There is a very well-known folktale about a pompous man who trained his cat to sit on the table and to hold a lighting splinter between his paws so he could read his book every night.

People came from far and wide to witness this marvel and regardless of the noise or commotion the cat would not budge from his position.

These were the days of the poor scholars who travelled between hedge schools and farmhouses and who were always welcomed and well-fed based on respect for their learning and wisdom.

One day a poor scholar called to the house but was offered nothing by way of food or hospitality as the smug farmer, having trained his cat, now considered himself wiser and superior to all.

The poor scholar had the measure of him and made a bet that the cat would drop the light. So confident was the arrogant farmer, he said he would give the scholar his big bag of gold coins if he could make such a thing happen.

The two men sat at the table and the farmer asked the cat to pick up the candle, as soon as he did, the scholar took a mouse from his pocket and the cat dropped the candle and scurried after it.

The farmer went mad and grabbed the cat, placing him back on the table with the candle but the scholar let off another mouse and the cat could not resist, dropping the candle and going in chase. The farmer picked up the cat and eyeballed him with a look of threat and anger and returned him to the table to hold the candle.

Regardless of the stern warning, as soon as the scholar left off the third mouse, the cat made after it and as the farmer went to reproach him, didn’t he scratch and claw the farmer until he bled.

“To hell with you both,” said the farmer handing over the bag of gold, “the poor scholar knew that nature cannot be trained.”

What has me in mind of this folktale is my house is presently overrun with mice. Perhaps it is the summer weather and the open doors or maybe they have been living in the attic all winter and are just coming down to help themselves to little scraps of food.

At night, lying in bed, I can hear the mice scampering around overhead in the attic while their tell-tale droppings in the corner of the kitchen near the cat’s food tell me of their nocturnal journeying. And yes, that is the story!

I have a cat, Inky, a big, well-fed, black cat who seems entirely indifferent to the infesting family of furry rodents.

My folktale above along with the great Irish proverbs ‘Briseann an dúchas trí shúile an chait’ [nature breaks out through the eyes of the cat] and ‘cad é a dhéanach mac an chait ach luch a mharú’ [what is it the son of the cat will do, but kill a mouse] might suggest that Inky should be pre-programmed to chase and kill the mice but this is certainly not the case.

Pangur Bán

Inky’s indifference to my mouse infestation is in stark contrast to what a cat should do and the many detailed references to cats in early medieval Ireland fully reinforce this point.

The most famous medieval cat is Pangur Bán, the companion of an eighth century Irish monastic scribe. The scribe likens his own dedicated search for words to Pangur’s pursuit of mice:

“I and Pangur Bán my cat,

‘Tis a like task we are at:

Hunting mice is his delight,

Hunting words I sit all night.”

The medieval Pangur must have been in discussion when UCC’s Kevin Murray of the Department of Early and Middle Irish decided to make cats the special topic for one of their weekly Wednesday afternoon seminars.

I have a cat, Inky, a big, well-fed, black cat who seems entirely indifferent to the infesting family of furry rodents

Here a group of eminent medieval scholars worked through the many references to cats in the early texts focusing on the eighth century legal text Bretha for Catshlechtae, Judgements on the Categories of Cats.

This and other texts highlight the different types of cats in the ancient past who were valued as pets but more so for keeping the homesteads and farms free of mice.

Meone is the name given to a mighty cat that is distinctive in its vocal mewing and has a value the equivalent of two cows while a Crúibne, a cat named because of its powerful paws (crúb) is a special as it guards the barn, the mill and kiln, where mice would otherwise decimate the grain in store.

More value was assigned to cats that meow as this showed that they were pets and worked in tandem with their owners rather than any untamed, feral cats. One text specifies eight different names for different cats of different colours and demeanours.

In addition to the Crúibne and Meone above, others include the white-breasted, black cats, specifically for women, called Baircne, imported from abroad by ship and who were big and strong and were always found on a pillow beside women.

One suggestion is that Baircne might refer to a small basket in which the cat slept. Another cat is called Glas nenta whose name derives from ‘one who is under the nettle’, a favourite hiding place for cats when hunting and sneaking up stealthily on their prey.

Folum

The cat termed Folum is the cowherd’s cat and is associated with the cows corralled in the ringfort and one imagines it also accompanied the cowherd when the herd moved to the high summer pastures.

The Rincne cat is a cat that scratches and was so called because it tormented the children, and the children tormented it. Cats are mentioned throughout the medieval texts, along with hurleys, balls and loops as the general playthings of children.

My all-black, rotund, Inky cat must be a cross between the tormenting Rincne and the Baircne who sleeps on a cushion all day, for when it comes to mice, she has long retired.

I am certain it is because she is overfed and indeed her bowl of unfinished food is the chief attraction for the many mice around the house.

Inky may have the loud meow of the Meone and big paws of the Cruibne but for the visiting mice she is but a passive spectator.

Shane Lehane is a folklorist who works at UCC and Cork College of FET, Tramore Road Campus. Contact: slehane@ucc.ie