THE CAT
“The cat entered our household long after the dog; nevertheless its
domestication took place very early. The East, whence we received it,
has possessed it from time immemorial. Ancient Egypt, the old land of
the Pharaohs, has transmitted to us the most curious documents on this
subject.
“In that country, celebrated for its profound veneration for domestic
animals, honors almost divine were paid to the ox, dog, cat, and many
other creatures. Nearer the primitive ages than we, and still
remembering the miseries from which the domestic animals had freed man,
the Egyptians no doubt showed their gratitude by these honors, which
seem to us to-day the height of superstition. The ox, turning up the
farmer’s soil with the plow, was accorded the highest position. A
magnificent white bull, called the bull Apis, was kept at the expense
of the State in a sumptuous temple of granite and marble, and cared for
by a retinue of attendants who approached it with reverence, wearing
rich costumes of ceremony, swinging the censer, and, in short,
observing all the forms of deep veneration.”
“Just to change the straw and fill the rack with hay, they went censer
in hand and with bent knees?” Emile asked with incredulity.
“Yes, my friend.”
“Then times are greatly changed for the ox. Nowadays the ox-tender lets
the animal go disgracefully dirty with dung and lie on a miserly
allowance of straw; and he isn’t at all sparing of the goad to quicken
the ox’s pace.”
“On great fête-days, when the bull Apis went out escorted by its
retinue of servants, the crowd prostrated itself to the ground along
the way, with foreheads in the dust. At its death, mourning was general
throughout Egypt. An immense granite coffin, masterpiece of art and
patience, the work of a thousand artisans, received the sacred remains,
which were then placed in a sepulchral chamber hollowed out in the
heart of a mountain and sumptuously adorned with the finest examples of
sculpture and painting.”
“And did other domestic animals receive like honors?” asked Jules.
“All were honored, but none so signally as the ox. In regard to the
cat, for instance, it was deemed sufficient to embalm it with aromatics
after its death, swathe it in bands of fine linen, and place the body
thus prepared in a chest of sweet-scented wood adorned with gildings,
paintings, and inscriptions. These chests were then arranged on shelves
in the niches of a sepulchral chamber excavated to a great depth in the
solid rock.
“In some of these chambers, with decorations as fresh as if made
yesterday, we find to-day, after the lapse of three and four thousand
years, a prodigious number of bodies of cats and other animals,
sufficiently preserved to be recognized, thanks to the aromatic bitumen
with which they were impregnated. Well, the examination of these old
relics conveys information on one point of great interest: it shows us
that the domestic animals of those remote times did not differ from
those of our own day. As were the ox, dog, cat, four thousand years
ago, such they are to-day.
“The cat—since it is the cat I am going to tell you about to-day—the
cat in particular is like ours in every way. The rat-hunter of forty
centuries ago differs in nothing from our tom-cat. But where did it
come from, so long, long ago, in the houses of the Egyptians? Of what
country was it a native?
“To the south of Egypt lies Abyssinia, where we have already found the
wild dog, from which probably came our greyhound. There, too, is still
found, sometimes wild in the heart of the forest, sometimes
domesticated, a kind of cat, called the gloved cat, that presents a
striking resemblance to our domestic variety. It is generally agreed
that this is the parent stock of our cats, though perhaps only in part,
since there is reason to believe that a second species, Asiatic
according to all appearance, has a place in the pedigree of our
domestic cat as we now know it. Briefly, the cat came to us from
Eastern Africa.
“In the old forests of Europe, and notably in those of the east of
France, there is found, in no great numbers, a kind of cat called the
wildcat, but which cannot be regarded as the progenitor of the domestic
cat, in spite of current opinion to the contrary. Fitted by nature for
violent exercise, for fighting and tree-climbing, and for making long
leaps, it has longer and stronger legs than the common cat, a larger
head, and more powerful jaws. The tail, very furry and variegated with
black rings, is more expanded at the end than at the base. The coat is
a warm fur of yellowish gray with large black stripes, transverse and
encircling the body, thus imitating a little the tiger’s coat. A dark
band extends the entire length of the spine from the nape of the neck
to the tail. Finally, the fleshy balls of the soles of the feet, and
also the lips and nose, are black.
“The domestic cat, on the contrary, generally has red lips as well as
nose and balls of the feet. It also has on the front of the neck and
breast a band of light color sometimes extending under the stomach.
Similar coloring of nose, lips, feet, and front of the neck is found,
in exact detail, in the wild species of Abyssinia or the gloved cat;
and that is one of the reasons for regarding this species as the
source, or at least as one of the sources, of the domestic cat.”
“But I have often seen domestic cats with black lips,” objected Louis.
“Where do they come from?”
“They are apparently in some way related to the wildcats of our woods.
The female cats of isolated dwellings near our large forests sometimes
mate with wildcats, it is said. The young of these parents bear
inscribed on the nose and lips their paternal origin, and transmit
these family traits to their descendants. But if this crossing gives
new vigor to our cat, it is far from improving its disposition. The
wildcat of our woods is in fact an intractable animal, unruly despite
all the care we bestow upon it. It is an implacable destroyer of game
and, if chance offers, a more formidable ravager of the hen-roost than
the fox.
“It is believed that one of our domestic varieties, known as the
tiger-cat, counts this bandit among its ancestors; at any rate, it has
the wildcat’s black lips and zebra coat. It also has its disposition to
a certain degree. The tiger-cat is the least tame of all, the most
distrustful, the most inclined to plunder. No other is so ready with
its claws if you try to take hold of it or merely stroke it on the
back. But these peculiarities of savagery ought not to make us forget
its good qualities: there is no more spirited hunter of mice. It is
true that cheese forgotten on the table and game hung too low in the
kitchen attract its attention a little too readily.
“I much prefer the Spanish or tortoise-shell cat, which is more
civilized, of gentler disposition, and not less adept at catching mice.
It is in this variety, one of the most widely diffused, that the
original feline characteristics are the best preserved, that is to say
those of the gloved cat of Abyssinia. The Spanish cat has rather short
and brightly colored fur, the balls of the feet, the lips, and the nose
red, the front of the neck light-colored. Its coat is generally spotted
with irregular patches of pure white, black, and bright red. But,
singularly enough, the three colors are never found united except in
the female; the male is limited to two colors at most, generally white
and red.”
“Then every cat with three colors to its fur is a she-cat?” asked
Jules.
“So far I have met with no exception to this strange rule.”
“It is very queer, that unequal division of colors—three for the Tabby
and only two at most for the Tom-cat. Other animals show nothing of the
sort.”
“The Angora cat forms a third variety. It is a magnificent animal, of
majestic carriage, with silky and very long hair, especially around the
neck, under the stomach, and on the tail. But its qualities do not
equal the fineness of its fur. The Angora is the friend of sweet
idleness, fond of prolonged siestas in drawing-room arm-chairs. Do not
try to make it watch patiently for a mouse in the garret. Pampered by
its mistress, assured of its saucer of milk, it finds the business of
hunting too arduous. Repose and caresses and a soft bed are its lot.
That is all I have to say about this lazy-bones.
“Let us pass on to the cat’s weapons, its teeth and claws. In telling
you the story of the Auxiliaries I pointed out to you the arrangement
of the cat’s teeth, so admirably adapted for coping with live prey. I
will refresh your memory on this subject by showing you a sketch of
these teeth. How well formed for cutting flesh are those molars, with
their sharp points that play one against another like the blades of a
pair of scissors! And those canine teeth, so long and sharp—aren’t they
veritable daggers for the cat to stab the mouse with? How horribly they
must pierce the poor little victim’s body! A mere glance at this set of
teeth is enough to assure one that it belongs to a fierce hunter.
“It is by surprise and stealth that the cat seizes its prey. Hence it
must have special foot-gear to render its approach noiseless, to deaden
completely the sound of its footsteps. And that reminds me of
something. When you were younger, you were told the wonderful exploits
of Puss-in-Boots, how Puss caught partridges and offered them to the
king, as a gift from the cat’s master, the future Marquis of Carabas.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Emile, “I remember. The artful creature, with a grain
of wheat in its paw and the bag open, lay in wait for the partridges in
a furrow. What astounding success we credited it with! The giddy
partridges and innocent quails, and foolish young rabbits ran
helter-skelter into the bag. According to us, the game of the entire
canton was bagged. One day the cat defied the ogre to take the form of
every kind of animal in turn, as he pretended he had the power to do.
The stupid ogre hastened to change himself into a lion first, then into
a mouse. But in a half a jiffy out shoot the cat’s claws, the mouse is
caught, and the ogre is gobbled up. Thenceforth the castle belongs to
the miller’s son, who has become the Marquis of Carabas, as true as can
be. Then the wedding is celebrated with great magnificence. Isn’t that
the way it goes, Uncle?”
“Precisely; only I must say to you that I object to the boots in that
performance. How, with such foot-gear thumping and creaking on the
gravel in the road, can the cat approach the game without being heard?”
“That’s so. Let us take off the boots. We will suppose the cat leaves
them at the mill while it is out hunting, and that it only wears them
on great occasions.”
“How much wiser the real cat is than the one in the story! It would not
wear noisy boots and run the risk of making the garret floor creak
under its footsteps. If the mouse heard the slightest sound of hard
soles, it would never come out of its hole. What the cat really needs
is slippers and not boots or wooden shoes—slippers thick and soft so as
to muffle the footfall completely.
“Let us examine the underside of the cat’s paw. You will see under each
toe a little ball of flesh, a real cushion softly stuffed. Another
ball, much larger, occupies the center. In addition, tufts of down fill
up the intervening spaces. Thus shod, the cat walks as if on tow or
wadding, and no ear can hear it coming. Have we not there, I ask you,
slippers of silence, marvelously adapted to surprise attacks?”
“It is a fact,” assented Louis, “that we never hear the cat coming.”
“The dog, too,” added Jules, “has similar little cushions, only larger,
under its paws. Nevertheless we hear its footsteps, perhaps on account
of the claws scraping the ground a little.”
“Your ‘perhaps’ is superfluous,” his uncle rejoined. “It is certainly
the claws scraping the ground that make the dog’s walk heard in spite
of the fleshy balls.”
“How does the cat manage, then?” asked Jules. “It has claws and very
strong ones.”
“That is the cat’s secret. When walking and sleeping it keeps its claws
drawn back in a sheath at the extremity of the toes; it has then what
we call velvet paws. Thus drawn into their case, the claws do not
project beyond the paw and cannot strike the ground. To this first
advantage of not making any noise in walking is added another not less
useful to the cat. Completely hidden inside their sheaths, the claws do
not get blunt; they preserve their sharpness and fine point for the
attack. They are excellent weapons, and the animal keeps them in a case
until they are needed. Then the claws shoot out of their sheaths as if
pushed by a spring, and the velvet paw of a moment ago becomes a
horrible harpoon that implants itself in the flesh and rends the prey
in most sanguinary fashion.”
“If I give the cat’s paw a little squeeze with my fingers,” said Emile,
“the claws come out of their sheaths; if I stop squeezing, the claws go
in again.”
“That is just what the cat can do at will. Let us examine this curious
mechanism more closely. The little terminal bone of the toes, the one
that bears the claw, is fastened to the preceding little bone by an
elastic ligament, the effect of which, in a state of repose, is to
raise the first bone and rest it on top of the second. Suppose that the
tips of your fingers had play enough to fold back: there you have an
exact representation of the process. In this position of the terminal
bone the claw is held upright, half sunk in a fold of the skin and
hidden under the thick fur of the paw.”
“I understand,” said Jules; “then it is a velvet paw; the claws are in
their sheaths.”
“Promptly, at the call to arms, the cat has but to will it, and its
claws spring out. Look at this picture of a cat’s paw and notice what
appears to be a network of cords. Those are the tendons which, whenever
the animal so desires, are pulled by the muscles situated higher up.
They are fastened each to the lower side of one of the terminal bones
of the toes. Pulled by its tendon, this terminal bone pivots, as if on
a hinge, on the extremity of the preceding bone, and gets in a straight
line with it. At the same time the pointed end of the claw comes out of
the paw.”
“Then the cat’s claws are worked by cords and pulleys!” exclaimed
Emile. “It is enough to bewilder one, it is so complicated. But I
understand it in the main. To make velvet paws the cat doesn’t have to
do anything at all; the claws go in of their own accord and stay in
their sheaths; and if they have to be drawn out, the cords or tendons
give a pull, and the thing is done.”
“To be shod with soft slippers which both admit of a noiseless approach
to the hunted prey and can, on the instant, change into terrible
weapons of attack, is not alone sufficient for the hunter’s success; he
must also have eyes to guide him in the darkness of midnight, the hour
most favorable for an ambuscade. In this respect the cat is admirably
equipped. Its eyes are formed for receiving more or less light as may
be necessary for seeing.
“Notice a cat in the sun. You will see the pupil of the eyes reduced to
a narrow slit resembling a black line. Not to be dazzled by too great
light, the animal has closed the passage to the rays of light; it has
closed the pupil while leaving the eyes wide open. Take the cat into
the shade: the slit of the eyes will enlarge and become an oval. Put it
in a semi-dark place: the oval opening will dilate to a circle and this
circle will grow larger as the light diminishes.
“Thanks to these pupils, which open very wide and can thus still manage
to receive a little light where for others it would be pitch-dark, the
cat guides itself in the dark and hunts at night even better than in
broad daylight, since it remains invisible to the mice while it can see
them well enough. Nevertheless, if there were no light, if the darkness
were absolute, the cat could not see anything. In this connection,
recall what we were saying a while ago about nocturnal birds of prey.
Some maintain that a cat sees distinctly in complete darkness; I have
shown you, on the contrary, that for every animal without exception
sight becomes impossible as soon as there ceases to be even the
faintest ray of light.”
“The cat cannot see without some light, I haven’t the slightest doubt,”
assented Jules. “But all the same I have known it to hunt in places
where not a glimmer of light could get in.”
“Then its mustaches served to guide it; these are frequently made use
of by the cat when it cannot see.”
“Mustaches!” Emile exclaimed. “Oh, what a queer guide! And how can
those long hairs that stand out on its lip tell it where it is?”
“Perhaps you think the cat wears mustaches simply as a bit of swagger.
Undeceive yourself: they are a valuable item of its equipment for
hunting by night. With them it feels the ground, gets its bearings,
explores nooks and corners. Let a mouse so much as graze one of those
long hairs sticking out in all directions, and that is enough to warn
the cat. Immediately the jaw snaps and the claw seizes. Moral: never
cut a cat’s mustaches; you would place it in a sad predicament,
seriously impairing its efficiency as a mouser.”
“That’s what I’ve heard said,” Louis remarked, “though I didn’t know
the reason for it. Now I see that to deprive a cat of its mustaches,
out of childish mischievousness, is like depriving a blind man of his
cane.”
“In my humble opinion,” Uncle Paul continued, “the cat has been
slandered. The eloquent historian of animals, Buffon, speaks thus about
the cat: ‘It is an unfaithful servant, kept only out of necessity, as
the enemy of another and still more troublesome inhabitant of our
houses, otherwise not to be got rid of.’”
“Buffon means the rat and mouse?” was Emile’s query.
“Evidently. ‘Although cats,’ says he, ‘especially when young, have
pretty ways, they have at the same time an innate malice, a treacherous
disposition, a perverse nature, which age increases and education only
masks. From being determined thieves they become, under domestication,
docile and fawning rogues: they have the same skill, the same
cleverness, the same taste for mischief, the same tendency to petty
pilfering, as have rogues. Like them, they know how to cover their
tracks, dissimulate their purpose, watch for their opportunity, lie in
wait, choose their time, seize the right moment for their stroke, then
steal away and escape punishment, scamper off and keep out of sight
until they are called back. They make a show of attachment, nothing
more, as one can see in their sly movements and shifty eyes. They never
look the loved one in the face; whether from distrust or falsity, they
take a roundabout way of approach and of winning the caresses which
they value only for the momentary pleasure they themselves receive. It
cannot be said that cats, although living in our homes, are thoroughly
domesticated. The best tamed among them are no whit more brought under
control than the rest; one might even say that they are entirely beyond
control. They do only what they choose, and nothing in the world would
avail to keep them for a moment in a place they desired to leave.
Furthermore, most of them are still half wild, do not know their
masters, frequent only garrets and roofs, and sometimes the kitchen and
pantry when they are hungry. They are less attached to persons than to
houses.’”
“To my mind,” commented Jules, “that accusation amounts to no more than
this, that Buffon did not like cats.”
“Oh, perhaps,” suggested Louis, “he wrote it when he was vexed at some
misdeed committed by his tom-cats.”
“I, for my part,” Uncle Paul replied, “will say this to you: treat the
cat well, and it will not be wild; feed it, and it will not turn thief;
show it a little attention, and it will return the compliment. But what
a miserable fate it often has! It is allowed to grow thin with hunger
under the pretense that then it will hunt rats better. If it comes into
the kitchen, mewing for something to eat, it is driven out with a
broom; if it ventures into the dining-room to gather up the crumbs
fallen from the table, the dog, suspecting designs on the bone it holds
between its paws, growls and makes a move to throttle the invader. As a
last resort the poor animal takes to pilfering. Who would go so far as
to call this a crime? Certainly not Uncle Paul.”
“Nor I either,” chimed in Jules; “for it must eat.”
“Buffon says the cat does not become attached to its master, that it
shows no signs of affection. I appeal the case to your own memories of
the matter. When Minette, our gentle cat, installs herself with loud
purrings on Emile’s knees in the chimney-corner and rubs her pretty red
nose on his cheeks, then on his forehead, and higher still until it
makes his cap fall off, are not those, I ask you, kisses and caresses
of the most affectionate sort? Emile is transported with delight when
his cap tumbles to the floor under the poking of that delicate nose. He
puts it on again and the friendly rubbing begins afresh.”
“Certainly,” Emile assented, “the cat gives me caress for caress. Her
look is affectionate, not treacherous and distrustful, as the author
says, that you have just been reading. And then Minette never steals,
and always has velvet paws for me. She hasn’t once given me a scratch
in all the time we have played together.”
“Emile forgets one very good quality,” put in Jules. “Minette is a
splendid hunter. Let her hear the slightest rustle anywhere, and there
she will sit for hours and hours on the watch, motionless, patient, all
eyes and ears. A mouse heard is for her a mouse caught. But it isn’t
hunger that gives her that love of hunting, for she kills her mouse and
then leaves it lying there, with no desire to eat it.”
“Minette has other talents too,” Emile hastened to add. “When there is
going to be a change in the weather, she licks her paws and washes her
ears and nose over and over. Then you say, that is a sign of snow, or a
sign of storm. And the cat’s prediction is hardly ever wrong. When the
north wind blows cold and dry, I like to rub my hand over her fur and
make the bright sparks fly. In the evening I like to hear her
rerr-rerr, which makes me sleepy.”
“Why,” asked Uncle Paul in conclusion, “do not Minette’s good qualities
agree with what Buffon says? Because you love the cat and the cat loves
you in return. Animals, my dear children, are what people make them.
Good master, good servant.”