The Domestic Cat Part 7

And once again a p.u.s.s.y--this time my own--led me a long way from my work to a distant outhouse to see her kits. After she got me to the spot where they were, she rolled on her back and held them up one by one to be admired.

I knew the case of a cat bringing her mistress hastily to a room where her sick child lay. The child had rolled on to the floor, and would have been smothered, except for p.u.s.s.y's timely aid.

Some will hardly credit this, because they do not see the working of the internal machine--p.u.s.s.y's mind--nor know the motive power--love, love, love. _Amor vincit omnia_.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CATS FEEDING THE SICK.

"Ma conscience! mither, it kens its name?" Such was the exclamation of a little ragged and kilted urchin, in the remote Highlands of Argyllshire, as he heard me call my dog to give him a drink. The day was exceedingly warm, and we had had a long walk over the mountain, and had been kindly invited into a shepherd's hut, and asked to partake of a draught of cool, sweet whey--the very best of summer beverages. Nero was having a "talkee-talkee" with some rabbits, and didn't see his whey until I called his attention to it; hence the wondering urchin's exclamation.

"Hoo shouldna he?" said the mother; "poor wise-lookin' beast. Ise warrant he kens mair than that."

The idea of even a child thinking it strange Theodore Nero [the Newfoundland champion] should know his name was so amusing that I gave the boy "twa bawbees" on the spot.

And just on a par with this boy's ignorance, is the unbelieving ignorance of some people who doubt everything they cannot understand, however well authenticated. This doubting implies an a.s.sumption on their part that the knowledge they possess is the highest attainable, that their minds are, in fact, complete in themselves. It is people of this cla.s.s--fools--who doubt the existence of even a Supreme Being. I read in a late number of the _Live Stock Journal_ an account of a cat, which, seeing its master sick in bed, and unable to move, brought a mouse to him, and on her master pretending to eat it, the same day brought him a striped squirrel; and every day, until he got well, brought "game" of some sort and laid them on his bed.

I believe I, myself, was the first who ever _dared_ to publish a case of the same kind. The story was this: A poor ploughman, who lived in a little hut at the foot of the Moffat Hills, in Scotland, fell sick of a long, lingering illness--and when the poor are ill they are poorer still; it is then the shoe pinches. This poor man had nothing in the house but meal and milk. The doctor said he must have wine. His wife pledged her marriage-gown to get it. The doctor said he must have meat.

That was beyond their power to procure. But a merciful Providence had willed the man should live; and one day the little tortoisesh.e.l.l cat, which was a great favourite with the poor ploughman, and had been very dull and wretched since his illness, brought in a rabbit--a thing, mind you, she had never done before--and placed it on the bed. She appeared to brighten up as she saw it skinned and cooked by the ploughman's wife, and partaken of by her sick master. And next day she brought another, and so on, almost every day, a rabbit or a bird, until her master was well, after _which she brought no more_. I took very considerable pains to test the truth of this story, and went to some expense about it as well, and found it in every whit true as first related to me. [See "Cats," by same Author. Dean and Sons, Publishers, 160a, Fleet Street.]

Since then I have had one or two cases precisely similar to the above, in which cats brought their "game-bag" to the bed of a sick master or mistress.

It is indisputable, then, that such things have been done over and over again. And now the question comes to be, how are we to account for it?

In ancient times, these poor, affectionate p.u.s.s.ies would doubtless have been condemned to death as being witches in feline form.

In our own day such cases are usually put down to a special interposition of Providence. Now, without doubting for a moment that there is a Divinity which shapes the end, we must remember that that Divinity works more by simple laws than miraculous means, and consequently endeavour to account for the occurrences in a natural way.

Cats, we know, after they have weaned their kittens, are in the habit of bringing them mice, etc, by way of food. This we do not think at all strange, and we put it down to that much-abused term--instinct. But the following anecdote shows, I think, something higher than mere instinct, and will help us to understand why the cat will bring food to a sick master or mistress.

A certain cat had kittens. They were all drowned except one, which, of course, became a great pet with p.u.s.s.y, who, after putting it through a course of milk, put it through a course of mice, according to the custom of country cats. The kitten grew up into a fine large Tom, and was big enough to thrash his mother, which I'm sorry to say the unfilial rascal sometimes did. But a day came when he had need of that mother's love.

Tom had his leg torn off in a trap, and was confined to his pallet of straw for several weeks, and never, one single day of his illness, did his mother miss bringing her wounded son either birds or mice, until he was able to run once more, though on three legs, to go and hunt them for himself. This cat is living still, I believe. It is quite evident that a cat's affection for, and attachment to, a beloved master, are quite equal to their love for a grown-up son, and the same feelings which prompt her to minister to the latter when ill, and unable to move, would cause her to attend on the other.

Cats easily know when any one they love is sick or ailing. I returned home a few years ago, after an absence of some six months, very bad indeed. I thought I was a "gone c.o.o.n," as the Yanks say, and didn't feel to have any more flesh on my ribs than there is on those telegraph wires. Well, my pet cat was rejoiced to see me, and hardly ever left my room. She would never leave me, it is true, but still there was something very strange in her behaviour. For she must have seen something strange in my appearance. Whether she took me for an impostor or not, I cannot say, but she always sat facing me whenever I was seated, seldom taking her eyes off my face, and her brows were lowered as if she were angry with me about something. What were p.u.s.s.y's thoughts? I asked this question one day of my father's housekeeper.

"The cat kens ye'er no lang for this warld," said Eppie; "gin I were you, I'd just mak' my callin' and election sure." Calling and election!

How I hated the old rook! Cats have an idea that when any one is ailing, it _must_ be for want of food. Poor things! How often they suffer hunger and privations themselves, goodness only can tell! This idea is not confined to cats alone. Dogs, at least, I know possess the same notion. I could give many anecdotes to prove this, but as this book is presumably on cats, I must only give one.

An Inverness-shire student was returning from the south, and with him his faithful Scottish collie. In the Highlands there are generally two roads, the high and the low; the low road being the longest and of course the safest, and the high much shorter, but usually leading through some ugly bits of country, which are far from safe even by day, and much less by night. It was a beautiful night, quite clear and starry, with just the slightest crust of snow on the ground, barely enough to darken the heather. But such being the case, the student thought he could easily venture to cross by the hills, and thus save a mile or two. Early next morning, a woman at a neighbouring farm was surprised, while baking bannocks, by the entrance of a strange collie.

The collie did not use much ceremony, but simply stole the largest bannock, and fled. This, of course, was not thought much of. The dog was hungry, and the morning cold, and he was welcome to the bannock, although it would have been more satisfactory for both sides had he asked for it. The same dog returned, however, in a few hours, and his behaviour was so strange that one of the family was induced to follow him. The dog led him a long way over the mountains, and at last brought up at the foot of a precipice, near a stream, where "something dark was lying." This something dark was no other than the poor student, who had slipped his foot on the previous night, and tumbled over the rock. He was at first supposed to be dead, but soon revived, having merely fractured a thigh, and become insensible from the cold; but the strange part of the story is to come--the bannock, all untouched, reclined against the student's cheek, _placed there by the dog_. [At page 83, volume three, "Annals of Sporting," an instance of collie-dog sagacity very similar to this is given.]

Not only do cats know sickness in others, but they are acquainted in some way with the mystery of death. Observe a cat, for instance, that has played with a mouse until she has killed it. Just see the critical way she turns it over and over with her foot, and glares into its glazing eyes. She wants to make sure the wee thing is not shamming; but, being satisfied, mark her as she coolly stretches herself, or walks slowly away from her victim, as much as to say: "Well, I've had half an hour's good fun, anyhow. Might have eaten it as long as it was alive, though; but I can't bear a dead mouse. So it's just as broad as it's long."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

TOM, TIMBY, AND TOM BRANDY.

"The best-laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft agley, An' leave us nought but grief and pain For promised joy."

Burns.

And if the schemes of mice and men often "gang agley," it is not to be wondered at that the sagacity of the domestic cat is sometimes at fault.

A very large and beautiful cat, belonging to a lady in Dumbarton, was very much attached to its home--more so, perhaps, in this case, than to its mistress, for one day, much to p.u.s.s.y's disgust, disreputable-looking men in ap.r.o.ns--so p.u.s.s.y thought them--came to the house and began to remove the furniture. p.u.s.s.y sat on the hearthrug, washing her face with a spittle and musing. "I've been so happy here," she was thinking; "I know every mouse's hole in the house, and the places in the garden where I can hide to catch the sparrows, and the gaps in the hedge through which I can bolt when that Skye-terrier chases me, and the whitethorn bush beneath whose scented boughs I meet dear Tom in the moonlight. Oh!

the thoughts of leaving Tom--no, I cannot, will not, leave the old house. Missus can hang herself if she likes. Happy thought, I'll hide--hide in the linen drawer, till this cruel war is over, and then come forth, mistress of all I survey." And so she did; but, unfortunately for her calculations, the chest of drawers was moved as well; and when at last she did "come forth," much to her bewilderment she was in a house which she had never seen before in her life.

The following anecdotes may not be thought uninteresting; they are taken almost at random from hosts of others in my possession, or, if there has been any choice in the matter, they have been chosen because the three cats, whose stories here are told, lived in widely different parts of the globe, clearly proving that a cat is a cat all the world over.

We'll give the English cat the preference. There is nothing very wonderful in his history. Tom was born and bred in Gloucestershire; he was presented to his master and mistress, the former of whom was a schoolmaster, when quite a little kitten, and soon became a great favourite with both. Tom, who was a tabby, soon grew in strength and beauty, until there were few male or female cats in the neighbourhood who did not own him lord and master. But Tom was so fond of his owners that he spent but little time either fighting or courting, much to his credit be it said. About this time, his master and mistress used to make frequent visits to a neighbouring village. Tom was not permitted to accompany them; but, whatever time they returned, by night or by day, wet weather or dry, poor Tom always met them nearly a mile from their own house.

Tom was remarkably fond of the schoolchildren, and every day, as regularly as the clock struck twelve, at which hour the school was released for the forenoon, Tom presented himself all ready for a romp.

The family dinner-hour was one o'clock, and Tom never failed to attend.

There was a knocker on the door, and whenever p.u.s.s.y found the door closed, he used to _jump up and knock_, just as he had seen strangers do.

Tom knew the days of the week, for he was never known to set out for school on Sat.u.r.days or Sundays, for the simple reason that he knew the school was closed.

Another strange trait in Tom's character was his fondness for poultry.

"He would feed with _very young_ chickens, and with the ducks and hens, never attempting to molest the weakest of them, but would even yield to them, and frequently leave the choicest bits for them." Tom's life was a very happy one until his owners removed to Leamington. Here, in the same house with him, were a parcel of rude, badly-bred children, who persistently ill-treated the poor cat, till at last Tom was missing; and it was found he had taken up his abode in a fowl-house among his old friends. This was rather a down-come for the poor cat, and he must have felt as wretched as a human being whom, after living for years in luxury, misfortune had at last condemned to the poor-house. Being removed back to his owner's house, and the children still continuing their persecutions, Tom fled to the woods and became a bandit, and no doubt met with a bandit cat's death, and died in a trap. So we leave him.

Tom Brandy was an Australian miner's cat. The miners baptised him in _aguardiente_, and hence his name. He was a beautiful large black cat, with one white spot on his chest, invaluable as a hunter, and came down like a whirlwind on every dog he saw. He was a good example of the travelling cat; he would follow his master every Sunday in Melbourne to church, hide in a neighbouring garden till the preaching was over, and then trot home behind him. He would lead like a dog in a string. Tom's travelling carriage was an old gin case. Into this Tom would jump whenever he saw preparations made for striking the tent, and lie there without ever appearing, at times for a whole day, until the new camping-ground was reached. Yes, a wild life Tom led of it in the Australian bush. When Tom's master left for "merrie England," Tom proved himself just as good a ship cat as he had been a miner's puss.

Only, mind you, Tom liked his comforts when he could get them. It was no business of his if his master and family chose to be intermediate pa.s.sengers. He knew better, and attached himself to the cabin, although, to show he did not forget his owners, he used to pay them a visit every evening, to see, I suppose, if they had everything they wanted. On the arrival of the ship at Birkenhead, the purser, after offering two pounds for Tom in vain, stole Tom Brandy; but Tom was at his master's house that night, nevertheless.

Tom's future home was Montrose, where he lived for two years happy enough, after which he mysteriously disappeared, and was not seen again for nineteen months. Where had he been? What had he been doing? How had he lived? _N'importe_! Tom Brandy turned up again very thin and very angry, and wanted to fight everybody save his own master. Tom lived happy ever after--that is, for three years, when he laid down upon a shelf and died like a Christian. And the days and years of Tom Brandy's life were sixteen and over, and he weighed a little under seventeen pounds.

Timby is also a Tom cat, and lives at Dunbeath Castle, Caithness; a pretty black-and-white animal, weighing about ten pounds. Timby is the coachman's cat; and as his master lives in a retired part of the country, the two are naturally very much attached to each other. Timby follows his master round the grounds and policies just like a dog. When little more than a kitten he proved himself a perfect Nimrod among cats, brought down birds from the highest trees, tore up moles from their tunnels, and was death upon rats and mice wherever he saw them.

Since he has grown up to years of discretion, Timby has learned to despise such paltry game as mice or rats. The Highlands of Scotland, as the reader doubtless knows, are infested with rabbits, and many a poor farmer is ruined by them; and these Timby makes his special quarry. It is his habit to stay out all night, and he seldom appears without a coney in the morning. If his master will accept the rabbit, Timby is very much pleased. If his master won't, and pushes it away with his foot, "Oh, very well," says Timby, "I'll have the rabbit; you have that herring of yours--I question if it will keep another day;" and he trots off with his prey.

Three years ago his master got a nice retriever dog, and to this dog Timby was at first exceedingly cruel, but latterly he grew very much attached to it; and as often as he can spare a rabbit he brings it to the dog's kennel, and seems pleased to see him devour it.

Like my own cat or cats, Timby will defend his master with his heart's blood. One day when Mr McKenzie, Timby's master, was trying a new terrier with a rabbit, Timby, who had followed unperceived, as soon as he heard the rabbit scream, doubtless came to the conclusion that his master was in danger, and sprang fiercely on another dog which Mr McKenzie was holding. The battle was short and b.l.o.o.d.y, and the poor dog had to retire very much worsted. Another day, when the coachman and his cat were lying together on the gra.s.s, a friend came up, and was just in the act of throwing himself on the turf likewise, when Timby flew upon him and lacerated his face very severely, and it was with some difficulty his master got him off.

Timby goes regularly to the sea with his master to swim the dogs, but does not himself take the water. But in coming home a rabbit is often started. Then away go the dogs, and away goes Timby, and, strange as it may seem in rabbit-coursing, Timby would gain as many, if not more, points than the terriers. However, there is no sort of spirit of rivalry betwixt them, and if the dogs choose to beat a field for rabbits, Timby stands by to catch them; again, when the dogs prefer to "lay by," Timby with pleasure goes and beats the field for them.

If Timby knows there is any vermin in a burrow, he has patience enough to wait till he secures it! and he has been known to lie near a hole _for nine hours_ in a stormy day, before his patience was rewarded.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

SOME TRAITS OF FELINE CHARACTER.

We all know that almost any dog that has lived a reasonable number of years, and isn't a kennel dog, but one of the family, as it were, understands pretty nearly all that is said in his presence, if it at all concerns him. My Theodore Nero is exceedingly 'cute in this respect.

When I have to go out without taking him along with me, he will lie listening attentively, with just half an eye open, till he finds out in what particular direction I mean to go. After I leave home he tries every trick and wile to get round the servant, and generally succeeds; so that, on turning a corner of the road, ten to one I find the identical dog I left asleep in the parlour, coolly waiting for me.

Indeed, I have often to leave my orders about him in bad French, as my wife doesn't understand good Gaelic. I get to windward of the dog that way, and, I fear, sometimes to windward of the wife too; the haziness of my French leaving the one just as wise as the other.

Till very recently, some people wouldn't even admit that a cat could know its own name; some people get wiser every day, and I, for one, believe that cats know fully as much of what we say as dogs do. As an instance of this, I give you the following anecdote, which may be ent.i.tled:

_A Cat with a Conscience_.--A certain Mr Coutts, of Newhills, Aberdeen, is very fond of both cats and poultry, and studies the tricks and manners of both. He recently had a hen with a large brood of chickens, the number of which day after day became lessened by one at least. The place was always searched, but not the slightest trace of a dead one could be discovered. The poor c.o.c.k was blamed, ravens were suspected, and hawks deemed guilty; but still there was some mystery about it, and the chicks went on getting fewer and fewer. About this time it was observed that whenever the subject was brought up, the favourite cat seemed all at once to grow exceedingly uneasy and restless, and finally bolted off through the nearest open door. This naturally aroused suspicion. p.u.s.s.y was watched, and found one day in the very act of walking away with a chicken.

I have another anecdote, something similar, of a cat called Polly.

Polly had one failing, although otherwise a virtuous cat, and extremely honest--she could not resist the temptation of stealing a bit of cheese, whenever she could do so unperceived. But note the slyness of this p.u.s.s.y: she could never be prevailed upon to touch cheese, even if offered to her in the presence of any one of the family, evidently reasoning thus with herself: "If I pretend I can't eat cheese because it disagrees with me, they will never blame me for stealing it, and I shall often find myself locked in the same room--glorious thought!--with a whole Cheddar."

It is a well-known fact that dogs often take particular dislikes to certain people. They appear, in many cases, to be much better judges of character than we ourselves are. I believe this instinct, or whatever else it is, is not confined to dogs alone, but is equally shared by other animals. Cats, I know, possess it in a very remarkable degree.

They know by some means, which I will not pretend to understand, those individuals who have a soft side towards them. Why, for instance, did that strange cat at Lincoln single me out from dozens of people who were on the street, and ask me to go to the rescue of her kitten?