One curious thing about these poaching habits is that they run in families. As Mr. Darwin says, one Cat “naturally takes to catching Rats, and another Mice, and these tendencies are known to be inherited. One Cat, according to Mr. St. John, always brought home game birds, another Hares or Rabbits, and another hunted on marshy ground, and almost nightly caught Woodcocks or Snipes.”
A Cat who has once taken to habits like these soon loses her taste for human society and a comfortable fireside, and becomes quite wild and almost as untamable as one of the actually feral species. Many years ago, in a village where we were then living, a female half-wild Cat made furtive visits to an old and extensive farmstead for the sake of the dove-cot Pigeons, and for the safer rearing of her young. These she would deposit, not in-doors, like our tame, pet Cats, but generally in the fagot-stack, and once in a corner of the thick house-thatch, in which was a labyrinth of passages made by the grey Rat. This Cat would form no friendship with us, but made almost demoniacal demonstrations of her combined hatred and fear. Her swearing and her spitting were accomplishments learned by her kittens as soon as they could see, and no care of ours could tame them.
One of the most remarkable things about the Cat is its habit of always burying its excrement, whether solid or liquid. A Cat living in the house is easily trained to leave the premises for this purpose, and will always be found to cover her droppings with earth; but even young, untrained Cats of dirty habits, who cannot be kept from occasionally defiling the house, will invariably try to hide their sin by scraping up cinders, &c., over it, or will, at any rate, make vigorous scratches at the carpet, in their endeavours to get up some of it for the same purpose. How a habit of this sort can have originated in an animal living in the woods, as do all the Cats when in a wild state, is a puzzle.
Like most of the Carnivora, the Cat is a tender and affectionate mother; the care with which she trains her young ones, her anxiety for their comfort, her industry in washing them, are too well known to require remark. So fond is she of her offspring that she will entirely alter her usual habits to regain lost ones. Mr. Hugh Miller, F.G.S., tells us of a Cat belonging to a clergyman in Northumberland, whose kittens were taken from her and given to a miller living at a distance of fully two miles, quite beyond the usual walk of a home-loving puss. The mother, however, although she had never been to the place before, and could by no possibility have known where her kittens were taken, made two successive journeys to the mill, each time bringing back in triumph to the rectory one of her dear ones.
So strong is the maternal instinct in the Cat that she will, if deprived of her own offspring, bestow her affections on animals of a totally different species, on creatures even, which, under ordinary circumstances, she would look upon as her natural and lawful prey. The following is a remarkable instance of this overpowering mother-love:—
“My friend had a little helpless Leveret brought to him, which the servants fed with milk in a spoon, and about the same time his Cat had kittens, which were despatched and buried. The Hare was soon lost, and was supposed to be gone the way of most foundlings, to be killed by some Dog or Cat. However, in about a fortnight, as the master was sitting in his garden in the dusk of evening, he observed his Cat, with tail erect, trotting towards him, and calling, with little, short, inward notes of complacency, such as they use towards their kittens, and something gambolling after, which proved to be the Leveret that the Cat had supported with her milk, and continued to support with great affection.”[51]
Thus was a graminivorous animal nurtured by a carnivorous and predaceous one! Why so cruel and sanguinary a beast as a Cat, of the ferocious genus Felis, the Murium Leo (Lion of the Mice), as Linnæus calls it, should be affected with any tenderness towards an animal which is its natural prey, is not so easy to determine. This incident is no bad solution of that strange circumstance which grave historians, as well as the poets, assert of exposed children being sometimes nurtured by wild beasts that probably had lost their young. For it is not one whit more marvellous that Romulus and Remus, in their infant state, should be nursed by a she-Wolf, than that a poor little suckling Leveret should be fostered and cherished by a Cat.
White, in his “Observations,” has another similar anecdote. “A boy has taken three little young Squirrels in their nest, or eyry, as it is called in these parts. These small creatures he put under the care of a Cat who had lately lost her kittens, and finds that she nurses and suckles them with the same assiduity and affection as if they were her own offspring. This circumstance corroborates my suspicion that the mention of exposed and deserted children being nurtured by female beasts of prey who had lost their young, may not be so improbable an incident as many have supposed; and, therefore, may be a justification of those authors who have gravely mentioned what some have deemed to be a wild and improbable story. So many people went to see the little Squirrels suckled by a Cat, that the foster-mother became jealous of her charge, and in pain for their safety, and therefore hid them over the ceiling, where one died. This circumstance showed her affection for these foundlings, and that she supposed the Squirrels to be her own young.”
Equally remarkable as an instance of the transference of maternal affection is the tale of the Cat whose kittens were replaced by two out of the five pups belonging to a Spaniel. The Cat brought up her foster children so well, that they were able to run about long before the three left under the charge of their own natural mother. Before long they were removed, and the Cat was inconsolable, until, one day, coming across the Spaniel and her pups, she concluded that the latter were her own lost darlings, and in her eagerness to get them engaged in two successive fights with the Spaniel, in each of which she was victorious, and after each of which she carried away a pup to her own premises, thus getting again, as she thought, her own two children, and the Spaniel being obliged to content herself with one.
This last anecdote is also remarkable because of the wonderful instinctive antipathy existing between Dogs and Cats, an antipathy which is one of the most curious instances of inherited instinct, for a young kitten, who has never seen a Dog in its life will, on being approached by one, put up its back, and swear and spit with all the force of feline Billingsgate. It is only after living in the same house with a Dog for some time that a Cat will become reconciled to him, but when she once gets to tolerate his presence, the two often become very good friends.