“Organ Grinder and Monkey, Washington Heights”
The monkey was described as “the organ-grinder type,” like this monkey pictured in 1935. Museum of the City of New York Collections

When Martin Ward, the attendant at Roche’s Beach Pavilion in Far Rockaway, Queens, found a tiny monkey in the bathing house, he brought him to the proprietor of the private beach resort. Edward Roche didn’t know what to do with the monkey, so he called the nearby police station for some help.

Patrolman Norman King, the largest police officer of what was then the 279th Precinct, responded to the beach resort. When he got to Roche’s, he found about three hundred children surrounding a little monkey of the “organ-grinder type” wearing a life-saving belt and a red bathing suit adorned with rosettes.

Apparently, some Yale undergraduates had spent the day at the Far Rockaway beach resort the previous afternoon, so King believed that a few sophomoric young men may have had something to do with the bathing beauty.

King placed the tiny monkey in his pocket and walked back to the police station, which occupied an old frame building on the south side of Broadway (present-day Cornaga Avenue) opposite Mott Avenue. As he walked up Beach Nineteenth Street toward Broadway, the children followed behind, no doubt delighted by the monkey peeking out from the policeman’s pocket and making faces at them.

Lieutenant Scoville didn’t know how to enter the monkey in the blotter, so he noted the animal as “lost, strayed, or stolen.” Then he tied the little primate to a post on the back porch.

The men told a New York Times reporter that they never had a prisoner that required so much work. It was determined that at least five policemen had to stand guard over the monkey in order to keep him in line.

The fate of the monkey in the red bathing suit was not reported, but for one day, at least, the men of the Far Rockaway police station could claim they had a monkey prisoner.  

A Brief History of Roche’s Bathing Pavilion at Far Rockaway

Edward Roche was the son of David Roche, a Far Rockaway pioneer with vast real estate holdings along South Street (Seagirt Boulevard). One of Roche’s largest holdings was the Tack-a-Pou-Sha House at Heyson Road, which had been constructed around 1890. The large hotel replaced the family’s smaller hotel on the same site and was named for Tackapousha, a Lenape native who was the first person to sell land in the Rockaway Peninsula to a European.

Tack-a-Pou-Sha House at Far Rockaway

The large, four-story hotel could accommodate 300 guests, and offered stables for horses and carriages (and later a garage for motorized vehicles). The hotel was so successful that Roche constructed an annex, which he called the Dolphin Roadhouse and Hotel. Altogether, the two buildings featured a casino, restaurant, bowling alleys, billiard rooms, supper rooms, and a few single rooms for men.

Dolphin and Tack-a-Pou-Sha at Far Rockaway
In this photo, the Dolphin is on the left and the Tack-a-Pou-Sha is on the right. The Dolphin was later moved about two blocks and the Tack-a-Pou-Sha was destroyed in a fire in 1923.

In 1906, Edward purchased the property of the United States Hotel, which for years had stood next to the Tack-a-Pou-Sha House. The large hotel had been torn down during the winter months, and Roche planned on erecting 12 cottages upon the spacious grounds.

In addition to the cottages, Roche was at this time completing 1,000 new bathing houses along his 700 feet of beachfront property, which extended from Beach 17th to Beach 20th Streets. The bathing houses were divided into two sections: one for transient guests and the other for families who paid an annual membership fee ($7.50).

In 1912, Edward inherited his father’s holdings. He modernized the Tack-a-Pou-Sha and converted the Dolphin (which he had moved) to a rooming house. He also built four new hotels between Beach 17th and Beach 19th Streets as well as a large apartment complex. 

Roche's Bathing Pavilion, Far Rockaway

Over the years, Roche’s Bathing Beach continued to grow in order to meet the demands of beachgoers and keep up with the competition. In addition to the bath houses (now 2,000), the resort offered chair and umbrella rentals, consignments and cigar booths, showers, manicuring services, hot saltwater baths, tennis courts, and handball courts.

For the kids, there was a park that featured slides, chutes, climbing towers, and seesaws. Adults had access to an athletic director, who assisted them with setting up games such as volleyball, ping pong, beach tennis, calisthenics, and baseball (all sports equipment was rented out for free).

Edward Roche houses at Far Rockaway
Edward Roche also owned these four guest hotels along South Street (Seagirt Boulevard); the houses are also noted in the 1912 map below.

In the early 1900s, a small steamboat called the Oysterette took bathers to the new sandbar that was forming where the outer beach, aka Hog Island, had existed before it disappeared during a great storm in the fall of 1893. Prior to that devastating storm, all the main bathing establishments of the Rockaways were located on the island, and two ferries transported people from the mainland (one boat operated along a cable and the other by sail).  

1901 map of Far Rockaway, Roche's Tack-a-Pou-Sha House hotel.
On this 1901 map, the Tack-a-Pou-Sha House is at the right, on South Street (Seagirt Boulevard). The bathing pavilion, guest hotels, and bath houses have not yet been constructed.
On this 1912 map, Tack-a-Pou-Sha House is at the top right and the new bathing houses are along the water’s edge; the new guest houses are also noted. To the left of the bath houses is the Colony Club, which was an exclusive members-only club that leased land from Roche.

When Edward Roche died of a heart attack at the age of 77 in December 1930, he left almost his entire estate, valued at $10 million, to a trust fund called the Edward and Ellen Roche Relief Foundation, the income from which was to be used to aid destitute women and children. Edward had never married, and his sister had died a year earlier, leaving only five cousins as the nearest living relatives. The cousins all contested the will, stating Roche was incompetent when he left his entire will to aid destitute women and children.

By November 1931, all of the cousins had withdrawn their claims and the will was admitted to Probate Court in Jamaica. Mrs. Margaret Rott, the nurse who had cared for Edward during his last 125 days of life, demanded she receive $125 to pay for the cost of two meals a day during that period (50 cents a meal).

Roche’s Beach continued operating through the 1950s. However, since 1937, title to the beachfront from Beach 9th to Beach 149th Street has been vested in the City of New York.

Edward Roche was buried at St. Mary’s Star of the Sea Cemetery in Lawrence, Nassau County. The last remnants of his beach and Ostend Beach were razed in 1963 to create O’Donohue Park, in honor of Mary O’Donohue, who purchased the land in 1868.

Aerial view of the former Roche's Beach in Far Rockaway.
Aerial view of the former Roche’s Beach in Far Rockaway.

“Somewhere in New York there is wandering in a dark alley or a secluded street, perhaps in a starving condition, an heiress to part of a small fortune.”—Baltimore Sun, August 3, 1925

Mrs. Elizabeth W. Berhm, a kindly widow of about 61 years old, had always devoted herself to animals. She was known in her Carnegie Hill neighborhood as the “cat woman” because her home was always open to stray cats. In her small, two-room apartment at the rear of 172 East 85th Street, milk and kindness were always waiting for any cat that needed it.

No doubt, then, the neighbors must have been shocked to learn that Elizabeth had almost taken the life of her own pet cat, Dunder, while she committed suicide.

Born in Germany in 1864, Elizabeth Berhm came to America in 1880. She and her husband, Eugene, married late in life, following the death of Eugene’s first wife, Pauline, in 1914.

Ten years Elizabeth’s senior, Eugene owned a cigar store and had one grown son, also named Eugene. According to census reports, Elizabeth and Eugene had been living in the Carnegie Hill apartment on East 85th Street since at least 1920.

Sometime during the spring of 1925, Eugene was killed by an automobile (I don’t know if he was in the car or if the car struck him while he was walking). Alone in the world, Elizabeth focused all her time and affection to stray animals.

Elizabeth W. Berhm lived and died in a small rear apartment at 172 East 85th Street (middle). Carnegie Hill. NYC Department of Records, 1940
Elizabeth W. Berhm lived and died in a small rear apartment at 172 East 85th Street (middle). NYC Department of Records, 1940

Although she already had Dunder, a house cat who was about seven years old, the number of Carnegie Hill stray cats that visited her home increased every week. Even the stray dogs considered her a friend.

But despite all the attention she got from her animal friends, the grieving widow could no longer go on without her husband.

On Saturday night, August 1, 1925, George Hess, the janitor for the five-story tenement building, smelled gas. After tracing it to Elizabeth’s apartment, he summoned Policeman Christian Kiel of the East 67th Street Station. Officer Kiel smashed a window and found Elizabeth lying on the floor next to her bed.

Apparently, she had struggled while the gas came to her through a tube attached to a chandelier. When she fell off the bed, she tore the lighting fixture from the ceiling. The gas quickly filled the room.

After instructing Hess to call for medical help, Officer Kiel found Dunder squirming in a corner, trying to fight off the effects of the gas. The policeman tossed the cat out the window so she could get some fresh air.

Physicians attempted to revive Elizabeth with a Pulmotor, but they eventually had to give up and pronounce her dead. As Officer Kiel was jotting down the outcome in his notebook, Dunder came back into the room. Completely revived by the fresh air, he meowed loudly as he watched over his dead mistress.

The Pulmotor, invented by Heinrich Draeger in 1907, was the first mechanical resuscitator used outside of a hospital setting. The FDNY began distributing the machines to select fire companies in January 1914 due to a steady increase in gas emergencies.

While searching through the apartment, police found a photograph of Eugene. On the back of the photo was printed, “Please bury this with me.”

Upon further investigation, they found a will and a note stating she could no longer live without her husband. In her will, she had directed that part of her $4,000 estate go towards providing a comfortable home for Dunder for the rest of the cat’s life. The rest was to be divided among the city’s homes for cats and dogs.

Baltimore Sun, August 3, 1925
Carnegie Hill cat missing
Baltimore Sun, August 3, 1925

Hess agreed to take care of the cat temporarily, so he brought the cat to the cellar (you’d think he would have taken the $4,000 and promised to care for the cat forever). When he went to look for her the next morning, she was gone. Hess searched the apartment building from cellar to roof, with no success.

She evidently had wandered away, still dazed and confused by her experience, and obviously not loving her new living conditions. As the Daily News wrote, “Today the former pampered apartment pet is trying to scrape a precarious living out of the alleys and gutters of New York, in competition with cats who have been doing it all their lives.”

A story about Dunder in the Muncie Evening Press said, “She knew little of the ways of alley cats in New York. She had no education in the finesses of snitching fish from fish markets or getting into secluded back yards and helping herself to spilt milk and bits of food. Like all other cultured cats thrown suddenly upon their own resources, she may starve to death, while a fortune, as reckoned when the standards and needs of cats are considered, await her.”

Carnegie Cat missing, Muncie Evening News, 1925
Muncie Evening News, August 6, 1925

When asked how the cat would be found, Hess said he didn’t have a clue as there was no one alive who could positively identify the cat. At first it was reported that Dunder was an Angora, but Hess disputed that. He said she was just a plain, large black cat, “respectable without having been necessarily aristocratic.”

As one New Jersey newspaper observed, “Any one of a million alley cats can claim part of a $4,000 bequest because there is no human being who can positively identify Dunder, the rightly legatee.”

Several fictional cats responded to the story, including Thermy, the weather cat for the Evansville Press in Indiana. Thermy theorized that poor Dunder had drowned and gave thought to traveling to New York to claim he was Dunder and collect the money. The cat “wrote” the following:

“With milk selling at seven cents a pint, I could have cream for the rest of my life! And believe me, if I get that $4000, no more forecasting for me. The only predictions I’ll make then will be for three round bowls of rich cream per diem. The forecast? Oh, guess at it!”

If you enjoyed this story, you may want to read about the cats and dogs that saved 37 lives during a gas leak on the Upper East Side in 1889.

172 East 85th Street and Carnegie Hill

Incidentally, Elizabeth’s suicide was not the first horrific event that had taken place in the tenement building at 172 East 85th Street.

In 1890, Henry Colwell stabbed his wife, Louisa, seven times in the hallway of the building during a drunken assault. Henry was arrested but he tried committing suicide by cutting the veins of his legs. Louisa was taken to the hospital, but she was not expected to live.

And in 1895, John Hill, a 32-year-old man living in the building, attempted to kill himself by cutting his throat. He was severely wounded and taken to Harlem Hospital. A year later, John Haggerty suddenly died in the apartment of unknown causes.

Whether the late 19th-century tenement building on East 85th Street was jinxed or not, we do know that it was constructed on the southern-most edge of what would become known as Carnegie Hill, named for the mansion that Andrew Carnegie built on Fifth Avenue and 91st Street in 1902.

the Andrew Carnegie Mansion at 2 East 91st Street, Carnegie Hill
The Andrew Carnegie Mansion at 2 East 91st Street. The mansion was the first American residence to have a steel frame and among the first homes to have a private Otis Elevator and central heating.Today, the mansion houses the Cooper-Hewitt Design Museum.
"Carnegie Hill: The future site of Andrew Carnegie's mansion on Fifth Avenue and 91st Street.
“Carnegie Hill: The future site of Andrew Carnegie’s mansion on Fifth Avenue and 91st Street. Andrew Carnegie purchased this land–the equivalent of two Fifth Avenue block fronts between 90th and 92nd Streets–for $800,000 in 1898. Back then, squatters occupied 91st Street and there was a riding academy on 90th Street.

The earliest known history of this part of Manhattan goes back to a seasonal village for the Algonquian Nation Konaande Kongh, which was located on a hillside stretching between present-day 93rd and 98th Streets along Park Avenue. The village was surrounded by dense woods of maple trees and berry bushes to the west and a cultivated fertile plain to the east for growing vegetables and herbs.

In October 1667, Governor Richard Nicolls granted large tracts of land in New Haerlem (which encompassed from about 74th Street to 129th Street) to Thomas Delavall, John Verveelen, Daniel Tourneur, Joost Oblinus, and Resolveert Willliam Waldron. The patent included all houses, buildings, barns, stables, orchards, gardens, mills, ponds, fencing, and other natural and man-made structures on the land.

Waldron’s allotment was known as Hellgate or Horne’s Hook, and primarily encompassed the land from 75th to 94th Streets between Third Avenue and the East River. The family home, Waldron Hall, was located north of 86th street and east of Avenue A. Built in 1685, It was demolished in 1870 following a fire.

Following Resolveert’s death in 1690, the Waldron Farm passed through several generations of Waldrons, including Samuel, Johannes, William, and Adolph. At one point, the farm comprised 156 acres, which included the original patent plus additional lands acquired throughout the years.

Just prior to the Revolutionary War, Abraham Durye, a New York merchant, purchased the farm at auction. Although Durye’s heirs retained a small tract near 93rd Street, most of the irregular, triangular tracts were conveyed through the early 1800s to John G. Bogert, Nathaniel Sandford, Xaviero Gautro, Natianiel Prime, Edward Douglas, and William Rhinelander.

Land speculation in the Carnegie Hill area did not go into full swing until the late 1870s, with the opening of the IRT Third Avenue Elevated Railroad in 1878.

This illustration depicting the area of Fifth Avenue and 96th Street was created in 1875. New York Public Library Digital Collections
This illustration depicting the area of Fifth Avenue and 96th Street was created in 1875. New York Public Library Digital Collections

FDNY mascot Henry slides down the pole while Cappy watches, 1941.
Henry slides down the pole while Cappy watches, 1941.

In 1903, one of the most popular dog-and-cat dynamic duos of the FDNY were Dan and Nickie* of Engine Company No. 65. Dan was a well-loved coach dog (possibly a Dalmatian), and Nickie was a jet-black cat who was the pet of Captain Hawk.

According to the nationally published news story, Hawk rejoined the FDNY as an assistant foreman of Engine Company 29 on Chambers Street shortly after the Spanish-American War of 1898. One day, a disheveled stray cat followed him into the station. The cat was incredibly affectionate and intelligent, so the men agreed to adopt him as an unofficial member of the company.

When Hawk was appointed captain of the newly organized Engine Company No. 65 on West 43rd Street, the cat was “officially transferred” to the new company. FDNY Commissioner John Jay Scannell, the first fire commissioner of the new consolidated New York City, gave the transfer his official seal of approval.

Not much is known about Nickie, except that he always slept in Hawk’s bed at night. Whenever an alarm sounded, he would jump out of bed faster than the captain. (Apparently, experience taught him to respond quickly—it was better than getting tossed to the floor.)

The cat would then rush for the first step of the iron stairs and curl up into the smallest possible space to avoid the onslaught of stomping feet. From this vantage point, he would watch as the horses were hitched up and the engine rolled out.

Cappy, the Beloved FDNY Dalmatian

In 1936, a fire buff named C.J. Jones of Cliffside Park, New Jersey, entered the fire station carrying a young Dalmatian puppy. The men named him Cappy and made him a mascot of Engine Company No. 65.

Whenever an alarm sounded for the station, Cappy would jump onto the fire truck—where he “occupied a seat of honor”—and ride to the scene with the fire fighters. He loved the speed, and as he balanced on his perch, he’d lift his muzzle into the wind and treasure every moment of the adventure. Sometimes, when the engine was taking a sharp curve, passersby would gasp because Cappy seemed to be hanging on by only his toenails.

Cappy of FDNY Engine Company No. 65
Cappy of FDNY Engine Company No. 65, 1939

At first, the men allowed Cappy to follow them into burning buildings. In fact, according to several newspapers, he not only carried a cat out of burning building, he actually went to the Ellin Prince Speyer Hospital for Animals to visit her while she was recovering!

Eventually, as Cappy got older, the men had to secure his leash to the seat so he would not join them (the leash also kept him from rolling off the truck as it took sharp curves). As soon as the men returned safely to the truck, he would welcome them back by licking their hands.

When he wasn’t responding to fire calls, Cappy could often be found waiting patiently each day in front of a Spanish restaurant for his daily handout. He had to watch his figure, though, because Cappy was an advertising star.

You see, Engine Company No. 65 just happened to be near the city’s advertising district. Since Cappy was so handsome and photogenic, the firemen offered his services as a model for national magazines.

“He could sell anything,” Captain Edmund Brennan told a reporter. “Illustrators hired him at $5 a day and he was worth it. He could sell anything from an auto to a polio fund subscription.” The men kept a special bank account for Cappy’s earnings, which they used for his food and occasional veterinary bills.

In March 1939, Cappy reportedly went missing after leaving the firehouse for his daily constitutional trip around the neighborhood at 8 am. He was last seen about thirty minutes later ambling northward, having just inspected some subway construction at Sixth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street.

Mrs. George Bethune Adams, resident director of the Ellin Speyer Hospital for Animals, posted a generous reward for his safe return. He eventually returned home, but my theory is that he was at the animal hospital at this time, visiting the cat he had saved from the burning building.  

In 1941, Cappy and two of his sons—Raffles and Beau—took part in an exhibition of 25 FDNY Dalmatians at the Westminster Kennel Club’s 65th annual dog show at Madison Square Garden. Although the press surmised that Cappy would do well based on his experience with posing for advertisements, it was King, belonging to Fireman George F. Donnelly of Hook and Ladder 311 in Queens, who was crowned the top pooch of the FDNY.

During this time, Engine Company No. 65 had another mascot cat named Henry. Like Peter, the pole-sliding cat of Bushwick, Brooklyn, Henry would slide down the pole with the firefighters whenever an alarm came in for the station. In 1941, a photographer captured Henry sliding down the pole and Cappy watched from below. The photo was published in numerous newspapers across the nation and now adorns my office wall.

FDNY Firemen Francis Hickey and Eugene Uhl trim Cappy’s grave following his funeral at the Bide-A-Wee cemetery on May 11, 1950.
Firemen Francis Hickey and Eugene Uhl trim Cappy’s grave following his funeral at the Bide-A-Wee cemetery on May 11, 1950

Poor Henry disappeared in 1942, which was the same year Cappy took his last rides on the fire engine. By then the modern equipment was so fast it was difficult for him to keep his balance when the equipment took a corner, especially with his aging paws. So, he remained back at the station house where his bed was near the warm chimney. He reportedly brooded over his retirement and whimpered when the trucks rolled out until he finally dozed off into a fitful sleep.

In April 1950, Cappy began to shake and drink excessive amounts of water. The firemen took him to the Ellin Prince Speyer Hospital for Animals, where he was diagnosed with uremic poisoning.

Dan, Nickie, Cappy, and Henry lived in this firehouse at 33 West 43rd Street. Designed by architects Hoppin & Koen, the firehouse was completed in 1898. NYC Department of Records tax photo, 1940
Dan, Nickie, Cappy, and Henry lived in this firehouse at 33 West 43rd Street. Designed by architects Hoppin & Koen, the firehouse was completed in 1898. NYC Department of Records tax photo, 1940

The following Thursday a funeral was held at Bide-a-Wee animal cemetery in Wantaugh, Long Island. Brennan, Francis Hickey, and Eugene Uhl were the only ones who could attend the ceremony, “but they brought with them the grief of all 31 desolate men in New York who couldn’t attend.” 

A fund was initiated to purchase a grave marker for Cappy. The monument was topped with a marble fireman’s hat inscribed with the number 65. Brennan told the reporter, “We’ll be out every so often to say ‘Hello’ to Cappy. He never forgot us, and we’re not forgetting him.”

Following the funeral, the men hung a photo of Cappy framed in ribbon and topped with a mourning palm outside the firehouse. The legend under the photo read: CAPPY—1936-1950.

On the door to the firehouse, they chalked up a code signal: 5-5-5-5. Our Mascot. 8:30 AM. (5-5-5-5 is the department’s code for a death in its ranks.) 

Asked if the company would ever get another dog, Captain Brennan shook his head and replied, “No, I don’t think so. No dog could replace Cappy. Not for Engine Co. 65.”

*Nickie was not the cat’s real name.  

Every dog had his own towels and attendants at the dog bathhouse in Harlem.
Every dog had his day–and his own towels and attendant–at the dog bathhouse in Harlem.

The late 1800s and early 1900s were like a Tale of Two Cities for the dogs of New York City. For stray mutts and other unwanted dogs, there were dog catchers, mean little boys with stones, and a law that required all unclaimed dogs be drowned in the East River. For pampered pooches and high-society dogs, like the spoiled French bulldogs of Princess Amy Isabella Crocker, there were daily massages, jeweled collars, and a brand new dog bathhouse on East 125th Street in Harlem.

When James A. Hogg, a professional rat catcher by trade, opened his new dog bathhouse in Harlem in 1903, it attracted much attention from the press. Sure, there were by this time several hospitals for dogs and other animals. And boarding houses for those wealthy pet owners who could afford it had also been around for years.

But a bathhouse for dogs was quite a novel idea (albeit, there were several “dog nurseries” across the country, where wealthy women could drop off their lap dogs for a day of grooming while they went shopping or attended to other frivolous activities).

As a reporter for the New-York Tribune noted:

If there is any facility for health, happiness and peace of mind which the dogs of New York need and have not got, the man who discovers it should provide it. He will be well rewarded liberally, for dogs are a luxury, and have masters and mistresses who can pay the price.

At the dog bathhouse, every dog had his day as well as his own towel. To ensure that they received the full bathing experience (i.e, didn’t try to run away from the tub), they also had personal attendants to take care of them during their entire visit to the bath.

I don’t know how much James Hogg really knew about dogs, but he certainly knew his clients. As he told the press:

“An aristocratic dog should be bathed at least once every seven days. This is particularly true of long-haired dogs. Nor is ordinary soap and water enough. The water should be highly antiseptic, and if the dog belongs to a woman a perfumery spray is necessary.”

The dog bathhouse occupied one back room on the ground floor a four-story brick building at 63 East 125th Street. A storefront drug store occupied the front of the building. According to census reports and an ad placed in 1903, this was also James’ residence, where he lived with his wife Mary and their five children.

In one corner of the back room was a gas water. There were also two side-by-side tubs in the room–one for large dogs and one for smaller pups. On the walls were towels and muzzles for those dogs who misbehaved during bath time.

According to an ad that James placed in 1903, he charged $1 for short-haired dogs and $2 for long-haired dogs. The services also included nail clipping.

James Hogg's dog bathhouse occupied one room on the ground floor of this four-story building at 63 East 12th Street. New York Department of Records, 1940
James Hogg’s dog bathhouse occupied one room on the ground floor of this four-story building at 63 East 125th Street (lighter building at right; extant). New York Department of Records, 1940

On the day the reporter from the Tribune visited the bathhouse, there was a first-time customer that was not overly pleased to be there. Apparently the cocker spaniel tried to bite the bath attendant as soon as the man tried to put him in the tub. The attendant was forced to place a leather muzzle over the dog while his mistress cried for the man to do whatever it took to bathe her dog.

“Please give him a bath,” she begged “I’ll pay $1 extra.” The attendants threw some bath water on the feisty dog before finally giving up.

The next customer was a large St. Bernard. His mistress assured the men that her dog would not bite and did not need a muzzle.

This dog was much more cooperative, allowing the men to scrub him with a black tar-like substance while standing in the lukewarm water. Following the bath, the men toweled him dry and gave him a thorough brushing. His owner made arrangements for her dog to get a bath every week. One of the young attendants said he would pick up the dog and deliver him back home after every bath.

“The dog bathhouse idea, though new, is taking well among uptown dog fanciers,” the reporter stated. “The dog’s weekly bath, when conducted at home, becomes a formidable affair. Many a household has lost servant after servant for no reason in the world but the dog’s weekly bath. It may be going a little far for every dog to have his own set of towels, but dogs in a city are a luxury, and accordingly should have luxury.”

I could not find out how long the dog bathhouse remained opened. I do know that in 1907, the Plaza Hotel began a doggie day care service for ladies who wanted to leave their dogs in good hands while they had afternoon tea. So perhaps James returned to his original career as a champion rat catcher and left the dog grooming to newer establishments.

Intelligencer Journal, March 2, 1914
James Hogg rat catcher
Intelligencer Journal, March 2, 1914

James Hogg, Expert Rat Catcher

In addition to the bathhouse, James specialized in buying and selling dogs, especially terriers. He was also an expert exterminator, aka, rat catcher. One newspaper called him the “champion ‘Pied Piper’ of the world,” noting he caught 10,000 rats a year.

According to news reports, James took orders to clear rats from ships, factories, hotels, and residences. He was also an official rat catcher with the federal government, in charge of keeping the Federal Office Building in New York City free of vermin since 1894.

(Luckily he wasn’t in charge of the U.S. Post Office Building, or else the hundreds of cats on the feline police squad would have been out of jobs!)

James used a very unusual way to catch the rats. He reportedly set some ferrets loose in the rat holes, and then he’d pluck the rats up with large pinchers as they ran out of the holes to escape the ferrets. He’d then place the live rats in a gunny sack that hung suspended from the floor (if he placed the bag on the floor or counter, the rats would have immediately gnawed their way out).

James donated the healthy live rats to laboratories for experiments, and fed the crippled rats to his ferrets. (According to one news article, he would carry the rat-filled sacks on the subway with him!)

James Hogg placed this poetic ad in 1901, when he was then living on Lexington Avenue. He placed several similar ads during this period.

In addition to the ferret method, James also devised a type of electric griddle upon which he placed dead fish to attract the rats, which he would then electrocute. James admitted he didn’t want anyone else to know about his invention until he died, because he depended on the rat population to continue thriving in order to make a living.

James got himself into some hot water in 1913, when he reportedly tried to “get even” with Maxlow Realty Company, owners of the Clearmont Court Apartments at 549 and 551 West 113th Street. According to the janitor, Peter Weck, the Weck family cat alerted him to an army of rats in the basement. When Weck opened the door, the cat ran out, never to be seen again. Weck tried to fight off the rats himself, but he was overrun.

549-551 West 113th Street. New York State Department of Records, 1940
James Hogg set hundreds of rats loose at the Clearmont Court Apartments at 549-551 West 113th Street (extant). New York Department of Records, 1940

Weck notified Magistrate House of the Harlem Court, who agreed that James Hogg was responsible for liberating the rats. He sentenced James–then described as a small man with whiskers and gray hair–to $500 for good behavior for a month.

By the 1920s, James had taken his business to the Jersey Shore area (where he called himself The Bugman), allowing his son Robert to take over the New York City business. One of the last ads he ran was in 1944, when he was doing business as a termite/exterminator in Asbury Park, New Jersey. By that time, he would have been 73 years old.

Vintage Newfoundland dog 
Could be Sergeant Nick of East New York Police Department?
This is not Nick, but based on the way the dog was described, this very well could have been the canine sergeant of the East New York Police.

In Part I of this story about the four-legged mascots of Brooklyn’s old Liberty Avenue police station, we met Dewey and Dick, the beloved felines of what was then called the 153rd Precinct. In Part II, we’ll meet Nick, the canine predecessor of Dewey and Dick, who served with the former East New York Police Department in the old Town of New Lots in the late 1800s.

Visitors to the old East New York Police Station never failed to notice the large Newfoundland dog sitting about as if he owned the place. The old dog, described as long and shaggy and turning gray around the face, was a favorite among all the policemen as well as “citizens in general and reporters in particular.”

With “sterling qualities, his intelligence and his friendly feeling toward the law abiding portion of the human race,” Nick had truly earned his sergeant’s stripes.

Sit back and enjoy this wonderful tale of an honorable police dog.

Sergeant Nick’s Early Years

Sergeant Nick was born in Jersey City, New Jersey, on August 1, 1869. That made him almost 17 when a Brooklyn Daily Eagle reporter came to visit him in July 1886.

Nick was the puppy of James Davis, the proprietor of a starch works company at Liberty and New Jersey Avenues in 1886. According to Davis, Nick took a fancy to the blue coats and brass buttons at a young age, and he spent several years with the police officers in Jersey City. When an African-American policeman named Andy Magee took a new position at Davis’ plant in Brooklyn, Nick went along with him.

At the starch works yard, Nick followed Magee everywhere and rarely socialized with anyone else. Over time, Davis grew to appreciate the dog’s value as a watch dog (whenever he found pieces of torn clothing on a fence, he knew that Nick had been doing his job!). He also became just as attached to the dog as Magee was, even though Nick was not very friendly with either man.  

Starch works factory
Sergeant Nick spent his first years of life working as a watch dog for James Davis’ starch works plant in Jersey City. This is an illustration of a starch works plant in Glen Cove, Long Island.

When Nick was about three years old, Magee passed away. Two weeks later, Nick went missing from the yard. After a week’s search, Davis found him at the New Lots police station. The men there seemed very fond of the dog, and no amount of coaxing could bring him back to the starch works factory.

Davis said he believed that Nick had gone to the police station in search of his friend, somehow knowing that Magee had once worked as a policeman in Jersey City and thus, may have returned to his previous career.

Sergeant Nick’s Life as a Canine Cop

Torchlight parade, Library of Congress
In October 1884, the citizens of Brooklyn participated in a torchlight parade in honor of Grover Cleveland. Sergeant Nick joined the parade and festivities. Library of Congress

According to Sergeant William F. “Billy” Early of the East New York Police, Nick was “the most remarkable dog in existence.” He was always ready to go out with the men on the 6 p.m. platoon, making all the rounds with them and then returning to the police station in time to follow the men of the midnight tour. In the course of one night, the dog would cover 42 miles of streets before reporting back to the station in the morning.

Sergeant Early recalled a time when Brooklyn held a parade and barbecue at Ridgewood Park (Highland Park) in honor of Presidential Candidate Grover Cleveland. The event, which took place in October 1884, featured a three-mile procession through the crowded streets, followed by cannons, 60,000 sandwiches, 5,000 kegs of beer, an evening torchlight parade, and a brief address by the New Jersey native and candidate himself.

That day, 10 mounted policemen marched in the parade, representing the New Lots police force. Nick marched alongside them the whole way, displaying two American flags fastened to his collar and wearing a picture of Cleveland around his neck.  

During the event, Nick went missing. He returned to his men a while later carrying a piece of barbecued ox in his mouth. As Sergeant Early noted, “He looked at me with an air of satisfaction, as much as to say, ‘I’m the only New Lots policeman who got a piece of that ox.’”

The sergeant recalled another time when Nick was with Patrolmen Howard and Soper on a part of Alabama Avenue known as The Bowery. The men came upon three men engaged in a fight; the two patrolmen each grabbed a man and Nick threw the third man to the ground, tearing his coat, vest, and shirt to shreds in the process. The policemen rewarded Nick with a new gold collar inscribed, “Sergeant Nick, New Lots Police.”

Another sergeant, Christian Reimels (who was the captain when Dewey and Dick were on the job), recalled a riot at Judge William Schiellein’s Hall, which was a hotel located on the southwest corner of Atlantic Avenue and Vermont Street. Someone in the rowdy crowd had knocked down a policeman, and Nick held the man at bay until his partner recovered. Nick kept to the policeman’s side all the way back to the station until the offender was placed in the cell.

Schiellein's Hall, later known as Congress Hall (1922) and Ardley Palace (1929). East New York
NYPL Digital Collection
Schiellein’s Hall, later known as Congress Hall (1922) and Ardley Palace (1929). NYPL Digital Collection

East New York Police Detective Bob Kortright told a story about the time he had to chase a horse thief, who was outrunning him. Sergeant Nick appeared on the scene, gave chase, and knocked the thief over until Kortright could secure his prisoner.

Roundsman Chesterfield Fischer also had a great story to tell the reporter:

“We trailed a burglar one fine night last June until we located him behind a brick wall on Smith Avenue. As the garden was full of strawberries we did not like to destroy our friend’s beds by jumping over, but we posted men around the lot so as to prevent the burglar’s escape. While we were deliberating on what course to pursue, we saw Nick come on a run from the middle of the street, and, before we had time to stop him, jump over the wall.

Sergeant Nick, New Lots/East New York Police, July 1866
Brooklyn Daily Eagle, July 25, 1866

There was a picnic for a time, but not of a strawberry kind to the burglar, for it was not long before we heard the man sing out, ‘Take away the darned dog and I’ll surrender.’ We called off the dog, the burglar kept his word and came with us to the police station. The burglar got three years, but I’m afraid the dog would have got a load of shot if the owner of the lot found out who it was that destroyed his strawberry bed.”

As Sergeant Nick was now almost 17 years old, the reporter asked the men what would become of Nick in his old age.

Roundsman Parson Ringheiser replied, “He will be recommended to the Commissioner for promotion, but if, in his judgment, the dog’s age will be a bar to further usefulness, then we will position that Sergeant Nick be presented with a gold medal and a pension. I believe the whole community in the new ward will indorse such petition.”

A Brief History of the New Lots Police Department

The origins of the East New York Police Department, also known in past years as the 153rd, 17th, and 44th precincts, has ties to the first fire department in what was once the town of New Lots in Kings County.

In 1860, eight years after the town of New Lots seceded from Town of Flatbush, a few men formed a volunteer fire department for New Lots. The men of Liberty Hose Company No. 1 built a 75-foot tall, octagonal wooden bell tower at 109 Bradford Street, about halfway between Fulton Street and Atlantic Avenue. They manned this tower 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It was all the sparsely populated town needed at this time.

109 Bradford Avenue, East New York, Brooklyn
NYPL
The old fire tower and police station at 109 Bradford Street is noted on this late 19th-century map. New York Public Library Digital Collections

In 1870, the State Legislature passed an act colloquially known as the “Tweed Charter” that returned police powers from the Metropolitan Police (established in 1857) to the Municipal Police. This left the town of New Lots without police protection.

Under an amended Brooklyn Police bill, the town was authorized to apply to the Police Commander of the City of Brooklyn for the appointment of as many police officers deemed necessary. Captain William F. Early, George Schienk, and Steve Newman were appointed as the first New Lots policemen. The men reported daily to Justice Gertum at the town’s courthouse and locked up prisoners at the 9th sub-precinct station house at Broadway and Gates Avenue in Bushwick.

Without a station house, the town rented a two-story stone and frame building on Liberty Avenue near Smith Street (Hendrix Street) for use as a lock-up for prisoners. (Reportedly the stones were so loose, and the bars were so wide, prisoners often escaped very easily.) By 1872, New Lots had six police officers.

The town of New Lots rented the frame building at 545 Liberty Avenue, East New York, Brooklyn
The town of New Lots rented the frame building at 545 Liberty Avenue (extant) for use as a temporary police station from 1871 to 1873,

The small rented building did not meet all the police force’s needs, so the Town Board purchased a 100 x 50 foot site on Butler Avenue (now Bradford Street) from Horace A. Miller for $1,400. This was the lot where the fire bell tower stood. There, in front of the tower, they constructed a multi-purpose town hall/police station at the cost of $10.000.

The New Lots Town Hall opened on December 11, 1873. The two-story with raised basement building housed the New Lots police force and town offices on the first floor and the fire department on the second floor. A large auditorium was devoted to public concerts and the basement had four cells for prisoners. By 1878, the police force had nine men, including sergeants Henry French and Pete J. Kennedy.

The New Lots Town Hall building, pictured here in 1922
The New Lots Town Hall building, pictured here in 1922, served as a town hall, fire station, police station, prison, and hospital. New York Public Library Digital Collections

Incidentally, during this time, the old fire tower was reportedly used as a morgue. Apparently, many people were killed by getting hit by trains on the Long Island Railroad before protective barriers such as gates and fences were put up, so the morgue was a busy place.

On August 4th, 1886, one month after the Brooklyn Daily Eagle reporter wrote the story about Sergeant Nick, the Town of New Lots was annexed into the City of Brooklyn, becoming the 26th Ward of the city. Sergeant French was appointed as the acting captain of the new 17th Police Precinct. The police department took charge of the entire town hall building from this time until 1892, when they moved into their new headquarters on Liberty Avenue. By this time, Sergeant Nick would have passed.

The old town hall building remained empty for many years, and the fire tower was eventually demolished. On November 13, 1899, the 26th Ward Homeopathic Hospital and Dispensary (aka East New York Dispensary) opened in this building. Later called the Bradford Street Hospital, the walk-in health facility remained open until about 1936.

Today this old firehouse/town hall/police station/prison is a two-family house.

109 Bradford Street, East New York Brooklyn
Today, 109 Bradford Street is a two-family home.