Wild Cats. These animals are still to be found in some of the most solitary regions of Skye and Sutherland: and, I am told, they are sometimes seen in the mountainous parts of Connemara. Like the brown Tabby of domesticity, they vary considerably in their markings; but they can never be mistaken for any other. As a rule, the ground colour is yellowish grey, with dark stripes—the markings being at times, as even and beautiful as those of the Bengal tiger. The tail is shorter, and more bushy than that of the domestic cat; and the head, if once seen, or the voice, if once heard, can never be forgotten. Those I have seen killed, were all anything but fat, or even in very good condition, showing, I think, that their life must be rather a hard and miserable one.
On the north-west shore of the Isle of Skye, between Kilmuir manse and the romantic ruin called Duntulm Castle, stands a mountain,—or rather one half of a mountain, the other half, by some gigantic agency, is levelled to the ground, and lies spread over the sea-shore in acres of large boulders—the precipitous sides of the cleft mountain rising up at one side, and the waves of the Atlantic for ever thundering on the other. A road has been made straight over these boulders. Late one summer’s night I was coming home along this road, all alone with the exception of a little wire-haired terrier called Kooran. I was just about the centre; the moon was well down in the West, and cast my shadow far over the heaps of stones. I was gazing up at the beetling cliffs above me and wondering whether any one would ever find the hidden treasure of gold and precious stones which, they say, lies buried in a cave somewhere on this mountain’s side, watched over by a malignant fairy (see [Note B], Addenda), when I was startled from my reverie by a sound which I should in vain attempt to describe. It was partly growl, partly scream,—angry, mournful, horrible. Kooran’s tail sought instant refuge between his legs; and although I had on a decent-sized Scotch bonnet, which might weigh somewhere over two pounds, I think my hair raised it; at any rate my legs seemed suddenly to become ethereal, and I did not feel the ground beneath my feet until I had rounded the distant corner, and left both cat and mountain a good mile behind me. The prey of the Wild Cat is principally rabbits, and game of different sorts; and in the month of May they sometimes commit great depredations among the young lambs. Of course the keepers trap and shoot them on every possible occasion. It is not very often, however, that they manage to get a shot at them, it being the habit of the wild-cat to lie perdu all day, coming out only at night to hunt their quarry, or at early morning. Several stories of adventures with these dreadful creatures could be told, if space permitted. I shall only mention one, which I do not think has yet found its way into print. (See [Note C], Addenda.)
Liddesdale, it will do the reader no harm to know, is the southernmost parish in Roxburghshire. Some years ago a shepherd who used to reside here left for the Highlands. He had a family of boys. One day, while these lads were running about among the hills and woods, they started a large wild cat, and—for keepers’ children know no fear—at once gave chase. Puss took to a tree. Thinking they were now sure of her, one of the boys took his jacket off, and prepared to climb and dislodge her; while the others stood round with stones, to do for her when she came down. They saw their brave companion climb the tree; they saw the monster come down to meet him, and fasten on his neck. They looked up horrified; there was scarcely a cry, save the low growl of the cat; a few drops of blood came pattering down, and then the children ran off screaming towards home. The father was soon on the spot, joined by some men with dogs. One of these instantly drew his knife and commenced to climb the tree. The enraged brute now left the boy and came down to attack the man; but the struggle was brief; the cat was dashed, wounded, to the ground, where it was speedily despatched by the dogs and men. But there was no sound from above. The poor boy was found lying on his back athwart the branches, his head and arms drooping downwards—dead.
CHAPTER III.
PUSSY’S PATIENCE AND CLEANLINESS.
Next to a cat’s love for children, if there is one thing more than another that ought to make one love her and respect her as a pet, it is the extreme patience which she evinces under sufferings, sometimes the most acute. We talk about dogs being game, and taking their death easy; and so they mostly do under excitement; but in long lingering illnesses, pussy is a much better patient.
Pussy, moreover, is blessed with extreme good-nature, and will pardon almost any injury from one she loves. I have no patience with people who say that cats are unforgiving, or that “a friendship of years may be cancelled in a moment, by an accidental tread on its tail or feet.” “Look,” the same parties will tell you, “how patiently a dog will bear a like accident.”
Ay; but, say I, you must bear in mind three things:—First, a dog is generally larger than a cat, and a tread is consequently a mere trifle to him. Secondly, a cat is ten times more sensitive to pain than a dog. And, thirdly, a cat has so many enemies of all sorts, that she must be for ever on the alert to avert danger; not knowing when a foe may pounce upon her, she has to sleep even with open ears. Is it any wonder, then, that, when roused from slumber by a cruel and painful tread on her tail, she should start up and show fight, or run off growling—perhaps, indeed, only half-awake? But malice she never harbours in her heart; and in half an hour, when she has thought the matter over, she will creep from under the sofa or bed, to fondly caress the very one who hurt her.