Dysentery.This is a very serious complaint, and nearly always fatal. It is best treated by castor-oil to begin with; afterwards, minute doses of opium and ipecacuanha, with generous diet and occasionally a little port wine.
Milk Fever.On no account should a cat’s kittens be taken from her all at once. Indeed, one should always be left to be reared. In milk-fever the paps are swollen and painful, the secretion of milk is suppressed, and the cat is either highly excited—sometimes attempting to kill her kittens—or dull andstupid-like. A little bleeding will give relief if there is delirium. The tits are to be well fomented with warm water, and a little wine given occasionally, with cream. Three or four drops of compound tincture of camphor, twice a day, will tend to allay irritability.
Inflammationof one or both eyes is not uncommon among cats, either through injury, or from cold.Remedy: A lotion of sulphate of zinc, two grains to an ounce of water, or a few grains of common alum in warm water, as a fomentation, will generally effect a cure.
Forulcersandsoresof external ears or cheeks, touch them occasionally with blue-stone, and apply—
If they are very inveterate, they will only yield to red precipitate ointment, and arsenic internally, as for mange.
Cats stand operations of all sorts well. If a cat’s leg is broken and lacerated by a trap, cut it off. Don’t be afraid. Only leave sufficient flesh to cover the bone, and have readya strong red-hot wire, to cauterize and stop bleeding, then bring the flaps together by a needle and thread.
Many cats die of apoplexy, many of paralysis. I have dissected some who had well-marked softening of the brain. And many die in their sleep. As a general rule, if your cat seems ailing, you can’t do wrong to give her an emetic—try a little weak salt and water; or let her have fresh grass, and either a dose of castor-oil, or a very little grey powder.
I have often seen cats’ lives saved, by giving raw beef and cod-liver oil.
When a cat is in bad health, either her stomach, bowels, liver, or kidneys, are out of order; and as a rule we can generally only conjecture which. A medicine, therefore, that acts, gently but effectively, on all the organs would be a sort of specific for cats’ complaints. In the “Cat’s Medicine Chest,” advertised at the end of this book, I have placed a medicament of this nature, which I have often prescribed with excellent results. There is everything in that little box to make a Pussy well, and keep her happy.
ODDS AND ENDS.
When my pet cat read the heading of this chapter, she sarcastically remarked,—
“Humph! I suppose you mean that cats tails are the ‘ends’; but what’s the ‘odds’?”
Theodore Nero raised his chin slightly from the carpet to add,—
“So long’s you’re happy.”
“You brute!” said Muffie. “You don’t know what you’re talking about; you always are half asleep.”
But touching cats’ tails (it wouldn’t be the best policy to touch every cat’s tail however), a lady asked me seriously at dinner the other day, “Why does a cat waggle its tail?” Such a question at such a time was a poser, and, to comfort me, she added, that she really was asking for information. I answered, as Dundreary, “Becauth a cat ithsthronger than its tail; if the tail wath the sthronger, the tail would waggle the cat.”
Cats are extremely proud of their tails. Pulling a Jew’s beard, and a cat’s tail, are indignities of an equality. Doubtless, did mankind possess these appendages, he would be equally jealous of their honour. But they have been overlooked somehow in the outfitting. But just imagine how gingerly we gentlemen would use them! How elegantly we would carry them under our arms while walking, and how we would flare up if any one trod on our tail! Imagine Paddy at a fair: “Twelve o’clock, and no foight yet! Will any gintleman just spit on the point of my tail?”
How useful, too, tails would be in many ways in riding, driving, or boating! On a rainy day, one’s umbrella might be tied to it, so as to have both hands free; and in mobs and crowds it could be worn out of sight. How handy, to dig your neighbour in the ribs with, and say, “Sly dog”; or, “Don’t you see, don’t you see?” when you’d made a bad pun! How useful to the orator, forelegant gesticulation, to give point to an argument, or to indicate derision. For example:—
Lord Chief Justice: Did you poke your tail at me, sir?
Claimant: No, my lord; I——
L. C. J.: Very well, sir; don’t do it again—that’s all.
How convenient the British sailor would find a tail, when aloft reefing topsails; and, sure, wouldn’t Jack also use it as a tobacco stopper? If men had tails, the medical profession would be benefited thereby. There would be several new diseases and new operations. How beautifully this would sound, for instance: “Compound comminuted fracture of the middle third of caudal extremity;” or, “Amputation at the tenth caudal vertebra;” which would give rise to advertisements like the following: “Turner’s Circular Splint,” and “Beautiful, easy-fitting Caudal Appendages, equal to Nature; patronised by the illustrious Duke of Dunmore, whose tail was carried away by a 500 pounder, at the battle of Dorking, duringthe famous charge of the gallant London Scottish. Onlyseven-and-six!”
The ends of justice, too, would be assisted. New laws would be added to the penal code. Garotters would be condemned to “Two years’ imprisonment and deprivation of caudicity.” Lesser offences punished by “Six months, and six inches off tail.” Thus we should easily know a rogue in the street, when we met one.
I must stop. I feel I should warm to the subject; and one of such vast ramifications ought to have more space for its consideration, than I can afford. However, to band-masters, acrobats, public-speakers, parsons, painters, and policemen, tails would indeed be invaluable; and, upon my honour, when I come to think of it, I only wonder how human beings, have come to be overlooked in this little matter.
Cats, it may be observed, wag their tails when pleased; when angry, they lash them; and, when excited, and about to spring on their prey, the tail quivers. This is all involuntary on the part of pussy, and is anindex of the state of her feelings, the tail being principally supplied with nerves from the spinal chord, and along this chord the nervous force is carried from the brain.
Why do cats always fall on their feet?This question is by no means difficult to answer. When she first falls from a height, her back is lowermost, and she is bent in a semicircle. If she fell thus, fracture of the spine, and death, would be the inevitable result. But natural instinct induces her, after she has fallen a foot or two, to suddenly extend the muscles of her back, and stretch her legs; the belly now becomes the convexity, and the back concave, thus altering the centre of gravity, and bringing her round; then she has only to hold herself in this position in order to alight on her feet.
One day lately, a lady, who lives in thefourthstory of a house in Dundee, hung the cage with the canary on a nail outside the window. The cat, from the inside, watched it for some time till, unable any longer to withstand the temptation, she made a spring, and, somehow missing the cage, fell to theground, some forty feet. But she alighted on her feet, and walked off as if nothing had occurred. (SeeNote R, Addenda.)
Cats are wonderfully sure footed. I saw a cat one day, taking an airing along a housetop, where Blondin could hardly have walked without a pole. She had a kitten in her mouth, too, to make her performance all the more entertaining. Another puss I saw sitting on an iron rail, a few feet from the ground, and apparently fast asleep. The rail was only about one inch in diameter, and she sat there fully an hour.
Very few cats care to drink spirituous liquors. Dogs are not so particular. One dog I had once, on board ship—a Labrador retriever—used to attend the call of “Grog O!” every day, and get his allowance along with the men. He never got drunk though, and he showed his wisdom by taking it well watered. I know a little bull-terrier bitch, who goes to a hotel every day she has a chance. Her favourite tipple is beer pouredupon a salver. As she cannot speak, she sits in a chair and thinks a lot. As she always meets plenty of friends willing to stand treat, she never comes home sober. I saw her a few weeks ago, trying in vain to cross the street. At last she sat down in the middle, and barked to me. I was sorry to see a well-bred young lady in such a condition, so I helped her home, for which she showed gratitude next day. (SeeNote S, Addenda.)
But my father had a cat,—a big Tom, whom the servants used to make drunk at any time. His beverage was Scotch whiskey-brose,i.e., oatmeal and whiskey; and I’ve seen him come staggering into the parlour and tumble over the leg of the table. Then he would fall asleep.
Cats, as a rule, do not like music; although, if brought up in a musical family, they learn to tolerate it. A cat is easily taught to come when whistled upon. A friend of mine has a cat, who, if he commences to whistle a tune, immediately jumpson his breast, and rubs her head all over his face, as if trying to comfort him, having the notion, no doubt, that he is in some sort of anguish. But if he puts out his hand to take down his fiddle in her presence, she at once erects her back and tail, and growls at him, in unmistakable anger. However, in this she shows her good taste, for her master is certainly the most execrable performer, that ever tickled hair on gut.
There are many old superstitions regarding cats still extant, and many foolish notions about them, that had much better be unlearned. Sailors believe, that, if the ship’s cat be lost overboard, shipwreck, or some such disaster, is almost sure to follow. My own old captain, Commander McH—— was imbued with this notion, hence his extreme care to retain the black cat on board, as depicted in the tale, which follows this Chapter—“The Skipper’s Imp.”
Witches are supposed by some to be constantly attended by an evil spirit, in the shape of a black cat.
To dream of cats is considered very unlucky. In some of the more unfrequented districts of Scotland, the good folks are still very careful to shut up their cats in the house, on Hallowe’en,i.e., the 31st of October. And they tell me, that those cats that have managed to escape incarceration, that night may be seen, by those brave enough to look, scampering over hill and dell, and across the lonely moors, each one ridden by a brownie, a bogle, a spunkie, or some other infernal jockey, in fact, a devil’s own steeplechase. And, they say, those cats never produce young again; or, if they do, the sooner the kittens are put out of sight the better; they are subject to startings in their sleep—no wonder—have a weird unearthly look about their eyes, and soon pine away, and die, and go—we shudder to say whither.
Cats are supposed to be capital prognosticators of the weather. If a cat is seen washing her face with more than usual assiduity, it is going to be stormy; and if pussy sits much with her back to the fire, you mayexpect frost and snow in winter, and thunder and lightning, with hail, in summer. Some portion of pussy’s person seems, indeed, to retain the power of foretelling the weather, even after death, as witness that common toy, which poor people use instead of a barometer, a wee wee man, and a wee wee woman, living together in a wee wee house; one of them pops out every day; if the day is to be fine, the lady comes, if not, like a loving wife, she sends her good man out—the secret is, the little couple are suspended on catgut, which twists or untwists according to the state of the atmosphere.
LONG-HAIRED BLACK.First Prize—Owned byMiss Armitage.
MANX.First Prize—Owned byP. Williams, Esq.
There is a very common popular fallacy, regarding cats sucking an infant’s breath, and killing it. The idea is simply preposterous. Cats, being extremely fond of children, naturally like to get into the cradle, to lie beside, and watch them. They often crouch upon the child’s breast; this may impede breathing more or less, according to the relative size of the cat to the baby. If the cat actually sits upon the child’s face, then indeed the poor creature may besuffocated. But such an occurrence is so very rare, that it is hardly worth mentioning. Many more deaths occur from bad arrangement of a baby’s pillow, in which case the mother must be glad when there is a cat to put the blame upon.
Cats have any amount of wiliness about them. A dog would scarcely think of hiding below a bush until its prey came within reach; but cats are adepts at an ambuscade. A cat knows by experience that a bird—say a sparrow—looks almost in every direction, saving directly beneath it, and so pussy always steals a march on it, from below. If a bird is foolish enough to alight on the top of a clothes-pole, pussy has a very easy victory. It is that same habit of never looking downwards, which causes those large birds, which alight on a ship’s yards at sea, to be so easily captured by the sailors.
Instances of jealousy are by no means uncommon in the feline race. Jealousy is an indication of a sensitive nature, and noanimal in the world is more sensitive than a cat. A lady had a pretty little pussy, which she had saved from drowning. This cat was excessively fond of its mistress, was never absent from her while in the house, and outside used to follow her like a dog. But in course of time, this lady bought a parrot, and pussy must have thought her mistress was paying the bird too much attention, for all of a sudden the cat’s nature seemed entirely changed. It did not respond to the lady’s caresses; it would sit for an hour at the time, looking with gathered brows at the parrot, and instead of accompanying her mistress abroad she remained sulking in doors. In truth, the cat was breaking her heart; her glossy fur got dry and rough, and at last she refused all food; so, as she really loved her cat, this lady parted with her parrot, although with great reluctance. Pussy recovered at once; the effect seemed magical; and in a few days she was herself again, the same fun-loving, frolicsome, loving wee cat she had been before.
A gentleman had a cat whom he called “Pimento”—the pimento-tree, the reader will remember, is said to permit no rival plant to grow within its shade. There was another cat in the same house; but Pimento, although otherwise a nice cat, and gentle and loving in the extreme, would never allow his master to pay the slightest attention to this cat. If he did, there was a row at once; and if his master protected the other cat, then Pimento at once left the room growling, and in high dudgeon. (SeeNote T, Addenda.)
“In a house where I resided,” says a correspondent (seeNote U, Addenda), “there were two cats, a young and an old one. The young one was a smart clever animal with a decided turn for humour, the other liked to be taken notice of. One day I was paying some attention to the latter, which, of course, was highly pleased. With tail erect, it walked backward and forward. The young one, which had been pretending to be asleep, suddenly seized hold of the tail of the other with its paw, gave it a sharp pull, and was again in a sleeping attitude ere theother had time to look round. The old one turned about, saw the young one apparently asleep, and me laughing. It immediately retired to a corner of the room, thinking no doubt that I was a double villain.”
Did the reader ever observe how very fond cats are of sitting on paper. One can hardly have a pet puss, and not observe this trait. If you have a book in your lap, up jumps Pussy, and seats herself right on top of it. If you are writing a letter, Pussy creeps along the table, singing so that you can hardly be angry with her, and places herself on the writing materials. My present puss prefers theDaily Telegraphto anything else for a bed at night, or to have her kittens on; indeed, if theStandardis lying on the same sofa, and she gets on to it by mistake, she will very soon get off, and on to theTelegraph.
Are cats revengeful? Never as a rule. Yet they do sometimes display little pettish outbursts of temper. They would not be like women if they did not do that.
A lady tells me that when she is writing, her cat will sometimes come and plant herself right in the way, and when gently pushed off, she suddenly loses her temper, and pitches the writing materials right and left on to the floor.
The following anecdote is highly illustrative of the kind and quantity of pussy’s revenge:—
“Now for the story of the cat; she was a lovely black and white Kâbul cat (the same as Persian) with hair like floss silk, as long as one’s finger; and as wise—as a great many human beings. She had a great dislike to roast mutton cold, and when I had nothing else to offer her, her resentment was most marked: she refused my caresses, and walked straight off to my dressing-room, where on the top of the chest of drawers stood my bonnet-box. She jumped up and administered slaps to the box, until it fell on the floor, when she would come away at once, her revenge being gratified. This occurred on several occasions, and only when she was offered a cold mutton dinner. Wasnot the knowledge of what would distress my feminine feelings a wonderful piece of intelligence? We quite looked out for it after the first few times, and would watch her walking off to my room, and then in a minute or two there would be ‘bump, bump,’ and my husband would say, ‘There goes your bonnet!’” (SeeNote V, Addenda.)
I only know one instance of what might be called revenge proper. It was a large black cat of the name of Imp. The poor fellow was exceedingly ill-used by the servant maid, who used to beat him on every occasion possible. Imp’s dislike to the girl was very great, although he evidently was afraid to attack her, but one day this servant was coming downstairs with a tray of dishes, and seeing both her hands full, Imp thought he ought not to miss such a golden opportunity for retaliation. He accordingly flew at her, and scratched both her arms and face severely. So we see that cats, although gentle and forgiving in the extreme to those who love them, do not easily forget aninjury from the hands of a stranger or cat-hater. (SeeNote W, Addenda.)
The reader must have often heard that cats seem to possess some wonderful instinct which enables them to predict certain kinds of coming calamities,—such as earthquakes, and different sorts of explosion. Personally, I know one instance of this, although I cannot explain it, viz., our ship’s cat taking to the rigging and sitting on the main-truckbeforeour vessel was discovered to be on fire. Another I have from my grandfather—an officer in the 1st Royals at the time of the last Anglo-Franco war. My grandmother was bending down, taking something from a chest on the floor, when suddenly the whole window was blown to splinters—dust almost—around her, with the thunder of some dreadful explosion. It was a transport that had entered the harbour—Kiel, I think—some days before, laden with war munitions, and which had blown up with all hands. But it was remarked by every one on the quay, that the ship’s cat had beensitting all the morning of the explosion, on the vessel’s main-truck.
Cats are sometimes very fond of horses. I know an instance of this where the stable-cat was very much attached to a certain horse, and that animal evidently reciprocated the cat’s kindly feelings. And Pussy used to stand quietly, and allow the horse to lick her furthe wrong way, and indeed seemed to enjoy it. (SeeNote G, Addenda.)
We all know how proud Miss Puss is of her song. Barring a certain drowsy monotony, which acts like a narcotic both on herself and kittens, and at times even on human beings, there isn’t much melody in it, however. This power of singing becomes lost in sickness, and also in extreme old age. I know of a cat, of very advanced years, that had given up singing for many a day, until a kitten—a famous musician in its way—came to reside at her house. Then poor old Pussy tried hard to get out a bar or two, and her efforts to succeed were quiteludicrous. Being laughed at she flew into a passion, and put her spite out on the happy little kitten. The more this spirited pussy was thrashed however, the louder it sang; so the old cat left the room in disgust.
The days and years of a cat’s life, are on an average fourteen, but many live very much longer. Fifteen and seventeen are very common ages for Pussy to die at. The longest time I have ever known a cat live, was till its twenty-second year, but I have heard of them dying at the age of thirty.
It is quite a common thing for a cat to feed itself with milk or cream, by dipping her forepaw in the jug, and then licking it. Pussy is very awkward at drinking water from a crystal tumbler. At first she will generally thrust her head too far in, which will make her sneeze; then she will sit and eye the glass for a time, as if considering how far the water comes up. Not content with ocular demonstration, she will next put a paw cautiously in, until the extreme end of her toestouches the water, and thus, after marking the distance, she can drink in comfort.
A certain cat which had been reared on the spoon, used, when full-grown, to sit up on her hind-legs, and reaching down the spoon to her mouth with her paws, swallow the contents. The same cat used to drink milk, if poured into her mouth from a jug, or any dish with a spout to it. So expert at that trick did she become, that, sitting up as usual, she used to receive and swallow a continuous stream poured into her throat from a height of three feet. (SeeNote X, Addenda.)
For the subject matter, of the remainder of this chapter, I am indebted to a lady who takes a great interest in feline nature. (SeeNote H, Addenda.)
“It is certain,” she says, “that cats have some strange instinct, that sends them, when lost or starving, to certain people. They have followed me in gay crowded streets, and met me in fields; I have gone into shops and bought milk and rolls for thestarvelings; and have gone again to the same place, and they were gone,—doubtless, cats on the tramp and destitute. I have known a friend’s cat lost for five days, and it never attempted to make its sorrows known, until I passed before the window of an underground room, when her shrieks were horrible to hear, and so prolonged, that the passers-by stopped to listen. I remained speaking to the poor creature, whose claws were rattling against the shut door, until the key was brought, and pussy set free.”
She relates an instance of a young surgeon, who was on his way to join his ship, to sail to the antipodes, and who was followed to the very boat by a pretty little kitten. As it seemed bent on being a sailor, the surgeon put the poor thing in his pocket. It was presented to a lady on board, who was interested in its story, and is now doing duty among the cats of South Australia,—a country, by the bye, where cats are more fully appreciated than here.
Beda was a beautiful blue tabby. One summer’s morning, down in Devon, she hadbeen missed for hours, and on being called, a viper glided out from a thicket in the garden, closely followed by the cat. The snake—until killed by a lady—kept moving off, but every moment turning round, and hissing at Beda, who, however, was in no ways put about. The following also tends to show that cats have no fear of snakes:—
“At Artea, in the province of Orissa, a cobra had his den under a mulberry-tree, near a garden walk. One day our English tabby cat, Beda, had been missing with all her kits for some hours. She was found at the foot of the mulberry-tree, teaching her children to pat the cobra on the head, every time he popped it out. When the head was protruded too far, a stroke from puss herself, caused its speedy withdrawal. Thinking the game dangerous, the cobra, which measured two inches in diameter, was dug out and killed. We were afterwards told by the natives, that no snake will kill a cat, as they dislike the fur.”
Cats are like dogs, and generally have a favourite among the litter, the handsomest.Once when Beda was nursing in India, a wild cat sprang in by the open window, and tried to seize the kittens. Beda made off with her pet, and the wild cat was beaten out. Beda, however, forgot where she had hidden the favourite, nor would she be consoled with the other members of her family. A search was accordingly made, and the pet kitten at last found on a sofa, in an adjoining bungalo.
This lady’s cat never attempted to touch the canary, nor indeed any birds about the place.
THE TWO “MUFFIES.”—A TALE.
While I was yet a little school-boy, there came about my father’s house and premises a plague of rats. They came in their thousands, as if summoned by the trumpet-tones of a rodentine Bradlaugh or Odger. They took the farm-yard and outhouses by storm, laid siege to the dwelling-house, and, from the thoroughly business-like manner they conducted their operations, and went into winter quarters, it was quite evident they meditated a stay of some duration. Sappers and miners, or royal engineers, were employed to drive tunnels and galleries under every floor, with passages leading to the grain-lofts above. Foraging parties were appointed to every stack of corn and rick of hay. The henhouse was laid under contribution to furnish eggs and feathers, and black-mail was levied from the very cows. The eaves of the well-thatched barns andbyres were apportioned to their wives, their aged, and infirm, while the poor sparrows were dislodged from their comfortable, well-lined nests to make room for little naked baby rats; and so effectually was every department worked, and so well did every branch of the service do its duty, that Cardwell himself, nay, even Bismarck, Moltke & Co., could not have suggested anything in the way of improvement.
At all these doings my honest father looked very blue, and employed his time principally in expending various sums of money in vermin-killers, and in reading works on toxicology. The result of his study was, that many tempting morsels and savoury tit-bits were placed in convenient corners, for the benefit of the invaders. It seemed indeed for their benefit: they didn’t care a straw for tartar-emetic, appeared to get fat on arsenic, while strychnia only strengthened their nervous systems, and morphia made them fierce.
Now Gibbie was the house cat, a very large and beautiful red tabby. In his primehe had been a perfect Nimrod of the feline race. Scorning such feeble game as the domestic mouse, his joy was to ramble free and unfettered among the woods and forests, by the loneliest spots at the river’s brink, and among the mountains and rocks; often prolonging his hunting excursions for days together, but never returning without a leveret or fine young rabbit. These fruits of the chase he did not always bring home, but often presented to his various human friends in the adjoining village; for Gibbie was known far and near, and even his lordship’s surly old gamekeeper, though he raised his gun at the sight of the cat, forbore to fire when he saw who the bold trespasser was. Many a rare and beautiful bird did Gibbie carry home alive, among others, I remember, a beautiful specimen of the corn-crake; nor can I forget pussie’s manifest disgust, when the bird was allowed to fly away. Just two days after, he brought home a crow, but this time the head was wanting. By the banks of the Denburn he one day fought and slew a large pole-cat; this hecarefully skinned, and dragged home. Gibbie was as well-known in the country-side as the witch-wife, or the pack-merchant, and more respected than either; and people often came to our house to beg for “ae nicht o’ Gibbie,” as “the rottens (rats) at their town (farm) were gettin’ raither thrang and cheeky.”
The loan was always granted.
“Gibbie, go,” was all my mother would say, and off trotted puss by the party’s side, with his tail gaily on the perpendicular; for he knew, as well as cat could, that rare sport and a rich treat of the sweetest cream, would be the reward of his compliance.
But Gilbert did not confine himself to hunting only; he was an expert fisher. For hours he would watch at one spot on the banks of a river, with his eyes riveted on the water, until some unhappy trout came out to bask in the sun’s rays. This was Gibbie’s opportunity. For a moment only his lips and tail quivered with extreme anxiety, then down, swift as Solan goose, he had dived with aim unerring, and seized his finny prey, with which he came quietly tobank, and trotted off homewards, to enjoy the delicious morsel in some quiet corner all to himself. Rabbits, hares, and game of all kinds, Gibbie parted with freely; but a trout was a treat, and he never shared it with man or mortal.
But Gibbie was now old. Nineteen summers had come and gone since he had sky-larked with his mother’s tail, and his limbs had waxed stiff, and his once bright eyes were dimmed. He seldom went to the woods now, and when he did he returned sorrowfully and minus. He preferred to dose by the parlour fire, or nurse his rheumatism before the kitchen grate; and while nodding over the embers, many a scene, I warrant, of his earlier years came to his recollection, and many a stirring adventure by flood and field stole vividly back to memory, and thus he’d fight his battles o’er again, and kill his rabbits thrice.
“Gibbie,” said my father one day, thoughtfully removing his pipe from his mouth; “Gibbie, you’ve got some game in you yet, old boy.”
“Oh, aye,” said Gibbie, for he was the pink of politeness, and never failed to reply when civilly addressed.
“Well,” continued my father, “you shall have a good supper, and a night among the rats in the grain-loft.”
“Wurram!” replied the cat, which doubtless meant that he was perfectly willing, and that it would be a bad job for the rats. So the programme was duly carried out, and Master Gilbert was shut up among the foe.
Early in the morning, my father, who had not closed an eye all the night, opened the door, and, lame and bleeding, out limped his old favourite, shaking his poor head—raw with wounds—in the most pitiful manner possible. The brave beast had fought like a tiger all the night long, nearly two score of rats lay dead around, while the blood lay in pools on the decks, with as much hair and fluff, as if a dozen Kilkenny cats had been contending for victory—and got it. That night’s ratting proved fatal to old Gibbie. The dreadful wounds he had received never healed, and after much deliberation it wasdetermined that an end should be put to the poor animal’s sufferings.
So honest Hughoc, the stable-boy, was sent with Gibbie in a bag to drown him.
“Is he gone?” said my mother anxiously, when he returned. And we bairns were all in tears.
“Gone, ma’am?” replied Hughoc; “aye, if he had been a horse, and, beggin’ your pardon, a deevil forbye, the river would hae ta’en him doon,—sic a spate (flood) I never saw in my born days.”
Notwithstanding all this, Gibbie was at that moment finishing the contents of his saucer, and drying his wet sides before the sitting-room fire, and when we entered, he was singing a song to himself, like the ancient philosopher he was. But the poor cat lived but one short week longer. He died, as bardie Burns has it, “a fair strae death” in his own nook, and was slowly and sadly laid to rest, beneath an aged rowan tree at the end of the garden. And the berries on that tree grew redder ever after, at least we thought so; but we never dared to tasteor touch them, they were sacred to the memory of poor dead and gone Gibbie.
In the meantime the plague of rats continued unabated, and their ravages seemed rather to increase than diminish. But their reign was nearly at an end. One day my father received the joyful intelligence that a splendid young lady-kitten, was in need of a comfortable home—salary no object.
Away with a basket trudged my little brother and self, and after a long walk came to young pussy’s residence, and had the satisfaction of finding both kitten and mistress at home. The former, indeed a beauty, and faultlessly marked, was engaged alternately in drinking butter-milk, and washing her face before a small looking-glass.
“Aye, my bonnie bairn,”—I was the bonnie bairn, not my brother,—“she’s a perfect wee angel, and ye maun be good till her; ye maunna pu’ her by the tail, and ye maun gie her lots o’ milk, and never let her want for a lookin’-glass.”
We promised to grudge her nothing that could in any way conduce to her happinessand comfort, and were allowed to carry her off. Before we reached home, we had taken her from the basket, and with all the solemnity the occasion demanded, baptized her in a running stream, and called her name Muffie. Once fairly established in her new quarters, the kit lost no time in commencing hostilities against the rats, and blood, not butter-milk, became her war-cry. One day as she sat admiring herself in the glass, a large rat unexpectedly appeared in the kitchen; and although but little larger than himself, Kittie at once gave chase, not only to his hole, but into his hole. For the next three minutes the squeaking was quite harrowing to listen to; but presently pussy re-appeared stern foremost, and dragging with her the rat—dead. This she deposited before the fire, growling whenever any one went near it, as much as to say, “Lay but a finger on it, and you yourself may expect to pay the same penalty for your rashness.” The little thing, indeed, seemed swelling with pride and importance, and must have felt considerably bigger than an ordinarysized ox, and as fierce as a Bengal tiger. In one moment she had bounded from kit to cat-hood. Buttermilk and a looking-glass! Bah! Blood alone could satisfy her ambition now.
Little Muffie was left that night in sole charge of the kitchen, and next morning, no less than five large rats, lay side by side on the hearth, as if waiting apost mortem, and wee pussie, with her white breast dabbled in gore, exhausted and asleep, lay beside them. In less than a week, she had bagged upwards of forty, and no doubt wounded twice that number. And now fear and consternation began to spread in the enemies’ camp. Such doings had never been heard of among them, even traditionally. The oldest inhabitant shook his grey muzzle, and gave it up; but added,—
“Friends, brethren, rodents! it is time to shift. No one knows whose turn may come next. True, it is a pity to leave such jolly quarters, when everything was going on so pleasantly. We have seen our fattest wives and our biggest braves borne off; ourhelpless babes have not been safe from the clutches of that dreaded monster, with the ferocity of a fiend in the skin of a mouse, and lest worst befall us,go we must.”
And go they did.
Old Tom Riddle, the parish clerk, who might have been seen any night, staggering homewards in the short hours, was well-nigh scared out of the little wits that remained to him, by meeting, as he said,—
“Thoosands upon thoosands o’ rottens, haudin’ up the road in the direction o’ the farm o’ Brockenclough.”
“Confoond it,” he added, when some one ventured to cast a doubt on his statement; “wasn’t it bright moonlicht, and didn’t I see them wi’ my ain een, carryin’ their wee anes in their mooths, and leadin’ their blin’ wi’ a strae?”
Whether old Tom exaggerated or not is hard to say; but sure enough, next morning there was not a rat to be seen or heard about my father’s premises; and it is likewise correct that about the same time, the honest farmer of Brockenclough, began tocomplain loudly of the destruction by these gentry of his straw and oats. “He liked,” he said, “to see a few o’ the beasties rinnin’ aboot a farm-toon. That was a sign o’ plenty; but when they could be counted by the score, it fairly beat cock-fechtin.”
For the next twelve months of her existence, Muffie led a very quiet and peaceful life. She was now in her prime—and a more beautifully marked tabby it would have been difficult to imagine—but, as yet, no male of her species had gained her youthful affections. But her time soon came, for strolling one day in the woods, trying to pick up a nice fat linnet for her dinner, Muffie met her fate, and her fate followed her home even to the garden gate, then darted off again to his native woodland. His history was briefly this. He was not born of respectable parentage, and I question, too, whether his parents, were at all more honest than they ought to have been. His mother was a half-wild animal, brought by a half-cracked colonel from the West Indies, and she bore him in the woods, and there shesuckled and reared him, and it was no doubt owing to the wild gipsy life he led, and the amount of freedom and fresh air he enjoyed, that he grew so fine an animal. At any rate, I never have seen his match. An immense red tabby he was, with short ears on a massive head, splendid eyes, and a tail that no wild cat need have been ashamed of. Muffie and her lover used to hold their meetings in the ruins of an old house near a wood, and my brothers and I made a rash vow, to attempt the capture of the beautiful stranger in this same building. Accordingly, one fine moonlight night, missing Lady Muff, and guessing she was on the spoon, we sallied out and made our way to the ruin. My brothers were told off to guard the door and windows, and on me alone devolved the somewhat unpleasant duty, of bagging the cat. With this intention I entered as cautiously as a mouse, and sure enough there sat the happy pair, contentedly, on the cold hearthstone. So engrossed were they in looking at each other, that they never perceived me until quite close upon them. Withthe agility of a young monkey, I threw myself on the Tom-cat and seized him by the back. That is exactly whatIdid. His proceedings were somewhat different, and considerably more to the point, for after making his four teeth meet in the fleshy part of my middle finger, he slid from my grasp like a conger-eel, and went hand over hand up the chimney, followed by the justly indignant Lady Muff,—and I was left lamenting. For the next six weeks, I had the satisfaction of going to school with my arm in a sling. I say satisfaction, because my misfortune was the cause of a great alteration, in the manner of the schoolmaster towards me. Previously it was usual with me to be thrashed “ter die, and well shaken,” which was not at all nice on a winter’s day; but now all this was changed, and I was not beaten at all. The pedagogue spoke to me subduedly, and with a certain amount of conciliatory awe in his manner, and I observed that he always kept a chair or form between my person and his, lest I should at any time take hydrophobia without giving sufficient warning, and bitethe poor man. Seeing how well the sling worked, I did not hesitate to wear it, for fully a month after my hand was quite healed, with the exception of the cicatrices, which the grave only will obliterate.
Although beaten in our first efforts, we did not give up the idea of capturing this vagabond Tom-tabby, yet it was only through the instrumentality of Muffie, we eventually succeeded. We kept her at home, put a saucer-full of creamy milk in a shady nook of the garden for her lover, and whenever he appeared, which he always did at the hour of gloaming, his betrothed was permitted to meet him, and although he invariably beseeched her to fly with him, she was prevented from acceding to his very reasonable request, by being tethered to a gooseberry bush by a long string. Love and time tamed this feline Ingomar. He left his abode in the forest, exchanged the wild-wood’s shade for the stable’s roof, bartered his freedom for the ties of matrimony, or catrimony,—in short, he married Muffie, adopted civilisation, and became barn-catpar excellence. But noamount of persuasion could ever entice him into the dwelling-house, nor did he ever suffer a human finger to pollute his fur.
I am sorry to say that Ingomar did not at all times behave well to his wife; in fact, at times he was a brute. It was his pleasure that she should sit for hours together in the garden, simply that he might look at her; if she as much as hinted at retiring, he treated her exactly as the Lancashire clod-hoppers do their wives,—he knocked her down and jumped upon her. Muffie had five bonnie kittens, and she put them to bed on the parlour sofa. Ingomar detested refinement as much as Rob Roy did.
“The sons of McGregor, weavers! Bring those kittens forth, and place them here on straw;Iwill see to their rearing.”
That is what Ingomar said, and Muffie mutely complied; and those kittens grew up as wild as himself. From sparrows they got to chickens, from chickens to grouse and game generally, and then got into trouble with the keeper, and had the worst of the argument, which on his part wasdouble-barrelled. In the early days of his betrothal, Ingomar threw daisies at his beloved, and gambolled with her in mimic strife, but latterly his song was hushed at eventide, and spits and clouts and flying fluff were too often the order of the day.
Poor Ingomar! He was cut down in his prime—slain by a wretched collie-dog. Slowly and sadly we bore him in, his beautiful fur all dabbled in blood, and his once bright eyes fast glazing in death, and tenderly laid him at the widowed Muffie’s feet. Now listen to the remarkable behaviour of that lady. The widowed Muffie did not weep, neither, in consequence of not weeping, did she die; she did an attitude though, then growled and spat, and spitting growled again, and finally gave vent to her feelings by springing through the parlour window and escaping to the woods. And here with shame and sorrow for female inconstancy, but in the interests of truth be it written, not only did Muffie not remain long a widow, but that brief widowhood even, was stained by many acts of levity to the memory of the murderedIngomar. His skin beautifully preserved (by—[12]), that skin she did not hesitate to use as a mat, nay, she evengambolled with the tail of it; and although she often paid a visit to her husband’s grave, it was not to weep she went there, no! but literally todance on the top of it. Such is life! Such are relicts!!
The rest of this pussy’s life was entirely uneventful. One circumstance only deserves relating. She was exceedingly fond of me, in fact quite adored me. Oh! that is nothing, other females have done the same; but Muffie did, what I daresay other females wouldn’t,—she at any time would eat a little bit of the end of a candle, or a bit of greased peat from my hand, while refusing beef-steak or cream from any one else. When I was sent to a distant school, and could only visit my home once a week or fortnight, the house bereft of me had no longer any charms for poor Muffie, and she took to the woods. Perhaps she enjoyed ramblingamid scenes hallowed by the recollection of her early love. She seldom returned home until the day of my accustomed arrival, when she was always there to welcome me. Now that she should have known the usual day for my appearance was nothing remarkable, but it was strange that, if anything interfered with my coming, puss was also absent, nor did my arrival on any other day prevent her from being at home at least an hour before me. One day—alas! that one day thatmustcome to all created things—my Muffie was not there to meet me, and she never came again. After a long search I found her beneath a tree, stark and stiff. Her gentle eyes were closed for aye! I would never feel again her soft caress, nor hear her low loving purr—dear Muffie wasdead.
But dry your eyes, gentle lady, and listen to the story of
MUFFIE THE SECOND.
I call my present cat Muffie, partly in remembrance of my old favourite, and partly because I think it such a cosy little namefor a pet puss. Bless her little heart, she is sitting on my shoulder while I write, and no slight burden either, her fighting weight being something over twelve pounds. A splendid tabby, she is evenly and prettily marked; her lovely face vandyked with white, and her nose tipped with crimson, like a mountain daisy. She is six years of age, and the mother of over one hundred kittens. Three-fourths of these have found respectable homes,—most of them were bespoken before birth,—and if they have only been half as prolific as their mother, Muffie must be progenitor of thousands.
WHITE.First Prize—Owned byR. H. Young, Esq.
BLACK.First Prize—Owned by Mr.J. Harper.
A very ambitious kitten you were, too, my pretty Muff. I first picked you up at an hotel, when no bigger than a ball of worsted. Your brothers and sisters, and even your big ugly mother turned and fled, but you stood and spat—didn’t you, puss? and that fetched me. Your favourite seat, too, was the top of the parlour door; and during the first twelve months of your existence, sure didn’t you tear to pieces three sets of window curtains? didn’t you smash all theflowerpots? weren’t you constantly clutching down the table-cloth and breaking the china and glass, running along the key-board of the piano, and jumping down the stool? What chance did a silk umbrella stand with you? What hope of existence had my patent-leather boots? Was it fair to catch flies on my “Sunset on Arran” before the paint was dry? Was it right to upset my ink-bottle on the table-cloth, or to break the head off my praying Samuel, which head you coolly made a mouse of, and finally hid in my shoe? Or was it at all proper to make such earnest, though happily unsuccessful, endeavours to hook your master’s eyes out as soon as he opened them in the morning? But marriage sobered you, Muffie; and I never can forget the extreme joy you manifested on the birth of your first kittens. Your first idea, I’m told, was to make “mousies” of them; then you thought of eating them. But how anxiously you waited my arrival on that auspicious morning. You came twice to my bedroom to hurry me down, and I dared not stop to shave. Then eachkitten in succession was held up between your forepaws to receive its just meed of admiration. But I hardly think, Miss Muff, your song of joy would have been quite so loud and jubilant, had you known I was selecting two to drown. And each succeeding period since then, you have tried to have your kittens in my bed, and twice you have been only too successful. There, now, go down, my shoulder aches; besides, I have to address the British public.
Muffie, like her master, has been a wanderer,—and she prefers it. To her, home and master are synonymous terms. Were I to make my bed in the midst of a highland moor, she would not desert me. If I were to place my sea-chest on the top of dark Loch-na-gar,—and that would be no easy matter,—and leave it there for a month, I should find Muffie on the top of it when I returned.
It might very naturally be supposed, that a cat would form but a poor travelling companion, and be rather troublesome. It is all custom, I suppose. Miss Muff, at the smallestcomputation, must have travelled nearly 20,000 miles with me; and she can always take care of herself much better than a dog can. From constant experience, she has become quite cosmopolitan in her habits. On the evening before “flitting day” she is more than usually active, ambling round and snuffing at each box as it is being packed, and rubbing her shoulder against it, singing all the while in a most exhilarating manner. As night closes, she, as a rule, with few exceptions, disappears for a time, going most likely to bid good-bye to her friends, whom she seldom sees again in this world, but never fails to be back early in the morning, when, after a hurried breakfast, she curls herself up in her little travelling “creel,” and goes quietly off to sleep. In a railway-carriage or steam-boat, she is allowed to roam about at her own sweet will; but by night her place is by her master’s side, and a more faithful watch he could not have. On arriving at an hotel, after dinner pussy is permitted to go out to see the place. The first night of her sojourn in a strange town, isalways spent by Muffie in the open air; and, wonderful to relate, she always enters in the morning by thefront door, although put out at the back. How she can find her way round with accuracy, sometimes a distance of half a mile of strange streets, or how she can tell the hotel door from any other, I cannot say; but she does. Once I gave her basket in charge of a railway porter at a London station, to take upstairs while I got my own ticket and the dog’s. The poor fellow soon returned with bleeding face and hands, to say that the cat had escaped and disappeared in the crowd. There was no time to wait to look for her, my luggage was on board, and the train about to start, so I hurried off to take my seat. Very much to my surprise, I was hailed from a first-class carriage by my pet herself, who appeared rejoiced to see me, and indeed was much more calm and self-possessed, under the circumstances, than her master.
Once, in a strange town—Liverpool,—Muffie disappeared in the most mysterious manner, and was absent for three whole weeks.From some words that I had heard the landlady’s son drop, I suspected foul play; so I went straight to the offices of the City Scavengering Department to prefer a very modest request, viz., to have all the ashpits cleaned out within a certain radius of my lodgings.
“All this work for a cat!” said the chief inspector. “Why, such a thing has no precedent;” and he smiled at my cheek, I suppose.
“But,” said I, “you can make this case the precedent; and it is so valuable a cat, you know.”
Aid came from an unexpected quarter. One of the officers was a Scotchman, and took my part like everything. Valuable property, he argued, had been stolen and destroyed; and if we should wait until the usual time for cleaning the ashpits, all hope of putting the blame on the right party, would be lost for ever.
“What chance,” said his good-natured chief, “have I against two of you?” So the order was given, and the ash-pitsemptied. This took two or three mornings’ work, and many dead cats were found; in fact, every day I held a post-mortem examination on one or two poor brutes, and of course the men wanted a glass of grog; so that the business cost me “a power” of rum. But no dead Muffie appeared. In the meantime I had to go to London without my puss; and a few days after, Lady Muff likewise arrived by train. She had returned to my rooms at Liverpool, exactly three weeks from the day she disappeared, andhad kittens one hour after.
Muffie I do not think ever killed a mouse, although very fond of catching them. All she cares for is the sport. She invariably brings her little victim into my room, and placing it on the hearth-rug, looks up in my face, and mews, as much as to say,—
“Just observe, master, the fun I shall have with this little cuss; and see what a clever mouser your Muff is.”
While she is saying this, the mouse has escaped, but is speedily recaptured and returned to the rug. After throwing it upin the air two or three times, and catching it before it falls, the wee “cowering timorous beastie” is left to its own freedom, Muffie walking away in a careless, meditative sort of mood, and the mousie makes good his escape. Not finding a hole, it hides below something, from under which something it is soon raked out again; and so the cruel game goes on, till the trembling little creature, with its shiny eyes, grows sick with hope deferred, and faints away. Seeing this, pussy, after turning it over once or twice with mittened paw, jumps on my shoulder with a fond “purr-rn,” and begins to sing. The play is over, and by-and-by the mouse revives, and is graciously permitted to retire, which it sets about doing with becoming modesty, and an air at once subdued and deprecatory. Muffie is still on my shoulder, benignly singing. Their eyes meet, and a little dialogue ensues. Mousie says, with hers,
“Oh! please, your ladyship, may I go, ma’am? I feel so all-overish; your claws aresosharp, and your teeth so dreadful; and I’m but a little, little mouse.”
To which pussy replies,—
“Yes; you may go. I shan’t eat you to-day; only don’t do it again.”
But why, you ask, should I permit such cruel sport? Because, intelligent and gentle reader, any interference of mine would change the play from a comedy in the parlour to a tragedy in the cellar.
I have neither fishing nor hunting exploits to tell of about Muffie. She is celebrated only as a great traveller, for her faithful devotion to her master, and for her care over even his property.
Last summer I spent a month in a beautiful sequestered village in Yorkshire. My companions were, as usual, my Newfoundland, Muffie, a pet starling, and another dog. Muffie is very much attached to this birdie, allowing it to hop about her, like a crow on a water buffalo. This starling, I think, is the most amusing little chap in all creation. He is a good linguist and an accomplished musician, and is never silent—if he is, he is either asleep or doing mischief. As he says whatever comes into his head,and interlards his discourse with fragments of tunes and Bravos! the effect is at times startling. The way he jumbles his nouns together, and trots out every adjective he knows, to qualify every noun, is something worth listening to. In the summer evenings, we used to go out for long rambles in the country lanes. The dog—Theodore Nero—felt himself in duty bound on these occasions, not only to look after his master, but even to take the cat under his protection. The starling stalked flies from my shoulder. Sometimes he would stay longer snail-hunting, behind a hedge, than I deemed prudent; a glance from me was all Muffie wanted, to be after him. I would wait and listen; and presently I would hear Dick excitedly exclaiming, “Eh? eh? Whatisit?”—a favourite expression of his: “Whatisit? You rascal! you rascal!” and back he would fly to his perch, apparently quite thunderstruck at the impudence of the cat.
Muffie bids me say she is quite happy and all alive. And I would add, she is verymuch all alive, most interestingly so, in fact. But that did not prevent her, last night, from preparing for me, what was doubtless meant for a very pretty surprise and a high compliment. The cats in the neighbourhood, hearing that I was writing a book in their favour, with Lady Muff as chief musician, resolved to serenade me; and they did. Being Christmas eve, I took them for the waits at first. I am sorry now that I so far forgot myself, as to throw cold water over the assembly; but I sincerely trust that they did not know, that the gentleman in white, who appeared on the balcony, and so unceremoniously checked their harmony, was the illustrious author of “Cats.”