Richard Snowflake, Esq.: late 1880s

Five Pounds of Intelligence.

Charles Dawbarn

Richard Snowflake, Esq., was his name, but he graciously allowed his particular friends to call him “Dick.” Only eighty ounces of French poodle, counting flesh, bones, and early white hair; but then, it was all permeated with an intelligence that counted by the ton on the scales of heaven.

Civilization demands of man that he become a specialist. He must walk in a narrow groove all day, even though he put on a dress-coat when evening comes and pretend to be just like his fellows. Nature laid the same command upon Richard Snowflake. He looked like a poodle, barked like a poodle, and perhaps bit like a poodle, but he had hobby. He was a specialist, and in his own line acquired a distinction and achieved success possible, only, to a dog born under very peculiar planetary influences.

The stars had marked him as their favorite seven months before my friend made his acquaintance in the city of Detroit. But the mark was small at that time for he only weighed two pounds; one dollar and fifty cents was his price—seventy-five cents a pound for the poodle, with the intelligence thrown in. Mortals are short-sighted, but the angels wept with joy. Richard’s life-work demonstrated a wider field than the broad avenues of Detroit. In fact his destiny amongst his fellows was to become a Cyrus B. Field, a Jay Gould and a Russell Sage, all rolled into one little dog of the French poodle variety. He was born with a faculty for accumulating wealth, but unlike Jay Gould he could not begin with a patent mouse trap. A mouse was too small game for Richard Snowflake, Esq. He was far too honorable to use water to increase his capital, indeed his friends say he grew up from two pounds to five almost entirely upon milk.

The first evidence of special talent was given by Richard a few months after his change of ownership. He was in a carriage sitting quietly in the lap of his mistress whose husband was driving, when suddenly he insisted on getting out. It was the work only of a moment to run to the side of the road and return with an envelope containing two ten-dollar bills. Of course he was praised and petted for his financial ability. In a week or two he found more money, and at intervals of weeks or months continued his collections. His mistress kept an account of his earnings for the two years of his short life, including the value of a diamond ring which he fished out of the drains of a long deserted home, and she assured me the total amount was over three hundred dollars.

One day a boy—an evil-minded, wicked boy—pointed his toy pistol at poor Richard. In a glass case on the parlor table now reposes the martyred Snowflake. As the lady was telling me the history, we were looking at the little hero who lay there with glass eyes and a curly tail, and the cruel bullet was under his fore paw. The husband was in the front room and confirmed the story, as he said he had been present at several of the collections taken up by Richard for the benefit of the family.

So far, the Seybert commission will of course talk learnedly about the attraction of cohesion, and show us how Kellar, the magician, can do the same if any body can be found who will lend him a couple hundred dollars and an old diamond ring. But there was a postscript which carries the mystery a step further into the field of Spiritualism where the Journal fights its battles of today.

Just a week after Richard Snowflake, Esq. had ceased to snap at flies, and had gone to the paradise where it is believed fleas are refused admittance, his mistress felt him in her arms as she was walking in the street. Being clairvoyant and clairaudient she says she saw him and heard his cheerful little bark of greeting. Suddenly be jumped down and ran across the street. She followed till he stopped with his paw on a crumpled-up ten-dollar-bill. It was his contribution to the funeral expenses. He never appeared again, and if ten dollar bills are still lying around loose or flattering in the air, they are now doubtless gathered by dogs of another breed.

The reader might ask if I believe the story.

I have testified that I stood by the glass case containing the dead dog and the fatal bullet while listening to the wonderful narrative. There, too, was the cash account kept by the day, all ready to be added up by the skillful accountant. The ten dollar bills were the only missing links in this wonderful biography. The magician was dead.

But the dog-ghost, and that last ten dollar bill? Yes, I heard all that too. I saw neither the ghost nor the bills. The reader and the editor have exhausted my testimony, save that I remember the lady said the dog seemed half asleep and refused to eat for some hours before each find, and that she was conscious of influences at such times although they never assumed human form or personality. So the mediumship of life below man might be an interesting theme for discussion.

San Leandro, Cal.

Religio-Philosophical Journal 4 January 1890

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: What a very curious story! One has certainly heard of intelligent dogs doing clever things, such as the French dog who traded game birds for bread and the dogs who collect for charity at railway stations. But a dog with a nose for treasure is a very rare breed, indeed. How agreeable it would be to have a pet like Richard Snowflake to collect ten-pound notes or valuable jewellery whenever he left the house. Certainly it would make a nice change from the little offerings Snuff, the Hall mouser, lays on the hearth rug.

To be Relentlessly Informative, Mrs Daffodil was puzzled by the reference to water and milk, but apparently it refers to “watering one’s stock,” an ethically dubious practice of the Robber Baron class.  Kellar is Harry Kellar, an eminent American conjurer. The Seybert Commission studied psychic phenomena and Spiritualism. It was not unusual for Victorian pet owners to stuff their defunct pets and display them under glass. There is even a famous ghost legend about a dog in a glass case from the Isle of Wight.

 

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

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