What Does Shakespeare Say?--Dogs

The “Be-Worded” blog entry of 16 May 2014 answers the question What Does Shakespeare Say (WDSS) About Cats? In what I plan to become a recurring WDSS series, this blog entry will address WDSS About Dogs.

I would be remiss not to begin my treatment of dogs in Shakespeare’s work without mention of the oldest and worst dog pun regarding Shakespeare.  We learn in the “Scottish play” that Shakespeare lived with a dog--and a mischievous dog, at that—when Lady Macbeth exhorts “Out, out damned spot!”

I fell in love with basset hounds when I was in 9^th grade. My personal all-time favorite Shakespeare play is “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” partly because Shakespeare mentions basset hounds in that play. In Act 4, scene 1, Theseus and Hippolyta discuss the “musical confusion/ Of hounds” as they head out for a day of hunting. Theseus proudly informs her that

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flewed, so sanded; and their heads are hung

With ears that sweep away the morning dew,

Crook-kneed, and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls,

Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,

Each under each.

Joseph Papp in his production of this play in Central Park in 1982 has Theseus enter with basset hounds on leash. Some productions cut this scene, omit the hounds and have Theseus simply describe them, or use non-basset dogs. Unlike Crab the dog mentioned below, these dogs are “props.” They do not have “speaking” parts.

However, one of Shakespeare’s more disturbing uses of dogs, in this instance spaniels, also occurs in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” In a quite unsettling episode of low self-esteem, Helena throws herself at Demetrius, who once loved her but now spurns her. She begs,

I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you.
What worser place can I beg in your love,--
And yet a place of high respect with me,--
Than to be used as you use your dog?

The proverb claims that dog is man’s best friend. In this case, Demetrius seems to need some lessons not only on how to treat women, but also on how to treat his dogs!

Early in “As You Like It,” Rosalind quietly mulls over her political troubles. Her cousin Celia questions why Rosalind is tongue-tied, asking has she no words?  Rosalind responds, “Not one to throw at a dog.” The next time someone asks why I am quiet, I will give the Shakespearean response, “I don’t have a word to throw at a dog.”

I must mention here (as I do in “WDSS—Cats”) the line from Hamlet, “The cat will mew, the dog will have his day,” or as Andy Warhol phrased it in modern times, everyone will have his or her fifteen minutes of fame (MEOW).

I am choosing not to discuss probably Shakespeare’s most well-known dog reference found in “Julius Caesar” regarding letting loose “the dogs of war.”

While Shakespeare refers to dogs in many more of his plays, I will close with mention of the only dog for which he wrote a “speaking” part, Launce’s dog, Crab, in “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” Launce complains that when he falls on hard times, his family pities him, even his cat pities him, but his dog does not pity him. (You must note that Launce’s dog is the only one of those mentioned who actually stands by him. Also, Crab does not pee on Launce’s leg.) I had the pleasure of seeing a performance of “Two Gentlemen” this summer at the Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival. Crab stole the show!

GRIN DING

Since the invention of spelling and punctuation, bloopers have provided untold amusement. Recently, I bought a tee shirt which says, “Let’s Eat Grandma!” above a horrified cartoon grandma. The caption below horrified grandma reads, “Let’s Eat, Grandma! PUNCTUATION SAVES LIVES.” An anecdote regarding nuances of spelling “burro” and “burrow” admonishes that those who confuse the two words do not know their ass from a hole in the ground. I still remember from my early days as an English teacher the student who claimed to have a “wench” on the front of his truck. (I will let you insert your own sarcastic comment here about women and hoods.) Even creative hyphenation can provide linguistic amusement.

Around the corner from my house, a man has a business in the back of his house. The sign out front reads “GRIN DING,” with a hole (not a burrow, though) separating the “N” and the “D.” I know that his business entails sharpening tools, but I still enjoy thinking about what exactly a “grin ding” might be. I know that a “wing ding” informally means “a lavish or lively party or celebration,” according to the “American Heritage Dictionary.” Might a “grin ding” be a type of wing ding?

To this end, I looked up “ding” and found familiar meanings, specifically “to ring; clang” and “to dent or nick.” Ringing or clanging a bell might elicit a grin, especially if a dinner bell is being rung. On the other hand, having your car dented or nicked might elicit an upside down grin.

When I looked up “grin” to see what kind of fun I might have with my “grin ding,” my findings quite surprised me. Come to find out, “grin” originally had a more somber meaning than “to smile broadly, often baring the teeth, as in amusement, glee, embarrassment, or other strong emotion” as the “AHD” defines it in current usage. Actually, the origin of the word goes back an Old English word which means “to grimace” or “to mutter.” Until now, I have always associated grinning with harmless fun (unless Jack Nicholson was the one grinning).

This finding sent me scrambling for my “Oxford English Dictionary.” The first definition of “grin” given, a noun usage, reads, “A snare for catching birds or animals, made of cord, hair, wire, or the like, with a running noose.” A subsequent definition as a verb reads, “To catch in a noose; to snare, ensnare; to choke, strangle.” At this point, my broad smile vanished, replaced with an urge to put on a turtle neck shirt. The fourth definition reads, “Of persons or animals: To draw back the lips and display the teeth.” This definition strips all overt emotion from the act of grinning, whether the grinner be human or animal.

Sufficiently horrified at the grim turn of the history of “grin,” I consulted David Crystal and Ben Crystal’s “Shakespeare’s Words: A Glossary & Language Companion.” In Shakespeare’s usage, “grin” means “bare the teeth, grimace, snarl.”

My grin parade got rained on. My enthusiasm for throwing a “grin ding” has dulled. The “Grin” Reaper has stolen my smile. I guess I will just have to grin and bear it.

NOTE: During a break from writing “GRIN DING,” I began reading a profile in the 1 Sept 2014 “New Yorker,” “The Troll Slayer: A Cambridge classicist takes on her sexist detractors,” by Rebecca Mead. I found this passage: “Beard observes that there is not word in Latin for ‘smile,’ and makes the striking suggestion that the Romans simply did not smile in the sense that we understand the social gesture today.” Mead goes on to quote Gregory Hays’ refutation of this claim: “’It may well be that the Romans did not smile, as we do, to indicate greeting or willingness to serve. But the smile of amusement, pleasure, or approval is probably as Roman as gladiators and stuffed dormice.’” Who would have thought that the history of smiling or grinning would be so fraught?