by Ann Bausum
Conroy placed objects into Stubby’s scrapbook somewhat randomly, combining, for example, this photo of him and Stubby in Washington, D.C., with a 1921 letter from the Connecticut American Legion inviting “yourself and your famous Y.D. Mascot, Stubby, to attend our State Convention in Bridgeport.”
Stubby may not have accompanied Conroy to work every day, but he did visit the site, as is evidenced by photos in his scrapbook that capture him on the steps of the Capitol. There’s Stubby standing alone, in profile, displaying the left flank of his uniform, his brass-tagged harness resting at his feet, his head turned dutifully in a front-facing pose. In a companion photo, all remains the same except that he has flipped position so that his right flank is highlighted. The dome of the U.S. Capitol rises behind him. Another image shows Conroy seated on the steps beside Stubby. The uniformed mascot stands at attention, his gaze focused stoically at some indistinct point on the horizon while Conroy, dressed in business attire complete with bowler-style hat, offers a modest smile to the photographer.
Conroy recorded one story in his memoir about Stubby that hints at the playful downtime the pair shared during their years in the nation’s capital. He wrote, “One day when Stubby was near the Washington Monument, a friend [meaning Conroy] carried him under his raincoat past the guards and part way up the stairs. Stubby then walked to the top of the monument and after looking over the City of Washington, he walked down the stairs and passed the guards who could not understand how that dog got by them. Of course, they did not know it was a minor operation for Stubby.”
Such frozen moments of time offer the slimmest hints of all the memories the friends must have made during their postwar years together. The photos, the newspaper headlines, the awards, the few paragraphs of remembrance—these artifacts capture one side of their relationship. But anyone who has ever loved a dog knows there would have been plenty of occasions where the two of them romped together, where Conroy provided timely care for his charge, where Stubby lifted Conroy’s spirits without his companion even realizing it. There would have been countless moments where Stubby sidled over to his friend and Conroy obligingly reached down to pet him until he growled contentedly in that low, soft way of his that was akin to the cooing of a baby.
Stubby would have felt completely at home back in Washington, D.C., with Conroy. He had all the creature comforts he could want, combined with the company of former doughboys. Even after the pair moved on from the camaraderie of the Carry On Club, they remained connected within a tight network of Yankee Division veterans, many of whom had attained positions of prominence in the government. In addition to various military officers, the two were friends with the personal physician for the U.S. President; Representative William P. Connery, Jr., a Democrat from Massachusetts; Connery’s younger brother Lawrence, who served as his congressional secretary and later filled his vacant seat; and Representative Carroll Reece, a Republican from Tennessee. All had served with the Yankee Division.
Conroy seemed at ease amongst this circle of well-connected friends. He may not have shared their ambitions for elected office, but he did pursue public service and held responsible posts on Capitol Hill. For years he had juggled a complicated calendar of work, study, and socializing with veterans—including at distant national conventions—all the while caring for a very popular war hero. He was forever managing social requests that revolved around Stubby. In late 1924, for example, his friend Congressman Connery invited them to an event for a new organization for local Yankee Division veterans. “We are counting on you being present and we also particularly want you, if you can, to bring Stubby, who, though we are inviting the General [presumably General Edwards], shall have a place of honor.”
Meanwhile Stubby presented himself at a local fund-raiser for the Animal Rescue League, a group that counted First Lady Grace Coolidge as one of its patrons; showed up for an Easter egg roll; and made other public appearances upon request. By the time the pair visited the 1925 American Legion Convention in Omaha, they were old friends with countless convention guests, even President Calvin Coolidge. Stubby appears to have dutifully slipped in and out of his uniform as occasions required. Even as he aged, the garment still could be snapped shut around his belly, a feat that might have proven challenging to other maturing veterans. Medals and souvenir pins began to weigh down the soft chamois leather of the jacket, but Conroy never seemed to tire of finding new ways to have the old mascot honored.
“We raise corn; we raise beans; we raise hell in New Or-leens!” chanted veterans from Illinois when they marched in the city’s 1922 American Legion parade. Stubby invariably turned heads when he paraded at such events.
In 1925 he helped arrange for Stubby to have his likeness painted by Charles Ayer Whipple, a noted portraitist in the nation’s capital. According to news reports and a period photograph made during the work’s creation, the artist originally envisioned a portrayal of Stubby amidst a combat scene from France. Whipple’s final work, though, shows the war hero in a formal stance against a solid background.
Another surviving photograph documents that a female artist assisted with the creation of Whipple’s painting. This image captures Stubby standing in one of his classic profile shots, left flank exposed, head turned toward the artist. During the session, he is literally posing astride his open scrapbook, but that detail has been omitted from the final rendering. So has Stubby’s tongue, which, when the photo was snapped, hangs lazily from his mouth. For the finished work, the old mascot looks stoic, weary, loyal, wise, and dignified. No slobbery tongue in sight.
Early in 1926 Conroy contacted the American Legion’s Eddy-Glover post back home in New Britain in pursuit of another honor for his friend. The post had considered Stubby an honorary member ever since it was founded. Now Conroy wanted to make it official. He typed up a membership application for himself and the old YD mascot, duly confirming having been “gassed Nov. 2, 1918, Bois d’Ormont.” Conroy signed the application. Then he inked the bottom of one of Stubby’s paws and affixed its print on the form. He added a four-dollar money order to the request and mailed it to Connecticut. Not surprisingly, both of their applications received approval. Stubby was officially a member of their hometown post.
Conroy had known his four-footed companion for the better part of a decade by the time he stamped that paw print on the American Legion membership application. Did he sense that his friend’s life was coming to an end? Was that New Britain application one last reach for glory, or just the latest idea to emerge during his tireless pursuit of creative publicity? One is left to wonder: Had Stubby’s tour of combat duty shaved some longevity from his life span? By 1926, could he still climb stairs? Could he still drop to his haunches, rear up from his front feet, raise his right paw, and salute?
There was a time when the veteran warrior could knock off a salute with ease. Called to duty with Conroy for a 1922 ceremony at the Eddy-Glover post in New Britain, Stubby had entered the American Legion hall under the attentive gaze of a local reporter. At first, the mascot “looked around, apparently bewildered,” observed the writer. “Then, seeing the one thing that he recognized, he trotted soberly over to where the uniformed men were standing and reared back on his haunches in a perfect canine salute. Stubby had recognized the uniforms of his old buddies in France.”
The journalist observed Stubby’s attention to further cues, too. “When the solemn procession started on its memorial march, Stubby was in a back file, but as the drummers struck up their music, he left the rear, maneuvered about and finally finished the march at the very head of the procession, stopping with obvious understanding as the former soldiers stood at attention before each memorial pillar to attach a wreath in memory of some soldier or sailor.”
During the war, Conroy had never known if he or Stubby would live through the next day of combat. Thoughts of mortality must surely have receded after the pair returned safely to the United States. By 1926, though, nine years into their partnership, with Conroy reckoning the ma
scot’s age at about 11, he must have begun to wonder again: How many more years, or months, or even days did he have left to enjoy being with his friend?
The answer came that year at midnight on the 16th of March. Stubby, ever the game companion, couldn’t push on any longer. He’d had enough. Of course the two were together, at home in Conroy’s apartment. How many times had Stubby kept watch over a dying soldier on the battlefields of France? Now it was his turn to go and Conroy’s turn to hold vigil. When Conroy cradled the old war dog in his arms, did Stubby’s stump of a tail signal his happiness one last time? Did their eyes connect in one final moment of parting?
If so, Conroy kept such personal memories to himself. He wrote sparingly about Stubby’s death, simply referring to him, when he penned a brief obituary, as his “closest comrade … during the war and the years which followed.” This notice helped spread the news to the mascot’s legions of friends: Stubby was no more. He had gone west, in the parlance of the day, gone west the way of so many young men during the war.
“His passing on was a peaceful end to an adventurous life,” reported Conroy, “and it seemed as though his last message was one of gratitude to all who had loved, and been kind to him.” After “Machine Gun” Parker heard of Stubby’s death, he replied, “Reunions will miss a thrill in old Stubby’s loss, and he will be mourned as sincerely as any other of our comrades.” General Edwards reportedly sent condolences, too.
Obituaries ran in the Washington Post, the New York Times, and countless other papers. Editorials were penned in praise of the dog. “The boys loved him and now that the tiny life is ended, a real link with the Great Adventure is snapped,” observed a New Haven newspaper. The New Britain Herald extolled, “A dog is a dog, some folks will say … But there are times when a dog is more than a dog; when he has all the attributes of a human being, plus such undying love and affection as few human beings possess for anyone but their own kith and kin.”
The writer, just warming up, continued: “Stubby only a dog? Nonsense! Stubby was the concentration of all we like in human beings and lacked everything we dislike in them. Stubby was the visible incarnation of the great spirit that hovered over the 26th.”
Stubby’s body barely had a chance to grow cold before Conroy began acting again on the war hero’s behalf. Years earlier an affronted veteran had scoffed that the medal-wearing mascot would deserve to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery, and plenty of Stubby’s fans would probably have championed that proposal. Conroy, however, had a different memorial in mind. He wanted to preserve Stubby— literally, physically preserve him—and keep his memory alive in a museum.
Such an action was not without precedent. Devoted fans of the Confederate war hero Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson had elected to stuff his horse when it died, thus preserving the trusty mount the general had been riding when he had accidentally been shot and killed by friendly fire in 1863. Winchester, the steed of Union general Philip Sheridan, had likewise been preserved, as had the dog Owney, a 19th-century mascot for the railway postal service. At life’s end, someone had even stuffed the pigeon Cher Ami, for goodness sake. Why not Stubby?
Conroy contacted the Smithsonian Institution for help. A staff taxidermist prepared the mount to the museum’s highest technical standards. The employee honored Conroy’s request that the dog’s perishable remains be cremated, sealed in an airtight metal container, and embedded within the plaster cast that supported his fur-coated exterior. The mounted mascot assumed his classic pose, of course, standing in profile with his head cocked toward the right, glassy brown eyes focused on the horizon, supported by “the four paws which carried him over the battlefields of France.”
Some details of the dog were altered, of necessity, during this treatment. His dark muzzle gave way to a tastefully created white one. Stubby’s ears were set attentively erect, giving him in death a more assertive appearance than he had actually presented in life, at least when photographed, for in most pictures he displays his ears submissively and endearingly flattened onto his head.
All these preparations would have transpired with understandable urgency following Stubby’s death. The journey the dog took toward his final resting place, however, unfolded over many decades. On several occasions, Conroy stepped back into service on behalf of his friend, making it his personal responsibility to assure that the famed mascot of the old YD would never fade from memory.
At first, Conroy kept custody of the stuffed Stubby; sometimes he even brought him along to veterans’ conventions and reunions. Stubby appeared on display in shop windows. News reporters wrote about the exhibitions. Conroy pasted the clippings in the dog’s scrapbook. It was almost as if the old patterns were unbreakable.
In 1927, Conroy found a more permanent home for the Great War veteran and offered him to the American Red Cross Museum in Washington, D.C., on a long-term loan. Such an exhibition space made perfect sense, given Stubby’s role as a rescue dog during the war. Fellow members from the Eddy-Glover post in New Britain chipped in for a plaque that could accompany the display. Conroy probably helped draft the remarks that Congressman Fenn, his boss and fellow veteran, read when the display was dedicated on December 7, 1927. Fenn’s speech recounted all of Stubby’s greatest achievements: Originated in New Haven … smuggled to France … wounded in battle … returned victorious … met three Presidents … decorated by Pershing … honored and loved … etc., etc. Stubby remained in the museum until 1941 when efforts related to the Second World War displaced exhibits at the Red Cross headquarters.
Soon after Stubby’s death, Conroy had considered giving his preserved friend to the Smithsonian. Throughout the 1940s and into the ’50s, though, the pair resided together again. In 1954, their quiet reunion was disrupted when fire broke out during the night at Conroy’s residential hotel, the Chastleton, on 16th and R streets in northwest Washington, D.C. Firefighters arrived and ordered the building evacuated. When Conroy and Stubby emerged from the structure, the duo made headlines again. “Dog War Hero Safe,” began the caption for a photo that was snapped as they exited. There they were, back in the news once more. Conroy, an overcoat thrown over his pajamas, stands at almost military-style attention in the published picture. He looks quite dignified, even with his mismatched attire. Stubby accompanies him, tucked safely under the man’s left arm in a modified football carry. Conroy’s forearm curls under the dog’s belly and Stubby’s legs dangle stiffly below, attached to an unseen pedestal mount.
A few months later, Conroy loaned Stubby once more to the American Red Cross Museum. When exhibit space became tight there yet again, Conroy turned to the Smithsonian for shelter. This time he parted company permanently from his friend. The gift took place on May 22, 1956, a few months after the 30th anniversary of the dog’s death. At 64 years of age himself, Conroy may have felt it was time to put his Stubby-related affairs in order. He gave the museum not just the mounted mascot but the dog’s scrapbook, his harness, his studded collar, and his medal-laden jacket, as well.
One can imagine that parting permanently from such treasures was bittersweet. By letting them go, Conroy knew Stubby stood a better chance of lasting fame. By letting them go, Conroy lost physical proximity to the friend who had helped him get through the war, to his companion after the war, and to the avocation that had provided him so much pleasure over the years. At least he must have been gratified to see his comrade go on display soon after, wearing his jacket and studded collar, inside a glass case at the Arts and Industries Building, next door to the landmark Smithsonian Castle.
Conroy’s world didn’t just stand still during the 30-year span between Stubby’s death in 1926 and his arrival at the Smithsonian in 1956. A whole lifetime of events transpired, starting with his marriage in 1927 to Ruth M. Burghardt, a Connecticut native like himself, whom he had met through a capital city social club called the Connecticut State Society. Their courtship was brief and so was their marriage. Details of their parting are slim and uncharacteristically unflatt
ering. Less than a year after their wedding, Conroy walked away from his marriage, leaving behind a pregnant wife and plenty of unanswered questions.
Even the grandchildren who eventually followed—the three sons and one daughter born to Conroy’s only child, Elaine Virginia Conroy—inherited only the roughest sense of what had transpired prior to their mother’s birth. What made Conroy unhappy in the marriage? Had he felt trapped by this early pregnancy? Did his years of life as a bachelor—he was 35 when he married—or even his rambling travels as a soldier and since, leave him unprepared for the realities of settling down? Had he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake by marrying? His ex-wife developed a reputation for being unusually eccentric, and years later even her own grown daughter broke off communication with the woman whom Conroy had likewise cut from his life. Had he just made a bad match?
Stubby’s scrapbook features ledger-size black pages. Robert Conroy added most items without comment, but occasionally he penned captions using white ink.
Nearly a half century would pass before Conroy married again. Curtis Deane, his eldest grandson, learned of the second marriage in 1975 during one of the seasonal trips he made as an adult to visit his retired grandfather. “Meet Margaret,” the 83-year-old Conroy reportedly said—and that was that. Conroy’s relations with his daughter and, later on, with her own family evolved and improved over time. At first, father and daughter were estranged, although he reportedly kept track of Elaine’s whereabouts through the help of friends from his days at the Bureau of Investigation. Elaine, an exceptional student, graduated while still a teenager from George Washington University, worked for the U.S. government, and married John Breed Deane, a fellow alum.
Their children—Conroy’s grandchildren—have childhood memories of receiving cash each Christmas from the man they knew as Grandfather Bob. They remember him sending their mother money and perfume. Pets were plentiful in the Deane family home. Their father had a saying that the kids were “raised by dogs.” Stubby lore added an extra dimension of authenticity to that claim, inculcating Conroy’s grandchildren with a lifelong love of dogs. As the children began to come of age, their grandfather and their mother were reconciled, thanks in part to diplomacy conducted by Curtis Deane. As a result, Conroy’s grandchildren had the chance to become better acquainted with the man who had himself come of age with a dog.
