Thirty paintings.

A standing full-length portrait of the Holy Roman Emperor with a large hound at his side — the dog's head reaching nearly to the emperor's hand, its body weight given the same compositional gravity as the figure's.

Titian's sitter required the dog as much as the dog required Titian: the animal serves both as a marker of dynastic authority and as a structural anchor that breaks the long vertical of the imperial figure into something the eye can read.

The mastiff in the lower-right foreground of Velázquez's court portrait is the painting's anchor of weight — a sleeping animal whose mass holds the bottom of the composition while the human figures distribute themselves at the top.

A small boy rests his foot on the dog's back. The dog does not stir. It is one of the most fully painted dogs in Western art: every brushstroke serves the impression of a heavy body breathing slowly.

Reynolds paints the four-year-old Jane Bowles with a spaniel half her size held in her lap. The dog's body curls into the child's arms; both look out of the painting toward something the painter has placed off-canvas.

It is among the most quoted childhood portraits in the Reynolds catalog precisely because the dog is not staged but borne — the child carries it the way one carries something living and warm.

A small white poodle stands in the middle of a flat-bottomed boat, head raised, the river's far bank passing behind it. The animal is the only living figure in the composition.

Stubbs grants the poodle the dignity he routinely granted his racehorse sitters: a still, frontal presentation against a plain horizon. The picture rests, against all genre convention, on the calm of a single small dog.

A small dog's head emerges from the lower edge of a vast field of yellow-brown. Above it: nothing. Below it: nothing. The painter has erased the world and left only an animal looking up out of it.

Painted on the wall of Goya's house outside Madrid as part of the late "Black Paintings" and later transferred to canvas, it is the most modern dog in nineteenth-century art — a dog of pure feeling, isolated against an emptiness the next century would learn to call existential.

A bloodhound stands at a closed door, head lowered, eyes on the threshold. A glove and a few feathers lie at its feet. Beyond the door — and beyond the picture — we understand that a master is wounded or dying.

Landseer's reputation rests on his ability to assign full human feeling to an animal without making the picture absurd. This is the cleanest case in the catalog: a dog whose entire body is a single sustained verb.

A Newfoundland dog, painted nearly to life size, lies on a stone quay above dark water. The pose is the formal pose of a state portrait; the sitter is a working water-rescue dog.

The title is mock-ceremonial and entirely sincere. The Royal Humane Society had at the time taken to enrolling Newfoundlands as "distinguished members" for rescues from rivers — an honour Landseer extends here to oil-paint at full studio scale.

Bonheur, by mid-career the most famous animal painter in Europe, paints a French hunting hound at attention against a low landscape. The dog's nose lifts toward something the painter has placed off-canvas.

The brushwork is firmer and the modeling drier than her cattle pictures — closer in handling to the studies of working horses that brought her the Legion of Honour. The dog is a worker; the painter treats it as one.

A small spaniel sits on a red plush cushion against a dark ground. The animal's long ears spread across the cushion; the painter has reduced the whole scene to three or four large patches of color.

Painted at a period when Manet was working in the most reduced palettes of his career, the picture treats the dog as a problem of color relations rather than of likeness. It is a portrait, but a portrait made in the language of still life.

A small Japanese Chin stands at attention against a screen painted with chrysanthemums. The picture marks the moment Japonisme entered Parisian portraiture through the household pet rather than the woman of the house.

Tama belonged to the collector Henri Cernuschi, whose Asian-art collection later founded the Musée Cernuschi. The dog's likeness, painted near the height of Manet's mid-career, is among the few studio works he gave nearly without alteration to his subject.

A large household scene in which a Newfoundland-cross sprawls along a settee, the elder child seated on the dog's back as on a piece of furniture. The animal's weight stabilizes the lower third of the canvas.

The picture made Renoir's career at the Salon of 1879. The dog is more than a prop: it gives the picture the soft, near-tactile heaviness — the impression of a household at rest — that the painter would chase for decades after.

A short-haired bull terrier named Caesar stands at the edge of a shallow puddle, paw raised, hesitating before the water. The title is Trübner's deadpan joke: the dog's puddle is the Rubicon.

Trained in Munich under the Leibl Circle and committed to flat-painted realism, Trübner gives the animal his most exact studio attention. Every surface — the wet brick at the puddle's edge, the white-and-tan coat, the dog's hesitant forefoot — is painted as a problem of light rather than of feeling.

A pug occupies the lower-left of the composition, foregrounded against the figures of the cabaret. The dog is the only sitter not in conversation; it looks directly back at the painter.

Toulouse-Lautrec drew animals throughout his life — his own bulldogs, dancers' lapdogs, street dogs in the rue des Moulins — but the pug at the Moulin Rouge is the one most quoted in later art-historical surveys.

Three dachshund puppies investigate a small frog on a studio rug, the bodies overlapping into a single low-slung mass of dark-and-tan fur. Reichert's habit was to repeat the same breed across small, tightly composed groups — he understood the dog as a stage troupe.

The Graz-trained painter built a long career on these compositions, and the dachshund pictures in particular remain a fixed point of late-nineteenth-century commercial portraiture, sold in editions and reprints across central Europe.

A breed-portrait plate from Maud Earl's 1910 monograph The Power of the Dog — one of dozens she made for the book, each given the formal pose of a society portrait.

Earl, who painted Queen Victoria's and Edward VII's show dogs, treated the breed portrait as a separate genre with its own studio conventions. The plates in The Power of the Dog brought that genre to the wider book-collecting public; surviving copies remain the most accessible single body of her work.