[See Note M, Addenda.]

HOME TIES AND AFFECTIONS.

Are cats more attached to places than to persons? I have taken considerable pains to arrive at a correct answer to this question, and not satisfied with my own judgment and experience, as in the case of pussy’s honesty, I “appealed to the country.” I am happy to find that the opinion of all cat-lovers, nearly all cat-breeders, and the large majority of people who keep a cat for utility, is that cats are as a rule more attached to their masters or owners than to their homes. This question then must be considered as set at rest, and a stigma removed from the name and character of our dear little friend the cat. The popular fallacy, that cats are fonder of places than persons, first took its origin in the days, long gone by, when cats were kept for use only, and never as pets; and it only obtains now among people who look upon pussy as a mere animated rat-trap, and who starve, neglect, and in every way ill-treat the poor thing.

Pray don’t mistake me, reader, I am not saying that pussy isn’t fond of her home, in fact I am going to prove that she is immensely so; but I most emphatically deny, that she ever allows that fondness, to obscure her love for the hand that feeds and caresses her, or the kind voice of a loving master or mistress.

Six years ago, an intimate friend of mine, who “loveth all things great and small,” went to reside for a time with a family in town. A fine blue tabby was an inmate of the same house.

“That cat,” said the mistress, “belongs to the family that lived here before, it has been five times removed, and always comes back.”

My friend only remained there for six weeks, when he changed his residence for a house he had taken only a few streets off, but when he left, that bonnie blue tabby trotted by his side all the way home, and it has not returned yet.But there is no doubt pussy is extremely attached to her home; and nothing, I think, shows her warm-heartedness more, than her willingness to leave that home with a kind owner. A cat has so many home-ties, that we need not wonder at her unwillingness to change her residence. Custom has so endeared her to the old place, that she cannot all at once like the new. She knows every hole and corner of it, knows every mouse-walk, the cupboards, the cosy nooks for a quiet snooze, and the places where she may hide when hiding becomes a necessity, she is acquainted with the manner of egress and ingress, and is familiar with every sound, so that her rest is undisturbed by night, and her finely-strung nervous system not put on the rack by day. Out of doors, too, everything about the old place is familiar, the trees on which the sparrows perch, the field where she often finds an egg, the distant meadow corner where the rabbits play, and the path that leads thereto, which she can traverse unseen and free from danger, either from farmers’ dogs or boys with stones, and above all, the dear old trysting place, where she knows she can always meet her lovers in the moonlight. But if she changes her quarters, all this knowledge has to be learned over again. New dangers have to be encountered, fresh troubles, and bother of every description. Her new residence, and everything about and around it, has to be thoroughly surveyed, mentally mapped out, and got by heart before she can feel anything like at home. So that if pussy has not the love of a kind human friend, to counterbalance all her trials, it is no wonder she will do anything or walk any length, to get back to the place where she was so happy. And when she goes back, what does she find?

“A change,
Faces and footsteps and all things strange.”

She is treated as a stray cat, and sent adrift every time she dares to put her unhappy nose inside the door. But, nevertheless, she will hang about her old home for days and weeks, until, impelled by the pangs of hunger, she casts aside the mantle of virtue, becomes a thief, and revenges herself on the new inhabitant’s pigeons, rabbits, and chickens. Facilis descensus Averni. Having once robbed a roost, she would rob a church; so she takes to thieving as a means of subsistence. The way of the transgressor is hard: her coat becomes dry and hard, her ribs stick out; she loses all respect for her personal appearance, frequents low neighbourhoods, keeps low company, makes night “hideous with her howling,” and in a general way does everything she can to earn for herself and the whole cat community a bad name; and finally, in a few months—if not sooner by accident—succumbs to disease and dies on a dunghill.

It is with a feeling of deep regret, that even the best-treated cat bids farewell to a place, which has so long been her home. You shall often see poor pussy, after all the furniture and fixings have been packed in the vans, run back and take a walk all round the empty desolate chambers, then return and submit herself to be quietly taken off to her new abode. On arriving there, her very first act will be to make a tour of inspection, through every room and corner of the house; she will then count the members of the family, and if all she loves are present, if she gets a drink of milk, and especially if there be a good fire, she will at once settle down and begin to sing.

Some time ago, a pussy of my acquaintance was condemned to death for taking a slight liberty with the canary—in fact, she ate him. It was certainly very thoughtless of poor puss; however she suffered for it, although not to the extent that was intended. She was confined in a sack with a large stone, and sunk in the adjoining river. Nothing more was seen or heard of pussy—which, under the circumstances, wasn’t considered at all surprising—for a fortnight, when one evening she walked in, and laid herself down before the fire as if nothing had happened. Wherever she had been, the cat had lived well, for she was both plump and sleek. Probably, on escaping from the river, she had thought that a two weeks’ holiday in the woods would both benefit her health, after treatment so rough, and give time for the evil impression which her crime had induced to wear off. If so, she was right; for she was received with open arms, and freely forgiven, and is still alive and well.

A cat will travel almost incredible distances to regain her home.

I know of a cat that, along with her three kittens, was sent in a hamper a long journey across country, to a mill, where it was intended she should mount guard over the rats. Pussy, however, had no such intention; and next morning, to the great surprise of the inmates, she was found sitting at her own door with one kitten beside her. She disappeared that same evening, and next morning returned with another kitten. In the same manner, next night she brought home the third and last, and so settled quietly down to rear her family. This cat, I think, showed great determination, and a knowledge of country that would have pleased Von Moltke himself.

Dozens of such anecdotes might be given, but I will only trouble the reader with one more. There is a river in Scotland called the Spey; that I suppose is no news. You will also know that this river is celebrated for two things—salmon and celerity, it being the most rapid river in the kingdom. Near this river, on one side, is the farm of Dandilieth; and on the other, but four miles distant, stands the dwelling-house of Knockan. Once upon a time, then, the tenants of Dandilieth were removing to Knockan; and after the household furniture was packed on the carts, a search was made for the household cat. She was found in a corner of the empty house, on some straw, faithfully nursing her family of three blind kittens. A bed was made for her in the lap of one of the children; and in due time all arrived safe at Knockan, and pussy and her family were duly installed in the new house. But pussy was not happy. She longed for her old home at Dandilieth; and to think, with her, was to act; and this she did to some purpose, for on the farmer returning next day to his old place for the purpose of conveying home the farm implements, he was astonished to find the cat in her old corner, and the three kittens safe beside her. Now, as the nearest bridge is twenty miles distant, it is quite evident that pussy must have swum the Spey five times in a single night (three times with a kitten in her mouth), to say nothing of the long journeys backwards and forwards between the two farms.

Although of a nature not so demonstrative as that of the dog, still a cat is capable of loving its master or mistress with a love equally strong, if not stronger. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” may certainly be said with regard to pussy.

“Don Juan,” says a lady, “is a beautiful dark tabby, with back almost black, legs ringed like those of a tiger, short ears honourably scarred by various encounters with rats, stoats, etc., which he has succeeded in killing; long tail, also ringed with tabby; rich tabby shirt, around which there are beautiful rings of black and tabby; paws with black pads—a most loving and lovable old cat. Two years ago we left home for a ‘parson’s week,’ during which time the house, pussy included, was in the charge of servants. The first sound which met us upon opening the garden-gate on our return, was a most pitiful scream from poor Juan, who recognized our voices and came bounding across the garden to greet us. For more than a week he could hardly be persuaded to leave us, but spent his time in purring and rubbing round us, as though to assure himself of our presence.”

“My own cat,” writes a lady correspondent, “although greatly petted by its master, appears quite wretched whenever I go on a visit. After mewing piteously at my door for a day or two, it leaves the house, often remaining away for weeks; but his delight at seeing me, the fond rush towards me, and his song of joy are very pretty.” The same lady gives an account of a venerable old tortoise-shell puss, who goes to sea with its master,—officer in an East Indiaman,—and keeps watch with him by night or day in all weathers. No wonder he is fond of her.

I know an instance of a cat that was very strongly attached to a boy. When this boy was sent to a distant school, pussy, after mourning for him several days, took to the woods and never returned.

There is surely strong proof of how deeply a cat loves its owner, in the anxiety and sorrow it evinces on seeing that owner in grief or in pain.

I have an instance of a cat that is extremely attached to a little boy. This young gentleman has very great objections to having his nails cut. Whenever this necessary operation is being performed, he sets up a howling which very speedily brings his faithful playmate pussy to his aid. She comes running with all speed, and growling in unmistakable anger. She jumps on his knee, and after giving him one hurried kiss and embrace, as much as to say, “Be of good cheer, I shan’t let them hurt you,” she wheels round and stands on the defensive; and the nurse has to retire and wait for a better opportunity.

Another cat is extremely attached to a little girl, whom she follows about wherever she goes. When the child comes to grief, in some of the various ways incidental to early years, pussy does all she can in her humble way to pacify and comfort her, rubbing herself round her and caressing her, and saying, “Oh! oh!” in the same fond pitying tone she uses to her kittens.

I was called the other day to see a lady in a hysterical fit; and it was most affecting to witness the grief of her poor cat. Hearing her mistress’s screams, she darted into the room, and at once threw herself on the lady’s breast, licking her neck and hands and face in the most passionate manner, stopping only occasionally to look about and growl fiercely at me, as if I had been the cause of her mistress’s illness.

The following anecdote shows, I think, in a very marked manner, how deeply attached pussy can be to her master, and how forgiving is her nature.

Robert D——, a young man of nineteen, lived in the same house with his mother and sisters. He was by no means an exemplary youth. In fact, if he had had his due, the ravens, according to Solomon, would have made short work with his eyes. He had early taken to habits of dissipation, and was in the constant custom of bullying his poor mother, for money to continue his debauches. He must have had some little good in him however, for he was fond of his mother’s beautiful black cat. Not so fond, however, as pussy was of him; for, poor thing, she never seemed happy save in his company. One morning he was leaving his mother’s room after an unusually stormy scene, when pussy met him at the top of the stair, running towards him with a fond cry, and singing as she rubbed herself against his leg.

“Curse you!” he cried, and kicked her to the door-mat. The look the poor cat gave him would have softened a less hard heart; in him it only roused the innate devil.

“You’re like the rest,” he shouted; and, seizing the unhappy puss, he dashed her with all his force over the banisters. The poor creature was not killed outright; but was so severely wounded that she died in three hours. Although bleeding all the time, and evidently in great pain, never a cry escaped her, only a low moaning mew. For one moment only she brightened up a little, when her hard-hearted, but still loved master came in to see her before she expired. She even tried to sing, apparently anxious to show she had forgiven him; and actually died licking his hands.

I know the case of an old gentleman, who was extremely fond of a very pretty cat he had; and pussy loved her master dearly. Indeed, cats seem always particularly partial to the aged. They love to sit beside them at the fireside, and soothe them with their low, murmuring song; for they seem to know by instinct that age is but a second childhood, with only the grave beyond. The gentleman in question died at an advanced age. Every one missed and mourned him, but none so sincerely as pussy. She never sung again, and nothing could induce her to leave his sitting-room. She would sit and gaze for hours at the vacant arm-chair, as if she couldn’t understand why her eyes no longer beheld him she loved. This went on for a fortnight; then one morning poor pussy was found lying stiff and dead on the hearth-rug. She had died of grief.I may close this chapter with another similar instance of pussy’s affection for a kind master.

He was an old fiddler, who dwelt all alone in a cottage on a moor. He had lived to see friend after friend laid under the sod, and now he had none on earth to care for him. Ah! yes; he had one friend—his cat. This little pet cheered him in many a lonely hour; and when sickness came at last, she never left his bedside. Then he died. She sat like a dazed creature as she saw him lifted and placed in his coffin, and she followed the loved remains to their long home, and saw where they laid him. She never left that churchyard living. For three days she sat on the grave; and it would have made your heart bleed, reader, to have heard her pitiful cries.

“Oh!” she seemed to say to every passerby, “he is here—my master is here with all this load of earth on his breast. Will no one come and help me?”

On a cold sleety morning in November she was found stretched on the grave—in a hole she had scraped—dead.Has this gentle and affectionate creature met her master? Is there no hereafter for pussy? The sun of her sinless life set in sorrow.

“Alas for love! if this be all,
And nought beyond an earth.”