Ratting was the most common dog sport, particularly at the mid-century. Although technically illegal, it was conducted for decades with flagrant disregard for the law. Throughout London there were signs reading, “Rats Wanted” and “Rats Bought and Sold”; there was, in fact, a minor industry in ratcatching, with its own specialized rules of the trade. Country rats were most prized, for their fighting vigor and their absence of infection. The more common sewer rats, readily identified by their smell, were timid and their bites more likely to infect a valuable fighting dog. When one recognizes that the owner of a sporting pub with a well-attended rat pit might buy two thousand rats a week— and a good country rat could fetch as much as a shilling— it is not surprising that many individuals made a living as ratcatchers. The most famous was “Black Jack” Hanson, who went about in a hearse-like wagon, offering to rid fashionable mansions of pests for absurdly low rates, so long as he could “take the critters live.”
There is no good explanation for why Victorians at all levels of society looked away from the sport of ratting, but they were conveniently blind. Most humane writing of the period deplores and condemns cockfighting— which was already very rare— without mentioning dog sports at all. Nor is there any indication that reputable gentlemen felt any unease at participating in ratting sports; for these gentlemen considered themselves “staunch supporters of the destruction of vermin,” and nothing more.
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One such staunch supporter, Mr. T., retired to the downstairs rooms of the Queen’s Head pub, which was now virtually deserted. Signaling the solitary barman, he called for a glass of gin for himself and some peppermint for his fancy.
Mr. T. was in the process of washing his dog’s mouth out with peppermint— to prevent canker— when the red-bearded gentleman came down the stairs and said, “May I join you for a glass?”
“By all means,” Mr. T. said, continuing to minister to his dog.
Upstairs, the sound of stomping feet and shouting indicated the beginning of another episode of the destruction of vermin. The red-bearded stranger had to shout over the din. “I perceive you are a gentleman of sporting instinct,” he said.
“And unlucky,” Mr. T. said, equally loudly. He stroked his dog. “Lover was not at her best this evening. When she is in a state, there is none to match her, but at times she lacks bustle.” Mr. T. sighed regretfully. “Tonight was such a one.” He ran his hands over the dog’s body, probing for deep bites, and wiped the blood of several cuts from his fingers with his handkerchief. “But she came off well enough. My Lover will fight again.”
“Indeed,” the red-bearded man said, “and I shall wager upon her again when she does.”
Mr. T. showed a trace of concern. “Did you lose?”
“A trifle. Ten guineas, it was nothing.”
Mr. T. was a conservative man, and well enough off, but not disposed to think of ten guineas as “a trifle.” He looked again at his drinking companion, noticing the fine cut of his coat and the excellent white silk of his neckcloth.
“I am pleased you take it so lightly,” he said. “Permit me to buy you a glass, as a token of your ill fortune.”
“Never,” returned the red-bearded man, “for I count it no ill fortune at all. Indeed, I admire a man who may keep a fancy and sport her. I should do so myself, were I not so often abroad on business.”
“Oh, yes?” said Mr. T., signaling to the batman for another round.
“Quite,” said the stranger. “Why, only the other day, I was offered a most excellently made dog, close upon a felon, with the tastes of a true fighter. I could not make the purchase, for I have no time myself to look after the animal.”
“Most unfortunate,” said Mr. T. “What was the price asked?”
“Fifty guineas.”
“Excellent price.”
“Indeed.”
The waiter brought more drinks. “I am myself in search of a made dog,” Mr. T. said.
“Indeed?”
“Yes,” Mr. T. said. “I should like a third to complement my stable, with Lover and Shantung— that is the other dog. But I don’t suppose…”