The Aristocracy of Cats

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 1, 7 July 1909, Page 34

The Aristocracy of Cats

By

VIRGINIA RODERICK

THERE is no answer —there is no answer to most questions about the cat. She has kept herself wrapped in mystery for some three thousand years, and there’s no use trying to solve her now. We must be content to like her or not like her. But for those of us who regard the question “Bo you like cats?” as a sort of temperamental touchstone, it is significant to note how many of her admirers have been of contemplative habits. Everybody knows how gruff Dr. Johnson used to go out to get oysters for his eat Hodge, and how .Scott lamented the death of Hinse, his “acquaintance, and, in some sort, friend of 15 years”; how eats tyrannised over popes anil English prelates. The list of the cat’s lovers is long and cosmopolitan. The songs sung about her by such poets as Arnold, Gray, Swinburne, and Cowper would make a sizable cat anthology; the prose studies of her by such as Gautier, Chateaubriand, Zola, and Agnes Repplier would fill a library shelf. Puss counts, besides, among her modern friends many literary people. Arid, in addition to this friendship of individuals, there has come about in recent years a special exaltation, some faint re-estab-lishment, on a new basis, of her old Egv ptian standing. She has been again set up for the admiration of the multitude—this time in Madison Square Garden and similar exhibition places instead of in Theban temples. Long rows of dingy eases, (dosed on three sides; a low murmur of conversation ; a blended “meow” punctuated by some strange wailing voice that you shrink from tracing to its source—this is the threshold impression of an exhibition of the Feline Four Hundred. But you begin walking down the aisle: you stop fascinated by the exquisite grace of a kitten making pretence of fierce attack on some wiggling thing visible only to a kitten eye; you catch a glimpse of some great white plume of a eat posing against silken hangings; you pass lordly creatures with inscrutable eyes and awesome dignity, in eoatcolours soft or vivid, some of them “kitchen eat” colours furbished up. some of them perhaps quite strange to you Suddenly, as you come upon colour after colour, you realise what all this is like. If you could only look down from a gallery into open cages—on flaming oranges, jetty blacks, snowy whites, and delicate silvers in promiscuous arrangement, this roomful of eats would suggest a chrysanthemum show — cat and chrysanthemum are both so vividly beautiful, so increased in size and so varied in colour by cultivation. Some of those silvers, for instance, are particularly like the most artificial of chrysanthemums—those with petal tips of a different colour from the rest of the flower. Stop here by Argent Glorious, standing on the ledge outside his cage, and see. A light silvery colour

he is, with a dark shade along his back and on face and legs; and as his mistress

parts the long fur, you see that this darker tone is only at the tips, while all beneath is clear, palest silver, as is

also the frill of long hair about his neck—the Lord Mayor’s ruff, which is part of a long-haired cat’s equipment. He is a “shaded silver Persian,” the Cat-wise People who stand about will tell you, and they may challenge you to find four other kinds of silvers before you leave.

“Is there anything like them among the common cats?” you may ask, and you are told that the silvers (with one exception) are as truly a “made” class as are Howers that have been changed in form and colour by careful experimentation, and that they are now the most fashionable in pussies—for there are styles in cats as in other things with which women are mostly concerned. “But just what did you mean by a ‘ common eat ’?” someone will ask you, and if you are no wiser than I was at my first cat show, you will say: “Why, anything that isn’t an Angora, or some strange foreign breed. A cat with short hair—a common American puss.” And then they will lead you to another part of the room and show you “com-

mon” cat after cat, behind wires heavily hung with blue and white ribbons and medals. For the day of the shorthaired cat, it seems, has dawned—only a few years ago in America, to be sure, but brightly. You can match among the short hairs almost any colour you find among their more regal brethren—even

some of the strange silver, and creams, one of the latest things in pussy cats. Short-haired and long, there are more than two hundred and fifty blue-blooded cats at this typical show, every one with his name and a more or less imposing diagram of his ancestry recorded in one of two pedigree books recognised by the Department of Agriculture. And this is but one of perhaps thirty shows held every winter by as many clubs all over the United States, from Springfield to Los Angeles, and in Canadaall under the supervision of two governing associations, one of which has about 500 and the other about 900 cats on its books. Besides, there are societies for special kinds and colours, and two monthly magazines devoted exclusively to, pussy eats.

Behind all this machinery, at the foundation of the comparatively new business of cat breeding, is the ideal of beauty. There is no question here of adaptation to purpose, as in the case of dogs; no emphasis, for instance, on the cat’s immemorial occupation—mousing; happily, however, it seems there need be none. Proud winners of ribbons, cups, and medals, if but given an opportunity, still catch mice as eagerly as the official mousers employed in post office and warehouse. Columbia Patrick, one of the finest black Persians in the country, has killed two rats almost in a breath!

But it is Columbia Patrick’s beauty, not his prowess, that makes his mistress value him at more than £lOO. It is, in the final analysis, beauty, that puts that value on several of these “kings” and “queens,” as they are magnificently called, and makes any first-class, pedigreed long-haired cat, with a prize-winning record, worth from £3O to £6O; a promising Persian kitten, or a short-haired cat, from £lO to £3O. Though the £lOO valuation is occasionally passed, the higher figure usually proclaims that the cats are not for sale. An instance is

“Petie”—sometimes in the show, always at it, along with the “cat literature” of which his master has charge. His owner solemnly says that Petie is worth £4OO, but explains at once that the price does not represent commercial value. The Honourable Peter Stirling is, however, of unusual interest because of his remarkable intelligence; going a degree farther than the occasional puss one sees on a lead, he is the only cat known to fame that has walked quite unfettered with his master on Broadway.

What constitutes the cat beauty that may be worth £lOO, and is the basis whereon this furry aristocracy has been established? One may not solve alone all the colour problems, but by comparing the prize winners one can guess closely at what the cat should be in structure beneath his fine furs. For one example among many, look at Champion Osiris, in a coat colour so familiar as not to distract. Note his head—massive and round—an '‘apple” head; a face of that particular cast that we call a “baby” face—round, broad, with full, round eyes, straightly set; a short nose —a long nose the breeders speak of contemptuously as “snipey”—and short ears, rounded, lined with tufts, and set well down on his eh<

:eks. Besides this general roundness, the cat beautiful, long or short-haired, must have a “cobby,” or compact, short body with good bone; and rather short legs and tail. Fanciers tell with glee of unenlightened persons who actually .boast of the length of their cat’s tail, and are astounded to hear it pronounced a defect. Cats the colour of Osiris are what you or I might unwittingly call Maltese—or

Chinchillas, which should be pure silver from nose to tip of tail, are very fashionable cats.

even “Maltee”! —in the belief, not very firmly supported, that this type of cat came originally from the island of Malta. It’s one of the thousand and one points on which cat people cannot reach a common conclusion. But though we may not be sure where “Maltese” cats came from, we may know that their official name is not Maltese, but blue. Nor is the name merely name, either, for though no eat goes so far as to emulate the sky

in shade, the colour ranges from a lavender tinge to a very dark blue, and at least is nearer to blue than to any other colour. It is just possible that you or I would have thought any one of the blue or blacks here improved by a white shirtfront or a pair or so of white slippers. But such an adornment, however pleasing even to the eyes of the elect, would condemn any cat, of any colour, to the outer darkness of the “Any Other Colour” class, beyond hope of a championship. Even a few white hairs would shut him out from prizes. That white—except for all white—is taboo is a first principle of eat colour.

There is another 'bugaboo besides white. As you’ve passed along the aisles, haven’t you heard constant murmurs in tones now approving, now sharply uncomplimentary, about “tabby markings”? To understand the reason for the different tones is to understand another colour convention. In the first place, “tabby” is not a mere pleasant nickname for any cat, nor is the cat world divided into Toms and Tabbies. The name, coming apparently from “Atalb,” a street in Bagdad inhabited by weavers of a kind of silk that showed wavy lines, indicates, at its simplest, a striped cat. Oyama—a gorgeous fluff of bright orange fur with broad dark orange bands about his body and in smaller circles on legs and chest, is an orange (or red) tabby, and his markings are his glory; Champion Red Prince of Gladisfenn, who looks like a great heap of ripe oranges, is merely an “orange,” and should have no markings at all—because, forsooth, the “fancy” decided to enrich the world by producing clear orange as well as orange-striped eats. In the same way, they have made clear silver eats—the chinchilla, approaching in Al Tarek and Silver Phantom the uniform pale beauty that is the ideal—while they have kept also the silver tabby, with its silver ground colour and black markings. And they have taken the tabby marks quite out of the blues, but without leaving a blue tabby any place in good society. Oh, bold tasks they set themselves, and hard ones, for the primitive cat, it seems, had tabby markings —and they stick! Brown, orange, or silver, the tabbies are indulged in only two colours —hardly more than two shades, indeed. The only cat that is permitted to have more —and compete for a championship—is the tortoiseshell, which has yellow, black, and orange patches, and presents, to my mind, a strangely scrambled appearance.

And now you come to that row of whites on the far side of the room —a long line of soft masses of ivory white, Persian and short-haired, rather sumptuously mounted on blue or red velvet cushions with great, bright ribbon bows on their cages. One hears that the addition of sueh accessories is frowned upon in some quarters, but the unprofessional spectator could wish it were

compulsory to arrange each cat against his most becoming background.

One notices at once the differences in colour of eye: Champion Sousa, a white Persian male, with magnificent length and weight of coat, has eyes as blue as any baby’s; so has White Aigrette, with her beautiful head; while Champion White Monk, also of splendid type, is golden-eyed. Blue-eyed whites are the favourites; but then 1 is often a curious operation of the law of compensation against them: they are frequently stone deaf. A story is told of Carrara, deaf mother of one or two prize-winners, that seems to show that deafness does not imply dullness. One day Carrara saw on the walls the shadow of some keys that her mistress was jangling. Her back was to the keys and, being deaf, she did not hear the sound. The intangible, uneatchable shadows evidently annoyed her. Presently, she happened to turn and, seeing the keys, looked from them to the shadow and back again several times—with what seemed like recognition and then pounced upon the real keys triumphantly. Another curious thing about white cats is that they sometimes have odd eyes—one blue and one yellow. So interesting an assortment of course disqualifies a cat from winning the highest prizes. There is, indeed, a rigidly prescribed colour of eye for each colour of coat. And here aesthetic claims make themselves strongly felt. Note the assortment: a white cat must have blue eyes, or, at second choice, golden; black and orange—deep orange eyes; blue—orange or copper colour; cream —orange or hazel; silvers—sea-green with dark rim. The fashion in colour of eye has been changed in several instances to accommodate rising aesthetic standards. For example, the fashionable eye for a silver used to be amber; but obviously green is better than amber with gray in cats as in women’s frocks. But should they not have thought again be-

fore changing from green to orange eyes for the black cat? A green-eyed black cat is a witch-cat, and the type ought to be preserved as an institution, a historical monument. Besides, to give the real witch-cat high place in these modern shows would be to offer atonement for the cruel wrongs that she suffered throughout the Middle Ages, when innocent cats were tortured as were innocent human beings, because they

were supposed to lend themselves to evil enchantments. Now —so much repara-

tion at least has been made —black cats are supposed to bring good luck: “Where’er the cat o' the house is black, The lasses o’ lovers will have no lack.” There is a eat over there that looks like a black at first glance—only a bit dingy, perhaps. But when you go closer, and ask about him, you find he belongs to that five-branehed silver family. You will not get a good look at him unless his mistress is about, for he lies drowsy and inattentive no matter what stranger may speak to him. But the moment his owner approaches the cage Kewloeke is up and anxious to come out; and fhen you can see what makes him “smoke.” Beneath that dark surface is a silvery white undercoat —so that eaeh hair is white at the root and blaek at file tip. To further the contrast, his great Lord Mayor’s ruff is silver, and so is the underside of the tail, while face and paws are jet blaek. Kewlocke’s owner values him too highly to put any price on him, but kittens sired bv him have sold as high at £2O. At last you are face to face with the author of the blood-chilling scale of wails that you have been hearing at intervals ever since you have come in. You find him a short-hair for whom the term aristocratic is too mild. He is a Royal cat of the Royal Siamese, which are carefully kept in the palace at Bangkok and are quite distinct from the common cat of the country. Comparatively few specimens are to be found in England and America, and it isi.nl. of late years that they have been obtainable at all. Several pairs haye been given away by the King of Siam as presents, and the breed is now numerous enough that one or two specimens appear usually at the larger shows. Chief Justice Harlan has a pair imported directly from the Siamese court.

Now, whether one’s first impression of a Siamese cat be vocal or visual, it will be vivid. Vocally—you know him. In person he is of a cream colour—sometimes fawn—with nose, ears, paws, and tail of a deep chocolate, looking as if someone had started to dip him in brown paint and had thought better of it. He has large, deep blue eyes, which are rather weirdly out of harmony with his make up. In fact, it would seem that the Siamese cat and the standards applied to him abound in

paradox and contradiction. For instance, to a casual observer, the Siamese look distinctly wild; yet they are reputed the most affectionate of cats, and are given to following their owners about dog-fashion. Then, breeders cannot alt. .get her agree as to whether there is a second distinct variety of Siamese, all chocolate coloured, or whether these are only darker specimens of the eream-and-

brown cat. The most interesting theory is that the' Chocolate Siamese, with its amber eyes, is the temple cat in Siam, as distinguished from the showier and blue-eyed palace puss. All Siamese cats are born white, and do not complete their dark markings for several months, the parts, that are ;to be chocolate first beginning to look grey and gradually turning brown. Five other unusual varieties of imported short-haired cats are recognised by the Cat Fanciers’ Association; of these the most important is the Manx, that curious puss whose most striking characteristic is the absence, or briefness, of tail. It may be prejudice, but 1 don t think I could love a Manx cat: it would seem so incomplete; I should pity it. There are delightful stories of the origin of these cats, which not only belong primarily to the Isle of Man', and have been bred there, but alas and alas, have been there manufactured by the natives from cats rightfully entitled to tails. They are variously supposed to have originated from a cross with a rabbit, from the progeny of eats unluckily deprived of their tails, and from the wreck on the Manx coast of cue of the vessels of the Spanish Armada, which had on board some tailless cats from the Far East, where they are still found. The most likely bit of fact to be gathered from these stories is that these tailless cats did at. least originate in the East. But does not that leave forever unsettled the question as to how tailless cats got a start there? A suggestive bit of Manx biogis related by a writer in the “Scientific American”—about a tailless Manx puss that learned to let himself through a spring-shutting door, but always-, having pushed himself part way in, made a quick turn to save the tail ue’d never had. If a flower garden of eats is pleasant to see transplanted to an exhibition room, it is far pleasanter on home soil, where the pussies are free from any sense of strangeness and can be natural. At his best, the cat at home is truly lapped in luxury. A well-equipped cattery in Grand Rapids, Michigan, for instance, is a complete house, with hardwood floors, electric lights, and furnace. Downstairs are separate compartments for the stud cats, opening on outside runs enclosed with wire netting. Little doors in the lower part of the wall are arranged so that every eat can take the air quite at his own pleasure. On the second floor is a large hall -a -ort of dancing floor, where the kittens prance and tumble by day with their playthings, and where on winter nights the females lie in cosy sleeping-boxes. Here, too. are pens for mother cats ami young kittens, set apart from the stir-

A young orange tabby Persian, or Boston, who has begun a promising show career.

ring life of every day. In the front of the house below is a kind of reception room, panelled in red and green, pleasantly furnished with chairs, rugs, cat pictures, baskets for cats, displays of cups, medals, and ribbons, and all else that makes a fitting place for pussy’s gracious entertainment of human visitors.

This elegance is by no means exceptional in cat homes. Several others similarly appointed come to mind. Whatever be one’s judgment of such a luxurious setting for cats, one service that the cat cult has rendered in teaching that kindly spirit to animals which is part of “civilisation” should not be minimised. Very many of the clubs have organised' refuges, where stray kits can be. cared for, mercifully killed, or provided with homes, and have done all in their power to score the callous cruelty of persons who desert cats to care for themselves, on some throughtle.'H theory that the world is full of mice, or on no theory at all. Hundreds of years ago in England the law imposed on cat killers a fine of as much wheat as would serve to bury the eat when he was held up by the tip of the tail with his nose on the ground. >ome modern requirement relatively ar? severe might help to lessen the number of neglected and abandoned pussies. She deserves well of the world —this “fireside sphinx.” as Miss Repplier calls her—who so combines service with beauty and grace; who is so devoted and ingenious a mother, and admits understanding human friends to so pleasant a companionship. As to whe-

ther or not she gives them also affection, or whether she rejoices only in the touch <»f hands on her fur—is it not as unanswerable a question as

whether she purrs in solitude? Still, if Louis Wain, the <at cartoonist, bo right in his theory that stroking cats soothes taxed nerves, conceivably the cat has her own opinion—she looks wise enough to think anvthing—as to how much of her

master's professed love is a mere sense of well-being.