University of Virginia Library

THE AMERICAN WILD-CAT.

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 plentiful 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 at 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
it in its mouth—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

is 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 Ishmaelite's, 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 that 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 is 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 are yelling at its feet, with such
open mouths, that they

you will see a rare exhibition of rage and fury; eyes
that seem like living balls of fire, poisonous claws,
that clutch the insensible wood with deep indentations;
the foam trembles on its jaws; hair standing
up like porcupine quills; ears pressed 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 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 him,
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 showed 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 desert from the
tree, when it has taken to one. Sometimes 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 loose all patience,
and as no expedient suggests itself, the cat escapes
for the time. I once knew of 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, 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 forepaws,
throwing a sort of rough somerset, and then starting
ing off as sound in limb and wind as if he had leaped
off a “huckleberry” bush.

The hunter of the wild turkey, while “calling,”
in imitation of the hen, to allure the gobler within
reach of his rifle, 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; the cat advancing
by the slowest possible movements, stealing 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 untamable
and quarrelsome disposition is its most marked characteristic.
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.
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 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 creatures living
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 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, “the lodge containing them fattens
the wild-cat.”