Daisy: the autobiography of a cat

by Miranda Eliot Swan

It was a dirty, damp, dark cellar, for the people who owned the house were of the "newly rich" class. They thought only of decorating that part of the house open to public inspection. Everything was made to pay its way, and the servants were kept on short rations.

I earned my living (picked from the swill barrel) by killing rats, for the house was infested with them. No one ever spoke a kind word to me, and I often wondered why I was made. I would creep into the house like a criminal.

Once I enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in a chair. Oh, how soft and nice it was, and I began to purr, with the sense of happiness. But I was rudely shaken from my dream of bliss, and this was the only chance I ever had to test the delights of easy chairs. I was driven out with stones and bits of wood till I gladly found refuge for my poor bruised body in the cellar. There I lay in hunger and pain, my heart filled with bitterness toward all mankind. I felt the injustice, if only a poor cat.

It was a great neighborhood for cats, and I soon made friends with them. I was perfectly reckless, and caterwauled with them, joining their midnight revels with all my heart. We cared not for bottles or bootjacks, but made night terrible. Why should we keep quiet? We had no homes, no nice beds, no friend to speak to us. Why should we care to please those who remembered us only to abuse us?

Now this is all very sad. Since I have seen what life ought to be, in this dear home, I wish with all my heart I had earlier known these good people. I am very thankful that you, my only living child, will grow up in this refined atmosphere.

To return to my dismal history. Soon after my introduction to the nightly revels, I had my first kittens. I never was so happy in my life. Though I had suffered all alone the most severe pain, the dear little creatures compensated me for my hours of anguish. There were four of them. Two of them were black, and two of them gray. Such perfect little creatures, I was delighted with them. Though we had only an ash-heap for our bed, I kept them on my fur, and did not care for the ashes on my own nice fur coat. No mother on her bed of down, with laces and embroideries around her, could have kept her children nicer than I kept mine.

I followed just the instinct my Maker gave me, and what came after was from no fault of mine, but from the wickedness of human nature, which has unsettled my beliefs and made me a sceptical and unbelieving cat.

I hated to leave my kittens to take my food. How I fought for the best I could get, to nourish them! I swallowed things I had always disliked, for I was determined to carry back milk enough for all four of them.

This happiness lasted but a short time. The tyrant of the family, a dreadful boy of ten years, discovered them one morning. With shouts of delight, he took them and dropped them, one by one, into a pail of scalding hot water.

The cook called to him and tried to remove the pail, but it was too late; he continued his cruel work till my four dear little kittens were lost to me forever.