell trudged to the store against the gusting wind and slippery ice, figuring as he went what kind of bed he could get for his patient to deal with for the night. He had to get him into an almshouse bed quickly, first thing in the morning, whether he wanted to or not.
He returned to the store, only to see the door wide open and a gale blowing into the hastily abandoned store. The floor was littered with ashes; kerosene lamps swayed in the gusts. Old York and Bobby were gone.
Mr. Terrell watched the little creature with great interest. He was getting attached to Bobby. He was probably daydreaming that he might be able to persuade the tenant of Calderbrae Farm. He might be able to convince the tenant of Calderbrae Farm to give up Bobby for some reason. Then he could get his hands on Bobby and transfer Bobby's love from the cold grave to the warmth of the front of the fireplace.
Bobby jumped forward and the mouse was caught. With a jerk of his head, Bobby dropped the mouse at his best friend's feet to prove that he was good at his job. Mr. Terrell heaped praise on the puppy. The puppy, believing that he was now entitled to make a new claim, ran to the door, barking with gusto and intermittent barking. The reason was plain: "I have served you well. Now it's time for you to send me back to the churchyard."
Mr. Terrell talked to Bobby like he was talking to a bright child. Bobby listened patiently but remained stubborn. Finally he walked away in disgust. He was disappointed and deflated by Mr. Terrell, but did not give up on his goal. He lay prone by the door. Mr. Terrell watched him, for in just a moment someone would open the door and come in, and the ownerless puppy would take the opportunity to venture out into the street. Bobby could have known what the door was for, and was probably looking forward to the chance of such relief. He waited patiently for a long time, then began to run back and forth. He raked Mr. Terrell with his front legs and sobbed and cried. Finally he howled.
A terrible, desolate, heartbreaking howl echoed between the walls. He roared on and on, leaving Mr. Terrell at a loss for words. So as not to disturb the quiet of the neighbors, he shut Bobby in the back washroom and instructed him to stop howling. The puppy was quiet for a good ten minutes, most likely watching the new place to see if there was an exit. Then he howled again. It was amazing that a dog that small could bark so loudly.
Summer comes earlier in Greyfriars churchyard than anywhere else in Edinburgh, and the flowers bloom most profusely. The damp south-westerly winds blow right through as it is blocked by buildings to the north and east. Throughout the long afternoons, the sun shines on the slopes in the graveyard and warms the rear windows of the budget apartments overlooking the churchyard. Before the end of May, the keeper will need to spend a lot of work fixing the yard's plantings, because lush, flowery vines may engulf the cemetery's circular path; weeds may slowly encroach on the flower beds.
A half-century ago there were no rotary mowers available to cut the heads of redbud grass. Even if there were, they couldn't be used on a sloping site like this. Besides, it's full of flagstones, full of turf-covered mounds, full of oval-shaped annual plant nurseries and flower beds. Mr. Brown would have to get down on all fours and trim the edges and steep slopes of the lawn with the big gardener's scissors and refurbish the little round mounds with the scythe. Thus he might dig up dandelion roots with the small trowel always pinned to his belt, consider whether to get rid of the spreading saffron and river valley lilies, whether to allow time for the country violets to bloom, and whether to leave the burdock, which serves as a cover, untouched for a while, waiting until after the chicks in the bushes have fledged their nests.
On mornings when the weather was pleasant, Mrs. Jenny used to carry out a milking stool and sit on the narrow path, knitting or mending while she gave her husband little suggestions. Bobby quietly skulked around the neighborhood, sniffing here and there with interest, alertly cocking his head this way and that. The skill he had learned that first summer in Greyfriars churchyard was to protect the skylarks, song thrushes, red-breasted birds, and wrens that foolishly built their nests in low lilac bushes, golden-chained bushes, and blooming shrubbery, in cracks in the walls, crevices in the graves, or on the ground. It is certainly a delightful thing for a little dog to do, full of life and affection, and at the same time enabling him to play a dramatic part in filling the old cemetery with the pleasant songs of little birds. At the first alarming cry of an old bird or a fledgling, he, a shaggy-haired little policeman, instantly responded. Fewer and fewer beasts came out at night to feed; the occasional lurking cat would be whisked away in a hasty scurry across the grave and over the wall.
They sat at a polished pine table and drank tea in their best blue cups and ate cream scones and strawberry jam. Bobby ate thin rice and broth on the floor in front of the fireplace. The coals splintered inside the fireplace; the roaring firelight shone on the lark's cage and the copper kettle. Mr. Brown took out his transverse flute and played a tune called "Lovely Dundee". Little silver-gray Bobby attempted to dance, but fell awkwardly and once or twice, and had to bow his head apologetically, acknowledging that he should understand that his dancing days were over. He lay there prone with his tongue out, blinking at the floor, until the Baroness got up to go.
"I was passing through. I'm visiting Balmoral Castle in Bremar for a few days. I wish I could take Bobby with me to show the Queen."
"Oh dear!" Mrs. Jenny exclaimed. Meanwhile, Mr. Brown's beloved pipe had fallen to the floor and shattered into pieces.
Bobby jumped on top of her and sobbed, the puppy apparently saying, "Don't you go, ma'am!" He was like a fond old man, very sad to part with someone he now loved. He clung to her robes, rubbed his furry head against her hand, and then ran sullenly after her again to the waiting carriage. On her way out the Lady said,
"The Queen will come to see Bobby."
"That puppy is very lucky, ma'am." Mrs. Jenny was still able to stammer out her words, while Mr. Brown was too excited to say a word.
The Baroness said nothing more. She looked at the groundwork for Bobby's memorial fountain, wrapped up in canvas to keep out the cold, and she needed to wait-wait until the river thawed on the land in the spring; wait until Bobby's story could be finished on a bronze plaque; wait until the portrait of the shaggy Skye dog could be cast in bronze and erected; wait until-- - By the time the Queen came to see Bobby, it was likely that Bobby would know nothing more.
On one of the public **** festivals, the magistrates and city councillors, the professors and students of Edinburgh University, the soldiers in the Castle, the nobles of the neighboring districts who came in carriages, the peasants and shepherds of the Pentland Hills, the children of Heriot's School who arrived on foot, and the children of the Economy Flats in their festive finery, would gather at George IV Bridge, Greyfriars Street, Broad Chambers Street, and Candlemaker Street below,*** together in honor of a faithful little dog. Yet then perhaps Bobby will know nothing. He would hear no more military music, see no more flowers; he would hear no more prayers from the vicar of the old church in Greyfriars and speeches from Lord Provost; the Baroness would be in tears of joy when the bronze statue of a little dog gazing reluctantly at the churchyard gates was unveiled, and the springs of water gushed forth to quench the thirst of pedestrians and small animals, and yet Bobby would know nothing.
"Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, Bobby, the dearest, sweetest, most charming little dog in the world!" She cried out. Showers of crystalline teardrops and sweet sounds showered down on Bobby's furry head. Then the Baroness's carriage departed in the drizzly dusk.
The bells of St. Giles's Church played their hourly peal; the trumpets of sunset blew from the castle. There was a long pause before Mr. Brown drew the latch of the poop door, closed the two tall doors, and locked the gate to the churchyard. The wind had risen, and the air was growing colder. Gaslight after gaslight flickered in the gale on the bridge. Huge velvety black shadows were cast over the wet, low-lying square of Grassmarket. The graveyard keeper suddenly cried out in a hoarse voice, "His head is cold."
"You're an old dog, Bobby. You can't deny that. You'll have to sleep inside on foggy nights."
Reluctant to part with them, Bobby had to follow the old couple to the small stone house and watch them enter the cozy kitchen. However, when the kitchen door opened for him, he wagged his tail to say goodbye to them and then ran off around the church. Being old and experiencing bad weather, the only concession he could make was to sleep under the collapsed box tomb.
It was a drizzly Fifi evening in Greyfriars! It was a bleak time, a bleak season. Everything unforgettable was birthed and happened there. Rows of ghostly old tombs crouched in the graveyard, shrouded in mystery; mists swirled with gusts of wind, and smoke coated the outer layers of the dim graves with a layer of gray; families sat close together around insufficient dinners, shadowed by the glow of candles and oil-lamps; the halo of sunshine was vaguely visible on the top of the castle; the occasional hurried footsteps of a passer-by were heard at the graveyard gates; - -a late carriage creaked; and in the distance came the sound of church bells. But even on such nights the casements of the pauper's apartments open, and a little face looks out into the melancholy churchyard. Candles flicker for a moment in the darkness. The children in the apartments call out in sweet, clear voices,
"Good night, Bobby!"
They couldn't see the puppy, but they knew he was in there. They knew now that even if they never saw him again in the future, he would still be there - his body would be turned into a part of the dirt; his fame would be among all the beloved immortal souls in this old mausoleum. They may go to the little stone hut to view his famous collar; they may venerate the bronze statue on his fountain. And one day, when the mysterious gates of death are opened to them, they will be able to see Bobby again, and that beautiful little dog running after his master in the green meadows and by the quiet spring, because: if the love of this world is not enough to fill up the space of love in God's heaven, Bobby will have to "go home" again.