Global canine superstar, and loyal little mutt, was really a ringer
It’s long been my strong suspicion that Greyfriars Bobby was a ringer. Wee long-haired Skye terriers usually chase their last sticks at about 15 years. Bobby made it to 16, and had been a grown-up dog by the time he took up grave-sitting and dinner-blagging at Mr Traill’s restaurant.
The tale of the most loyal little mutt in town captivated soppy Victorians. Even Queen Victoria asked after him in a concerned manner – more than she did for the slum children of her empire.
Business boomed at Traills tea shop, and you can imagine that Mr Traill wasn’t about to turn off the attention stream if the wee dog carked it. One terrier looks very much like another, when you come right down to it. And so I suspect a stunt Bobby was acquired at some point and did lifelong body-double duty.
Oh, it’s just a theory, and anyway, who am I to question a global canine superstar? He’s a tourist attraction. At least we can see Bobby, and reliably photograph him. None of that coy, “Oh, what was that in the water?” nonsense you get with Nessie. No, our boy is reliable. You can stand right beside him and grin for the folks back home.
And also rub his nose. When did this become a thing? The other day I watched people from all over the globe rubbing his schnozzle. Bobby’s wee snout looks like he’s got a serious cold starting. He’s glowing, fit to rival Rudolf. It’s not a thing I recall in the past. I checked. There’s a photo of him in 2000. Good solid Presbyterian brown bronze all over. One lady said it was for luck. Not for Bobby. I suspect it’s not good for him.
There is another, neglected dog in Edinburgh who could probably do with a little of the attention lavished on Bobby. He’s in Princes Street Gardens, and worth seeking out. He was a gift from San Diego, and along the bottom of the plinth it says “Bum the Dog”. That is his name. No one is rubbing Bum’s nose, as far as I can tell. We should rectify that at once.