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Wessex - Thomas Hardy's dog
Wessex – The Hardy’s Dog
On a winter’s day in 1926, Thomas Hardy and his second wife, Florence, buried their wire-haired terrier, Wessex, in the shrubbery on the west side of Max Gate, their home in Dorchester. The headstone read:
THE
FAMOUS DOG
WESSEX
August 1913 – 27 Dec 1926
FAMOUS DOG
WESSEX
August 1913 – 27 Dec 1926
Faithful. Unflinching.
Unflinching, he may have been, when he lay at his master’s feet as Hardy paused by Came Woods to gaze at the Dorset countryside, the dog gazing with him. “As if,” commented Hardy, “it were the right thing to do.”
Unflinching he may have been, when he sat with his mistress when Hardy was frequently away from home. “Thousands (actually thousands) of afternoons and evenings, I would have been alone but for him.”
But others were not so unflinching. Wessex had moods of temperament that were ascribed to lack of thorough, regular training. Hardy once said, “Dogs are awful snobs.” Wessex, however, seemed an exception. He was no respecter of rank or social eminence. The list of his victims included John Galsworthy, Sir Frederick Treves and Sir Barry Jackson. Cynthia Asquith maintained that the dog was a menace to all guests, “dominating” the luncheon table and “contesting” every forkful on the way to her mouth.
He had a particularly strong aversion to postmen. The finer points of Mrs Hardy’s assurance, “He only flies at you, he doesn’t mean to bite” seemed lost on one employee of the Royal Mail, who kicked out two of Wessex’ teeth in self defence.
By contrast, one of the few visitors to escape his animated wrath was T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia).
One other was Henry Watkins, Honorary Secretary of the Society of Dorset Men in London. Watkins and Wessex had a special relationship. Tail wagging and barked greeting were the norm when Watkins arrived at Max Gate to discuss Society business with Hardy. Wessex rushed into the hall to welcome his friend. Suddenly the barks of joyful recognition changed to such piteous whines and whimpering, that Mrs Hardy was compelled to investigate. Nothing seemed amiss and Wessex returned to the room where Hardy was sitting, soon to be joined by Watkins.
The dog continued to display signs of distress, he sat by Watkins, touching his coat with his paw and then withdrawing it with sharp cries.
Watkins left, shortly after 10pm apparently in good spirits. Early next morning the telephone rang. It was Watkins’ son to say that his father had died, quite suddenly, in his hotel room, an hour after leaving Max Gate. Wessex habitually barked whenever the telephone rang. On this occasion he lay silent, his nose between his paws.
Hardy obviously loved Wessex to a point of over-indulgence. He regularly worked the dog into a state of frenzy, tempting him with tit-bits of cheese rind and, one Christmas made him ill with goose and plum pudding, which may well have contributed to the dog’s lack of stability.
On the evening of December 28th, 1926 Hardy wrote in his diary, - Night. Wessex sleeps outside the house for the first time in thirteen years
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