Daisy: the autobiography of a cat

by Miranda Eliot Swan

And I know all that I care to about funerals. When I hear the roll of carriages, I mount a chair and look out of the window, and feel so sorry for them, remembering how I felt when they carried away our dear one, and left me alone all day, sitting in her easy-chair. And when I see that dreadful vehicle called a hearse, I am thankful that cats do not have to ride in them,—above all, the little white hearse. It does look just like the circus cars that I have seen pass, and the first time I saw it, I looked behind for the elephant, and the other beasts I had always seen in their train.

It makes one a convert to cremation. If I had the question to decide, it would be cremation for man and beast.

I hope women will excuse me for not mentioning them first. We fall into the bad habit of speaking of man only, as if men were the only ones worth a thought, but it is a question no one can answer, "Where would be the men, were there no women?"

I think the heathen custom of burning wives on the funeral pyres of their husbands a good one. It would certainly help dispose of some of the "surplus women" men are so exercised about; for if the widows were all disposed of, there would be a chance for the single ones. And if there were no divorces, no second marriages, then how careful husbands and wives would be of each other, if they knew the survivor would have to do escort duty on that last, long journey, to the one death had marked for its own.

Perhaps all this is too deep for a cat, you think. Well, perhaps it is; but then, cats can't help thinking of all the abuse heaped upon them and the unjust remarks on their habits and ways of living and having their children: and I ask, in the name of slandered cats, why is such judgment passed on them? They are not married, so are not unfaithful, and they are not divorced. While they live with another husband they have all the children that God allows them, and they take care of the little ones till they are of an age to look out for themselves.

Now I hope it will be handed down to posterity that one cat who has himself lived a blameless life has dared to compare the morality of cats with the morality of human beings, who are supposed to be so much more intelligent, and are bound by the laws of the land to be honest and virtuous.

Please don't say, "This cat knows too much," for I will tell you stories, and true ones, too, that will make you believe in the intelligence of our race. I feel sure my cat stories will be appreciated; for in a large company of strangers, where all are sitting around in grim silence, just let some one have the courage to tell a cat story, and the ice is broken at once. This "one touch of nature" makes them all grin. It is the "open sesame"; like a hydra with never ending heads—they spring up. As soon as one is finished, another begins. The heads all have tails (or tales) of cats they have known. One is surprised at the wonderful revelation of how deep a hold the household pet has in the hearts of those who love him.

My mistress had another story from the same lady who told her the last one I related. It was called, "A Confiding Cat." In 1877, says a writer in "Nature," "I was absent from Madras for two months, and left in my quarters three cats, one of which, an English tabby, was a very gentle cat, an affectionate creature. During my absence the quarters were occupied by two young gentlemen who delighted in teasing and frightening the cats. About one week before my return the English cat had kittens, which she carefully concealed behind the bookcase in the library. On the morning of my return I saw the cat and petted her as usual. Then I left the house for about one hour. On returning to dress, I found that the kittens were located in the corner of my dressing room, where previous broods had been deposited and nursed. On questioning the servant as to how they came there, he at once replied, 'Sir, the old cat, taking them one by one in her mouth, brought them in here.' In other words, the mother had carried them one by one in her mouth from the library to my dressing room, where they lay quite exposed."

I do not think I have heard of a more remarkable instance of reasoning and affectionate confidence than this in an animal. I need hardly say it gave me great pleasure. The train of reasoning seemed to be as follows: "Now that my master has returned, there is no risk of the kittens being injured by the two young savages in the house. So I will take them out for my protector to see and admire, and keep them in the corner where all my former children have been nursed in safety."

I think it a lovely story. Some will say, because the cat was an English tabby, "So English, you know!"—in a sarcastic manner; but I say as the old man did, "Nater is nater." And a true mother cat will fight for her own, whatever nation she belongs to. I wish all professional people were like this cat's master.