[_See Note L, Addenda._]
PUSSY AS A MOTHER.
A careful and fond mother is our pussy-cat. In no case is her wisdom and
sagacity better exhibited than in the love and care she displays for her
offspring. Weeks before the interesting event comes off, pussy has been
"upstairs and downstairs and in the lady's chamber," looking for the
snuggest corner or the cosiest closet in which to bring forth her young.
In this matter different cats have different opinions. Some prefer a
feather-bed when they can manage it, some a bundle of rags, some an old
newspaper or humble straw, while others believe the acme of comfort is to
lie inside a lady's bonnet or a gentleman's wig. Wherever pussy has chosen
to have her kittens, there in that room or closet she prefers to nurse
them, and should they and she be removed to another she will persist in
carrying her offspring back to the old place, however comfortable the new
bed may be. This proves that pussy like human beings of the same gender
has a will of her own.
I know an instance of a cat, whose kittens were removed by her master from
the attic in which they were born, to a snug little berth in the barn. The
cottage doors were closed against her, but Mrs. Puss was not to be balked,
and next morning found her and her family comfortably re-ensconced in the
old quarters: during the night she had smashed the attic sky-light, and
carried her kittens through one by one. Pussy gained her point and was
happy.
I know a lady whose cat has had a litter of _one kitten_. It is her first,
and if she had produced ten she could not possibly be prouder of the
performance. It is amusing to watch the care and affection she bestows on
her "ae, ae bairn."[2] Her whole heart--I was nearly saying "and
soul"--seems bound up in it. She sits and studies it by the hour--no doubt
it is its father's image--dresses it at least a dozen times a day, and
whenever she has occasion to go out, she takes this miserable little
object of her love, and rolls it carefully in the sofa tidy, so that it
may neither catch cold nor come to harm.
When a cat finds out that there is not proper room or convenience in her
owner's house for the proper rearing of her family, or that there is some
chance of molestation or danger from the inmates, she never hesitates to
go elsewhere for the event. She generally selects an out-house, or in the
summer-time goes to the woods, but she never fails to return to her old
abode, as soon as the kittens can take care of themselves.
Mary is an old, old maid,--an old maid from choice so she tells me,--she
could have been married if she had liked. "Mony a harum-scarum
ne'er-do-weel," says Mary, "came blethering about me when I was young and
bonnie, but I ga'e them a' their kail thro' the reek, wi' their calves'
faces and phrasing mou's. Na, ne'er a man gave me a sair heart, and what's
mair never shall."
I don't suppose they ever will, for even the probability of Mary's having
been once young seems mere tradition. Besides, Mary has centered all her
earthly affections on her cat, and there is every likelihood that puss
will live as long as she herself. The old lady apologises for loving it,
on the ground that it is "So clean and clever, sir, and catches mice as
easy as wink;" and whenever a dog barks on the street, she runs to see
that her pet is safe.
Some months ago this pussy gave evidence that she would soon become a
mother. Now as the room in which poor Mary resides is only about twelve
feet square, it was very evident there was but small accommodation for a
decent cat's accouchement. The same idea struck both pussy and her kind
old mistress at the same time, and while Mary was busy going the round of
her neighbours, seeking in vain for an asylum for her favourite, pussy was
absent on the same errand, and apparently with more success, for she did
not return. Mary was now indeed "a waefu' woman," for days and nights went
past, and no tidings came of puss. Some evil thing must have happened to
her, thought the old lady. Perhaps she was shut up in some lonely outhouse
and starving to death; or tumbled down a chimney; cruel boys may have
stoned her or drowned her; cruel keepers may have trapped her, or, more
likely still, that rieving rascal Rover may have worried her. He was just
like the dog to do a deed of the kind, aye, and glory in it; at any rate,
she should never see her more. Alack-a-day! and Mary's tears fell thick
and fast on the stocking she was knitting, till she even lost the loops,
and couldn't see to pick them up again. Marvel not, oh reader, at the old
maid's emotion, pussy was her "one ewe lamb," her all she had in the world
to love. And weeks went past, as weeks will, whether one's in grief or
not, and it was well into the middle of the third, and getting near
evening, when lonesome Mary, cowering over her little fire, heard a voice
which made her start and listen; she heard it again, and with her old
heart bobbing for joy, she tottered to the door and admitted--her long
lost favourite. Pussy had no time for congratulations, she had a fine
lively kitten in her mouth, which she carefully deposited in Mary's bed,
and made straight for the door again. She was back again in twenty minutes
with another, which she gently put beside the first, then she went back
for another, then another, then a fifth, and when she dropped the sixth
and turned to go out again.
"Lord keep us, Topsy," said old Mary. "How mony mair is there? Are ye
goin' to board a' the kits in the country on me?"
But the seventh was the last, and Topsy threw herself down beside the lot,
and prepared to sing herself and them to sleep.
It turned out that Mary's cat had taken up her abode in a farmer's
hay-loft, fully half a mile from her owner's house; but no one had seen
her until the day she carried home her kittens. She had no doubt subsisted
all the time on rats and mice, for she was in fine condition when she
gladdened the old maid's heart with her return.
You may often observe that if two she-cats are living together, or in
adjoining houses, one always gets and retains the mastery over the other,
until that other happens to be nursing, when she in her turn becomes
mistress, and her companion is glad to give her a wide berth.
Cats will go through fire and water to save the life of their kittens, and
fight to the bitter end to protect them. A dog will seldom dare to attack
a cat while she is nursing her young. My own cat actually imposes the
duties of dry nurse on my Newfoundland, "Theodore Nero." His finely
feathered legs make a delightful bed for them. He seems pleased with the
trust too, and licks them all over with his tongue. In Muffie's absence,
he lies perfectly still, seemingly afraid to move lest he should hurt
them. When they get a little older and more playful, they make tremendous
onslaughts on his nose and ears and tail, which the honest fellow bears
with the most exemplary patience, for he loves Muffie, although many a
wild chase he gives her numerous lovers. He can't bear "followers."
The other day a playfellow of his, a large Irish water-spaniel, looked in
at the door just to ask if he would come for a romp for an hour, as the
sun was shining, the breakers running mountains high on the beach, and any
number of little boys to throw in sticks to them. Theodore Nero was
nursing. But Muffie went, and I should think that dog felt sorry he had
ever turned out of bed at all that morning. The cat rode him at least
fifty yards from her own door, battering him unmercifully all the way.
Then she came back, and sang to Nero. Poor Coolin staggered down the road,
half blinded with blood, and shaking his beautiful ears in a most pitiful
manner; but his sorrows were only half over, for not seeing very well
where he was running, he stumbled right upon a clucking hen and chickens.
And she gave it to him next. If the cat warmed one end of him, she
restored the equilibrium, and warmed the other; so true is it that
misfortunes seldom come singly.
Cats have been often known to leap gallantly into the water after a
drowning kitten, and bring it safely to land. A case occurred only a few
days ago. Some lads stole a cat's only kitten, and after playing with it
all day, proposed drowning it. With this intention they went to a
mill-dam, and threw it far into the water. But the loving little mother
had been waiting and watching not far off, and, stimulated by the drowning
cry of her kitten, she bravely swam towards it, and brought it on shore. I
know another instance of a cat, that saved the life of a kitten which
belonged to another cat. Her own kittens had been drowned a whole week
before, but evidently she had not forgotten the loss; and one day, seeing
four kittens being drowned in a pool, she plunged in, and seizing the
largest brought it to bank, and marched off with it in triumph. She reared
it carefully. The children baptized it Moses, very appropriately too; and
it is now a fine, large Tom-tabby.
A poor cat some time since nearly lost her life in the Dee, attempting to
save the life of her kitten. The river was swollen with recent rains, and
the kitten was in the centre of the stream; but, nothing daunted, pussy,
like the brave little heroine she was, plunged in, and finally reached it.
Here her real danger only began, for the current was very strong, and
pussy was whirled rapidly down the river. After struggling for nearly half
an hour, she succeeded in landing at a bend of the river nearly a mile
below. She had stuck to her poor kitten all the time; but _the little
thing was dead_.
A family in Fifeshire were about removing to another farm, about four
miles distant from the one they then occupied. Part of their household
gods was a nice large she-tabby, and being kind-hearted folks, they never
thought of leaving her behind; so having found a home with a neighbour for
pussy's one kitten, they took the mother with them to their new residence.
Next morning pussy had disappeared, and they were just beginning to put
faith in the popular fallacy that cats are more attached to places than
persons, when back came pussy, and with her her kitten. That kitten, pussy
thought, wasn't old enough for weaning, and so she had gone back all the
way to steal it. She was right.
Owing to the peculiarities of his matrimonial relations, the happy father
of a litter of kittens shares none of the responsibility, and has none of
the care and trouble of rearing them, because he does not, as a rule,
reside in the bosom of his family. When he does live with his wife,
however, he is never exempted from family duties. And Tom always shows
himself a thoughtful husband and loving father. A male cat of my
acquaintance was most exemplary in his attentions on his wife at one of
the most interesting and critical periods of her life. Made aware,
goodness knows how, of her approaching confinement, he not only selected
the closet for the occasion, but even made her bed for her, and stood
sentry at the door till the whole affair was over. Every morning for weeks
he trotted upstairs, first thing, to see if his wife wanted anything, and
to gaze enraptured on his darlings. I am sorry to say, however, that this
little woman rather bullied her doating husband. If she happened to be in
good humour when Tom entered, then well and good, she returned his fond
cry and chaste salute. If not, her brows fell at once, and she let him
have it straight from the shoulder. Poor Tom in the latter case used to
mew apologetically, and retire. It was Tom's duty every morning to bring
in a very young rabbit, a bird, or at least a mouse, and it seemed to be
an understood thing that he should bring it "all alive ho!" When he
brought it dead, she slapped him. Sometimes he brought a herring, then she
slapped him. Indeed, she lost no opportunity of slapping him. She slapped
him if he looked fond and foolish at her, and she slapped him if he
didn't. One day he was put to nurse the kittens. The kittens commenced an
unavailing search for tits among Tom's fur. As a wet nurse, Tom was a
failure. He was slapped, and sent off accordingly. Tom seemed to have
business that took him down town every day. Whenever he came back, he was
snuffed all over and examined to see whether he had been with lady
friends. If he had been, then he was properly slapped. So there was a
good deal of slapping. His wife was fond of him, however, for, once, when
he absented himself without leave for a whole day and a night, she made
the house ring with her melancholy cries. She half killed him when he did
return, nevertheless. Such is conjugal felicity.
Although, as a rule, all the duties of maternity seem to end with the
weaning of the kitten, still the motherly affection does not die out; and
in cases of sickness in any of her children, pussy at once resumes the
cares of nursing, as the following little story will illustrate.
GINGER AND JOSIE.
And Josie was Ginger's mother. She was a good mother. There had been
originally five, but the others were born to sorrow, and were accidentally
drowned; so that all mother Josie's love was centred in her one son
Ginger. Ginger, therefore, not only got all the love, but he got all the
milk; so he grew up thumpingly and fat. Nothing remarkable transpired
during Ginger's kittenhood. He neither had the measles, nor, strange to
say, the hooping cough; and he played the usual antics with his mother's
tail that all kittens do, and have done, since Noah's cats' kittens
downwards. When Josie found her milk getting scarce, she weaned her son
Ginger; this she accomplished by whacking him, and endeavouring to carve
her initials on his nose. No doubt Ginger thought himself absurdly
ill-used. We have all thought the same on a similar occasion. But Ginger
was amply repaid for the loss of his tits, by the mice which his loving
mamma never failed to supply him with daily. So he grew up burly, big, and
beautiful; and at the age of one year had become a mighty hunter. Then
came six long days and nights wherein Ginger never appeared, and poor
mother Josie went about the house mourning unceasingly for her lost son.
At the end of that time, a pitiful mewing was heard outside, proceeding
from the bottom of the garden, and on walking down, his owners, to their
dismay, found poor Ginger, to quote his mistress's words, "in a most
lamentable plight, thin to emaciation, and coiled up on the ground
apparently lifeless, his fur, once so glossy and bright, now all
bedraggled in blood and mud." The cruel keepers had been the cause of
Ginger's misfortunes. He had been caught in a trap. For five days, without
food or water, had the poor animal languished in a field. On the sixth he
had managed to crawl some little way, dragging the trap after him, till he
came to a gate. This he managed to get through, but the trap getting
entangled, held him fast until some kind Samaritan, seeing his miserable
plight, set him free from this impediment. He then crawled home, jumped
the wall, and sunk exhausted on the ground, where he now lay. Tenderly was
Ginger borne into the house, and laid on the hearth-rug. His leg was
broken, swollen, and entirely useless; so it was determined to have
recourse to amputation. The extremity was accordingly cut off by the
owners, and, although long confined to his mat, pussy lived. Josie was
very happy to see her son again, maimed and bruised as he was, and at
once set about performing the duties of nurse to him. She seldom or never
left him, except to procure food for him; but Ginger had a regular daily
supply of dead mice, birds, and other feline dainties, until he was able
to get about and cater for himself. Ginger's accident happened upwards of
two years ago. He is still alive and well, and as strong and active on his
three legs as other cats are on four. Ginger is a fine, large cat, but has
always exhibited the greatest aversion to strangers.