[_See Note O, Addenda._]
HUNTING EXPLOITS.
Catching mice is, to a proper-minded cat, a mere parlour pastime, only to
be resorted to on rainy days, or of a night when too restless to sleep. It
stands to pussy in the same relation that indoor croquet, billiards, or
reading a book in bed does to our noble selves. Rat-catching is only just
one degree better, and principally enjoyed by cats who have not reached
maturity in body and intellect--cats, in fact, in their
hobble-de-hoy-hood. To the matured cat,--especially if highly
bred,--belong all the joys and excitement of the chase a-field. There is
as much difference between the hunting of an animal of the cat-kind and
that of one of the canine order, as there is between the skilled tactics
of German warfare, and the wild rush to battle of Arab cavalry. There is
more honesty in the one, more craft and cunning in the other. A dog is
singularly destitute in what is called in Scotland, "canniness." He also
wants patience; but the cat, armed with this gift, combined with cunning,
and skill gained from experience, is master for anything in the field
which she considers game and chooses to square her moustache at. Even to a
human being, stalking one's prey is infinitely more engrossing than the
mere hunting of it. The latter is pleasing, certainly, but the former is
charming. Pussy prefers the charming, while our friend the dog merely runs
down his prey, and takes little pains to show skill even in that.
Leaving rats and mice along with blue-bottle flies, in the category of
mere kitten's play, pussy's game-list includes hares, rabbits, stoats,
weasels, water-rats, and moles, besides everything that flies or has
feathers, from the humble household sparrow to the black-cock of the
mountain. Not before a cat reaches maturity--viz., three years of
age--does the propensity for out-door hunting become a passion with her;
but once imbued with it, the desire never leaves her as long as she can
run.
Pirnie is a little female pussy, belonging to a labouring man. At the time
I write, she is over twenty years old; but hale and hearty, and as playful
as a kitten. She is a perfect adept at catching all sorts of vermin, but
more particularly goes in for mole-catching. When she spies a mole-hill,
she at once sets herself down to watch it; nor will she raise the siege
for hours, until the little gentleman in velvet gives signs of his
presence by casting up a few grains of earth. Then is pussy's opportunity.
She springs nimbly on the bank, and plunges her arms up to the shoulders
into the earth, and never fails to bring poor molie to bank; and the
daylight has hardly had time to dazzle his eyes before he is dead.
Last year Pirnie--being then nineteen years of age--had a thrilling
adventure with a large hare. The hare, which was at least double the size
of pussy, had been enjoying a quiet nap during the heat of the day, in a
field not far from the house, when Pirnie stumbled across its trail, and
on following it up the battle ensued. "The hare," says my informant,
"fought with great vigour, and often floored her antagonist; but Pirnie
sent in her claws and teeth, till blood flew like rain, and fur like drift
(driven snow); and the hare soon becoming exhausted, Pirnie seized it by
the throat, and its plaintive screams were presently hushed in death."
Graysie was a tom-cat, and rather famous for his hunting exploits. One
day, Graysie, being on the war-path, encountered a very large weasel, and
it was at once mutually agreed to try conclusions in a fair stand-up
fight. The battle was witnessed by Graysie's owners, and lasted the
greater part of the afternoon, and ended triumphantly for pussy, in the
defeat and death of the weasel. When Graysie found out that his fallen foe
was indeed dead, he took it up in his teeth, and carrying it home,
deposited it on the front-door steps, intending it no doubt as a present
for his mistress, as well as a trophy of his own prowess.
A cat never springs on her prey unless sure of catching it, and her aim
is most unerring. I know a cat that killed over a score of large rats in
one day, and on one of these she sprang from a height of no less than
twelve feet.
I counted one day no less than 350 mice which a cat had killed
single-handed at the removal of a rick of oats in a farmer's yard. He was
a fine, noble, red tabby, and it was quite a sight to see the surprising
strength and agility with which he worked. He killed most of them with his
paws, seldom putting a tooth in one. Every time there was a lull in the
flow of vermin, he took the opportunity of clearing the ground of the
slain, which he carried to a convenient distance and placed all together
in a heap. When all was over, to see honest Tom set himself down in front
of this heap of carnage, and thoughtfully and complacently contemplate his
bloody handiwork, would have been a study for the great Landseer himself.
But not one of his slain victims did Tom eat. Indeed, high-bred cats
seldom care to eat mice unless they are very hungry; they much prefer
fish to anything else, and the flesh of birds they consider a greater
luxury than even that of rabbits.
Solomon, or Habakkuk, or Nebuchadnezzar, or some great Hebrew authority,
says, "Coneys are a feeble folk." Doubtless they were so in those days,
and taken singly so they are in our day; but combinedly they are powerful
indeed, as many a poor ruined farmer can testify. They are very wise too,
and this wisdom is especially displayed in the number of doors they have
in each of their dwellings; so that should an enemy, in the shape of a
pussy, or a ferret, pop in at one door, Bunny would just pop out at the
other. I knew a cat in the Isle of Man--she had no tail worth
mentioning--who used to make this very habit of the rabbits a means of
securing her prey. She used to enter one hole suddenly, and as suddenly
reappear stern first. Of course, Bunny by this time was scampering off to
the opposite hole, and there at the door pussy would nab him just as he
came out.
Cats almost invariably bring home their prey to be either leisurely
eaten, given to their kittens, or presented to their owners.
A man in Banffshire rented a small farm from a game-preserving laird. This
man was ruined by rabbits, and turned out of house and home by them. They
first ate up all his oats, his grass, and turnips, so that only potatoes
could be grown on the place. By-and-by they took to eating the stems of
even those as soon as they appeared above ground, so that all the poor
man's live stock was reduced to one in number, namely, a big tabby cat.
This cat throve upon the foe. She also took a few youthful prisoners, whom
she brought home to play with and amuse a fine family of kittens, which
she had in the cottage garret. These young rabbits lived and grew, and
burrowed and made nests in the thatch. It was the awful row this happy
family used to make every night which first led to the discovery. When the
farmer found out one night the cause of the disturbance, he came down and
awakened his wife and--
"Jane," said he, and he looked almost sublime as he stood on the cold
damp floor with a penny candle in one hand, in rather scanty shirt-tails
and red Kilmarnock night cap--he was a study for a Rembrandt, "Jane, I've
been a duffer too long. Those rascally rabbits--they've eaten up
everything we have out of doors, now they've stormed and taken our castle.
By-and-by they'll eat the bed from under us, then they'll eat ourselves;
but, Jane, to-morrow morning I'm off,"--this he said
self-sacrificingly,--"I'm off, Jane, to the lands of America." And the
good people went, leaving pussy and the feeble folks, in undisputed
possession of house and farm.
Gamekeepers do all they can to destroy the life of poor pussy by setting
traps for, and shooting her wherever met. But some cats come to know all
about the treacherous wires and how to avoid them. They know too that
hares and rabbits often fall into these snares, and accordingly they turn
this knowledge to good account; and when they find a half-strangled animal
in the gin, they quietly despatch, and if possible carry it home.
Cats are great enemies to birds in the breeding season; but it is
surprising with what terrible fierceness even the smallest birds will
defend their nests from the inroads of predatory cats, whose evil
intentions are thus often frustrated.
Pussy has many enemies to contend with on the hunting-ground.
A poacher, the other day, was returning home in the grey light of early
morning, when he observed a large fox coming in his direction, with what
the man took to be a hare over his shoulder. The man fired, and Reynard
dropped. His burden was a fine large cat. Poor pussy had been promising
herself a nice plump rabbit for breakfast; the fox thought he should like
a fine healthy cat for a change. "There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and
the lip;" and the poacher's gun brought matters to quite a different
conclusion.
I know a case of a cat that returned from hunting, with two moderate-sized
but full-grown rats in her mouth, and _both alive_ and staring. They were
no doubt sitting cheek-by-jowl when pussy made the spring.
If I tell the reader of a cat that is so clever that she can catch
swallows on the wing, I suppose I may be allowed to close this chapter in
peace. It does seem a little yankee-doodlish I confess, but it is
nevertheless a fact.
At the foot of a certain post-master's garden, flows a stream in which his
cat takes many a good salmon-trout. This stream is spanned by an
old-fashioned turf-covered tree-bridge, without any parapet. On this
bridge crouches this sagacious cat, and often secures a swallow, as it
skims out from under. That's all.