[See Note R, Addenda.]

PUSSY’S PLAYMATES.

I have already shown in former chapters, how loving and affectionate pussy is towards her master and mistress, and how thoughtful and kind a mother she is. But to her playmates also she is ever gentle and true, whether that playmate be another cat, or an animal of quite a distinct breed. I have never known a cat cement a friendship with any creature, without such friendship lasting till death. How very wrong then to accuse pussy of being treacherous! With almost any animal that happens to be domesticated about the same house, a cat will strike up a friendship, and will be ready at any time to fight for it, and protect it from harm. It is quite a common thing to see a cat amusing itself playing with rabbits, or guinea pigs, at hide-and-seek among the bushes, or on the lawn. There is often a distinct understanding between some old horse or cow about the place. I have known a cat live entirely in the stable, and invariably go to sleep on a particular horse’s back; the horse in his turn used to welcome her with a fond neigh when she came home at night.

In a village in the Highlands of Scotland, where I resided, there was a crow, a very very old, bald-headed crow, used to come morning and evening, for many months, and sit on the fence opposite, until I threw him a slice of bread or a cold boiled potato. One morning I was surprised on opening the door to find the old Bird-o’-freedom, as I called him, standing on the step. Instead of flying away, he hopped past me into the room, and perching himself on the fender, looked so knowingly first at me and then at the fire, that for the life of me I could not help thinking about Poe’s raven and shuddering, fully expecting the bird would presently say, “Nevermore.” If he could have spoken, I am sure he would have addressed me something after this fashion:—“Doctor, you’re something of an animal fancier, and I know you’re not a bad-hearted chap on the whole. Now the fact is, I’m feeling rather poorly, and the forest winds are cold of a night; besides, I’m not so young as I have been,—I’m nigh on ninety, lad,—so I intend for my few remaining days to take my pick in a homely way at your fireside. The cat won’t bite, will she?”

In fact, Muffie had fully made up her mind to turn him out of doors there and then, and with that hospitable intention was now approaching him. But Bird-o’-freedom opened his mouth, and gave vent to two such caws, as nearly shook the house. I never heard any bird have such lungs. Muffie was fairly startled, and scampered off with her tail in the air; but in a few days the cat and he were as thick as thieves. In truth, Bird-o’-freedom was a thief, at least, as far as eggs went. If he spied one in the cupboard, he watched his chance, and when it came, one dig laid the egg open, and next second the contents were down his throat with one almighty gulp. I allowed him two eggs a day, but he would not take them if I offered them to him, or before my face; I had to lay them one by one in the cupboard, and give him the pleasure of stealing them. Muffie was never better pleased than when he was eating, and she sat and sang to him while he drank the milk from her saucer. Then she would sit and sleep cheek by jowl with him for hours. A cat with whom Muffie had never had any words before, once looked into the room, Muffie drove her out with terrible suddenness, and thrashed her properly outside the door. When the candles were lit in the long winter evenings, Bird-o’-freedom, perched upon the fender, used to look up at me so slyly, and yet so solemnly with one wicked eye, that I used to doubt whether he wasn’t the devil entirely, and fly to my fiddle to dispel the thoughts. The poor crow had a fit one morning, and died on his back on the hearth-rug; and when he was dead, the cat was chief mourner. She went about for days, searching for her lost favourite, and mourning all the while, for her grief was really sincere.“Tabby,” writes a lady to me, “had been poisoned. Shortly before her death, we had her brought upstairs and laid down on the rug in front of the fire,—she was very ill, and unable to lift her head. Tom came bouncing as usual into the room, and sitting down beside her, with his paw playfully patted her on the face; but getting no response, it actually then seemed as if he understood how serious the case really was, because with the same paw he gently raised her head up a little, and kindly licked her all over. It was very affecting, and was more than we expected from him; but certainly he got great credit for the good deed, and ever after had the character of being the warmest-hearted of cats,—and poor Tabby died in his arms.”

Every one knows what a warm friendship will often spring up between a cat and a dog, both resident in the same house. How they will sleep in each other’s arms, eat together, fight for one another; how generous the dog is towards any weaknesses she may display; and how grateful pussy is in return. They will have their little tiffs occasionally, of course. I have seen my cat jump on the piano-stool more than once, in order to slap Master Nero in the face; upon which the dog, swearing like the British in Flanders, hauled her off, and rubbed her well on the carpet, but did not really hurt her.

The Czar and Whiskey.—Whiskey in this case does not mean something to drink. It was the name—and a very appropriate name it was—of a little Scotch terrier, who lived in a village in the far north of Scotland. In the same house with him dwelt the Czar,—this was a large bluish-black cat, who was said to have been imported from Russia—hence his name. No two animals in the world could have loved each other more devotedly, than did the Czar and little Whiskey. And Whiskey was the gamest of the game, yet he never showed his teeth to his feline friend. From the same dish they took their meals, Whiskey merely premising that he should have all the bones. They were together all day, save when Whiskey’s duty to his master called him away, and at night they shared the same couch, the Czar fondly taking Whiskey in his arms because he was the biggest. I’m not sure, indeed, whether the Czar did not waken Whiskey, when that little gentleman took the nightmare. However, they were as loving as loving could be. And, once or twice every week, this kindly couple used to go out hunting together. They did not care for game-laws, and heeded not the keepers—they were a law unto themselves. On these occasions, they used to go out together in the morning, and after spending all the long day among the hills and woods, they invariably came home before dark. This coming home before nightfall, was doubtless a suggestion of Whiskey’s, for a dog can neither see so well in the dark as a cat, nor can his constitution so well withstand the dews of night. But the very fact of the Czar’s keeping early hours to please Whiskey, is another proof of how he loved him. And almost every night, these sons of Nimrod brought home with them some trophy from the hunting-ground. Sometimes it was a rabbit, more often a bird—if the latter, Whiskey generally had the honour of carrying it, and very proud he was of the distinction; if a rabbit, the Czar bore the burden. And so things went on, till one mournful night, poor Whiskey came home later than usual, and all alone. He came in, but lay down on the door-mat, out of which he would not budge an inch. He refused his porridge and all consolation, and lay there in a listening attitude, starting up every minute at the slightest sound. His mistress went to bed and left him. It must have been long past midnight, when Whiskey came dashing into his mistress’s bedroom, knocking over a chair in his hurry, and barking wildly as he dashed hither and thither, like a mad thing. When his mistress got up at last, poor little Whiskey preceded her to the door, barking and looking very anxious and excited. A pitiful mew was heard, and on the lady opening the door, in rushed Czar the cat on three legs—he had left the other in a trap. Nothing could exceed the kindness of Whiskey to his wounded playmate. He threw himself down beside her on the rug whining and crying with grief, and gently licked her bleeding stump. And every day for weeks did Whiskey apply hot fomentations, with his soft wee tongue to pussy’s leg, till it was entirely healed. But they had no more romping together in the fields and woods, for the Czar’s hunting-days were over—in this world at least.