Daisy: the autobiography of a cat

by Miranda Eliot Swan

Her voice was thin and pitched high, and it made me tired and cross. She looked for approval and got disappointed. I backed away from her and swelled up my tail till it was as big as a muff. She was rather frightened, but my two friends laughed. They understood that I was insulted by such childish nonsense. As if I had a mind no deeper than that silly stuff!

I wanted her to know that "Washington" and the "President of the United States" and his wife would be much more attractive to me.

London and the Queen! There are snobs enough to visit them without a cat joining the crowd. I have no doubt the Queen is a nice old lady, but then there are so many nicer ones who earn their own living that I can see every day. Such a journey would be useless. I have never heard she was fond of cats. If she had been, they might be treated better by those who follow after and pin their faith on royalty.

I did get very nervous over that silly "Pussy Cat." It ran in my head, and my nice fire pictures were filled with the maudlin trash. And I was heartily glad when Miss Eleanor said, "Now we will have a little of Dickens to clear the atmosphere." That calmed my nerves, and I fell asleep, and I also fell off of the hassock, where I had perched myself.

The other day I heard Miss Milly say that she scarcely ever took up a paper without finding some interesting anecdote of a dog or cat. Miss Eleanor said, "What interesting stories we could tell of the pets we have known!"

I just laughed to myself, thinking how surprised they would be when they found my manuscript containing many of their nice stories. I never forget stories I hear, and I hear many I would like to repeat if I had space. Here is one, however, I cannot overlook.

A friend of ours had a beautiful maltese cat named Primrose. Primrose had four kittens. They were just perfect, and she was very proud of them. The mistress decided to keep them all, for the children were delighted with them. As they were living that summer in a large old farmhouse, they had plenty of room. Primrose had a large clothes-basket for her nursery, with a nice rug inside. A more luxurious place could not have been found for a home. Indeed, had she been a society cat, feeling the necessity of giving importance to her home, she would, like "human society people," have called her home "Catmore," "The Mewes," or "Pussy Villa." But she was content to call it what it really was,—a good homelike clothes-basket, with beauty and goodness enough inside to allow of its being nameless.

One day one of the children tied a red ribbon around the neck of Primrose. She looked so charming that the other children gave up their pretty hair ribbons to decorate the kittens. There were pink, blue, and yellow. The fourth one was red, like the mother's. It was a beautiful sight. The basket looked like one huge bouquet.

Primrose was away when they were decorated, and on her return she looked with surprise at the brilliant objects in her home. She gave one "cat call" of surprise. This aroused the kittens, and they climbed up the side of the basket and mewed for their dinner. Primrose looked at each one, as if to make sure they were her kittens. Then she jumped into the basket, boxed all their ears, and tore off every ribbon, with the exception of the red one like her own. This was her way of saying; "Stick to your mother's color; it is red. I will not allow children of mine to indulge in such foolish masquerading!" She only made them naughty little kittens, for they did crowd their little sister, with the red ribbon, almost out of the basket. They whispered and licked and played with each other, but would not speak to her.

The next day, however, the children, finding that Primrose preferred her own taste in ribbons to theirs, brought red ribbons for them all. Then the mother was satisfied. Was not that a proof that Primrose could tell one color from another?