The rest of this pussy’s life was entirely uneventful. One circumstance only deserves relating. She was exceedingly fond of me, in fact quite adored me. Oh! that is nothing, other females have done the same; but Muffie did, what I daresay other females wouldn’t,—she at any time would eat a little bit of the end of a candle, or a bit of greased peat from my hand, while refusing beef-steak or cream from any one else. When I was sent to a distant school, and could only visit my home once a week or fortnight, the house bereft of me had no longer any charms for poor Muffie, and she took to the woods. Perhaps she enjoyed rambling amid scenes hallowed by the recollection of her early love. She seldom returned home until the day of my accustomed arrival, when she was always there to welcome me. Now that she should have known the usual day for my appearance was nothing remarkable, but it was strange that, if anything interfered with my coming, puss was also absent, nor did my arrival on any other day prevent her from being at home at least an hour before me. One day—alas! that one day that must come to all created things—my Muffie was not there to meet me, and she never came again. After a long search I found her beneath a tree, stark and stiff. Her gentle eyes were closed for aye! I would never feel again her soft caress, nor hear her low loving purr—dear Muffie was dead.
But dry your eyes, gentle lady, and listen to the story of
MUFFIE THE SECOND.
I call my present cat Muffie, partly in remembrance of my old favourite, and partly because I think it such a cosy little name for a pet puss. Bless her little heart, she is sitting on my shoulder while I write, and no slight burden either, her fighting weight being something over twelve pounds. A splendid tabby, she is evenly and prettily marked; her lovely face vandyked with white, and her nose tipped with crimson, like a mountain daisy. She is six years of age, and the mother of over one hundred kittens. Three-fourths of these have found respectable homes,—most of them were bespoken before birth,—and if they have only been half as prolific as their mother, Muffie must be progenitor of thousands.
WHITE.
First Prize—Owned by R. H. Young, Esq.
BLACK.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. J. Harper.
A very ambitious kitten you were, too, my pretty Muff. I first picked you up at an hotel, when no bigger than a ball of worsted. Your brothers and sisters, and even your big ugly mother turned and fled, but you stood and spat—didn’t you, puss? and that fetched me. Your favourite seat, too, was the top of the parlour door; and during the first twelve months of your existence, sure didn’t you tear to pieces three sets of window curtains? didn’t you smash all the flowerpots? weren’t you constantly clutching down the table-cloth and breaking the china and glass, running along the key-board of the piano, and jumping down the stool? What chance did a silk umbrella stand with you? What hope of existence had my patent-leather boots? Was it fair to catch flies on my “Sunset on Arran” before the paint was dry? Was it right to upset my ink-bottle on the table-cloth, or to break the head off my praying Samuel, which head you coolly made a mouse of, and finally hid in my shoe? Or was it at all proper to make such earnest, though happily unsuccessful, endeavours to hook your master’s eyes out as soon as he opened them in the morning? But marriage sobered you, Muffie; and I never can forget the extreme joy you manifested on the birth of your first kittens. Your first idea, I’m told, was to make “mousies” of them; then you thought of eating them. But how anxiously you waited my arrival on that auspicious morning. You came twice to my bedroom to hurry me down, and I dared not stop to shave. Then each kitten in succession was held up between your forepaws to receive its just meed of admiration. But I hardly think, Miss Muff, your song of joy would have been quite so loud and jubilant, had you known I was selecting two to drown. And each succeeding period since then, you have tried to have your kittens in my bed, and twice you have been only too successful. There, now, go down, my shoulder aches; besides, I have to address the British public.
Muffie, like her master, has been a wanderer,—and she prefers it. To her, home and master are synonymous terms. Were I to make my bed in the midst of a highland moor, she would not desert me. If I were to place my sea-chest on the top of dark Loch-na-gar,—and that would be no easy matter,—and leave it there for a month, I should find Muffie on the top of it when I returned.