Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (bts book recommendations .txt) 📕

most prolonged and careful selection and exclusion they had developed a race of cats that did not sing! That’s a fact. The most those poor dumb brutes could do was to make a kind of squeak when they were hungry or wanted the door open, and, of course, to purr, and make the various mother-noises to their kittens.

Moreover, they had ceased to kill birds. They were rigorously bred to destroy mice and moles and all such enemies of the food supply; but the birds were numerous and safe.

While we were discussing birds, Terry asked them if they used feathers for their hats, and they seemed amused at the idea. He made a few sketches of our women’s hats, with plumes and quills and those various tickling things that stick out so far; and they were eagerly interested, as at everything about our women.

As for them, they said they only wore hats for shade when working in the sun; and those were big light straw hats, something like those used in China and Japan. In cold weather they wore caps or hoods.

“But for decorative purposes⁠—don’t you think they would be becoming?” pursued Terry, making as pretty a picture as he could of a lady with a plumed hat.

They by no means agreed to that, asking quite simply if the men wore the same kind. We hastened to assure her that they did not⁠—and drew for them our kind of headgear.

“And do no men wear feathers in their hats?”

“Only Indians,” Jeff explained. “Savages, you know.” And he sketched a war bonnet to show them.

“And soldiers,” I added, drawing a military hat with plumes.

They never expressed horror or disapproval, nor indeed much surprise⁠—just a keen interest. And the notes they made!⁠—miles of them!

But to return to our pussycats. We were a good deal impressed by this achievement in breeding, and when they questioned us⁠—I can tell you we were well pumped for information⁠—we told of what had been done for dogs and horses and cattle, but that there was no effort applied to cats, except for show purposes.

I wish I could represent the kind, quiet, steady, ingenious way they questioned us. It was not just curiosity⁠—they weren’t a bit more curious about us than we were about them, if as much. But they were bent on understanding our kind of civilization, and their lines of interrogation would gradually surround us and drive us in till we found ourselves up against some admissions we did not want to make.

“Are all these breeds of dogs you have made useful?” they asked.

“Oh⁠—useful! Why, the hunting dogs and watchdogs and sheepdogs are useful⁠—and sleddogs of course!⁠—and ratters, I suppose, but we don’t keep dogs for their usefulness. The dog is ‘the friend of man,’ we say⁠—we love them.”

That they understood. “We love our cats that way. They surely are our friends, and helpers, too. You can see how intelligent and affectionate they are.”

It was a fact. I’d never seen such cats, except in a few rare instances. Big, handsome silky things, friendly with everyone and devotedly attached to their special owners.

“You must have a heartbreaking time drowning kittens,” we suggested. But they said, “Oh, no! You see we care for them as you do for your valuable cattle. The fathers are few compared to the mothers, just a few very fine ones in each town; they live quite happily in walled gardens and the houses of their friends. But they only have a mating season once a year.”

“Rather hard on Thomas, isn’t it?” suggested Terry.

“Oh, no⁠—truly! You see, it is many centuries that we have been breeding the kind of cats we wanted. They are healthy and happy and friendly, as you see. How do you manage with your dogs? Do you keep them in pairs, or segregate the fathers, or what?”

Then we explained that⁠—well, that it wasn’t a question of fathers exactly; that nobody wanted a⁠—a mother dog; that, well, that practically all our dogs were males⁠—there was only a very small percentage of females allowed to live.

Then Zava, observing Terry with her grave sweet smile, quoted back at him: “Rather hard on Thomas, isn’t it? Do they enjoy it⁠—living without mates? Are your dogs as uniformly healthy and sweet-tempered as our cats?”

Jeff laughed, eyeing Terry mischievously. As a matter of fact we began to feel Jeff something of a traitor⁠—he so often flopped over and took their side of things; also his medical knowledge gave him a different point of view somehow.

“I’m sorry to admit,” he told them, “that the dog, with us, is the most diseased of any animal⁠—next to man. And as to temper⁠—there are always some dogs who bite people⁠—especially children.”

That was pure malice. You see, children were the⁠—the raison d’être in this country. All our interlocutors sat up straight at once. They were still gentle, still restrained, but there was a note of deep amazement in their voices.

“Do we understand that you keep an animal⁠—an unmated male animal⁠—that bites children? About how many are there of them, please?”

“Thousands⁠—in a large city,” said Jeff, “and nearly every family has one in the country.”

Terry broke in at this. “You must not imagine they are all dangerous⁠—it’s not one in a hundred that ever bites anybody. Why, they are the best friends of the children⁠—a boy doesn’t have half a chance that hasn’t a dog to play with!”

“And the girls?” asked Somel.

“Oh⁠—girls⁠—why they like them too,” he said, but his voice flatted a little. They always noticed little things like that, we found later.

Little by little they wrung from us the fact that the friend of man, in the city, was a prisoner; was taken out for his meager exercise on a leash; was liable not only to many diseases but to the one destroying horror of rabies; and, in many cases, for the safety of the citizens, had to go muzzled. Jeff maliciously added vivid instances he had known or read of injury and death from mad dogs.

They did not scold or fuss