CRUELTY TO CATS.

I think it my duty to warn the reader that this is essentially a chapter of horrors; so that if her or his feelings do not tend in that direction, it may be skipped. If it pains any one to read it, it must be remembered that it was much more painful to me to write it; and only the hope of enlisting the sympathy of the kind-hearted and benevolent in pussy’s favour could have induced me to do so. How far I have been successful, time will tell. Indeed, I believe the day is not far distant, when it will become the fashion, nay even a portion of our religion, to treat all animals, from the dog downwards, with kindness and consideration; and, when necessity determines life to be taken, to take it in the least cruel and most humane manner possible. A good and noble work has been begun by the Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. All honour to it, and success to its organ, The Animal World. The field is indeed a wide one; and one can scarcely help feeling almost despairingly, as he looks abroad upon the world, and sees the vast amount of cruelty there is to suppress. But stone by stone old Rome was built; and as the good work advances, the labourers will increase, and success in the end is certain. As the case now stands, I think the assistance, of the pulpit by precept, and of the great and rich by example, is sadly wanted to support the cause. The efforts of the Society are at present more particularly directed to obtaining convictions against offenders for ill-treating, overloading, or torturing horses and donkeys; for improperly conveying and starving cattle, calves, pigs, and goats; for cruelties to birds, and for ill-using dogs and cats. Alas! poor pussy comes last and least. But, as the world advances in civilization, and becomes more humane, new laws will have to be framed, anent the great ocean of cruelty, the waves of which we see tumbling and breaking around us every day, and making us apathetic, because of their very number and our own inability to oppose them.

Why should horses be for ever worked to death, or till death? Why should their labours and hardships be increased, with their increasing years and infirmities? We care for and love them when young and handsome; when they grow old we forget their former services, ill-treat and starve them, and finally thrash them into the knacker’s yard.

Why should donkeys—those patient, much-enduring animals—be all their poor lives treated with such systematic brutality?

Why should cattle of all sorts be driven to the markets, or conveyed by rail or steam-boat for long dreary journeys, without either food or water? Why should they be slaughtered with so little regard to their sufferings, when the sting of death could be so easily drawn, ere the fatal blow was struck?

Why should turkeys, fowls, geese, and ducks be carried to market, with feet tied, and hung over poles head downwards, or huddled together in cramped baskets, and kept, sometimes, in such pain and suffering that death itself must be sweet relief?

Why should pigeons, and other smaller birds, be shot in so cowardly and inhumane a manner as is the fashion at matches in the present day? Cockfighting itself is much less cruel; for there each bird has a chance of life, and the wounded are slain.

For the numerous cruelties inflicted on fishes, we can hardly name a remedy yet; but has the reader ever thought of the agony which must be endured by the lobster and crab in being boiled alive?

All these outrages on animal life might be prevented or greatly ameliorated by just and proper laws. England, I trust, will be the first to take the lead in this matter; and, depend upon it, that nation’s arm will always be the strongest on the day of battle, that, in the time of peace, is employed in labours of love, and in the advancement of civilization and humanity.

The Mohammedans are far before us in kindness to the lower animals. “Accursed be he who spilleth blood,” is one of their sayings.

Now, the Hindoos, for instance, are a much older nation than we are. They were clothed, and in their right minds, thousands of years before we were out of pig-skin kilts and paint. We are trying to learn from theory what they have found out from long experience, and will no doubt arrive at the same conclusions after the loss of much valuable time. I know a gentleman who puts faith in no statement in the abstract, even if the speaker should be as old as Methuselah—which isn’t often the case—and as wise as Ahab, until he has carefully ground, as it were, the syllogism in his own mill, thoroughly sifted it, and microscopically examined it; then he looks surprised, smiles, and says, “By George, old Thingummy was right after all.” He can’t help it however; it is the result of a too liberal education. He is constantly grinding away at a proverb. Now, I think proverbs are the pith of a nation’s experience: the wisdom of a country is skimmed off, boiled, evaporated to dryness, burned to get rid of organic impurities, and the residue washed and distilled, and the essential oil bottled—in a proverb. But my learned friend, on first hearing one, says, “Oh, nonsense! Can’t be.” The proverb haunts him, however, both by night and day, for perhaps a fortnight, perhaps longer, until it is properly thought out in all its bearings; then he believes it—not before. He would save much time by having a little more credulity; but he is getting wise, and if he lives long enough he will be very wise indeed, although the process may cost him his teeth—he is bald already.

The Hindoos have, long ago, come to the conclusion that it is wrong to take life, and accordingly they don’t—barring that they murder their wives when it is required. I think they are right, although I myself draw the line at naval cockroaches; and the fact that they are disagreeable things to kill, may have something to do with my sparing them. Besides, a cockroach has so many relations, and these all come to his funeral, and insist on seeing him decently interred. This ceremony they perform by tasting, tasting at him until nothing remains.

I was one day “counting my pieces” to my Indian washerman, on the deck of my cabin, when out from the bosom of a nightshirt dropped a nine-inch-long centipede in the full vigour of health and intellect, and began making the best of his way to the nearest shelter. Giving instant chase, and having the advantage in length of legs, if not in number, I should soon have run him down, had not the impudent Hindoo, at the very last moment, pulled me back by my frock-coat tails. Such an indignity to a British officer, on board a British man-o’-war, was hardly to be borne with impunity. I turned, and looking him full in the face in my most impressive manner—

“Sir,” said I, “are you aware that Britons never, never, NEVER—will—be—slaves?”

The dobee salaamed.

“Then,” continued I, “what have you got to say, that I should not punch your head or kick your rascally shins, for conniving at the escape of yonder centipede that has just gained his crevice, and is, even now, making faces at me with impunity?”

The dobee drew himself up.

“Sahib,” said he, “you can kickee my head, you can punchee my shin—all same. Allah is good, and the Koran say, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

“Thou shalt not kill,” repeated I; “why, the man must have learned the ‘Shorter Catechism;’ he can’t be such a heathen after all.”

The dobee triumphed. I shook him by the hand, and he had my washing ever after.

Enter my servant one day. I was living in a room on shore at Bombay.

“Man come for your little ones, Sahib,” said he.

“Pandoo,” said I in a solemn voice, “what do you mean? I’m a respectable unmarried man, and never deserved any.”

The man, who entered behind Pandoo, carried a shovel, a brush, and a basket; and I soon discovered that my little ones meant all the earwigs, bugs, centipedes, and crickets, of which I had a fair sprinkling of each sort; and he came, not to destroy, but actually to carry them away. He swept my room and bed moderately clean, and I afterwards found that he had taken the contents of the basket to the corner of a field, and emptied them among some straw. For no true Buddhist takes life; and when cows and horses get infirm, they are regularly superannuated, and sent to an asylum where they may end their days in peace.

The scenes of cruelty to the lower animals, which one witnesses in the streets and lanes of our own country, are almost enough to make one doubt the goodness of God. In many cases, a person at all sensitive cannot refrain from interfering; and, unless he can show some proper authority for so doing, he will in most cases come off second-best, and do harm to the very victim he meant to protect. I have often constituted myself a sort of knight-errant to distressed quadrupeds; and I flatter myself I have at times done some good, either by going quietly up to the perpetrator of the cruelty and trying to reason with him, or, with a pretended show of authority, demanding his name and address. A man of this sort is always a coward, and usually “funks” at once. I once had my nose broken, though, in a row with a butcher about ill-treating a cow. That brought my knight-errantry to a bloody close for a fortnight; but, thanks to good surgery, the organ is none the worse.

Last February, while walking in a lane in the neighbourhood of a rural village, I met a fellow—certainly the most brutal lout ever I saw—driving, or rather pushing along, two unhappy sheep. The creatures had walked a very long distance, and appeared completely exhausted; for the wind was very high, and the cold rain and sleet were beating in their faces, and stupifying them. Besides, the scoundrel had been striking them with a strong black-thorn cane; and, as he dared not touch them about the body, for fear of injuring the appearance of the mutton,—for mutton they soon would be,—it was across the forehead and nose he hit them, so the blood was trickling down in streams, and as they shook their heads with pain, their pretty fleeces were all besmeared. Oh, the amount of misery depicted in their poor patient eyes! The very dogs seemed ashamed of their master’s conduct.

“It’s to be killed, they are to be, at any rate,” said the fellow when I remonstrated with him on his conduct; “and, curse them,” he cried, “I’ll make them go.” And again the blows began to fall. The sheep moaned low, and I closed with my friend. A vicious tussle, and the stick flew over the hedge. Then the lout flew at me. He hit my fist a tremendous blow with his lower jaw, the result of which was, that he immediately took the world on his back, like old Atlas—he took the world on his back several times before he seemed tired of it. Then I gave him to understand, that by way of recompense for knocking him down, I should at once find a policeman to take him up, unless he immediately accompanied me to a neighbouring killing-house, to get a butcher to slaughter the sheep. He reluctantly consented, and the sorrows of those two dumb creatures soon came to an end.

About the commonest, if not the simplest form of cruelty to poor pussy, is that of neglecting to feed her regularly, and at the proper times. Many people are guilty of this who would not willingly do an unkind action; they err through ignorance, or want of thought. Pussy, they imagine, can easily pick up all she needs about the floor. There could hardly be a greater mistake, or one more fatal to pussy’s existence as a pet. For the mere fact of her having to look out for her own food will make her dishonest. Others starve their cats to make them catch mice; the very opposite is the case. It is your plump, well-fed, sleek grimalkins that are the best mousers; a starveling has not courage nor heart enough to kill a midge, let alone a mouse.

Higher in the scale of cruelty is the only too common practice of leaving pussy at home to shift for herself, when the family moves to the seaside or country, in holiday season. In some instances the cat has access to and from the house, by some private door of her own. In this case, she will generally manage to eke out a miserable existence, from the scraps she picks up on the dung-hill; or she will become a thief, and make raids on the pigeon-houses or rabbit-boxes of the neighbours. At all events she is usually successful in sustaining her life, until the return of the family. But it is very different with pussy, when she is entirely imprisoned in an empty house, without either food or water, save perhaps an occasional mouse which chance may throw in her way.

I know of one unhappy cat that lived for three whole weeks, on dry oat-meal alone.

Another instance I can just recall to memory, and I am sorry to say, it is only one of many thousands that are happening every day. In this case, the family had gone to the country for a month, leaving Tabby—as affectionate a little cat as ever lived, and the constant pet and playmate of the young children—shut up in the house. The building was a new one; there were consequently no mice; so, when the family at length returned, almost the first thing that met their gaze was poor Tabby, lying stark and stiff on the parlour hearth. She was a perfect skeleton, while the sardonic grin on her mouth showed how much she must have suffered. Such a death, in that lonely house, almost makes one’s flesh creep to think of.

A still more shocking case of cruelty recently came to my knowledge, which shows very forcibly how dreadful must be the sufferings of a starving cat, and how great the sin of those who leave them thus to perish. In one of the principal squares of the city of Edinburgh lives Mrs. Blank, a lady who can carry a high head, in the best society of which the Scottish metropolis can boast. She subscribes to all the charities, and feeds and clothes the poor daily; of course she is only “lending to the Lord,” and expects the principal returned on or after the Day of Judgment, with very good interest. But that is neither here nor there. This lady had a cat, a very fine one too, on which she lavished an unusual amount of affection; and this affection was amply reciprocated, for pussy cared for no one in the house but her mistress. But in process of time, Jenny had the exceedingly bad taste to give birth to two pretty little kittens, and of course could not spare so much time as usual on her mistress’s lap. So, when the family had packed up, and were about to move into the country for the holiday, this lady gave the order to have “that horrid tiresome old cat and kittens shut up in the house,” until her return. Pussy was shut up accordingly. For a whole fortnight after, the people in the adjoining house were disturbed by melancholy cries, proceeding from the empty house, and, at last, unable to endure it any longer; the assistance of the police was called, and an entrance effected through a back window. A most horrible sight met their view. Poor pussy, thin even to emaciation, lay upon her bed in the corner, nursing the heads of her two kittens. She had eaten their bodies. Fancy the sufferings that must have triumphed over her motherly love. Not only, however, had she eaten the kittens; but, rendered wild by the pangs of hunger, she had actually torn from her own thigh a large piece of flesh, and devoured it. It is a wonderful instance of the tenacity of life in cats, that this pussy, by careful nursing, made a good recovery. She took up house with her kind preservers, but never afterwards darkened the door of her cruel lady mistress. (See Note N, Addenda.)

The sagacity of the cat is very often beautifully shown, in the means she takes to provide for herself food and shelter, in the absence of her owners. On these occasions pussy has often been known to become a “beggar from door to door.” For example, one morning early, a workman,—Mr. D. Stoddart, 92, Rose Street, Edinburgh,—on going to his work, observed a large black cat, trotting on before him, with tail erect and evidently on the best of terms with herself. Her good-humour, however, must have been simulated for the occasion, for she was very hungry indeed. Presently, she stopped and looking earnestly in the man’s face, all her happiness seemed at once to forsake her and she mewed in a most pitiful manner. The good-hearted fellow at once opened his little napkin, and gave pussy part of his dinner. He was rather surprised next morning, to meet the puss exactly at the same time and place. In fact, the cat had adopted the working-man in a small way; and every morning regularly, for six months, it met him and gratefully received its breakfast. After this, it used to walk along with him for some distance, singing a little song to him the while, then took her departure. One day, however, pussy was missed, and it was a long time before anything else was heard of her. Some months after, in passing a gentleman’s gate, in a different part of the town, who should come out to bid him welcome, but his quondam friend and companion the cat. She was sleek and fat, and apparently happy as the sunshine. On making inquiries, it afterwards transpired that during the six months that pussy used to meet the working-man, the family were on the Continent.So common a thing has cruelty towards the feline race become, that one can hardly take a walk along the streets, or into the country, without seeing the mangled body of some poor puss, which has been stoned, beaten to death, or worried by dogs, more than likely in the open light of day. Indeed, a cat’s foes are so very numerous, that the only wonder is, how she escapes with her life so often. Instead of nine lives, it would I think, be more convenient for her to have ninety and nine. Most common among pussy’s numerous enemies may be mentioned,—

Firstly, Gamekeepers. It must certainly be very annoying to keepers, to have cats prowling indiscriminately among the preserves, destroying eggs, birds, rabbits, and game of every description; but, after all, the amount of injury done must be comparatively small; whereas the cruelties practised on pussy by these men are at times quite revolting. To kill a cat by shooting her, may under some circumstances be deemed justifiable; but to wilfully lay traps for its destruction, in which the poor thing may linger for days, before death ends its misery, is surely far from humane. Even after pussy is relieved from the trap, it is, in most cases, only to have her brains dashed out against the nearest tree, or to have her tail cut off, and her body left to die on the ground.

Secondly, Street-boys. Seldom can a boy see a cat anywhere, on the street or at large, without lifting the nearest stone to shy at her. And not boys only, but even grown-up men, have I heard boasting of their vile exploits in cat-killing.

Thirdly, Men with dogs. “The only way I like to see a cat,” said a gentleman to me the other day, “is with a dog at her heels;” and, I’m sorry to say, such sentiments are far from unfrequent. I know, indeed, it is an usual thing for young men to go out of an evening with dogs—generally bull-and-terriers—for the express purpose, of slipping them at the first cat that chance throws in their way. In these cases any hope of escaping with her life, is for the poor cat very small indeed, unless under very exceptional circumstances.The other day, a friend of mine, who isn’t very soft-hearted, was taking a walk in the suburbs of Manchester, with a bull-terrier dog and a bitch of the same breed—both champion prize-takers, by the way. A cat was started, and pussy made directly for the door of her master’s house. Both the back and front doors were open. The cat darted in by the back, closely followed by the dog; while, as if to cut off all chance of escape, the bitch rushed round and entered by the front. The family were just at breakfast, when pussy sprang on the table, attacked simultaneously in front and rear by her canine foes. They literally tore her in two across the table, and before her owner’s eyes. Of course the damage done to the crockery, was something very considerable, and my friend had to pay five guineas to hush the matter up; and “Serve you right,” I remarked when he told me. (See Note O, Addenda.)

And fourthly, Cat-skin Collectors. In nearly every large town in the kingdom, there actually exist parties who make a living by buying cats for the sake of their hides. They of course have to pay a pretty large price for a good skin; and this in its turn gives rise to another branch of industry, namely, cat-hunting. The cat-hunter is lower in the social scale, and much more cruel and hardened, than even the bird-catcher. The occupation seems to be thoroughly demoralizing; and its followers live in the most squalid dens and infamous purlieus of the city, leading an idle, dissipated life; and, if not dead of disease before the age of twenty-five, it is because a grateful country has provided them with board and lodging free, at stony Portland or muddy Chatham.

Chance took me, not long since, to a beautiful rural district in one of the southern counties of Ireland. Paddy Taffy, as he was called, from, as he himself expressed it, his “mother being a Welshman, and his father Irish,” was a farmer’s lad, and used to bring me the most beautiful butter-milk, and the freshest of duck eggs every morning, as certain as sunrise. He was just the right boy in the right place; he knew every rock, and bog, and corrie in the parish, besides all the most frequented rabbit hills, and the pools where the fish were never shy. He was always catering for fun for me, and was never so happy as when he had found me a new pleasure. Well, one day, Paddy Taffy comes to me with the eggs and butter-milk as usual; and, grinning like a grampus, “Augh! sir,” says he, “but it’s the raal bit of fun yer honour will be having this blessed morning, if you’ll only be after coming to the river with Taffy.”

“And I will that, Paddy,” says I; for I had nothing better to do.

“I’ll go home first though,” says he, “and then meet you at the side of the strame.”

A walk of two miles over the hills took me to the place of appointment. I forgot to say, that Paddy was never unaccompanied by two dogs, one a very decent well-bred water spaniel, the other a funny-looking frolicsome imp of a colley. On this day, when I met him, he had the dogs as usual, and moreover, what in all the world should he be carrying under his arm, but a butter-tub. Before I had time to inquire the use of the singular utensil—singular under the circumstances,—

“It’s meself,” says Paddy, “that’s glad you’ve come, and by the same token, yonder come the boys with the cat.”

On looking round, sure enough, there were three more boys—of course “boys” is a mere figure of speech, they were all, including Paddy himself, grown-up men—with three more dogs, one of which, a large white-and-black Newfoundland, carried a basket in his teeth. Suspecting that some scene of mischief or cruelty was to be enacted, I asked Paddy to tell me, right straight away, what the game was to be. “Sure your honour,” said he, “it’s only this:—we put the cat in the tub, and float her down the strame, and send the dogs ahint her.”

It was in vain that I tried to persuade Paddy to give up a scheme which seemed to me little short of diabolical; for I fully expected to see poor pussy torn limb from limb in the water. Paddy’s reasoning was something after the following fashion:—“If it’s the dogs you’re afraid of, sir, sure enough they’ll deserve all they’ll get, and more; if it’s the cat, then you needn’t be afraid at all, she’s been three times at it before. Och! she’s the raal taring blood-and-wounding captain of the butter-boat; besides, she has kittens at home, and that makes her the devil himself, sure. Moreover, sir,”—here he lowered his voice; “the boys is ugly boys, and they’ve ugly bits of timber below their flippers, and they wouldn’t let us spoil the sport for the dear life itself.”

So, making a virtue of necessity, I stopped to see the fun and fair play.

The river here was broad, and still, and deep. The basket was taken from the Newfoundland, and all the dogs were led out of sight behind an adjoining hillock. Then the cat—a wild-looking tortoise-shell—was taken out, placed in the tub, and the tub shoved well off into the stream. Away went puss with the current, whirling round and round in her awkward boat, and looking anything but happy, for she evidently knew all about it. Then a shout from the boys; and down rushed the dogs helter-skelter, taking the water in grand style, the spaniel first, the Newfoundland following, springing right on top of the foremost dog, and sinking him by way of a lark. Up they all swam to the tub, which was still whirling slowly down stream; but puss was all ready, and stood by cleverly to repel boarders, evidently determined to sell her nine lives dearly. The spaniel was the first to place a paw on the tub; and his nose was at once laid open in consequence. The colley followed suit, and sung small immediately after. The other dogs had no better success; for each in his turn, and sometimes two at a time, were wounded, and had to haul off and lie too. Tableaux: four defeated curs, paddling harmlessly round the tub, barking futilely; puss erect and frizzly, with one paw impressively uplifted, growling defiance at the lot. All this time, the big Newfoundland had been swimming about, taking apparently no notice of the unequal contest. Now, however, he seemed to think the state of affairs justified his interference, in order to uphold the prestige of the canine race. Poor dog, he at least had no intention of killing the cat; but only thought of hauling her, tub and all, safely in shore. With this kind intention, and in that thoroughly business-like manner only to be seen in dogs of his class, he paddled directly up to the vessel, and seizing it by the rim almost lifted it out of the water, as he put about with tail hard a-port to swim to land. Sharp and condign was the punishment Captain Puss administered to that dog’s nose, for his unasked-for aid. Nelson dropped the tub like a red-hot shot; and with a howl of injured innocence, wheeled round and set out for land in disgust. But puss had no idea of letting him off like this; for the vessel, rather leaky at the best, had been filling for some time and was fast settling down; and pussy saw at a glance it must be abandoned. Then what better refuge, than to make a life-boat of that Newfoundland’s head and shoulders? They just seemed cut out for it, so she didn’t think twice about it, but at once made the spring. If poor Nelson swam quick before, he now seemed to cleave the water like a new-born steam-boat. Pussy, however, had no intention of letting him land with her, being doubtful as to the consequences; accordingly, when only a few feet more of water had to be passed, with one good parting kick, she sprang nimbly to bank, and made off for the woods as fast as four legs could carry her. The dogs all looked very foolish; and presently, like true Paddies, they all fell foul of each other, and fought in the water and out of the water, to their heart’s content. (See Note P, Addenda.) On the whole, I think pussy had the best of it.