The first Duke (Richard Temple) and Duchess (Anna Eliza) were very fond of dogs, especially pugs. One of Anna Eliza’s dogs was named Wowski; he died in 1798:

I am quite concerned to hear you have lost poor Wowski, & can easily imagine how much you lamented the loss of your faithfull companion. [Lady Caroline Leigh to Anna Eliza Brydges, HEH STG Correspondence Box 8 (01); 1798/10/13]

Her next dog is shown in a portrait of c. 1802 at Stowe. The dog’s name is not known, but is it the Rose mentioned in the 1827 note of Tom's death below?

Tom

In the 1820s, Richard Temple had a faithful dog named Tom; he died in May 1827, shortly before the Duke’s tour of the Mediterranean:

My poor Dog Tom died today. He had been a faithful friend & companion for many years. He had long been failing and was afflicted by a hunky cough. Latterly he had taken to himself a very ugly Lady to Wife, who led him a sad life, scampering away from his home in a manner unbefitting a reasonable sober gentlemanlike Dog & I attributed his apparent decline to the true consequences of such a life. In the morning he appeared so ill I sent Alexander with him to Cobden to have him examined. Cobden gave him a very small dose of aperient medicine which made him immediately very sick. He escaped from Alexander and ran off from him. The poor thing found me out where I was at work in my Museum and lay down at my feet and appeared quiet and went to sleep. When I got up to take my Ride, the poor dog looked up wistfully in my face but instead of capering to about as he usually did not such occasions, laid down again. I thought it would be better to leave him quiet and sent to take my ride. On my return Ledbrook told me he was in the Pantry dying, that he had got out from the Museum Garden and had gone in search of me all about the Garden to all my haunts, but missing me lay down again at the Garden Gate and knew no one—and had been in violent convulsions. They had put him into a warm bath. But without effect. Whilst he was speaking I heard my poor dog barking and howling in the room below me as he was accustomed to do when he missed me. Ledbrook ran down to him and found him in convulsions again & in a few minutes he died. On opening him his liver was completely gone and his whole inside gangrened. I have ordered for him to be buried in the Orangery Flower Garden, next to poor little Rose and a rose tree planted over him. Poor fellow! I always consider dogs given us as humble friends, and I never am ashamed deeply to regret the loss of one. Deserted as I am by all I thought attached to me, I cannot afford to lose even my dog now! Poor Tom!! [HEH ST 98 Vol 1; 1827/05/30]

I went today to see poor Tom’s grave. They have put a Rose Tree over it. But I ordered Brown in the Autumn to put two True Roses over the two Dogs. I think I shall mark the spot by some stone ornament. [HEH ST 98 Vol 1; 1827/06/01.]

Stumpy

In June 1827, the Duchess travelled to Avington leaving her dog Stumpy at Stowe. The Duke reported her behaviour in his Diary:

The conduct of Stumpy has been exemplary. The first day you went she thought only that you were on a visit and was not much discomforted. At desert she came for her Cake and having a chair set for her by Humphries, she sat & took her desert like a lady of the family. Yesterday things began to look serious and she has ever since refused to receive Cake and Comfort. Yesterday Chandos found her seated on your table looking for you. This morning found her in the same attitude expecting you and now she is on my Sofa, starting up at every noise. [HEH STG Correspondence Box 7 (25); 1827/06]

Neptune and Harlequin

Tom was not the Duke’s only dog. He took Neptune with him on his tour of the Mediterranean aboard the Anna Eliza:

I continue in all the fuss of preparations… I decide upon taking my Dog Neptune with me. He will be of use to me, and will be a Companion besides. I take a Coop out of Smith’s kennel, and establish it on deck. (HEH ST 98 Vol 2; 1827/07/27)

Neptune’s adventures included climbing Mount Etna (HEH ST 98 Vol 3; 1827/10/27). While touring Bologna, the Duke happened upon a touring showman and purchased another dog. Harlequin died in 1837 and was buried in a Roman sarcophagus in the flower-garden.

115. A Roman marble sarcophagus, inscribed “D. M. G. MESSIS qui vixit annis XVII. Mesis III.” Earl of Lonsdale. 8 0 0. A Roman sarcophagus, found by the late Duke of Buckingham, in an excavation made by him in Rome, in 1828, near the tomb of Ceclilia Metalla. It then contained the skeleton of the Roman youth whose name it bears—the bones of which were carefully replaced in the earth. It recently stood in the flower-garden at Stowe, and in it were deposited the remains of the late Duke’s favourite dogs, who died of extreme old age in 1837. This trifling circumstance is mentioned, because to all the Duke’s numerous visitors and friends, this little dog, Harlequin, was well known as a most sagacious and intelligent little animal; and his attachment to his master was extraordinary. He was a native of Bologna, of a very rare family called the red-nosed pugs. He was small in stature, but of the utmost symmetry of form. His latter years were embittered by the effects of a quarrel with a large poodle, arising from jealousy, and in this encounter, he lost one of his eyes by a bite from his furious rival. When the Duke met with him at Bologna, he was chief actor in a travelling showman’s company; but he could seldom be prevailed upon to display his talents in dancing, after he was purchased from his former master, and promoted to a higher grade of society. [1828 Stowe Sale Catalogue]

In May 1829, the Duke temporarily lost one of his dogs, perhaps Harlequin, in Terni, Italy:

This morning my little dog for one instant left my room at Terni and disappeared. My servants, after whistling, shouting, and howling through the inn, dispersed to make the same noises about the town. They returned with no success. I told them I was quite sure they would not meet with any that way. I summoned the master of the inn. I told him my dog was stolen, and by some one in his house—I knew not and cared not by whom—but that unless he was restored to me within five minutes, I should apply to the police and have the house searched, and every soul in it taken up and examined. He expanded the palms of both hands, pulled up the arched brows, and pulled down the corners of the mouth of his countenance, and swore by the soul of St. Salvador the thing was impossible. I said I knew nothing about St. Salvador's soul, but would be as good as my word.

The five minutes expired, and no dog. With aloud voice I sent off a servant to the police, begging their immediate attendance, and retired to the balcony of my window, from which I had the pleasure of seeing my dog brought into the inn in the arms of one of the waiters, who also took St. Salvador to witness that he had seen the dog in the possession of a little boy in the streets. At the same moment entered the Governor and a posse of gendarmes, obeying my summons by my servant, and full of fuss, in a fidget and determination to show the town of Terni, and the inn in particular, that a Principe Inglese was not to lose a pug dog with impunity, to said town and said inn—much bowing and mutual speechification was the result. The Governor retired, the inn was restored to quiet, and I set forth with a most princely indignant frown upon my countenance, directed against the whole population of the inn humbled to the dust, and, my pug dog seated by my side, we drove off triumphant. [Private Diaries, vol 3, p181]

Prince

A dog named Prince (also Prin) is mentioned in 1835, though it may have belonged to Percy Grace:

Prince and I miss you on our walks and Prin cried at your Door & watched for your return for some Days. [HEH STG Correspondence Box 4 (28); 1835/02/19]