Daisy: the autobiography of a cat

by Miranda Eliot Swan

OUR new room, a very large alcove, was pleasant and comfortable. The people who owned the house were school-teachers, refined, and the atmosphere was congenial to us all. I loved to watch my friend's busy fingers and follow Miss Milly's pen, as she wrote for hours at her desk. I loved to walk over the fresh writing and flirt my tail over the ink-bottle. That would make her stop and scold me, then pet me till I was willing she should return to her work. The eyes of affection are sharp. I saw with pain that they were obliged often to lie down, after a long spell of work, but they never complained.

Mrs. Knight came often to see us, but I did not see Stacy for a long time. He was busy with his studies at Harvard, but he sent me kind messages, and I knew he loved me. Our boys were not with us, and I had no young company; but then, I was happy for I could see and hear from our young friends frequently.

I always greeted dear Mrs. Knight with delight. She had a camel's hair shawl she used to roll me in, when we lived in her house, and I loved to claw it and pull the wool out of it. I wondered she did not wear it, but then, I suppose, it was old fashioned. She told me that her cat Solomon was very fond of it, and she allowed him to sleep on the lounge with that shawl under him.

I felt a little jealous of Solomon, but I doubt if they ever love another cat as well as they love me. They said Solomon had no associates, though they lived on the swell avenue.

The cats belonging there were only tolerated one-half the year. The cats that were not boarded out were left to become tramps. Of course these cats were very immoral, and they did not think it would improve Solomon to be friendly with them. I did smile when Mrs. Knight said, "Daisy is such a perfect cat, we hold him up as a model for Solomon."

I wondered how Sol would like that, for he told me he did not like being kept in. He guessed he could take care of his morals; the society cats could not hurt him.

One day he proved himself not so wise as his name would indicate. He fell out of the third story window. When they gathered around him, thinking he would have to be chloroformed, he got up, shook himself, and lived.

He told me very sad tales of the cats living in that vicinity. "Would you not think," he said, "that in these palatial houses there would be room for one cat?"

I said I should think they would want two or three. He shook his wise head, saying, "Oh, no. If they see a cat that pleases them, some superannuated spinster will gush over her, making her a pet for a little while. But let poor Pussy fall ill, or get one flea on her, and out she goes into outer darkness."

"Oh," I said, "don't speak like that! my two dear friends are 'maiden ladies,' and no one can be kinder to animals than they are. The sick and unfortunate always appeal to their sympathy, and not in vain. I remember Miss Eleanor washing every day a poor neglected black cat whose eye a rat had bitten. It was not a pleasant piece of work, I can tell you, and she tended that eye so faithfully that it got well. They would go hungry to give food to a poor animal that needed it."