CHAPTER XIV.
[See [Note N], Addenda.]
FISHING EXPLOITS.
Cats are, as a rule, averse to water in every shape. If every one of us were as much afraid of getting damp feet, there would be much less coughing in church and theatre. Parsons might preach in peace, and actors rant undisturbed. It would be a bad thing in a business way, however, as far as the medical profession and their friends the undertakers are concerned; for, if the former did not work with additional zeal, many of the latter would starve. Did you ever observe a cat crossing the street on a rainy day? How gingerly she treads, how carefully picks out the driest spots, lifting each fore-paw and shaking it with an air of supreme disgust, and finally, for the last few yards, making a reckless bolt to the front door.
Pussy is a very dainty animal, cleanly in the extreme, more particularly with regard to her personal appearance; and knowing better than any one that fur once wet is very difficult to dry, she does not care to dabble in the water like a duck or a Newfoundland dog. But let the occasion arise, either in the pursuit of game or in some case of necessity, and she at once throws all her scruples overboard, and goes overboard after them, wetting both feet and fur with a will.
In Cassell’s Magazine lately, there is related the story of a cat, that was in the constant habit of diving into the sea, and bringing out live fish. This is told as a great curiosity; but I can assure the reader that such things are by no means rare. I have known of hundreds of such cases; and they are occurring every day.
Joe, a nice she-tabby, was a curious specimen of the feline fish-catcher. Her master was a disciple of Walton’s. With eager and joyful looks, pussy used to watch him taking down the rod and fishing-basket, sit singing beside him while he looked to his tackle, and rub herself against his leg while he prepared the invariable sandwich, as much as to say, “Don’t forget a morsel to your puss; she likewise is going a-fishing.” Then she would trot by his side all the way, as proud as Punch, to the distant streamlet. Anxiously she would watch the skimming fly, squaring her lips and emitting little excited screams of delight, whenever a fish rose to nibble. Then, when a trout was landed, pussy at once threw herself upon it and despatched it. At other times, she would spring into the stream, perhaps up to the neck, and commence fishing on her own account, by feeling with her paws below all the banks, working as hard and as eagerly as any bare-legged school-boy.
A gentleman tells me, that he once possessed a cat that made a regular habit of swimming across the river almost daily, for the purpose of killing birds in a wood on the opposite side.
Gibbey was a fine, large, brindled Tom. He was a noted fisherman and a daring and reckless poacher, so much so that the gamekeepers threatened to kill him, whenever they could catch him. They did not mind, they said, his taking a good clean sea-trout occasionally; but the beast fished in season and out of season. In fact, Gibbey found the spawning time much more convenient than any other. When the salmon came up the shallow streams to spawn in thousands, all waggling under his very nose, and to be had for the mere lifting out, he couldn’t stand that.
“Tam tint his reason a’thegither,”