Dumb animals would be all very well, no doubt, and I don't suppose I
should have much objection to keeping one, but then where are you going
to get 'em? That's what I want to know; I never come across anything
dumber yet than old Job Cross's donkey, while that would shout sometimes
awful, and rouse up the whole neighbourhood. No; I've got no faith in
keeping dogs and cats, and birds and things in a house, and sets them
all down as nuisances--sets my face against 'em regular, and so would
any man who had been bothered as I have with cats.
Pussy--pussy--pussy--pussy; puss--puss--puss. Oh, yes, it's all very
fine. They're pretty creatures, ain't they? sleek and smooth, and furry
and clean, and they'll come and rub up against you, and all so
affectionate. Bother! why, they never do it unless they want to be fed,
or rubbed, or warmed in the nice warm glow of the fire, or in somebody's
lap. Why, see what savage little brutes they are to one another, and
how they can spit and claw, and swear and growl, while their fur's all
set up, their tail swelled out like a fox's, and their eyes round and
bright enough to frighten you. No; I know what cats are--pretty dears.
Who licks the top of the butter all over, and laps up the milk--eats my
bloaters, steals mutton bones off the table, pretending to be asleep
till you leave the room for a moment, when she's up on the table and
tearing away like a savage at your dinner or supper?
"Poor thing; it was only because it was hungry," says my wife. Perhaps
it was, but then I didn't approve of it: so I gave the poor thing away.
Now, I daresay, most men's wives have got some failings in them. I
mean--ain't quite perfect. You see mine ain't, and though, I daresay,
she's no worse than other women, yet, she has got one of the most
tiresome, aggravating, worrying ways with her that any one could come
across. I don't care whether its spring, summer, autumn, or winter, or
whether it's all on 'em, or none on 'em, it's allus the same, and she's
no sooner got her head on the pillow, than she's off like a top--sound
as can be. 'Taint no good to speak--not a bit--you may just as well
spare your breath, and almost the worst of it is, she mends wrong way,
and gets sleepier and sleepier the longer she lives. But that's only
"almost the worst" on it; not _the_ worst of it, for the worst of it is,
that she will be so aggravating, and won't own to it. Say she can't
help it; well, then, why don't she own it, and tell me so--not go
sticking out, as she'd only jest shet her eyes, and was as wide awake as
I was.
Now, I'll jest give you a sample. We live in a part where there's cats
enough to make the fortunes of five hundred millions o' Dick
Whittingtons. The place is alive with 'em; scratching up your bits of
gardens; sneaking in at your back doors, and stealing; making Hyde Parks
and Kensington Gardens of the tops o' your wash-houses and tiles of your
roof; and howling--howling--why, no mortal pusson would believe how them
cats can howl. They seem to give the whole o' their minds to it, and
try it one against another, to see who's got the loudest voice, and
setting up such a concert as makes the old women cry, "Drat the cats."
But that ain't no good: they don't mind being dratted, not a bit of it;
and if you go out into the back garden, and shy bricks, why, they only
swear at you--awful.
Well, you see, we live in a very catty part, and it seems to me as if
the beasts warn't fed enough, and do it out of spite, for no sooner does
it get dark, than out they come, tunes their pipes, and then you can
hear 'em. No matter where you are, back or front, there they are,
a-going it, like hooroar, till I'm blest if it ain't half enough to
drive you mad. Why, there's one old black Tom, as you can hear a mile
off, and I wouldn't bet as you couldn't hear him two, for he's got a
werry peculiar voice of his own. I think it's what musical people calls
a tenner, though it might be a hundreder for the noise it makes.
He's an artful old brute, though, is that Tom; and I've tried to come
round him scores of times, but it ain't no use, for he won't believe in
me. I've taken out saucers of milk and bits of fish, all got ready on
purpose for my gentleman, but do you think he'd come? No, thank you.
And as soon as ever he ketches sight of me, he shunts, he does, and goes
off like an express train in front of a runaway engine.
But I was going to tell you about my wife. Now, nex' Monday's a
fortni't since I come home werry tired and worn out--for porter's work
at a big terminus at Christmas ain't easy, I can tell you; while, when
we are off night dootey, it's only natural as one should like a quiet
night's rest, which ain't much to ask for, now is it, even if a man does
only get a pound a week, and a sixpence now and then, as swells make a
mistake, and give you through not having read the notice up on the walls
about instant dismissal, and all that? Well, tired out regularly, and
ready to sleep through anything a'most, I goes to bed, and as I lays
down I thinks to myself--
You may howl away, my beauties, to-night, for I can sleep through
anything.
And really I thought I could, but I suppose it was through having a
hyster barrel on my mind, that I couldn't go off directly--for there was
one missing, and a fish hamper, both on 'em. No doubt, having been
stolen by some one in the crowd on the platform; while I got the blame;
and I put it to you, now, could a railway porter, having a pound a week,
and Sunday dooty in his turn, have his eyes every wheres at once?
So I didn't go to sleep right off, but some one else did, and there,
just outside the window, if one o' them cats didn't begin.
"Wow-w-w, wow-w-w, wow-w-w, meyow-w-w," and all such a pretty tune,
finished off with a long low swear at the end.
I stood it for ten minutes good, turning first one side, and then
another, pulling the clothes over my ear, and at last ramming my head
right under, with my fingers stuck in my ears, but there, Lor' bless
you, that was no good, for I'll warrant the song of one of them pretty,
soft, furry nightingales to go through anything, and at last I finds
that I was only smothering myself for nowt, and I puts my head out of
the clothes again, and give a great sigh.
"Me-ow-ow-ow," says my friend on the tiles.
"Hear that, Polly?" I says.
No answer.
"Me-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow," says my friend outside.
"Hear that, Polly?" I says, for there warn't no fun in putting up with
all the noise yourself, when there was some one else in the room to take
half share. "Polly," I says, giving her a nudge, "hear that?"
"Eh!" she says; "what say?"
"Hear that?" I says.
"Yes," she says; "what?"
"Why, you were asleep," I says.
"That I'm sure I warn't," she says.
"Well, then, did you hear that?" I says.
"Yes; what was it?" she says.
"What was it?" I says. "There; go to sleep again," I says; for I felt
quite rusty to think anybody else could sleep through such a row, while
I couldn't.
"Meyow--meyow--wow--wow-w-w-w," goes the music again.
"Two on 'em," I says, as I lay listening, and there it went on getting
louder and louder every moment, both sides and over the way, and up and
down the street, till I'm blest if I could stand it any longer.
"Oh, you beauties," I says; "if I only had a gun." And then I lay
there, listening and wondering whether I mightn't just as well get up
and have a pipe; and at last of all, because I couldn't stand it any
longer, I gets up, goes to the window, opens it softly, and says--
"Ssh!"
Lor' bless you! you might just as well have said nothing, for there they
were a-going it all round to that degree, that it was something awful,
and I stood there half dressed, and leaning out of the window, wondering
what was best to be done. There was no mistake about it; there they
were, cats of all sorts and sizes, and of all kinds of voices--some was
very shrill, some very hoarse, and some round and deep-toned, and
meller. Now and then some one would open a winder, and cry, "Ssh," same
as I did, but as soon as they smelt what a sharp frost it was, they shut
them down again, and at last I did the same, and made up my mind as I
crept into bed again, as I'd go where there was no cats.
Yes, that was a capital idea, that was--to move to a place where there
was no cats, and on the strength of that determination, I went off fast
asleep.
Next morning over my breakfast, I got thinking, and come to the
conclusion, that I'd cut myself out a bit of a job. Where was I to get
a little house or lodgings where there was no cats, for were not the
happy, domestic creatures everywhere? No; that was of no use, but I
warn't going to stand having my rest broken night after night in that
way; so I mounted a trap, for I'd made up my mind, that out of revenge,
I'd have a full-sized railway rug lined with scarlet cloth, while the
rug itself should be of _fur_.
First night I sets my trap, I baited it with a bit of herring. Goes
next morning and found the herring had been dragged out at the side, and
the trap warn't sprung. Sets it next night, baited with two sprats;
goes next morning to find 'em gone, but no pussy. And so I went on,
week after week, till I got tired out, and tried poison, which hit the
wrong game, and killed our neighbour's tarrier dog. Then I thought I'd
try an air-gun, but somehow or another there was a fault in that gun,
for it wouldn't shoot straight, and I never hit one of the nuisances. A
regular powder-and-shot gun I couldn't try, because it would have spoken
so loud, that all the neighbours would have heard and known who was
killing the cats.
Last of all, one moonlight night I was down at the bottom of our garden,
when I happens to look up towards the back door, and see a long-tailed
tortoise-shell beauty sneaking into the kitchen.
"All right, my pretty one," I says, quietly. "You'll do for the middle
of the rug," and then stealing softly up, I got to the door, slips in,
and had it to in a moment, and then getting hold of the copper-stick and
lid, just like a sword and shield, I goes forward to the attack.
No mistake, there was Mrs Puss glaring at me like a small tiger, and as
I advanced, she made a rush by me, but there was no escape that way, and
then I shut the kitchen-door.
Bang--crash went the crockery, for as I made a hit at the brute, she
flew on to the dresser, and along one of the shelves, sending jugs and
plates down helter-skelter on the floor, where they smashed to bits.
"All down to your credit, my beauty," I says, and I made another hit at
her, when "whoosh," spitting and swearing, she was up on the
chimney-piece in a jiffey, and down came the candlesticks, while Polly
puts her head in at the door, and then, seeing what was the matter,
slips off again in a moment, bangs the door to, and keeps on shouting to
me to drive the thing out. But talking was one thing, and acting
another, for you never did see such a beast; she was here, there, and
everywhere in the same moment; and though I kept hitting at her with the
copper-stick, I could hit anything else but her, as you'd have said, if
you'd seen me fetch the vegetable-dish and cover off the dresser with a
smash, and then seen the copper lid split in two, when I shied it at
her.
Why, she flew about to that degree, that I got frightened of her, for at
last she came at me, tore at my legs, and then was over my shoulder in
an instant, while feeling quite scared, I just saw her dash up the
chimney, and she was gone.
"But you won't stop there, my lady," I says, and I was right, for next
moment the brute came scrambling down, and we went at it again: she
cutting about, and me hitting at her till I got savage, for I never
touched her once. Now I hit the table; now it was something off the
dresser; now she'd dodge behind the saucepans and kettles, on the black
pot-board under the dresser; and now there'd be such a clatter and
rattle, that Polly gave quite a scream, for she was wide enough awake
then, I can tell you; but the jolly a bit could I touch that precious
cat; and at last she stood in one corner of the kitchen, and I stood in
the other looking at her, with her tail like a bottle-brush, her fur all
up, and her back set up like an arch, and then I thought I'd try
coaxing.
"Pussy, pussy, pussy," I says, but she only swore and spit at me.
"Poor pussy; come then," I says; but she wouldn't come near me, and then
I turned so savage that I threw the copper-stick at her, but only hit
the tea-tray as stood on a little side-table.
"Bang, clang, jangle," down it come on to the floor, and then there was
a rush, and a smash, and a scream from Polly; and I stood skretching my
head, and looking at the broken kitchen-window--for the beauty had shot
right through it when the tea-tray fell down, and now there was nothing
to do but pick up the pieces, and go and ask the glazier to come and put
in the broken square.
"Oh, what a kitchen," says Polly, as she came in, and really it did look
a bit upset, and then seeing as she was put out, and going to make a
fuss, I says--
"Bad job; ain't it, my gal; but it warn't me; _it was the cats_!"
"Drat the cats!" says Polly; and she looked so scornful and cross, that
I give up all thoughts on the instant of ever getting a skin rug; but if
there is any one mortal thing as I do hate, it's a cat.