The profound bond between human beings and animals is as mysterious as it is undeniable.
To suppose that animals entered the human imagination as meat or leather is to project a 19th-century attitude backwards across the ages. Animals entered the imagination as messengers and promises.
Art critic John Berger, “Why Look at Animals,” 1977
This ancient relationship can be seen in countless Old Master paintings. Dogs, in particular, often steal the scene, expressing everything from unwavering faithfulness to downtrodden frustration.
For instance, Venetian artist Vittore Carpaccio used a fluffy white dog to convey the profound friendship between two legendary philosophers who became pen pals in 394 CE.
A devoted witness
Saint Augustine and Saint Jerome often exchanged spirited, even rancorous letters, yet their fiery debates ultimately shaped Christian thought on morality, free will, and everlasting life. Despite their frequent clashes, Augustine held a deep respect for his rival’s intellect, once remarking, “What Jerome is ignorant of, no mortal has ever known.”
In the painting Saint Augustine in His Study, Carpaccio depicts Augustine absorbed in his work when a radiant light bursts through the window, illuminating a home office strewn with books and sheet music.
The young philosopher’s spiritual connection with Jerome is so strong, he instantly knows what the light signifies: the older scholar has died and is entering 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
A candid reflection
In Hunters in the Snow, Northern Renaissance artist Pieter Bruegel the Elder uses dogs to convey the frustration of three men returning home from the hunt. Painted at the peak of the Little Ice Age, this masterpiece is the first large-scale depiction of winter in Western art.
Villagers of all ages glide on skates across two frozen ponds, while a few play kolf—a classic Dutch sport that combines elements of modern-day golf and ice hockey. Icicles bring a mill wheel to a halt, while nearby, a woman shoulders a heavy bundle of firewood as she crosses a snow-covered bridge.
Far off in the distance, just beyond a church, men scramble to put out a chimney fire.
Meanwhile, three hunters trudge past an inn where the kitchen staff prepares to roast a pig. Above the fire, a crooked sign 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 with nothing to show for their work but a scrawny red fox. Tellingly, it’s not the men who signal their humbling defeat. Instead, it’s the weary hunting dogs that hang their heads and tuck their tails.
A moral compass
What does it mean when a dog looks out of a narrative painting and makes eye contact with you? Is Fido trying to tell you something?
In The Lady’s Last Stake by British artist and social critic William Hogarth, a married woman and an army officer are playing a French card game called piquet. They are playing for money.
Impulsively, the lady throws her cards into the fireplace. She doesn’t like the hand she’s been dealt, nor does she have an unlimited budget—as her husband, who is traveling, patiently reminds her in that letter tossed on the floor.
The besotted soldier offers to play one more round. If she wins, he will return her money. If she loses, she must take him as her lover.
The color rises in the lady’s cheeks as she considers his proposition while bracing herself on a fire screen meant to shield her from the heat.
Hogarth uses the room’s decor as thought balloons to reveal the lady’s inner monologue. Above the fireplace, a portrait of The Penitent Magdalene warns of fallen virtue. Atop the clock, Cupid is holding a scythe, a reminder that Father Time clips the wings of passion. Four candles are lit—but how much longer will they burn?
Will the lady choose to be ruined financially or morally?
William Hogarth has 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.
Author Mary Webster, “Hogarth,” 1979
Tellingly, under the card table, an uncannily cheerful white lapdog 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 the British army officer. “Money can’t buy me love.”
An emotional anchor
Centuries ago, a pretty little girl named Margaret lived with her parents on a small Italian farm. After her mother died, Margaret’s father remarried. In a tale as old as time, the girl and her stepmother did not get along.
While still in her teens, Margaret ran off with a wealthy nobleman. The couple lived together in his fortress near Montepulciano but did not marry. The man showered her with jewels, fine clothing, even her own horse—which Margaret paraded 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. Alarmed, Margaret followed his favorite dog deep into the Tuscan forest, where the animal led her to the nobleman’s body, brutally beaten and concealed under a pile of branches.
The murder shocked Margaret into rethinking her 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 his masterful narrative painting Saint Margaret of Cortona, Italian artist Gaspare Traversi portrays Margaret as she listens to an angel detailing how Jesus of Nazareth sacrificed his life so God would grant Margaret forgiveness and she could make a fresh start. Behind her, Satan—realizing he is about to lose another follower—covers his face and retreats into the fires of Hell.
Meanwhile, a handsome spaniel locks eyes with Margaret’s young son. The boy’s father may be gone, but his loyal dog stays in the picture.