Daisy: the autobiography of a cat

by Miranda Eliot Swan

I was very sorry for these poor cats, though I could not understand such mean feelings. I was always pleased when I saw cats or dogs with pretty collars on and bows of ribbon. One lovely white cat I knew used to wear blue ribbons, and I always told her how nice she looked, till I found how vain she was; then I said no more about her good looks, for I do hate vain people. I would gladly have given my collar and padlock, though I loved it dearly, if it would have helped them.

It is a problem beyond one poor cat's solution to know just how to help people to understand our race; but I do hope this little story will help a little. The life of one petted cat perhaps may make others as happy as I have been.

We changed our rooms quite often on our return to Boston; many of them were so cheerless I will not speak of them. Whatever our discomforts were, I was always cared for; but I did wish I could provide a palace and servants for my dear friends. I remember the stories Miss Eleanor used to tell the boys, and I wished I could be Cinderella, with a fairy godmother to give me means to help others. I fear I should have killed the mice before they were changed into horses. And when the boys would say to their aunties, "Why don't you have horses and carriages?" I also asked the same question.

I am an old cat now, and I know, and do not ask such questions, for I understand the world better, that it is not to those who deserve the most that luxuries are given. Why, we will never know.

We lived in one house where we were very uncomfortable. Our room, to be sure, always looked bright and nice, but it was because we had such good taste in covering up our defects and making poor things look nice.

The lady who owned the house was a philanthropist. It is a long name for me to master, but I thought it over in my waking hours, just as my mistress pronounced it, and I can think it quite correctly, better than I can understand why she was so called. She was utterly neglectful of the two gentlewomen in her house, who were far ahead of her in education and culture, if not her equals in money.

I pondered the name, and its meaning, more and more. I will not say it made me tired, for that is slang; but it did make me sleepy, and I would drop into a good cat-nap right in the midst of defining "philanthropist."

She had a cat named "Oliver Twist." One must have some companionship of his own kind. So Miss Milly said, "Perhaps he will be a playmate for Daisy."

"Perhaps," Miss Eleanor said, "he also may be a philanthropist."

We soon found, however, he was nothing of the kind. He proved himself a most depraved cat. Under the cloak of virtue he concealed a very coarse nature. He never came up to our room without trying to provoke a fight. His black, beady eyes and sleek Maltese coat always irritated me. I had a cattish desire to fight him and let him know his place. For my mistress's sake I tried to subdue this feeling, remembering he was my guest, and I must be polite even at the expense of comfort.