University of Virginia Library

WILD-CAT HUNTING.

In the southern portions of the United States, but especially
in Louisiana, the wild-cat is found in abundance.
The dense swamps that border on the Mississippi, protect
this vicious species of game from extermination,
and foster their increase; and, although every year vast
numbers are killed, they remain seemingly as numerous
as they ever were “in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.”

The wild-cat seeks the most solitary retreats in
which to rear its young, where in some natural hole in
the ground, or some hollow tree, it finds protection for
itself and its kittens from the destructive hand of man.
At night, or early morn, it comes abroad, stealing over
the dried leaves, in search of prey, as quietly as a
zephyr, or ascending the forest tree with almost the
ease of a bird.

The nest on the tree, and the burrow in the ground
are alike invaded; while the poultry-yard of the farmer,
and his sheepfold, are drawn on liberally, to supply the
cat with food. It hunts down the rabbit, coon, and possum,
and springs from the elevated bough upon the bird
perched beneath, catching in its mouth its victim; and
will do this while descending like an arrow in speed,
and with the softness of a feather to the ground.
Nothing can exceed its beauty of motion when in pursuit
of game, or sporting in play. No leap seems too
formidable—no attitude ungraceful. It runs—flies—
leaps—skips—and is at ease, in an instant of time;
every hair of its body seems redolent with life.

Its disposition is untamable; it seems insensible
to kindness; a mere mass of ill-nature, having no sympathies
with any, not even of its own kind. It is for
this reason, no doubt, that it is so recklessly pursued;
its paw being, like the hand of the Ishmaelite, against
every man; and it most indubitably follows, that every
man's dogs, sticks, and guns, are against it. The
hounds themselves, that hunt equally well the cat and
the fox, pursue the former with a clamorous joy, and
kill it with a zest which they do not display when finishing
off a fine run after Reynard. In fact, as an animal
of sport, the cat in many respects is preferable to the
fox; its trail is always warmer, and it shows more sagacity
in eluding its enemies.

In Louisiana the sportsman starts out in the morning,

professedly for a fox-chase, and it turns out “cat,”
and often both cat and fox are killed, after a short but
hard morning's work.

The chase is varied, and is frequently full of amusing
incident, for the cat, as might be expected, will take
to the trees, to avoid pursuit, and this habit of the animal
allows the sportsman to meet it on quite familiar
terms. If the tree be a tall one, the excitable creature
manages to have its face obscured by the distance; but
if it takes to a dead, limbless trunk, where the height
will permit its head to be fairly seen, as it looks down
upon the pack that, with such open mouths,

you will see a rare exhibition of rage and fury; eyes
that seem like living balls of fire, poisonous claws, which
clutch the insensible wood with deep indentations; the
foam trembles on its jaws; the hair stands up like porcupine
quills; the ears press down to the head, forming
as perfect a picture of vicious, ungovernable destructiveness
as can be imagined. A charge of mustard-seed
shot, or a poke with a stick when at bay, will cause it to
desert its airy abode; and it no sooner touches the
ground, than it breaks off at a killing pace, the pack
like mad fiends on its trail.

Besides “treeing,” the cat will take advantage of
some hole in the ground, and disappear, when it meets

with these hiding-places, as suddenly as ghosts vanish
at cock-crowing. The hounds come up to the hiding-place,
and a fight ensues. The first head intruded into
the cat's hole is sure to meet with a warm reception.
Claws and teeth do their work.

Still the staunch hound heeds it not, and either he
gets a hold himself, or acts as a bait to draw the cat
from its burrow; thus fastened, the dog, being the most
powerful in strength, backs out, dragging his enemy
along with him; and no sooner is the cat's head seen by
the rest of the pack, than they pounce upon it, and in a
few moments the “nine lives” of the “varmint” are
literally chawed-up.

At one of these burrowings, a huge cat intruded into
a hole so small, that an ordinarily large hound could not
follow. A little stunted but excellent dog, rejoicing in
the name of Ringwood, from his diminutiveness succeeded
in forcing his way into the hole after the cat; in an
instant a faint scream was heard, and the little fellow
gave symptoms of having caught a Tartar. One of the
party present stooped down, and running his arm under
the dog's body, pressed it forward, until he could feel
that the cat had the dog firmly clawed by each shoulder,
with his nose in the cat's mouth; in this situation, by
pressing the dog firmly under the chest, the two were
drawn from the hole.

The cat hung on until he discovered that his victim
was surrounded by numerous friends, when he let go

his cruel hold, the more vigorously to defend himself.
Ringwood, though covered with jetting blood, jumped
upon the cat, and shook away as if unharmed in the
contest.

Sportsmen, in hunting the cat, provide themselves
generally with pistols—not for the purpose of killing
the cat, but to annoy it, so that it will leap from the
tree, when it has taken to one. Sometimes from negligence
these infantile shooting-irons are left at home, and
the cat gets safely out of the reach of sticks, or whatever
other missile may be convenient. This is a most provoking
affair; dogs and sportsmen lose all patience;
and as no expedient suggests itself, the cat escapes for
the time.

I once knew a cat thus perched out of reach, that
was brought to terms in a very singular manner.

The tree on which the animal was lodged being a
very high one, and secure from all interruption, it looked
down upon its pursuers with the most provoking complacency;
every effort to dislodge it had failed, and the
hunt was about to be abandoned in despair, when one
of the sportsmen discovered a grape-vine that passed
directly over the cat's body, and by running his eyes
along its circumvolutions, traced it down to the ground;
a judicious jerk at the vine touched the cat on the rump;
this was most unexpected, and it instantly leaped to the
ground from a height of over forty feet; striking on its
fore paws, and throwing a sort of rough somerset, it

started off as sound in limb and wind, as if he had just
jumped from a “hucklebury” bush.

The hunter of the wild turkey, while “calling,” in
imitation of the hen, to allure the gobbler within reach
of his gun, will sometimes be annoyed by the appearance
of the wild-cat stealing up to the place from whence the
sounds proceed. The greatest caution on such occasions
is visible in the cat; it progresses by the slowest possible
movements, crawling along like a serpent. The hunter
knows that the intruder has spoiled his turkey sport for
the morning, and his only revenge is to wait patiently,
and give the cat the contents of his gun, then, minus all
game, he goes home anathematizing the whole race of
cats, for thus interfering with his sport and his dinner.

Of all the peculiarities of the cat, its untameable and
quarrelsome disposition, is its most marked characteristic.

There is no half-way mark, no exception, no occasional
moment of good nature; starvation and a surfeit,
blows and kind words, kicks, cuffs, and fresh meat, reach
not the sympathies of the wild-cat.

He has all the greediness of a pawnbroker, the ill nature
of a usurer, the meanness of a pettifogging lawyer,
the blind rage of the hog, and the apparent insensibility
to pain of the turtle: like a woman, the wild-cat is incomparable
with any thing but itself.

In expression of face, the wild-cat singularly resembles
the rattlesnake. The skulls of these two “varmints”

have the same venomous expression, the same
demonstration of fangs; and probably no two living creatures
attack each other with more deadly ferocity and
hate. They will stare at each other with eyes filled
with defiance, and burning with fire; one hissing, and
the other snarling; presenting a most terrible picture of
the malevolence of passion.

The serpent in his attitudes is all grace—the cat, all
activity. The serpent moves with the quickness of
lightning while making the attack; the cat defends
with motions equally quick, bounding from side to side,
striking with its paws. Both are often victims, for they
seldom separate until death-blows have been inflicted on
either side.

The western hunter, when he wishes to cap the climax
of braggadocio, with respect to his own prowess,
says, “He can whip his weight in wild-cats.” This is
saying all that can be said, for it would seem, considering
its size, that the cat in a fight can bite fiercer, scratch
harder, and live longer than any other animal whatever.

“I am a roaring earthquake in a fight,” sung out
one of the half-horse, half-alligator species of fellows—
“a real snorter of the universe. I can strike as hard as
fourth proof lightning, and keep it up, rough and tumble,
as long as a wild-cat.”

These high encomiums on the character of the pugnacity
of the cat are beyond question.

A “singed cat” is an excellent proverb, illustrating

that a person may be smarter than he looks. A singed
wild-cat, as such an illustration, would be sublime.

The Indians, who, in their notions and traditions,
are always picturesque and beautiful, imagine that the
rattlesnake, to live, must breathe the poisonous air of
the swamps, and the exhalations of decayed animal matter;
while the cat has the attribute of gloating over the
meaner displays of evil passions of a quarrelsome person;
for, speaking of a quarrelsome family, they say,
“That the lodge containing it fattens the wild-cat.”