THE CAT QUESTION
The cat's unchangeable character--A check on the sparrows--Number
of sparrows in London--What becomes of the annual increase--No
natural check on the park sparrows--Cats in the parks--Story
of a cat at Battersea Park--Rabbits destroyed by cats in Hyde
Park--Number of cats in London--Ownerless cats--Their miserable
condition--How cats are made ownerless--How this evil may be
remedied--How to keep cats out of the parks.
As it will be necessary to show that, sooner or later, the cat question
will have to be dealt with in a manner not pleasant for the cats, it may
be well to say at once that I have no prejudice against this creature;
on the contrary, of all the lower animals that live with or near us
I admire him the most, because of his incorruptibility, his strict
adherence to the principle 'to thine own self be true.' He lives with
but not exactly in subjection to us. The coarser but more plastic dog we
can and we do in a sense unmake and remake. Not so with the cat, who
keeps to the terms of his ancient charter, in spite of all temptations
to allow of a few of the original lines being rubbed out and some new
ones written in their place. Old Æsop's celebrated apologue is as true
of to-day as of his own distant time; and thousands of years ago the
worshippers of Pasht who had tender hearts must have been scandalised at
their deity's way with a mouse. It would not, perhaps, be quite in order
to conclude this exordium without a reference to the poet's familiar
description of the cat as a 'harmless necessary' animal. The Elizabethan
was doubtless only thinking of rats and mice; in the London of to-day
the cat has another important use in keeping down the sparrows. But
for this check sparrows would quickly become an intolerable nuisance,
fluttering in crowds against our window-panes, crying incessantly for
crumbs, and distressing us with the spectacle of their semi-starved
condition.
Much has already been said of the sparrow in this work, but the lives of
cat and sparrow are so interlaced in London that in speaking of one it
becomes necessary to say something of the other. Let us try to get
a little nearer to the subject of the connection between these two
creatures. When we consider the extreme abundance of the sparrow in
all favourable situations and his general diffusion over the entire
metropolis; that he inhabits thousands of miles of streets, often many
scores of birds to the mile; and that besides all the birds that breed
in houses others nest in trees and bushes in every garden, square, park,
and other open space, we cannot suppose that there are less than a
million of these birds. One day in April, while walking rapidly the
length of one walk in a London park I counted 118 nests. There could not
have been fewer than 1,000 nests in the whole park. The entire sparrow
population of London may be as much as two or three millions, or even
more. Putting it as low as one million, the increase of half a million
pairs, breeding say four times a year, and rearing at least twelve young
(they often rear double that number), we have an annual increase of six
millions. Most of this increase goes to the cats; for the cat is the
sparrow's sole enemy, but a really dangerous one only when the bird is
just out of the nest; for the young bird very soon becomes strong of
wing and alert in mind, and is thereafter comparatively safe from the
slayer of his kind. The first instinct of the young urban sparrow, once
he has been coaxed by his parents or impelled by something in him to
use his wings, is to fly feebly, or rather to flutter downwards to the
earth; and there, under a bush in a back garden, or behind a pillar,
or in an angle of the wall, or in the area, the cat is waiting. The
inexperienced birdling, surprised and probably frightened at a new and
strange sensation, trying to balance himself and to come down softly,
touches the ground and is struck by sudden death. I have seen successive
broods from one nest come forth, and bird by bird at odd times flutter
down in this way, seeking a safer spot to rest upon than the sloping
roof and narrow ledges and cornices on the walls, and finally touch the
earth only to be instantly destroyed. But here one interesting question
arises. How, if the facts are as stated, it may be asked, does it happen
that the young sparrow so frequently makes this fatal mistake, in spite
of his inherited knowledge? I believe the explanation is that the
sparrow is essentially a tree bird, notwithstanding his acquired habit
of sitting contentedly on buildings in towns. A percher by nature, he is
yet able to rub along for most of the time without a perch; but we see
that even in districts where trees are few and far between the sparrows'
meeting-place or 'chapel' is invariably a tree. The young sparrow has
not yet acquired this convenient habit of the adults; he is a tree
sparrow, incapable of sitting quietly, like the young swallow or martin,
on a roof or ledge to be fed there by the parent birds. His perching
feet must lay hold of something; and when he cannot, so to speak, anchor
himself he is ill at ease, even on the wide surface of a flat roof, and
fidgets and hops this way and that, possibly experiencing a sensation as
of falling or of being thrown off his stand. It is to escape from this
unsuitable flat surface that he flutters or flies off and comes down.
This happens when no tree stands conveniently near; when there is a tree
beneath or close by the young sparrow makes for it instinctively, as a
duckling to water; and if he succeeds in reaching it he shows at once
that he has found relief, and is content to remain where he is. It is
most interesting to watch a brood of young sparrows just out of the
nest settling down on the topmost twigs of a tree, which they have been
lucky enough to reach, and remaining there for hours at a stretch,
dozing secure in the sun and wind, even when the wind is strong enough
to rock the tree, and only opening their eyes and rousing themselves at
intervals on the appearance of one of the parent birds with food in its
bill.
[Illustration: PARK SPARROWS]
In a large majority of cases the London sparrow has no tree growing
conveniently near to the breeding hole, and the consequence is that an
incredible number of broods are lost. The parent birds, when a whole
brood has thus been snapped up, after a day or two of excitement
cheerfully set to work relining the old nest with a few straws,
feathers, and hairs. From March to August, some to October, they are
occupied with this business, and I do not think that more than two
young birds survive out of every dozen of all the sparrows that breed
in houses; for with the park birds the case is different. As it is, the
birds that escape their subtle enemy are more than enough to make good
the annual losses from all other causes. In the streets, back-yards, and
gardens an ailing sparrow is, like the inexperienced young bird, quickly
snapped up. In the parks at all seasons, but particularly in winter,
ailing sparrows are not very rare; occasionally a dead one is seen.
The duck and the drake
Are there at his wake,
but the cat comes not in the daylight hours to bury him. When the young
park sparrows flutter down from their high nests there is no enemy lying
in wait: they get their proper exercise, and in short flights over the
turf learn the use of their wings; in the evening they go back to their
hollow tree or inaccessible nest. When they are asleep in their safe
cradles the cats come on the scene to hunt in the shrubberies, to
capture the thrush, blackbird, robin, dunnock, and wren, and in fact
any bird that nests in low bushes or on the ground. The noisy clang
of the closing park gates is a sound well known to the cats in the
neighbourhood; no sooner is it heard than they begin to issue from areas
and other places where they have been waiting, and in some spots as many
as half a dozen to a dozen may be counted in as many minutes crossing
the road and entering the park at one spot. They can go in anywhere,
but cats that are neighbours and personally known to one another often
have the habit of going in at one place. All night long they are at
their merry games; you may sometimes see them scampering over the turf
playing with one another like wild rabbits, and in the breeding season
they sup on many an incubating bird caught on its eggs, and on many a
nest full of fledglings. In the early morning they are back at their
houses, if they are not of the homeless ones, innocently washing their
faces in the breakfast room, waiting for the customary caress and saucer
of cream. But these luxuries do not alter the animal's nature: his
'fearful symmetry' was for all time, the sinews of his heart cannot be
twisted in any other way, and his brain is as it came from the furnace.
The following incident will serve to show the spirit that is in a London
cat. Some time ago it was discovered that a very big and a very black
one had established himself on an island in the lake at Battersea Park.
'Then he must have crossed over in a boat, as cats don't swim,' cried
the superintendent. On going to the place it was found that the cat
had killed and partly devoured one tufted duck and two sheldrakes. To
dispose of him a company of eighteen workmen and a good hunting dog were
sent over to the island. The cat, driven from his hiding-place in the
bushes, quickly ascended the tallest tree in his territory. A youth who
was a good climber went up after him, and the other men, armed with
stout sticks, gathered round the tree to receive the animal on his
coming down. The cat quickly made up his mind how to act: down he
swiftly came from branch to branch, and in less than two seconds was
frantically tearing about among the legs of his adversaries, and
bursting through the cordon was quickly in the water swimming for life.
Immediately there was a rush for the boats, but before the men could get
on to the water the cat had reached the shore and vanished in the thick
shrubbery. The men were then disposed in line like beaters and advanced,
but in the end the creature escaped from the park and was lost. This
animal deserves honourable mention on account of the splendid courage
and resource he displayed; but the injury he had caused and the
desperate and successful fight for life he made against such tremendous
odds show that cats ought not to be allowed in the parks. The loss of
the pair of sheldrakes is felt to be a serious one, and I agree that
when unpinioned the bird is very beautiful, and when it shows itself
flying over the ornamental waters of a park, I can admire it almost as
much as when seeing it on the coasts of Somerset or Northumberland. But
a blackcap, a nightingale, a kingfisher destroyed by cats in any park
would be as great or even a greater loss to London; and I may add that a
few days before writing this chapter, in the summer of 1897, the three
wild birds I have just named were to be seen at the very spot where the
sheldrakes were killed.
So far as I know, the park cats can only be credited with one good deed.
Two or three years ago a number of rabbits were introduced into Hyde
Park, and quickly began to increase and multiply, as rabbits will. For
a time the cats respected them, being unaccustomed to see such animals,
and possibly thinking that they would be dangerous to tackle. But
they soon found out that these strangers were the natural prey of a
carnivore, and, beginning with the little ones, then going on to those
that were grown up, eventually devoured them all. Two big old buck
rabbits survived the others for a couple of months, but even these were
finally conquered and eaten. I for one am very glad at the result, for
it really seemed too ridiculous that our great national park should be
turned into a rabbit warren as well as a duck-breeding establishment.
The extraordinary rapidity with which the rabbits were destroyed will
serve to give some idea of the numbers and destructiveness of the cats
that nightly make the open spaces of London their hunting grounds. How
many cats are there in London? Not a word that I am aware of has been
written on the subject, and as there is no tax on them there is no
possibility of finding out the exact truth. Nevertheless, in an indirect
way we may be able to get a proximate idea of their numbers.
The number of dogs in London is supposed to be about two hundred
thousand; no doubt it is really greater, since many dogs escape the
tax. Cats in London are very much more numerous than dogs. Thus, in
the streets I know best, in the part of London where I live, there are
about eight cats to every dog; in some streets there are ten or twelve,
in others not more than six. If a census could be taken it would
probably show that the entire cat population does not fall short of
three-quarters of a million; but I may be wide of the mark in this
estimate, and should prefer at present to say that there are certainly
not less than half a million cats in London. Even this may seem an
astonishing number, since it is not usual for any house to have more
than one, and in a good many houses not one is kept. On the other hand
there is a vast population of ownerless cats. These cannot well be
called homeless since they all attach themselves to some house, which
they make their home, and to which they return as regularly as any wild
beast to its den or lair. Judging solely from my own observation, I
do not think that there can be less than from eighty thousand to one
hundred thousand of these ownerless cats in the metropolis. Let me take
the case of the house I live in. No cat is kept, yet from year's end to
year's end there are seldom less than three cats to make use of it, or
to make it their home. At all hours of the day they are to be seen in
the area, or on the doorsteps, or somewhere near; and at odd times they
go into the basement rooms--they get in at the windows, or at any door
that happens to be left open, and if not discovered spend the night in
the house. There are scores of houses in my immediate neighbourhood
which have no smell of valerian about them and are favoured in the same
way.
It is not possible at all times of the year to distinguish these
ownerless or stray cats from those that have owners; but there are
seasons of scarcity for the outdoor animals during which they differ in
appearance from the others; and at such times, with some practice, one
may get an idea of the number of strays in his own neighbourhood. It is
in the winter, during long and severe frosts, that the ownerless ones
suffer most, and on a bright day in a walk of a quarter of a mile you
will sometimes see as many as a dozen of these poor wretches sunning
themselves on one side of the street. On coming close to one of these
cats he invariably looks at you with wide-open startled eyes, and so
long as you stand quietly regarding him he will keep this look. The
moment you speak kindly to him the alarm vanishes from his eyes, he
knows you for a friend, and is as ready as any starving human beggar
to tell you his miserable story. He mews piteously; but sometimes when
his mouth opens no sound issues from it--he is too feeble even to mew.
His fur has a harsher appearance than in other cats, the hairs stand
up like the puffed-out feathers of an owl, and hide his body's
excessive leanness; but when you lift him up you are astonished at his
lightness--he is like a wisp of straw in your hand. The marvel is that
when he has got to this pass he can still keep alive from day to day;
for in the bleak streets there is no food for him, and the people of the
houses he hangs about have hardened their hearts against him on account
of his thieving, or because if they give him an occasional scrap of food
he will never go away, and their only wish is to see the last of him.
Many of these stray cats get most of their food in dust-bins, into which
they slink whenever the door is left open for a few minutes. They find a
few scraps to keep them alive, and at rare intervals capture a mouse.
Sometimes they jump out when ashes are shot into their hiding-place; but
the cat who has got hardened merely shuts his eyes against the stinging
cloud, crouching in his corner, and is satisfied to remain for days
shut up in his dreary cell, finding it more tolerable than the wintry
streets and inhospitable areas. It is related of La Fontaine, the
fabulist, that he was passionately fond of strawberries, on account of
the effect which this fruit had in annually restoring him to comparative
health and some pleasure in life; and that during the winter and spring
his only wish was that the strawberry season when it came round again
would find him still living, since if it delayed its coming he would
lose all hope. In like manner these ownerless cats, if they have any
thought about their condition, must long for the change in the year that
will once more call forth the black-beetles in areas and basements, and
bring the young sparrows fluttering down from their inaccessible nests.
How does it happen that there are so many of these strays in London?
For cats do not leave their homes of their own accord, except in rare
instances when they have been enticed or encouraged to take up their
quarters in some other neighbourhood. As a rule the animal prefers its
own home with poverty to abundance in a strange place. I believe that a
vast majority of these poor ones come from the houses or rooms inhabited
by the poor. Most persons are extremely reluctant to put kittens that
are not wanted to death. In the houses of the well-to-do the servants
are ordered to kill them; but the poor have no person to delegate the
dirty work to; and they have, moreover, a kindlier feeling for their
pet animals, owing to the fact that they live more with them in their
confined homes than is the case with the prosperous. The consequence is
that in very many cases not one of a litter is killed; they are mostly
given away to friends, and their friends' children are delighted to have
them as pets. The kitten amuses a child immensely with its playful ways,
and is loved for its pretty blue eyes full of fun and mischief and
wonder at everything. But when it grows up the charm vanishes, and it is
found that the cat is in the way; he is often on the common staircase
where there are perhaps other cats, and eventually he becomes a
nuisance. The poor are also often moving, and are not well able to take
their pet from place to place. It is decided to get rid of the cat, but
they do not kill it, nor would they like to see it killed by another;
it must be 'strayed'--that is to say, placed in a sack, taken for some
miles away from home at night and released in a strange place.
Now this very painful condition of things ought not to continue, and my
only reason for going into the subject is to suggest a remedy. This is
that the metropolitan police be instructed to remove all stray cats and
send them to a lethal chamber provided for the purpose. The ownerless
cats, we have seen, do not roam about the town, but have a home, or at
all events a house, to which they attach themselves, and which they
refuse to leave, however inhospitably or even cruelly they may be
treated. On making some inquiries at houses in my own neighbourhood on
the subject, I find that most people are anxious to get rid of the stray
cats they may happen to have about the place, but are at a loss to know
how to do it. In some instances they succeed in straying them again, but
the cats are no better off than before, and the starving population is
not diminished. But it would be a simple way out of the difficulty if
they could have them removed by reporting them to the nearest policeman.
We have seen, as a result of the muzzling order imposed by the County
Council, that upwards of forty thousand unclaimed dogs have been
destroyed in the course of a year (1896), and the presumption is that
these dogs were little valued and not properly cared for by their
owners. The harvest of stray cats would probably not be less than sixty
or seventy thousand for the first year.
To return to the parks. The question is how to exclude the hunting cats
that frequent them at night. I have conversed with perhaps a hundred
superintendents, inspectors, and keepers on the subject, and invariably
they say that it is impossible to exclude the cats, or that they do not
see how it is to be done. And yet in many parks they are always trying
to do it; they hunt them at night with dogs, they shoot them with rook
rifles, and they poison them: but all these measures produce no effect,
and are, moreover, employed with secrecy and with fear lest the
paragraph writer and public should find out, and an outcry be made.
It is plain that the cats can only be kept out by means of a suitable
fence, or net, or screen of wire. Rabbit wire netting is hardly
suitable, as it is unsightly and is not an efficient protection. The
most effectual form would be a plain wire fence in squares, the cross
wires tied to the uprights with wire thread, the top of the fence made
to curve outwards to prevent the animals from climbing over it. This
screen could be placed inside of the park railings at a distance of
about three or four feet from them. A fence or screen of this pattern
has a handsome appearance, but it is expensive, the cost being about
fourpence to fivepence the square foot. Probably some other cheaper and
equally effective wire protection could be designed. I have consulted
some of the large dealers in wire netting and fencing of all kinds, and
they tell me that a fence to keep out cats from parks has yet to be
invented. Very likely; at the same time there are probably very many
ingenious persons in England who would quickly invent what is wanted
if it was made worth their while. It simply comes to this: if the
park authorities really wish to keep out the cats they can do so at a
moderate cost, and it is not likely that even their worst critics would
venture to blame them for spending a few hundreds for such an object.
We must look to the County Council to take the lead in this matter. It
is my conviction--there is much even now going on in some of the parks
to show how well founded it is--that once the chief destroyer of our
valuable birds is excluded, a great and rapid improvement in the
character of our bird population will ensue. The number of the species
we value most would be relatively larger. The change for the better
would come about without any direct encouragement and protection being
given; at the same time it would be an immense help if those who are in
charge of open spaces could be brought to see that wild bird life is
very much more to the people of London than all the pleasant and pretty
things in the way of bands of music, exotic flowers, and brick and stone
and metal ornaments, which they are providing at a very considerable
cost.
[Illustration: STARLING AT HOME]