“Then its mustaches served to guide it; these are frequently made use of by the cat when it cannot see.”
“Mustaches!” Emile exclaimed. “Oh, what a queer guide! And how can those long hairs that stand out on its lip tell it where it is?”
“Perhaps you think the cat wears mustaches simply as a bit of swagger. Undeceive yourself: they are a valuable item of its equipment for hunting by [[259]]night. With them it feels the ground, gets its bearings, explores nooks and corners. Let a mouse so much as graze one of those long hairs sticking out in all directions, and that is enough to warn the cat. Immediately the jaw snaps and the claw seizes. Moral: never cut a cat’s mustaches; you would place it in a sad predicament, seriously impairing its efficiency as a mouser.”
“That’s what I’ve heard said,” Louis remarked, “though I didn’t know the reason for it. Now I see that to deprive a cat of its mustaches, out of childish mischievousness, is like depriving a blind man of his cane.”
“In my humble opinion,” Uncle Paul continued, “the cat has been slandered. The eloquent historian of animals, Buffon, speaks thus about the cat: ‘It is an unfaithful servant, kept only out of necessity, as the enemy of another and still more troublesome inhabitant of our houses, otherwise not to be got rid of.’ ”
“Buffon means the rat and mouse?” was Emile’s query.
“Evidently. ‘Although cats,’ says he, ‘especially when young, have pretty ways, they have at the same time an innate malice, a treacherous disposition, a perverse nature, which age increases and education only masks. From being determined thieves they become, under domestication, docile and fawning rogues: they have the same skill, the same cleverness, the same taste for mischief, the same tendency to petty pilfering, as have rogues. Like them, they [[260]]know how to cover their tracks, dissimulate their purpose, watch for their opportunity, lie in wait, choose their time, seize the right moment for their stroke, then steal away and escape punishment, scamper off and keep out of sight until they are called back. They make a show of attachment, nothing more, as one can see in their sly movements and shifty eyes. They never look the loved one in the face; whether from distrust or falsity, they take a roundabout way of approach and of winning the caresses which they value only for the momentary pleasure they themselves receive. It cannot be said that cats, although living in our homes, are thoroughly domesticated. The best tamed among them are no whit more brought under control than the rest; one might even say that they are entirely beyond control. They do only what they choose, and nothing in the world would avail to keep them for a moment in a place they desired to leave. Furthermore, most of them are still half wild, do not know their masters, frequent only garrets and roofs, and sometimes the kitchen and pantry when they are hungry. They are less attached to persons than to houses.’ ”
“To my mind,” commented Jules, “that accusation amounts to no more than this, that Buffon did not like cats.”
“Oh, perhaps,” suggested Louis, “he wrote it when he was vexed at some misdeed committed by his tom-cats.”
“I, for my part,” Uncle Paul replied, “will say [[261]]this to you: treat the cat well, and it will not be wild; feed it, and it will not turn thief; show it a little attention, and it will return the compliment. But what a miserable fate it often has! It is allowed to grow thin with hunger under the pretense that then it will hunt rats better. If it comes into the kitchen, mewing for something to eat, it is driven out with a broom; if it ventures into the dining-room to gather up the crumbs fallen from the table, the dog, suspecting designs on the bone it holds between its paws, growls and makes a move to throttle the invader. As a last resort the poor animal takes to pilfering. Who would go so far as to call this a crime? Certainly not Uncle Paul.”