By Edgar Allan Poe
FOR the most wild， yet most homely narrative which I amabout to pen， I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeedwould I be to expect it， in a case where my very senses rejecttheir own evidence. Yet， mad am I not—and very surely do I notdream. But to-morrow I die， and to-day I would unburthen mysoul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world， plainly，succinctly， and without comment， a series of mere householdevents. In their consequences， these events have terrified—havetortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expoundthem. To me， they have presented little but Horror—to manythey will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter， perhaps，some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasmto the common-place—some intellect more calm， more logical，and far less excitable than my own， which will perceive， in thecircumstances I detail with awe， nothing more than an ordinarysuccession of very natural causes and effects.
From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanityof my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even soconspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I wasespecially fond of animals， and was indulged by my parentswith a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of mytime， and never was so happy as when feeding and caressingthem. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth， andin my manhood， I derived from it one of my principal sourcesof pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for afaithful and sagacious dog， I need hardly be at the troubleof explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratificationthus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and selfsacrificinglove of a brute， which goes directly to the heart ofhim who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendshipand gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
I married early， and was happy to find in my wife adisposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing mypartiality for domestic pets， she lost no opportunity ofprocuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds，gold-fish， a fine dog， rabbits， a small monkey， and a cat.
This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal，entirely black， and sagacious to an astonishing degree. Inspeaking of his intelligence， my wife， who at heart was nota little tinctured with superstition， made frequent allusion tothe ancient popular notion， which regarded all black cats aswitches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon thispoint—and I mention the matter at all for no better reason thanthat it happens， just now， to be remembered.
Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet andplaymate. I alone fed him， and he attended me wherever I wentabout the house. It was even with difficulty that I could preventhim from following me through the streets.
Our friendship lasted， in this manner， for several years，during which my general temperament and character—throughthe instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance—had （I blushto confess it） experienced a radical alteration for the worse. Igrew， day by day， more moody， more irritable， more regardlessof the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperatelanguage to my wife. At length， I even offered her personalviolence. My pets， of course， were made to feel the change inmy disposition. I not only neglected， but ill-used them. ForPluto， however， I still retained sufficient regard to restrain mefrom maltreating him， as I made no scruple of maltreating therabbits， the monkey， or even the dog， when by accident， orthrough affection， they came in my way. But my disease grewupon me—for what disease is like Alcohol！—and at lengtheven Pluto， who was now becoming old， and consequentlysomewhat peevish—even Pluto began to experience the effectsof my ill temper.
One night， returning home， much intoxicated， from oneof my haunts about town， I fancied that the cat avoided mypresence. I seized him； when， in his fright at my violence， heinflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The furyof a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer.
My original soul seemed， at once， to take its flight from mybody and a more than fiendish malevolence， gin-nurtured，thrilled every fibre of my frame. I took from my waistcoatpocketa pen-knife， opened it， grasped the poor beast by thethroat， and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket！ Iblush， I burn， I shudder， while I pen the damnable atrocity.
When reason returned with the morning—when I hadslept off the fumes of the night’s debauch—I experienceda sentiment half of horror， half of remorse， for the crimeof which I had been guilty； but it was， at best， a feeble andequivocal feeling， and the soul remained untouched. I againplunged into excess， and soon drowned in wine all memory ofthe deed.