A Pet Cemetery

1908

Where Pet Dogs and Cats Are Buried In State

New York. — In a picturesque little spot situated on one of the most beautiful of the Hartsdale hills lies one of the oddest of cemeteries. The casual visitor here, inspecting the inscriptions on the tombstones, would expect to see records of long forgotten generations, perhaps the history of the village in the lives of its citizens, but instead the stones contained nothing but inscriptions to dogs, with an occasional cat epitaph here and there.

"Fido, asleep," "Our beloved fox terrier, Flossie," "Dedicated to the memory of our pet cat, Smutty." Such a jumble of inscriptions meet the eye that the visitor begins to wonder whether the souls of Fido and Smutty now rest peacefully side by side or whether they arise at the witching hour to fight out once more their lifelong battle. In that case even the back fences of Harlem would be preferable to the rural peace of Hartsdale.

This cemetery, moreover, contains French dogs and French inscriptions and German dogs. And just as human tombstones have little angels on them so these dog tombstones have little puppies carved on them playing with toys. Next to one of the graves the owner has erected a big rustic mourner's bench so that he may grieve for his pet in comfort.

The most elaborate grave is that of a bulldog that once belonged to a family named Willson. Besides having a big granite stone at the head, it has two little bay trees on either side, and at the foot is a little marble trough with three little marble canaries drinking out of it. The canaries would be more easily explained if it were a cat grave, but perhaps this particular bullpup had feline predilections.

For six months after he was buried tali dog had fresh violets or roses placed upon his grave every day, it is chronicled. The burial cost the bulldog's owner over $500.

The grave digger of the cemetery also tells of dogs buried in rosewood or mahogany coffins, some with gold handles, and gold, jewel-studded collars around their necks.

"You have no idea," he will wander on, "how much money some undertakers make on the side in these dog coffins. Often the coffins are lined with plush or velvet and cost large sums of money.

"And then some people insist on having their dogs embalmed before they are willing to bury them. Of course the undertakers keep that part of their business very secret, but they do it just the same."

Many of the dogs that were prize winners in their lively days have all their trophies, ribbons, silver mugs and such things buried with them. Others have all their old collars, whips and playthings, and one woman actually buried a Bible and rosary with a dog.

"Of course I know it must seem very silly," she said in explanation, "but it just makes me feel better, so why shouldn't I do it?"

"And do they have real funerals for dogs, with services and so on?" asked the seeker of information of the digger of graves.

"Well, no; no real services," he explained, "though some of them would like to, I guess, by the way they act.

"Sometimes they bring the body up from New York in an automobile, sometimes they ship it up as freight and meet it at the railway station with carriages. Only family and friends, you know. There are never very many of them.

"But the way those people act when it comes to covering up the box is — well — just about the limit. And the men are not much better than the women, either. I've got a pretty interesting job, I can tell you.

"And most of them come up regularly and see to it that I'm keeping the grave in OK condition. And on the day of the dog's death they usually decorate the grave with flowers. I can tell you I wouldn't mind being some dogs."

There are now 450 dogs and about 20 cats buried in the cemetery. Plots cost from $15 to $25 each, including a zinc lined box which is hermetically sealed for shipping. This, however, is only the minimum expense for a dog funeral, and from this point the price goes up far into the hundreds.

They're Not Dead, But Living

1914

On Memorial Day

There is no death. There are no dead. In every town in America they are garlanding graves; lilacs from the tree beside mother's door, peonies from a great red mound which has been the pride of the place for years, snowballs and syringa from shrubs which father planted when the place was new.

But beneath the friendly grasses under the low mound marked with some dear name, there lies not one dead hero. Here is laid the dust fallen from his garments, here perchance may still be found a keepsake not yet indistinguishable. For all the years that we have mourned this brave spirit, he has lived only a little way apart in a planet to us invisible, alert, progressing, rejoicing in a plan universal, and at peace and in harmony with the law of love eternal. — Exchange.


Remember Lincoln's Message

That man honors the memory of the dead on Memorial day who, in Lincoln's words, dedicates himself "to the unfinished work" which must be done before this nation shall be worthy of its opportunities, and of the devotion of those who gladly died for it.

Memorial Day — A Widening Memorial

1904

Like everything else, holidays undergo a gradual change in spirit and observance. When Decoration day was first set apart many persons predicted that its observance would last only so long as the generations which knew the participants of the Civil War. It was supposed that there would be little present-day enthusiasm for decorating graves of Revolutionary veterans, no matter how great the popular admiration for their valor and sacrifices.

The change of name was wise. Memorial day is a broader term than the old one, and the significance of dedicating one day in the year to the memory of those who gave their lives for their country has been more broadly and fittingly recognized. Memorial day is coming to represent a solemn, serious aspect of our national life, just as the Fourth of July stands for the joyful and the exuberant aspect; and for a nation, as for the individual, "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting."

As other wars come in the long line of history, the graves of their heroes also will be decorated. There is already a tendency to hold on this day memorial services for firemen and others who fall in public service. Gradually, too, and perhaps unconsciously, the occasion has assumed something of the character of All Souls' day in Paris. Not only do we place flowers on those hallowed spots which are marked by flags, but we leave a wreath upon the graves of our own dear ones who have gone before; and this is well.

One day in the year we can appropriately give to the memory of that great army of the dead whose banners are the lily and the rose, and of which the armies of the Blue and of the Gray are but divisions. — Youth's Companion.

Custer's Father and The Horse Presented to Him

1878

Mrs. Custer has a room at Lansing full of relics of her late husband. His pet, a Scotch hound — a great creature into whose eyes he used to look and say to his wife that no one could doubt that animals had souls — is in possession of a Cleveland lady, but the other animal, who traveled with him always by flood and field, sometimes across the saddle and sometimes put into a box and forwarded from station to station, is in his father's possession, as is also the horse which he rode up to the time of his death and which carried him to the very scene of slaughter.

The horse was purchased by some of Custer's brother officers and presented to Mrs. Custer, who gave it to her husband's aged father. The elder Custer is a feeble old man with snow-white hair, but not a day passes but that he mounts his "Artie's" steed — (Custer's middle name was Armstrong, abbreviated into "Artie") and takes a gallop along the road.

He talks of his dead son continually: "All my boys were good boys to me, but you know 'Artie' was my baby," he will say piteously. A great friend of Mrs. Custer, who brought her late husband's aged father from his Western home to West Point, to attend the burial, saw a pathetic little sight that will show how much the poor old man — old enough to have been Custer's grandfather — thinks of his dead hero.

One day she sought Mr. Custer in the barn, she found him in the stall devoted to his son's steed. He had come in from a ride, and having fed the animal, had gone to sleep with his arm thrown over the horse's neck, and his white, hair streaming over its glossy coat. There were tears, too, on his withered cheeks.