We once owned an old cat and her daughter, and when the mother had
several kittens and the daughter had but one, the grandmother stole the
daughter's kitten, and though the young mother cried piteously she never
regained possession of her child. Again, once when our brother was
ploughing he overturned a rabbit's nest, and taking the young rabbits
therefrom he gave them to the cat, who had just been robbed of her
kittens. Pussy was at once devoted to these babies, and cared for them
tenderly, never for a moment neglecting them. Nevertheless, they died,
one by one; their foster mother's care was not the kind they needed.
Of all our cats we speak most tenderly of Friskie. She was brought when
a kitten to our farm home, and if ever cat deserved eulogy it was she. A
small cat with black coat and white breast and legs, not particularly
handsome, but thoroughly good and very intelligent. The children played
with her as they would; she was never known to scratch them, but would
show her disapproval of any rough handling by a tap with her tiny velvet
paw. She was too kind to scratch them.
Friskie grew up with Trip, our little black and tan dog, and though Trip
was selfish with her, Friskie loved him and showed her affection in
various ways. If the dog came into the house wet with dew or rain the
dear little cat would carefully dry him all off with her tongue, and
though he growled at her for her officiousness she would persevere till
the task was accomplished, and then the two would curl up behind the
stove and together take a nap.
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