Secondly, Street-boys. Seldom can a boy see a cat anywhere, on the street or at large, without lifting the nearest stone to shy at her. And not boys only, but even grown-up men, have I heard boasting of their vile exploits in cat-killing.
Thirdly, Men with dogs. “The only way I like to see a cat,” said a gentleman to me the other day, “is with a dog at her heels;” and, I’m sorry to say, such sentiments are far from unfrequent. I know, indeed, it is an usual thing for young men to go out of an evening with dogs—generally bull-and-terriers—for the express purpose, of slipping them at the first cat that chance throws in their way. In these cases any hope of escaping with her life, is for the poor cat very small indeed, unless under very exceptional circumstances.
The other day, a friend of mine, who isn’t very soft-hearted, was taking a walk in the suburbs of Manchester, with a bull-terrier dog and a bitch of the same breed—both champion prize-takers, by the way. A cat was started, and pussy made directly for the door of her master’s house. Both the back and front doors were open. The cat darted in by the back, closely followed by the dog; while, as if to cut off all chance of escape, the bitch rushed round and entered by the front. The family were just at breakfast, when pussy sprang on the table, attacked simultaneously in front and rear by her canine foes. They literally tore her in two across the table, and before her owner’s eyes. Of course the damage done to the crockery, was something very considerable, and my friend had to pay five guineas to hush the matter up; and “Serve you right,” I remarked when he told me. (See [Note O], Addenda.)
And fourthly, Cat-skin Collectors. In nearly every large town in the kingdom, there actually exist parties who make a living by buying cats for the sake of their hides. They of course have to pay a pretty large price for a good skin; and this in its turn gives rise to another branch of industry, namely, cat-hunting. The cat-hunter is lower in the social scale, and much more cruel and hardened, than even the bird-catcher. The occupation seems to be thoroughly demoralizing; and its followers live in the most squalid dens and infamous purlieus of the city, leading an idle, dissipated life; and, if not dead of disease before the age of twenty-five, it is because a grateful country has provided them with board and lodging free, at stony Portland or muddy Chatham.
Chance took me, not long since, to a beautiful rural district in one of the southern counties of Ireland. Paddy Taffy, as he was called, from, as he himself expressed it, his “mother being a Welshman, and his father Irish,” was a farmer’s lad, and used to bring me the most beautiful butter-milk, and the freshest of duck eggs every morning, as certain as sunrise. He was just the right boy in the right place; he knew every rock, and bog, and corrie in the parish, besides all the most frequented rabbit hills, and the pools where the fish were never shy. He was always catering for fun for me, and was never so happy as when he had found me a new pleasure. Well, one day, Paddy Taffy comes to me with the eggs and butter-milk as usual; and, grinning like a grampus, “Augh! sir,” says he, “but it’s the raal bit of fun yer honour will be having this blessed morning, if you’ll only be after coming to the river with Taffy.”
“And I will that, Paddy,” says I; for I had nothing better to do.
“I’ll go home first though,” says he, “and then meet you at the side of the strame.”
A walk of two miles over the hills took me to the place of appointment. I forgot to say, that Paddy was never unaccompanied by two dogs, one a very decent well-bred water spaniel, the other a funny-looking frolicsome imp of a colley. On this day, when I met him, he had the dogs as usual, and moreover, what in all the world should he be carrying under his arm, but a butter-tub. Before I had time to inquire the use of the singular utensil—singular under the circumstances,—
“It’s meself,” says Paddy, “that’s glad you’ve come, and by the same token, yonder come the boys with the cat.”
On looking round, sure enough, there were three more boys—of course “boys” is a mere figure of speech, they were all, including Paddy himself, grown-up men—with three more dogs, one of which, a large white-and-black Newfoundland, carried a basket in his teeth. Suspecting that some scene of mischief or cruelty was to be enacted, I asked Paddy to tell me, right straight away, what the game was to be. “Sure your honour,” said he, “it’s only this:—we put the cat in the tub, and float her down the strame, and send the dogs ahint her.”