Conference misery::feline_v1

3327.0. "THE CAT - a story" by ROYALT::MORRISSEY (Gimme the blond god with a pout) Mon Feb 12 1990 16:02

    	Cross posted with author's permission....thought you folks
    	might like this.  I guess he's a big writer down under.
    
    				JJ
    
    
    
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Note 16.1144                   Favo(u)rite Things                   1144 of 1144
SNOC02::CASEY "We're HAPPY little Vegemites..as et" 110 lines  12-FEB-1990 18:03
                   -< In Defence o' the poor li'l waifs... >-
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                                   THE CAT

                      by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson


	Few know anything about domestic animals - about their inner life and 
the workings of their minds. Take, for instance, the common roof-tree cat. 
Most people think that that cat is an unintelligent animal, fond of ease and 
caring little for anything but mice and milk. But a cat has really more 
character than most human beings and gets a great deal more satisfaction out 
of life. Of all the animal kingdom the cat has the most many-sided character. 
He-or-she is an an athlete, a musician, an acrobat, a Lothario, a grim 
fighter, a sport of the first water.

	All day long, the cat loafs about the house and takes things easy, and 
sleeps by the fire, and allows himself to be pestered by the attentions of 
silly women and annoyed by children. To pass the time away he sometimes 
watches a mouse hole for an hour or two - just to keep himself from dying of 
ennui, and people get the idea that this sort of thing is all that life holds 
for the cat. But watch him as the shades of evening fall, and you see the cat 
as he really is.

	When the family sits down to tea, the cat usually puts in an 
appearance to get his share, and he purrs noisily and rubs himself against the  
legs of the family, and all the time he is thinking of a fight or a love 
affair that is coming off that evening. If there is a guest at the table the 
cat is particularly civil to him, because the guest is likely to have the best 
of what food is going. Sometimes, instead of recognising his civility with 
something to eat, the guest stoops down and strokes the cat, and says, "Poor 
pussy! poor pussy!" The cat soon gets tired of that - he puts up his claw and 
quietly but firmly rakes the guest in the leg. "Ow!" says the guest, "the cat
stuck his claw into me!" The family is delighted. It remarks, "Isn't it sweet 
of him? Isn't he intelligent? He wants you to give hime something to eat."

	The guest dare not do what he would like to do - kick the cat through 
the window - so with tears of rage and pain in his eyes, he affects to be very 
much amused, and sorts out a bit of fish from his plate and gives it to the 
cat. The cat gingerly receives it, with a look in his eyes as much as to say: 
"Another time, my friend, you won't be so full of comprehension," and purrs 
maliciously as he carries the bit of fish away to a safe distance from the 
guest's boot before eating it. A cat isn't a fool - not by a long way.

                                      2.

	When the family has finished tea, and gathers round the fire to enjoy 
the hours of indigestion together, the cat slouches casually out of the room 
and disappears. Life, true life, now begins for him. He saunters down his own 
backyard, springs to the top of the fence with one easy bound, drops lightly 
down the other side, trots across a right-of-way to a vacant allotment, and 
skips to the roof of an empty shed. As he goes, he throws off the effeminate 
look of civilisation; his gait becomes lithe and panther-like; he looks 
quickly, keenly from side-to-side, and moves noiselessly, for he has many 
enemies - dogs, cabmen with whips, and small boys with stones. Arrived on the 
top of the shed, the cat arches his back and rakes his claws once or twice 
through the soft bark of the old roof, then wheels around and stretches 
himself a few times, just to see that every muscle is in full working order; 
and then, dropping his head nearly to his paws, sends across a league of 
backyards his call to his kindred - his call to love, or war, or sport.

	Before long they come - gliding, graceful shadows, approaching 
circuitously, and halting occasionally to look around and reconnoitre - 
tortoiseshell, tabby, and black, all domestic cats, but all transformed for 
the nonce into their natural state. No longer are they hypocritical, meek 
creatures who an hour ago were cadging for fish and milk. They are now 
ruffling, swaggering blades with a Gascon sense of their dignity. Their fights 
are grim, determined battles, and a cat will be clawed to ribbons before he'll 
yield. Even the young lady cats have this inestimable superiority over human 
beings that they can fight among themselves, and work off the jealousy, hatred 
and malice of their lives in a sprawling, yelling combat on a flat roof. All 
cats fight, and all keep themselves more or less in training while they are 
young. Your cat may be the acknowledged lightweight champion of his district - 
a Griffo of the feline ring! Just think how much more he gets out of his life 
than you do out of yours - what hurricane of fighting and love-making his life 
is - and blush for yourself.  You have had one little love affair, and never a 
good, all-out fight in your life!

	And the sport they have,too! As they get older and retire from the 
ring they go in for sport more systematically, and the suburban backyards that 
are to us but dullness indescribable, are to them hunting grounds and trysting 
places where they may have more sport and adventure than ever had King 
Arthur's knights or Robin Hood's merry men. Grimalkin decides to go and kill a 
canary in a neighbouring verandah. Consider the fascination of it - the 
stealthy reconnaissance from the top of the fence; the care to avoid waking 
the house dog; the noiseless approach and the hurried dash upon the verandah, 
and the fierce clawing of the fluttering bird till the mangled body is dragged 
through the bars of the cage; the exultant retreat with the spoil and the 
growling over the feast that follows. Not the least entertaining part of it is 
the demure satisfaction of arriving home in time for breakfast and hearing the 
house-mistress say, "Tom must be sick; he seems to have no appetite."

                                      3.

	It is always levelled as a reproach against cats that they are more 
fond of their home than of the people in it. Naturally, the cat doesn't like 
to leave his country, the land where he has got all his friends, and where he 
knows every landmark. Exiled in a strange land, he would have to learn a new 
geography, would have to find out all about another tribe of dogs, would have 
to fight and make love to an entirely new nation of cats. Life isn't long 
enough for that sort of thing and so, when the family moves, the cat, if 
allowed, will stay at the old house and attach himself to the new occupiers. 
He will give them the priviledge of boarding him while he enjoys life in his 
own way. He is not going to sacrifice his whole career for the doubtful reward 
which fidelity to his old master or mistress might bring. And if people know 
so little about cats, how much less do they know about the dog?

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