The days and years of a cat’s life, are on an average fourteen, but many live very much longer. Fifteen and seventeen are very common ages for Pussy to die at. The longest time I have ever known a cat live, was till its twenty-second year, but I have heard of them dying at the age of thirty.
It is quite a common thing for a cat to feed itself with milk or cream, by dipping her forepaw in the jug, and then licking it. Pussy is very awkward at drinking water from a crystal tumbler. At first she will generally thrust her head too far in, which will make her sneeze; then she will sit and eye the glass for a time, as if considering how far the water comes up. Not content with ocular demonstration, she will next put a paw cautiously in, until the extreme end of her toes touches the water, and thus, after marking the distance, she can drink in comfort.
A certain cat which had been reared on the spoon, used, when full-grown, to sit up on her hind-legs, and reaching down the spoon to her mouth with her paws, swallow the contents. The same cat used to drink milk, if poured into her mouth from a jug, or any dish with a spout to it. So expert at that trick did she become, that, sitting up as usual, she used to receive and swallow a continuous stream poured into her throat from a height of three feet. (See [Note X], Addenda.)
For the subject matter, of the remainder of this chapter, I am indebted to a lady who takes a great interest in feline nature. (See [Note H], Addenda.)
“It is certain,” she says, “that cats have some strange instinct, that sends them, when lost or starving, to certain people. They have followed me in gay crowded streets, and met me in fields; I have gone into shops and bought milk and rolls for the starvelings; and have gone again to the same place, and they were gone,—doubtless, cats on the tramp and destitute. I have known a friend’s cat lost for five days, and it never attempted to make its sorrows known, until I passed before the window of an underground room, when her shrieks were horrible to hear, and so prolonged, that the passers-by stopped to listen. I remained speaking to the poor creature, whose claws were rattling against the shut door, until the key was brought, and pussy set free.”
She relates an instance of a young surgeon, who was on his way to join his ship, to sail to the antipodes, and who was followed to the very boat by a pretty little kitten. As it seemed bent on being a sailor, the surgeon put the poor thing in his pocket. It was presented to a lady on board, who was interested in its story, and is now doing duty among the cats of South Australia,—a country, by the bye, where cats are more fully appreciated than here.
Beda was a beautiful blue tabby. One summer’s morning, down in Devon, she had been missed for hours, and on being called, a viper glided out from a thicket in the garden, closely followed by the cat. The snake—until killed by a lady—kept moving off, but every moment turning round, and hissing at Beda, who, however, was in no ways put about. The following also tends to show that cats have no fear of snakes:—