A singular encounter between a dog and a donkey occurred recently in Blackpool, England. The dog rushed at the donkey as he was standing in a field, and fastened on his nose. The donkey shook him off, bit him about the head and shoulders, and tossed him wildly about. The dog again seized the donkey, and the combatants could not be separated. After the fight had lasted half an hour, the owner decided to have the dog shot, as it had by that time fastened with a firm hold on the donkey’s nose. A gun was procured, but so savage was the fight that it was difficult to shoot one animal without killing the other also. At last aim was taken, a bullet was put into the dogs head, and it dropped to the ground. When the smoke cleared away the dog was dead, but the infuriated donkey had returned to the charge, kicking, biting and tramping on the dog. It was with great difficulty the donkey was at last driven off.
    Mr. Farler, the Colonial Secretary of the Honduras, says the London Telegraph, while exploring the interior of the colony, was overtaken by a drove of peccaries, and was compelled to scramble up a tree, dropping his rifle in the performance. The whole pack gathered around his perch, grunting and sharpening their tusks. “Now the peccary is not only ferocious but patient, and rather than let an object of its anger escape will wait about for days, so that the Secretary had before him only two courses-either to remain where he was until he dropped down among the swine from sheer exhaustion and hunger, or else to commit suicide at once by coming down to be eaten there and then. While he was in this dilemma, however, what should come along- and looking out for supper, too- but a jaguar. Never was a beast of prey so opportune, for the jaguar has a particular fondness for wild pork and the peccaries know it, for no sooner did they see the great ruddy head thrust out through the bushes than they bolted helterskelter, forgetting, in their anxiety to save their own bacon, the meal they themselves were leaving up the tree. The jaguar was off after the swine with admirable promptitude, and the Secretary, finding the coast clear, came down, reflecting, as he walked toward the camp, upon the admirable arrangments of nature, which, having made peccaries to eat Colonial Secretaries, provided also jaguars to eat peccaries.
    A remarkable story of a dog that died of a broken heart is told by Mr. Martin, of Atlanta, Ga. W. H. Haryill, the father-in-law of Dr. Martin, who died recently at a ripe old age, was the owner of a very fine bulldog, by name Ponto. “For months before his death,” says Dr. Martin, “this dog was his constant companion. There was something almost human in the devotion of the dog to his master, and, as a natural consequence, the master was particularly fond of his dog. The daily movements of the old gentleman for a long time before his last sickness were as regular as those of a clock, and Ponto followed him as surely as his very shadow. When the old man died Ponto took his place by the coffin, and did not budge until it was taken from the room. Then he got up and followd it closely to the hearse, and followed the hearse to the grave. Ponto came back to the house a changed dog. Every night he lay upon his rug in the porch, and moaned piteously all night long. Every day found him making the rounds just as he used to do before the old man died. I tempted him with the choicest meal, but he refused to eat. I offered him the warmest milk; he would not drink. He went about with his head down, the very picture of sorrow. He dwindled away almost to a skeleton. One day, about five weeks after the old man died, Ponto came dragging his weak and lean body down the street. When he got to the fence, there he stopped and sank upon the ground. I ran to him, and, lifting him in my arms, carried him into the yard, for he was dead!
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