On the clock striking twelve he appeared slightly agitated, but he soon recovered, walked twice or thrice along the coach-house, stopped to bark, staggered, exclaimed “Halloa old girl!” (his favorite expression) and died. He behaved throughout with decent fortitude, equanimity and self-possession.
An amusing letter Charles Dickens wrote on the death of his beloved pet raven, Grip – one of history’s notable literary pets extolled in famous authors’ letters and journals.
When Mark Twain’s cat, Bambino, disappeared, the author posted the following lost cat flyer around the neighborhood:
Large and intensely black; thick, velvety fur; has a faint fringe of white hair across his chest; not easy to find in ordinary light.
… and other literary pets
Our cat is growing positively tyrannical. If she finds herself alone anywhere she emits blood curdling yells until somebody comes running. She sleeps on a table in the service porch and now demands to be lifted up and down from it. She gets warm milk about eight o’clock at night and starts yelling for it about 7.30. When she gets it she drinks a little, goes off and sits under a chair, then comes and yells all over again for someone to stand beside her while has another go at the milk. When we have company she looks them over and decides almost instantly if she likes them. If she does she strolls over and plops down on the floor far enough away to make it a chore to pet her. If she doesn’t like them, she sits in the middle of the living room, casts a contemptuous glance around, and proceeds to wash her backside.
Raymond Chandler on his cat Taki, and other famous authors’ effusive love letters to their pets.
Cats like to stare at things and lurk: They’re built for surfing on the Web. We bond with them in little spurts, like videos on YouTube. Dogs, meanwhile, demand a lasting interaction. They’re thick and shaggy, musty-smelling like a book, and while they have their standard tricks, they’re famously unable to adapt.