FullReads

“You must beat him, miss,” gasped the cook, “or there’ll never be no bearing him in the house. Every drop of that lovely cream gone, and half the sweets for the ball supper throwed completely out of calculation!”

“Naughty Toots, naughty Toots, naughty Toots!” cried the young lady, and with every “Toots” she gave me a slap; but as her paws had no claws in them, I was more offended than hurt.

This was my first lesson in honesty, and it was also the beginning of that train of reasoning in my own mind, by which I came to understand that when people called “Toots” they meant me. And as–to do them justice–they generally called me with some kind intention, I made a point of responding to my name.

Indeed, they were so kind to me, and my position was such a very comfortable one, that when a lean tabby called one day for a charitable subscription, and begged me to contribute a few spare partridge bones to a fund for the support of starving cats in the neighbourhood, who had been deserted by families leaving town, I said that really such cases were not much in my line. There is a great deal of imposition about–perhaps the cats had stolen the cream, and hadn’t left off stealing it when they were chased by the family. I doubted if families where the cats deserved respect and consideration ever did leave town. One has so many calls, if one once begins to subscribe to things; and I am particularly fond of partridge.

But when, a few months later, the very words which the lean tabby had spoken passed between the butler and the cook in reference to our own household, and I learnt that “the family” were going “to leave town,” I felt a pang of conscience, and wished I had subscribed the merry thought, or even the breast-bone–there was very little on it–to the Deserted Cats’ Fund.

But it was my young mistress who told me (with regrets and caresses, which in the circumstances were mere mockery) that I was to be left behind.

I have a particularly placid temper, and can adapt myself pretty comfortably to the ups and downs of life; but this news made my tail stand on end.

“Poor dear Toots!” said my mistress, kissing my nose, and tickling me gently under the ear, as if she were saying the prettiest things possible. “I am so sorry! I don’t know what we are to do with you! But we are going abroad, and we can’t take you, you dear old thing! We’ve such heaps of luggage, and such lots of servants, and no end of things that must go! But I can’t bear to think of you left behind!”

“No,” said I indignantly; “that’s just it, and the people at number ten, and number fourteen, and number twenty-five, couldn’t bear to think what would become of their cats, so they went away and didn’t think about it. They couldn’t bear to see them die, so they didn’t give them a dose of quick poison, but left them to die of starvation, when they weren’t there to see. You’re a heartless, selfish race, you human beings, and I suspect that Mrs. Tabby is not the only shabby-looking, true-hearted soul, who has to pester people for subscriptions to patch up the dreary end of existence for deserted pets, when caressing days are over. Fuff!”

And I jumped straight out of her arms, and whisked through the dining-room window. For some time I strolled thoughtfully along the top of the area railings. I rather hoped I might see Mrs. Tabby. I wondered how her subscription list was getting on. I felt all the difference between a lady’s interest in a Reduced Gentlewomen’s Benevolent Institution or a Poor Annuitants’ Home, when she is well and wealthy, and the same lady’s interest when some turn of Misfortune’s wheel has left her “dependent on her own exertions.” It seemed that I was to be left dependent on my own exertions–and my thoughts turned naturally to Mrs. Tabby and the Deserted Cats’ Fund.