Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 2/A true tale of a cat
A TRUE TALE OF A CAT.
Instinct—what is it? and in what and where does it differ from reason? It is the fashion to speak of it as a faculty distinct from the reasoning power of man, upon the assumption that reflection and consideration are qualities of the mind only appertaining to the cooking animals of our globe, and that reason cannot exist without them. Is it not possible that the curious and beautiful links which connect the animal and vegetable kingdoms may have a corresponding continuity in the subtle essence connected with life, and that the distinction, where the line is drawn, is but the introduction of speech and the responsibilities of a life beyond the grave, and thus the highest order of instinct would be but speechless reason—“anent thereto?”
My story is the story of a cat—poor Spotty. Forty years since she was my playfellow and companion, and, in truth, whenever she had the chance, my bed-fellow. She had one spot upon her throat radiating from a centre, about the size of a fourpenny-piece, to something within the circumference of a florin; that, and the toes of her front-feet, were white,—the rest of her body jet-black; her toilet was perpetual, and the gloss upon her coat would have successfully competed with the best efforts of Day and Martin. It had been a custom (one which cost me many tears) whenever her anti-malthusian exertions were fully developed, to select all the progeny but one, and to consign them to the housemaid’s care, when a bucket of water and the mop speedily terminated their blind and brief existence. I was no party to the murderous act, and for some time, I was equally at a loss with the bereayed mother to account for their mysterious disappearance; but, upon one sad occasion, she discovered their bodies, brought them to her bed, and did all that maternal feeling could suggest for their resuscitation—I need not say, without effect—but the mystery was thus cleared up, and we knew the hideous fact. She anticipated its recurrence, for, upon the next occasion, when five were introduced to the notice of the authorities it was scarcely patent before it was discovered that four kittens were, with the tea-things, upon the tray in the kitchen. We had not been in the habit of having kittens for breakfast—they could not have placed themselves there, and the question was who had given them a lifting hand?—that ubiquitous personage “Nobody” was charged; but it was not a satisfactory conclusion—it was odd; could Pussy have done it? They were replaced in their bed, when, lo and behold! she was seen to bring them, one by one, and leave them on the tray. Number five disappeared for several days, but subsequently, confidence being restored, be became one of the family, and conducted himself with the usual propriety of a kitten.
I have mentioned that Spotty was fond of my company and my bed; the latter was, however, interdicted whenever she had maternal duties to perform. Upon one occasion I awoke and found her in great glee—purring and rejoicing in her way—with her kitten by my side. (I must explain that the kitchen was at the top of the house, and that my bed-room was on the same floor, being back and front rooms.) I carried them back into the kitchen, and placed them in the same bed in one of the compartments under the dresser, then returned to my own and fell asleep. I awoke and found them again in the same place; the door was shut, and I began to ruminate upon the association of witches, broom-sticks, and black cats; but as my faith in these things was not well established, I assumed she must (favoured by the dim light) have managed to return with me unperceived. However—daylight was coming fast—put them back again, and watched, with some misgivings, as to whether they would come down the chimney or through the key-hole; it was not long, however, before Spotty, with the kitten in her mouth, stood outside my window, opened it, and, for the third time, proceeded to make herself comfortable by my side, and there I allowed her to remain. The windows opened upon hinges, sideways, and a large stone-parapet was outside, so, they not being fastened, she was able—by pushing at the front and clawing at the back—to let herself out and in. These are facts. Did instinct teach that all her kittens would be destroyed but one, and that she should select the one she preferred, and intimate her wishes by placing the others upon the tray? Were not memory, design, fore-thought, and consideration displayed, and were they not equally shown by her walk over the tiles, three times in one night? if not, what faculty of the brain was exercised to work out such results?
The kitten grew up a fine handsome fellow, shared with his mother the attentions of the household, and “all went merry as a marriage-bell” until he was missed. Spotty, anxious and restless, went mewing her grief from room to room, from window to window; day after day, he came not; a week elapsed, and Spotty herself then disappeared, and was never more heard of. The “tie which bound her to existence was broken,” and she fled to some retired nook to mourn her loss in secret and to die.