"The more I see of
men," he said, "the better I like dogs." I challenge you to produce from
any French source such an encomium on the cat.
No, I continued, the dog is a generous, warmhearted, chivalrous fellow, who
will play with you, mourn for you, or die for you. Why, literature is full
of his heroism. Who has climbed Helvellyn without being haunted by that
shepherd's dog that inspired Scott and Byron? Or the Pass of St. Bernard
without remembering the faithful hounds of the great monastery? But the cat
is a secret and alien creature, selfish and mysterious, a Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde. See her purring on the hearth-rug in front of the fire, and she
seems the picture of innocence and guileless content. All a blind, my dear
fellow, all a blind. Wait till night comes. Then where is demure Mistress
Puss? Is she at home keeping vigil with the good dog Tray? No, the house
may be in blazes or ransacked by burglars for all she cares. She is out on
the tiles and in back gardens pursuing her unholy ritual--that strange
ritual that seems so Oriental, so sinister, so full of devilish purpose.
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