CHAPTER SEVEN
BOX
Box was a mixture of every possible race of dog.
His head was pointed, but his ears, nevertheless, long and drooping, resembling those of a Gordon setter. His short, thick, bulldog neck was joined to a retriever body, from beneath which shot out four long, thin greyhound legs, and behind which dangled a long, thin, mop-ended tail.
His eyes were wolf-like and shifty, and blinked treacherously when he looked at one. Any attempt to pat him was repulsed with a growl and an evil suspicious glance.
His coat was doubtful; but his mind was definite enough: quarrelsome, ferocious, and snappish—ready to attack anyone or anything upon the slightest provocation!
He had never been able to stand cats, a trait doubtless inherited from some aristocratic, sensitive-nosed ancestor.... From his very earliest days he had found it impossible to be on friendly terms with such musky beasts.
In addition he hated sheep, and loathed the odour of cows and the stink of swine; but however much his aristocratic instincts were offended, he was always conscious at the back of his mind of a certain agreeable, meaty smell about them. The cat’s scent, however, was sour and old; it smelled of mouse, which he despised from his birth.
Besides, they were always wanting to share his food with him—a habit to which he objected strongly. They thought him asleep when—as occasionally happened—he dozed over a bone at noon outside his kennel; but he was wide awake enough, and knew exactly what their game was!
He really belonged to the farmer’s wife, and was always released at her request. He then tore round doing his amiable best to exterminate the farm’s feline inhabitants.
The foreman is sitting milking in the stall, when he is suddenly overturned and kicked into the gutter. The cows roar frenziedly.... Box has just rushed by in pursuit of a cat!
As soon as the foreman has picked himself up, a clog comes hurtling at Box—and just as he is disappearing crestfallen through the door, a milk-stool catches him in the rear.
After this exploit he seldom ventured inside the stall-door; but the foreman knew well enough when the ruffian stood outside peering through the chink, for the stall-cat’s tail always swelled and stood to attention immediately.
One day he surprised the good wife’s favourite kitten, a little white he-cat, as it lay sleeping in the barn; it was too slow in waking, and was captured. The farmer chased him with a shovel, and succeeded in recovering the kitten, but it was dead. There was nothing to do except break the news to his wife, and bury the corpse.
After that outrage Box was chained up for a very long time indeed. But gradually his madness subsided so much that he learned to recognize the “musk animals” attached to the farm; and although he could not of course regard them as friends, he yet respected them for the sake of the general peace.
But beyond the bounds of the farm, out on the road and in the fields, he showed no mercy. Every cat he met there was his sworn enemy—and he was master-hand at running them down and killing them.
CATS OF ALL COLOURS
Among the wheat, which is now almost ripe, flame the poppy-torches ... the blue-stalked corn is so thickly massed that Grey Puss disappears completely in its depths.
The seething of the rye from the adjacent field fills her sensitive ear; it is the keynote of the summer music.
Out on the grass between the heaps of hay Box sits majestically on his tail. He has accompanied the men working in the fields, and he feels himself one of them, especially taking into consideration the important nature of his sentry duty.
He has just been trying to facilitate the farmer’s ploughing by digging a deep hole in search of a mole. But the ground is too dry and the work on the whole too tedious—he doesn’t care about it any more! Then, far away out on the road he sees a man walking, and so barks at him for a time.
In this manner he is constantly useful!
At last he feels he would like a trot round.... Scarcely has he crossed the potato-field when two partridges come running towards him. Wow! he is upon them with a jump—and after them in the direction in which they shoot away on their stiff, short wings!
Then he catches sight of an animal emerging from the corn. It creeps along, its body close to the ground.... It smells, he notices; ha, cat ... cat!
Box has forgotten the partridges and races after puss. But it is difficult for him to make progress, for the corn is thick and is higher than the cat’s back. Only with extreme difficulty is he able to follow the scent.
Grey Puss for the time takes things easily.... She canters quietly away from the direction of the burial-mound. Several times she passes ditches and bunches of thistles where she could easily have lain in ambush and attacked the dog; but she knows Box well enough from old times, and does not take the pursuit very seriously.
For a time they play hide-and-seek; then the affair bores her, and she turns and makes a bee-line for home.
The children, not realizing the state of affairs, swarm out to meet her.
They see gliding towards them a daylight-coloured dog with big lumps of night stuck to its coat. Its legs move very quickly, and its tail whips and whistles like the wind. It comes with wide-open jaws, and tongue hanging out of its mouth. “Ha, ha, ha!” it gasps, as with half-shut eyes it sniffs eagerly through its big, split, padded snout.
Box suddenly sees the kittens. He literally quivers with ferocity; but before he can reach them the entrance-hole is deserted.
For a long time he remains standing outside, barking and scratching up the ground—then he rushes home to the farm and whines and jumps about; he has something to tell—and he makes a jump towards the field; he has seen cats out there, cats of all colours!
Grey Puss pondered a while over the occurrence—this Box, near whose kennel she used to sleep, on whose straw she had lain, and whose food she had sometimes shared, what did he want here sniffing at their mound? She could easily understand all the others, her natural enemies in the fields; but this dog, who, like she, had once been in favour with “the cunning ones”—was he friend or was he foe?
One still, sunny morning she lies by herself at the edge of a ditch, listening to the cows’ eternal chewing of the cud, when the sound suddenly ceases.
She wonders why the cows stop eating—and when, in addition, one or two of them begin to run about, she puts up her head—and sees Box lurch out of the corn towards her....
During the whole of the week she has been persecuted by the dog and chased about like a fox. Just as well have it out with him now as later!
For awhile she retreats before him, but upon reaching a small mound she sits and composedly awaits her pursuer.
The plump hooligan, who has lost sight of his quarry behind the waving grass, comes along, his nose close to the ground, fully occupied with following the scent....
So unexpectedly has Grey Puss changed her tactics that he cannot make up his mind to stop, but swerves to one side as if about to run past. She turns as he swings round, thus keeping her face steadily to the foe....
It is quite a new experience for Box to see a cat sit and wait to be taken in his jaws.
He prefaces his attack with a volley of hoarse dog-oaths....
Grey Puss stands with head low and mouth open; dull thunder rumbles from her throat, and her tail whips restlessly from side to side....
Box, who is unfortunate enough to have the sun full in his eyes, opens his jaws wide and makes a ferocious snap; which the cat evades with a high jump which terminates on his back. Facing backwards on him, she lets fly with fore and back claws simultaneously, combing his flesh time after time from neck to tail.
He howls, and shakes himself, and throws himself down, and rolls over and over; but the moment he rises to his feet, Grey Puss is on his back again.
The ruthless cat-exterminator is driven almost out of his wits with pain, and rushes blindly away, burning with lust for revenge, and raging impotently at such treatment from a much-despised cat, whom he now tries to convince in a plaintive whine that he never meant the slightest harm.
Twice he succeeds in shaking off the vile she-devil; but she is utterly relentless—and so, when the old manure-well appears in sight, he turns there instinctively for help. Without hesitation he tears at the crazy lid with his strong, sharp claws—and plunges through head first, while Grey Puss hops off like the flick of a whip.
A dull plash follows, and a tall spurt of red-brown fluid, emitting an insufferable smell, rises behind him....
Grey Puss sneaks round the opening listening to his splashings; then when no more Box appears, she returns straight home to her kittens.
THE LIFE-SAVING CHAIR
In the evening, when the men were returning from their work, they heard a miserable howling and splashing from the old manure-well in the field. They stopped and listened; they seemed to know the sound. Wasn’t it Box’s voice?
One of them went nearer, and saw at once from the state of the boards that someone had recently fallen through.
The moment Box heard help approaching, he began barking loudly. Thanks to his long stilts, he had, fortunately for him, been able to reach the bottom; but he could not escape unaided from the foul cesspool.
The man called to the others, and they hastened to help the unfortunate bather.
An old fire-hook, attached to a bucket which was used to hoist manure when the pump went on strike, was let down, and Box was not long getting into the “life-saving chair.”
His lacerated and bleeding back was covered with a generous layer of frightful-smelling muck; nevertheless, he felt deeply hurt when his rescuers repulsed his eager, well-meant thanks for the service they had rendered him.
“Puh! Box ... you pig!” they shouted, kicking out at him with their wooden clogs as he rushed forward to embrace them.
And on arrival at the farm he was, without the slightest warning, thrice swilled over with pails of horrid, icy-cold water.
And, to add insult to injury, he was forbidden admission to the house for several days afterwards....
After this, “Dirty-pig Box” superseded the usual call of “Good Box” ... dirty-pig Box who fell in the cesspit!
Grey Puss is ruler of the fields; no other animal than Box dare face her claws.
Once there came a fox; but Grey Puss settled with him long ago. Prowling about one night he found the cat-family’s delicious scent; followed it up to the burial-mound, and stuck his nose in the entrance ... spitting and wheezing noises exploded from every hole and crevice!
When he ventured farther, a claw-speckled wild beast flew out and slashed at his head before he had time to bite. He had seen the spitting fury plainly—but now after the impact he could not catch a glimpse of it, although his nose and ears told him plainly that it was still just in front of him.
Reynard shook his head and blinked his eyes incessantly, but without effect; he remained steadily blind. The blood poured down his face—and in the entrance before him stood Grey Puss, with back and belly arched like a tightly strung bow. Her murderous claws had mutilated her opponent terribly—both his eyes were torn out....
It would have been a life of idyllic peace for Grey Puss if only that stupid Box had kept away....
Her old sweetheart, the kitten’s father, seldom leaves the shelter of the farm nowadays, and never ventures as far as the old willow stumps, let alone the burial-mound. Besides, the mother-cat no longer has reason to fear him; he won’t try to eat his children now that they are so big!
She has long since banished from the fields the numerous other cats from the village and the neighbouring farms. The mere sight of such a sleek, milk-fattened house-cat, who hunts and kills only for the sport of the thing rouses a furious hatred in her breast. Besides, she is just a wee bit jealous of their sheltered, luxurious lives!
It irritates her that she is forbidden access to the sweet milk-pails, and that she is homeless, and doomed to eternal wandering. The shelter of the barn, the warmth of the stall, the peaceful gloom of the loft, have never lost their attraction for her....
During the day she now leaves the kittens to take care of themselves, and spends most of her time sleeping under a hedge or fence near by, lulled by the rustle of the leaves and the soft rasping of the corn-stalks. At nightfall, however, she returns regularly to the mound, bringing always some dainty or other with her. Then the young ones jump and dance round her in delight, pulling and biting at her fur.
But in the depths of the night, some stray wayfarer, hurrying home with lighted lantern along the road, sometimes sees a cluster of fiery balls glowing in the darkness of the hedge. Two by two they hang, as if fastened to the wall of gloom....
It is Grey Puss out hunting at the head of her band of kittens!
She catches hares, so big that she cannot drag them with her, but must tear them asunder on the spot and parcel them out among the youngsters.
THE CROW AGAIN
The kittens are now compelled more and more to find their own food; and in consequence are often reduced to a very meagre diet. Maybugs, grasshoppers, and snails float about inside each of them!
Occasionally, however, the old cat gathers her flock around her.
When she has made an exceptionally big catch, which she herself cannot eat up, she miauws them together for a great banquet. They behave in exactly the same way as when they were small kittens: each of them grabs a lump, and sits down gnawing it, always on the alert, growling, scowling, and spitting—and, if necessary, fighting.
Black, especially, has developed extensively in the matter of quarrelsomeness—and he is now the terror of his brothers and sisters on account of his strength and brutality. He deprives both Grey and Red mercilessly of their portions; he is not even afraid of letting Big’s back make the acquaintance of his claws; which results as a rule in that portion, also, dropping from its rightful owner’s jaws.
And if his claws do not suffice, his strong, pointed teeth are brought into play, and infallibly succeed in convincing his victim that part of the spoil is not what he is after; he wants the lot!
Naturally, everyone protests—and as a rule Big springs at his throat; but when it is a question of fighting, Black is all there. He bites hard, and has a habit of following it up at once with a second bite, if the first does not take immediate effect.
As a result, he can take whatever liberties he chooses! One never knows what he will do next: he tackles things which no ordinary cat would dream of attempting; all his brothers and sisters, except Tiny, fight shy of him.... As soon as they see him they shriek out “Fiew!” And “fiew” is the cat language for “madness.”
Every morning and evening he takes his usual walk. Unseen and unheard, he approaches his quarry, and before the luckless mouse or bird dreams he is near, he is upon it with a spring. He never plays with his victim, but disposes of it at once. Not until late in the morning does he return home, for he never goes to rest except on a full stomach.
Just as Big is the scourge of all birds living in the field, so is Black the scourge of all those living in hedge or wood. He wanders from tree to tree, and not even the densest thicket can resist his progress. He glides through the thorny, jealous heart of a hawthorn copse like a panther, insensate and invulnerable. Tears in skin or snout please him and urge him to greater efforts; it is as if his body cannot feel pain. Black as the branch itself, he lies stretched at full length, searching out the little birds’ homes—and once he catches a glimpse of wings settling in hiding-place or treetop, he never rests satisfied until he has made closer, thorough investigation.
But the old crow defies his strength and skill. It plays him all manner of tricks, and uses every imaginable opportunity to bespatter him with the foulest language.
One day it added to these an unspeakable insult!
It is early dawn.... All the birds are still half asleep, and flutter clumsily as they flee from his path. Even the lark makes such a din in rising that Black gives quite a jump.
He arrives with a young rat in his mouth at the entrance of the village wood, when suddenly his old enemy the crow attacks him in his usual unexpected, disconcerting manner.
He drops the rat for a moment and makes a foolhardy dash at the bird; but it merely spreads its wings and, floating leisurely sideways a short distance, settles on a big stone....
He would just run over there and shift the ugly devil!
His temper begins to get the better of him and he becomes more and more foolhardy; the rat must look after itself for a bit, while he gives that beast a real scare for once in its life! He races like a mad thing after the bird, from grass tuft to mound, from stone to stone—and when the cunning old crow has tempted the inexperienced hot-head far enough away, it flaps back over his head and bags the spoil of war.
That was a surprise; nay, more, an event unparalleled in the black cynic’s whole experience! His back rises and his hair stands on end with fury; but it does not bring back the young rat from the air.
Nevertheless, in spite of all, he felt very proud of himself. Big-cat could catch birds and Grey could catch mice; but he could catch rats....
His short, strong jaws could inflict a terrible bite—and his teeth gradually became his most formidable weapon. It seemed almost as if there were weasel’s blood in him, so quickly did he fix in his teeth; and he employed just the animal’s tactics: spring and bite—and then back out of reach again.
As soon as he found that rats had teeth, he began to use this method of attack regularly.
Grey Puss often sat looking doubtfully at him.... No, she was sure he was not quite cat-normal in the head!