Note: I don't know much about WJ Childs, except that he was a British traveller who undertook extensive journeys across Asia Minor on foot (well, mostly on foot), around the turn of the 20th century, and lived to write about it. This excerpt describes his travels through Sivas province, accompanied by his "insolent" Turkish guide and an araba (horse-drawn wagon) with driver. Sivas province contains the district of Kangal, and it was and is the center of  Kangal Dog territory. 
          It's a pity that Childs didn't like dogs, nor was he even able to appreciate them for their beauty and their diligence in protecting their flocks. If he had stopped to admire them and toss some bread instead of filling himself with fear and loathing, he would have made many more friends among the villagers as well as the dogs. Despite his complaints, it seems obvious that the "attacks" from the dogs were not serious, or he certainly could not have kept them at bay with a mere stick. 
        But his description of the dogs is crystal clear--these are Kangal Dogs, and we can see  from Childs' story that these magnificent animals were as highly valued almost 100 years ago as they are now.  Shoot one and you place your own life at risk! This is an excerpt of four pages from his book. My comments in brackets. The photos are mine, taken in Sivas.

---Sue Kocher

… It had been dark an hour when we dropped into a deep glen, and ended an unsatisfactory day's travelling in a small khan at Kayadibi. 

     There never was a foreign traveller in Turkey who did not long to shoot dogs. To do so, however, is almost out of the question, for Turkish law, and still more Turkish custom, effectually protect these monstrous beasts. In theory you are entitled to defend yourself against them, even to the point of killing; but in practice may not do so, except at great subsequent personal risk. At law, it is said to be hard to justify the killing of a dog; the law, however, may be faced lightly compared with the rough-and-ready measures of the countryside. A cry like a jodel goes from hill to hill for a shot dog, and brings the country-folk out with firearms. They do not stop to argue, but open fire upon you as a public enemy.  If mounted you may gallop for life and escape, though having to run the gauntlet for miles. And if coming back you take care not to return this way, and even avoid the road indefinitely, for memories against you are not only bitter but long.

      So as a pedestrian I went in hatred of country dogs, all the more for the enforced respect I had to show them. Nothing in Turkish travelling, indeed--neither the filthy khans nor universal dirt, nor risk of disease, nor chance of robbery--equals in unpleasantness this plague of savage dogs.

      If attacked by dogs once on the road beyond Kayadibi, I was attacked a dozen times in the day. After three or four undignified skirmishes, in which the beasts, bounding into the air and flinging foam, kept just outside the reach of my heavy steel-pointed stick, I climbed into the araba whenever a flock of goats or sheep appeared ahead. I hoped Mehmet would not attribute this new way of travelling to my dislike of dogs. Sometimes I thought the faintest trace of smile appeared on his face when I waited for the vehicle, but I attributed a sensitive imagination. This changed way of travelling pleased my driver immensely. Whenever I mounted the araba, he would whip his horses to a sharp trot or canter for half a mile, and then at a word stop for me to get out.

       I felt certain, however, that weak-eyed Mehmet had not penetrated my motive, for the flocks were not always easy to see. But disillusionment presently followed, and in the way it came took me unawares. Walking before the araba, I heard Mehmet cough out: "Kopek" --a dog. I could see no flock, so believed he was announcing the bogie man, and wondered how self-respect required me to deal with this display of insolence. Then in the same warning voice, as if doing no more than his duty, he exclaimed "Ikki" --two. By this time I felt sure we had come to a crisis, and though respecting his wit, meant to teach him a lesson. But he had truth on his side right enough, and pointed out two immense yellow creatures lying near the road some fifty yards ahead. Thereafter I made no more pretence, nor did he; and his alertness was such that for the rest of the day he was ever discovering dogs and advising me to ride.

[Childs then describes the sights along an ancient road from Sivas to Kayseri, a road lined with ancient caravanserai that formed part of the Silk Road, linking Konya to the Persian Empire in centuries past. While Childs displayed an annoyingly arrogant and patronizing view of foreign countries and customs, he was able to appreciate and share charming descriptions of the lands he travelled through. Kayadibi now is a small town about 40 km southwest of the city of Sivas, and 100 km or so northeast of the town of Kangal. The road is difficult still…. I've been down that road, and the terrain still looks exactly as Childs describes it here. There's no more about dogs, but the description gives you a feel of the native land of our Kangal Dogs.]
 
 
 

      In following the back of this high-standing plateau--called the Khanzir Dagh by some, and Terja Dagh by others--the road generally went in shallow valleys. It would wind along such a depression for hours and then cross a low col and enter another hollow. Its views also were always narrow and enclosed. There was nothing to make you suspect that by leaving the road, and going a few miles eastward or westward, you would find  yourself overlooking lower country from a height of several thousand feet. Though the western watershed of the Euphrates, it had little to show for the dignity. It was a region scantily peopled and barren, covered with coarse sun-dried grass, but here and there in hollows were patches of plough, and oats, and winter wheat.

     In these conditions of scene and weather the snow that I had dreaded so much became a thing out of question. The mind refused to accept, refused to consider, any possibility of snow coming this day or the next. Some complete change of season, which could not take place in a few days, appeared necessary before wintry weather of any kind could set in. Quite as reasonably, it seemed, might one go dreading snow in June.

       This road of unexpected sunshine was lonely beyond any I had so far known. I could go a whole forenoon and pass maybe only a single araba or a couple of horsemen. Then about midday might appear a band of men on foot carrying packs and bundles containing bedding and possessions, going back to their homes for the winter from employment in the south. Sometimes these man were Lazis, in short jacket and breeches, tight about the calf and baggy above; but more often were from Sivas, and Shabin Karahissar, and Erzingan. They had money in pocket, they were going home, and the weather was good; so they were a good-natured crew, ready with…

[that's it--I've only got four photocopied pages, and I can't spare $300-400 to purchase the old book!]