a new take on chasing a dog

In which the English cleric and wit Sydney Smith finds himself at Sir Edwin Landseer's studio chasing down a dog in the oddest way...

* * *
Sydney Smith was once visiting the Landseer studio, and his eye chanced to light on the picture of a very peculiar-looking dog.
“Yes, it's a queer picture of a queer dog. The drawing is bad enough, and never pleased me!” And Landseer picked up the picture and gave it a toss out of the window. “You may have it if you care to go get it,” he carelessly remarked to the visitor. Smith made haste to run downstairs and out of the house to secure his prize. He found it lodged in the branches of a tree.
In telling the tale years afterward, Smith remarked that, whereas many men had climbed trees to evade dogs, yet he alone of all men had once climbed a tree to secure one.

-- from Hubbard, Elbert, 1856-1915. Little Journeys to the Homes of Eminent Painters. Miriam ed East Aurora, N.Y.: The Roycrofters, 1911-12. p, 123-4.

the book collector and his feline friends

Dewitt Miller (American, 1857-1911) was wholly a man of letters.  An educator, speaker, and minister, he is perhaps best known as a book collector.  Like many (most?) of us book enthusiasts, he had a soft spot for cats.  Here's what his friend Leon Vincent recalls:

Other animals besides those of the human  race were the objects of Miller's benevolence. He delighted in parrots, squirrels, cats, and dogs, and had a profound respect for a horse. I well remember his satisfaction when the high-bred Angora cat that dwelt at the Glen jumped on his knee for the first time of its own accord; he had not looked for so great an honor. His face beamed as he stroked the little creature's head with his ample hand. They made a comical pair of comrades, Miller being so very large and the cat so exceedingly small.
Two or three of his cat-friends always received at Christmas time postal money-orders (made out in the name of their respective masters), to the end that they might properly celebrate the day with extra portions of cream or chunks of liver. On the occasion of his last visit to Boston he insisted on leaving fifty cents to buy holiday meats for the cat that guards the Old South book-shop.
What a charming way to be remembered.

- from Vincent, Leon H. 1859-1941. Dewitt Miller. Cambridge: Printed at the Riverside press, 1912. pp. 134-5.

teddy roosevelt wrangles the pets

Theodore Roosevelt's letters to his children are a pleasure to read (except for descriptions of big-game hunting, at which you chalk it up to the times, wince, and move on).  They are affectionate, funny, thoughtful, and wide-ranging; there is a passage on Dickens as a writer vs. Dickens as a man which is not at all complimentary toward the latter.  The letters are also full of animal news, as the Roosevelt family was fond of pets.  Here's a couple of passages from January 1908 about two of the White House zoo, including a kitchen cat that invited itself to an official reception.
***
White House, Jan. 2, 1908.
. . . Mother continues much attached to Scamp, who is certainly a cunning little dog. He is very affectionate, but so exceedingly busy when we are out on the grounds, that we only catch glimpses of him zigzagging at full speed from one end of the place to the other. The kitchen cat and he have strained relations but have not yet come to open hostility. 

White House, Jan. 27, 1908.
DEAR ARCHIE:
Scamp is really a cunning little dog, but he takes such an extremely keen interest in hunting, and is so active, that when he is out on the grounds with us we merely catch glimpses of him as he flashes by. The other night after the Judicial Reception when we went up-stairs to supper the kitchen cat suddenly appeared parading down the hall with great friendliness, and was forthwith exiled to her proper home again.

-- from Roosevelt, Theodore, 1858-1919. Theodore Roosevelt's Letters to His Children. New York: C. Scribner's sons, 1919. pp. 217-8.

the cat as doctor

thanks reusableart.com

C. Howard Young suffered from a number of ailments during his life, and even so managed to live a decent span of days (1853-1927).  His 1897 memoir, Sunny Life of an Invalid, isn't as grim as you'd think (a little of it is).  In fact, most of it is chatty, informal, witty and self-deprecating, and appreciative of every comfort that came his way.  He dedicates an entire chapter to "Cats as Doctors: A Debt of Gratitude Paid to Cats."  Here's one of the tribute tales:
* * *
I should allude more at length to the pussy who cared for me at Asbury Park, NJ.
Sitting on the veranda, one summer eve, a poor, woe-be-gone cat slunk by, with pitiful appeals. It was soon to become a mother.
We called it, but in vain. It feared. All men's hands, it felt, were against it. And men's feet, too.
My sister, who had sympathy for all that suffered, always had good influence on all animals. She followed it, and talked soothingly, and soon came back with it. We petted it a few days, and then my sister prepared a bed for it in the woodshed. Large oyster shells were placed around the interesting patient, with various delicacies in them, and the feline population of the United States of America was soon augmented by six.

The next day, that cat appeared in my room with one baby kitten in her mouth. As there was another bed in my room I had it covered with journals. The kitty waited patiently, sprang up, and laid number one on the bed; then emigrated to import the other five kittens.
That cat then took care of the six kittens and myself, and at times brought them over for a visit to my bed. It seemed to regard me as a kind of godfather. Also seemed to regard my bed as possessing superior accommodations for cat housekeeping. "Cast your bread upon the waters." Well, it was this same cat (cats seem to apply the injunction to increase and multiply) that later, with a new family under the stoop, chased away a burglar, by fastening her claws in the calf of his leg at midnight. Possibly, or even probably, she thought the intruder was after her feline family, as well as her adopted human family, but "One good turn deserves another." From the oaths I heard on the veranda, I can see that the burglar felt that one bad turn deserves a scratch. Several!
* * *
Young, C. Howard 1853-1927. Sunny Life of an Invalid. Hartford, Conn.: Press of The Case, Lockwood & Brainard, 1897. pp. 163-4.

and here is southey reporting on a stork

thanks publicdomainpictures.net

In the last post I shared Robert Southey's letter home from Leyden, at the end of which he takes care to check on the family cats.  Most of that letter describes the friendship between his host's son, Lodowijk, and a young stork that fetched up in the family garden:
* * *
. . . I must tell you about his stork. You should know that there are a great many storks in this country and that it is thought a very wicked thing to hurt them. They make their nests, which are as large as a great clothes basket, upon the houses and churches, and frequently, when a house or church is built, a wooden frame is made on the top for the storks to build in. Out of one of these nests a young stork had fallen and somebody wishing to keep him in a garden cut one of his wings. The stork tried to fly, but fell in Mr. Bilderdijk's garden and was found there one morning almost dead; his legs and his bill had lost their color and were grown pale, and he would have died if Mrs. Bilderdijk, who is kind to everybody and everything, had not taken care of him. . . . She gave him food and he recovered. The first night they put him in sort of a summerhouse in the garden, which I cannot describe to you for I have not been there myself; the second night he walked to the door himself that it might be opened to him. He was very fond of Lodowijk and Lodowijk was as fond of his "oyevaar" (which is the name for stork in Dutch, though I am not sure that I have spelled it right) and they used to play together in such a manner that his father says it was a pleasure to see them; for a stork is a large bird, tall and upright, almost as tall as you are or quite. The oyevaar was a bad gardener; he ate snails, but with his great broad foot he did a great deal of mischief, and destroyed all the strawberries and many of the vegetables. But Mr. and Mrs. Bilderdijk did not mind this because theoyevaar loved Lodowijk and therefore they loved the oyevaar, and sometimes they used to send a mile out of town to buy eels for him when none could be had in Leyden.

-- Colson, Elizabeth. Children's Letters: a Collection of Letters Written to Children by Famous Men And Women. New York: Hinds, Noble & Eldredge, 1905. pp. 64-5.

a lonely hippo

Bayard Taylor (American, 1825-58) was a diplomat, traveler, and poet.  His adventures included backpacking through Europe for two years, writing a song for Jenny Lind, tracking part of the Nile, sailing along on Perry's voyage to Japan, and being appointed to the U.S. diplomatic service in Russia. Tired yet?  He did far more.  You can read about it here.
One small little adventuresome act is my post for today.  On a visit to Barnum's Museum, Taylor spotted a lonely-looking hippo.  Being a man of great sympathy with animals, he decided to reach out:

"In the first place, animals have much more capacity to understand human speech than is generally supposed. Some years ago, seeing the hippopotamus in Barnum's Museum looking very stolid and dejected, I spoke to him in English, but he did not even move his eyes. Then I went to the opposite corner of the cage and said in Arabic: 'I know you; come here to me.' He instantly turned his head toward me. I repeated the words, and thereupon he came to the corner where I was standing, pressed his huge, ungainly head against the bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a touching delight while I stroked his muzzle. I have two or three times found a lion who recognised the same language, and the expression of his eyes for an instant seemed positively human."

Note: Don't stroke a hippo's muzzle. I'm glad it worked out in this case, but normally that's a really good way to get your arm ripped off.  Just FYI.

- From Sanborn, Kate, 1839-1917. My Literary Zoo. New York: D. Appleton and company, 1896. pp. 10-1.

a beautiful dwelling: the skull of a dog

I've got a longer than usual excerpt for you today, because to cut it too much would be to blunt the odd beauty of its thoughts.  In the following passage, artist and essayist Philip Gilbert Hamilton (1834-1894) writes about the skull of a beloved dog that he keeps close to hand.  Though I understand this seems dark to modern sensibilities, the love and respect Hamilton feels for this relic is worth the reading - especially since he grew up an orphan raised by aunts.
* * *
THERE is a little skull amongst the bones I have collected for the study of anatomy, which any slightly scientific person would at once recognise as that of a dog. It is a beautiful little skull, finely developed, and one sees at a glance that the animal, when it was alive, must have possessed more than ordinary intelligence. The scientific lecturer would consider it rather valuable as an illustration of cranial structure in the higher animals; he might compare it with the skull of a crocodile, and deduce conclusions as to the manifest superiority of the canine brain.
To me this beautiful little example of Divine construction may be a teacher of scientific truths, but it is also a great deal more than that. My memory clothes it with mobile muscles and skin, covered with fine, short hair, in patches of white and yellow. Where another sees only hollow sockets in which lurk perpetual shadows, I can see bright eyes wherein the sunshine played long ago, just as it plays in the topaz depths of some clear northern rivulet. I see the ears too, though the skull has none; and the ears listen and the eyes gaze with an infinite love and longing.
She was the friend of my boyhood . . .
Of course the reader cannot be expected to care very much about a poor little terrier that only loved its young master, as all dogs will, by reason of the instinct that is in them, and died more than eighteen years ago. I am willing to believe that millions of dogs have been as good as she was, and a great deal more valuable in the market, but no skull in the best natural history collections in Europe could tempt me to part with this. Every year makes the relic more precious, since every year certain recollections gradually fade, and this helps me to recover them. You may think that it is a questionable taste to keep so ghastly a reminder. It does not seem ghastly to me, but is only as the dried flower that we treasure in some sacred book. When I think by how much devoted affection this bony tenement was once inhabited, it seems to me still a most fair and beautiful dwelling.

* * *

-- Hamerton, Philip Gilbert, 1834-1894. Chapters On Animals. Boston: Roberts brothers, 1893. pp. 17-8.

in which a pet goldfinch is lovingly remembered

Goldfinch, being wild birds, aren't pets for us today.  However, in a book of pet care dated 1862, I found this (unattributed) story of a beloved pet goldfinch's last years.

I myself until lately possessed a goldfinch which I would not have parted with for an entire aviary of the choicest songsters. He was thirteen years old when he came into my keeping, and his eyes were beginning to fail him. They grew weaker and weaker, till at last the glare of the sunlight was more than he could bear, and I made him curtains of green gauze for which he was very grateful, and never failed to reward me with a bit of extra good music when they were pulled round his cage on sultry afternoons. When he was seventeen years old he went quite blind, but that did not at all interfere with the friendship that existed between us. He knew my footstep as I entered the room, he knew my voice,—I do believe he knew my cough and sneeze from any one else's in the house. He was extremely fond of cabbage-seed, and the door of his cage having been previously opened, I had only to enter the room and call out “cabbage-seed, cabbage seed,” to make him fly out of his cage and come to me. Sometimes I would hide behind the window-curtains, or beneath a table, and it was curious to see him put his little blind head on one side for a moment, to listen in what direction my voice proceeded, and then to dart unerringly to my head or shoulder. What is most remarkable, my brother (whose voice is singularly like mine) has often tried to deceive the blind goldfinch by (im)personating me; but I do believe he might have called “cabbage-seed, cabbage-seed,” till it sprouted in his hand, and the blind finch would not stir an inch. One morning when the blind bird was upwards of eighteen years old, I entered the room; alas! he was deaf to the enticement of cabbage-seed—he was dead at the bottom of his cage.

Weir, Harrison, 1824-1906, and Samuel Orchart Beeton. The Book of Home Pets: Showing How to Rear And Manage, In Sickness And In Health, Birds, Poultry, Pigeons, Rabbits, Guinea-pigs, Dogs, Cats, Squirrels, Fancy Mice, Tortoises, Bees, Silkworms, Ponies, Donkeys, Goat, Inhabitants of the Aquarium, Etc. Etc. : With a Chapter On Ferns. London: S.O. Beeton, 1862. 5.

landor loses his dog for a minute

thanks british library

A friend of Walter Savage Landor's writes of an exciting few hours during which his dog Pomero was missing, presumed lost...
* * *
Once, when I was staying with him, Pomero was missing for a few hours. We had gone out for a walk to Lansdowne Crescent, . . . when we came back Pomero, who had accompanied us for a short time, and had then turned as we supposed to go home, was not to be found. I shall never forget the padrone's mingled rage and despair. He would not eat any dinner, and I remember how that it was a dinner of turbot and stewed hare, which he himself had seasoned and prepared with wine, etc., in the little sitting-room; for he was a good cook in that way and to that extent. And both of these were favorite dishes with him. But he would not eat, and sat in his high-backed chair, which was not an easy one, or stamped about the room in a state of stormy sorrow, like nothing I had ever seen before, though I saw more than one like tempest afterwards. Now he was sure the dog was murdered, and he should never see him again; some scoundrel had murdered him out of spite or cruelty, or to make a few pounds by him stuffed, and there was no use in thinking more about him; then he would go out and scour all Bath for him; then he would offer rewards—wild rewards—a hundred pounds—his whole fortune—if any one would bring him back alive; after which he would give way to his grief and indignation again, and, by way of turning the knife in his wound, would detail every circumstance of the dog's being kidnapped, struck, pelted with stones, and tortured in some stable or cellar, and finally killed outright, as if he had been present at the scene. But in a short time, after the whole city had been put into an uproar, and several worthy people made exceedingly unhappy, the little fellow was brought back as pert and vociferous as ever; and yelped out mea culpa on his master's knee, in between the mingled scolding and caressing with which he was received.

—Mrs. E. Lynn Linton {Fraser's Magazine, July, 1870).  Excerpted in Mason, Edward T. 1847-1911. Personal Traits of British Authors. v. 1. New York: C. Scribner's Sons, 1885. pp. 272-3.

a chipmunk does a hat

By Gilles Gonthier from Canada
[CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

In which Anna Botsford Comstock relates the tale of a pet chipmunk with a taste for nuts and fashion, in that order...

***

Miss Irene Hardy, of Palo Alto, Cal., has had marked success in making pets of the little chipmunks of the Sierras. One called Chipsy was especially interesting. He was allowed the freedom of her room, and after she had filled the dish on the table with English walnuts, he would keep himself busy for a long time stealing and hiding them. His originality in finding hiding places was remarkable. Once he managed to get his nuts and himself into a covered bandbox on the closet shelf and stored his precious walnuts in the velvet bows of a bonnet. His unsuspecting mistress wore the bonnet thus decorated to church and did not discover the work of her new milliner until after she returned.

-- Anna Botsford Comstock, The Pet Book (Ithaca NY: The Comstock Publishing Company, 2nd ed., 1915) p. 84.

how to bet on a cat and win

thanks pixabay (PD)

From Charles H. Ross's curious collection of cat stories (1868): a story, very likely apocryphal, on how to bet on cats and win.

It is stated in a Japanese book that the tip of a Cat's nose is always cold, except on the day corresponding with our Midsummer-day. This is a question I cannot say I have gone into deeply. I know, however, that Cats always have a warm nose when they first awaken from sleep. All Cats are fond of warmth. I knew one which used to open an oven door after the kitchen fire was out, and creep into the oven. One day the servant shut the door, not noticing the Cat was inside, and lighted the fire. For a long while she could not make out whence came the sounds of its crying and scratching, but fortunately made the discovery in time to save its life. A Cat's love of the sunshine is well known, and perhaps this story may not be unfamiliar to the reader :—
One broiling hot summer's day Charles James Fox and the Prince of Wales were lounging up St. James's street, and Fox laid the Prince a wager that he would see more Cats than his Royal Highness during their promenade, although the Prince might choose which side of the street he thought fit. On reaching Piccadilly, it turned out that Fox had seen thirteen Cats and the Prince none. The Prince asked for an explanation of this apparent miracle.
"Your Royal Highness," said Fox, "chose, of course, the shady side of the way as most agreeable. I knew that the sunny side would be left for me, and that Cats prefer the sunshine."

Ross, C. H. 1842?-1897. (1868). The book of cats: a chit-chat chronicle of feline facts and fancies, legendary, lyrical, medical, mirthful and miscellaneous. London, England: Griffith and Farran. 61-2.

jeremy bentham chats on cats....and a pig

thanks british library flickr (PD)

Remember me noting yesterday how Jeremy Bentham seems to have been a great source of copy?  Here's what purports to be an account of the gentleman talking as he pleases, and what pleases him is recalling cats - and one particular swine:

'I had a cat,' he said, ' at Hendon, which used to follow me about even in the street. George Wilson was very fond of animals too. I remember a cat following him as far as Staines. There was a beautiful pig at Hendon, which I used to rub with my stick. He loved to come and lie down to be rubbed, and took to following me like a dog. . . From my youth I was fond of cats, as I am still. I was once playing with one in my grandmother's room. I had heard the story of cats having nine lives, and being sure of falling on their legs ; and I threw the cat out of the window on the grass-plot. When it fell it turned towards me, looked in my face and mewed. "Poor thing!" I said, "thou art reproaching me with my unkindness." I have a distinct recollection of all these things. Cowper's story of his hares had the highest interest for me when young; for I always enjoyed the society of tame animals. Wilson had the same taste so had Romilly, who kept a noble puss, before he came into great business. I never failed to pay it my respects. I remember accusing Romilly of violating the commandment in the matter of cats. My fondness for animals exposed me to many jokes.'

It must have been quite a project to keep up with his conversation.  George Wilson was a close frend of Bentham's; Samuel Romilly was a fellow legal reformer.  Again from White, Adam, 1817-1879. Heads And Tales, Or, Anecdotes And Stories of Quadrupeds And Other Beasts Chiefly Connected With Incidents In the Histories of More Or Less Distinguished Men. London: J. Nisbet, 1870. pp. 151-52.

gainsborough's dogs

british librry flickr

In the following anecdote, the painter Thomas Gainsborough (1727-88) and his wife Margaret use the family dogs as intermediaries when domestic quarrels arise.  I could wish Margaret's spaniel had spoken up less submissively, but (sigh) we are talking about 18th-century England.
***
GAINSBOROUGH AND HIS WIFE AND THEIR DOGS.

Thomas Gainsborough, the rival of Sir Joshua in portraiture, wanted that evenness of temper which the President of the Royal Academy so abundantly possessed. He was easily angered, but as soon appeased, and says his biographer, "If he was the first to offend, he was the first to atone. Whenever he spoke crossly to his wife, a remarkably sweet-tempered woman, he would write a note of repentance, sign it with the name of his favourite dog 'Fox' and address it to his Margaret's pet spaniel, 'Tristram.' Fox would take the note in his mouth, and duly deliver it to Tristram. Margaret would then answer 'My own dear Fox, you are always loving and good, and I am a naughty little female ever to worry you, as I too often do, so we will kiss and say no more about it; your own affectionate Tris.'" The writers of such a correspondence could not have led what is called "a cat and dog life." Husbands and wives might derive a hint from this anecdote; for we know, from the old ballad, that they will be sulky and quarrel at times even about getting "Up to bar the door!"

***

From a collection of animal anecdotes with a name I find pretty funny:

White, Adam, 1817-1879. Heads And Tales, Or, Anecdotes And Stories of Quadrupeds And Other Beasts Chiefly Connected With Incidents In the Histories of More Or Less Distinguished Men. London: J. Nisbet, 1870. pp. 100-101.

the naturalist's cat, 1700s

Here's what the French naturalist Sonnini (Charles-Nicolas-Sigisbert Sonnini de Manoncourt, 1751-1812) recorded on the subject of his most beloved pet:
* * *
As everybody knows, the Turks are great cat-fanciers; and in Egypt a cat is even allowed in a mosque. These animals are in all the houses of the inhabitants, and are indulged and caressed by the effeminate and indolent of the upper classes. In fact, unless they were deified, as in the times of the ancients, it would be impossible for them, our zoologist thought, to be made more of.

Sonnini himself had a passion for cats. ‘He always kept a number of them, and in his works has spoken of them in the highest terms of commendation. The manners of the Egyptian cats confirmed him in his idea that these animals are greatly influenced by the treatment they receive. He compared the barbarous usage of the miserable creatures in his own country, and asked, who could wonder if they had a savage look and wild manners, while these Egyptian pets were so gentle and familiar. If the reader share with me M. Sonnini’s partiality for mousers, he will read with great pleasure what follows :—

“ I was for a long time the possessor of a very fine Angora cat. Her long and thick hair covered her completely; her bushy tail formed a brush, resembling a beautiful plume of feathers, which she could at pleasure turn upon her back. No spot, no shade tarnished the dazzling whiteness of her coat. Her nose and the turn of her lips were of a pale rose colour. In her round head sparkled two large eyes—the one of a light yellow, and the other blue. The graceful movements and attitudes of this charming cat were even surpassed by her amiable disposition. Her aspect was mild, and her gentleness truly interesting. Though ever so much handled, she never exerted her claws from their sheath. Sensible of caresses, she licked the hand that stroked her, or even that by which she was teased. When travelling, she would lie quietly upon my knees, without the necessity of being held; she made no noise, nor was she at all troublesome while near me, or any other person she was in the habit of seeing. When I was alone she sat at my side, would sometimes interrupt me with little affectionate caresses in the midst of my labours or meditations, and she would also follow me in my walks. In my absence she would seek me, and at first cry after me with uneasiness; and if I did not soon make my appearance, she would leave my apartment, and attach herself to the person in the house whom, after me, she most loved.She knew my voice, and seemed to receive me every time with increased satisfaction. Her step was straight, her gait free, and her look as mild as her disposition; in a word, under the brilliant and furry skin of a cat, she possessed the good temper of the most amiable dog..."

* * *

Sonnini speaks even more of his treasured friend, and movingly of her eventual death.  This is a vivid picture of devotion to a cat, rare to find during this period of human history.

-- from Brightwell, C. L. 1811-1875. (1861). Romantic incidents in the lives of naturalists & celebrated travellers. London: Nelson. 151-3

the true tale of the cat with a fire brigade medal

thanks british library (PD)

A CAT WITH A FIRE-BRIGADE MEDAL. Sir, — A lady friend of mine had a very favourite cat, named "Peter." One night she left him in his usual sleeping-place, and went to her own room. Not long after she heard a noise at her door — scratching and other sounds, which she knew must come from the cat — and took no notice of it at first ; but as it continued, she opened her door, upon which the cat immediately turned and walked down straight to the kitchen, followed by his mistress, who, to her dismay, saw that the legs of the table were on fire! She started at once to the station of the fire-brigade — not waiting for bonnet or shawl — (about five minutes' walk). The engine came and extinguished the fire, and the fire-brigade presented the cat with a medal, which it wore always hung round its neck. This took place in Brighton. The station of the fire-brigade is in West Hill Road, where this story can be verified. The cause of the fire was traced to the fact of the fire in the grate having been raked out as usual, some of the hot cinders had reached the wood-flooring, and the table was not far off. — I am, Sir, &c., Esther Wells. August 31, 1895.

-- from Strachey, J. St. Loe. (1896). Cat and bird stories from the "Spectator": to which are added sundry anecdotes of horses, donkeys, cows, apes, bears, and other animals, as well as of insects and reptiles. London: T. Fisher Unwin. 46.  I found West Hill Road in Brighton on Google Maps - it's a very short road - but I didn't see the fire brigade building.  

a hummingbird interlude

From a 1908 memoir of beloved pets, mostly injured wild birds:  Marshall Saunders recalls a brief sojourn with a young hummingbird.

One summer evening a man brought me a young humming-bird, and said that his cat had caught it, but fortunately he had been able to rescue it before any harm had been done. The little bird was cold and feeble, and, taking him in my hand, I put his head against my face. After the manner of young hummingbirds with their parents, before they leave the nest, he put his tiny bill into my mouth and thrust out an extremely long and microscopic tongue in search of food.
He soon discovered that he was not with his parents.  I had neither honey nor insects for him. However, I did the next best thing, and sent to a druggist for the purest honey that he had. In the meantime, I put my tiny visitor on the window-boxes. The old hummingbirds must have taken all the honey, for he seemed to find nothing there to satisfy him until I put some of that the druggist sent into the blossoms. I held them to his bill, and he drank greedily, then, after looking around the room, he flew up to a picture-frame, put his head under his wing, and went to sleep.
The next morning at daylight I looked up at the picture. The humming-bird woke up, said “Peep, peep!” a great number of times, in a thin, sweet voice, no louder than a cricket’s chirp, but did not come down. I got up, filled a nasturtium with honey, pinned it to a stick, and held it up to my little visitor, who was charmed to have his breakfast in bed. Finally, he condescended to come down, visited other flowers and had more drinks, then I opened the window and told him he was too lovely and too exquisite an occupant for an aviary, and he had better seek his brilliant brothers of the outer air.

-- Saunders, M. (1908). My pets; real happenings in my aviary. Toronto: The Ryerson Press. 235-6.

a cat can smooch for a king

In which Louis XIV of France bestows upon a beautiful girl a treat/honor beyond compare (that is, if you're Louis XIV). . .

Louis XIV petted himself more than any living creature; yet he had some sympathy to spare for his numerous dogs; he even had their portraits painted, at a considerable cost; and he also, presumably, had a favorite cat—if the story in Swift’s Memoirs is one to be relied upon. This story is to the effect that during the reign of Queen Anne, a Miss Nelly Bennet, a young lady who took prestige as a great beauty, visited the French court.
She traveled in the care of witty Dr. Arbuthnot, who in a letter to the Dean, describes the outbursts of admiration that greeted his fair charge.  “She had great honours done her,” he remarks, then adds,“and the hussar himself was ordered to bring her the king’s cat to kiss."
When this important bit of news came to be reported in England, a wit, now unknown, wrote a poem on the event, describing how

When as Nelly came to France

(Invited by her cousins),

Across the Tuileries each glance

Killed Frenchmen by whole dozens.

The king, as he at dinner sat,

Did beckon to his hussar,

And bid him bring his tabby-cat

For charming Nell to buss her."

 

-- Lewis, E. (1892). Famous pets of famous people. Boston: D. Lothrop Company. 109-10.

1867: a dog doesn't trust lifejackets

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An Heroic Dog.—In the year 1867, when the Gloucester lifeboat was launched, in the Victoria Docks of that city, it was deemed necessary for two men to throw themselves into the water in order to show the great utility of cork-jackets in keeping the upper part of the bodies of their wearers when in the water above its surface, to save them from drowning. Amongst the thousands of spectators who were watching the men floating about was a Newfoundland dog, who became much excited at what he, no doubt, considered to be the perilous condition of the men. He ran hither and thither, barking very furiously, and trying in a thoroughly doggish way his very best to prevail upon some one in that large multitude of human beings to go to the men's assistance. Finding no one did so, splash into the water he went, and swam direct to the men, one of whom he caught by the sleeve, with the intention of helping him out of danger. A struggle ensued: the man tried to shake the dog off, but it was of no avail. The dog would not relinquish his hold until two men in a small boat went to their rescue and took them both into it. They were then safely landed on the quay. The dog evinced some pleasure in seeing the men once again on terra firma.
If the dog was ignorant of the uses of cork-jackets he had a perception of danger, and therefore, impelled by an almost humane feeling, and prompted by a generous heart and true heroism in what he did, plunged into the water to save the men he thought were running the risk of losing their lives. No selfish motive tarnished this dog's most noble act.

-- from Verson S. Moorwood,  Facts and Phases of Animal Life: Interspersed with Amusing and Original Anecdotes (New York: D. Appleton, 1883), 221.

the duke looks after a toad

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I had heard a little about this story, but I'm pleased to have found more details.  It seems that the Duke of Wellington (born Arthur Wellesley, 1769-1852) did indeed once serve as a kind caretaker to a toad, in order to keep a promise made to a servant's son.  Here's the story:

Touching a Tender Chord
His grace, it appears, while walking on his estate, observed a boy, the son of one of his farm or garden servants, on his knees, before a small hole in the earth, and in tears. On being asked the cause of his grief, the boy replied that the hole was the dwelling place of a tame toad, to which he every day brought food, but that, as he was to be sent off to school shortly, he was afraid his strange pet would die of hunger. "Never mind, never mind," said the duke; "you go to school and I'll take care of the toad." And so, according to the story, he did, visiting from time to time the hole, and depositing therein a handful of crumbs. The duke, it is added, was fond of exhibiting this strange charge to visitors at Strathfieldsaye and after some time wrote one of his characteristic notes to the boy, assuring him of his favorite's continued health and vigor. — London Morning Chronicle, November 19, 1852.

-- from Shriner, C. A. 1853-1945. (1918). Wit, wisdom and foibles of the great, together with numerous anecdotes illustrative of the characters of people and their rulers. New York and London: Funk & Wagnalls company. 652.
 

in which a dog avoids the workhouse

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In this recorded anecdote, a dog's good sense turns him from the path of drink.  Alas, his master was no wiser for the good example.
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A dog belonging to a man named John Godfrey (as is told by the Rev. Thomas Jackson), who worked at the wharf of a coal-merchant on the Surrey side of the water, had a dog, which used to attend him in his visits to a public-house in Gibson Street, Waterloo Road, where he was taught to drink malt-liquor, of which he gradually became excessively fond. One evening, a companion of Godfrey's said to him, "Jack, let's make the dog drunk," a proposal to which Godfrey readily assented; and an extraordinary quantity of liquor being given to the animal, he was unable, when he went home with his master, to ascend the stairs to the room where he used to sleep, getting up a step or two only to roll back. This afforded Godfrey and his companion much amusement; but the dog, who lived five years after this transaction, would never again taste malt-liquor, but showed his teeth and snarled whenever a pewter pot was presented to him. As for John Godfrey himself, he died in Lambeth Workhouse; and his companion, who retained his love of beer, was often told by his wife that he had not half the sense of Jack Godfrey's dog.

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Watson, J. S. 1804-1884. (1867). The reasoning power in animals. London: Reeve & Co.. 66-7