I counted one day no less than 350 mice which a cat had killed single-handed at the removal of a rick of oats in a farmer’s yard. He was a fine, noble, red tabby, and it was quite a sight to see the surprising strength and agility with which he worked. He killed most of them with his paws, seldom putting a tooth in one. Every time there was a lull in the flow of vermin, he took the opportunity of clearing the ground of the slain, which he carried to a convenient distance and placed all together in a heap. When all was over, to see honest Tom set himself down in front of this heap of carnage, and thoughtfully and complacently contemplate his bloody handiwork, would have been a study for the great Landseer himself. But not one of his slain victims did Tom eat. Indeed, high-bred cats seldom care to eat mice unless they are very hungry; they much prefer fish to anything else, and the flesh of birds they consider a greater luxury than even that of rabbits.
Solomon, or Habakkuk, or Nebuchadnezzar, or some great Hebrew authority, says, “Coneys are a feeble folk.” Doubtless they were so in those days, and taken singly so they are in our day; but combinedly they are powerful indeed, as many a poor ruined farmer can testify. They are very wise too, and this wisdom is especially displayed in the number of doors they have in each of their dwellings; so that should an enemy, in the shape of a pussy, or a ferret, pop in at one door, Bunny would just pop out at the other. I knew a cat in the Isle of Man—she had no tail worth mentioning—who used to make this very habit of the rabbits a means of securing her prey. She used to enter one hole suddenly, and as suddenly reappear stern first. Of course, Bunny by this time was scampering off to the opposite hole, and there at the door pussy would nab him just as he came out.
Cats almost invariably bring home their prey to be either leisurely eaten, given to their kittens, or presented to their owners.
A man in Banffshire rented a small farm from a game-preserving laird. This man was ruined by rabbits, and turned out of house and home by them. They first ate up all his oats, his grass, and turnips, so that only potatoes could be grown on the place. By-and-by they took to eating the stems of even those as soon as they appeared above ground, so that all the poor man’s live stock was reduced to one in number, namely, a big tabby cat. This cat throve upon the foe. She also took a few youthful prisoners, whom she brought home to play with and amuse a fine family of kittens, which she had in the cottage garret. These young rabbits lived and grew, and burrowed and made nests in the thatch. It was the awful row this happy family used to make every night which first led to the discovery. When the farmer found out one night the cause of the disturbance, he came down and awakened his wife and—
“Jane,” said he, and he looked almost sublime as he stood on the cold damp floor with a penny candle in one hand, in rather scanty shirt-tails and red Kilmarnock night cap—he was a study for a Rembrandt, “Jane, I’ve been a duffer too long. Those rascally rabbits—they’ve eaten up everything we have out of doors, now they’ve stormed and taken our castle. By-and-by they’ll eat the bed from under us, then they’ll eat ourselves; but, Jane, to-morrow morning I’m off,”—this he said self-sacrificingly,—“I’m off, Jane, to the lands of America.” And the good people went, leaving pussy and the feeble folks, in undisputed possession of house and farm.
Gamekeepers do all they can to destroy the life of poor pussy by setting traps for, and shooting her wherever met. But some cats come to know all about the treacherous wires and how to avoid them. They know too that hares and rabbits often fall into these snares, and accordingly they turn this knowledge to good account; and when they find a half-strangled animal in the gin, they quietly despatch, and if possible carry it home.
Cats are great enemies to birds in the breeding season; but it is surprising with what terrible fierceness even the smallest birds will defend their nests from the inroads of predatory cats, whose evil intentions are thus often frustrated.
Pussy has many enemies to contend with on the hunting-ground.
A poacher, the other day, was returning home in the grey light of early morning, when he observed a large fox coming in his direction, with what the man took to be a hare over his shoulder. The man fired, and Reynard dropped. His burden was a fine large cat. Poor pussy had been promising herself a nice plump rabbit for breakfast; the fox thought he should like a fine healthy cat for a change. “There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip;” and the poacher’s gun brought matters to quite a different conclusion.
I know a case of a cat that returned from hunting, with two moderate-sized but full-grown rats in her mouth, and both alive and staring. They were no doubt sitting cheek-by-jowl when pussy made the spring.