The magical connection between humans and animals is hard to understand, but undeniable.

Animals first entered the imagination as messengers and promises. For example, the domestication of cattle did not begin as the simple prospect of milk and meat. Cattle had magical functions — sometimes sacrificial, sometimes oracular.

John Berger, “Why Look at Animals,” 1977

The ancients believed that dogs, too, had magical functions because dogs ventured out of the wilderness and actively sought our friendship and understood our intentions.

No wonder the dogs in Old Master paintings attract my attention with their emotional transparency and their ability to embellish a good story.

In Saint Augustine in His Study, master storyteller Vittore Carpaccio uses a fluffy little dog to convey the profound relationship between two legendary philosophers who became pen pals in 394 CE.

Although Saint Augustine and Saint Jerome often disagreed, their spirited (some might say rancorous) letters laid the foundation for Christian thought on personal freedom, conscience, and immortality. When asked to describe Jerome’s mental prowess, Augustine said: “What he is ignorant of, no mortal has ever known.”

Carpaccio portrays the younger of the two theologians sitting at his desk, absorbed in his work, when out of the blue a radiant light bursts in through the window and illuminates a home office filled with books and sheet music.

Augustine’s telepathic connection with Jerome is so strong, he knows exactly what this aberration means: The older theologian has died and is about to enter the gates of heaven.

Even the dog senses the magnitude of the moment.

As far back as Aristotle, dogs were assigned the trait of extrasensory perception. The little Maltese is mesmerized by the light rushing in through the window, and his reaction confirms that something supernatural is going on here.

Eric Denker, Lecturer Emeritus, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C., 2023

Dogs heighten the emotion in paintings

In this painting by Northern Renaissance artist Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a dozen dogs betray the emotional state of men returning home from the hunt.

Bruegel painted Hunters in the Snow during the coldest period of a weather phenomenon known as the Little Ice Age. This landscape painting is the first large-scale depiction of winter in Western art history.

Down in the valley, icicles cover a mill wheel and bring it to a halt. Nearby, a woman shoulders an unwieldy bundle of firewood as she walks across a snow-covered bridge.

Neighbors of all ages mingle on the two frozen ponds. A few people are playing a Dutch sport called kolf, a cross between modern-day golf and ice hockey. On the edge of town, men are scrambing to put out a chimney fire.

In the foreground, three hunters trudge past an inn where the kitchen staff is preparing to roast a pig. A crooked sign above the straw fire depicts the likeness of Saint Eustace, the patron saint of hunters. Eustace must have taken a personal day off because these hunters are returning home empty-handed, with nothing to show for their effort but a scrawny red fox.

Notice it’s not the men who publicly express their defeat. It’s the hunting dogs who hang their heads and tuck their tails between their legs.

Dogs express loyalty in paintings

What does it mean when a dog looks out of the painting and meets our gaze? Perhaps Fido is trying to tell us something.

In The Lady’s Last Stake, a married woman and an army officer are playing a French card game called piquet. And they are playing for money.

Without warning, the lady throws her cards into the fireplace. She doesn’t like the hand she’s been dealt, nor is she blessed with an unlimited budget, as her husband, who is traveling, patiently reminds her in a letter lying on the floor.

The infatuated soldier offers to play one more round. No matter the outcome, he will return her money. But if she loses, she must take him as her lover.

The color rises in the lady’s cheeks. She considers his proposition, while bracing herself on a fire screen meant to protect her from the heat.

Many of the scene’s embellishments double as thought balloons. A painting of The Penitent Magdalene — a woman accused of being promiscuous — hangs above the fireplace. On the clock, the figure of Cupid with a scythe refers to Father Time clipping the wings of love (some might say sex). Four candles are lit, but will they burn for much longer?

Will the lady choose to be ruined financially or morally?

English painter William Hogarth painted a classical moment of crisis, when a choice is offered between good and evil. The theme was familiar to the ancients, but Hogarth transposes the theme from allegory and myth to the real world — with all of its warmth of life, its temptations, its irresolutions, its immediacy.

Mary Webster, “Hogarth,” 1979

Underneath the card table, a fluffy English dog in remarkably high spirits looks out of the picture to meet our gaze. Fido, a symbol of marital fidelity, knows exactly how the lady will respond. “I don’t care too much for money,” she will tell her seducer. “Money can’t buy me love.”

Dogs humanize religious paintings

Long ago a pretty girl named Margaret lived with her parents on a small Italian farm. When Margaret was seven years old, her mother died and her father quickly remarried. In a tale as old as time, Margaret and her stepmother did not like each other very much.

While still in her teens, Margaret fell in love with a wealthy nobleman and ran off with him. They lived together in his castle near Montepulciano, but did not marry. Margaret was given fine clothing, jewels, even her own horse — which she rode through the streets of town without giving a second thought to the scandal she was causing. Soon she gave birth to a son.

One day her lover failed to return home from a trip. Alarmed, Margaret followed his favorite dog into the Tuscan forest, where she discovered the man’s body, severely beaten and hastily buried under a pile of tree branches.

The crime shocked Margaret into thinking differently about life. She returned to her father’s house, but was turned away. With nowhere else to go, she sought refuge with a group of Franciscan friars.

In Saint Margaret of Cortona, a masterfully executed narrative painting by Italian artist Gaspare Traversi, she is sitting inside the friary, listening to an angel describe in gruesome detail how Jesus of Nazareth sacrificed his own life so God would forgive Margaret and she could start a brand new life.

Satan, realizing he is about to lose a follower, covers his face and withdraws into the fires of hell.

In the foreground, a handsome spaniel locks eyes with Margaret’s son. The boy’s father may be gone, but his loyal dog stays in the picture.