Carr began her kennel by breeding purebred Old English Sheepdogs, a rare breed in Canada at the time. She developed a deep fondness for these dogs, often referring to them with great affection in her writings. She also boarded other people’s dogs to earn additional income. Her involvement with dogs was substantial and lasted for several years—roughly from the late 1920s through the early 1930s, before her art gained renewed recognition.

At first, Billie was unruly, known to bite and cause trouble. But Carr tamed him with a steady mix of affection and discipline. When he killed a chicken early on, she washed him clean and corrected him. The incident forged a powerful bond between them, and from then on, he was devoted.

Billie traveled with Carr, including on her significant 1912 trip to Haida Gwaii (pictured above). He became her shadow—faithful, alert, intelligent. Though he couldn’t be shown in contests due to his mixed breed, she always said he carried the very best traits of the Bobtail: “Loyalty, lovableness, wisdom, courage, and kindness. His presence filled her home and life for thirteen years.

When Billie died at age sixteen, Carr was devastated. His absence left such a void that she soon turned her grief into action, founding a kennel and breeding Sheepdogs in tribute to him. She wrote and sketched him with affection, even creating a whimsical calendar filled with illustrated scenes from his imagined perspective.

When Billie died at age sixteen, Carr was devastated. His absence left such a void that she soon turned her grief into action, founding a kennel and breeding Sheepdogs in tribute to him. She wrote and sketched him with affection, even creating a whimsical calendar filled with illustrated scenes from his perspective. Billie would later be immortalized in the Emily Carr Statue on the NW corner of Belleville and Government Street in front of the Empress Hotel in Victoria.

Years later, after Carr could no longer keep up with the energy demands and expenses of large dogs, she shifted to Belgian Griffons, small toy dogs with scruffy faces and big personalities. Among them, Ginger Pop stood out.

Where here English Sheepdog Billie had been noble and steady, Ginger Pop, Emily Carr’s a Belgian Griffon,  was unpredictable and feisty. Yet both reflected parts of Emily’s own spirit—independent, loyal, a little wild, and deeply loving.

Ginger Pop lived with Carr during the House of All Sorts era and, like Billie, appears in her autobiographical writings, where she describes the dog as “a little imp” and “quick as ginger.” She describes Ginger Pop as a comic character, a source of laughter and companionship during a physically and emotionally trying time. The Griffons, and Ginger Pop in particular, didn’t just replace the sheepdogs—they brought Carr a more manageable kind of joy. Smaller dogs meant less food, fewer messes, and fewer demands on her energy. But the emotional reward remained just as rich.

Though Ginger Pop and the Griffons that followed could never replace Billie, they brought Carr a different kind of companionship—lighter, more manageable, but just as affectionate. These dogs became her housemates, her muses, and her sanity as she navigated the difficulties of age, illness, and artistic rejection.

The House of All Sorts may have housed dozens of tenants and hundreds of dogs, but these two—Billie and Ginger Pop—left the deepest marks. They are woven into the very fabric of Carr’s work and legacy: not just animals, but companions, muses, and reflections of her own untamed spirit.

Emily Carr’s journey with dogs began in grief and grew into necessity—but through it all, her connection to animals remained profoundly emotional. Billie, the noble sheepdog, had walked beside her through youth and artistic emergence. Ginger Pop, the scrappy Griffon, curled beside her as she wrote her way into literary fame.

This period of her life is vividly described in her 1944 book The House of All Sorts, where she humorously and poignantly recounts the chaos and joys of running a boarding kennel, along with stories of tenants and neighbours. While it was never her primary passion, the dog business played an essential role in supporting Carr during a financially difficult phase and gave her material for her later autobiographical writings.

The post Emily Carr, Billie and the Birth of a Kennel appeared first on Emily Carr Chronicles.

Her stories about her monkey Woo is some of the most vivid, humorous, and emotionally revealing in her published and unpublished works. Woo appears most fully formed in The House of All Sorts (1944) She artfully blends autobiographical truth with literary flair, and Woo emerges not just as a pet but as a full-blown character — chaotic, cunning, willful, and strangely endearing.

Carr acquired Woo around 1923 from a pet shop in Victoria that sold exotic pets. As a port city, exotic pets from afar were not uncommon at the time. Woo was small, clever, temperamental, and highly expressive — a handful in every sense. Emily treated Woo almost like a child, often dressing her in little garments and allowing her to roam freely around the house. Woo’s curious, mischievous personality provided Carr with constant amusement, and sometimes frustration.

Raised in a devoutly religious household, Emily Carr struggled throughout her life to reconcile her untamed, passionate spirit with the rigid expectations of upper-class Victorian society. Finding little comfort in human relationships, she increasingly sought companionship in animals, who offered her the unconditional love and trust she often felt deprived of.

In her 1944 book The House of All Sorts, Carr wrote extensively and affectionately about Woo, who is a recurring character in her stories:

Woo was a Javanese monkey, dressed in a pink flannel petticoat with a lace ruffle. She had a black face, deep-set solemn eyes, and tiny clever fingers. Her soul was full of sin.

Carr’s descriptions of Woo balance affection with comedic exasperation. She paints Woo as both a tormentor and a comfort — someone who cheered her up in times of depression but also wreaked havoc on the household. Carr was often isolated and too busy to paint much during her landlady years and was often too tired to paint. Woo provided a kind of companionship that was emotionally significant.

There are many delightful anecdotes about Woo, such as her dramatic tantrums, her fondness for painting supplies (she reportedly chewed on brushes), and her occasional forays into the guests’ rooms at the boarding house, to Carr’s dismay.

Carr saw Woo not just as a pet but almost as an artistic soul in her own right — chaotic, sensitive, wild. Some biographers and critics have interpreted Woo as a kind of alter ego for Carr: unconventional, outside society’s norms, and hard to tame.

In her later autobiographical writings, Carr often used animals to symbolize emotional states or aspects of human character. Woo, in particular, seems to embody both the frustrations and the strange joys of Carr’s middle years — the tension between domestic entrapment and creative freedom.

Woo chewed up curtains, bit guests, stole food, and created general mayhem, but Carr loved her fiercely. Their relationship was a strange but genuine emotional bond. When Woo was angry, she would sulk or throw tantrums. When she was affectionate, she would cuddle Carr or cry like a baby.

Woo was an odd little beast. Her passions were strong, her hate deep, her love fierce.”
— The House of All Sorts

This quote captures the emotional intensity Carr perceived in Woo — traits she likely recognized in herself. It’s a revealing line about how Carr anthropomorphized the monkey and saw her as a being of deep feeling.

One famous anecdote tells of Woo leaping onto a guest’s shoulder and shrieking wildly — Carr rushed to remove her and made no apologies, simply saying the monkey “didn’t like certain people.”

She was a demon, but she was my demon.
— The House of All Sorts

This simple but powerful sentence shows the conflicted affection Carr had for Woo. Woo was often difficult, chaotic, and destructive, but Carr embraced her anyway — possibly seeing in Woo a reflection of her own unruly spirit.

Woo was jealous. She resented every kindness I showed to any other creature. If I petted the dog, Woo would leap between us, clawing and screaming.”
— The House of All Sorts

Carr writes this with her characteristic wry humor, but it also underscores the intense emotional bond — and exclusivity — in their relationship. Woo was possessive of Carr’s attention, and Carr, despite the mayhem, found this both exasperating and endearing.

When Woo died, the heart of the house broke.

Though Carr loved Woo deeply, her own life was far from stable. After suffering a heart attack in 1936 and being hospitalized, Carr made the difficult decision to send Woo to the Stanley Park Zoo in Vancouver. Friends of Carr often visited Woo there, but the monkey’s spirit diminished in captivity. She died alone in her cage just a year later — a quiet, sorrowful end to a vibrant life once filled with mischief, affection, and the complicated bond she once shared with Carr.

The post My Demon, My Companion: Emily Carr and Her Monkey Woo appeared first on Emily Carr Chronicles.