REVEALED: The Hidden Reason Behind The Beatles' Break-up - And It Wasn't Yoko's Fault!
How a menagerie of pets influenced the Fab Four's music - and why Aunt Mimi had blood on her hands
The Beatles wrote numerous songs inspired by their pets, from Martha My Dear to an unreleased jam about Paul's lesser-known dog Eddie
John Lennon's beloved dog Nigel met a tragic end at the hands of his Aunt Mimi
Several Beatles' pets never made it into their music, including George's ever-expanding collection of cats
In the grand pantheon of Beatles lore, between the walrus and the elephant, there lurks a rather more domestic bestiary. While every schoolchild knows about Paul's sheepdog Martha (she of "My Dear" fame), it turns out the Fab Four's relationship with their four-legged friends was far more extensive – and occasionally far more tragic – than previously documented.
Picture the scene: It's January 1969, and the Beatles are ensconced in the Apple Studios, supposedly working on what would become the "Let It Be" album. Paul McCartney, never one to let a melody go unwasted, starts noodling around with a tune about his dog Eddie. Now, Eddie wasn't exactly Martha-level famous – more of a supporting act, if you will. But this impromptu composition sparks something in John Lennon, and suddenly we're treated to a veritable Pet Shop Boys moment (though somewhat ahead of their time).
The resulting jam session reads like a roll call of Beatles' beast-dom: Ringo's dog Tiger (presumably not of the burning bright variety), John's Bernard (who, as we learn, was "given away" – a phrase delivered with all the weight of a "She's Leaving Home" tragedy), and the unfortunately departed Nigel. Yes, Nigel – whose demise was immortalised in what must surely rank as one of the more unusual pieces of Lennon literature, the poem "Good Dog Nigel."
But here's where our tale takes a decidedly darker turn. For it seems that Aunt Mimi – she of the "music won't pay the rent" fame – had more than just caustic comments in her arsenal. According to the session banter, she was somehow involved in poor Nigel's untimely departure from this mortal coil. One can only imagine the conversation: "Dear John, about your dog... He's just had a little accident with my rolling pin."
The irony wasn't lost on Lennon, who named his cat after his formidable aunt. Whether this was an act of reconciliation or revenge remains one of pop's great mysteries. Though one imagines the cat probably slept with one eye open.
But what of the other Beatles and their menagerie? George Harrison, the quiet one, was actually quite the crazy cat gentleman. His first wife Pattie Boyd once remarked that their home resembled a feline sanctuary more than a rock star's mansion. Yet none of these moggies ever made it into the Harrison songbook – though one suspects "Here Comes the Sun" might have been inspired by a cat sleeping in a warm windowsill.
Ringo, beyond the aforementioned Tiger, maintained a relatively modest pet portfolio. Perhaps he was too busy trying to get out of Octopus's Garden to focus on actual animal husbandry.
The Beatles' pet influences extended far beyond their actual pets, of course. The band's catalogue is positively zoological: from Rocky Raccoon to Blackbird, from Piggies to Hey Bulldog. One might say they were the original Doctor Dolittle tribute act, if one were feeling particularly uncharitable.
What's particularly fascinating is how these pet-inspired moments often coincided with periods of great tension within the band. That January 1969 session, for instance, occurred right in the midst of what was arguably the Beatles' most fractious period. Yet here were John and Paul, momentarily setting aside their differences to harmonise about a dog named Bernard. Perhaps there's a lesson there – when all else fails, sing about pets.
It's worth noting that this wasn't even the first time the band had used animals as a form of musical therapy. Back in 1968, during the White Album sessions, Paul crafted "Martha My Dear" as a piano exercise, using his Old English Sheepdog as inspiration. The fact that it ended up becoming one of their more charming numbers suggests there might be something to this whole pet-as-muse business.
But what of the pets that never made it into the recording studio? George's cats, as mentioned, remained steadfastly undocumented in musical form. Paul had several other dogs besides Martha and Eddie, none of whom achieved musical immortality. John's menagerie extended beyond Bernard, Nigel, and Mimi-the-cat, though perhaps after the Aunt Mimi incident, he thought it best to keep them out of the spotlight.
The Beatles' pet songs represent a curious subset of their catalogue – a kind of parallel universe where the biggest band in the world took time out from changing the face of popular music to write ditties about their dogs. It's rather endearing, really, and somehow very British. One can hardly imagine the Rolling Stones doing the same (though Keith Richards probably has a few good parrot stories).
In the end, perhaps it's fitting that during those final, fractious sessions, it was their pets that provided a moment of levity and unity. As the Beatles' story drew to a close, there they were, two old friends singing about a dog named Bernard. It wasn't quite "Hey Jude," but it might have been exactly what they needed at the time.
And what of Aunt Mimi's role in all this? Well, she maintained until the end that any resemblance between her and the cat that bore her name was purely coincidental. Though she did reportedly develop a strange aversion to rolling pins in her later years.
So next time someone tells you the Beatles broke up because of Yoko, or Paul's domineering ways, or George's spiritual journey, or Ringo's... well, Ringo-ness, remember this: perhaps what they really needed was more pets. After all, it's hard to maintain artistic differences when you're united in trying to stop the dog from eating your master tapes.
In the grand scheme of Beatles mythology, the pet songs might seem like mere footnotes – cute little diversions from the heavyweight material that changed the face of popular music. But they reveal something rather touching about four lads from Liverpool who, even at the height of their fame and artistic achievement, weren't above writing silly songs about their dogs.
And perhaps that's the real legacy of the Beatles' pet songs – not their musical merit, but what they tell us about the band themselves. In these moments, we don't see the Beatles as cultural icons or musical revolutionaries, but as ordinary blokes who loved their pets enough to immortalise them in song. Even if some of those immortalisations never made it past the jam session stage.
As for Eddie, Paul's dog who sparked that January 1969 session? He may not have achieved Martha's level of fame, but he did manage to inspire one last moment of Lennon-McCartney magic. And in the end, isn't that what really matters?
Just don't mention rolling pins to any pets named Nigel.