Part 12 (1/2)
He ate so loud I thought some one was choking, and when I walked over to the side of the table and looked in his face, I found he was eating with a big knife so fast it made me wink. This increased my dislike of him, and I refused all his overtures to make friends with me.
He said I was ”a proud critter.” He guessed lots of time was spent on keeping my fur so nice. And ”as to that trinket on my neck, it was too fine for a cat.”
One day I solved the mystery of his head-gear. I chanced to peep into his room,--as no place was sacred from my investigation,--and I saw another old man, his head as bare as the bed-post. When he said ”p.u.s.s.y, p.u.s.s.y,” I fled in alarm, but not before I had discovered that it was the same old man minus the top of his head. It was a wonder to me, and I never rested till I found that head-gear. They called it a wig, but I called it a ”bird's nest.”
Then I made up my mind to investigate it. Soon my opportunity came. All the people had gone to ride, and I was making a tour of the house, when loud breathing convinced me my old man was at home. Bad cat that I was, I just followed the noise, and sure enough, there he lay, flat on his back, his mouth wide open, sound asleep.
Of course I climbed up and looked into his open mouth. Another discovery I made: he had not one tooth in his head! And the wind and spray that covered me, from his open mouth, satisfied me with a brief investigation.
On the floor, by his side, lay the bone of contention, the brown wig I had speculated on so long. I grabbed it, and carrying it into a corner, inspected it thoroughly. Then I clawed it a little, and at last seated myself in it. Something about it acted like a narcotic, and in this uncomfortable bird's nest I fell asleep.
I dreamed that I was sitting under the piazza, when I heard voices. One of them said: ”Why should not cat's fur be used for wigs and bangs? Gray hair is so fas.h.i.+onable.”
”Oh,” replied a young voice, ”think of Aunt Sally with a maltese front-piece, and Grandpa and Uncle Jim with tiger-cat wigs!”
”Well,” replied the first speaker, ”if it were the fas.h.i.+on, we should like it. That great, pampered cat belonging to those two big-feeling old maids would make nice wigs, for his fur is as soft as silk.”
”Yes, and that long tail of his,” said the young girl, ”would make a beautiful tippet, with a squirrel's head on it.”
”But,” lowering her voice, ”if Brother Rob was here I would get him to coax him off, and get his skin. It would make a beautiful rug for my room.”
Just then a shout awoke me, and the old man on the lounge also. He fought wildly for his wig. Dazed by my dream, I sat blinking my half-open eyes from one to the other. They were just screaming with laughter at the sight I presented, seated in Grandfather's wig.
Miss Milly took me out rather roughly, I thought, and smoothed it as well as she could. The old man looked on in surprise, muttering, ”I knew that durned critter was up to mischief.”
After it was combed out and put on right, the old man, conciliated by a good dinner that he loved, invited me to a seat on his knee in token of his forgiveness. I declined the favor with scorn. Sit on a knee covered with corduroy when all my life I had been used to broadcloth? _Never!_
My dream troubled me very much. I am a superst.i.tious cat, and believe in warnings. So I kept close to my mistress; for in every one that approached I saw an enemy ready to despoil me of my beautiful fur coat.
Though I am a good judge of human nature, as silent people are apt to be, I never had that confidence in people, that makes life so pleasant, I had felt before my dream.
When we left for home, Grandfather Tomkins said to Miss Milly: ”You had better give that great critter to me. He would like my farm to run about in, and I have taken a liking to him.” Then he added, with a sly wink at me, ”He can sleep in an old wig I have at home.”
I trembled at the thought, and hid in the folds of Miss Milly's dress, as she said, ”Daisy is just like a child to us; we could never part with him.”
”Well, well,” he said; ”I believe the critter knows all we say.”
I was glad enough to see the last of that place. I preferred one room and no companions but my own friends. These uncongenial people had given me a good lesson.
I was more careful about running away, for when one has a fur garment to protect, suspecting every one of a desire to make wigs, front-pieces, tippets, and fur rugs of it, he has a great care. I only wish I could tell my dream to my friends, but it is a great consolation to write it.
XV
CAT ANECDOTES
I have never been particularly fond of poetry; it has always, with a few exceptions, seemed to me to be ”wishy-washy.”
One day when it was quite dismal and rainy, Miss Eleanor said, ”This little poem of Tupper's is a real protest for the future life and immortality of animals.”
Of course that great big word was a poser, but after a time spent under the bed and a great deal of stuttering I mastered it. Then she read these lines, and I must quote them because they may influence those who never have any mind of their own, and depend on other people's opinions, to believe that cats have an after life.