Canals were a better idea than dams have ever been for exploiting rivers. Canals never figured, however, as the Americans say, as a means of transporting people. They were for transporting heavy goods like coal, iron and steel from city to city. A canal was an artificially-dug ditch, mostly chosen along their lengths to be close to some river, not more than a mile or two away. The trick was to dig auxiliary ditches to the local river, which you could open up or close down at will. By digging one ditch on a slope from the river to the canal you could fill the canal with water. And by digging another ditch on the opposite slope you could empty it. And by alternating these opposite processes you could periodically flush out sections of a canal in order to prevent the water in it becoming unbearably stagnant. Although in past times, even in my own day, what was considered unbearably stagnant differed rather substantially from what television commentators would consider stagnant today.
The heavy goods were packed into barges which were drawn by big horses, which was a good reason for giving this idea at least one positive mark. Anything that provides jobs for big horses should be given a positive vote in my opinion. A good thing about big horses is that they can't be hurried. In my youth I used to watch bargees attempting to hurry big horses. Typically, the horse spluttered and then reared a bit and then the bargee backed off sharply. With credit going to the horse. Especially as the bargee was usually an ugly looking brute.
Experience in later life with committee work gives me some confidence that when the canal companies first planned their constructions one particular difficulty was not foreseen. That was dead dogs.
The Leeds and Liverpool Canal ran plumb through the centre of my home town, a town of 20,000 souls. Likewise, it ran through scores of other towns. In fact it was specifically designed to take in as many towns as it could, starting in Leeds and ending in Liverpool. Or vice versa according to your orientation. In total, the population integrated along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal must be in excess of five million, perhaps even as many as ten million. Ten million people, not all of them souls because souls only counted from the Yorkshire border inwards. And how many dead dogs I ask you do ten million people generate as year succeeds year?
People lived mostly in those days in back to back housing. They kept dogs as a matter of both culture and of divine providence. No government dares deny the right of everyman to keep his dog, while no man dare be seen by his mates not to have a dog. If you say one dog to two people I don't think you would be much adrift. Making at any time a total of about five million dogs along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. And how long in those days did your average dog live? Five years? Ten years? Certainly not more. Making for a total of between half million and a million dead dogs going each year into the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Meaning that the number that went into the immense maze of canals that criss cross the English Midlands quite staggers the imagination.
Why not bury them otherwise you might ask? Where would you recommend? These are back to back houses, not country mansions surrounded by 10,000 acres of open ground. We do not live, like an 18th century squire, have an army of retainers to dig a grave at some appointed spot, carry the body and place it circumspectly, fill in the soil and mount a tasteful brass plaque to the memory of a no doubt faithful animal. Absolutely not. We would certainly put it on a cart and trundle it to the local park, gain illicit access there of a night and proceed to dig up some public lawn. But the park keepers have seen that one often enough and we are not likely to succeed. Several of us could push the cart uphill a long way next Sunday, - we have to work the other six days, - to some spot on the moors which tower over the town. But then the problem with digging a grave for our dog is this. The top soil up there on the moor is less than a centimetre thick. Below is stone, millstone grit. Which as its name implies is proof against spade and pickaxe. By proof I mean precisely that. If you try to dig it you end with dislocated elbows and shoulders. So what could possibly be better than the local canal for disposing of the remains of your best friend?
The canal has the excellent convenience of a good tow path everywhere along its bank, a broad tow path suited to the tread of large horses.
As it passes through the town the tow path at night is sometimes in pools of light and sometimes darkness. So all we have to do is to wheel our cart to the tow path with our dog's carcass hidden under some sacking. Then walk until we have come to a section in real darkness. Where the only impediment to two of us each taking a couple of well remembered paws and giving a final heave ho into the canal centre is the number of others who are precisely bent on the same errand. At our previous estimate of 2,000 dog deaths per year, the number to be disposed of in our small town of 20,000 people would be over five per day. Meaning that you could expect to be by no means alone in your endeavour. Meaning that in the darkest part of the tow path you could always count on there being a fair sized group of mourners. Meaning you could count on help with the heave hos, if you were a substandard size yourself.
The accumulation from day to day of carcasses in the canal could not be permitted to continue indefinitely. There had to be a corresponding fishing out of dogs. Done spasmodically as far as I could see. Presumably things were allowed to continue until the boss in the local canal office decided enough was enough and ordered a clean up. The days decided on for clean-ups must have been kept secret. Otherwise I would have found out by direct observation exactly how it went.
Rather obviously the local canal boss didn't do it himself. He hired somebody, a watery looking person to do it on his behalf. There would be a large cart, capable of holding something of a mound of dogs, pulled by a big horse that proceeded bit by bit along the tow path. Stopping at every floating body until it had been fished out with a hook mounted on a long pole. What happened then? Was the cart load of dogs taken to some commonly dug grave? In a fastidiously oriented town perhaps. But almost certainly not in ours. Although I didn't observe it explicitly myself, I would be rather sure the cart was trundled to some local factory, where the watery looking individual would have an arrangement with the boiler man. Handing over 10 shillings for the job. I would also be rather sure the main reason why these occasions were kept secret was that otherwise there would have been scores of children waiting around for the dogs to start sizzling. There being no TV for children in those days.
The reason I know about the watery looking individual is that a great uncle of mine walked while acutely drunk into the local canal, and didn't leave it except by the hook on the pole. The way things were in those days this didn't create much of a fuss, not even in the family. So who was there to fuss about the dogs? My father had a song, about the same thing happening to cats, which he used to sing to young children. It was immensely popular at least in part because it was American in origin. The Tale of Johnny Noolans’ Cat. I wish quite acutely that I could remember it. All that remains is the line in which the boiler man thumps his hands together and says "I think that's all that you require." After which he and the cat's owner retire to have a pleasant smoke.