“Domestic cats” we mean--the descendants of cats who came from the
northern world during the last hundred odd years. We do not know the
name of the vessel in which the first Thomas and his Maria came out
to Australia, but we suppose that it was one of the ships of the
First Fleet. Most likely Maria had kittens on the voyage--two lots,
perhaps--the majority of which were buried at sea; and no doubt the
disembarkation caused her much maternal anxiety.
. . . . .
The feline race has not altered much in Australia, from a physical point
of view--not yet. The rabbit has developed into something like a cross
between a kangaroo and a possum, but the bush has not begun to develop
the common cat. She is just as sedate and motherly as the mummy cats
of Egypt were, but she takes longer strolls of nights, climbs gum-trees
instead of roofs, and hunts stranger vermin than ever came under the
observation of her northern ancestors. Her views have widened. She is
mostly thinner than the English farm cat--which is, they say, on account
of eating lizards.
English rats and English mice--we say “English” because everything which
isn't Australian in Australia, IS English (or British)--English rats and
English mice are either rare or non-existent in the bush; but the hut
cat has a wider range for game. She is always dragging in things which
are unknown in the halls of zoology; ugly, loathsome, crawling abortions
which have not been classified yet--and perhaps could not be.
The Australian zoologist ought to rake up some more dead languages, and
then go Out Back with a few bush cats.
The Australian bush cat has a nasty, unpleasant habit of dragging
a long, wriggling, horrid, black snake--she seems to prefer black
snakes--into a room where there are ladies, proudly laying it down in
a conspicuous place (usually in front of the exit), and then looking up
for approbation. She wonders, perhaps, why the visitors are in such a
hurry to leave.
Pussy doesn't approve of live snakes round the place, especially if
she has kittens; and if she finds a snake in the vicinity of her
progeny--well, it is bad for that particular serpent.
This brings recollections of a neighbour's cat who went out in the
scrub, one midsummer's day, and found a brown snake. Her name--the cat's
name--was Mary Ann. She got hold of the snake all right, just within an
inch of its head; but it got the rest of its length wound round her body
and squeezed about eight lives out of her. She had the presence of mind
to keep her hold; but it struck her that she was in a fix, and that if
she wanted to save her ninth life, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go home
for help. So she started home, snake and all.
The family were at dinner when Mary Ann came in, and, although she
stood on an open part of the floor, no one noticed her for a while. She
couldn't ask for help, for her mouth was too full of snake. By-and-bye
one of the girls glanced round, and then went over the table, with a
shriek, and out of the back door. The room was cleared very quickly. The
eldest boy got a long-handled shovel, and in another second would have
killed more cat than snake; but his father interfered. The father was
a shearer, and Mary Ann was a favourite cat with him. He got a pair of
shears from the shelf and deftly shore off the snake's head, and one
side of Mary Ann's whiskers. She didn't think it safe to let go yet. She
kept her teeth in the neck until the selector snipped the rest of the
snake off her. The bits were carried out on a shovel to die at sundown.
Mary Ann had a good drink of milk, and then got her tongue out and
licked herself back into the proper shape for a cat; after which she
went out to look for that snake's mate. She found it, too, and dragged
it home the same evening.
Cats will kill rabbits and drag them home. We knew a fossicker whose cat
used to bring him a bunny nearly every night. The fossicker had rabbits
for breakfast until he got sick of them, and then he used to swap them
with a butcher for meat. The cat was named Ingersoll, which indicates
his sex and gives an inkling to his master's religious and political
opinions. Ingersoll used to prospect round in the gloaming until he
found some rabbit holes which showed encouraging indications. He would
shepherd one hole for an hour or so every evening until he found it was
a duffer, or worked it out; then he would shift to another. One day he
prospected a big hollow log with a lot of holes in it, and more going
down underneath. The indications were very good, but Ingersoll had no
luck. The game had too many ways of getting out and in. He found that he
could not work that claim by himself, so he floated it into a company.
He persuaded several cats from a neighbouring selection to take shares,
and they watched the holes together, or in turns--they worked shifts.
The dividends more than realised even their wildest expectations, for
each cat took home at least one rabbit every night for a week.
A selector started a vegetable garden about the time when rabbits were
beginning to get troublesome up country. The hare had not shown itself
yet. The farmer kept quite a regiment of cats to protect his garden--and
they protected it. He would shut the cats up all day with nothing to
eat, and let them out about sundown; then they would mooch off to the
turnip patch like farm-labourers going to work. They would drag the
rabbits home to the back door, and sit there and watch them until the
farmer opened the door and served out the ration of milk. Then the cats
would turn in. He nearly always found a semi-circle of dead rabbits and
watchful cats round the door in the morning. They sold the product of
their labour direct to the farmer for milk. It didn't matter if one cat
had been unlucky--had not got a rabbit--each had an equal share in the
general result. They were true socialists, those cats.
One of those cats was a mighty big Tom, named Jack. He was death on
rabbits; he would work hard all night, laying for them and dragging them
home. Some weeks he would graft every night, and at other times every
other night, but he was generally pretty regular. When he reckoned he
had done an extra night's work, he would take the next night off and go
three miles to the nearest neighbour's to see his Maria and take her out
for a stroll. Well, one evening Jack went into the garden and chose a
place where there was good cover, and lay low. He was a bit earlier than
usual, so he thought he would have a doze till rabbit time. By-and-bye
he heard a noise, and slowly, cautiously opening one eye, he saw two big
ears sticking out of the leaves in front of him. He judged that it was
an extra big bunny, so he put some extra style into his manoeuvres. In
about five minutes he made his spring. He must have thought (if cats
think) that it was a whopping, old-man rabbit, for it was a pioneer
hare--not an ordinary English hare, but one of those great coarse, lanky
things which the bush is breeding. The selector was attracted by an
unusual commotion and a cloud of dust among his cabbages, and came along
with his gun in time to witness the fight. First Jack would drag the
hare, and then the hare would drag Jack; sometimes they would be down
together, and then Jack would use his hind claws with effect; finally he
got his teeth in the right place, and triumphed. Then he started to drag
the corpse home, but he had to give it best and ask his master to lend a
hand. The selector took up the hare, and Jack followed home, much to
the family's surprise. He did not go back to work that night; he took
a spell. He had a drink of milk, licked the dust off himself, washed it
down with another drink, and sat in front of the fire and thought for a
goodish while. Then he got up, walked over to the corner where the hare
was lying, had a good look at it, came back to the fire, sat down again,
and thought hard. He was still thinking when the family retired.