Sergeant John McDermott, better known as Red McDermott, could not wait to sink his teeth into the sirloin steak dinner sitting on his desk. But first, he had to deal with some important police matters that Inspector Cross had brought to his attention. Peter the police cat saw his lucky break…
According to The New York Times, the doorman for the Eldridge Street police station had just delivered the savory steak smothered in onions to the sergeant’s office. He placed the take-out tray on the desk and returned to his other duties.
At this very moment, Inspector Adam A. Cross walked into the station and immediately began asking questions. A moment later, a patrolman walked in with a disorderly, inebriated prisoner. Sergeant McDermott had no other choice but to delay his supper while he dealt with the inspector and the prisoner.
As the sergeant assisted with the prisoner, Inspector Cross leaned back in his chair to get a better view inside McDermott’s office. He was very surprised to be a first-hand witness to a cat-burglary in progress!
There was Peter, the station’s police cat, pushing off the tin cover from the tray and using his nose to nudge the onions off the steak. And there was Yaller, the station’s police dog, standing on his hind legs at a respectful distance, licking his chops and whining for a share of the stolen meal. Peter growled in response and continued devouring the steak.
The Eldridge Street station house was located in this four-story dark brick building at 105-107 Eldridge Street. Today there is commercial space on the ground floor and 20 apartments on the top floors.
Greatly amused, the inspector decided to allow the crime to continue while he distracted Sergeant McDermott with animated conversation concerning the weather, the depth of the snowfall, and numerous other irrelevant questions. Ravenously hungry and annoyed at the nonsense banter, McDermott again had no other choice but to listen patiently to his superior officer.
Finally, the inspector rose from his chair. Buttoning his coat, he walked over to the door and called back, “Red, when you get Peter thoroughly trained, I’d like to enter him in the next beef-eating contest.”
McDermott dashed into his room, where he found the police cat licking the empty tray and poor Yaller still licking his empty chops. The doorman brought the sergeant another steak dinner, and sent Peter out into the cold for a while to pay for his crime.
Nip*, a veteran fire dog with Engine Company No. 203 at 533 Hicks Street, was 12 years old and a 6-year veteran with the fire company when he made his eighth heroic rescue on February 2, 1935.
Although most of Nip’s rescues had involved humans–including Firemen Schenck and Carlton from his own company–on this particular day he put his disdain for felines aside to do his duty. Using his self-imposed skills to search every building for victims, Nip was able to save two kittens in desperate need of a hero.
According to the Daily News, on Friday evening, Engine Company No. 203 responded to a report of a structure fire at a three-story brick building at 161 Union Street. The building had a stationery store on the ground floor and apartments on the upper floors. (This building was demolished when the Brooklyn Queens Expressway was constructed.)
Upon their arrival, neighbors told the firemen that the building was empty, and everyone had made it out safely. Nip ignored the humans. Trusting his nose, he made a dash for the burning basement.
“Nip” with one of the fireman from Brooklyn’s Engine Company No. 203. The dog was described as “part hound, part Flatbush terrier, but every inch a hero.”
Singed and nearly overcome by smoke, he emerged from the basement four minutes later with a kitten in his mouth. He laid the feline survivor at the feet of Battalion Commander John Pfann.
He then gave a short warning bark and ran back into the basement. Once again, he came back to the street carrying another kitten in his mouth. He reportedly refused medical attention until he had licked the kittens clean. Then he watched as a firefighter placed them inside a large, flannel-lined fireman’s hat.
Knowing the kittens were safe, Nip reported to the department surgeon for treatment. A few applications of burn salve, and Nip was ready to go into action again. When the firemen returned to the firehouse, they rewarded him with a large, marrow-filled meat bone.
Wearing his special fire-dog raincoat, Nip demonstrates how he climbs up ladders at the company’s fire house.
Nip the Legendary Brooklyn Fire Dog
Taken in as a stray one winter night in 1929, Nip served 10 years with Engine Company No. 203. Right from the start, he demonstrated that he was a true fireman at heart, and not just a fire buff. Before answering his first call, he trained with the men and learned how to climb a 75-foot extension ladder. His very first duty was to toll the bell on the fire engine answering alarms.
During his tenure, Nip received numerous injuries from broken glass and falling debris, burns from scalding water, and bruises from falling off the fire engine. He also had some wonderful times, especially during the summer months when he got to live with one of the firemen in his home on Long Island.
Nip could recognize all the bells and signals, and he knew exactly which signal meant his company was responding to a call (he never made a mistake). On the fire scenes, Nip would superintend the firefighters and alert them if he knew something was wrong. If the hoses ever splashed his way, Nip would nestle under a fireman’s coat.
During his years of service with the engine company, Nip had demonstrated many acts of bravery and heroism. He rode with the company to every fire, and was always the first to leap off the fire engine and run into the burning buildings to scout for victims. Whenever he found a human (or cat) in need of help, the brave fire dog would bark until the firemen responded.
About two years after Nip rescued the kittens, he saved a cat from a four-story brick apartment building at 308 Hicks Street. Sadly, he was not able to save the young boy, who had run up to the top floor in attempt to save the cat. The New York Times on November 11, 1936.
In 1936, a year after he rescued the kittens, Nip won four medals of honor for heroism from the following agencies:
New York Women’s League for Animals
Dog’s World International
American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals
New York Anti-Vivisection Society
Nip’s Final Call
Although Nip was a 16-year-old senior citizen in 1939, he probably had a few more good years left as an active fire dog when his life was abruptly ended on November 9, 1939. While playing out in front of the firehouse, Nip was struck by a hit-and-run driver.
People in the street called out for help, and a group of children followed the fire dog into the firehouse and told Lt. Matthew F. Rogers that it had been hit by a car that kept going. Instead of waiting for help to come, Nip dragged himself back inside and tried to jump up on the fire engine seat. Missing the seat, he landed on the running board, where he curled up and died.
In commemoration of Nip’s many acts of bravery and heroism, the members of Engine Company No. 203 hired a taxidermist to mount their treasured fire dog mascot. They kept him in a place of honor at the firehouse until the company disbanded in 1974.
When Nip died in 1939, men had his body stuffed and mounted, and he is forever on display at the New York City Fire Museum. Photo by P. Gavan
*Nip is not his real name. Most news articles refer to the dog as “Nigger” or “Nig” and one article called him “Nipper.” He’s called “Chief” at the New York City Fire Museum.
Today we have another story about a sailor cat-man, but unlike our hero from the telephone pole rescue story, this sailor ended up on the other side of the law. (And sadly, the ending to this tale is not as happy.)
On January 27, 1897, a sailor named John Dolan was fined $3 in the Essex Market Police Court for being drunk in public. During his arraignment, he carried a tiny pet kitten under his coat.
Unable to pay the fine, Dolan was committed to the workhouse on Blackwell’s Island (now Roosevelt Island). As he left for the island, Keeper Eidensheim of the Essex Market Prison took the kitten away from him.
A few days later, Magistrate Herman C. Kudlich received a letter from Mrs. C.L. King of Flat 6, 252 West 22nd Street, who had read about the incident in the newspaper. Here’s what she wrote:
I read in a newspaper a touching account of the sailor, John Dolan, and the little cat he was carrying around with him. Now my father was a sailor, and has gone safe into the port of heaven these many years. I have, therefore, in my heart always a tender spot for these men who go down to the sea in ships, and my purpose in writing you is to ask you if I may keep the little kitten at my home until John Dolan comes back to claim it, as I have no doubt I could give it better care than Mr. Eidensheim, as I have a nice home and no children to annoy it.
If you will kindly answer per enclosed envelope, I will come to the station after the kitten, and guarantee to return it to poor John when he comes back.
The Essex Market Police Court was bounded by Grand, Broome, Essex, and Ludlow Streets (today the site of the New Design High School). The building was designed by John Correja, Sr., and completed in 1857. The street in this photo at left is the old Essex Market Street, a narrow cross street between Essex and Ludlow streets (closed in 1926).
When Magistrate Kudlick read the letter, he remarked that when it came to cases of destitution that were reported in the news, no letters of assistance ever arrived when humans were involved. “But if a cat obtained the distinction of a newspaper notice, some tender-hearted woman could always be depended on to come to its defense.” The judge nonetheless agreed to send the letter to the prison so Mrs. King could rescue the kitten.
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it was common to see 50 or more defendants lined up outside when the Essex Market Police Court opened in the morning. This photo is from an October 8, 1905, New York Times article about plans to abandon the building.
Sadly, when Keepers Eidensheim and O’Brien went searching for the cat, they could not find it anywhere. Apparently, some time during the night Dolan’s pet had escaped from the jail and walked out into the cold, cruel world. Keeper Eidensheim traced the tiny kitten paws in the snow to the rear fence, which explained how the poor kitty had escaped.
If you would like to read more about the Essex Market Court and Prison, check out this story about Minnie, the prison’s mascot cat in the early 1900s. Hmmm, I wonder if Minnie was the little kitten from this story? We can only hope!
On this day in history, the Alexander Avenue police station (former 37th Precinct) in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx acquired a new mascot. It was a “half-starved, black and white kitten not more than four or five inches long.” According to the Evening World, if Policeman Bill O’Malley hadn’t been a sailor in his previous life, the kitten “would have met a terrible fate, instead of lapping up cream from a saucer.”
The feline saga began when Mrs. Solomon Erickson of 576 East 135th Street came into the police station to report some wicked boys abusing a cat near her home. In between sobs, she told Captain Joe Post that she could see the boys through her kitchen window. Her window overlooked what was then Southern Boulevard, between Brook and St. Ann’s Avenue.
“It was a shame, Captain, an outrage” she said. “You must send your men right away and have it stopped.” Her tears reportedly flowed so heavily that the captain could barely make sense of her words.
“Calm yourself, madam, and speak slowly, and I will help you,” he told her. Mrs. Erickson told him about the little kitten on top of a telephone pole, where it had perched since the day before.
“Wicked boys are throwing pieces of ice and sticks at it,” she said in between sobs. “If you don’t send your men right away to stop them I will climb the pole myself and bring down that kitten if it breaks my neck.”
Captain Post called for Policeman O’Malley, knowing he had once been a sailor. “You’re always bragging how you used to be a sailorman and loved to lay aloft in a howling gale,” the captain said. “Now, here’s your chance. If you can climb like you say you can, go with this lady and shin up that pole and save that kitten.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” O’Malley said, while leading Mrs. Erickson out the door.
This photo is from 1931 Brooklyn, but I imagine the scene was very similar in 1909 Mott Haven.
When O’Malley and Mrs. Erickson reached the pole, a large group of boys scattered in all directions. Without removing his coat or cap, the stout policeman (the newspaper used this word, noting that he had put on weight since his sailing days) shinned up the pole with hardly any effort.
In two minutes, he reached the top and came face-to-face with the kitten. She arched her back, swelled her tail, and spat at him.
“Don’t mind that, she can’t hurt you,” Mrs. Erickson reassured him from the street below.
O’Malley seized the clawing and scratching kitten, tucked her under his arm, and slowly made his way down the pole in three minutes time. When he reached the ground, the crowd gathered around the pole began to cheer.
Mrs. Erickson asked the policeman if he wanted to keep the kitten. “You saved her and you deserve her.” O’Malley replied, “Lord bless you, I’ve got two cats of my own and no room for any more. But I’ll take her to the station and we’ll make a mascot of her.”
When the kitten and her cat-man hero returned to the station, Captain Post immediately adopted her as station mascot.
In 1896, the city created a new 37th Precinct in Mott Haven for territory previously covered by the 33rd Precinct, which was headquartered in the old Morrisania Town Hall building (shown here). The new station was constructed at the corner of Alexander Avenue and 138th Street, on land leased to the city by William H. Payne at a rate of $3,500 per year.
Today, the Alexander Avenue police station is the 40th Precinct (aka, the 4-0). Construction is underway on a modern new station for the precinct.
If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy reading this cat story from 1901, about the cats that took over a Bronx tenement–which, incidentally, was just around the corner from Mrs. Erickson’s house.
On January 24, 1899, a cat reportedly named Eurita sprang out of a mail pouch after the pouch had been unlocked at Branch Post Office H on Lexington Avenue and 44th Street. The unexpected contents gave the postal employees quite a startle, to say the least.
According to The New York Times, there were no postage stamps on the cat, and no tags indicating ownership or providing any explanation for its presence in the mail bag. The only clue was that the bag had been collected from a postal sub-station in F.W. Schoonmaker’s drug store on 42nd Street and Park Avenue (the new Grand Central Terminal had not yet been built on this site).
In 1899, Branch Post Office H was located on the first floor of the Grand Central Palace on Lexington Avenue and 44th Street. Incidentally, the Empire Poultry Show, featuring cats from the Empire Cat Club, took place here n the early 1900s. New York Public Library Digital Collections
The mail clerks soon learned that the cat was named Eurita. She belonged to Mr. Schoonmaker, and had full run of the drug store.
The mail at this particular sub-station was sent down a chute in front of the drug store, where it then dropped into an open mail pouch at the bottom of the chute in the store’s basement. The mail clerks thought that the curious cat must have jumped into the pouch to investigate the items falling into it. Once in the bag, the cat could not get out.
Postal clerks receive mail at the General Post Office at City Hall Park in 1905. New York Public Library Digital Collections
It was further surmised that Eurita had fallen asleep, and was thus taking a cat nap when the pouch was locked up and delivered. According to the Times, “The animal was in the bag only a few hours and did not appear any the worse for its experience.”
If you enjoyed this cat story, you may also like this story about a cat that was mailed through the pneumatic mail tubes in 1897, or this story about a cat and rabbits that were mailed to the Brooklyn Post Office in 1926.
