[See Note N, Addenda.]

FISHING EXPLOITS.

Cats are, as a rule, averse to water in every shape. If every one of us were as much afraid of getting damp feet, there would be much less coughing in church and theatre. Parsons might preach in peace, and actors rant undisturbed. It would be a bad thing in a business way, however, as far as the medical profession and their friends the undertakers are concerned; for, if the former did not work with additional zeal, many of the latter would starve. Did you ever observe a cat crossing the street on a rainy day? How gingerly she treads, how carefully picks out the driest spots, lifting each fore-paw and shaking it with an air of supreme disgust, and finally, for the last few yards, making a reckless bolt to the front door.

Pussy is a very dainty animal, cleanly in the extreme, more particularly with regard to her personal appearance; and knowing better than any one that fur once wet is very difficult to dry, she does not care to dabble in the water like a duck or a Newfoundland dog. But let the occasion arise, either in the pursuit of game or in some case of necessity, and she at once throws all her scruples overboard, and goes overboard after them, wetting both feet and fur with a will.

In Cassell’s Magazine lately, there is related the story of a cat, that was in the constant habit of diving into the sea, and bringing out live fish. This is told as a great curiosity; but I can assure the reader that such things are by no means rare. I have known of hundreds of such cases; and they are occurring every day.

Joe, a nice she-tabby, was a curious specimen of the feline fish-catcher. Her master was a disciple of Walton’s. With eager and joyful looks, pussy used to watch him taking down the rod and fishing-basket, sit singing beside him while he looked to his tackle, and rub herself against his leg while he prepared the invariable sandwich, as much as to say, “Don’t forget a morsel to your puss; she likewise is going a-fishing.” Then she would trot by his side all the way, as proud as Punch, to the distant streamlet. Anxiously she would watch the skimming fly, squaring her lips and emitting little excited screams of delight, whenever a fish rose to nibble. Then, when a trout was landed, pussy at once threw herself upon it and despatched it. At other times, she would spring into the stream, perhaps up to the neck, and commence fishing on her own account, by feeling with her paws below all the banks, working as hard and as eagerly as any bare-legged school-boy.

A gentleman tells me, that he once possessed a cat that made a regular habit of swimming across the river almost daily, for the purpose of killing birds in a wood on the opposite side.

Gibbey was a fine, large, brindled Tom. He was a noted fisherman and a daring and reckless poacher, so much so that the gamekeepers threatened to kill him, whenever they could catch him. They did not mind, they said, his taking a good clean sea-trout occasionally; but the beast fished in season and out of season. In fact, Gibbey found the spawning time much more convenient than any other. When the salmon came up the shallow streams to spawn in thousands, all waggling under his very nose, and to be had for the mere lifting out, he couldn’t stand that.

“Tam tint his reason a’thegither,”

and played terrible havoc among the poor fishes. It was not so much what he ate that the keepers grudged; but he was in the constant habit of carrying away large fish to hide for future use; and as he generally forgot where he had put them, he still went on hiding more. Sometimes, in taking a walk through the wood, you would find yourself suddenly sprawling on all fours, having trampled on one of Gibbey’s salmon. Or you are doing a little bit of gardening, and come upon a grave, and turn up what at first sight appears a newly-born infant rolled in a rag. Only one of Gibbey’s salmon. What is this in the horse’s trough? Has the horse conceived? Nay, the poor brute has eaten all his oats, but he could not stomach—one of Gibbey’s salmon. Something has been making its presence felt in your bed-room for days. You dream of drains and typhoid fever, and you sprinkle Rimmell’s toilet vinegar and burn pastiles in vain. Even the immortal Condy fails to lay the dread thing. At last you peep below the bed, and with the tongs pull out—what?—only one of Gibbey’s salmon.

For nine long years this cat managed to evade the law, and escape the itching fingers of the keepers. At last, however, poor Gilbert was trapped and slain.

One day, when out shooting, I met a large white cat. He was coming trotting along the foot-path, and wore about his neck what I took to be a very tasteful thing in cravats. It was of a dark colour, and he held one end of it in his mouth in a meditative sort of way. I was going to ask this cat if he felt afraid of catching cold; but he appeared to shun me, took another direction, and entered the door of a small cottage, still wearing the mysterious cravat, and still keeping one end of it thoughtfully in his mouth, so that I felt quite puzzled, and laid down my gun to scratch my head. I hate to be done. Five minutes afterwards I was at the cottage door. A pleasant little woman answered my knock.

“Might I trouble you for a glass of water?”

“Certainly, sir; but would you not come in, and have a drink of nice sweet whey?”

I would. Tom was singing on the hearth, but he had laid aside the wrap—it was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s a fine cat you’ve got,” said I, when I had finished my whey.

“He is, sir; everybody admires our Tom.”

“He has caught cold, I think?”

“Dear me! no, sir.”

“A little sore throat, perhaps?”

“No, no, Tom was never better in his life.”

“Then, my good woman, excuse me if I seem rude; but why—why on earth does he wear a cravat out of doors?”“A cravat!” cried she. “Our Tom wear a cravat!”

Then the pleasant little woman laughed till her pleasant little sides shook and the tears ran out of her pleasant little eyes; and her laughing was so pleasantly infectious that I was constrained to join her, and we both laughed till roof and rafters rang again. It was pleasant, though I did not know what I was laughing at; only I had a slight inkling that somehow or other I had made a mighty fool of myself. When at last she did get a word out, it was,—

“Oh! sir, you’re an awful gowk.[3] It was an eel.”

An eel, was it! The cravat was an eel! And I was “an awful gowk!” Well, I always guessed I was; but then she said it so pleasantly, and as soon as she said it off she went again. I thought it was time I was going off too; so bidding her good morning, I did, and left her laughing—such a pleasant little woman!

Millers’ cats in the country are, almost without exception, fond of taking to the water in pursuit of prey. I know an instance of a cat bred and reared at a flour mill: it was a universal custom with this pussy to watch by the dam-side, where she might have been seen at any time either in winter or summer. She used to run along the edge of the water in full tilt after a trout until it stopped; then, seeming to take aim for a few seconds, she would dive down like an arrow from a bow, and never failed to land the fish. She was also great in catching water-rats, which she seized and killed as eagerly and speedily as any English terrier would.

But not only can cats swim and fish, but they have been known to teach their offspring to do so; and a knowledge of the gentle art has been transmitted in some cat families down to the third and fourth generation.

At the mill of P——, in Aberdeenshire, some years ago, there lived a cat, an excellent swimmer and fisher, and as fond of the water as an Irish spaniel. When fishing, she did not confine herself to any one portion of the stream; and whether deep or shallow it was all one to pussy. The boys, too, of the neighbourhood were not long in finding out, that, by whatever part of the rivulet they saw the miller’s cat watching, there they would find trout in greatest abundance.

This cat not only fished herself, but taught her children to do so too. The way in which she managed this was very amusing, and shows how extremely sagacious feline nature is. When the kittens came of sufficient age, she would entice them down, some fine sunny day to a part of the stream, where the water was very clear and shallow. Here the smaller trout-fry and minnows would be gambolling; and, making a spring, pussy would seize one of these and bring it out alive. After letting it jump about for some little time, to amuse the kittens and attract their undivided attention, she would kill and return it to the stream, jumping after it and playing with it in the water to entice a kitten in. Thus, in course of time, the kittens could all swim and fish, and rivalled even their mother in quickness and daring.

If space permitted, I could give many more instances of pussy’s fishing exploits; but I think I have said sufficient to prove, that they are not so averse to wet their pumps as some people imagine. I have a fine tom-kitten which I intend training to catch fish. The future adventures of this kitten will be related in the Animal World.