Hartsdale Pet Cemetery (part 5: More Than Human)

Some of the gravestones at the Hartsdale Canine Cemetery use the rhetoric of surrogacy, identifying the non-human animal as, essentially, as good as a human relative—and in some cases, perhaps superior.

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Next to Larry, the “grandson,” lays Luke, the “son.”

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“Our Little Man.”

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In case there was any doubt, yes, I did love my cats more than I loved you.

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Unabashedly claiming interspecies family.

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This one is fascinating: Mickey is not a dog; he is merely a boy in dog-face. I hope someone runs across my blog and is inspired to write a whole article about this.

Hartsdale Pet Cemetery (part 4: Almost Human)

Stanley Brandes has written about American pet cemetery gravestones, tracking how they evidence the increasing humanization (my word, not his) of pet animals. As they increasingly were given human names and human religious and ethnic affiliations, their gravestones also reflected the pet’s adoption of their human family’s identity.

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I love this: pets so beloved, they emigrated with their humans.

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Hartsdale Pet Cemetery (part 2: Lives Lived Together)

As someone who has loved and lost non-human companions, I responded readily to the outpouring of interspecies devotion.

1. You made me me.

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2. Some, like this one, vividly record the sheer pain of parting.

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3. Tissues in hand, I wandered over gravestones that bore witness to interspecies lives lived together.

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4. Because humans can really suck as friends.

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5. Bianca’s only flaw.

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6. My first friend.

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7. I would like to volunteer my tears in sympathy.

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8. Dear Mom, I miss you.

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Hartsdale Pet Cemetery Tour (part 1 of many)

As part of my research for a book chapter in Margo DeMello’s upcoming collection, Mourning Animals (Michigan State University Press), last weekend I caught part of a special tour of the Hartsdale Canine Cemetery. Established circa 1896, the cemetery—a stone’s throw from New York City—was the first non-human animal cemetery in the U.S.

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Previous to that, people with land would create their own private place and urban dwellers would be forced to leave the remains along with other trash. (Keeping in mind that the streets of, say, New York, were distinctly more foul at the time, this is and isn’t as weird as it sounds.) Hilda Kean has researched some other pet cemeteries that cropped up in the nineteenth century—in London and Paris, for example. As pets became closer companions of humans, it followed that disposing of their remains via dumpster would shock sensibilities and that alternatives would be explored.

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Few headstones from the nineteenth century remain in the Hartsdale Canine Cemetery. This is believed to be the oldest (1898), inscribed with only the owner’s last name:

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I’ll be posting the (many, many) pictures in parts, and conclude this first posting with some of the more uniquely shaped memorials:

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On the Pit Bull as “Nanny Dog”

 

Recently, a link to a 2010 blog post claiming to debunk the myth of the “nanny dog” has been recirculating through the web. According to “The TRUTH About Pit Bulls” (by “CKing”)the “nanny dog” myth lulls dog owners into a false sense of security, exposing their children to dangerous pit bulls. Comments to the post quickly devolved into heated debate, with ample name-calling on both sides.

Though I find declarations on a whole breed to be highly specious, my purpose presently is not to defend pit bulls, so I’m going to step around the sticky question of which nineteenth-century breed(s) might or might not be considered to be the genetic counterparts to today’s pit bull. I’m more interested in CKing’s primary argument: the history of the idea of the pit bull as “nanny dog.” According to CKing, the epitaph was a 1970s fabrication by one avid “pit nutter,” with no foundation in fact.  

But CKing’s blog post focuses more on the actual phrase “nanny dog” than on clarifying how the pit bull was regarded in the nineteenth century. Citing two nineteenth-century texts, he correctly establishes that the pit bull was considered to be an excellent fighter. There is no doubt that the bull terrier, like the bull dog, were purposefully bred for fighting for the amusement of men. The author finds it immediately “inexplicabl[e]” that a dog breed renowned for its fighting abilities would also be considered “the supposed dog of choice” to babysit children. Yet this does not seem to be paradoxical on its face: a courageous fighter would logically serve as an excellent guard.

In fact, CKing misrepresents at least the first of his two citations. When he refers to J.G. Wood’s “account of a Bull Terrier’s attack on a rhinoceros by a dog” called Venus, CKing makes it sound as if a random dog on a random day found a random rhinoceros to maul. But if we would just read a bit above and below the cherry-picked quote, we would see that Wood’s account is clearly meant to showcase the bull terrier’s courage and sagacity.

“[The rhino] had still strength enough to make a dash at them; and would probably have laid hold of some of them, had not a small bitch (half Terrier and half bull-dog, called Venus, in derision of her ugliness) caught the enraged animal by the lower lip, where she stuck with such tenacity that the rhinoceros, with all his fury, was unable to shake her off. She only relinquished her hold when her huge antagonist was fairly laid prostate by a ball” (Wood 311). 

So a band of white imperialists touring southwestern Africa faced off with a rhinoceros. It’s not clear who started the fight—the dog or the rhino—but Wood obviously approves of how the fight ended: the dog had saved the men, giving them the opportunity to shoot their common enemy. Instead of providing a fair summary of the account, however, CKing hones in only on the parenthetical reference to Miss Venus’ ugliness—an ugliness that I would argue served as a badge of honor for the dogs preferred by sporting men. The pit bull, Wood praises, “dashes with brilliant audacity at any foe which his master may indicate to him, or which he thinks he ought to attack without orders” (311).

My brief exploration suggests that, if anything, the nineteenth century’s views on pit bulls were, like today, fairly mixed. An 1889 piece in The Cultivator & Country Gentleman records that, at that time, the ‘true’ nature of the bull terrier was in question because of its fighting capabilities (Beale 604). On one hand, we have William Youatt, an English authority on the dog, testifying before the House of Commons in 1836 that the bull terrier “will bite every thing”:

 

On the other hand, we have an American authority, George O. Shields, explicitly describing the bull terrier as “kind and affectionate to children” and the best choice of house dog.

 

And a March 1891 issue of Babyhood Magazine (“Dogs for Babies’ Playmates,” p.121), an American publication, also recommends the bull terrier for children:

Contrary to CKing’s assessment, nineteenth-century views on the bull terrier far from settled, and on the whole, rather more positive as they had more use for fighting dogs.

Today, the controversy is only more heated, what with breed-specific legislation cropping up all over the country with more approbation than gun control legislation.    

Colonialism and the Animal Welfare Movement

A fantastic exhibit on the intersection of the animal welfare movement and colonialism: a short book addressed “to the children of Calcutta” to convince young people to adopt the cause.

 

The book begins by introducing a “band of valiant gentlemen”—knights—who “roved about different countries seeking to do deeds of great bravery,” painting imperialist exploration as a Christian crusade of Arthurean proportions. First, the author celebrates their victory against the “cruel giants” of slavery, successfully freeing the “poor captives”(…. thank you?!)

He seamlessly changes the subject to another set of cruel giants and victims. But he does not divulge the fact that he is speaking of non-human animal victims until a few pages of emotional description, after stirring up heroic sentiment.    

Turning to shaming tactics (one of the greatest weapons of the animal welfare movement), the author describes how the “great army to fight against cruelty” in England, Scotland, and Ireland had inspired “nearly all the other countries in the world” do do the same…. 

“…. but there is one country—one whole quarter of the globe I said nothing about—that is, ASIA. This you all know is where we are. Now, as Asia is bigger than Europe, and Europe has more than one hundred and forty “Societies,” how many do you think Asia ought to have?—Asia has only one…. “

 

“Perhaps you ask why doesn’t the great “Royal Society” in London (which we call our Parent Society) send some of its officers out here. Oh! they could not afford that! They have enough fighting to do there, and every country must find its own army. They did all they could for us, as good parents always do. They showed us how to begin, and what to do, and gave us their Law, and told us all they had done, and now they expect us to do our best and fight for ourselves.”