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The Portable Pup.
Dear Word Detective: My sister recently started taking care of one of those seeing-eye-dog-in-training puppies (a lovely fellow, part yellow lab, part golden retriever, and part crocodile, and judging by how much he likes eating paper, possibly with some goat thrown in the mix too), and as is often the case with pets he has gained a long list of nicknames. One of those nicknames is the fairly predictable “pooch,” which is a fun word, but sounds really strange when you think about it, and this got us wondering about its etymology. The Oxford dictionary only had the frustrating “origin unknown” tag (or to be precise, “1920s: of unknown origin”), as well as the 17th century US informal verb “pooch,” meaning “protrude or cause to protrude,” which I assume is unrelated. Other sources had no answer, either. So we tried your website, and were surprised to find that there is no mention of “pooch” even here, although I seem to remember there are a number of pooches in your house, and those do get mentioned now and then. So, can you shed any light on the first appearance of this nickname, and maybe its origin? — Yael.
Yes, it’s true that we have two dogs, Brownie and Pokie, also known as Doorbell and Barkie. But though they are dandy dogs, neither of them has ever been remotely as useful as your sister’s puppy will be someday. As I’ve mentioned before, the only chore they’re willing to tackle is washing the dishes, and the plates smell funny when they’re done.
I don’t usually begin by admitting defeat, but I might as well let the cat out of the bag right now. No one knows with certainty the origin as “pooch” as a slang term for a dog. But hey, nobody knows a lot of things, including the whereabouts of Amelia Earhart, the precise shoe size of Bigfoot, and exactly what the iPad is actually good for. Fortunately, if you poke around long enough in dusty books and the virtually dusty precincts of the internet, you encounter a number of theories about the origin of “pooch.” Most of them fall somewhere on the spectrum between unlikely and impossible, but I found one discussion from a few years ago on the email discussion list of the American Dialect Society (ADS-L) that pointed to a plausible explanation of “pooch.”
What we know for sure about “pooch” meaning “dog” is that it first appeared in print in the US in the early years of the 20th century (“He used to take the pig out with him when he had finished his act and had him harnessed up like a trick pooch with a collar, shoulder straps and a leading string,” 1913). “Pooch” as a verb meaning “to bulge or swell” (originally “to purse one’s lips”) is older, dating back to the 1700s, and probably originated as a variation of “pouch.” The two “pooches” are presumed to be unrelated.
The discussion I found on ADS-L from 2003, however, plausibly suggests that the two are very much related. One ADS member, Douglas Wilson, pointed out that “pouch” was a standard word for “pocket” in Scots in the 19th century. Furthermore, “pooch,” to the extent that it isn’t merely a generic term for any dog, generally means “small dog” or “worthless dog” (i.e., not a “working” dog such as a hunting or herding dog). Wilson suggests, quite plausibly, that “pooch dog” might have been a simple variant of the term “pocket dog” applied to small breeds today, what would also be called a “lapdog.” A quick search of Google today produced about 224,000 hits for “pocket dog,” so the term is indeed very much in current use.This “pouch/pooch” connection is still just a theory, of course, but the fact that “pouch” did mean “pocket” in Scots and that “pocket dog” means an especially portable pooch seems pretty compelling to me.
Well, your dog has minty-fresh breath, but you need 72 stitches.
Dear Word Detective: My family got to talking about the word “tartar” over breakfast, something I’ve been surrounded by all my life — in steak, in sauce, as a baking ingredient, on my teeth — but I can’t find out what the link is. As far as I can work out, there’s two strands. One is from the Tartar tribes of the north, who ate the steak. My theory is that “tartar” entered the French language meaning “coarse,” and so the coarse sauce “tartar” got its name. But is there any connection between my fish sauce and the tartar on my teeth? — Hannah.
Your teeth? What about your dog’s teeth? There’s a low-rent commercial on the tee-vee these days for a concoction that promises to clean tartar off your dog’s teeth (thereby supposedly saving you billions in pet periodontist bills). It comes in a spray can, and apparently you simply catch Fido in an unguarded moment, pry his tartar-infested jaws open with one hand (good luck with that), and spritz this stuff into his maw. The commercial shows this being done to a small dog, which visibly recoils in shock. I imagine that if your dog is a bit larger, it might be wise to have 911 on your speed dial before beginning. And I think it’s significant that they don’t try this nonsense on a cat. Take it from me, a Cuisinart can’t hold a candle to an angry cat.
Your sense that there are two “strands” of “tartar” is right on the money. The “tartar” on your teeth and the “tartar” sauce on your fried clams are two different words.
The “tooth” variety of “tartar” is actually a deposit left by calcium phosphate from your saliva, which hardens and, as the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) delicately puts it, “concretes” upon your teeth, forming plaque. This dental “tartar,” however, is called “tartar” purely by analogy to the “real” tartar, which is potassium bitartrate, a salt of tartaric acid found in the juice of grapes, which forms a crust on the walls of wine casks. This “tartar” is also known as “argol” and, when purified, is used in cooking and known as “cream of tartar.” Wine-cask “tartar” first appeared in English around 1384 in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, derived from the French “tartre,” which came in turn from the medieval Latin “tartarum,” and was probably ultimately of Arabic origin. By the early 17th century, “tartar” was applied by analogy to any crust formed by the contact of a liquid and a surface, but it wasn’t until 1806 that “tartar” was used to mean the hard deposit on teeth.
I suppose the Tartars, the Mongolian and Turkish groups that invaded Europe in the early 13th century under Genghis Khan, probably drank a fair amount of wine, but there’s no connection between “tartar” in the “gunk in a wine cask” sense and Tartar as the name of a particular ethnic group in Central Asia. The name the Tartars called themselves was probably “Tatar,” but in Western Europe the name “Tartar” stuck, most likely because the Latin word for Hell was, by coincidence, “Tartarus.” Given the understandably dim view that Western Europe took of the Tartars, it’s not surprising that “tartar” also took on a variety of transferred senses, none of them complimentary. Beginning in the 17th century, “tartar” could mean a thief or beggar (“Here is a Bohemian tartar bully,” Shakespeare, Merry Wives of Windsor, 1602), a generally unpleasant person (“Tartar, a covetous, griping person,” 1828) or an irritable and violent character (“When provoked he proved a tartar,” 1891). “Tartar” was also used to mean a person skilled to the point of being unbeatable, and the phrase “to catch a tartar,” meaning “to tackle one who unexpectedly proves to be too formidable” (OED) has long been a English idiom roughly equivalent to “catch a tiger by the tail.”
This reputation for coarseness and ferocity underlies both “steak tartare” (raw chopped beef served with onion and a raw egg) and “tartar sauce” (mayonnaise mixed with chopped pickles, onions, etc., and served with fish). Various stories purport to explain steak tartare as the descendant of the diet of the Tartars, who were supposedly too busy pillaging to cook their meat. But the simpler explanation is that the French, who named the dish, were probably just indulging in a little hyperbole to give what is, after all, just raw hamburger an “edge.” The French also invented tartar sauce, and that name probably reflects both its coarse texture and the near-primitive simplicity of the recipe.
It’s not infested. It comes with free pets.
Dear Word Detective: What is the derivation of the word “realtor”? When was it first used? — Bill Rozich.
Those are good questions, Bill, but before we begin, I’ve just been handed a bulletin from our resident lawyer, Boots the Cat. Bill, you’re in a heap o’ trouble. You spelled that word correctly (many folks seem to think it’s “real-a-tor”), but you didn’t capitalize it, which is a major legal no-no. According to the National Association of Realtors, “The term ‘REALTOR’ is a registered collective membership mark that identifies a real estate professional who is a member of the ‘NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF REALTORS’.” Whoa. Those folks sure love those capital letters; literally every time the word “Realtor” appears on their website it’s in ALL CAPS. Anyway, only those who pony up dues to the NAR can call themselves “Realtors,” a term the NAR trademarked in 1949. I guess the rest of those house-floggers in dorky blazers are just “real estate agents.”
The roots of “realtor” (which I’m now going to stop capitalizing in hopes of annoying the NAR) are fairly straightforward, but the invention of the word itself spawned an interesting tussle. Let’s talk about the tussle first. Keep in mind that this was all way before the advent of television, back when people had the time (and brain cells) to ponder such things.
It all began back in 1916, when C.N. Chadbourn, Chairman of the National Association of Real Estate Boards (precursor of the NAR), declared, “I propose that the National Association adopt a professional title to be conferred upon its members which they shall use to distinguish them from outsiders… the title of ‘realtor’ (accented on the first syllable).” Since distinguishing oneself from “outsiders” is just about the world’s oldest hobby, “realtor” was born.
Today we’re used to companies and groups copyrighting or trademarking invented words. But back then this “realtor” business apparently rubbed quite a few folks the wrong way. Sinclair Lewis, in his classic novel “Babbitt” (1922), took a dig at the appeal of “realtor,” having Babbitt himself declare, “We ought to insist that folks call us ‘realtors’ and not ‘real-estate men.’ Sounds more like a reg’lar profession.”
That same year of 1922, the provenance of “realtor” became an issue on the floor of the US House of Representatives. Rep. Raker, a Democrat of California, was speaking about possible rent increases in the District of Columbia when he was interrupted by Rep. Curry (R-Ca.), who asked if he knew the roots of “realtor.” Curry went on to explain that the word “comes from the Spanish words ‘real’ meaning ‘royal’ and ‘tor’ meaning ‘bull’.” According to the New York Times of May 18, 1922, Mr. Raker, shouting to be heard above the uproar on the House floor, responded, “And that’s just what these realtors have been giving us in saying there’d be no rent increases.”
This “royal bull” etymology of “realtor” caught the attention of the journalist and lexicographer H.L. Mencken, who dismissed it in his magisterial The American Language (1923). Mencken characterized “realtor” as a classically American euphemism for the lowly “real estate agent,” and noted that the suffix “or” was undoubtedly carefully chosen, since “or” has always carried more dignity and prestige than the equivalent “er,” citing “author” as weightier than “writer” and “advisor” socially outgunning “adviser.” He also noted that the approved pronunciation of “realtor” is “reel-tor,” rather than “ree-al-tor.”
Oh, right, the actual origins of “realtor”? It’s simply the fragment “realt” from “realty” with that dignified agent suffix “or” tacked on. “Realty,” which originally meant simply the quality of being “real,” took on the meaning of “real, immovable property” (such as land, houses, etc.) in the 17th century, and by the 19th century was being used to mean simply “real estate” as we use that term now.
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