An Irishman's Diary

A WOLFHOUND owner in British Columbia has taken me to a well-known but unpopular destination - namely, to task - for suggesting that latter-day representatives of the breed are in some way lacking the vigour of their ancestors.

Emma Ross says she must "respectfully disagree" with my suggestion that the modern Irish wolfhound is a pale version of its fearsome forerunner, celebrated in legend. And she should know, because she has 17 of them at her home in the Canadian Cascades. All "superb hunters", she writes, and worthy of the breed's motto: "Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked." That motto can sometimes also apply to Irish Times readers, I've found. So I'm glad that Emma is respectfully inclined. I hiked in the Cascade Mountains once and hope to return sometime. It's reassuring to know that if I trespass on her property by mistake, Emma will not set the dogs on me by way of proving a point.

Meanwhile another reader, Donal Kennedy (not a wolfhound owner so far as I'm aware), reminds me of the fate of one George Robert Fitzgerald - the "Fighting Fitzgerald" - when he offended against the breed back in the late 1700s. His was a more grievous insult: he shot one of the dogs as part of his vendetta against the Brownes of Altamount House in Westport. And the incident had far-reaching consequences.

Descended from the famous Geraldines but schooled at Eton, the Fighting Fitzgerald was a bit like Lord Byron: mad, bad, and dangerous to know; or even to bump into by accident. In an English coffee house, he once sliced the nose off a student who claimed to "smell a Catholic" (the Fitzgeralds had strategically converted to Protestantism). In Paris, he ran his rapier through a man who stood on his dog.

In Ireland, based at the family fortress in the then lawless Castlebar, his fondness for duelling was given free range. He wasn't especially good at it: his greatest skill being a habit of surviving when he lost. But he was badly injured on several occasions and was once shot in the head, which clearly affected his judgement in later years.

Merely violent in his youth, Fitzgerald became increasingly psychotic. He kept pet bears, dressing them in clothes and bringing them on the Castlebar-Dublin stagecoach to terrorise other passengers. And it was in this mood of ever-greater recklessness that one day in 1780 he went to Altamount House, the home of his hated rivals, whose parliament seat he coveted.

Fitzgerald asked to see the family's prize wolfhound and, when it was produced, killed the poor animal on the spot. He then exacerbated the action by leaving a message with servants that he would no longer allow their master to keep wolfhounds, but that he would allow the women of the house to keep a "lapdog" each.

The double insult did not provoke Lord Altamount or his brother into avenging their honour in the normal way. But it earned the wrath of an even more famous fighter than Fitzgerald, "Humanity Dick" Martin, the MP for Galway and a pioneer for animal rights. Martin knew both the Brownes, and their dog, and was outraged.

Undefeated in umpteen "meetings" and considered Ireland's best duellist, he was eager to avenge his four-legged friend. But there was a problem. To challenge Fitzgerald thus would highlight the dog owner's apparent cowardice in failing to do likewise. So he had to await another pretext.

Fitzgerald soon presented one. At this time, he was holding his own father prisoner - in a cave, chained to a bear - as a result of a row over the family estate. The Fighting Fitzgerald's younger brother took proceedings to have the old man released, and personally arrested his deranged sibling.

Here was Martin's chance. He had recently been called to the Bar to allow him become high sheriff of Galway. Now, waiving a fee, he made himself available for the case. And when Fitzgerald's counsel chose to defend his client by attacking the character of the father (a reprobate himself), Martin threw down the gauntlet. Counsel was right about Fitzgerald snr, he agreed; but the father's worst crime had been begetting his son.

The insult was duly reciprocated and the men were now on course for a showdown. Unfortunately for Martin, this was delayed for several years by a combination of Fitzgerald's prison sentences and prevarication. It wasn't until 1784 that the men finally met on the streets of Castlebar, firing pistols at each other muzzle-to-muzzle.

Both were hit: Fitzgerald twice. But Martin's wound was examined afterwards and found harmless. More miraculously, his rival was also reported to have made a full recovery. So a replay was arranged. And not only did Fighting Fitzgerald fail to show on this occasion, it also emerged that his survival of the first duel had been thanks to body armour.

Among gentlemen of the era, death was considered preferable to such a loss of honour. Life was all downhill for Fitzgerald from then on. He lost control of Castlebar. He lost the loyalty of his henchmen. And in 1786 he was sentenced to death for attempted murder.

Lord Altamount's brother sat on the jury and, as high sheriff for Mayo, may also have sat on a pardon. So, if not hanged like a dog, Fitzgerald was hanged in any case. The wolfhound was belatedly avenged. And if you were so inclined, you could probably call it ruff justice.