[_See Note I, Addenda._]
TENACITY OF LIFE IN CATS.
"As many lives as a cat," and "a cat has nine lives," are sayings which we
hear almost every day. The truth of the latter we must all acknowledge;
not indeed as regards the imputed plurality of lives in the cat, but, as
illustrative of the extreme tenacity of the one life she possesses. As an
Irishman would say, pussy may be many times "kill't," but only once
"kill't entirely;" or, as a Zanzibar nigger would have it, she may be
often-times dead, but only once "gone dead."
Joy was a farmer's cat, a beautifully-marked lady-tabby. She was extremely
fond of horses, used to jump on their backs, and often sleep there at
night. She was consequently nearly always in the stable. One day, however,
one of her pets kicked her,--accidentally it is to be hoped, but so
severely that one of the men found her, lying cold and stiff beside the
wall. He lifted her up and laid her on the dunghill, until he should find
time to give her a decent burial. Here the poor animal lay all day in the
sun, and here she was found at milking-time, by a kind-hearted servant
girl. Thinking she perceived some tokens of life about it, and remembering
the proverb, she took the pussy into the kitchen, and rolling it carefully
in a flannel petticoat, placed it in front of the fire. When she came in
from milking, she was rejoiced to find that pussy was so much better, as
to be able to lift her head and taste a little warm milk. With three days'
careful nursing the cat recovered. She lived to a goodly old age, but
abjured the turf,--she never backed a favourite again.
Another cat, found in a trap, was cruelly beaten about the head by a
brutal keeper, until the blood gushed from both ears. He finally cut off
the poor thing's tail as a trophy of his bravery, and left her on the
ground for dead. Her mistress, hearing of what had happened, was soon on
the spot, and carried home what she thought was the dead body of her cat.
She tried every means of resuscitation, nevertheless, and in three weeks
had the satisfaction of seeing pussy as well as ever, and as full of fun;
only it was now a Manx cat, an artificial one. Pussy must often have seen
her own tail hanging on the game-keeper's wall, in company with a dead
hawk, an owl, and a few hoody-crows. The man had the tail frizzed up to
make it look big; and pointing it out to many a cockney sportsman, used to
relate a story of a dreadful encounter he had with a "real wild cat, sir,"
which he at last slew; "and yonder," he would always add, "hangs the
buffer's tail."
A man going one morning into his dovecot, which in this case was an attic
at the top of a house eight-storeys high, found his own cat killing the
pigeons right and left. Greatly enraged, he kicked the animal through the
open window. On going down shortly after, rather ashamed and sorry for
what he had done, he was greatly surprised to see pussy gather herself up,
and slink in at the back door. Apparently she was none the worse of her
rather hurried descent from a height of over fifty feet.
In the case of the cat which the keeper "kill'd," there was no doubt
fracture of the skull. In the following case, the apparent death was no
doubt due to severe concussion of the brain, or stunning.
A boy in going to school one day, saw a large cat sitting not far from its
master's door. Without meaning to hurt the pussy, but with that
recklessness of consequences which characterizes most school-boys, he
picked up a stone to have "just one shy at her." He struck her on the
head, and pussy dropped to all appearance as dead as the stone itself.
Afraid of the consequences of detection, he picked the cat up and threw it
in a cornfield not far off. As murderers are said to haunt the scene of
their guilt, so the boy every morning, for the three following days, found
himself irresistibly drawn towards the field of corn, and every morning
there lay his victim stark and still. On the fourth morning, however, she
was gone; and in returning from school the same evening, the boy's
astonishment was very great indeed, on seeing the identical cat, washing
its face at its master's door, as if nothing had ever occurred to annoy
it.
Kittens, too, possess the same tenacity of life which is so remarkable in
the full-grown cat.
A friend of mine, for example, had a cat which gave birth to a litter of
five kittens, four of which were ordered to be drowned. The execution of
the sentence was duly carried out, the same evening in a pail of water.
When full time had been given to the kits to give their final kick, the
pail was emptied on a heap of manure. Next morning, however, all the young
pussies were found alive and well in their happy mother's arms. She was
allowed to rear them. I do not know what means pussy adopted to revivify
her apparently drowned offspring, or I should at once send the recipe to
the Royal Humane Society, and patiently wait for a silver medallion by
return of post.
I remember, when a boy, seeing a horrid old woman dig a hole in the earth
and deliberately bury three kittens alive. The ground heaved above them,
and she clapped the earth with the spade till all motion ceased. The same
aged wretch used to toast snails in a little flannel bag before the fire,
in order to extract the oil for sprains, and I have often shuddered to
hear the snails squeak; but this of course has nothing to do with the
subject of cats. I went and told my little sister of the cruel interment;
and, watching our chance--we really thought the old woman would bury us if
she caught us--we dug up the kittens fully an hour after, and were
successful in nursing two of them back to life. We reared them on the
spoon.
The following anecdote might, perhaps, have been more properly related, in
the chapter on cruelty to cats; however, as illustrative of the subject in
point, we give it here. At a certain farm-town, about ten years ago, one
of the men-servants conceived a great antipathy to his master's cat. The
cat had been guilty of some little delinquency in the bothy, or
farm-servants' hall, for which the man had punished pussy. The farmer had
taken his cat's part, and scolded the man, and hence the _casus belli_.
The man swore vengeance on poor pussy, whenever an opportunity should
occur. Nor had he long to wait; a fast-day came round, and nearly every
one had gone to church. The brutal fellow got the cat in the stable, and
commenced putting her to death with a horsewhip. This he had well-nigh
accomplished, when puss by some means effected her escape. She was unable,
however, to make much use of her legs, so he whipped her round and round
the farm-steading, until the poor creature took refuge in a hole, which
happened to be in the barn wall. This hole was a _cul-de-sac_, having no
opening on the inside of the wall. It now occurred to this fiendish lout,
that he might easily accomplish pussy's death and burial at the same time,
and he forthwith proceeded to build up the hole with stone and lime. The
cat was missed, and a whole week elapsed without any tidings of her; and
although suspicion fell upon the right party, there was no proof. A whole
week elapsed, when one evening the farmer was standing near the barn
wondering if ever he would see his little friend again. Suddenly his eye
fell upon the servant's handiwork. That wall, he thought, was never
repaired by my orders; my poor cat is buried there. To fetch a pick and
tear out the stones did not take many seconds, and then from her very
grave he pulled the pussy. Strange to say, she was alive; and though
dreadfully emaciated, by careful nursing she got all right again in a few
weeks. She had been eight days immured in a cramped position. Only fancy
her sufferings.
Some schoolboys, not long since, stoned a poor cat till she fell down
apparently dead. Afraid of what they had done, they determined to kill it
outright, and bury it in an adjoining field. This they endeavoured to do
by dashing the cat's head against a stone fence; not succeeding, however,
and being in a hurry to get off, to escape detection a grave was hurriedly
dug, and pussy interred. The ground was still moving over her when the
young wretches left. Bad news travels apace; and the owner of poor puss
hearing of her favourite's death and burial, hastened to the grave and dug
her up. There was still life in her, and by careful treatment she made a
good recovery, and was seen about her old haunts four or five days after.
The following case of suspended animation may seem almost incredible; it
is authentic nevertheless, and not unaccountable either on scientific
grounds.
The owner of a black and white cat determined, for private reasons, to get
rid of her. He had not the heart to hang her, or he was not sufficiently
enamoured of Calcraft's profession to do so; there was no poison in the
house; and as he lived away up in the centre of a hilly country, there was
no water, without walking a long distance, sufficiently deep to drown her.
Thinking, however, that suffocation, in whatever way produced, was as easy
a death as any, he got a small bag, in which he placed the cat, tying the
mouth of the sack. He then dug a hole in the garden and lowered her down.
"I'll no hurt ye, poor puss," he said, as he pressed the earth firmly but
gently over her; "and ye'll no be lang o' deeing there--God! she canna
live wantin' breath." This grave was merely meant for a temporary
resting-place; so next morning the man went to open it, with the intention
of placing her remains at the foot of a tree. To his surprise pussy jumped
out of the bag "alive and well;" well enough, at any rate, to make her
feet her friends. That cat thought she had lived long enough, in that part
of the country.
The same black Tom mentioned in a former chapter, as guarding his master's
wares, and keeping his eye on questionable customers, was certainly very
exemplary in his honesty; but as every pussy has one little failing so had
big Tom. An egg was Tom's stumbling-block. He could have got dozens of
them on his master's counter, but that would have been theft; besides, he
preferred his eggs new-laid, and not imported. So, with the intention of
ministering to his cravings, Tom used to pay occasional visits to the
henneries of the neighbours. He also had a habit of making a pilgrimage
to an adjoining village, and calling at the house of a man called Archie,
a weaver and customer of his master's. Archie was very fond of Tom, and
always made him welcome. Not so, however, a man called Dan, who lived in
the next house. For this man openly accused Tom of stealing his eggs; and
there was no doubt some truth in it, for Dan's wife swore she had seen Tom
more than once, coming out through the hen-hole in the barn door, with his
beard still yellow with the yolk of a stolen egg. Dan resolved to be
revenged, and at once set about encompassing the poor pussy's death. He so
arranged a bag beneath the hen-hole, that on Tom's going through he would
be certain to pop into it, and so make himself prisoner. The first time
the bag was set Dan only captured his own cock, the next time a stray hen
of a neighbour; but this only made him the more determined; and eventually
he was successful. Tom was a prisoner, and condemned to instant execution
by Dan and his wife Bell. Bell indeed was even more bitter against the cat
than her husband. Just then pussy's friend the weaver happened to come
upon the scene, and hearing what had occurred, and what was about to
follow, he pleaded long and hard for his little friend's life, and even
threatened the terrors of the law; but Dan was inexorable. Die Tom should,
he said, if he himself should hang for it. He "kill'd" the cat by dashing
the sack, many times against the gable-wall of his own house. "He's quiet
enough now," said Dan.
"Make siccar," said Bell; and she commenced hitting Tom with the spade she
had brought to dig his grave.
"You ugly black brute," she cried; "you'll steal nae mair eggs in this
warld."
Dan then threw the sack over his shoulders, and accompanied by his wife as
grave-digger, and Archie the weaver as chief mourner, they proceeded to
the garden to bury the unfortunate Tom. A grave was dug at the foot of a
gooseberry bush, and Dan opening the mouth of the sack, proceeded to
shake out the mangled remains of the cat. You may judge of the chagrin and
disgust of Dan and his cruel Bell, when those same mangled remains no
sooner touched the ground, than they got together again somehow, and
springing out of the grave, made their way like greased lightning out of
the garden and off. The tables were turned. Dan was chief mourner now.
"Curse the cat!" he roared.
Dan's wife was equal to the occasion.
"You're a fool, gudeman," she said,--and indeed, he did not look much
unlike one,--"the cat's the deevil, and you can fill in the grave
yersel'."