A Dog's Life

In the not-so-good old days, it was not rare for animals to be put on trial for crimes, usually witchcraft or murder, and summarily executed.  As dreadful as these events were, one at least has the comfort of knowing that in modern times, we have rejected such barbarism.

That assumption, unfortunately, is not entirely correct.  In 1930s America, newspapers eagerly covered the grim story of a dog who faced a death sentence for first-degree murder.

On July 4, 1936, 14-year-old Maxwell Breeze and some friends were celebrating Independence Day by going for a swim in the Erie Canal in Brockport, New York.  A nine-month-old part-Airdale, part German Shepherd dog named Idaho decided to join in the fun.  The animal leaped into the canal and swam over to Maxwell, clinging to the boy’s back.  Tragically, the dog’s weight was too much for the boy.  Before anyone could come to his assistance, Maxwell, unable to free himself, drowned.

Maxwell’s parents, in their shock and grief, refused to see their son’s death as a horrible accident, but as a homicide.  They insisted that Idaho was a dangerous animal who had to immediately be shot.  The dog’s owner, Victor Fortune, indignantly refused.  He stated that there was nothing vicious about his pet.  Idaho had certainly not meant harm to young Maxwell, or anyone else for that matter.  The Breezes responded by bringing a civil suit against Fortune.

On July 20, all interested parties met to give testimony before Police Justice Homer Benedict.  Donald Duff, one of the boys who was swimming with Maxwell that fatal day, told Justice Benedict that the dog had “Just tried to climb on Max’s back.”  When asked if Maxwell had been playing with Idaho before going into the canal, Donald replied, “No.”  

Donald went on to say that when Idaho climbed on top of Maxwell, the boy became frightened and yelled, “The dog’s after me.  Help.”  Another boy named Paul Hamlin swam out to rescue Maxwell, but Idaho began trying to climb on him.  By the time Paul had extricated himself from the dog, it was too late for the Breeze boy.

A young man named Daniel Houghton testified that on two separate occasions while he was swimming in the canal, Idaho had assaulted him as well.

Victor Fortune, acting as his dog’s informal lead defense attorney, countered by saying that Idaho was just a mischievous, but well-meaning dog.  Victor’s father George asserted that Idaho had not even been the dog in the canal with Maxwell.  He asserted that at the time of the drowning, he and Idaho had been sitting on the Fortune front porch.

Since the tragedy, Idaho, in accordance with New York state law, had been boarded at the Rochester Dog Protective Association, in order for veterinarians to judge for themselves whether or not the dog was violent.  Mary Foubister, the Association’s secretary, asked Justice Benedict for a two-week postponement of the legal proceedings so that they would have time to fully evaluate the animal.  He agreed.

By this time, the fight over Idaho’s life had generated nationwide newspaper headlines.  Editorials were published arguing the pros and cons of the case.  One paper described the dispute as “the most spectacular case involving a dog in the history of criminal law.”  Local entrepreneurs began selling copies of the dog’s paw prints at $100 a set.  Idaho became so famous, the shelter that was serving as his temporary prison had to hire a bodyguard for him.  It was feared that someone would try to steal the four-legged celebrity.  When a Moscow, Idaho resident named Carl Hoisington heard of the story, he became convinced that Idaho was the same dog who had been stolen from his brother-in-law in Idaho Falls.  Victor Fortune, however, insisted that Idaho had been one of a litter of puppies that he had cared for while working at a Civilian Conservation Corps camp in Salmon, Idaho.  Since we hear nothing more of Mr. Hoisington and his dognapping claims, it is presumed that he was proved to have been mistaken.  Another side issue arose when it was speculated that another local dog, a three-year-old named Rex, was actually the canine who had been responsible for Maxwell’s death.  However, this effort to provide Idaho with an alibi does not appear to have been taken very seriously.

Dog lovers across the country had sent Fortune unsolicited cash donations, which were used to hire the services of a real lawyer, one Harry A. Sessions.  In the meantime, dog experts at the shelter subjected Idaho to a series of tests to determine his potential for viciousness.  They concluded that he was just a friendly, playful puppy who didn’t know his own strength.  Under a veterinarian’s supervision, a local newspaper reporter named Martin Gagie joined Idaho in the canal for an experimental swim.  Afterwards, Gagie stated, “Idaho enjoys the water immensely.  I am convinced he meant no harm when he played tag with me in the murky waters of the canal.  However, he weighs fifty pounds and, even in play, is rough.  I got several scratches, but there was no hint of viciousness as he pawed me.  He was just a big, rough puppy enjoying a swim to the utmost.”  It was pointed out that Maxwell’s body bore no scratches or claw marks from the dog.  This suggested that Idaho did not force the boy under water.  It was theorized that perhaps Maxwell drowned because he became panic-stricken, or simply developed a cramp.

Maxwell Breeze’s mother Anne was not convinced.  She wrote to a newspaper, “My boy Maxie is dead, the victim of a dangerous mongrel dog.  I believe that dog was Idaho, and I demand that he be killed.” she wrote.  She added angrily, “If the people of this country who are not parents continue, as they have in this case, to place the life of a mongrel dog above the life of a happy, healthy child, then it is time that all mothers give up the task of bringing up children.”

Both sides in the dispute met again before Justice Benedict on August 5.  Over three hundred journalists and curious spectators joined them.  Idaho himself--thankfully unaware that his life was on the line--seemed bored with the proceedings.  He napped through most of the hearing.

After listening to all the testimony, Benedict did his best to mix justice with mercy.  Instead of the death penalty requested by the Breezes, he decreed that Idaho should be returned to his owner to serve a sentence of twenty-six months of house arrest.  He warned Fortune that if the dog was not confined, Idaho would be killed by a peace officer.

"Palm Beach Post," August 16, 1936, via Newspapers.com

The crowd was overjoyed by the verdict, with the notable exception of Anne Breeze.  Maxwell’s mother snapped to reporters, “They’re going to let that dog around loose and it’ll kill someone else.  That dog killed my poor son, the only thing that I had.  If I had a gun, I’d shoot it myself.”

In accordance with the court’s order, Idaho spent the next two years chained up in Fortune’s yard.  During this period, he made two brief escapes, but both times he returned home on his own before Victor and his mother even had a chance to run after him.  

Idaho may have been a dangerous swimming buddy, but he was at heart a Good Boy.

As a result of a petition filed by the Rochester Dog Protective Association, on September 19, 1938, New York Supreme Court Justice William Love signed a court order giving Idaho a full and unconditional pardon, 12 days before his sentence ended.  Sadly, the dog did not enjoy his freedom for long.  On January 12, 1939, Victor’s brother Jack took Idaho with him for a hike near Route 31.  While doing so, Idaho began chasing after a cat.  He ran into the highway, where he was fatally struck by a car.  The hit-and-run driver was never identified.

Anne Breeze probably celebrated the news.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this Friday's Link Dump!

Our host for this week is the one-and-only Goody Two-Shoes!

The power of pregnant medieval queens.

A possible serial killer in 1890s New York.

Decoding some political gossip from medieval Britain.

The latest research on the Antikythera Mechanism.

Is Shakespeare's grave missing his skull?

Solving the mystery of Antarctica's ice.

Possible evidence of Noah's Ark.

A benevolent werewolf.

A medieval earl's "unfortunate career."

Cremation in 1890s San Francisco.

A set of kitchen knives from 1,500 years ago.

That time when the Americans saved Hideki Tojo's life.  And then hanged him.

Fake news is old news.

A Gateway to Hell in the Czech Republic.

A significant literary editor.

Wooden tools from 430,000 years ago.

The myths surrounding Nicholas II.

The origins of the expression "making the cut."

The latest information about Neanderthal babies.

The science of near-death experiences.

How 1920s Hollywood went around the world without leaving California.

A look at Maya dentistry.

That's it for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at the time a dog stood trial for murder.  In the meantime, here's a traditional Irish song.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

 

Here is just one of those minor little oddities that help keep life on this earth from getting too dull.  The “Boston Globe,” December 17, 1928:

SANTA BARBARA, Calif, Dec 16 (A.P.) -There may be sermons in stones and books in the running brooks, but it was left for a Santa Barbara woman to reveal today that there is a Schubert melody in a pan of boiling vegetables. 

As the hoarse voice of a radio announcer burst through the kitchen steam of a quiet home here, and the strains of "Ave Maria" filtered from a pan of beans simmering on the electric range, the housewife might have been excused had she exhibited a touch of nervousness, because there wasn't a radio set anywhere in the house. 

But she didn't. She approached the range in a scientific spirit and stirred the beans vigorously.  In answer a whole chorus burst into a hunting song, followed by a crooning plantation melody. 

Radio experts admitted they were baffled by the phenomenon, but pointed out that music has been heard in hot air shafts connected with electric furnaces. The bottom of the pan might have acted as a diaphragm and reproduced a radio program picked up inductively by the electric power line, they added.

Believe it or not, on December 30 the “Red Bluff Sentinel” carried a sequel of sorts:

SAN FRANCISCO, Dec. 29.-And a radio program came right out of the lamp! 

Mrs. Wilmot Williams, San Francisco housewife. reported yesterday that she received a radio program from the parchment shade of her bedside lamp when she turned the switch.

An authenticated instance of radio music received from the element of an electric stove was reported in Santa Barbara this month when a housewife there heard a program through a pan of simmering beans.

There was just music in the air in late-1928 California, I guess.

The Groaning Tree of Baddesley

Eugène Bléry, "The Elm Tree"

I always enjoy when someone manages to gain fame through unconventional and imaginative methods, so if an elm tree manages to put itself into the history books by moaning and wailing like a maniac, I say, “Congratulations!” and invite the voluble hunk of wood into the hallowed halls of Strange Company.

Our story takes place in the English village of Baddesley.  One day around 1750, a cottager living near the center of the village began frequently hearing an alarming noise behind his house, like that of someone screaming in agony.  The man’s wife, who was then bedridden, was so frightened by the sounds that he tried to persuade her that they were just hearing stags bellowing in the nearby New Forest.  However, eventually all his neighbors began hearing the cries, and all agreed that something extremely odd was going on.  The sounds were soon traced to an elm growing at the end of the man’s garden.  It was a young, healthy tree, seemingly normal in every way.  It really had no business wailing like a banshee, but there you are.

Within a few weeks, the mysteriously mournful tree had become a celebrity.  It attracted visitors from all across England, including the then-Prince and Princess of Wales.  The villagers were convinced that something supernatural was going on--perhaps the Devil had decided to take up residence in the elm--but this theory was, naturally, scoffed at by naturalists and other “experts.”  However, the men of science couldn’t come up with a better explanation for what was going on.  Any possible cause they thought of--water that had collected in the tree, or friction between the roots, or trapped air bubbles--seemed ridiculously inadequate.  All anyone could determine was that the elm seemed to groan the most when the weather was clear and frosty, and the least when it was wet.  The sounds seemed to originate from the roots.

The tree kept up its moans and groans for nearly two years, until the owner of the property where the elm was growing, a man named Forbes, decided to take the direct approach.  In an effort to determine the cause of the sounds, he bored a hole in the elm’s trunk.  Although this act of willful arborcide failed to solve the mystery, it did manage to shut the tree up.  It never made those uncanny wails again.

Eventually the tree was uprooted, in the hope that this would reveal the cause of the unsettling sounds, but this too was a failure.  The famed Groaning Tree of Baddesley, to all appearances, was a perfectly ordinary elm…except it demonstrably was not.

Weekend Link Dump

 

It's time for this week's Link Dump!

Let's dance!

That time when an English village was terrorized by a giant rabbit.

How the Declaration of Independence made the news.

The socialite and the "Titanic orphans."

The last victim of the Berlin Wall.

Remembering the American Soapbox.

Life on one of Lord Nelson's 32-pounders.

The hidden communication of animals.

British fairies, meet Indian changelings.

3I/Atlas is still weird, and is now hosing down the universe.

Wild animals in the big city.

A brief history of England's Hat Wars.

The Winged Cat of Pinesville.

A stool pigeon cat.

The once-fashionable city of Spa.

Pilgrims vs. a Maypole.

Some vintage Cockney Cats.

1884 funeral fashions.

A brief history of Moon Pies.

Two Ohio disappearances.

A murder in rural Pennsylvania.

A particularly controversial UFO account.

A look at medieval fast food.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a very, very weird tree.  In the meantime, here's Ensemble Unicorn.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

Here's one for the Weird Wills file--with a boffo surprise ending!  The "Rockford Daily Republican," April 4, 1911:

Buchanan, Mich., April 4 — Shortly before the death of Hodson Burton, five years ago, he talked into the horn of a phonograph and had the record preserved. It was placed in the hands of his lawyer, with the request that it be concealed in his safe. 

When Burton died, in his will was found, with other information, the statement that he had buried a large amount of gold, and that its exact location was recorded on a phonograph record, which was not to be read until after he had been dead five years. 

His wish was complied with, and not until yesterday did the heirs gather at the home of his son, Luke Burton, to hear what the phonograph had to say.

When they had all seated themselves in the parlor, the arrival of the lawyer with the record was announced. He entered the house and unwrapped the precious article in the kitchen. Each one in the parlor craned his neck, held his breath and gazed at mental pictures of motor cars, mansions and aeroplanes. 

Just as the lawyer stepped through the door into the room where they were he tripped over a footstool, fell and broke the record into many pieces, rendering it useless. 

The heirs, to express it mildly, are indignant.

Burton's heirs, unsurprisingly, muttered about suing the lawyer, but I have no idea how that was ever resolved.  Hodson's gold was never found, which must have given his ghost a good laugh.

The Ghostly Coven Of Branden Farm

Ian Davison was a successful librettist, actor, and playwright on the London stage during the 1920s.  However, Davison grew tired of the big city theatrical life, and decided to retire to the countryside.  His choice of rural retreat was Branden Farm, just outside Sissinghurst, in Kent.

At first glance, Branden seemed an odd pick for someone seeking a pastoral idyll.  The farm was over 400 years old, and looked it.  The place had been abandoned for many years, and boasted rotting wood, overgrown weeds, and rats.  But Davison saw great potential for the house, and relished taking on the project of making it habitable.

Within several years, Branden was completely transformed.  It became a perfectly charming residence, surrounded by flower gardens and orchards full of fruit and nut trees.  It was a genuine farm, with cattle, chickens and pigs.  Davison moved into Branden in April 1932, little guessing that he would have roommates: a pack of ghosts who were very annoyed at having their territory invaded.

The apparitions wasted no time in making their presence known.  On Davison’s very first night in Branden, he heard a tapping at his bedroom window.  When he looked outside, nothing was there.  Nothing visible, at any rate.  Soon afterwards, he heard footsteps outside, followed by the noise of two people running.  Then there was a loud crash at the north end of the house, but when Davison went to inspect the area, he found no damage, or any sign of who or what had been running around.  He began hearing other unsettling sounds--agonized wails, more crashes, heavy footsteps through the house.  He and visitors to Branden always sensed that they were being watched by some invisible presence.  Many of Davison’s guests felt oddly exhausted while staying at Branden, and some had terrible dreams where they felt that someone was strangling them.  In one downstairs room, the atmosphere would go from unaccountably cold to inexplicably blazing hot.  The room made people feel dizzy, or even faint.  In another downstairs room, the imprint of a clawed hand mysteriously appeared on a table.

One night, a couple who was sleeping in an attic bedroom saw the figure of a sad-faced woman walk through the room.  The husband threw a slipper at her, after which the figure disappeared through a wall.  A few weeks later, Davison saw the same unhappy woman appear in his bedroom.  She was bent over and seemed to be looking for something on the ground.  Other shadowy figures began appearing throughout the house, including a ghostly cat.

Davison was obviously a phlegmatic sort--or perhaps his theatrical career gave him the mindset of a Man Who Had Seen It All--because he was largely unfazed by the supernatural goings-on.  He did not become genuinely alarmed until one night, when he heard a guest’s dog scratching at his bedroom door.  He let the animal in to join Davison’s own dog, Peter.  Both the dogs were clearly upset about something.  Davison realized that his bedroom had become so hot, he feared the house must be on fire.  Then the door suddenly seemed to disappear, revealing the presence of what Davison later described as “the foulest looking man I have ever set eyes on.”

The man was wearing an odd outfit in bright green, brown, and red.  He was extremely tall, and his revoltingly ugly face glared menacingly at Davison.  The librettist shouted, “Who are you--a fiend of hell?”  The figure laughed mockingly and vanished.  

One of Davison’s friends was a psychic investigator named Ronald Kaulbeck.  When he heard of the uncanny events at Branden, he volunteered to visit the farm to see if he could determine what was going on.  He later said that during his stay there, he experienced the worst fear of his life.  One evening, he suddenly began struggling for breath and clawing at his neck.  Others in the room saw a shadow appear around Kaulbeck’s neck that was clearly trying to choke him to death.  It took all their efforts to free him from the ghostly would-be strangler.

Kaulbeck was able to identify three distinct ghosts at Branden: the woman who was endlessly searching for something, a short, thick-set man who also had an air of unhappiness, and the tall, malevolent man who was clearly the source of all the evil at the farm.

Davison, determined to find out how his new home came to be a gathering-place for unpleasant spirits, brought in other mediums and spiritualists.  One told him that many years back, Branden Farm had been a meeting-place for practitioners of black magic.  Many terrible things, including animal and human sacrifices, had taken place on the site.  The medium sensed that the ghosts of these long-ago sorcerers wanted to force him out of the house, so they could again have it all to themselves.  She believed that the tall, sinister spirit was a George Tarver, who had occupied Branden in the 16th century.  He was the Grand Master of the satanic coven which met there.  The ghostly woman had been Tarver’s mistress, who went insane after her newborn baby was used as a human sacrifice.  The short, stocky ghost had been a coven member named Hunter.  After Hunter turned against the coven, Tarver strangled him and secretly buried him in the grounds.  Eventually, Tarver became too dangerous and frightening even for his fellow devil-worshippers.  The remaining members of the coven hanged him from a beam in one of the downstairs rooms.

This medium warned Davison that if he allowed the spirits to scare him away, Branden would never be habitable for any living human.  However, if he could just brave it out for five months--fighting off whatever evil might be thrown at him--the ghosts would give up and leave.

Davison decided that he had not put all that money and effort into renovating Branden just to be forced out by a pack of satanic ghosts.  He resolved to stick it out.

His life among the apparitions went on as usual until one day, when he encountered Tarver’s ghost in a hallway.  The spirit sneered at him.  The force of the ghost’s wicked, hateful presence left Davison, for the first time, thoroughly frightened.  Fighting off his instinct to run away, Davison shouted, “You must get out of my way!  This house is mine!  My will is stronger than yours!  It does not matter what holds you here!  You must leave!  Go!”

To Davison’s surprise and unimaginable relief, Tarver reacted by fading into a wall, never to be seen again.  Three days later, the female ghost appeared before Davison.  For the first time, she smiled at him, after which she too vanished for good.

Hunter was the last of the ghosts.  One night, he appeared by Davison’s bed, staring at him with such sadness that Davison, who had always pitied this spirit, asked if there was any way to help him.  The apparition silently disappeared.

For a short time afterwards, odd shadowy figures continued to be seen, but their appearances gradually became rarer and rarer, until they ceased to be seen at all.  The unholy forces that had occupied Branden Farm for so very many years had finally been evicted.