Cats, it may be observed, wag their tails when pleased; when angry, they lash them; and, when excited, and about to spring on their prey, the tail quivers. This is all involuntary on the part of pussy, and is an index of the state of her feelings, the tail being principally supplied with nerves from the spinal chord, and along this chord the nervous force is carried from the brain.
Why do cats always fall on their feet? This question is by no means difficult to answer. When she first falls from a height, her back is lowermost, and she is bent in a semicircle. If she fell thus, fracture of the spine, and death, would be the inevitable result. But natural instinct induces her, after she has fallen a foot or two, to suddenly extend the muscles of her back, and stretch her legs; the belly now becomes the convexity, and the back concave, thus altering the centre of gravity, and bringing her round; then she has only to hold herself in this position in order to alight on her feet.
One day lately, a lady, who lives in the fourth story of a house in Dundee, hung the cage with the canary on a nail outside the window. The cat, from the inside, watched it for some time till, unable any longer to withstand the temptation, she made a spring, and, somehow missing the cage, fell to the ground, some forty feet. But she alighted on her feet, and walked off as if nothing had occurred. (See [Note R], Addenda.)
Cats are wonderfully sure footed. I saw a cat one day, taking an airing along a housetop, where Blondin could hardly have walked without a pole. She had a kitten in her mouth, too, to make her performance all the more entertaining. Another puss I saw sitting on an iron rail, a few feet from the ground, and apparently fast asleep. The rail was only about one inch in diameter, and she sat there fully an hour.
Very few cats care to drink spirituous liquors. Dogs are not so particular. One dog I had once, on board ship—a Labrador retriever—used to attend the call of “Grog O!” every day, and get his allowance along with the men. He never got drunk though, and he showed his wisdom by taking it well watered. I know a little bull-terrier bitch, who goes to a hotel every day she has a chance. Her favourite tipple is beer poured upon a salver. As she cannot speak, she sits in a chair and thinks a lot. As she always meets plenty of friends willing to stand treat, she never comes home sober. I saw her a few weeks ago, trying in vain to cross the street. At last she sat down in the middle, and barked to me. I was sorry to see a well-bred young lady in such a condition, so I helped her home, for which she showed gratitude next day. (See [Note S], Addenda.)
But my father had a cat,—a big Tom, whom the servants used to make drunk at any time. His beverage was Scotch whiskey-brose, i.e., oatmeal and whiskey; and I’ve seen him come staggering into the parlour and tumble over the leg of the table. Then he would fall asleep.
Cats, as a rule, do not like music; although, if brought up in a musical family, they learn to tolerate it. A cat is easily taught to come when whistled upon. A friend of mine has a cat, who, if he commences to whistle a tune, immediately jumps on his breast, and rubs her head all over his face, as if trying to comfort him, having the notion, no doubt, that he is in some sort of anguish. But if he puts out his hand to take down his fiddle in her presence, she at once erects her back and tail, and growls at him, in unmistakable anger. However, in this she shows her good taste, for her master is certainly the most execrable performer, that ever tickled hair on gut.