I fought the dog and the dog won.

Dear Word Detective: Growing up, my siblings and I were often admonished to “stop that rough housing!” after the sugar buzz kicked in and the fists and feet had started to fly. Can you shine any light on the origin of “rough house” and how it came to characterize physical acting out? I have a suspicion its origin is probably more sinister than its current usage. We have a new kitten, and I’ve caught myself telling the older cats to “Stop that rough housing!” when they get too aggressive with the new recruit. No, I don’t have any children. Why do you ask? — Chris, Kansas City.

“New kitten” (singular) and “older cats” (indeterminate plural), eh? You have children, bucko. They’re just short, hairy children with very limited vocabularies. But you get points at this end for not using the intensely creepy term “fur babies,” which is routinely deployed without a smidgen of either irony or sarcasm in the crazy-cat-lover hangouts of the internet. And I say that as somebody who carries emergency cans of cat food in the car for strays we encounter in parking lots.

Your suspicion about the dubious origin of “roughhousing,” meaning boisterous and usually highly physical play, is correct. As a verb, “to roughhouse” (which is usually spelled as one word) first appeared in print in the late 19th century and is considered a US coinage. The initial meaning of “to roughhouse” back then was “to mistreat violently; to fight” (“Private James Tinan … in company with some companions yesterday ‘roughhoused’ a peddler and distributed his wares among the crowd,” NY Times, 1898), as well as “to create a disturbance or brawl.”

Within a few years, however, “to roughhouse” had acquired the milder meaning of “to engage in boisterous behavior and horseplay” (“Police spokesmen said the boys were ‘rough-housing’ on the grass,” 1971) or simply “to play energetically” (“The puppy, taking her laughter as a signal to play, romped all over her, and for a while they roughhoused together,” 1995). “Roughhousing” today may involve wrestling over a ball, for instance, but the days when the term was tantamount to “mugging” are, thankfully, long gone.

When “roughhouse” appeared as a noun in the US in the late 19th century, it followed the same arc as the verb from “serious fight” to “lighthearted horseplay.” The word appears to have originated, oddly enough, as a British term that never made it to the US. A “rough house” in 19th century Britain was an inn, pub or private home known as a “rough” place where brawls regularly broke out (“The defendant had been drinking at the new Inn for three weeks … Mr. Oglethorpe stated that it was a rough house … The prisoner had been convicted frequently for assaults on the police,” 1874). So “to roughhouse” was originally to behave as if you were a habitué of a seedy and violent dive.

You’ve probably noticed that I’ve used the term “horseplay” several times in my account, so I guess I’d better explain that word as well. We’ve used “horseplay” since the 18th century to mean friendly, boisterous play, perhaps disruptive and even unintentionally destructive (“No awkward overturns of glasses, plates, and salt-cellars; no horse-play,” 1749), but never malevolent. The word compares such lively play to the antics of colts in a pasture, running and chasing each other. Interestingly, however, when “horseplay” (as “horse-play”) first appeared in the 17th century, it meant literally a theatrical play, in a theater, that involved at least one actual horse on the stage.

Don’t blame the birds.

Dear Word Detective: Most bird allusions I get. Magpies do chatter, geese are not intelligent birds, and chickens are not fearless (although fighting cocks are, and they do crow about themselves, although why roosters crow and crows caw is a different subject entirely). But do quail really quail? And the one that has me most puzzled, do grouse characteristically grouse? I know there is a ruff grouse, and if one gets one’s feathers ruffled, he is likely to complain; other than that I see no connection. Help! — Sam Glasscock.

Geese aren’t intelligent? Pshaw. Would it surprise you to learn that both Alexander Hamilton and Albert Einstein had geese in their family trees? Yeah, me too, but you really want to watch what you say about geese. They may be stupid as a box of rocks, but they hold a grudge and they can fly. Speaking of which, why don’t more animals fly? Birds do it, of course, and bugs, and bats, but why are there no larger flying critters? Can you imagine a deer with wings? Flying wolves would be awesome. I’m gonna whip up a t-shirt and get rich.

English has dozens of words and phrases drawn from our acquaintance with our fine feathered friends, of course. We’ve borrowed so many metaphors and idioms from the wild kingdom in general that books explaining the animal origins of popular idioms and sayings will be perennial fixtures of the reference section as long as libraries and bookstores exist. (Which will probably be about another six months, tops. Don’t get me started.) Personally, I am partial to Christine Ammer’s “It’s Raining Cats and Dogs and Other Beastly Expressions” (1989), at least in part because Ms. Ammer is a rock-solid lexicographer and doesn’t simply make stuff up (a real danger in this genre). In her section on geese, for instance, she covers “loose as a goose,” “take a gander,” “goose flesh” and “goose step” among other goose-locutions.

Interestingly, neither “grouse” nor “quail” show up in Ms. Ammer’s book, because you’ve managed to pick two bird names that have absolutely nothing to do with the common verbs spelled the same way (meaning, respectively, “to complain or grumble” and “to cower or tremble”). Disappointing, I know, but I can only go where the trail leads.

The bird we call a “quail” is a small game bird, resembling a small partridge. The word “quail” referring to this bird first appeared in English in the 14th century, derived from the Anglo-Norman “quaille,” which was almost certainly formed in imitation of the bird’s cry. Two fun “quail” facts: use of “quail” as slang for a young woman dates back to the mid-19th century, and former US Vice-President Dan Quayle’s surname is drawn from an earlier spelling of the bird’s name.

“Quail” as a verb meaning “to cower” or “to give way in fear” dates to the 15th century and is of uncertain origin, although it may be related to our English verb “to quell,” from the Old English “cwellan,” meaning “to kill.”

The “grouse” is another sort of “game bird” (“game” in this use carrying the sense of “for amusement or sport,” an enthusiasm probably not shared by the bird). The source of the name “grouse” is a major mystery. Back in the 16th century the birds were called “grows,” but so little is known about that word that etymologists aren’t even certain whether it’s singular or plural. In any case, that’s not our English word “grow,” but a word probably imported from either Latin or Welsh.

The verb “to grouse,” meaning “to complain or grumble” dates to the late 19th century and apparently originated as soldiers’ slang in the British Army (“That’s the only thing as ‘ill make the Blue Lights stop grousin’ and stiffin’.? ‘Grousing’ is sulking, and ‘stiffin’ is using unparliamentary language,” Rudyard Kipling, 1887). Once again, the origin of the word is unknown, but it may well be derived from the Old French “groucier” or “groucher,” also meaning “to grumble or complain.” If so, “grouse” is closely related to our modern English “grouch” meaning both “a complaint” and “one who frequently complains; an irascible person.”