The Third Cat Story Megapack: 25 Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New

by Damien Broderick

  James Montgomery and His Cats

  The poet Montgomery was very fond of cats (Memoirs of James Montgomery, by Holland and Everett, IV, p. 114, 115). His biographers say—“We never recollect the time when some familiar ‘Tabby’ or audacious ‘Tom’ did not claim to share the poet’s attention during our familiar interviews with him in his own parlor. We well recollect one fine brindled fellow, called ‘Nero,’ who, during his kittenhood, ‘purred’ the following epistle to a little girl who had been his playmate:—

  “HARTSHEAD, NEAR THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL,

  “July 23, 1825.

  “Harrrrrrr,

  “Mew, wew, auw, mauw, hee, wee, miaw, waw, wurr, whirr, ghurr, wew, mew, whew, isssss, tz, tz, tz, purrurrurrur.”

  Done into English

  “HARRIET,

  “This comes to tell you that I am very well, and I hope you are so too. I am growing a great cat; pray how do you come on? I wish you were here to carry me about as you used to do, and I would scratch you to some purpose, for I can do this much better than I could while you were here. I have not run away yet, but I believe I shall soon, for I find my feet are too many for my head, and often carry me into mischief. Love to Sheffelina, though I was always fit to pull her cap when I saw you petting her. My cross old mother sends her love to you—she shows me very little now-a-days, I assure you, so I do not care what she does with the rest. She has brought me a mouse or two, and I caught one myself last night; but it was in my dream, and I awoke as hungry as a hunter, and fell to biting at my tail, which I believe I should have eaten up; but it would not let me catch it. So no more at present from

  TINY

  “P.S.—They call me Tiny yet, you see; but I intend to take the name of Nero, after the lion fight at Warwick next week, if the lion conquers, not else.

  “2d P.S.—I forgot to tell you that I can beg, but I like better to steal—it’s more natural, you know.

  “HARRIET, at Ockbrook.”

  Sir Walter Scott’s Visit to the Black Dwarf—David Ritchie’s Cat

  David Ritchie, the prototype of the Black Dwarf, inhabited a small cottage on the farm of Woodhouse, parish of Manor, Peeblesshire. In the year 1797, Walter Scott, then a young advocate, was taken by the Fergusons to see “Bowed Davie,” as the poor misanthropic man was generally called.

  Mr. William Chambers, the historian of his native county (A History of Peeblesshire, by William Chambers of Glenormiston, p. 403 [1864]), describes the visit at greater length than Scott has done in the introduction to his novel. He says—“At the first sight of Scott, the misanthrope seemed oppressed with a sentiment of extraordinary interest, which was either owing to the lameness of the stranger—a circumstance throwing a narrower gulf between this person and himself than what existed between him and most other men—or to some perception of an extraordinary mental character in this limping youth, which was then hid from other eyes. After grinning upon him for a moment with a smile less bitter than his wont, the dwarf passed to the door, double-locked it, and then coming up to the stranger, seized him by the wrist with one of his iron hands, and said, ‘Man, hae ye ony poo’er?’ By this he meant magical power, to which he had himself some vague pretensions, or which, at least, he had studied and reflected upon till it had become with him a kind of monomania. Scott disavowed the possession of any gifts of that kind, evidently to the great disappointment of the inquirer, who then turned round and gave a signal to a huge black cat, hitherto unobserved, which immediately jumped up to a shelf, where it perched itself, and seemed to the excited senses of the visitors as if it had really been the familiar spirit of the mansion. ‘He has poo’er,’ said the dwarf in a voice which made the flesh of the hearers thrill, and Scott, in particular, looked as if he conceived himself to have actually got into the den of one of those magicians with whom his studies had rendered him familiar. ‘Ay, he has poo’er,’ repeated the recluse; and then, going to his usual seat, he sat for some minutes grinning horribly, as if enjoying the impression he had made, while not a word escaped from any of the party. Mr. Ferguson at length plucked up his spirits, and called to David to open the door, as they must now be going. The dwarf slowly obeyed, and when they had got out, Mr. Ferguson observed that his friend was as pale as ashes, while his person was agitated in every limb. Under such striking circumstances was this extraordinary being first presented to the real magician, who was afterwards to give him such a deathless celebrity.”

  Mr. Chambers doubtless received the particulars of this visit from Sir Adam Ferguson, Scott’s friend and companion.

  Robert Southey, like Jeremy Bentham, with whom the Quarterly Reviewer would have grudged to have been classified, loved cats. His son, in his Life and Correspondence,” Vol. VI, p. 210, says—“My father’s fondness for cats has been occasionally shown by allusion in his letters (see Vol. V, p. 145), and in ‘The Doctor’ is inserted an amusing memorial of the various cats which at different times were inmates of Greta Hall. He rejoiced in bestowing upon them the strangest appellations, and it was not a little amusing to see a kitten answer to the name of some Italian singer or Indian chief, or hero of a German fairy tale, and often names and titles were heaped one upon another, till the possessor, unconscious of the honor conveyed, used to ‘set up his eyes and look’ in wonderment. Mr. Bedford had an equal liking for the feline race, and occasional notices of their favorites therefore passed between them, of which the following records the death of one of the greatest:

  “‘To Grosvenor C. Bedford, Esq.

  “‘KESWICK, May 18, 1833.

  “‘My Dear G—

  —Alas! Grosvenor, this day poor old Rumpel was found dead, after as long and happy a life as cat could wish for, if cats form wishes on that subject. His full titles were:—“The Most Noble the Archduke Rumpelstiltzchen, Marquis M’Bum, Earl Tomlemagne, Baron Raticide, Waowhler, and Skaratch.” There should be a court mourning in Catland, and if the Dragon (a cat of Mr. Bedford’s) wear a black ribbon round his neck, or a band of crape à la militaire round one of the fore paws, it will be but a becoming mark of respect.

  “‘As we have no catacombs here, he is to be decently interred in the orchard, and cat-mint planted on his grave. Poor creature, it is well that he has thus come to his end after he had become an object of pity, I believe we are, each and all, servants included, more sorry for his loss, or rather more affected by it, than any one of us would like to confess.

  “‘I should not have written to you at present, had it not been to notify this event.

  R. S.’”

  In a letter from Leyden to his son Cuthbert, then in his seventh year, he says—“I hope Rumpelstiltzchen has recovered his health, and that Miss Cat is well; and I should like to know whether Miss Fitzrumpel has been given away, and if there is another kitten. The Dutch cats do not speak exactly the same language as the English ones. I will tell you how they talk when I come home (Life and Correspondence, v. p. 223).”

  Archbishop Whately’s Anecdote of

  the Cat That Used to Ring the Bell

  Archbishop Whately (“On Instinct,” a Lecture delivered before the Dublin Natural History Society, 11th November 1842. Dublin, 1847, p. 10) records a case of an act done by a cat, which, if done by a man, would be called reason. He says—“This cat lived many years in my mother’s family, and its feats of sagacity were witnessed by her, my sisters, and myself. It was known, not merely once or twice, but habitually, to ring the parlor bell whenever it wished the door to be opened. Some alarm was excited on the first occasion that it turned bell-ringer. The family had retired to rest, and in the middle of the night the parlor-bell was rung violently; the sleepers were startled from their repose, and proceeded down-stairs, with pokers and tongs, to interrupt, as they thought, the predatory movement of some burglar; but they were agreeably surprised to discover that the bell had been rung by pussy; who frequently repeated the act whenever she wanted to get out of the parlor.”

  A friend (D. D., Esq., Edinburgh) tells me of a cat hi
s family had in the country, that used regularly to “tirl at the pin” of the back door when it wished to get in to the house.

  * * * *

  TIGERS AND LIONS

  These most ferocious of the Carnivora have afforded interesting subjects to many a traveler. An extensive volume of truly sensational adventure might be compiled about them, adding a chapter for the jaguar and the leopard, two extremely dangerous spotted cats, that can do what neither tigers nor lions are able to do—namely, climb trees. Having once asked a friend, who was at the death of many a wild beast, which was the most savage animal he had ever seen, he replied, “A wounded leopard.” It was to such an animal that Jacob referred when he saw Joseph’s clothes, and said—“Some evil beast hath devoured him.” Colonel Campbell’s work, from which the first paragraph is derived, contains much about the pursuit of the tiger. Dr. Livingstone’s travels and Gordon Cumming’s books on South Africa, neither of which we have quoted, have thrilling pages about the lordly presence of “the king of beasts.” Mr. Joseph Wolf and Mr. Lewis are perhaps the best draughtsmen of the lion among recent artists. The public admire much Sir Edwin Landseer’s striking bronze lions on the pedestal of the Nelson Monument. That artist excels in his pictures of the lion. On the Assyrian monuments in the British Museum are many wonderfully executed lion hunts, as perfectly preserved as if they had been chiseled in our day. Parts of these bas-reliefs were certainly designed from actual sketches made from the lions and dogs, which took the chief part in the amusements of some “Nimrod, a mighty hunter before the Lord.” Even our Scottish kings kept a lion or lions as ornaments of their court. At Stirling Castle and Palace, a room which we saw in 1865, still bears the name of the “Lion’s Den.” The British lion is an old emblem of both Scotland and England, and it is not twenty-five years ago since we, in common with every visitor to the Tower, were glad to see “the Royal Lion.” Dr. Livingstone’s experience, we have not the slightest wish to prove its accuracy, shows that the lion has a soothing, or rather paralyzing power over his prey, when he has knocked it down or bitten it.

  Bussapa, the Tiger-Slayer, and the Tiger

  The following striking anecdote recounts the extraordinary presence of mind and determined courage of a celebrated Mahratta hunter named Bussapa. This man acquired the name of the “Tiger-slayer,” and wore on his breast several silver medals granted by the Indian Government for feats of courage in destroying tigers. Colonel Campbell met him, and in “My Indian Journal” (pp. 142, 143), published in 1864, has recorded from his brother’s diary the following anecdote: “Bussapa, a hunter of ‘Lingyat’ caste, with whom I am well acquainted, was sent for by the headman of a village, to destroy a tiger which had carried off a number of cattle. He came, and having ascertained the brute’s usual haunts, fastened a bullock near the edge of a ravine which he frequented, and quietly seated himself beside it, protected only by a small bush. Soon after sunset the tiger appeared, killed the bullock, and was glutting himself with blood, when Bussapa, thrusting his long matchlock through the bush, fired, and wounded him severely. The tiger half rose, but being unable to see his assailant on account of the intervening bush, dropped again on his prey with a sudden growl. Bussapa was kneeling within three paces of him, completely defenseless; he did not even dare to reload, for he well knew that the slightest movement on his part would be the signal for his immediate destruction; his bare knees were pressed upon gravel, but he dared not venture to shift his uneasy position. Ever and anon, the tiger, as he lay with his glaring eyes fixed upon the bush, uttered his hoarse growl of anger; his hot breath absolutely blew upon the cheek of the wretched man, yet still he moved not. The pain of his cramped position increased every moment—suspense became almost intolerable; but the motion of a limb, the rustling of a leaf, would have been death. Thus they remained, the man and the tiger, watching each other’s motions; but even in this fearful situation, his presence of mind never for a moment forsook the noble fellow. He heard the gong of the village strike each hour of that fearful night, that seemed to him ‘eternity,’ and yet he lived; the tormenting mosquitoes swarmed round his face, but he dared not brush them off. That fiend-like eye met his whenever he ventured a glance towards the horrid spell that bound him; and a hoarse growl grated on the stillness of the night, as a passing breeze stirred the leaves that sheltered him. Hours rolled on, and his powers of endurance were well-nigh exhausted, when, at length, the welcome streaks of light shot up from the eastern horizon. On the approach of day, the tiger rose, and stalked away with a sulky pace, to a thicket at some distance, and then the stiff and wearied Bussapa felt that he was safe.

  “One would have thought that, after such a night of suffering, he would have been too thankful for his escape, to venture on any further risk. But the valiant Bussapa was not so easily diverted from his purpose; as soon as he had stretched his cramped limbs, and restored the checked circulation, he reloaded his matchlock, and coolly proceeded to finish his work. With his match lighted, he advanced close to the tiger, lying ready to receive him, and shot him dead by a ball in the forehead, while in the act of charging.”

  Colonel Campbell relates, that most of Bussapa’s family have fallen victims to tigers. But the firm belief of the “tiger-slayer” in predestination, makes him blind to all danger.

  John Hunter and the Dead Tiger

  The greatest comparative anatomist our country has produced, John Hunter, obtained the refusal of all animals which happened to die in the Tower or in the traveling menageries. In this way he often obtained rare subjects for his researches. Dr. Forbes Winslow (Physics and Physicians: A Medical Sketch-Book, Vol. I, p. 174; published anonymously in 1839) alludes to a well-known fact, that all the money Hunter could spare, was devoted to procuring curiosities of this sort, and Sir Everard Home used to state, that as soon as he had accumulated fees to the amount of ten guineas, he always purchased some addition to his collection. Indeed, he was not unfrequently obliged to borrow of his friends, when his own funds were at a low ebb, and the temptation was strong. “Pray, George,” said he one day to Mr. G. Nicol, the bookseller to the king, with whom he was very intimate, “have you got any money in your pocket?” Mr. N. replied in the affirmative. “Have you got five guineas? Because, if you have, and will lend it me, you shall go halves.”—“Halves in what?” inquired his friend.—“Why, halves in a magnificent tiger, which is now dying in Castle Street.” Mr. Nicol lent the money, and Hunter purchased the tiger.

  Tigers

  Mrs. Colin Mackenzie (Life in the Mission, the Camp, and the Zenánà; or, Six Years in India, Vol. II, p. 382) records the death of a man from the wounds of a tiger. “The tiger,” she says, “was brought in on the second day. He died from the wound he had received. I gave the body to the Dhers in our service, who ate it. The claws and whiskers are greatly prized by the natives as charms. The latter are supposed to give the possessor a certain malignant power over his enemies, for which reason I always take possession of them to prevent our people getting them. The tiger is very commonly worshipped all over India. The women often prostrate themselves before a dead tiger, when sportsmen are bringing it home in triumph; and in a village, near Nagpur, Mr. Hislop found a number of rude images, almost like four-legged stools, which, on inquiry, proved to be meant for tigers, who were worshipped as the tutelary deities of the place. I believe a fresh image is added for every tiger that is slain.”

  Lion and Tiger

  A jolly jack-tar, having strayed into Atkin’s show at Bartholomew Fair, to have a look at the wild beasts, was much struck with the sight of a lion and a tiger in the same den. “Why, Jack,” said he to a messmate, who was chewing a quid in silent amazement, “I shouldn’t wonder if next year they were to carry about a sailor and a marine living peaceably together!”—“Ay,” said his married companion, “or a man and wife” (Mark Lemon, Jest Book, p. 237).

  We may add that we have long regarded it as a vile calumny to two animals to say of a man and wife who quarrel, that they live “a cat and
dog life.” No two animals are better agreed when kept together. Each knows his own place and keeps it. Hence they live at peace—speaking “generally,” as “Mr. Artemus Ward” would say of “such an observation.”

  Androcles and the Lion

  Addison, in the 139th Guardian (August 20, 1713. Chalmers’s edition of British Essayists, Vol. XVIII, p. 85), has given us the story of Androcles and the Lion. He prefaces it by saying that he has no regard “to what Æsop has said upon the subject, whom,” says he, “I look upon to have been a republican, by the unworthy treatment which he often gives to the king of beasts, and whom, if I had time, I could convict of falsehood and forgery in almost every matter of fact which he has related of this generous animal.”

  Better observation of it, however, from the time of Burchell to that of Livingstone, shows that Æsop’s account is on the whole to be relied on, and that the lion is a thorough cat, treacherous, cruel, and, for the most part, with a good deal of the coward in him.

  The story of Androcles was related by Aulus Gellius, who extracted it from Dion Cassius. Although likely to be embellished, there is every likelihood of the foundation of the story being true. Addison relates this, “for the sake of my learned reader, who needs go no further in it, if he has read it already: Androcles was the slave of a noble Roman who was proconsul of Afric. He had been guilty of a fault, for which his master would have put him to death, had not he found an opportunity to escape out of his hands, and fled into the deserts of Numidia. As he was wandering among the barren sands, and almost dead with heat and hunger, he saw a cave in the side of a rock. He went into it, and finding at the farther end of it a place to sit down upon, rested there for some time. At length, to his great surprise, a huge overgrown lion entered at the mouth of the cave, and seeing a man at the upper end of it, immediately made towards him. Androcles gave himself up for gone (i.e., up for lost); but the lion, instead of treating him as he expected, laid his paw upon his lap, and with a complaining kind of voice, fell to licking his hand. Androcles, after having recovered himself a little from the fright he was in, observed the lion’s paw to be exceedingly swelled by a large thorn that stuck in it. He immediately pulled it out, and by squeezing the paw very gently made a great deal of corrupt matter run out of it, which, probably freed the lion from the great anguish he had felt some time before. The lion left him upon receiving this good office from him, and soon after returned with a fawn which he had just killed. This he laid down at the feet of his benefactor, and went off again in pursuit of his prey. Androcles, after having sodden the flesh of it by the sun, subsisted upon it until the lion had supplied him with another. He lived many days in this frightful solitude, the lion catering for him with great assiduity. Being tired at length with this savage society, he was resolved to deliver himself up into his master’s hands, and suffer the worst effects of his displeasure, rather than be thus driven out from mankind. His master, as was customary for the proconsuls of Africa, was at that time getting together a present of all the largest lions that could be found in the country, in order to send them to Rome, that they might furnish out a show to the Roman people. Upon his poor slave surrendering himself into his hands, he ordered him to be carried away to Rome as soon as the lions were in readiness to be sent, and that for his crime he should be exposed to fight with one of the lions in the amphitheater, as usual, for the diversion of the people. This was all performed accordingly. Androcles, after such a strange run of fortune, was now in the area of the theatre, amidst thousands of spectators, expecting every moment when his antagonist would come out upon him. At length a huge monstrous lion leaped out from the place where he had been kept hungry for the show. He advanced with great rage towards the man, but on a sudden, after having regarded him a little wistfully, fell to the ground, and crept towards his feet with all the signs of blandishment and caress. Androcles, after a short pause, discovered that it was his old Numidian friend, and immediately renewed his acquaintance with him. Their mutual congratulations were very surprising to the beholders, who, upon hearing an account of the whole matter from Androcles, ordered him to be pardoned, and the lion to be given up into his possession. Androcles returned at Rome the civilities which he had received from him in the deserts of Afric. Dion Cassius says, that he himself saw the man leading the lion about the streets of Rome, the people everywhere gathering about them, and repeating to one another, ‘Hic est leo hospes hominis; hic est homo medicus leonis.’ ‘This is the lion who was the man’s host; this is the man who was the lion’s physician.’”