DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Our Society has been very learnedly debating as to
whether Cats are susceptible of spiritual impressions; and, although the
burden of opinion inclines to the negative of the question, I am firmly
persuaded there is much to justify a contrary judgment.
As I slept the other night, neither dreaming nor holding psychological
intercourse of any description with outsiders, I was awakened suddenly
about the first hour of the morning by a noise. I am quite certain it
was a noise, and have therefore no hesitation in so recording it. The
new moon hung athwart the western sky, and a few fleecy clouds were
chasing each other like snow-drifts across the blue vault of the night.
I may likewise note the fact that the stars were doing what they usually
do, notwithstanding the difference of opinion that sometimes exists as
to what that is. It was the evening after "wash-day," and family linen,
in graceful curves and undulating outlines, everywhere met the eye as it
turned from contemplating the stars to contemplating the clothes-lines
in the gardens. But I wander. The noise? Ah! yes. Well, it was not like
the collision of two hard substances, but rather of the heavy "thud"
order of sound, like the descent of a solid into a soft substance; say,
for instance, of a flat-iron into a jar of unrisen buck-wheat batter. I
glanced along the ghostly battalions of family linen; along the fences
traversed by feline sentries; along the latticed arbors; but nothing to
indicate the origin of the alarm could be discovered, and as at that
moment a breeze stirred in the apartment, producing a chilling
sensation, I thought it prudent to jump back into bed.
Next morning, upon making my usual visit to note the progress of the
early bulbs in the flower-beds, I encountered at the further end of the
garden the remains of a cat--a portly and ancient grimalkin of the
sterner sex. Close at hand was a bottle lying face downward, and corked.
I raised it--first in my hands, and then to my lips. The cork fell out,
accidentally as it were, and, as a consequence, death. "Poor thing!" I
murmured; "poor--" and a portion of the contents glided carelessly down
my throat. I perceived that the liquid was "Old Rye." As I stooped down,
tears would have come to my eyes; but it was useless, seeing that the
breath had left the unfortunate's body. Nevertheless, I rested my hand a
moment upon his head, and then glided it in a semi-professional manner
along the line of dorsal elevation, until I came to a deep depression in
his backbone, which corresponded exactly with the convexity of the
bottle. Then I saw at once how it was; this missile, (in the heat of
passion, being mistaken for an empty one, probably,) had been hurled by
some treacherous hand upon the unsuspecting Tom, striking him midway
between the root of the tail and the base of the brain, causing instant
suspension of his vertebral communications, "Poor thing! You were the
victim of a Catastrophe. You were also the victim of the bottle. The
'Rye' was too heavy for you, and should have been drawn milder." This
said, I turned sadly away to find a burial spade, and it then occurred
to me that this little incident was kindly meant to confirm my view that
cats are susceptible, even to a fatal extent, of spiritual
impressions--especially when conveyed by spirits of "Old Rye."