[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’.”