“_All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure._”
The difference between different races of animals appears to lie very
greatly in the different scope of their lives.
The cat’s life, as distinguished from the dog’s, is essentially
independent; and this, combined with finer sensibilities and a less
facile intelligence, give a predominance in the cat of these elements
of character which as developed in the human being we call the artistic
temperament.
The cat is, above all things, a dramatist; its life is lived in an
endless romance though the drama is played out on quite another stage
than our own, and we only enter into it as subordinate characters, as
stage managers, or rather stage carpenters.
We realise this with kittens; we see that the greater part of their
life, of the sights and sounds of it, are the material of a drama
half consciously played; they are determined to make mysteries, and
as a child will seize upon the passing light or shadow to help him to
transform some well-known object into the semblance of living creature,
so you may see the kitten reach a paw again and again to touch a
reflection on a polished floor, or conjure the shadows of evening into
the forms of enemies.
We cannot but see this, and our mistake comes later when the kitten
passes partly out of our ken to reappear from time to time, a serious,
furtive creature with the weight of the world on its shoulders. We
think then that the romance has ceased, when it has in reality gone
deeper; the stage has widened out of sight, and if the cat no longer
plays before us it is because we have lost sympathy with this side of
its life; if we encourage it, it will play like a kitten up to old
age. This same fact possibly explains the reason of the theory that
cats care for places and not for people--it may be because these same
people care for kittens and not for cats; thus the cat transfers the
affection it might have felt for the human being to the scene of its
romances and the places where it has experienced the surprise and joy
of its kittens.
Corresponding to the dramatic instinct the cat appears to have its
sensibilities more developed in the direction of æsthetic enjoyment
than the dog’s, which are almost purely utilitarian. But it is a
strange fact that the most universal kind of æsthetic enjoyment
among animals--namely, the pleasures of music--seem to be keenest
among those races which comparatively we rank low in respect of
intelligence--namely, reptiles and birds.
I whistled “God Save the Queen” once to two green lizards in an Italian
garden; they drew by little runs and jerks out of their holes, and
their paths converged. Suddenly when their nerves were tense with
excitement of the air (rendered slightly out of tune) they saw each
other, sprang with one impulse together, bit until I saw the green skin
wrinkle, rolled over and disappeared. I have never seen either cat or
dog show anything approaching to the emotion which music produces in
Joey, though Persis showed some pleasurable excitement in whistling,
and some desire to try the notes of a piano for herself. Dogs for the
most part take the pleasures of music with extreme seriousness almost
amounting to gloom. It is not uncommon to find dogs who will “sing,”
following to some small extent the air as it rises or falls. But they
do this with an aspect of extreme melancholy, and a thrill sometimes
seems to run through the whole body before the sound is produced; that
they do not absolutely dislike it can only be judged from the fact that
they do not try to go away.
Both dogs and cats appear to be unconscious of the sounds they utter
until experience has taught them the result or until their attention
has been specially directed to it. I have indeed met a Scotch terrier
who would “sing” to order, but his face expressed a painful tension
of will. To do him justice he sang a strain or two with apparent ease
under my window in the middle of the night. Frequently, too, a dog
who wishes to make his presence realised has his voice strangulated
by nervousness like a shy girl at a music lesson; and a well-bred cat
anxious to attract attention sometimes opens its mouth silently.
All such facts seem to point to the conclusion that many animals do
not produce their voices voluntarily, but solely on physical impulse;
that even imitative utterance may often be based on some such physical
sensation, as many people feel a tremble in the throat when a Bourdon
stop is on the organ. If this be so we are on the wrong tack in
comparing the sounds of animals, however varied and specified they
may be, to language, and we should rather compare them to weeping,
groaning, sighing, yawning, and laughter, which in the same way produce
an imitative response, which are by nature involuntary, and have no
tendency to develop into definite language.
If cats and dogs have, compared with other creatures, little feeling
for music, they seem to have still less for pleasures of sight. I have
known a mare which again and again at the same place seemed to look
out with pleasure over a view, when no definite object was moving to
catch her eye, but I have never known a dog do this, and though a
cat often takes up this attitude, the focus of her eyes seems to be
more definitely fixed, and she is probably attracted by some movement
too minute to arrest our attention. To colour they seem still more
indifferent, not sharing even the susceptibility of the mad bull. I
have heard indeed of a dog preferring scarlet to light blue; but it is
impossible with a single instance to eliminate individual association.
Cats, however, though showing no susceptibility to colour, show a very
clear perception of texture. It is not necessarily the most strictly
comfortable textures that are preferred; velvet may do to sleep on, but
it is on thin crackling paper or stiff silk that a cat would choose to
sit, and, above all, to eat. And contrary to all expectation, woolly
textures are chosen to lick. A cat has been known to go round the
garden in order to lick the soft underside of foxglove leaves; and will
even tear a paper wrapper in order to be able to stroke flannelette
with his tongue. As flannelette is prepared with a poisonous chemical
this pleasure is hazardous.
But the real region of æsthetic pleasure for a cat is the region of
smell. The dog uses smell as a medium of information; the cat revels
in it. The dog smells the ground to trace friend or foe, food or prey,
but the cat will linger near a tree-trunk, smelling each separate
aromatic leaf. If the window of a close room is opened the cat goes to
it, and puts her head out to sniff the air; she will smell the dress
of a friend, partly for recognition no doubt, but apparently partly
for pleasure also. An aromatic smell is pleasant; a strong spirituous
smell not only disagreeable but absolutely painful. Lavender water or
eau-de-cologne may please a tiger but will put a cat to flight.
The cat’s drama is a drama of the twilight, when the earth refreshed
gives up her secret, subtle scents. It is not to be played in broad
daylight; it is a mystery play of things half revealed, subtly
transformed, hardly understood, secretly suggestive.