Three books into L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables series, all I have been able to think about since is the scene wherein Anne and Phil decide to chloroform a cat so they can kill it. I’ve been at this nearly every day for a year. I set out reading this series because I wanted to read it all, as an adult, especially since I didn’t really get to in my childhood. I was enjoying it, even though my grandmother’s books have that old book look-and-feel to them, crisp yellowed pages of fragility and all. She’s got almost the whole series, so it seemed like a great opportunity.
However, this scene—and those following in the same regard, pertaining to the cat in question—is what haunts me above all else that happened within the pages of all the books. I’ve read this, and now I can’t stop wondering whether Montgomery hated cats. I looked to Google, searching for all I could find. I learned more deal breakers—I finally understand the saying “don’t meet your heroes”. Even though she’s not a hero, I see her differently now. She had a blatantly obvious favorite son and alienated the remainder of her children, including a son who never quite got over it.
A cached page claims Montgomery wrote in her journals that she loved cats, calling it a “little known fact”.
Still, it haunts me. A year before I finished Anne of the Island, my own cat died; maybe I was feeling sensitive to it all. Either way, my perception of L.M. Montgomery is tainted. I imagined her living a life along the lines of Lois Duncan, a woman who wrote books about “bad things happening to young girls” and could continue no further after her own daughter was murdered. I think the little girl in me hoped that Montgomery was more like Lois Duncan, because my mother wasn’t motherly. I think it’s the little girl in me, who grew up into the person I am today, who is disappointed because L.M. Montgomery’s treatment of her kids, from what I’ve gathered from research I’ve conducted over the last year, is eerily similar to the way my mom treats her children—living in fantasy land when reality is inconvenient and allowing it to affect the lives of her children.
I know a cached page claims Montgomery loved cats, but that is the only page I have found claiming she felt anything positive for cats. No one else seems to say anything. Maybe it’s a scene created for the nature study movement. Maybe I’m sour because the author of one of my favorite childhood characters lived a life teetering on the same edge as that of my mother’s and it’s a little too real for me. Maybe it’s just because my cat died.
Either way, I’m not sure if I’ll continue. I don’t feel anything pulling at me to continue anymore. I have interest in other books I’d rather read, wherein I don’t expect anyone to be chloroforming any cats anytime soon. I am also totally judging cat murderers of the early 1900s.