the cat (italian quarter, new york city)

 Hans Trausil, a translator and poet of the 1920's, gives us this glimpse of a tough little urban scrapper.

The Cat (Italian Quarter, New York City)

In front of the shop 

Where the copper light of dried fish glitters 

On the door-post like a sun-ray,You see the tail of the hungering one
Brushing the grey pavement.Softly like a wind-blown rag of yellow furIt curls behind the wheel of the wagonWhere she sits feigning a life most tedious;

As though longing for the oblivion of slumberShe huddles crookedly between her lean flanksAnd blinks at you slantingly and yawns,And at times a twitching

Ripples through her hollow bodyWherein dwells the murderess and harlot;As though for pastime she crouches there silently 

A shabby Buddha, solitarily enthroned.

--  Anthology of Magazine Verse. W.S. Braithwaite, ed. New York: Schulte Pub. Co. [etc.], 1922.  p. 12.  Originally in The Measure, March 1922.  (Public Domain)

all souls' day: a memorial for jock, 1893

OUR DOG JOCK
A rollicksome frolicsome rare old cock
As ever did nothing was our dog Jock;
A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast,
As slow at a fight, as swift at a feast;
A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail,
One couldn't but see the old wag in his tale,
When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim,
And his course of bark could not strengthen him.
Never more now shall our knees be pressed
By his dear old chops in their slobbery rest,
Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks,
As wise, and as dull, as divinity books.
Our old friend 's dead, but we all well know
He 's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go,
Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be,
And his old head never need turn for a flea.
Attributed to "Payn" (possibly James Payn), in Leonard, R. M. (Robert Maynard). The Dog In British Poetry. London: D. Nutt, 1893. p. 193.

a poem: "dogs begin by being puppies"

THE DOG.
Dogs begin by being puppies,
All of them, both great and small;
But a pup, when he grows up, is
Often not a dog at all.

Ask the crafty sausage seller,
Keeping meanwhile near the door,
Where he gets his meat, and—well-er,
Perhaps we’d better say no more.

Then again, the oily Moses,
Fat cigar and diamond pin,
Oft I wonder if he knows his
Coat is lined with canine skin.

Thus the little dog, no matter
What his walk in life may be—
Sausage-meat, pet, hound, or ratter,
Spends his time most usefully.

-- Lang, Arthur, 1892-1916. Verses. Glasgow: J. Maclehose, 1917. p. 35.  Arthur Lang (1892-1916) was a Scottish soldier killed in action in WWI.  His poetry, shared privately among friends, was collected and published in remembrance after his death.  Most of it is wryly humorous, as you can see from the selection above.

on a tortoise and a cat

thanks pixabay

Another find in the "memorial poem" genre:  this one a twofer, turtle and cat.  I chuckled to see that while the poet spoke to the tortoise, he let the cat speak for itself, and assertively too, from the beyond.  Probably wisest.

ON A TORTOISE.
Slow were thy steps, and yet they reached their goal;
Cold was thy blood, but warm enough for thee;
Thou hadst a will, methinks thou hast a soul—
A breath of immortality.

ON A CAT.
Let neither fork nor spade upturn this plat.
For eighteen years I had my way;
I mewed, I purred, I scratched, I was a Cat—
And what I am thou canst not say.

-- Ernest Hartley Coleridge, found in Newbolt, Henry John, Sir, 1862-1938, Mary Lancaster Nott, and Kohler Collection of British Poetry. Animal Poems And Stories. London: H. Rees, 1916. p. 15.

a cat's fond, funny sendoff

In which a cat has ceased to be, and his or her human smiles and praises through the tears.

TO A DEAD CAT.
So thou art dead, fair, fondest cat!
Whom more than horse or dog
I loved, because thou wert the best
In nature’s cat-alogue.

No matter what hour I came home,
Thou never showed’st surprise,
Nor reasons for my being late
Wou‘ld’st ever cat-echize.

While, were I wed, my staying out
Would meet with criticism
From angry spouse, and, I’ve no doubt,
Of tears a cat-aclysm.

And now the cat-enation long
Death breaks twixt thee and me,
And I am left alone to weep
O’er this cat-astrophe.

So good-bye—since a cat-acomb
Must hold thy youth and grace,
The motto I’ll place o’er thy grave
Is “Requies-cat in pace.”

Colton, Charles Joseph, 1868-1916. Volume of Various Verse. New Orleans: Press of Searcy & Pfaff, 1899. p. 87.

a kitten muses on a puppy

It's been a great while since I featured anything by that jolly celebrant of all things cat and kitten, Oliver Herford.  Here is a selection from his book The Kitten's Garden of Verses, in which the creature known as a Puppy is considered:

The Puppy
The Puppy cannot mew or talk,
He has a funny kind of walk,
His tail is difficult to wag
And that's what makes him walk zigzag.

He is the Kitten of a Dog,
From morn till night he's all agog —
Forever seeking something new
That' s good but isn't meant to chew.

He romps about the Tulip bed,
And chews the Flowers white and red,
And when the Gardener comes to see
He's sure to blame mamma or me.

One game that cannot ever fail
To please him is to chase his tail—
(To catch one's tail, 'twixt me and you,
Is not an easy thing to do.)

If he has not a pretty face
The Puppy's heart is in its place.
I'm sorry he must grow into
A Horrid, Noisy Dog, aren't you?

-- Herford, Oliver, 1863-1935. The Kitten's Garden of Verses. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1911. 39-40.

kitty silliness victorian style

british library flickr, no known copyright status

This bit of jolly randomness is from an adorable book, Lilliput Lyrics, published in 1889.  The author, William Brighty Rands (1823-82) was a major figure in Victorian children's literature.  The illustrator was the splendid, multitalented Charles Robinson.  The book a a whole surprises me with its modernity - the stream-of-consciousness of the poetry, the goofiness of the line drawings.

cat prudes

Yes, I'm betting this is the only time you'll ever see those words in a phrase - as found in this wacky 1809 poem below.  A monody, originally a Greek lyric sung by a single performer, has come to mean a lament for a death - possibly the mysterious Dick of the last line.

A MONODY

CATS who frail nymphs in gay assemblies guard,
As buckram stifl, and bearded like the pard;
Calumnious cats, who circulate faux paux,
And reputations maul with murd’rous claws.
Shrill cats, whom fierce domestic brawls delight,
Cross cats, who nothing want but teeth to bite;
Starch cats, of puritanic aspect sad,
And learned cats, who talk their husbands mad:
Confounded cats, who cough, and creek, and cry,
And maudlin cats, who drink eternally:
Prim cats, of countenance and mien precise,
Yet oft’ner hankering for men than mice.
Curst cats, whom nought has castigation checks,
Penurious cats, who buy their coals by peeks;
Fastidious cats, who pine for costly cates,
And jealous cats, who catechise their mates;
Cat prudes, who when they’re ask'd the question, squall,
And ne’er give answer categorical;
Uncleanly cats, who never pare their nails,
Cat gossips, full of Canterbury tales;
Cat grandams, vex’d with asthmas and catarrhs,
And superstitious cats, who curse their stars;
Cats, who their favours barter for a bribe,
And canting cats, the worst of all the tribe;
And faded virgin cats, and tabbies old,
Who at quadrille remorseless mouse for gold;
Cats of each class, craft, calling, and degree,
Mourn Dick’s calamitous catastrophe.

from  The Humourist's Miscellany: Containing Original and Select Articles of Poetry, on Mirth, Humour, Wit, Gaiety and Entertainment. To which is Prefixed, the Celebrated Lecture on Heads; by G. A. Stevens. London: Second Edition 1804. 95.

introducing iMyk9

photo coopyright and kindest permission of k orr

*Note from your friendly curator:  While this post discusses a new pet product, I received no payment of any kind for this post. I simply think this is an excellent idea that would help keep dogs safe.* 

See that dog up there in the car?  Are you worried about him?  Don't be: he's being watched over at a remove.  I know this because I see the sticker on the glass:

"iMyK9"?  Yes.  According to founder and CEO Karen D. Orr, iMyK9 was developed as a pet monitor providing a safer way to travel with your pet.  Have a look at the features and how it works: a monitor in the car is twinned with an app.  You can set the app to monitor the car temperature and see your dog (or cat, if yours travels) one-way, or you can also have a connection that permits your pet to hear you.  This product is launching this summer, and I hope it helps save many dogs from needless tragedy.  

You know me - I couldn't resist asking Karen Orr if she had a favorite pet poem.  She did, and it's one I honestly did not know before. She sent the photo below for the fun of it, and the poem, which follows:

photo via kindest permission of k orr

If I should ever leave you whom I love
To go along the Silent Way,
Grieve not,
Nor speak of me with tears,
But laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you there.

( I'd come - I'd come, could I but find a way!
But would not tears and grief be barriers? )
And when you hear a song
Or see a bird I loved,
Please do not let the thought of me be sad...
For I am loving you just as I always have...
You were so good to me!

There are so many things I wanted still to do -
So many things to say to you...
Remember that I did not fear...
It was Just leaving you that was so hard to face...
We cannot see Beyond...
But this I know:
I love you so -
'twas heaven here with you!
- "To Those I Love," Isla Paschal Richardson (b. 1886), provided by Karen in memory of her Blue Heeler

pompey who?

(PD) courtesy hathitrust

I snipped this curious old nursery rhyme and its illustration from an 1840 children's book.  Who's Pompey and why does he need to say anything?

 -- Rusher, J. Golby. (1840). Nursery poems: from the ancient and modern poets. Banbury: Printed by J.G. Rusher.

a poetical naturalist on the dog

From a child's book of natural history in verse, dated 1848:

THE DOG.
(Canis.)
THE friend of man, the faithful friend,
The virtues of whose race descend,
To bless thy masters, rich or poor,
On fertile plains, or barren moor.

THE SIBERIAN DOG.
(Canis Sibericus.)
"Mid wastes of wild untrodden snow,
Who like this Dog the sledge can draw?
Not e'en the reindeer can contend
With him, the rude Kamtschatkan's friend.

THE NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
(C. Terrae Novae.)
Mid roaring torrents, raging seas,
The brave Newfoundland Dog essays,
Despite of danger or of dread,
To rescue from a watery bed.

THE SHEPHERD'S DOG.
(C. Familiaris.)
The shepherd's noble, faithful charge,
The guardian of his flock at large,
What pen can laud his properties,
Or speak of him as he deserves?

THE CUR DOG.
(C. Domesticus.)
The farmer's and the grazier's Cur,
Invaluable helps they are,
Who journey on with patient speed,
And prove most useful friends in need.

-- from Dring, M. (1848). The child's poetical naturalist: with notes. London: Hamilton, Adams & Co.. 120-1.

a horse enlists, 1918

thanks thegraphicsfairy.com

From the WWI era (note reference to the Hun - it's a derogatory term for Germans):  a horse does his bit in this heartfelt poem..

ENLISTED
Rebecca N. Porter

I hadn't been troubled about the war,
For under the kind blue skies
I was happy, and free to roam the fields
As the vagrant butterflies.
But all in a day, the clouds grew gray
And darkened my Paradise,
For “The One Whom I Loved The Best” embarked
On the voyage of sacrifice.

And no one explained, and no one came
Through the darkness to comfort me,
And my life grew chill, and my heart grew hot
With a speechless misery.
I cannot tell how my shackles fell,
But God must have heard my prayer,
And I too traveled the watery trail
To join the boys over there.

They say that some men dread to come,
Though all that they hold most dear
Is at stake on the altar of No-Man's-Land,
'Twixt the Hun and free-born here.
'Tis enough for me, that the One I Would See
Is “somewhere among this force,”
And together we fight with a God who heard
The prayer of a little brown horse.

from Animals. [Boston: Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals]. Vol 51 No. 1 (June 1918), p. 12.

a cat is "an idol of the market place"

thanks reusableart.com

I couldn't pass up the chance to share this curious treat:  another poem found in Coal and Candlelight and Other Verses.

AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE
Decorum and the butcher's cat
Are seldom far apart
From dawn when clouds surmount the air,
Piled like a beauty's powdered hair,
Till dusk, when down the misty square
Rumbles the latest cart

He sits in coat of white and grey
Where the rude cleaver's shock
Horrid from time to time descends,
And his imposing presence lends.
Grace to a platform that extends
Beneath the chopping-block. 

How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks,
His paws, sequestered warm!
An oak-grained panel backs his head
And all the stock-in-trade is spread,
A symphony in white and red,
Round his harmonious form.

The butcher's brave cerulean garb
Flutters before his face,
The cleaver dints his little roof
Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof,
He sits superb and panic proof
In his accustomed place. 

Threading the columned County Hall,
Midmost before his eyes,
Alerter dog and loitering maid
Cross from the sunlight to the shade,

And small amenities of trade
Under the gables rise;

Cats of the town, a shameless crew,
Over the way he sees
Propitiate with lavish purr
An unresponsive customer,
Or, meek with sycophantic fur,
Caress the children's knees. 

But he, betrothed to etiquette,
Betrays nor head nor heart;
Lone as the Ark on Ararat,
A monument of fur and fat,
Decorum and the butcher's cat
Are seldom far apart.

-- Eden, H. Parry. (1918). Coal and candlelight and other verses. London: J. Lane. 52-54.

sir bat-ears, the dog of the poor

From a slim volume of verse dated 1918, a gentle story of a dog who gives his patient love to the old folks living in the care of the parish.

Sir Bat-Ears
Sir Bat-Ears was a dog of birth
- And bred in Aberdeen,
But he favoured not his noble kin
And so his lot is mean,
And Sir Bat-ears sits by the alms-houses
On the stones with grass between.

Under the ancient archway
His pleasure is to wait
Between the two stone pine-apples
That flank the weathered gate;

And old, old alms-persons go by,
All rusty, bent and black
“Good day, good day, Sir Bat-ears!”
They say and stroke his back.

And old, old alms-persons go by,
Shaking and wellnigh dead,
“Good night, good night, Sir Bat-ears!"
They say and pat his head.

So courted and considered
He sits out hour by hour,
Benignant in the sunshine
And prudent in the shower.

(Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm
And stiffly breast the rain,
That rising when the cloud is gone
He leaves a circle of dry stone
Whereon to sit again.)

A dozen little door-steps
Under the arch are seen,
A dozen aged alms-persons
To keep them bright and clean;

Two wrinkled hands to scour each step
With a square of yellow stone—-
But print-marks of Sir Bat-ears' paws
Bespeckle every one.

And little eats an alms-person,
But, though his board be bare,
There never lacks a bone of the best
To be Sir Bats-ears’ share.

Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose,
He quests from door to door;
Their grace they say, his shadow grey
Is instant on the floor—
Humblest of all the dogs there be,
A pensioner of the poor.

-- Eden, H. Parry. (1918). Coal and candlelight and other verses. London: J. Lane. 15-18.

a couple of pet epigrams from the ancient greeks

thanks pixabay  (CC0 PD)

The following are translations from ancient Greek of various epigrams (brief poems inscribed on grave markers or votive offerings).

55
On a Maltese Watch-Dog
Here the stone says it holds the white dog from Melita, the most
faithful guardian of Eumelus; Bull they called him while he was
yet alive; but now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways
of night.

56
On a Tame Partridge
No longer, poor partridge migrated from the rocks, does thy
woven house hold thee in its thin withies, nor under the sparkle
of fresh-faced Dawn dost thou ruffle up the edges of thy basking
wings; the cat bit off thy head, but the rest of thee I snatched
away, and she did not fill her greedy jaw; and now may the earth
cover thee not lightly but heavily, lest she drag out thy remains.

This next one I believe we've seen before at the Museum, but its beauty merits another visit.

57
On a Thessalian Hound
Surely even as thou hast dead in this tomb I deem the wild
beasts yet fear thy white bones, huntress Lycas; and thy valour
great Pelion knows, and splendid Ossa and the lonely peaks of
Cithaeron.

- from Mackail, J. W. (John William). (1890). Select epigrams from the Greek anthology. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Passim.

some dog poetry

I found myself looking over contemporary poetry at Poetry Magazine's website.  While I can't copy and paste as I usually do, due to copyright, you'll enjoy following the links to these more modern voices as they tell of dogs.

The Seeing-Eye Dog, Bruce Guernsey (a dog goes beatnik for love of his master)

The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog, Alicia Ostriker (in which to be blessed can mean a number of different things, but I like the dog's idea best)

Dog in Bed, Joyce Sidman (in which a sleepy, bed-hogging mutt is just like love, which we knew, right?).

"here is a brave dog"

public domain

A simple lesson for kids from the mid-1800's.

found in - Bogert, J. Augustus., Eastman, H., Merrill, R. (1843-1854). Stories about dogs. Concord, N.H.: Rufus Merrill.

nursery rhymes from china

british library flickr (PD)

1900:  Isaac Taylor Headland, an American missionary and academic living and working in Beijing, takes some time from his post as a science professor to translate some traditional Chinese nursery rhymes.  Here's a few.
*
If you steal a needle
Or steal a thread,
A pimple will grow
Upon your head;
If you steal a dog
Or steal a cat,
A pimple will grow
Beneath your hat.
*
We keep a dog to watch the house,
A pig is useful, too;
We keep a cat to catch a mouse,
But what can we do
With a girl like you?

*

The thieving old magpie
has taken our food,
The chicken eats millet as if it
were good,
The faithful old watch-dog looks
after the house,
And the cat has come over to
catch us a mouse.

*

Yellow dog, yellow dog,

You stay and watch,

While I gather roses 

In the south rose-patch.

- from Headland, I. Taylor. (1900). Chinese Mother Goose rhymes. New York: Fleming H. Revell company. Passim.
 

all saints' day 2016

Today is a day to think with love on memories of those who have crossed to another life.  Over the years here at the Museum we've seen a number of sweetly written eulogies to pets waiting on the other shore.  This year's no different; I bring you this tribute by poet St. John Lucas (1879-1934) to the friend he plans to see when he gets there.

THE CURATE THINKS YOU HAVE NO SOUL
The curate thinks you have no soul;
I know that he has none. But you,
Dear friend, whose solemn self-control,
In our four-square familiar pew,
Was pattern to my youth — whose bark
Called me in summer dawns to rove —
Have you gone down into the dark
Where none is welcome — none may love?
I will not think those good brown eyes
Have spent their light of truth so soon;
But in some canine paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill,
Seeking his master ... As for me,
This prayer at least the gods fulfill:
That when I pass the flood and see
Old Charon by the Stygian coast
Take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful barking ghost
May leap to lick my phantom hand.

- from Frothingham, R. (1920). Songs of dogs: an anthology. [Boston]: Houghton Mifflin company. 130.

ode "on a cat mummy"

In this gloriously odd vintage poem, a mummified puss leads the poet to muse upon the fall of empires and the ascendancy of Christianity.  Hang on for this ride through the ancient sands, won't you?

On a Cat Mummy.
PREPOSTEROUS cat, from Egypt's soil arisen,
Where thou hast lain beneath the sand seas flat,
The countless years had power thy face to wizen,
But not to wreck, for thou art still a cat.

I will not point at thee with jesting finger,
Nor pass thee by as though unworthy thought,
For there is much in thee to make me linger;
Those sightless eyes are with high meaning fraught.

'Tis hard indeed for modern thought or notion
To move along on ancient Koptic line,
Or hold, by any sort of weird devotion,
Grimalkin clothed in attributes divine.

We upstarts have a curious way of linking
Puss with old dames and flights upon a broom,
But Egypt's reverential mode of thinking
Ere Homer's day ran back to earlier gloom.

How very modern is our prophet Moses!
Our Christ himself but theme for recent talk,
While we are few when counted with the noses
That owned the sway of Horus and of hawk.

Five thousand years! The brain grows sick and dizzy.
But long ere then Phtah ruled beside the Nile,
And swarming millions, brown and blithe and busy,
Throve in the dreamy splendor of his smile.

Most ancient cat! When thou were swathed and twisted
In costly shroud and laid in sacred grave,
Apis and Pharaoh vainly were resisted,
And gentle Isis deigned to bless and save.

Those gods are dead, and faded is their splendor;
Their countless years are but a day that's done,
While Bethlehem's star, with radiance pure and tender,
Outshines in glory Egypt's fiercest sun.

The granite statue of sublime Rameses
On Memphis plain stands desolate to-day,
And years drift by, like summer's cloudy fleeces,
Forever changing and the same for aye.

Broad lotus leaves still on Nile's bosom quiver,
Still lives the Sphinx in many a Koptic face,
But never Pharaoh drifts across the river
In golden boat to his long resting-place.

O wondrous cat! Time leveled many a city,
Pantheons fell, great nations were forgot,
But thou wast hid, and now, in scorn and pity,
Comest to taunt me with my fleeting lot.

Out of my sight! I will no more abide thee.
Thy weird grotesqueness makes me chill and faint;
Thou art too hoar*; I cannot well deride thee,
But I will spurn thee ere I suffer taint.

Curse on those old Egyptians and their science!
Types live, and change doth keep this old world sweet.
We pass and come again: why bid defiance
To Nature, and be spurned beneath her feet?

Voices of nature join in ceaseless paean!
Death is but change and joyful motherhood;
And through the chorus whisper, Galilean,
"Why live at all except for doing good?"

*hoar: grayish-white, aged

- Horton, G. (1892). Songs of the lowly, and other poems. Chicago, F. J. Schulte & company. 124-6.  George Horton (1860-1942) was an author and journalist appointed by President Cleveland as consul to Athens.  At first glance I find his work earnestly likeable - here's the last stanza of his poem "To an English Sparrow," same book as above:

Your enemies say you're a fighter.
Ah well, what of that? So am I.
I will sing if 'tis darker or lighter
You have taught me a gay battle-cry.
When Fortune's against me, despite her
I will wait for the days that are brighter,
Singing " Cheer up! Cheer up! "
I will fight and will sing till I die.