It ain't nothing but a song about a hound dog: Musical muses of the canine world

Although Domenico Scarlatti’s cat Pulcinella evidently played its part in the creation of the Italian composer’s Sonata in G Minor, and Michael Jackson’s cloying 1972 hit Ben is about a boy’s friendship with a rat, nothing quite inspires songwriters and composers like a loving hound.

‘There’s something about dogs’ energy, their soul and their sheer joy in life that is inspiring to us all,’ enthuses Charlotte Hawkins, presenter of Classic FM’s Pet Classics and Dogs Trust ambassador. ‘I have a vision of artists and composers sitting at their keyboards waiting for inspiration to strike, looking fondly at their hounds and the magic happening. There are so many pieces of music that might not exist if it weren’t for our four-legged friends.’

One of Hawkins’s favourite dog-inspired compositions is Frédéric Chopin’s Minute Waltz, she continues: ‘It reminds me of my dog Moose, my seven-month-old Dogs Trust rescue. He’s still in his playful phase and spends a lot of his time zooming around.’ The canine that inspired the Polish composer’s famous melody was Marquis, who belonged to his girlfriend, French novelist George Sand. Soft, white and fluffy, Marquis was, the pianist noted, ‘as intelligent as can be’.

In 1845, Sand — mindful of the way her boyfriend doted on Marquis — commented: ‘If I had your talent, I’d write a piece to music about that dog.’ Rising to the challenge, the composer did just that. His Waltz No. 6 in D Flat Major (Op. 64 No. 1), is a three-quarter-time canter that mimics the frenzy of Marquis chasing his tail. Sadly, by the time the composition (sometimes called Valse du Petit Chien) was published, the couple had gone through an acrimonious parting. Chopin never saw Marquis again.

Heartbreak also attaches itself to Sir Edward Elgar’s beloved Cairn terrier, the subject of his 1933 piece Mina. Dogs became the focus of the composer’s life after the death of his wife, Alice, and Mina mixes the playful use of glockenspiel and clarinets with a melody that hints at loss and melancholy. Much jollier is Elgar’s Variation XI from the ‘Enigma Variations’. The composition was inspired by a comical misadventure of a bulldog named Dan, owned by George Robertson Sinclair, the organist at Hereford Cathedral.

The two friends were walking along the bank of the River Wye one afternoon when Dan tumbled in and paddled frantically upstream before hauling himself triumphantly up a grassy bank to safety. A sandstone statue of the unintentionally inspirational Dan (above) was unveiled at the scene of the incident in 2025.

Another musical dog with a taste for misadventure was American composer George Gershwin’s wire-haired terrier, Tony. Bought in 1929, the mischievous little chap quickly became a feature of the New York newspapers thanks to his frequent disappearances from the family home on West 103rd Street. Whether escaped, misplaced or — occasionally — dognapped, Tony somehow always made it back eventually.

In 1936, the terrier travelled overland in a car driven by the composer’s butler to join his master in Hollywood, California. Predictably, drama ensued. Tony became so ill he had to spend a week recuperating en route. Shortly after his pooch’s arrival in Beverley Hills, Gershwin composed Walking the Dog as a number for the 1937 film Shall We Dance?. The music accompanies a scene in which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers walk their dogs on the deck of a luxury liner. Had Tony been involved, it seems certain lifeboats would have needed to be launched.

On October 3, 1945, a 10-year-old boy in a cowboy outfit clambered onto stage at the Mississippi-Alabama Fair. Barely tall enough to reach the microphone, he crooned Old Shep, a tear-jerking ballad about the demise of a beloved pet dog. Dabbing at their eyes, the judges of the talent show awarded the lad fifth prize and wondered, perhaps, if they’d ever hear of him again. They did, of course, because the youngster in the Stetson singing of canine devotion was none other than a young Elvis Presley.

Old Shep was his mother’s favourite tune and was the first song that the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll sang in public. Written in 1933 by country-music star Red Foley, the song tells the tale of the friendship between a boy and his dog that ends, as these things all too sadly do, with the faithful companion growing old and sick before going to the place ‘where all the good doggies go’. The story of the dog that inspired the ditty, Foley’s childhood pet, Hoover, was even sadder — a vengeful neighbour poisoned him.

Tears tend to fall as regularly as Lakeland rain when dogs turn up in country-and- western songs. A mongrel stray, which befriended a young Dolly Parton and helped her negotiate a bleak childhood, is the subject of her song Cracker Jack. Parton described Cracker Jack as ‘the best friend I ever had… he was a playmate, a companion/He was love and understanding’. Steadfast to the end, this brave fellow reportedly died after a fight with a rattlesnake.

Although many pop songs include the word ‘dog’, or variations, in the title, most are not actually about dogs at all (Hound Dog, for example, is about a feckless lover, whereas Rufus Thomas’s Walking the Dog —covered in 1964 by the Rolling Stones — is a dance). However, real-life canines do make an occasional appearance.

The love life of Sir Paul McCartney’s labrador retriever inspired the Wings hit Jet and, in 1965, he paid 10 guineas for an Old English sheepdog puppy he described as ‘a huge tangled ball of wool’. She’d eventually become the inspiration for the song Martha My Dear on The Beatles’ White Album. The title of the track could have been rather different — he originally intended to name his dog ‘Knickers’. Although Martha, like poor Hoover, played her part in inspiring pop music, she didn’t actually perform any.

This was not true of the dog that has strong claim to being history’s most rock ‘n’ roll canine, Seamus, a Border collie belonging to Steve Marriott, frontman of The Small Faces. Seamus provided what we might call ‘backing barks’ on the band’s 1969 hit The Universal. He was not destined to stay in the background for long, however. When Seamus’s owner went off to tour the US, his care was entrusted to David Gilmour, lead guitarist of Pink Floyd. To his delight, Gilmour discovered that when he played blues harmonica Seamus would howl along. The result was recorded on the song Seamus — with Seamus himself on lead vocals — which featured on Pink Floyd’s 1971 album Meddle.

Later that year, the group made a concert film and album Pink Floyd Live at Pompeii. Unfortunately, Seamus was unable to tour due to quarantine regulations and his place was taken by Nobs, an elegant Borzoi who was owned by the daughter of an Italian circus director. Critics still argue over which of them nailed the performance more cleanly.

This feature originally appeared in the September 9, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.