When we became the owner of a canary, Friskie at once showed feline
propensities; she wanted that bird, and saw no reason why she should be
denied it. But when, from various tokens, Friskie learned that we
valued it, she never again evinced any desire for the canary. And when,
afterward, we raised a nest of birdlings, the little cat never attempted
to touch them; no, not even when one flew out of doors and alighted
almost at her feet. Instead of seizing it, Friskie watched us as we
captured and returned it to the cage.
The writer of this story became ill with extreme prostration, and now
Friskie showed her affection in a surprising manner. Each morning she
came into our room with a tidbit, such as she was sure was toothsome:
Mice, rats, at one time a half-grown rabbit, and, at length, a bird.
It was warm weather, the room windows were open, and being upon the
first floor, when Friskie brought in her offerings they were seized and
thrown from the window to the ground. At this she would spring after the
delicacy and bring it back in a hurry, determined that it should be
eaten, mewing and coaxing just as she might with her kittens. That the
food was not accepted evidently distressed her. When she came with the
little bird, she uttered her usual coaxing sound, and then, when it was
unheeded, she sprung upon the bed and was about to give it to the
invalid, who uttered a scream of fright. At this dear Friskie fled from
the room and, we think, she never brought another treat.
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