JAMES HERRIOTS CAT STORIES
by
James Herriot

Copyright 1994 by James Herriot. All rights reserved.
BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

Illustrated by Lesley Holmes

What better match of author and subject than James Herriot, the
world's most beloved veterinarian and storyteller, and the adorable
feline friends who delight so many millions of cat lovers around the
world? Between these covers, teller and tales finally meet in a warm
and joyful new collection that will bring delight to the hearts of
readers the world over: James Herriot's Cat Stories. Here are Buster,
the kitten who arrived on Christmas; Alfred, the cat at the sweet
shop; little Emily, who lived with the gentleman tramp; and Olly and
Ginny, the kittens who charmed readers when they first appeared at
the Herriots" house in the worldwide bestseller Every Living Thing.
And along with these come others, each story as memorable and
heartwarming as the last, each told with that magic blend of gentle
wit and human compassion that marks every word from James Herriot's
pen.

For lovers of cats, James Herriot's books, or both, James Herriot's
Cat Stories will be a gift to treasure.

JAMES HERRIOT'S books include: All Creatures Great and Small, All
Things Bright and Beautiful, All Things Wise and Wonderful, The Lord
God Made Them All, Every Living Thing, and James Herriot's Dog
Stories.

Now retired after fifty years in veterinary practice, he lives with
his wife in North Yorkshire, England.

ALSO BY JAMES HERRIOT

All Creatures Great and Small All Things Bright and Beautiful All
Things Wise and Wonderful The Lord God Made Them All Every Living
Thing James Herriot's Yorkshire James Herriot's Dog Stories The Best
of James Herriot

FOR CHILDREN

Moses the Kitten Only One Woof The Christmas Day Kitten Bonny's Big
Day Blossom Comes Home The Market Square Dog Oscar, Cat-Ab-Town
Smudge, the Little Lost Lamb James Herriot's Treasury for Children

CONTENTS

Story Page

Introduction ........................
1 Alfred: The Sweet-Shop Cat ...
8 Oscar: The Socialite Cat ........
28 Boris and Mrs. Bond's Cat Establishment .....................
55 Olly and Ginny: Two Kittens Who Came to Stay ....................
70 Emily and the Gentleman of the Road .....
91 Olly and Ginny Settle In ........
112 Moses Found Among the Rushes ......
119 Frisk: The Cat with Many Lives ....
128 Olly and Ginny: The Greatest Triumph .................
139 Buster: The Feline Retriever ......

JAMES HERRIOT'S CAT STORIES

Introduction

Cats have always played a large part in my life, first when I was a
boy in Glasgow, then as a practising veterinary surgeon, and now, in
my retirement, they are still there, lightening my days. They were
one of the main reasons why I chose a career as a vet. In my school
days my animal world was dominated by a magnificent Irish setter
called Don with whom I walked the Scottish hills for close on
fourteen years, but when I returned from these rambles there were
always my cats to greet me, arching around my legs, purring and
rubbing their faces at my hands. There was never a time when our
household did not have several cats, and they each had their
particular charms. Their innate grace and daintiness and their
deeply responsive affection made them all dear to me and I longed
for the day when I would learn about them at the Veterinary College.
Their playfulness, too, was a constant source of entertainment. I
can remember one, Topsy by name, who was the instigator of many
games, repeatedly dancing, crabwise, up to Don with her ears
wickedly cocked until he could resist no longer and sprang at her,
which inevitably started a long wrestling match. Occasionally, we
had the local vet out when the cats were ill and I used to watch him
with awe: here was someone who had studied the species intimately
and knew every bone, nerve and sinew in their bodies. I was
astounded when I got to the College and found that nowhere was there
any interest in my beloved cats. One of my text books was an immense
tome called Sisson's Anatomy of Domestic Animals. It took a fairly
strong man to lift it from the shelf, and to carry it around was a
labour in itself. I searched the pages eagerly. They profusely
illustrated the innards of horse, ox, sheep, pig and dog in that
strict order. The dog only just squeezed in, but I couldn't find a
cat anywhere. Finally I consulted the index. There was nothing under
the letter c and I thought ah, of course, it would be under f for
feline, but again my search was fruitless and I was forced to
conclude, sadly, that my poor furry friends didn't even have a
mention. I couldn't believe it. I thought of the thousands of old
folks and housebound invalids who drew joy and comfort and
friendship from their cats. They were the only pets they could have.
What was my profession thinking of? The simple fact was that they
had fallen behind the times. Sisson's Anatomy was published in 1910
and reprinted several times up to 1930 and it was this edition,
fresh from the press, which I studied in my student days. I have
often gone on record saying that, although I spent my professional
life in large-animal practice, my original ambition was to be a
doctor of dogs and cats. But I qualified in the days of the great
depression of the thirties when jobs were difficult to find and I
ended up tramping in Wellington boots over the North Yorkshire Dales.
I did this for more than fifty years and loved every minute of it,
but at the beginning I thought I would miss my cats. I was wrong.
There were cats everywhere. Every farm had its cats. They kept the
mice away and lived a whole life of their own in those rural places.
Cats are connoisseurs of comfort, and when inspecting the head of a
cow I often found a cosy nest of kittens with their mother in the
hay rack. They were to be seen snuggled between bales of straw or
stretched blissfully in sunlit corners because they love warmth, and
in the bitter days of winter the warm bonnet of my car was an
irresistible attraction. No sooner had I drawn up in a farmyard than
a cat or two was perched just beyond my windscreen. Some farmers are
real cat lovers apart from wanting them around for their practical
uses; and in these places I might find a score of the little
creatures enjoying this unexpected bonus of warmth. When I drove
away I had a pattern of muddy paw-marks covering every inch of the
heated metal. This soon dried on, and since I had neither time nor
inclination for car washing they remained as a semi-permanent
decoration. On my daily round in our small country town I found many
instances of old folks in their little cottages with a cat by the
fireside or curled in their laps. Such companionship made a huge
difference to their lives. All this to remind me of cats and yet our
official education ignored them. But that was more than fifty years
ago and things were beginning to change even then. They were
starting to include cats in the lectures at the veterinary colleges
and so I assiduously picked the brains of students who came to see
practice with us. Later, as the practice expanded, I did the same
with the young assistants who arrived bursting with the new
knowledge. Also, articles about cats began to appear in our
veterinary periodicals and I would read these avidly. This went on
throughout the fifty-odd years of my veterinary life and now, when I
am retired and it is all over, I often look back and think of the
changes which took place during my era. The recognition of cats was,
of course, only a small part of the almost explosive revolution
which transformed my profession; the virtual disappearance of the
farm horse, the advent of antibiotics which swept away the almost
medieval medicines I had to dispense, the new surgical procedures,
the wonderful protective vaccines which regularly appeared--all
these things seem like the realisation of a dream. Cats are now
arguably the most popular of all family pets. Large, prestigious
books are written about them by eminent veterinarians and, indeed,
some vets specialise in the species to the exclusion of all others.
In front of the desk where I write I have a long row of the old text
books I studied in those far-off days. Sisson is there, looking as
vast as ever, and all the others I keep to dip into when I try to
remember things about the past or when I just want a good laugh; but
side by side with them are the fine new volumes with only one theme-
-cats. I think back, too, on the strange views that many people held
about cats. They were selfish creatures reserving their affections
only for situations which would benefit them, and they were
incapable of the unthinking love a dog dispenses. They were totally
self-contained creatures who looked after their own interests only.
What nonsense! I have felt cats rubbing their faces against mine and
touching my cheek with claws carefully sheathed. These things, to me,
are expressions of love. At the moment of writing we have no cat,
because our border terrier does not approve of them and likes to
chase them. However, he does not start to run until they do because,
although he will fight any dog large or small, he is secretly wary
of cats. If a cat stands his ground, Bodie will make a wide circuit
to avoid him. But when he is asleep--his favourite occupation in his
thirteenth year--cats visit us from our neighbours in the village.
We have a chest-high wall outside our kitchen window and here the
assorted felines assemble to see what we have to offer. We keep
various goodies for them and spread them on the wall, but there is
one gorgeous yellow and white tom who is so affectionate that he
would rather be petted than fed. I have quite a battle with him as
he nearly knocks the carton of titbits from my hand in his efforts
to nose his way into my palm with a thunderous purring. Often I have
to abandon the feeding and concentrate on the rubbing, stroking and
chin tickling which he really wants. I think it is a sensible axiom
that, once retired, one should not continue to haunt one's former
place of business. Of course, Skeldale House is more than that to
me; it is a place of a thousand memories, where I shared the
bachelor days with Siegfried and Tristan, where I started my married
life, saw my children grow up from babyhood and went through a half
century of the triumphs and disasters of veterinary practice. Today,
though, I go there only to pick up my mail and, in the process, to
have a quick peep at how things are going. The practice is run by my
son, Jimmy, and his splendid young partners and last week I stood in
the office watching the constant traffic of little animals coming in
for consultations, operations, vaccinations; so different from my
early days when our work was 90 percent agricultural. I turned away
from the shaggy stream to speak to Jimmy. "Which animal do you see
most often in the surgery?" I asked. He thought for a moment before
replying. "Probably fifty-fifty dogs and cats, but I think the cats
are edging ahead."

Alfred The Sweet-Shop Cat

My throat was killing me. Three successive nocturnal lambings on the
windswept hillsides in my shirtsleeves had left me with the
beginnings of a cold and I felt in urgent need of a packet of Geoff
Hatfield's cough drops. An unscientific treatment, perhaps, but I
had a childish faith in those powerful little candies which exploded
in the mouth, sending a blast of medicated vapour surging through
the bronchial tubes. The shop was down a side alley, almost hidden
away, and it was so tiny--not much more than a cubby hole--that
there was hardly room for the sign, GEOFFREY HATFIELD, CONFECTIONER,
above the window. But it was full. It was always full, and, this
being market day, it was packed out. The little bell went "ching" as
I opened the door and squeezed into the crush of local ladies and
farmers" wives. I'd have to wait for a while but I didn't mind,
because watching Mr. Hatfield in action was one of the rewarding
things in my life. I had come at a good time, too, because the
proprietor was in the middle of one of his selection struggles. He
had his back to me, the silver-haired, leonine head nodding slightly
on the broad shoulders as he surveyed the rows of tall glass sweet
jars against the wall. His hands, clasped behind him, tensed and
relaxed repeatedly as he fought his inner battle, then he took a few
strides along the row, gazing intently at each jar in turn. It
struck me that Lord Nelson pacing the quarterdeck of the Victory,
wondering how best to engage the enemy, could not have displayed a
more portentous concentration. The tension in the little shop rose
palpably as he reached up a hand, then withdrew it with a shake of
the head, but a sigh went up from the assembled ladies as, with a
final grave nod and a squaring of the shoulders, he extended both
arms, seized a jar and swung round to face the company. His large
Roman Senator face was crinkled into a benign smile. "Now, Mrs.
Moffat," he boomed at a stout matron and, holding out the glass
vessel with both hands, inclined it slightly with all the grace and
deference of a Cartier jeweller displaying a diamond necklace, "I
wonder if I can interest you in this." Mrs. Moffat, clutching her
shopping basket, peered closely at the paper-wrapped confections in
the jar. "Well, ah don't know. ..." "If I remember rightly, madam,
you indicated that you were seeking something in the nature of a
Russian caramel, and I can thoroughly recommend these little
sweetmeats. Not quite a Russian, but nevertheless a very nice,
smooth-eating toffee." His expression became serious, expectant. The
fruity tones rolling round his description made me want to grab the
sweets and devour them on the spot, and they seemed to have the same
effect on the lady. "Right, Mr. Hatfield," she said eagerly, "I'll
"ave half a pound." The shopkeeper gave a slight bow. "Thank you so
much, madam, I'm sure you will not regret your choice." His features
relaxed into a gracious smile and, as he lovingly trickled the
toffees onto his scales before bagging them with a professional
twirl, I felt a renewed desire to get at the things. Mr. Hatfield,
leaning forward with both hands on the counter, kept his gaze on his
customer until he had bowed her out of the shop with a courteous,
"Good day to you, madam," then he turned to face the congregation.
"Ah, Mrs. Dawson, how very nice to see you. And what is your
pleasure this morning?" The lady, obviously delighted, beamed at him.
"I'd like some of them fudge chocolates I "ad last week, Mr.
Hatfield. They were lovely. Have you still got some?" "Indeed I have,
madam, and I am delighted that you approve of my recommendation.
Such a deliciously creamy flavour. Also, it so happens that I have
just received a consignment in a special presentation box for Easter.
" He lifted one from the shelf and balanced it on the palm of his
hand. "Really pretty and attractive, don't you think?" Mrs. Dawson
nodded rapidly. "Oh, aye, that's real bonny. I'll take a box and
there's summat else I want. A right big bag of nice boiled sweets
for the family to suck at. Mixed colours, you know. What "ave you
got?" Mr. Hatfield steepled his fingers, gazed at her fixedly and
took a long, contemplative breath. He held this pose for several
seconds, then he swung round, clasped his hands behind him, and
recommenced his inspection of the jars. That was my favourite bit
and, as always, I was enjoying it. It was a familiar scene. The tiny,
, crowded shop, the proprietor wrestling with his assignment and
Alfred sitting at the far end of the counter. Alfred was Geoff's cat
and he was always there, seated upright and majestic on the polished
boards near the curtained doorway which led to the Hatfield sitting
room. As usual, he seemed to be taking a keen interest in the
proceedings, his gaze moving from his master's face to the
customer's, and though it may have been my imagination I felt that
his expression registered a grave involvement in the negotiations
and a deep satisfaction at the outcome. He never left his place or
encroached on the rest of the counter, but occasionally one or other
of the ladies would stroke his cheek and he would respond with a
booming purr and a gracious movement of the head towards them. It
was typical that he never yielded to any unseemly display of emotion.
That would have been undignified, and dignity was an unchanging part
of him. Even as a kitten he had never indulged in immoderate
playfulness. I had neutered him three years earlier--for which he
appeared to bear me no ill will--and he had grown into a massive,
benevolent tabby. I looked at him now, sitting in his place. Vast,
imperturbable, at peace with his world. There was no doubt he was a
cat of enormous presence. And it had always struck me forcibly that
he was exactly like his master in that respect. They were two of a
kind and it was no surprise that they were such devoted friends.
When it came to my turn I was able to reach Alfred and I tickled him
under his chin. He liked that and raised his head high while the
purring rumbled up from the furry rib cage until it resounded
throughout the shop. Even collecting my cough drops had its touch of
ceremony. The big man behind the counter sniffed gravely at the
packet and then clapped his hand a few times against his chest. "You
can smell the goodness, Mr. Herriot, the beneficial vapours. These
will have you right in no time." He bowed and smiled and I could
swear that Alfred smiled with him. I squeezed my way out through the
ladies and as I walked down the alley I marvelled for the umpteenth
time at the phenomenon of Geoffrey Hatfield. There were several
other sweet shops in Darrowby, big double-fronted places with their
wares attractively displayed in the windows, but none of them did
anything like the trade of the poky establishment I had just left.
There was no doubt that it was all due to Geoff's unique selling
technique and it was certainly not an act on his part, it was born
of a completely sincere devotion to his calling, a delight in what
he was doing. His manner and "posh" diction gave rise to a certain
amount of ribald comment from men who had left the local school with
him at the age of fourteen, and in the pubs he was often referred to
as 'the bishop," but it was good-natured stuff because he was a
well-liked man. And, of course, the ladies adored him and flocked to
bask in his attentions.

About a month later I was in the shop again to get some of Rosie's
favourite liquorice all-sorts and the picture was the same--
Geoffrey smiling and booming, Alfred in his place, following every
move, the pair of them radiating dignity and well-being. As I
collected my sweets, the proprietor whispered in my ear. "I'll be
closing for lunch at twelve noon, Mr. Herriot. Would you be so kind
as to call in and examine Alfred?" "Yes, of course." I looked along
the counter at the big cat. "Is he ill?" "Oh, no, no ... but I just
feel there's something not right." Later I knocked at the closed
door and Geoffrey let me into the shop, empty for once, then through
the curtained doorway into his sitting room. Mrs. Hatfield was at a
table, drinking tea. She was a much earthier character than her
husband. "Now then, Mr. Herriot, you've come to see t"little cat."
"He isn't so little," I said, laughing. And indeed, Alfred looked
more massive than ever seated by the fire, looking calmly into the
flames. When he saw me he got up, stalked unhurriedly over the
carpet and arched his back against my legs. I felt strangely
honoured. "He's really beautiful, isn't he?" I murmured. I hadn't
had a close look at him for some time and the friendly face with the
dark stripes running down to the intelligent eyes appealed to me as
never before. "Yes," I said, stroking the fur which shone
luxuriantly in the flickering firelight, "you're a big beautiful
fellow." I turned to Mr. Hatfield. "He looks fine to me. What is it
that's worrying you?" "Oh, maybe it's nothing at all. His appearance
certainly has not altered in the slightest, but for over a week now
I've noticed that he is not quite so keen on his food, not quite so
lively. He's not really ill ... he's just different." "I see. Well,
let's have a look at him." I went over the cat carefully.
Temperature was normal, mucous membranes a healthy pink. I got out
my stethoscope and listened to heart and lungs--notothing abnormal
to hear. Feeling around the abdomen produced no clue. "Well, Mr.
Hatfield," I said, 'there doesn't seem to be anything obviously
wrong with him. He's maybe a bit run down, but he doesn't look it.
Anyway, I'll give him a vitamin injection. That should buck him up.
Let me know in a few days if he's no better." "Thank you indeed, sir.
I am most grateful. You have set my mind at rest." The big man
reached out a hand to his pet. The confident resonance of his voice
was belied by the expression of concern on his face. Seeing them
together made me sense anew the similarity of man and cat--human and
animal, yes, but alike in their impressiveness. I heard nothing
about Alfred for a week and assumed that he had returned to normal,
but then his master telephoned. "He's just the same, Mr. Herriot. In
fact, if anything, he has deteriorated slightly. I would be obliged
if you would look at him again." It was just as before. Nothing
definite to see even on close examination. I put him on to a course
of mixed minerals and vitamin tablets. There was no point in
launching into treatment with our new antibiotics--there was no
elevation of temperature, no indication of any infectious agent. I
passed the alley every day--it was only about a hundred yards from
Skeldale House--and I fell into the habit of stopping and looking in
through the little window of the shop. Each day, the familiar scene
presented itself; Geoff bowing and smiling to his customers and
Alfred sitting in his place at the end of the counter. Everything
seemed right, and yet ... there was something different about the
cat. I called in one evening and examined him again. "He's losing
weight," I said. Geoffrey nodded. "Yes, I do think so. He is still
eating fairly well, but not as much as before." "Give him another
few days on the tablets," I said, "and if he's no better I'll have
to get him round to the surgery and go into the thing a bit more
deeply." I had a nasty feeling there would be no improvement and
there wasn't, so one evening I took a cat cage round to the shop.
Alfred was so huge that there was a problem fitting him into the
container, but he didn't resist as I bundled him gently inside. At
the surgery I took a blood sample from him and X-rayed him. The
plate was perfectly clear and when the report came back from the
laboratory it showed no abnormality. In a way, it was reassuring,
but that did not help because the steady decline continued. The next
few weeks were something like a nightmare. My anxious peering
through the shop window became a daily ordeal. The big cat was still
in his place, but he was getting thinner and thinner until he was
almost unrecognisable. I rang the changes with every drug and
treatment I could think of, but nothing did any good. I had
Siegfried examine him, but he thought as I did. The progressive
emaciation was the sort of thing you would expect from an internal
tumour, but further X-rays still showed nothing. Alfred must have
been thoroughly fed up of all the pushing around, the tests, the
kneading of his abdomen, but at no time did he show any annoyance.
He accepted the whole thing placidly as was his wont. There was
another factor which made the situation much worse. Geoff himself
was wilting under the strain. His comfortable coating of flesh was
dropping steadily away from him, the normally florid cheeks were
pale and sunken and, worse still, his dramatic selling style
appeared to be deserting him. One day I left my viewpoint at the
window and pushed my way into the press of ladies in the shop. It
was a harrowing scene. Geoff, bowed and shrunken, was taking the
orders without even a smile, pouring the sweets listlessly into
their bags and mumbling a word or two. Gone was the booming voice
and the happy chatter of the customers, and a strange silence hung
over the company. It was just like any other sweet shop. Saddest
sight of all was Alfred, still sitting bravely upright in his place.
He was unbelievably gaunt, his fur had lost its bloom and he stared
straight ahead, dead-eyed, as though nothing interested him any more.
He was like a feline scarecrow. I couldn't stand it any longer. That
evening I went round to see Geoff Hatfield. "I saw your cat today,"
I said, "and he's going rapidly downhill. Are there any new
symptoms?" The big man nodded dully. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I
was going to ring you. He's been vomiting a bit." I dug my nails
into my palms. "There it is again. Everything points to something
abnormal inside him and yet I can't find a thing." I bent down and
stroked Alfred. "I hate to see him like this. Look at his fur. It
used to be so glossy." "That's right," replied Geoff, "he's
neglecting himself. He never washes himself now. It's as though he
can't be bothered. And before, he was always at it--lick, lick, lick
for hours on end." I stared at him. His words had sparked something
in my mind. "Lick, lick, lick." I paused in thought. "Yes ... when I
think about it, no cat I ever knew washed himself as much as Alfred.
..." The spark suddenly became a flame and I jerked upright in my
chair. "Mr. Hatfield," I said, "I want to do an exploratory
operation!" "What do you mean?" "I think he's got a hair-ball inside
him and I want to operate to see if I'm right." "Open him up, you
mean?" "That's right." He put a hand over his eyes and his chin sank
onto his chest. He stayed like that for a long time, then he looked
at me with haunted eyes. "Oh, I don't know. I've never thought of
anything like that." "We've got to do something or this cat is going
to die." He bent and stroked Alfred's head again and again, then
without looking up he spoke in a husky voice. "All right, when?"
"Tomorrow morning." Next day, in the operating room, as Siegfried
and I bent over the sleeping cat, my mind was racing. We had been
doing much more small-animal surgery lately, but I had always known
what to expect. This time I felt as though I was venturing into the
unknown. I made an incision and in the stomach I found a large,
matted hair-ball, the cause of all the trouble. Something which
wouldn't show up on an X-ray plate. Siegfried grinned. "Well, now we
know!" "Yes," I said as the great waves of relief swept over me.
"Now we know." I found more, smaller hair-balls, all of which had to
be removed and then the incision stitched. I didn't like this. It
meant a bigger trauma and shock to my patient, but finally all was
done and only a neat row of skin sutures was visible. When I
returned Alfred to his home, his master could hardly bear to look at
him. At length he took a timid glance at the cat, still sleeping
under the anaesthetic. "Will he live?" he whispered. "He has a good
chance," I replied. "He has had some major surgery and it might take
him some time to get over it, but he's young and strong. He should
be all right." I could see Geoff wasn't convinced, and that was how
it was over the next few days. I kept visiting the little room
behind the shop to give the cat penicillin injections and it was
obvious that Geoff had made up his mind that Alfred was going to die.
Mrs. Hatfield was more optimistic, but she was worried about her
husband. "Eee, he's given up hope," she said. "And it's all because
Alfred just lies in his bed all day. I've tried to tell "im that
it'll be a bit o" time before the cat starts running around, but he
won't listen." She looked at me with anxious eyes. "And, you know,
it's getting him down, Mr. Herriot. He's a different man. Sometimes
I wonder if he'll ever be the same again." I went over and peeped
past the curtain into the shop. Geoff was there, doing his job like
an automaton. Haggard, unsmiling, silently handing out the sweets.
When he did speak it was in a listless monotone and I realised with
a sense of shock that his voice had lost all its old timbre. Mrs.
Hatfield was right. He was a different man. And, I thought, if he
stayed different, what would happen to his clientele? So far they
had remained faithful, but I had a feeling they would soon start to
drift away. It was a week before the picture began to change for the
better. I entered the sitting room, but Alfred wasn't there. Mrs.
Hatfield jumped up from her chair. "He's a lot better, Mr. Herriot,"
she said eagerly. "Eating well and seemed to want to go into t'shop.
He's in there with Geoff now." Again I took a surreptitious look
past the curtain. Alfred was back in his place, skinny but sitting
upright. But his master didn't look any better. I turned back into
the room. "Well, I won't need to come any more, Mrs. Hatfield. Your
cat is well on the way to recovery. He should soon be as good as new.
" I was quite confident about this, but I wasn't so sure about Geoff.


At this point, the rush of spring lambing and post-lambing troubles
overwhelmed me as it did every year, and I had little time to think
about my other cases. It must have been three weeks before I visited
the sweet shop to buy some chocolates for Helen. The place was
packed and as I pushed my way inside all my fears came rushing back
and I looked anxiously at man and cat. Alfred, massive and dignified
again, sat like a king at the far end of the counter. Geoff was
leaning on the counter with both hands, gazing closely into a lady's
face. "As I understand you, Mrs. Hird, you are looking for something
in the nature of a softer sweetmeat." The rich voice reverberated
round the little shop. "Could you perhaps mean a Turkish Delight?"
"Nay, Mr. Hatfield, it wasn't that. ..." His head fell on his chest
and he studied the polished boards of the counter with fierce
concentration. Then he looked up and pushed his face nearer to the
lady's. "A pastille, possibly ...?" "Nay ... nay." "A truffle? A
soft caramel? A peppermint cream?" "No, nowt like that." He
straightened up. This was a tough one. He folded his arms across his
chest and as he stared into space and took the long inhalation I
remembered so well I could see that he was a big man again, his
shoulders spreading wide, his face ruddy and well fleshed. Nothing
having evolved from his cogitations, his jaw jutted and he turned
his face upwards, seeking further inspiration from the ceiling.
Alfred, I noticed, looked upwards, too. There was a tense silence as
Geoff held this pose, then a smile crept slowly over his noble
features. He raised a finger. "Madam," he said, "I do fancy I have
it. Whitish, you said ... sometimes pink ... rather squashy. May I
suggest to you ... marshmallow?" Mrs. Hird thumped the counter. "Aye,
that's it, Mr. Hatfield. I just couldn't think of t"name." "Ha-ha, I
thought so," boomed the proprietor, his organ tones rolling to the
roof. He laughed, the ladies laughed, and I was positive that Alfred
laughed, too. All was well again. Everybody in the shop was happy--
Geoff, Alfred, the ladies and, not least, James Herriot.



Oscar The Socialite Cat

One late spring evening, when Helen and I were still living in the
little bed-sitter under the tiles of Skeldale House, Tristan shouted
up the stairs from the passage far below. "Jim! Jim!" I went out and
stuck my head over the bannisters. "What is it, Triss?" "Sorry to
bother you, Jim, but could you come down for a minute?" The upturned
face had an anxious look I went down the long flights of steps two
at a time and when I arrived slightly breathless on the ground floor
Tristan beckoned me through to the consulting room at the back of
the house. A teenage girl was standing by the table, her hand
resting on a stained roll of blanket. "It's a cat," Tristan said. He
pulled back a fold of the blanket and I looked down at a large,
deeply striped tabby. At least he would have been large if he had
had any flesh on his bones, but ribs and pelvis stood out painfully
through the fur and as I passed my hand over the motionless body I
could feel only a thin covering of skin. Tristan cleared his throat.
"There's something else, Jim." I looked at him curiously. For once
he didn't seem to have a joke in him. I watched as he gently lifted
one of the cat's hind legs. There was a large gash on his abdomen
and innumerable other wounds. I was still shocked and staring when
the girl spoke. "I saw this cat sitting in the dark, down Brown's
yard. I thought "e looked skinny, like, and a bit quiet and I bent
down to give "im a pat. Then I saw "e was badly hurt and I went home
for a blanket and brought "im round to you." "That was kind of you,"
I said. "Have you any idea who he belongs to?" The girl shook her
head. "No, he looks like a stray to me." "He does indeed." I dragged
my eyes away from the terrible wound. "You're Marjorie Simpson,
aren't you?" "Yes." "I know your dad well. He's our postman."
"That's right." She gave a half smile, then her lips trembled. "Well,
I reckon I'd better leave "im with you. You'll be going to put him
out of his misery. There's nothing anybody can do about ... about
that?" I shrugged and shook my head. The girl's eyes filled with
tears. She stretched out a hand and touched the emaciated animal,
then turned and walked quickly to the door. "Thanks again, Marjorie,
" I called after the retreating back. "And don't worry--we'll look
after him." In the silence that followed, Tristan and I looked down
at the shattered animal. Under the surgery lamp it was all too easy
to see. The injuries were very serious and the wounds were covered
in dirt and mud. "What d"you think did this?" Tristan said at length.
"Has he been run over?" "Maybe," I replied. "Could be anything. An
attack by a big dog or somebody could have kicked him or struck him.
" All things were possible with cats because some people seemed to
regard them as fair game for any cruelty. Tristan nodded. "Anyway,
whatever happened, he must have been on the verge of starvation.
He's a skeleton. I bet he's wandered miles from home." "Ah well," I
sighed. "There's only one thing to do, I'm afraid. It's hopeless."
Tristan didn't say anything but he whistled under his breath and
drew the tip of his forefinger again and again across the furry
cheek. And, unbelievably, from somewhere in the scraggy chest a
gentle purring arose. The young man looked at me, round-eyed. "My
God, do you hear that?" "Yes ... amazing in that condition. He's a
good-natured cat." Tristan, head bowed, continued his stroking. I
knew how he felt because, although he preserved a cheerfully hard-
boiled attitude to our patients, he couldn't kid me about one thing;
he had a soft spot for cats. Even now, when we are both around the
sixty mark, he often talks to me over a beer about the cat he has
had for many years. It is a typical relationship--they tease each
other unmercifully--but it is based on real affection. "It's no good,
Triss," I said gently. "It's got to be done." I reached for the
syringe but something in me rebelled against plunging a needle into
that pathetic body. Instead I pulled a fold of the blanket over the
cat's head. "Pour a little ether onto the cloth," I said. "He'll
just slip away." Wordlessly Tristan unscrewed the cap of the ether
bottle and poised it above the head. Then from under the shapeless
heap of blanket we heard it again; the deep purring which increased
in volume till it boomed in our ears like a distant motor cycle.
Tristan was like a man turned to stone, hand gripping the bottle
rigidly, eyes staring down at the mound of cloth from which the
purring rose in waves of warm, friendly sound. At last he looked up
at me and gulped. "I don't fancy this much, Jim. Can't we do
something?" "You mean, try to repair all this?" "Yes. We could
stitch the wounds, bit by little bit, couldn't we?" I lifted the
blanket and looked again. "Honestly, Triss, I wouldn't know where to
start. And the whole thing is filthy." He didn't say anything, but
continued to look at me steadily. And I didn't need much persuading.
I had no more desire to pour ether on to that comradely purring than
he had. "Come on, then," I said. "We'll have a go." With the oxygen
bubbling and the cat's head in the anaesthetic mask we washed the
whole body with warm saline. We did it again and again but it was
impossible to remove every fragment of caked dirt. Then we started
the painfully slow business of stitching the many wounds, and here I
was glad of Tristan's nimble fingers which seemed better able to
manipulate the small round-bodied needles than mine. Two hours and
yards of catgut later, we were finished and everything looked tidy.
"He's alive, anyway, Triss," I said as we began to wash the
instruments. "We'll put him on to sulphapyridine and keep our
fingers crossed that peritonitis won't set in." There were still no
antibiotics at that time but the new drug was a big advance. The
door opened and Helen came in. "You've been a long time, Jim." She
walked over to the table and looked down at the sleeping cat. "What
a poor skinny little thing. He's all bones." "You should have seen
him when he came in." Tristan switched off the steriliser and
screwed shut the valve on the anaesthetic machine. "He looks a lot
better now." She stroked the little animal for a moment. "Is he
badly injured?" "I'm afraid so, Helen," I said. "We've done our best
for him but I honestly don't think he has much chance." "What a
shame. And he's pretty, too. Four white feet and all those unusual
colours." With her finger she traced the faint bands of auburn and
copper-gold among the grey and black. Tristan laughed. "Yes, I think
that chap has a ginger tom somewhere in his ancestry." Helen smiled,
too, but absently, and I noticed a broody look about her. She
hurried out to the stock room and returned with an empty box. "Yes ..
. yes ..." she said thoughtfully. "I can make a bed in this box for
him and he'll sleep in our room, Jim." "He will?" "Yes, he must be
warm, mustn't he?" "Of course, especially with such chilly nights."
Later, in the darkness of our bed-sitter, I looked from my pillow at
a cosy scene: Sam the beagle in his basket on one side of the
flickering fire and the cat cushioned and blanketed in his box on
the other. As I floated off into sleep it was good to know that my
patient was so comfortable, but I wondered if he would be alive in
the morning. ... I knew he was alive at 7:30 A.M. because my wife
was already up and talking to him. I trailed across the room in my
pyjamas and the cat and I looked at each other. I rubbed him under
the chin and he opened his mouth in a rusty miaow. But he didn't try
to move. "Helen," I said. "This little thing is tied together inside
with catgut. He'll have to live on fluids for a week and even then
he probably won't make it. If he stays up here you'll be spooning
milk into him umpteen times a day." "Okay, okay." She had that broody
look again. It wasn't only milk she spooned into him over the next
few days. Beef essence, strained broth and a succession of
sophisticated baby foods found their way down his throat at regular
intervals. One lunch time I found Helen kneeling by the box. "We
shall call him Oscar," she said. "You mean we're keeping him?" "Yes.
" I am fond of cats but we already had a dog in our cramped quarters
and I could see difficulties. Still I decided to let it go. "Why
Oscar?" "I don't know." Helen tipped a few drops of chop gravy onto
the little red tongue and watched intently as he swallowed. One of
the things I like about women is their mystery, the unfathomable
part of them, and I didn't press the matter further. But I was
pleased at the way things were going. I had been giving the
sulphapyridine every six hours and taking the temperature night and
morning, expecting all the time to encounter the roaring fever, the
vomiting and the tense abdomen of peritonitis. But it never happened.
It was as though Oscar's animal instinct told him he had to move as
little as possible because he lay absolutely still day after day and
looked up at us--and purred. His purr became part of our lives and
when he eventually left his bed, sauntered through to our kitchen
and began to sample Sam's dinner of meat and biscuit it was a moment
of triumph. And I didn't spoil it by wondering if he was ready for
solid food; I felt he knew. From then on it was sheer joy to watch
the furry scarecrow fill out and grow strong, and as he ate and ate
and the flesh spread over his bones the true beauty of his coat
showed in the glossy medley of auburn, black and gold. We had a
handsome cat on our hands. Once Oscar had recovered, Tristan was a
regular visitor. He probably felt, and rightly, that he, more than I,
had saved Oscar's life in the first place and he used to play with
him for long periods. His favourite ploy was to push his leg round
the corner of the table and withdraw it repeatedly just as the cat
pawed at it. Oscar was justifiably irritated by this teasing but
showed his character by lying in wait for Tristan one night and
biting him smartly in the ankle before he could start his tricks.
From my own point of view Oscar added many things to our menage. Sam
was delighted with him and the two soon became firm friends; Helen
adored him and each evening I thought afresh that a nice cat washing
his face by the hearth gave extra comfort to a room.

Oscar had been established as one of the family for several weeks
when I came in from a late call to find Helen waiting for me with a
stricken face. "What's happened?" I asked. "It's Oscar--he's gone!"
"Gone? What do you mean?" "Oh, Jim, I think he's run away." I stared
at her. "He wouldn't do that. He often goes down to the garden at
night. Are you sure he isn't there?" "Absolutely. I've searched
right into the yard. I've even had a walk around the town. And
remember," her chin quivered, "he ... he ran away from somewhere
before." I looked at my watch. "Ten o"clock. Yes, that is strange.
He shouldn't be out at this time." As I spoke the front door bell
jangled. I galloped down the stairs and as I rounded the corner in
the passage I could see Mrs. Heslington, the vicar's wife, through
the glass. I threw open the door. She was holding Oscar in her arms.
"I believe this is your cat, Mr. Herriot," she said. "It is indeed,
Mrs. Heslington. Where did you find him?" She smiled. "Well, it was
rather odd. We were having a meeting of the Mothers" Union at the
church house and we noticed the cat sitting there in the room."
"Just sitting ...?" "Yes, as though he were listening to what we
were saying and enjoying it all. It was unusual. When the meeting
ended I thought I'd better bring him along to you." "I'm most
grateful, Mrs. Heslington." I snatched Oscar and tucked him under my
arm. "My wife is distraught--she thought he was lost." It was a
little mystery. Why should he suddenly take off like that? But since
he showed no change in his manner over the ensuing week we put it
out of our minds. Then one evening a man brought in a dog for an
inoculation and left the front door open. When I went up to our flat
I found that Oscar had disappeared again. This time Helen and I
scoured the market place and side alleys in vain and when we
returned at half past nine we were both despondent. It was nearly
eleven and we were thinking of bed when the door bell rang. It was
Oscar again, this time resting on the ample stomach of Jack Newbould.
Jack was leaning against the doorpost and the fresh country air
drifting in from the dark street was richly intermingled with beer
fumes. Jack was a gardener at one of the big houses. He hiccuped
gently and gave me a huge benevolent smile. "Brought your cat, Mr.
Herriot." "Gosh, thanks, Jack!" I said, scooping up Oscar gratefully.
"Where the devil did you find him?" "Well, s'matter o" fact, "e sort
of found me." "What do you mean?" Jack closed his eyes for a few
moments before articulating carefully. "Thish is a big night, tha
knows, Mr. Herriot. Darts championship. Lots of t"lads round at
t"Dog and Gun--lotsh and lotsh of "em. Big gathering." "And our cat
was there?" "Aye, he were there, all right. Sitting among t"lads.
Shpent t"whole evening with us." "Just sat there, eh?" "That "e did.
" Jack giggled reminiscently. "By gaw, "e enjoyed isself. Ah gave
"im a drop o" best bitter out of me own glass and once or twice ah
thought "e was going to have a go at chucking a dart. He's some cat.
" He laughed again. As I bore Oscar upstairs I was deep in thought.
What was going on here? These sudden desertions were upsetting Helen
and I felt they could get on my nerves in time. I didn't have long
to wait till the next one. Three nights later he was missing again.
This time Helen and I didn't bother to search--we just waited. He
was back earlier than usual. I heard the door bell at nine o"clock.
It was the elderly Miss Simpson peering through the glass. And she
wasn't holding Oscar--he was prowling on the mat waiting to come in.
Miss Simpson watched with interest as the cat stalked inside and
made for the stairs. "Ah, good, I'm so glad he's come home safely. I
knew he was your cat and I've been intrigued by his behaviour all
evening." "Where ... may I ask?" "Oh, at the Women's Institute. He
came in shortly after we started and stayed till the end." "Really?
What exactly was your programme, Miss Simpson?" "Well, there was a
bit of committee stuff, then a short talk with lantern slides by Mr.
Walters from the water company and we finished with a cake-making
competition." "Yes ... yes ... and what did Oscar do?" She laughed.
"Mixed with the company, apparently enjoyed the slides and showed
great interest in the cakes." "I see. And you didn't bring him
home?" "No, he made his own way here. As you know, I have to pass
your house and I merely rang your bell to make sure you knew he had
arrived." "I'm obliged to you, Miss Simpson. We were a little
worried." I mounted the stairs in record time. Helen was sitting
with the cat on her knee and she looked up as I burst in. "I know
about Oscar now," I said. "Know what?" "Why he goes on these nightly
outings. He's not running away--he's visiting." "Visiting?" "Yes," I
said. "Don't you see? He likes getting around, he loves people,
especially in groups, and he's interested in what they do. He's a
natural mixer." Helen looked down at the attractive mound of fur
curled on her lap. "Of course ... that's it ... he's a socialite!"
"Exactly, a high stepper!" "A cat-about-town!" It all afforded us some
innocent laughter and Oscar sat up and looked at us with evident
pleasure, adding his own throbbing purr to the merriment. But for
Helen and me there was a lot of relief behind it; ever since our cat
had started his excursions there had been the gnawing fear that we
would lose him, and now we felt secure. From that night our delight
in him increased. There was endless joy in watching this facet of
his character unfolding. He did the social round meticulously,
taking in most of the activities of the town. He became a familiar
figure at whist drives, jumble sales, school concerts and scout
bazaars. Most of the time he was made welcome, but he was twice
ejected from meetings of the Rural District Council--they did not
seem to relish the idea of a cat sitting in on their deliberations.
At first I was apprehensive about his making his way through the
streets but I watched him once or twice and saw that he looked both
ways before tripping daintily across. Clearly, he had excellent
traffic sense and this made me feel that his original injury had not
been caused by a car. Taking it all in all, Helen and I felt that it
was a kind of stroke of fortune which had brought Oscar to us. He
was a warm and cherished part of our home life. He added to our
happiness.

When the blow fell it was totally unexpected. I was finishing the
morning surgery. I looked round the door and saw only a man and two
little boys. "Next, please," I said. The man stood up. He had no
animal with him. He was middle-aged, with the rough, weathered face
of a farm worker. He twirled a cloth cap nervously in his hands. "Mr.
Herriot?" he said. "Yes, what can I do for you?" He swallowed and
looked me straight in the eyes. "Ah think you've got ma cat."
"What?" "Ah lost ma cat a bit since." He cleared his throat. "We
used to live at Missdon but ah got a job as ploughman to Mr. Horne
of Wederly. It was after we moved to Wederly that t"cat went missing.
Ah reckon he was trying to find "is way back to his old home."
"Wederly? That's on the other side of Brawton--over thirty miles
away." "Aye, ah knaw, but cats is funny things." "But what makes you
think I've got him?" He twisted the cap around a bit more. "There's
a cousin o" mine lives in Darrowby and ah heard tell from "im about
this cat that goes around to meetin's. I "ad to come. We've been
hunting everywhere." "Tell me," I said, 'this cat you lost. What did
he look like?" "Grey and black and sort o" gingery. Right bonny "e
was. And "e was allus going out to gatherin's." A cold hand clutched
at my heart. "You'd better come upstairs. Bring the boys with you."
Helen was laying the table for lunch in our little bed-sitter.
"Helen," I said. "This is Mr.--er--I'm sorry, I don't know your name.
" "Gibbons, Sep Gibbons. They called me Septimus because ah was the
seventh in family and it looks like ah'm going that'same way "cause
we've got six already. These are our two youngest." The two boys,
obvious twins of about eight, looked up at us solemnly. I wished my
heart would stop hammering. "Mr. Gibbons thinks Oscar is his. He
lost his cat some time ago." My wife laid down the plates. "Oh ...
oh ... I see." She stood very still for a moment, then smiled
faintly. "Do sit down. Oscar's in the kitchen, I'll bring him
through." She went out and reappeared with the cat in her arms. She
hadn't got through the door before the little boys gave tongue.
"Tiger!" they cried. "Oh, Tiger, Tiger!" The man's face seemed lit
from within. He walked quickly across the floor and ran his big
work-roughened hand along the fur. "Hullo, awd lad," he said, and
turned to me with a radiant smile. "It's "im, Mr. Herriot, it's "im
awright, and don't "e look well!" "You call him Tiger, eh?" I said.
"Aye," he replied happily. "It's them gingery stripes. The kids
called "im that. They were broken-hearted when we lost "im." As the
two little boys rolled on the floor our Oscar rolled with them,
pawing playfully, purring with delight. Sep Gibbons sat down again.
"That's the way "e allus went on wi" the family. They used to play
with "im for hours. By gaw we did miss "im. He were a right
favourite." I looked at the broken nails on the edge of the cap, at
the decent, honest, uncomplicated Yorkshire face so like the many I
had grown to like and respect. Farm men like him got thirty
shillings a week in those days and it was reflected in the thread-
bare jacket, the cracked, shiny boots and the obvious hand-me-downs
of the boys. But all three were scrubbed and tidy, the man's face
like a red beacon, the children's knees gleaming and their hair
carefully slicked across their foreheads. They looked like nice
people to me. I turned towards the window and looked out over the
tumble of roofs to my beloved green hills beyond. I didn't know what
to say. Helen said it for me. "Well, Mr. Gibbons." Her tone had an
unnatural brightness. "You'd better take him." The man hesitated.
"Now then, are ye sure, Missus Herriot?" "Yes ... yes, I'm sure. He
was your cat first." "Aye, but some folks "ud say finders keepers or
summat like that. Ah didn't come "ere to demand "im back or owt of
that'sort." "I know you didn't, Mr. Gibbons, but you've had him all
those years and you've searched for him so hard. We couldn't
possibly keep him from you." He nodded quickly. "Well, that's right
good of ye." He paused for a moment, his face serious, then he
stopped and picked Oscar up. "We'll have to be off if we're going to
catch the eight o"clock bus." Helen reached forward, cupped the
cat's head in her hands and looked at him steadily for a few seconds.
Then she patted the boys" heads. "You'll take good care of him,
won't you?" "Aye, missus, thank ye, we will that." The two small
faces looked up at her and smiled. "I'll see you down the stairs, Mr.
Gibbons," I said. On the descent I tickled the furry cheek resting
on the man's shoulder and heard for the last time the rich purring.
On the front door step we shook hands and they set off down the
street. As they rounded the corner of Trengate they stopped and
waved, and I waved back at the man, the two children and the cat's
head looking back at me over the shoulder. It was my habit at that
time in my life to mount the stairs two or three at a time but on
this occasion I trailed upwards like an old man, slightly breathless,
throat tight, eyes prickling. I cursed myself for a sentimental fool
but as I reached our door I found a flash of consolation. Helen had
taken it remarkably well. She had nursed that cat and grown deeply
attached to him, and I'd have thought an unforeseen calamity like
this would have upset her terribly. But no, she had behaved calmly
and rationally. You never knew with women, but I was thankful. It
was up to me to do as well. I adjusted my features into the
semblance of a cheerful smile and marched into the room. Helen had
pulled a chair close to the table and was slumped face down against
the wood. One arm cradled her head while the other was stretched in
front of her as her body shook with an utterly abandoned weeping. I
had never seen her like this and I was appalled. I tried to say
something comforting but nothing stemmed the flow of racking sobs.
Feeling helpless and inadequate I could only sit close to her and
stroke the back of her head. Maybe I could have said something if I
hadn't felt just about as bad myself.

You get over these things in time. After all, we told ourselves, it
wasn't as though Oscar had died or got lost again--he had gone to a
good family who would look after him. In fact he had really gone
home. And of course, we still had our much-loved Sam, although he
didn't help in the early stages by sniffing disconsolately where
Oscar's bed used to lie, then collapsing on the rug with a long,
lugubrious sigh. There was one other thing, too. I had a little
notion forming in my mind, an idea which I would spring on Helen
when the time was right. It was about a month after that shattering
night and we were coming out of the cinema at Brawton at the end of
our half day. I looked at my watch. "Only eight o"clock," I said.
"How about going to see Oscar?" Helen looked at me in surprise. "You
mean--drive on to Wederly?" "Yes, it's only about five miles." A
smile crept slowly across her face. "That would be lovely. But do
you think they would mind?" "The Gibbonses? No, I'm sure they
wouldn't. Let's go." Wederly was a big village and the ploughman's
cottage was at the far end a few yards beyond the Methodist chapel.
I pushed open the garden gate and we walked down the path. A busy-
looking little woman answered my knock. She was drying her hands on
a striped towel. "Mrs. Gibbons?" I said. "Aye, that's me." "I'm
James Herriot--and this is my wife." Her eyes widened
uncomprehendingly. Clearly the name meant nothing to her. "We had
your cat for a while," I added. Suddenly she grinned and waved her
towel at us. "Oh, aye, ah remember now. Sep told me about you. Come
in, come in!" The big kitchen-living room was a tableau of life with
six children and thirty shillings a week. Battered furniture, rows
of much-mended washing on a pulley, black cooking range and a
general air of chaos. Sep got up from his place by the fire, put
down his newspaper, took off a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and
shook hands. He waved Helen to a sagging armchair. "Well, it's right
nice to see you. Ah've often spoke of ye to t'missus." His wife hung
up her towel. "Yes, and I'm glad to meet ye both. I'll get some tea
in a minnit." She laughed and dragged a bucket of muddy water into a
corner. "I've been washing football jerseys. Them lads just handed
them to me tonight--as if I haven't enough to do." As she ran the
water into the kettle I peeped surreptitiously around me and I
noticed Helen doing the same. But we searched in vain. There was no
sign of a cat. Surely he couldn't have run away again? With a
growing feeling of dismay I realised that my little scheme could
backfire devastatingly. It wasn't until the tea had been made and
poured that I dared to raise the subject. "How--was I asked
diffidently, "how is--er--Tiger?" "Oh, he's grand," the little
woman replied briskly. She glanced up at the clock on the
mantelpiece. "He should be back any time now, then you'll be able to
see "im." As she spoke, Sep raised a finger. "Ah think ah can hear
"im now." He walked over and opened the door and our Oscar strode in
with all his old grace and majesty. He took one look at Helen and
leaped on to her lap. With a cry of delight she put down her cup and
stroked the beautiful fur as the cat arched himself against her hand
and the familiar purr echoed round the room. "He knows me," she
murmured. "He knows me." Sep nodded and smiled. "He does that. You
were good to "im. He'll never forget ye, and we won't either, will
we, Mother?" "No, we won't, Mrs. Herriot," his wife said as she
applied butter to a slice of gingerbread. "That was a kind thing ye
did for us and I "ope you'll come and see us all whenever you're
near." "Well, thank you," I said. "We'd love to--we're often in
Brawton." I went over and tickled Oscar's chin, then I turned again
to Mrs. Gibbons. "By the way, it's after nine o"clock. Where has he
been till now?" She poised her butter knife and looked into space.
"Let's see, now," she said. "It's Thursday, isn't it? Ah yes, it's
"is night for the yoga class."

Boris and Mrs. Bond's Cat Establishment

"I work for cats." That was how Mrs. Bond introduced herself on my
first visit, gripping my hand firmly and thrusting out her jaw
defiantly as though challenging me to make something of it. She was
a big woman with a strong, high-cheekboned face and a commanding
presence and I wouldn't have argued with her anyway, so I nodded
gravely as though I fully understood and agreed, and allowed her to
lead me into the house. I saw at once what she meant. The big
kitchen-living room had been completely given over to cats. There
were cats on the sofas and chairs and spilling in cascades on to the
floor, cats sitting in rows along the window sills and right in the
middle of it all, little Mr. Bond, pallid, wispy-moustached, in his
shirt sleeves reading a newspaper. It was a scene which was going to
become very familiar. A lot of the cats were obviously uncastrated
toms because the atmosphere was vibrant with their distinctive
smell--a fierce pungency which overwhelmed even the sickly wisps
from the big saucepans of nameless cat food bubbling on the stove.
And Mr. Bond was always there, always in his shirt sleeves and
reading his paper, a lonely little island in a sea of cats. I had
heard of the Bonds, of course. They were Londoners who for some
obscure reason had picked on North Yorkshire for their retirement.
People said they had a "bit o" brass" and they had bought an old
house on the outskirts of Darrowby where they kept themselves to
themselves--and the cats. I had heard that Mrs. Bond was in the
habit of taking in strays and feeding them and giving them a home if
they wanted it and this had predisposed me in her favour, because in
my experience the unfortunate feline species seemed to be fair game
for every kind of cruelty and neglect. They shot cats, threw things
at them, starved them and set their dogs on them for fun. It was
good to see somebody taking their side. My patient on this first
visit was no more than a big kitten, a terrified little blob of
black and white crouching in a corner. "He's one of the outside cats,
" Mrs. Bond boomed. "Outside cats?" "Yes. All these you see here are
the inside cats. The others are the really wild ones who simply
refuse to enter the house. I feed them, of course, but the only time
they come indoors is when they are ill." "I see." "I've had
frightful trouble catching this one. I'm worried about his eyes--
there seemed to be a skin growing over them, and I do hope you can
do something for him. His name, by the way, is George." "George? Ah
yes, quite." I advanced cautiously on the little half-grown animal
and was greeted by a waving set of claws and a series of open-
mouthed spittings. He was trapped in his corner or he would have
been off with the speed of light. Examining him was going to be a
problem. I turned to Mrs. Bond. "Could you let me have a sheet of
some kind? An old ironing sheet would do. I'm going to have to wrap
him up." "Wrap him up?" Mrs. Bond looked very doubtful but she
disappeared into another room and returned with a tattered sheet of
cotton which looked just right. I cleared the table of an amazing
variety of cat feeding dishes, cat books, cat medicines and spread
out the sheet, then I approached my patient again. You can't be in a
hurry in a situation like this and it took me perhaps five minutes
of wheedling and "puss-pussing" while I brought my hand nearer and
nearer. When I got as far as being able to stroke his cheek I made a
quick grab at the scruff of his neck and finally bore George,
protesting bitterly and lashing out in all directions, over to the
table. There, still holding tightly to his scruff, I laid him on the
sheet and started the wrapping operation. This is something which
has to be done quite often with obstreperous felines and, although I
say it, I am rather good at it. The idea is to make a neat, tight
roll, leaving the relevant piece of cat exposed; it may be an
injured paw, perhaps the tail, and in this case of course the head.
I think it was the beginning of Mrs. Bond's unquestioning faith in
me when she saw me quickly enveloping that cat till all you could
see of him was a small black and white head protruding from an
immovable cocoon of cloth. He and I were now facing each other, more
or less eyeball to eyeball, and George couldn't do a thing about it.
As I say, I rather pride myself on this little expertise and even
today my veterinary colleagues have been known to remark: "Old
Herriot may be limited in many respects but by God he can wrap a cat.
" As it turned out, there wasn't a skin growing over Alfred's eyes.
There never is. "He's got a paralysis of the third eyelid, Mrs. Bond.
Animals have this membrane which flicks across the eye to protect it.
In this case it hasn't gone back, probably because the cat is in low
condition--maybe had a touch of cat flu or something else which has
weakened him. I'll give him an injection of vitamins and leave you
some powder to put in his food if you could keep him in for a few
days. I think he'll be all right in a week or two." The injection
presented no problems with Alfred furious but helpless inside his
sheet and I had come to the end of my first visit to Mrs. Bond's.

It was the first of many. The lady and I established an immediate
rapport which was strengthened by the fact that I was always
prepared to spend time over her assorted charges; crawling on my
stomach under piles of logs in the outhouses to reach the outside
cats, coaxing them down from trees, stalking them endlessly through
the shrubbery. But from my point of view it was rewarding in many
ways. For instance there was the diversity of names she had for her
cats. True to her London upbringing she had named many of the toms
after the great Arsenal team of those days. There was Eddie Hapgood,
Cliff Bastin, Ted Drake, Wilf Copping, but she did slip up in one
case because Alex James had kittens three times a year with
unfailing regularity. Then there was her way of calling them home.
The first time I saw her at this was on a still summer evening. The
two cats she wanted me to see were out in the garden somewhere and I
walked with her to the back door where she halted, clasped her hands
across her bosom, closed her eyes and gave tongue in a mellifluous
contralto. "Bates, Bates, Bates, Ba-hates." She actually sang out
the words in a reverent monotone except for a delightful little lilt
on the "Ba-hates." Then once more she inflated her ample rib cage
like an operatic prima donna and out it came again, delivered with
the utmost feeling. "Bates, Bates, Bates, Ba-hates." Anyway it
worked, because Bates the cat came trotting from behind a clump of
laurel. There remained the other patient and I watched Mrs. Bond
with interest. She took up the same stance, breathed in, closed her
eyes, composed her features into a sweet half-smile and started
again. "Seven-times-three, Seven-times-three, Seven-times-three-hee.
" It was set to the same melody as Bates with the same dulcet rise
and fall at the end. She didn't get the quick response this time,
though, and had to go through the performance again and again, and
as the notes lingered on the still evening air the effect was
startlingly like a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. At length
she was successful and a fat tortoiseshell slunk apologetically into
the house. "By the way, Mrs. Bond," I asked, making my voice casual.
"I didn't quite catch the name of that last cat." "Oh, Seven-times-
three?" She smiled reminiscently. "Yes, she is a dear. She's had
three kittens seven times running, you see, so I thought it rather a
good name for her, don't you?" "Yes, yes, I do indeed. Splendid name,
splendid." Another thing which warmed me towards Mrs. Bond was her
concern for my safety. I appreciated this because it is a rare trait
among animal owners. I can think of the trainer, after one of his
racehorses had kicked me clean out of a loose box, examining the
animal anxiously to see if it had damaged its foot; the little old
lady dwarfed by the bristling, teeth-bared Alsatian saying: "You'll
be gentle with him, won't you, and I hope you won't hurt him-- he's
very nervous"; the farmer, after an exhausting calving which I feel
certain has knocked about two years off my life expectancy, grunting
morosely: "I doubt you've tired that cow out, young man." Mrs. Bond
was different. She used to meet me at the door with an enormous pair
of gauntlets to protect my hands against scratches and it was an
inexpressible relief to find that somebody cared. It became part of
the pattern of my life; walking up the garden path among the
innumerable slinking, wild-eyed little creatures which were the
outside cats, the ceremonial acceptance of the gloves at the door,
then the entry into the charged atmosphere of the kitchen with
little Mr. Bond and his newspaper just visible among the milling
furry bodies of the inside cats. I was never able to ascertain Mr.
Bond's attitude to cats--come to think of it he hardly ever said
anything--but I had the impression he could take them or leave them.
The gauntlets were a big help and at times they were a veritable
godsend. As in the case of Boris. Boris was an enormous blue-black
member of the outside cats and my bete noire in more senses than
one. I always cherished a private conviction that he had escaped
from a zoo; I had never seen a domestic cat with such sleek,
writhing muscles, such dedicated ferocity. I'm sure there was a bit
of puma in Boris somewhere. It had been a sad day for the cat colony
when he turned up. I have always found it difficult to dislike any
animal; most of the ones which try to do us a mischief are activated
by fear, but Boris was different; he was a malevolent bully and
after his arrival the frequency of my visits increased because of
his habit of regularly beating up his colleagues. I was forever
stitching up tattered ears, dressing gnawed limbs. We had one trial
of strength fairly early. Mrs. Bond wanted me to give him a worm
dose and I had the little tablet all ready held in forceps. How I
ever got hold of him I don't quite know, but I hustled him on to the
table and did my wrapping act at lightning speed, swathing him in
roll upon roll of stout material. Just for a few seconds I thought I
had him as he stared up at me, his great brilliant eyes full of hate.
But as I pushed my loaded forceps into his mouth he clamped his
teeth viciously down on them and I could feel claws of amazing power
tearing inside the sheet. It was all over in moments. A long leg
shot out and ripped its way down my wrist, I let go my tight hold of
the neck and in a flash Boris sank his teeth through the gauntlet
into the ball of my thumb and was away. I was left standing there
stupidly, holding the fragmented worm tablet in a bleeding hand and
looking at the bunch of ribbons which had once been my wrapping
sheet. From then on Boris loathed the very sight of me and the
feeling was mutual.

But this was one of the few clouds in a serene sky. I continued to
enjoy my visits there and life proceeded on a tranquil course except,
perhaps, for some legpulling from my colleagues. They could never
understand my willingness to spend so much time over a lot of cats.
And of course this fitted in with the general attitude because
Siegfried didn't believe in people keeping pets of any kind. He just
couldn't understand their mentality and propounded his views to
anybody who cared to listen. He himself, of course, kept five dogs
and two cats. The dogs, all of them, travelled everywhere with him
in the car and he fed dogs and cats every day with his own hands--
-wouldn't allow anybody else to do the job. In the evening all seven
animals would pile themselves round his feet as he sat in his chair
by the fire. To this day he is still as vehemently anti-pet as ever,
though another generation of waving dogs" tails almost obscures him
as he drives around and he also has several cats, a few tanks of
tropical fish and a couple of snakes. Tristan saw me in action at
Mrs. Bond's on only one occasion. I was collecting some long forceps
from the instrument cupboard when he came into the room. "Anything
interesting, Jim?" he asked. "No, not really. I'm just off to see
one of the Bond cats. It's got a bone stuck between its teeth." The
young man eyed me ruminatively for a moment. "Think I'll come with
you. I haven't seen much small animal stuff lately." As we went down
the garden at the cat establishment I felt a twinge of embarrassment.
One of the things which had built up my happy relationship with Mrs.
Bond was my tender concern for her charges. Even with the wildest
and the fiercest I exhibited only gentleness, patience and
solicitude; it wasn't really an act, it came quite naturally to me.
However, I couldn't help wondering what Tristan would think of my
cat bedside manner. Mrs. Bond in the doorway had summed up the
situation in a flash and had two pairs of gauntlets waiting. Tristan
looked a little surprised as he received his pair but thanked the
lady with typical charm. He looked still more surprised when he
entered the kitchen, sniffed the rich atmosphere and surveyed the
masses of furry creatures occupying almost every available inch of
space. "Mr. Herriot, I'm afraid it's Boris who has the bone in his
teeth," Mrs. Bond said. "Boris!" My stomach lurched. "How on earth
are we going to catch him?" "Oh, I've been rather clever," she
replied. "I've managed to entice him with some of his favourite food
into a cat basket." Tristan put his hand on a big wicker cage on the
table. "In here, is he?" he asked casually. He slipped back the
catch and opened the lid. For something like a third of a second the
coiled creature within and Tristan regarded each other tensely, then
a sleek black body exploded silently from the basket past the young
man's left ear on to the top of a tall cupboard. "Holy Moses!" said
Tristan. "What the hell was that?" "That," I said, "was Boris, and
now we've got to get hold of him again." I climbed on to a chair,
reached slowly on to the cupboard top and started "puss-puss-
pussing" in my most beguiling tone. After about a minute Tristan
appeared to think he had a better idea; he made a sudden leap and
grabbed Boris's tail. But only briefly, because the big cat freed
himself in an instant and set off on a whirlwind circuit of the
room; along the tops of cupboards and dressers, across the curtains,
careering round and round like a wall-of-death rider. Tristan
stationed himself at a strategic point and as Boris shot past he
swiped at him with one of the gauntlets. "Missed the bloody thing!"
he shouted in chagrin. "But here he comes again ... take that, you
black devil! Damn it, I can't nail him!" The docile little inside
cats, startled by the scattering of plates and tins and pans and by
Tristan's cries and arm wavings, began to run around in their turn,
knocking over whatever Boris had missed. The noise and confusion
even got through to Mr. Bond because, just for a moment, he raised
his head and looked around him in mild surprise at the hurtling
bodies before returning to his newspaper. Tristan, flushed with the
excitement of the chase, had really begun to enjoy himself. I
cringed inwardly as he shouted over to me happily, "Send him on, Jim,
I'll get the blighter next time round!" We never did catch Boris. We
just had to leave the piece of bone to work its own way out, so it
wasn't a successful veterinary visit. But Tristan smiled contentedly
as we got back into the car. "That was great, Jim. I didn't realise
you had such fun with your pussies." Mrs. Bond, on the other hand,
when I next saw her, was rather tight-lipped over the whole thing.
"Mr. Herriot," she said, "I hope you aren't going to bring that
young man with you again."

Olly and Ginny Two Kittens Who Came to Stay

"Look at that, Jim! Surely that's a stray cat. I've never seen it
before." Helen was at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, and she
pointed through the window. Our new house in Hannerly had been built
into a sloping field. There was a low retaining wall, chest high,
just outside the window and, behind, the grassy bank led from the
wall top up to some bushes and an open log shed perched about twenty
yards away. A lean little cat was peering warily from the bushes.
Two tiny kittens crouched by her side. "I think you're right," I
said. "That's a stray with her family and she's looking for food."
Helen put out a bowl of meat scraps and some milk on the flat top of
the wall and retired to the kitchen. The mother cat did not move for
a few minutes, then she advanced with the utmost caution, took up
some of the food in her mouth and carried it back to her kittens.
Several times she crept down the bank, but when the kittens tried to
follow her, she gave them a quick "get back" tap with her paw. We
watched, fascinated, as the scraggy, half-starved creature made sure
that her family had eaten before she herself took anything from the
bowl. Then, when the food was finished, we quietly opened the back
door. But as soon as they saw us, cat and kittens flitted away into
the field. "I wonder where they came from," Helen said. I shrugged.
"Heaven knows. There's a lot of open country round here. They could
have come from miles away. And that mother cat doesn't look like an
ordinary stray. There's a real wild look about her." Helen nodded.
"Yes, she looks as though she's never been in a house, never had
anything to do with people. I've heard of wild cats like that who
live outside. Maybe she only came looking for food because of her
kittens." "I think you're right," I said as we returned to the
kitchen. "Anyway, the poor little things have had a good feed. I
don't suppose we'll see them again." But I was wrong. Two days later,
the trio reappeared. In the same place, peeping from the bushes,
looking hungrily towards the kitchen window. Helen fed them again,
the mother cat still fiercely forbidding her kittens to leave the
bushes, and once more they darted away when we tried to approach
them. When they came again next morning, Helen turned to me and
smiled. "I think we've been adopted," she said. She was right. The
three of them took up residence in the log shed and after a few days
the mother allowed the kittens to come down to the food bowls,
shepherding them carefully all the way. They were still quite tiny,
only a few weeks old. One was black and white, the other
tortoiseshell. Helen fed them for a fortnight, but they remained
unapproachable creatures. Then one morning, as I was about to go on
my rounds, she called me into the kitchen. She pointed through the
window. "What do you make of that?" I looked and saw the two kittens
in their usual position under the bushes, but there was no mother
cat. "That's strange," I said. "She's never let them out of her
sight before." The kittens had their feed and I tried to follow them
as they ran away, but I lost them in the long grass, and although I
searched all over the field there was no sign of them or their
mother. We never saw the mother cat again and Helen was quite upset.
"What on earth can have happened to her?" she murmured a few days
later as the kittens ate their morning meal. "Could be anything," I
replied. "I'm afraid the mortality rate for wandering cats is very
high. She could have been run over by a car or had some other
accident. I'm afraid we'll never know." Helen looked again at the
little creatures crouched side by side, their heads in the bowl. "Do
you think she's just abandoned them?" "Well, it's possible. She was
a maternal and caring little thing and I have a feeling she looked
around till she could find a good home for them. She didn't leave
till she saw that they could fend for themselves and maybe she's
returned to her outside life now. She was a real wild one." It
remained a mystery, but one thing was sure: the kittens were
installed for good. Another thing was sure: they would never be
domesticated. Try as we might, we were never able to touch them, and
all our attempts to wheedle them into the house were unavailing.

One wet morning, Helen and I looked out of the kitchen window at the
two of them sitting on the wall, waiting for their breakfast, their
fur sodden, their eyes nearly closed against the driving rain. "Poor
little things," Helen said, "I can't bear to see them out there, wet
and cold, we must get them inside." "How? We've tried often enough."
"Oh, I know, but let's have another go. Maybe they'll be glad to
come in out of the rain." We mashed up a dish of fresh fish, an
irresistible delicacy to cats. I let them have a sniff and they were
eager and hungry, then I placed the dish just inside the back door
before retreating out of sight. But as we watched through the window
the two of them sat motionless in the downpour, their eyes fixed on
the fish, but determined not to go through the door. That, clearly,
was unthinkable. "All right, you win," I said and put the food on
the wall where it was immediately devoured. I was staring at them
with a feeling of defeat when Herbert Platt, one of the local
dustmen, came round the corner. At the sight of him the kittens
scurried away and Herbert laughed. "Ah see you've taken on them cats.
That's some nice stuff they're getting to eat." "Yes, but they won't
come inside to get it." He laughed again. "Aye, and they never will.
Ah've know"n that family o" cats for years, and all their ancestors.
I saw that mother cat when she first came, and before that she lived
at awd Mrs. Caley's over the hill and ah remember that "un's mother
before her, down at Billy Tate's farm. Ah can go back donkey's years
with them cats." "Gosh, is that so?" "Aye, it is, and I've never
seen one o" that strain that would go inside a house. They're wild,
real wild." "Ah well, thanks, Herbert, that explains a lot." He
smiled and hoisted a bin. "Ah'll get off, then, and they can finish
their breakfast." "Well, that's it, Helen," I said. "Now we know.
They're always going to be outside, but at least we can try to
improve their accommodation." The thing we called the log shed,
where I had laid some straw for them to sleep, wasn't a shed at all.
It had a roof, but was open all down one side, with widely spaced
slats on the other three sides. It allowed a constant through-wind
which made it a fine place for drying out the logs but horribly
draughty as a dwelling. I went up the grassy slope and put up a
sheet of plywood as a wind-break. Then I built up a mound of logs
into a protective zariba around the straw bed and stood back,
puffing slightly. "Right," I said. "They'll be quite cozy in there
now." Helen nodded in agreement, but she had gone one better. Behind
my wind-break, she put down an open-sided box with cushions inside.
"There now, they needn't sleep on the straw any more. They'll be
warm and comfortable in this nice box." I rubbed my hands. "Great.
We won't have to worry about them in bad weather. They'll really
enjoy coming in here." From that moment the kittens boycotted the
shed. They still came for their meals every day, but we never saw
them anywhere near their old dwelling. "They're just not used to it,
" Helen said. "Hmm." I looked again at the cushioned box tucked in
the centre of the encircling logs. "Either that, or they don't like
it." We stuck it out for a few days, then, as we wondered where on
earth the kittens could be sleeping, our resolve began to crack. I
went up the slope and dismantled the wall of logs. Immediately the
two little creatures returned. They sniffed and nosed round the box
and went away again. "I'm afraid they're not keen on your box either,
" I grunted as we watched from our vantage point. Helen looked
stricken. "Silly little things. It's perfect for them." But after
another two days during which the shed lay deserted, she went out
and I saw her coming sadly down the bank, box in one hand, cushions
under her arm. The kittens were back within hours, looking round the
place, vastly relieved. They didn't seem to object to the wind-break
and settled happily in the straw. Our attempts to produce a feline
Hilton had been a total failure. It dawned on me that they couldn't
bear to be enclosed, to have their escape routes cut off. Lying
there on the open bed of straw, they could see all around them and
were able to flit away between the slats at the slightest sign of
danger. "Okay, my friends," I said, 'that's the way you want it, but
I'm going to find out something more about you." Helen gave them
some food and once they were concentrating on the food, I crept up
on them and threw a fisherman's landing net over them and after a
struggle I was able to divine that the tortoiseshell was a female
and the black and white a male. "Good," said Helen, "I'll call them
Olly and Ginny." "Why Olly?" "Don't really know. He looks like an
Olly. I like the name." "Oh, and how about Ginny?" "Short for Ginger.
" "She's not really ginger, she's tortoiseshell." "Well, she's a bit
ginger." I left it at that. Over the next few months they grew
rapidly and my veterinary mind soon reached a firm decision. I had
to neuter them. And it was then that I was confronted for the first
time with a problem which was to worry me for years--how to minister
to the veterinary needs of animals which I was unable even to touch.
The first time, when they were half grown, it wasn't so bad. Again I
slunk up on them with my net when they were feeding and managed to
bundle them into a cat cage from which they looked at me with
terrified and, I imagined, accusing eyes. In the surgery, as
Siegfried and I lifted them one by one from the cage and
administered the intravenous anaesthetic, I was struck by the fact
that although they were terror-stricken at being in an enclosed
space for the first time in their lives and by being grasped and
restrained by humans, they were singularly easy to handle. Many of
our domesticated feline patients were fighting furies until we had
lulled them to sleep, and cats, with claws as well as teeth for
weapons, can inflict a fair amount of damage. However, Olly and
Ginny, although they struggled frantically, made no attempt to bite,
never unsheathed their claws. Siegfried put it briefly. "These
little things are scared stiff, but they're absolutely docile. I
wonder how many wild cats are like this." I felt a little strange as
I carried out the operations, looking down at the small sleeping
forms. These were my cats yet it was the first time I was able to
touch them as I wished, examine them closely, appreciate the beauty
of their fur and colourings. When they had come out of the
anaesthetic, I took them home and when I released the two of them
from the cage, they scampered up to their home in the log shed. As
was usual following such minor operations, they showed no after
effects, but they clearly had unpleasant memories of me. During the
next few weeks they came close to Helen as she fed them but fled
immediately at the sight of me. All my attempts to catch Ginny to
remove the single little stitch in her spay incision were fruitless.
That stitch remained for ever and I realised that Herriot had been
cast firmly as the villain of the piece, the character who would
grab you and bundle you into a wire cage if you gave him half a
chance. It soon became clear that things were going to stay that way
because, as the months passed and Helen plied them with all manner
of titbits and they grew into truly handsome, sleek cats, they would
come arching along the wall top when she appeared at the back door,
but I had only to poke my head from the door to send them streaking
away out of sight. I was the chap to be avoided at all times, and
this rankled with me because I have always been fond of cats and I
had become particularly attached to these two. The day finally
arrived when Helen was able to stroke them gently as they ate and my
chagrin deepened at the sight. Usually they slept in the log shed
but occasionally they disappeared to somewhere unknown and stayed
away for a few days, and we used to wonder if they had abandoned us
or if something had happened to them. When they reappeared, Helen
would shout to me in great relief, "They're back, Jim, they're
back!" They had become part of our lives.

Summer lengthened into autumn and when the bitter Yorkshire winter
set in we marvelled at their hardiness. We used to feel terrible,
looking at them from our warm kitchen as they sat out in the frost
and snow, but no matter how harsh the weather, nothing would induce
either of them to set foot inside the house. Warmth and comfort had
no appeal to them. When the weather was fine we had a lot of fun
just watching them. We could see right up into the log shed from our
kitchen, and it was fascinating to observe their happy relationship.
They were such friends. Totally inseparable, they spent hours
licking each other and rolling about together in gentle play and
they never pushed each other out of the way when they were given
their food. At nights we could see the two furry little forms curled
close together in the straw. Then there was a time when we thought
everything had changed forever. The cats did one of their
disappearing acts and as day followed day we became more anxious.
Each morning. Helen started her day with the cry of "Olly, Ginny"
which always brought the two of them trotting down from their
dwelling, but now they did not appear, and when a week passed and
then two we had almost run out of hope. When we came back from our
half day in Brawton, Helen ran to the kitchen and looked out. The
cats knew our habits and they would always be sitting waiting for
her but the empty wall stretched away and the log shed was deserted.
"Do you think they've gone for good, Jim?" she said. I shrugged.
"It's beginning to look like it. You remember what old Herbert said
about that family of cats. Maybe they're nomads at heart-- gone off
to pastures new." Helen's face was doleful. "I can't believe it.
They seemed so happy here. Oh, I hope nothing terrible has happened
to them." Sadly she began to put her shopping away and she was
silent all evening. My attempts to cheer her up were half-hearted
because I was wrapped in a blanket of misery myself. Strangely, it
was the very next morning when I heard Helen's usual cry, but this
time it wasn't a happy one. She ran into the sitting room. "They're
back, Jim," she said breathlessly, "but I think they're dying!"
"What? What do you mean?" "Oh, they look awful! They're desperately
ill--I'm sure they're dying." I hurried through to the kitchen with
her and looked through the window. The cats were sitting there side
by side on the wall a few feet away. A watery discharge ran from
their eyes, which were almost closed, more fluid poured from their
nostrils and saliva drooled from their mouths. Their bodies shook
from a continuous sneezing and coughing. They were thin and scraggy,
unrecognisable as the sleek creatures we knew so well, and their
appearance was made more pitiful by their situation in the teeth of
a piercing east wind which tore at their fur and made their attempts
to open their eyes even more painful. Helen opened the back door.
"Olly, Ginny, what's happened to you?" she cried softly. A
remarkable thing then happened. At the sound of her voice, the cats
hopped carefully from the wall and walked unhesitatingly through the
door into the kitchen. It was the first time they had been under our
roof. "Look at that!" Helen exclaimed. "I can't believe it. They
must be really ill. But what is it, Jim? Have they been poisoned?" I
shook my head. "No, they've got cat flu." "You can tell?" "Oh, yes,
this is classical." "And will they die?" I rubbed my chin. "I don't
think so." I wanted to sound reassuring, but I wondered. Feline
virus rhinotracheitis had a fairly low mortality rate, but bad cases
can die and these cats were very bad indeed. "Anyway, close the door,
Helen, and I'll see if they'll let me examine them." But at the
sight of the closing door, both cats bolted back outside. "Open up
again," I cried and, after a moment's hesitation, the cats walked
back into the kitchen. I looked at them in astonishment. "Would you
believe it? They haven't come in here for shelter, they've come for
help!" And there was no doubt about it. The two of them sat there,
side by side, waiting for us to do something for them. "The question
is," I said, "will they allow their bete noire to get near them?
We'd better leave the back door open so they don't feel threatened."
I approached inch by inch until I could put a hand on them, but they
did not move. With a feeling that I was dreaming, I lifted each of
them, limp and unresisting, and examined them. Helen stroked them
while I ran out to my car which held my stock of drugs and brought
in what I'd need. I took their temperatures; they were both over 104,
which was typical. Then I injected them with oxytetracycline, the
antibiotic which I had always found best for treating the secondary
bacterial infection which followed the initial virus attack. I also
injected vitamins, cleaned away the pus and mucus from the eyes and
nostrils with cotton wool and applied an antibiotic ointment. And
all the time I marvelled that I was lifting and handling these
yielding little bodies which I hadn't even been able to touch before
apart from when they had been under the anaesthetic for the
neutering ops. When I had finished I couldn't bear the thought of
turning them out into that cruel wind. I lifted them up and tucked them
one under each arm. "Helen," I said, "let's have another try. Will
you just gently close the door." She took hold of the knob and began
to push very slowly, but immediately both cats leaped like uncoiled
springs from my arms and shot into the garden. We watched them as
they trotted out of sight. "Well, that's extraordinary," I said.
"Ill as they are, they won't tolerate being shut in." Helen was on
the verge of tears. "But how will they stand it out there? They
should be kept warm. I wonder if they'll stay now or will they leave
us again?" "I just don't know." I looked at the empty garden. "But
we've got to realise they are in their natural environment. They're
tough little things. I think they'll be back." I was right. Next
morning they were outside the window, eyes closed against the wind,
the fur on their faces streaked and stained with the copious
discharge. Again Helen opened the door and again they walked calmly
inside and made no resistance as I repeated my treatment, injecting
them, swabbing out eyes and nostrils, examining their mouths for
ulcers, lifting them around like any long-standing household pets.
This happened every day for a week. The discharges became more
purulent and their racking sneezing seemed no better; then, when I
was losing hope, they started to eat a little food and,
significantly, they weren't so keen to come into the house. When I
did get them inside, they were tense and unhappy as I handled them
and finally I couldn't touch them at all. They were by no means
cured, so I mixed oxytet soluble powder in their food and treated
them that way. The weather was even worse, with fine flakes of snow
spinning in the wind, but the day came when they refused to come
inside and we watched them through the window as they ate. But I had
the satisfaction of knowing they were still getting the antibiotic
with every mouthful. As I carried on this long-range treatment,
observing them daily from the kitchen, it was rewarding to see the
sneezing abating, the discharges drying up and the cats gradually
regaining their lost flesh.

It was a brisk sunny morning in March and I was watching Helen
putting their breakfast on the wall. Olly and Ginny, sleek as seals,
their faces clean and dry, their eyes bright, came arching along the
wall, purring like outboard motors. They were in no hurry to eat;
they were clearly happy just to see her. As they passed to and fro,
she ran her hand gently along their heads and backs. This was the
kind of stroking they liked--not overdone, with them continually in
motion. I felt I had to get into the action and stepped from the
open door. "Ginny," I said and held out a hand. "Come here, Ginny."
The little creature stopped her promenade along the wall and
regarded me from a safe distance, not with hostility but with all
the old wariness. As I tried to move nearer to her, she skipped away
out of reach. "Okay," I said, "and I don't suppose it's any good
trying with you either, Olly." The black-and-white cat backed well
away from my outstretched hand and gave me a non-committal gaze. I
could see he agreed with me. Mortified, I called out to the two of
them. "Hey, remember me?" It was clear by the look of them that they
remembered me all right--but not in the way I hoped. I felt a stab
of frustration. Despite my efforts I was back where I started. Helen
laughed. "They're a funny pair, but don't they look marvellous!
They're a picture of health, as good as new. It says a lot for fresh
air treatment." "It does indeed," I said with a wry smile, "but it
also says something for having a resident veterinary surgeon."





Emily and the Gentleman of the Road

As I got out of my car to open the gate to the farm, I looked with
interest at the odd-looking structure on the grass verge; it was
standing in the shelter of the dry-stone wall, overlooking the
valley. It seemed as though sheets of tarpaulin had been stretched
over metal hoops to make some kind of shelter. It was like a big
black igloo, but for what? As I wondered, the sacking at the front
parted and a tall, white-bearded man emerged. He straightened up,
looked around him, dusted down his ancient frock coat and donned the
kind of high-crowned bowler hat which was popular in Victorian times.
He seemed oblivious of my presence as he stood, breathing deeply,
gazing at the heathery fellside which ran away from the roadside to
the beck far below. Then after a few moments he turned to me and
raised his hat gravely. "Good morning to you," he murmured in the
kind of voice which would have belonged to an archbishop. "Morning,"
I replied, fighting with my surprise. "Lovely day." His fine
features relaxed in a smile. "Yes, yes, it is indeed." Then he bent
and pulled the sacking apart. "Come, Emily." As I stared, a little
cat tripped out with dainty steps, and as she stretched luxuriously
the man attached a leash to the collar round her neck. He turned to
me and raised his hat again. "Good day to you." Then man and cat set
off at a leisurely pace towards the village whose church tower was
just visible a couple of miles down the road. I took my time over
opening the gate as I watched the dwindling figures. I felt almost
as though I were seeing an apparition. I was out of my usual
territory because a faithful client, Eddy Carless, had taken this
farm almost twenty miles away from Darrowby and had paid us the
compliment of asking our practice if we would still do his work. We
had said yes even though it would be inconvenient to travel so far,
especially in the middle of the night. The farm lay two fields back
from the road and as I drew up in the yard I saw Eddy coming down
the granary steps. "Eddy," I said, "I've just seen something very
strange." He laughed. "You don't have to tell me. You've seen Eugene.
" "Eugene?" "That's right. Eugene Ireson. He lives there." "What?"
"It's true--that's "is house. He built it himself two years ago and
took up residence. This used to be me dad's farm, as you know, and
he used to tell me about "im. He came from nowhere and settled in
that funny place with "is cat and he's never moved since." "I
wouldn't have thought he would be allowed to set up house on the
grass verge." "No, neither would I, but nobody seems to have
bothered "im. And I'll tell you another funny thing. He's an
educated man. He has travelled the world, living rough in wild
countries and having all kinds of adventures, but wherever he's been
he's come back to North Yorkshire." "But why does he live in that
strange erection?" "It's a mystery. "He seems happy and content
down there. Me dad was very fond of "im and the old chap used to
come up to the farm for the odd meal and a bath. Still does, but
he's very independent. Doesn't sponge on anybody. Goes down to the
village regularly for his food and "is pension. "And always with his
cat?" "Aye." Eddy laughed again. "Allus with his cat." We went into
the building to look at his sick cow I had come to visit, but I
couldn't rid my mind of the memory of that odd twosome.

When I drew up at the farm gate three days later to see how the cow
was faring, Mr. Ireson was sitting on a wicker chair in the sunshine,
reading, with his cat on his lap. When I got out of the car, he
raised his hat as before. "Good afternoon. A very pleasant day."
"Yes, it certainly is." As I spoke, Emily hopped down and stalked
over the grass to greet me, and as I tickled her under the chin she
arched and purred round my legs. "What a lovely little thing!" I
said. The old man's manner moved from courtesy to something more.
"You like cats?" "Yes, I do. I've always liked them." As I continued
my stroking, then gave her tail a playful tug, the pretty tabby face
looked up at me and the purring rose in a crescendo. "Well, Emily
seems to have taken to you remarkably. I've never seen her so
demonstrative." I laughed. "She knows how I feel. Cats always know--
they are very wise animals." Mr. Ireson beamed his agreement. "I saw
you the other day, didn't I? You have some business with Mr.
Carless?" "Yes, I'm his vet." "Aah ... I see. So you are a
veterinary surgeon and you approve of my Emily." "I couldn't do
anything else. She's beautiful." The old man seemed to swell with
gratification. "How very kind of you." He hesitated. "I wonder, Mr. .
.. er ..." "Herriot." "Ah, yes, I wonder, Mr. Herriot, if, when you
have concluded your business with Mr. Carless, you would care to
join me in a cup of tea." "I'd love to. I'll be finished in less
than an hour." "Splendid, splendid. I look forward to seeing you
then." Eddy's cow was completely well again, and I was soon on my
way back down the farm road. Mr. Ireson was waiting by the gate. "It
is a little chilly now," he said. "I think we'd better go inside."
He led me over to the igloo, drew back the sacks and ushered me
through with Old World grace. "Do sit down," he murmured, waving me
to what looked like a one-time automobile seat in tattered leather
while he sank down on the wicker chair I had seen outside. As he
arranged two mugs, then took the kettle from a primus stove and
began to pour, I took in the contents of the interior. There was a
camp bed, a bulging rucksack, a row of books, a tilly lamp, a low
cupboard and a basket in which Emily was ensconced. "Milk and sugar,
Mr. Herriot?" The old man inclined his head gracefully. "Ah, no
sugar. I have some buns here, do have one. There is an excellent
little bakery down in the village and I am a regular customer." As I
bit into the bun and sipped the tea, I stole a look at the row of
books. Every one was poetry. Blake, Swinburne, Longfellow, Whitman,
all worn and frayed with reading. "You like poetry?" I said. He
smiled. "Ah, yes, I do read other things--the van comes up here from
the public library every week--but I always come back to my old
friends, particularly this one." He held up the dog-eared volume he
had been reading earlier. The Poems of Robert W. Service. "You like
that one, eh?" "Yes. I think Service is my favourite. Not classical
stuff perhaps, but his verses strike something very deep in me." He
gazed at the book, then his eyes looked beyond me into somewhere
only he knew. I wondered then if Alaska and the wild Yukon territory
might have been the scene of his wanderings andfora moment I hoped
he might be going to tell me something about his past, but it seemed
he didn't want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about his cat.
"It is the most extraordinary thing, Mr. Herriot. I have lived on my
own all my life but I have never felt lonely, but I know now that I
would be desperately lonely without Emily. Does that sound foolish
to you?" "Not at all. Possibly it's because you haven't had a pet
before. Have you?" "No, I haven't. Never seemed to have stayed still
long enough. I am fond of animals and there have been times when I
felt I would like to own a dog, but never a cat. I have heard so
often that cats do not dispense affection, that they are self-
sufficient and never become really fond of anybody. Do you agree
with that?" "Of course not. It's absolute nonsense. Cats have a
character of their own, but I've treated hundreds of friendly,
affectionate cats who are faithful friends to their owners." "I'm so
glad to hear you say that, because I flatter myself that this little
creature is really attached to me." He looked down at Emily, who had
jumped onto his lap, and gently patted her head. "That's easy to see,
" I said and the old man smiled his pleasure. "You know, Mr. Herriot,
" he went on, "when I first settled here," he waved his hand round
his dwelling as though it were the drawing room in a multi-acred
mansion, "I had no reason to think that I wouldn't continue to live
the solitary life that I was accustomed to, but one day this little
animal walked in from nowhere as though she had been invited and my
whole existence has changed." I laughed. "She adopted you. Cats do
that. And it was a lucky day for you." "Yes ... yes ... how very
true. You seem to understand these things so well, Mr. Herriot. Now,
do let me top up your cup." It was the first of many visits to Mr.
Ireson in his strange dwelling. I never went to the Carless farm
without looking in through the sacks and if Eugene was in residence
we had a cup of tea and a chat. We talked about many things--books,
the political situation, natural history, of which he had a deep
knowledge, but the conversation always got round to cats. He wanted
to know everything about their care and feeding, habits and diseases.
While I was agog to hear about his world travels which he referred
to only in the vaguest terms, he would listen with the wide-eyed
interest of a child to my veterinary experiences. It was during one
of these sessions that I raised the question of Emily in particular.
"I notice she is either in here or on the lead with you, but does
she ever go wandering outside by herself?" "Well, yes ... now that
you mention it. Just lately she has done so. She only goes up to the
farm--I make sure she does not stray along the road where she may be
knocked down." "I didn't mean that, Mr. Ireson. What I was thinking
about was that there are several male cats up there at the farm. She
could easily become pregnant." He sat bolt upright in his chair.
"Good heavens, yes! I never thought of that--how foolish of me. I'd
better try to keep her inside." "Very difficult," I said. "It would
be much better to have her spayed. Then she'd be safe--you couldn't
do with a lot of kittens in here, could you?" "No ... no ... of
course not. But an operation ..." He stared at me with frightened
eyes. "There would be an element of danger ...?" "No, no," I said as
briskly as I could. "It's quite a simple procedure. We do lots of
them." His normal urbanity fell away from him. From the beginning he
had struck me as a man who had seen so many things in life that
nothing would disturb his serenity, but now he seemed to shrink
within himself. He slowly stroked the little cat, seated, as usual,
on his lap. Then he reached down to the black leather volume of The
Works of Shakespeare with its faded gold lettering which he had been
reading when I arrived. He placed a marker in the book and closed it
before putting it carefully on the shelf. "I really don't know what
to say, Mr. Herriot." I gave him an encouraging smile. "There's
nothing to worry about. I strongly advise it. If I could just
describe the operation, I'm sure it would put your mind at rest.
It's really keyhole surgery--we make only a tiny incision and bring
the ovaries and uterus through and ligate the stump. ..." I dried up
hurriedly because the old man closed his eyes and swayed so far to
one side that I thought he would fall off the wicker chair. It
wasn't the first time that one of my explanatory surgical vignettes
had had an undesirable effect and I altered my tactics. I laughed
loudly and patted him on the knee. "So, you see, it's nothing--
nothing at all." He opened his eyes and drew a long, quavering
breath. "Yes ... yes ... I'm sure you're right. But you must give me
a little time to think. This has come on me so suddenly." "All right.
I'm sure Eddy Carless will give me a ring for you. But don't be too
long."

I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear from the old man. The whole
idea obviously terrified him and it was over a month before I saw
him again. I pushed my head through the sacks. He was sitting in his
usual chair, peeling potatoes, and he looked at me with serious eyes.
"Ah, Mr. Herriot. Come and sit down. I've been going to get in touch
with you--I'm so glad you've called." He threw back his head with an
air of resolution. "I have decided to take your advice about Emily.
You may carry out the operation when you think fit." But his voice
trembled as he spoke. "Oh, that's splendid!" I said cheerfully. "In
fact, I've got a cat basket in the car so I can take her straight
away." I tried not to look at his stricken face as the cat jumped on
to my knee. "Well, Emily, you're coming with me." Then, as I looked
at the little animal, I hesitated. Was it my imagination or was
there a significant bulge in her abdomen? "Just a moment," I
murmured as I palpated the little body, then I looked up at the old
man. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ireson, but it's a bit late. She's pregnant."
His mouth opened, but no words came, then he swallowed and spoke in
a hoarse whisper. "But ... but what are we going to do?" "Nothing,
nothing, don't worry. She'll have the kittens, that's all, and I'll
find homes for them. Everything will be fine." I was putting on my
breeziest act, but it didn't seem to help. "But Mr. Herriot, I don't
know anything about these things. I'm now terribly worried. She
could die giving birth--she's so tiny!" "No, no, not at all. Cats
very rarely have any trouble that way. I tell you what, when she
starts having the kittens--probably around a month from now--get
Eddy to give me a ring. I'll slip out here and see that all is well.
How's that?" "Oh, you are kind. I feel so silly about this. The
trouble is ... she means so much to me." "I know, and stop worrying.
Everything will be absolutely okay." We had a cup of tea together
and by the time I left he had calmed down.

I did hear from him at last one stormy evening. "Mr. Herriot, I am
telephoning from the farm. Emily has not yet produced those kittens,
but she is ... very large and has lain trembling all day and won't
eat anything. I hate to trouble you on this horrible night but I
know nothing about these things and she does look ... most unhappy."
I didn't like the sound of that, but I tried to sound casual. "I
think I'll just pop out and have a look at her, Mr. Ireson."
"Really--are you sure?" "Absolutely. No bother. I'll see you soon."
It was a strange, almost unreal scene as I stumbled through the
darkness and parted the sacks forty minutes later. The wind and rain
buffeted the tarpaulin walls and by the flickering light of the
tilly lamp I saw Eugene in his chair stroking Emily, who lay in the
basket by his side. The little cat had swollen enormously--so much
as to be almost unrecognisable and as I kneeled and passed my hand
over her distended abdomen I could feel the skin stretched tight.
She was absolutely bursting full of kittens, but seemed lifeless and
exhausted. She was straining, too, and licking at her vulva. I
looked up at the old man. "Have you some hot water, Mr. Ireson?"
"Yes, yes, the kettle has just boiled." I soaped my little finger.
It would only just go into the tiny vagina. Inside I found the
cervix wide open and a mass beyond, only just palpable. Heaven only
knew how many kittens were jammed in there, but one thing was
certain. There was no way they could ever come out. There was no
room for manoeuvre. There was nothing I could do. Emily turned her
face to me and gave a faint miaow of distress and it came to me
piercingly that this cat could die. "Mr. Ireson," I said, "I'll have
to take her away immediately." "Take her away?" he said in a
bewildered whisper. "Yes. She needs a caesarean operation. The
kittens can't come out in the normal way." Upright in his chair, he
nodded, shocked and only half comprehending. I grabbed the basket,
Emily and all, and rushed out into the darkness. Then, as I thought
of the old man looking blankly after me, I realised that my bedside
manner had slipped badly. I pushed my head back through the sacks.
"Don't worry, Mr. Ireson," I said, "everything's going to be fine."
Don't worry! Brave words. As I parked Emily on the back seat and
drove away, I knew I was damn worried, and I cursed the mocking fate
which had decreed that after all of my airy remarks about cats
effortlessly giving birth I might be headed for a tragedy. How long
had Emily been lying like that? Ruptured uterus? Septicaemia? The
grim possibilities raced through my mind. And why did it have to
happen to that solitary old man of all people? I stopped at the
village kiosk and rang Siegfried. "I've just left old Eugene Ireson.
Will you come in and give me a hand? Cat caesar and it's urgent.
Sorry to bother you on your night off." "Perfectly all right, James,
I'm not doing a thing. See you soon, eh?" When I got to the surgery
Siegfried had the steriliser bubbling and everything laid out. "This
is your party, James," he murmured. "I'll do the anaesthetic." I had
shaved the site of the operation and poised my scalpel over the
grossly swollen abdomen when he whistled softly. "My God," he said,
"it's like opening an abscess!" That was exactly what it was like. I
felt that if I made an incision the mass of kittens would explode
out in my face and, indeed, as I proceeded with the lightest touch
through skin and muscle, the laden uterus bulged out alarmingly.
"Hell!" I breathed. "How many are in here?" "A fairish number!" said
my partner. "And she's such a tiny cat." Gingerly, I opened the
peritoneum which, to my relief, looked clean and healthy; then, as I
went on, I waited for the jumble of little heads and feet to appear.
But with increasing wonderment I watched my incision travel along a
massive coal-black back and, when I finally hooked my finger round
the neck, drew forth a kitten and laid it on the table, I found that
the uterus was otherwise empty. "There's only one!" I gasped. "Would
you believe it?" Siegfried laughed. "Yes, but what a whopper! And
alive, too." He lifted the kitten and took a closer look. "A
whacking great tom--he's nearly as big as his mother!" As I stitched
up and gave the sleeping Emily a shot of penicillin, I felt the
tension flow away from me in happy waves. The little cat was in good
shape. My fears had been groundless. It would be best to leave the
kitten with her for a few weeks, then I'd be able to find a home for
him. "Thanks a lot for coming in, Siegfried," I said. "It looked
like a very dodgy situation at first." I could hardly wait to get
back to the old man, who, I knew, would still be in a state of shock
at my taking away his beloved cat. In fact, when I passed through
the sacking doorway, it looked as though he hadn't moved an inch
since I last saw him. He wasn't reading, wasn't doing anything
except staring ahead from his chair. When I put the basket down by
his side, he turned slowly and looked down wonderingly at Emily, who
was coming round from the anaesthetic and beginning to raise her
head, and at the black newcomer, who was already finding his private
array of teats interesting. "She's going to be fine, Mr. Ireson," I
said, and the old man nodded slowly. "How wonderful. How simply
wonderful," he murmured.

When I went to take out the stitches ten days later, I found a
carnival atmosphere in the igloo. Old Eugene was beside himself with
delight, while Emily, stretched in the back with her enormous
offspring sucking busily, looked up at me with an expression of
pride which bordered on the smug. "I think we ought to have a
celebratory cup of tea and one of my favourite buns," the old man
said. As the kettle boiled, he drew a finger along the kitten's body.
"He's a handsome fellow, isn't he." "He certainly is. He'll grow up
into a beautiful cat." Eugene smiled. "Yes. I'm sure he will, and it
will be so nice to have him with Emily." I paused as he handed me a
bun. "But just a minute, Mr. Ireson. You really can't do with two
cats here." "Why not?" "Well, you take Emily into the village on a
lead most days. You'd have difficulty on the road with two cats, and
anyway you don't have room in here, do you?" He didn't say anything,
so I pressed on. "A lady was asking me the other day if I could find
her a black kitten. Many people ask us to find a specific pet for
them, often to replace an older animal which has just died, and we
always seem to have trouble obliging them, but this time I am
delighted that I was able to say I knew the very one." He nodded
slowly, and then, after a moment's cogitation, said, "I'm sure
you're right, Mr. Herriot. I hadn't really thought about it enough."
"Anyway," I said, 'she's a very nice lady and a real cat lover.
He'll have a very good home. He'll live like a little sultan with
her." He laughed. "Good ... good ... and maybe I'll hear about him
now and then?" "Absolutely. I'll keep you posted regularly." I could
see I had got over the hurdle nicely and as I took a sip at my tea I
thought I'd change the subject. "I must say, Mr. Ireson, you do seem
to be a remarkably happy person. Very content with life. Maybe it's
something to do with Emily." "Very true! In fact I was about to say
that but I thought you might think me silly." He threw back his head
and laughed. A merry, boyish laugh. "Yes, I have Emily, the all-
important thing! I'm so glad we agree about that. Come now, do have
another bun."

Olly and Ginny Settle In

As a cat lover, it irked me that my own cats couldn't stand the
sight of me. Ginny and Olly were part of the family now. We were
devoted to them and whenever we had a day out the first thing Helen
did on our return was to open the back door and feed them. The cats
knew this very well and were either sitting on the flat top of the
wall, waiting for her, or ready to trot down from the log shed which
was their home. We had been to Brawton on our half-day and they were
there as usual as Helen put out a dish of food and a bowl of milk
for them on the wall. "Olly, Ginny," she murmured as she stroked the
furry coats. The days had long gone when they refused to let her
touch them. Now they rubbed against her hand in delight, arching and
purring and, when they were eating, she ran her hand repeatedly
along their backs. They were such gentle little animals, their
wildness expressed only in fear, and now, with her, that fear had
gone. My children and some from the village had won their confidence,
too, and were allowed to give them a careful caress, but they drew
the line at Herriot. Like now, for instance, when I quietly followed
Helen out and moved towards the wall. Immediately they left the food
and retreated to a safe distance where they stood, still arching
their backs but, as ever, out of reach. They regarded me without
hostility but as I held out a hand they moved further away. "Look at
the little beggars!" I said. "They still won't have anything to do
with me." It was frustrating since, throughout my years in
veterinary practice, cats had always intrigued me and I had found
that this helped me in my dealings with them. I felt I could handle
them more easily than most people because I liked them and they
sensed it. I rather prided myself on my cat technique, a sort of
feline bedside manner, and was in no doubt that I had an empathy
with the entire species and that they all liked me. In fact, if the
truth were told, I fancied myself as a cats" pin-up. Not so,
ironically, with these two--the ones to whom I had become so
deeply attached. It was a bit hard, I thought, because I had
doctored them and probably saved their lives when they had cat flu.
Did they remember that, I wondered? If they did it still didn't give
me the right apparently to lay a finger on them. And, indeed, what
they certainly did seem to remember was that it was I who had netted
them and then shoved them into a cage before I neutered them. I had
the feeling that whenever they saw me, it was that net and cage
which was uppermost in their minds. I could only hope that time
would bring an understanding between us but, as it turned out, fate
was to conspire against me for a long time still. Above all, there
was the business of Olly's coat. Unlike his sister, he was a long-
haired cat and as such was subject to constant tangling and knotting
of his fur. If he had been an ordinary domesticated feline, I would
have combed him out as soon as trouble arose, but since I couldn't
even get near him I was helpless. We had had him about two years
when Helen called me to the kitchen. "Just look at him!" she said.
"He's a dreadful sight!" I peered through the window. Olly was
indeed a bit of a scarecrow with his matted fur and dangling knots
in cruel contrast with his sleek and beautiful little sister. "I
know, I know. But what can I do?" I was about to turn away when I
noticed something. "Wait a minute, there's a couple of horrible big
lumps hanging below his neck. Take these scissors and have a go at
them--a couple of quick snips and they'll be off." Helen gave me an
anguished look. "Oh, we've tried this before. I'm not a vet and
anyway, he won't let me do that. He'll let me pet him, but this is
something else." "I know that, but have a go. There's nothing to it,
really." I pushed a pair of curved scissors into her hand and began
to call instructions through the window. "Right now, get your
fingers behind that big dangling mass. Fine, fine! Now up with your
scissors and--" But at the first gleam of steel, Olly was off and
away up the hill. Helen turned to me in despair. "It's no good, Jim,
it's hopeless--he won't let me cut even one lump off and he's
covered with them." I looked at the dishevelled little creature
standing at a safe distance from us. "Yes, you're right. I'll have
to think of something." Thinking of something entailed doping Olly
so that I could get at him, and my faithful nembutal capsules sprang
immediately to mind. This oral anaesthetic had been a valued ally on
countless occasions where I had to deal with unapproachable animals,
but this was different. With the other cases, my patients had been
behind closed doors, but Olly was outside with all the wide
countryside to roam in. I couldn't have him going to sleep somewhere
out there where a fox or other predator might get him. I would have
to watch him all the time. It was a time for decisions, and I drew
myself up. "I'll have a go at him this Sunday," I told Helen. "It's
usually a bit quieter and I'll ask Siegfried to stand in for me in
an emergency." When the day arrived, Helen went out and placed two
meals of chopped fish on the wall, one of them spiked with the
contents of my nembutal capsule. I crouched behind the window;
watching intently as she directed Olly to the correct portion, and
holding my breath as he sniffed at it suspiciously. His hunger soon
overcame his caution and he licked the bowl clean with evident
relish. Now we started the tricky part. If he decided to explore the
fields as he often did I would have to be right behind him. I stole
out of the house as he sauntered back up the slope to the open log
shed and to my vast relief he settled down in his own particular
indentation in the straw and began to wash himself. As I peered
through the bushes I was gratified to see that very soon he was
having difficulty with his face, licking his hind paw then toppling
over as he brought it up to his cheek. I chuckled to myself. This
was great. Another few minutes and I'd have him. And so it turned
out. Olly seemed to conclude that he was tired of falling over and
it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a nap. After gazing drunkenly
around him, he curled up in the straw. I waited a short time, then,
with all the stealth of an Indian brave on the trail, I crept from
my hiding place and tiptoed to the shed. Olly wasn't flat out--I
hadn't dared give him the full anaesthetic dose in case I had been
unable to track him--but he was deeply sedated. I could pretty well
do what I wanted with him. As I knelt down and began to snip away
with my scissors, he opened his eyes and made a feeble attempt to
struggle, but it was no good and I worked my way quickly through the
ravelled fur. I wasn't able to make a particularly tidy job because
he was wriggling slightly all the time, but I clipped off all the
huge unsightly knots which used to get caught in the bushes, and
must have been horribly uncomfortable, and soon had a growing heap
of black hair by my side. I noticed that Olly wasn't only moving, he
was watching me. Dazed as he was, he knew me all right and his eyes
told me all. "It's you again!" he was saying. "I might have known!"
When I had finished, I lifted him into a cat cage and placed it on
the straw. "Sorry, old lad," I said, "but I can't let you go free
till you've wakened up completely." Olly gave me a sleepy stare, but
his sense of outrage was evident. "So you've dumped me in here again.
You don't change much, do you?" By teatime he was fully recovered
and I was able to release him. He looked so much better without the
ugly tangles but he didn't seem impressed, and as I opened the cage
he gave me a single disgusted look and sped away. Helen was
enchanted with my handiwork and she pointed eagerly at the two cats
on the wall next morning. "Doesn't he look smart! Oh, I'm so glad
you managed to do him, it was really worrying me. And he must feel
so much better." I felt a certain smug satisfaction as I looked
through the window. Olly indeed was almost unrecognisable as the
scruffy animal of yesterday and there was no doubt I had
dramatically altered his life and relieved him of a constant
discomfort, but my burgeoning bubble of self-esteem was pricked the
instant I put my head round the back door. He had just started to
enjoy his breakfast but at the sight of me he streaked away faster
than ever before and disappeared far over the hill-top. Sadly, I
turned back into the kitchen. Olly's opinion of me had dropped
several more notches. Wearily I poured a cup of tea. It was a hard
life.

Moses Found Among the Rushes

It was going to take a definite effort of will to get out of the car.
I had driven about ten miles from Darrowby, thinking all the time
that the Dales always looked their coldest not when they were
covered with snow but, as now, when the first sprinkling streaked
the bare flanks of the fells in bars of black and white like the
ribs of a crouching beast. And now in front of me was the farm gate
rattling on its hinges as the wind shook it. The car, heaterless and
draughty as it was, seemed like a haven in an uncharitable world and
I gripped the wheel tightly with my woollen-gloved hands for a few
moments before opening the door. The wind almost tore the handle
from my fingers as I got out but I managed to crash the door shut
before stumbling over the frozen mud to the gate. Muffled as I was
in heavy coat and scarf pulled up to my ears I could feel the icy
gusts biting at my face, whipping up my nose and hammering painfully
into the air spaces in my head. I had driven through and, streaming-
eyed, was about to get back into the car when I noticed something
unusual. There was a frozen pond just off the path and among the
rime-covered rushes which fringed the dead opacity of the surface a
small object stood out, shiny black. I went over and looked closer.
It was a tiny kitten, probably about six weeks old, huddled and
immobile, eyes tightly closed. Bending down I poked gently at the
furry body. It must be dead; a morsel like this couldn't possibly
survive in such cold ... but no, there was a spark of life because
the mouth opened soundlessly for a second and then closed. Quickly I
lifted the little creature and tucked it inside my coat. As I drove
into the farmyard I called to the farmer who was carrying two
buckets out of the calf house. "I've got one of your kittens here,
Mr. Butler. It must have strayed outside." Mr. Butler put down his
buckets and looked blank. "Kitten? We haven't got no kittens at
present." I showed him my find and he looked more puzzled. "Well,
that's a rum "un, there's no black cats on this spot. We've all
sorts o" colours but no black "uns." "Well, he must have come from
somewhere else," I said. "Though I can't imagine anything so small
travelling very far. It's rather mysterious." I held the kitten out
and he engulfed it with his big, work-roughened hand. "Poor little
beggar, he's only just alive. I'll take him into t"house and see if
the missus can do owt for him." In the farm kitchen Mrs. Butler was
all concern. "Oh, what a shame!" She smoothed back the bedraggled
hair with one finger. "And it's got such a pretty face." She looked
up at me. "What is it, anyway, a him or a her?" I took a quick look
behind the hind legs. "It's a tom." "Right," she said. "I'll get
some warm milk into him but first of all we'll give him the old cure.
" She went over to the fireside oven on the big black kitchen range,
opened the door and popped him inside. I smiled. It was the
classical procedure when newborn lambs were found suffering from
cold and exposure; into the oven they went and the results were
often dramatic. Mrs. Butler left the door partly open and I could
just see the little black figure inside; he didn't seem to care much
what was happening to him. The next hour I spent in the byre
wrestling with the overgrown hind feet of a cow. Still, I thought,
as I eased the kinks from my spine when I had finished, there were
compensations. There was a satisfaction in the sight of the cow
standing comfortably on two almost normal-looking feet. "Well,
that's summat like," Mr. Butler grunted. "Come in the house and wash
your hands." In the kitchen as I bent over the brown earthenware
sink I kept glancing across at the oven. Mrs. Butler laughed. "Oh,
he's still with us. Come and have a look." It was difficult to see
the kitten in the dark interior but when I spotted him I put out my
hand and touched him and he turned his head towards me. "He's coming
round," I said. "That hour in there has worked wonders." "Doesn't
often fail." The farmer's wife lifted him out. "I think he's a
little tough "un." She began to spoon warm milk into the tiny mouth.
"I reckon we'll have him lapping in a day or two." "You're going to
keep him, then?" "Too true we are. I'm going to call him Moses."
"Moses?" "Aye, you found him among the rushes, didn't you?" I
laughed. "That's right. It's a good name."

I was on the Butler farm about a fortnight later and I kept looking
around for Moses. Farmers rarely have their cats indoors and I
thought that if the black kitten had survived he would have joined
the feline colony around the buildings. Farm cats have a pretty good
time. They may not be petted or cosseted but it has always seemed to
me that they lead a free, natural life. They are expected to catch
mice but if they are not so inclined there is abundant food at hand;
bowls of milk here and there and the dogs" dishes to be raided if
anything interesting is left over. I had seen plenty of cats around
today, some flitting nervously away, others friendly and purring.
There was a tabby loping gracefully across the cobbles and a big
tortoiseshell was curled on a bed of straw at the warm end of the
byre; cats are connoisseurs of comfort. When Mr. Butler went to
fetch the hot water I had a quick look in the bullock house and a
white tom regarded me placidly from between the bars of a hay rack
where he had been taking a siesta. But there was no sign of Moses. I
finished drying my arms and was about to make a casual reference to
the kitten when Mr. Butler handed me my jacket. "Come round here
with me if you've got a minute," he said, "I've got summat to show
you." I followed him through the door at the end and across a
passage into the long, low-roofed piggery. He stopped at a pen about
halfway down and pointed inside. "Look "ere," he said. I leaned over
the wall and my face must have shown my astonishment because the
farmer burst into a shout of laughter. "That's summat new for you,
isn't it?" I stared unbelievingly down at a large sow stretched
comfortably on her side, suckling a litter of about twelve piglets,
and right in the middle of the long pink row, furry black and
incongruous, was Moses. He had a teat in his mouth and was absorbing
his nourishment with the same rapt enjoyment as his smooth-skinned
fellows on either side. "What the devil ...?" I gasped. Mr. Butler
was still laughing. "I thought you'd never have seen anything like
that before; I never have, any road." "But how did it happen?" I
still couldn't drag my eyes away. "It was the missus's idea," he
replied. "When she'd got the little youth lapping milk she took him
out to find a right warm spot for him in the buildings. She settled
on this pen because the sow, Bertha, had just had a litter and I had
a heater in and it was grand and cosy." I nodded. "Sounds just right.
" "Well, she put Moses and a bowl of milk in here," the farmer went
on, "but the little feller didn't stay by the heater very long--
next time I looked in he was round at t'milk bar." I shrugged my
shoulders. "They say you see something new every day at this game,
but this is something I've never even heard of. Anyway, he looks
well on it--does he actually live on the sow's milk or does he still
drink from his bowl?" "A bit of both, I reckon. It's hard to say."
Anyway, whatever mixture Moses was getting he grew rapidly into a
sleek, handsome animal with an unusually high gloss to his coat
which may or may not have been due to the porcine element of his
diet. I never went to the Butlers" without having a look in the pig
pen. Bertha, his foster mother, seemed to find nothing unusual in
this hairy intruder and pushed him around casually with pleased
grunts just as she did the rest of her brood. Moses for his part
appeared to find the society of the pigs very congenial. When the
piglets curled up together and settled down for a sleep Moses would
be somewhere in the heap, and when his young colleagues were weaned
at eight weeks he showed his attachment to Bertha by spending most
of his time with her. And it stayed that way over the years. Often
he would be right inside the pen, rubbing himself happily along the
comforting bulk of the sow, but I remember him best in his favourite
place; crouching on the wall looking down perhaps meditatively on
what had been his first warm home.

Frisk The Cat with Many Lives

Sometimes, when our dog and cat patients died, the owners brought
them in for us to dispose of them. It was always a sad occasion and
I had a sense of foreboding when I saw old Dick Fawcett's face. He
put the improvised cat box on the surgery table and looked at me
with unhappy eyes. "It's Frisk," he said. His lips trembled as
though he was unable to say more. I didn't ask any questions, but
began to undo the strings on the cardboard container. Dick couldn't
afford a proper cat box, but he had used this one before, a home-
made affair with holes punched in the sides. I untied the last knot
and looked inside at the motionless body. Frisk. The glossy black,
playful little creature I knew so well, always purring and
affectionate and Dick's companion and friend. "When did he die,
Dick?" I asked gently. He passed a hand over his haggard face and
through the straggling grey hairs. "Well, I just found "im stretched
out by my bed this morning. But ... I don't rightly know if he's
dead yet, Mr. Herriot." I looked again inside the box. There was no
sign of breathing. I lifted the limp form on to the table and
touched the cornea of the unseeing eye. No reflex. I reached for my
stethoscope and placed it over the chest. "The heart's still going,
Dick, but it's a very faint beat." "Might stop any time, you mean?"
I hesitated. "Well, that's the way it sounds, I'm afraid." As I
spoke, the little cat's rib cage lifted slightly, then subsided.
"He's still breathing," I said, "but only just." I examined the cat
thoroughly and found nothing unusual. The conjunctiva of the eye was
a good colour. In fact, there was no abnormality. I passed a hand
over the sleek little body. "This is a puzzler, Dick. He's always
been so lively--lived up to his name, in fact, yet here he is, flat
out, and I can't find any reason for it." "Could he have "ad a
stroke or summat?" "I suppose it's just possible, but I wouldn't
expect him to be totally unconscious. I'm wondering if he might have
had a blow on the head." "I don't think so. He was as right as rain
when I went to bed, and he was never out during t"night." The old
man shrugged his shoulders. "Any road, it's a poor look-out for
"im?" "Afraid so, Dick. He's only just alive. But I'll give him a
stimulant injection and then you must take him home and keep him
warm. If he's still around tomorrow morning, bring him in and I'll
see how he's going on." I was trying to strike an optimistic note,
but I was pretty sure that I would never see Frisk again and I knew
the old man felt the same. His hands shook as he tied up the box and
he didn't speak until we reached the front door. He turned briefly
to me and nodded. "Thank ye, Mr. Herriot." I watched him as he
walked with shuffling steps down the street. He was going back to an
empty little house with his dying pet. He had lost his wife many
years ago--I had never known a Mrs. Fawcett--and he lived alone on
his old age pension. It wasn't much of a life. He was a quiet,
kindly man who didn't go out much and seemed to have few friends,
but he had Frisk. The little cat had walked in on him six years ago
and had transformed his life, bringing a boisterous, happy presence
into the silent house, making the old man laugh with his tricks and
playfulness, following him around, rubbing against his legs. Dick
wasn't lonely any more, and I had watched a warm bond of friendship
growing stronger over the years. In fact, it was something more--the
old man seemed to depend on Frisk. And now this. Well, I thought, as
I walked back down the passage, it was the sort of thing that
happened in veterinary practice. Pets didn't live long enough. But I
felt worse this time because I had no idea what ailed my patient. I
was in a total fog. On the following morning I was surprised to see
Dick Fawcett sitting in the waiting room, the cardboard box on his
knee. I stared at him. "What's happened?" He didn't answer and his
face was inscrutable as we went through to the consulting room and
he undid the knots. When he opened the box I prepared for the worst,
but to my astonishment the little cat leaped out onto the table and
rubbed his face against my hand, purring like a motor cycle. The old
man laughed, his thin face transfigured. "Well, what d"ye think of
that?" "I don't know what to think, Dick." I examined the little
animal carefully. He was completely normal. "All I know is that I'm
delighted. It's like a miracle." "No, it isn't," he said. "It was
that injection you gave "im. It's worked wonders. I'm right grateful.
" Well, it was kind of him, but it wasn't as simple as that. There
was something here I didn't understand, but never mind. Thank heaven
it had ended happily.

The incident had receded into a comfortable memory when, three days
later, Dick Fawcett reappeared at the surgery with his box. Inside
was Frisk, motionless, unconscious, just as before. Totally
bewildered, I repeated the examination and then the injection and on
the following day the cat was normal. From then on, I was in the
situation which every veterinary surgeon knows so well--being
involved in a baffling case and waiting with a feeling of impending
doom for something tragic to happen. Nothing did happen for nearly a
week, then Mrs. Duggan, Dick's neighbour, telephoned. "I'm ringing
on behalf of Mr. Fawcett. His cat's ill." "In what way?" "Oh, just
lying stretched out, unconscious, like." I suppressed a scream.
"When did this happen?" "Just found "im this morning. And Mr.
Fawcett can't bring him to you--he's poorly himself. He's in bed."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll come round straight away." And it was
just the same as before. An almost lifeless little creature lying
prone on Dick's bed. Dick himself looked terrible--ghastly white and
thinner than ever--but he still managed a smile. "Looks like "e
needs another of your magic injections, Mr. Herriot." As I filled my
syringe, my mind seethed with the thought that there was indeed some
kind of magic at work here, but it wasn't my injection. "I'll drop
in tomorrow, Dick," I said. "And I hope you'll be feeling better
yourself." "Oh, I'll be awright as long as t"little feller's better.
" The old man stretched out a hand and stroked the cat's shining fur.
The arm was emaciated and the eyes in the skull-like face were
desperately worried. I looked around the comfortless little room and
hoped for another miracle. I wasn't really surprised when I came
back next morning and saw Frisk darting about on the bed, pawing at
a piece of string which the old man was holding up for him. The
relief was great but I felt enveloped more suffocatingly than ever
in my fog of ignorance. What the hell was it? The whole thing just
didn't make sense. There was no known disease with symptoms like
these. I had a strong conviction that reading a whole library of
veterinary books wouldn't help me. Anyway, the sight of the little
cat arching and purring round my hand was reward enough, and for
Dick it was everything. He was relaxed and smiling. "You keep
getting him right, Mr. Herriot. I can't thank you enough." Then the
worry flickered again in his eyes. "But is he going to keep doing
it? I'm frightened he won't come round one of these times." Well,
that was the question. I was frightened too, but I had to try to be
cheerful. "Maybe it's just a passing phase, Dick. I hope we'll have
no more trouble now." But I couldn't promise anything and the frail
man in the bed knew it. Mrs. Duggan was showing me out when I saw
the district nurse getting out of her car at the front door. "Hello,
Nurse," I said, "you've come to have a look at Mr. Fawcett? I'm
sorry he's ill." She nodded. "Yes, poor old chap. It's a great shame.
" "What do you mean? Is it something serious?" "Afraid so." Her
mouth tightened and she looked away from me. "He's dying. It's
cancer. Getting rapidly worse." "My God! Poor Dick. And a few days
ago he was bringing his cat to my surgery. He never said a word.
Does he know?" "Oh yes, he knows, but that's him all over, Mr.
Herriot. He's as game as a pebble. He shouldn't have been out,
really." "Is he ... is he ... suffering?" She shrugged. "Getting a
bit of pain now, but we're keeping him as comfortable as we can with
medication. I give him a shot when necessary and he has some stuff
he can take himself if I'm not around. He's very shaky and can't
pour from the bottle into the spoon. Mrs. Duggan would gladly do it
for him, but he's so independent." She smiled for a moment. "He
pours the mixture into a saucer and spoons it up that way." "A
saucer ...?" Somewhere in the fog a little light glimmered. "What's
in the mixture?" "Oh, heroin and pethidene. It's the usual thing Dr.
Allinson prescribes." I seized her arm. "I'm coming back in with you,
Nurse." The old man was surprised when I reappeared. "What's matter,
Mr. Herriot? Have you left summat?" "No, Dick, I want to ask you
something. Is your medicine pleasant tasting?" "Aye, it's nice and
sweet. It isn't bad to take at all." "And you put it in a saucer?"
"That's right. Me hand's a bit dothery." "And when you take it last
thing at night there's sometimes a bit left in the saucer?" "Aye,
there is, why?" "Because you leave that saucer by your bedside,
don't you, and Frisk sleeps on your bed ..." The old man lay very
still as he stared at me. "You mean the little beggar licks it out?"
"I'll bet my boots he does." Dick threw back his head and laughed. A
long, joyous laugh. "And that sends "im to sleep! No wonder! It
makes me right dozy, too!" I laughed with him. "Anyway, we know now,
Dick. You'll put that saucer in the cupboard when you've taken your
dose, won't you?" "I will that, Mr. Herriot. And Frisk will never
pass out like that again?" "No, never again." "Eee, that's grand!"
He sat up in bed, lifted the little cat and held him against his
face. He gave a sigh of utter content and smiled at me. "Mr. Herriot,
" he said, "I've got nowt to worry about now." Out in the street, as
I bade Mrs. Duggan goodbye for the second time, I looked back at the
little house. ""Nowt to worry about," eh? That's rather wonderful,
coming from him." "Oh aye, and he means it, too. He's not bothered
about himself."

I didn't see Dick again for two weeks. I was visiting a friend in
Darrowby's little cottage hospital when I saw the old man in a bed
in a corner of the ward. I went over and sat down by his side. His
face was desperately thin, but serene. "Hello, Dick," I said. He
looked at me sleepily and spoke in a whisper. "Now then, Mr. Herriot.
" He closed his eyes for a few moments, then he looked up again with
the ghost of a smile. "I'm glad we found out what was wrong with
t"little cat." "So am I, Dick." Again a pause. "Mrs. Duggan's got
"im." "Yes. I know. He has a good home there." "Aye ... aye ..." The
voice was fainter. "But oftens I wish I had "im here." The bony hand
stroked the counterpane and his lips moved again. I bent closer to
hear. "Frisk ..." he was saying, "Frisk ..." Then his eyes closed
and I saw that he was sleeping. I heard next day that Dick Fawcett
had died, and it was possible that I was the last person to hear him
speak. And it was strange, yet fitting, that those last words were
about his cat. "Frisk ... Frisk ..."

Olly and Ginny The Greatest Triumph

Months passed without any thawing of relations between me and our
two wild cats and I noticed with growing apprehension that Olly's
long coat was reverting to its previous disreputable state. The
familiar knots and tangles were reappearing and within a year it was
as bad as ever. It became more obvious every day that I had to do
something about it. But could I trick him again? I had to try. I
made the same preparations, with Helen placing the nembutal-laden
food on the wall, but this time Olly sniffed, licked, then walked
away. We tried at his next meal time but he examined the food with
deep suspicion and turned away from it. It was very clear that he
sensed there was something afoot. Hovering in my usual position at
the kitchen window I turned to Helen. "I'm going to have to try to
catch him." "Catch him? With your net, do you mean?" "No, no. That
was all right when he was a kitten. I'd never get near him now."
"How, then?" I looked out at the scruffy black creature on the wall.
"Well, maybe I can hide behind you when you feed him and grab him
and bung him into the cage. I could take him down to the surgery
then, give him a general anaesthetic and make a proper job of him."
"Grab him? And then fasten him in the cage?" Helen said
incredulously. "It sounds impossible to me." "Yes, I know, but I've
grabbed a few cats in my time and I can move fast. If only I can
keep hidden. We'll try tomorrow." My wife looked at me, wide-eyed. I
could see that she had little faith. Next morning she placed some
delicious fresh chopped raw haddock on the wall. It was the cats"
favourite. They were not particularly partial to cooked fish but
this was irresistible. The open cage lay hidden from sight. The cats
stalked along the wall, Ginny sleek and shining, Olly a pathetic
sight with his ravelled hair and ugly knotted appendages dangling
from his neck and body. Helen made her usual fuss of the two of them,
then, as they descended happily on the food, she returned to the
kitchen where I was lurking. "Right, now," I said. "I want you to
walk out very slowly again and I am going to be tucked in behind you.
When you go up to Olly he'll be concentrating on the fish and maybe
won't notice me." Helen made no reply as I pressed myself into her
back, in close contact from head to toe. "Okay, off we go." I nudged
her left leg with mine and we shuffled off through the door, moving
as one. "This is ridiculous," Helen wailed. "It's like a music hall
act." Nuzzling the back of her neck, I hissed into her ear, "Quiet,
just keep going." As we advanced on the wall, double-bodied, Helen
reached out and stroked Olly's head, but he was too busy with the
haddock to look up. He was there, chest-high, within a couple of
feet of me. I'd never have a better chance. Shooting my hand round
Helen, I seized him by the scruff of his neck, held him, a flurry of
flailing black limbs, for a couple of seconds, then pushed him into
the cage. As I crashed the lid down, a desperate paw appeared at one
end but I thrust it back and slotted home the steel rod. There was
no escape now. I lifted the cage on to the wall with Olly and me at
eye level and I flinched as I met his accusing stare through the
bars. "Oh no, not again! I don't believe this!" it said. "Is there
no end to your treachery?" In truth, I felt pretty bad. The poor cat,
terrified as he was by my assault, had not tried to scratch or bite.
It was like the other occasions--his only thought was to get away. I
couldn't blame him for thinking the worst of me. However, I told
myself, the end result was going to be a fine handsome animal again.
"You won't know yourself, old chap," I said to the petrified little
creature, crouched in his cage on the car seat by my side as we
drove to the surgery. "I'm going to fix you up properly, this time.
You're going to look great and feel great." Siegfried had offered to
help me and when we got him on the table, a trembling Olly submitted
to being handled and to the intravenous anaesthetic. As he lay
sleeping peacefully, I started on the awful tangled fur with a
fierce pleasure, snipping and trimming and then going over him with
the electric clippers followed by a long combing until the last tiny
knot was removed. I had only given him a makeshift hair-do before,
but this was the full treatment. Siegfried laughed when I held him
up after I had finished. "Looks ready to win any cat show," he said.
I thought of his words next morning when the cats came to the wall
for their breakfast. Ginny was always beautiful, but she was almost
outshone by her brother as he strutted along, his smooth, lustrous
fur gleaming in the sunshine. Helen was enchanted at his appearance
and kept running her hand along his back as though she couldn't
believe the transformation. I, of course, was in my usual position,
peeking furtively from the kitchen window. It was going to be a long
time before I even dared to show myself to Olly.

It very soon became clear that my stock had fallen to new depths,
because I had only to step out of the back door to send Olly
scurrying away into the fields. The situation became so bad that I
began to brood about it. "Helen," I said one morning, 'this thing
with Olly is getting on my nerves. I wish there was something I
could do about it." "There is, Jim," she said. "You'll really have
to get to know him. And he'll have to get to know you." I gave her a
glum look. "I'm afraid if you asked him, he'd tell you that he knows
me only too well." "Oh, I know, but when you think about it, over
all the years that we've had these cats, they've hardly seen
anything of you, except in an emergency. I've been the one to feed
them, talk to them, pet them, day in day out. They know me and trust
me." "That's right, but I just haven't had the time." "Of course you
haven't. Your life is one long rush. You're no sooner in the house
than you're out again." I nodded thoughtfully. She was so right.
Over the years I had been attached to those cats, enjoyed the sight
of them trotting down the slope for their food, playing in the long
grass in the field, being fondled by Helen, but I was a comparative
stranger to them. I felt a pang at the realisation that all that
time had flashed past so quickly. "Well, probably it's too late. Do
you think there is anything I can do?" "Yes," she said. "You have to
start feeding them. You'll just have to find the time to do it. Oh,
I know you can't do it always, but if there's the slightest chance,
you'll have to get out there with their food." "So you think it's
just a case of cupboard love with them?" "Absolutely not. I'm sure
you've seen me with them often enough. They won't look at their food
until I've made a fuss of them for quite a long time. It's the
attention and friendship they want most." "But I haven't a hope.
They hate the sight of me." "You'll just have to persevere. It took
me a long time to get their trust. Especially with Ginny. She's
always been the more timid one. Even now if I move my hand too
quickly, she's off. Despite all that's happened, I think Olly might
be your best hope--there's a big well of friendliness in that cat."
"Right," I said. "Give me the food and milk. I'll start now." That
was the beginning of one of the little sagas in my life. At every
opportunity, I was the one who called them down, placed the food on
the wall top and stood there waiting. At first I waited in vain. I
could see the two of them watching me from the log shed--the black-
and-white face and the yellow, gold and white one observing me from
the straw beds--andfora long time they would never venture down
until I had retreated into the house. Because of my irregular job,
it was difficult to keep the new system going and sometimes when I
had an early morning call they didn't get their breakfast on time,
but it was on one of those occasions when breakfast was over an hour
late that their hunger overcame their fear and they came down
cautiously while I stood stock still by the wall. They ate quickly
with nervous glances at me, then scurried away. I smiled in
satisfaction. It was the first breakthrough. After that, there was a
long period when I just stood there as they ate until they became
used to me as part of the scenery. Then I tried a careful extension
of a hand. To start with, they backed away at that but, as the days
passed, I could see that my hand was becoming less and less of a
threat and my hopes rose steadily. As Helen had prophesied, Ginny
was the one who shied right away from me at the slightest movement,
whereas Olly, after retreating, began to look at me with an
appraising eye as though he might possibly be willing to forget the
past and revise his opinion of me. With infinite patience, day by
day, I managed to get my hand nearer and nearer to him, and it was a
memorable occasion when he at last stood still and allowed me to
touch his cheek with a forefinger. As I gently stroked the fur, he
regarded me with unmistakably friendly eyes before skipping away.
"Helen," I said, looking round at the kitchen window, "I've made it!
We're going to be friends at last. It's a matter of time now till
I'm stroking him as you do." I was filled with an irrational
pleasure and sense of fulfilment. It did seem a foolish reaction in
a man who was dealing every day with animals of all kinds, but I was
looking forward to years of friendship with that particular cat. I
was wrong. At that moment I could not know that Olly would be dead
within forty-eight hours. It was the following morning when Helen
called to me from the back garden. She sounded distraught. "Jim,
come quickly! It's Olly!" I rushed out to where she was standing
near the top of the slope near the log shed. Ginny was there, but
all I could see of Olly was a dark smudge on the grass. Helen
gripped my arm as I bent over him. "What's happened to him?" He was
motionless, his legs extended stiffly, his back arched in a dreadful
rigor, his eyes staring. "I ... I'm afraid he's gone. It looks like
strychnine poisoning." But as I spoke he moved slightly. "Wait a
minute!" I said. "He's still alive, but only just." I saw that the
rigor had relaxed and I was able to flex his legs and lift him
without any recurrence. "This isn't strychnine. It's like it, but it
isn't. It's something cerebral, maybe a stroke." Dry-mouthed, I
carried him down to the house where he lay still, breathing almost
imperceptibly. Helen spoke through her tears. "What can you do?"
"Get him to the surgery right away. We'll do everything we can." I
kissed her wet cheek and ran out to the car. Siegfried and I sedated
him because he had begun to make paddling movements with his limbs,
then we injected him with steroids and antibiotics and put him on an
intravenous drip. I looked at him as he lay in the big recovery cage,
his paws twitching feebly. "Nothing more we can do, is there?"
Siegfried shook his head and shrugged. He agreed with me about the
diagnosis--stroke, seizure, cerebral haemorrhage, call it what you
like, but certainly the brain. I could see that he had the same
feeling of hopelessness as I had. We attended Olly all that day and,
during the afternoon, I thought for a brief period that he was
improving, but by evening he was comatose again and he died during
the night. I brought him home and as I lifted him from the car, his
smooth, tangle-free fur was like a mockery now that his life was
ended. I buried him just behind the log shed a few feet from the
straw bed where he had slept for so many years. Vets are no
different from other people when they lose a pet, and Helen and I
were miserable. We hoped that the passage of time would dull our
unhappiness, but we had another poignant factor to deal with. What
about Ginny? Those two cats had become a single entity in our lives
and we never thought of one without the other. It was clear that to
Ginny the world was incomplete without Olly. For several days she
ate nothing. We called her repeatedly but she advanced only a few
yards from the log house, looking around her in a puzzled way before
turning back to her bed. For all those years, she had never trotted
down that slope on her own and over the next few weeks her
bewilderment as she gazed about her continually, seeking and
searching for her companion, was one of the most distressing things
we had ever had to witness. Helen fed her in her bed for several
days and eventually managed to coax her on to the wall, but Ginny
could scarcely put her head down to the food without peering this
way and that, still waiting for Olly to come and share it. "She's so
lonely," Helen said. "We'll have to try to make a bigger fuss of her
now than ever. I'll spend more time outside talking with her, but if
only we could get her inside with us. That would be the answer, but
I know it will never happen." I looked at the little creature,
wondering if I'd ever get used to seeing only one cat on the wall,
but Ginny sitting by the fireside or on Helen's knee was an
impossible dream. "Yes, you're right, but maybe I can do something.
I'd just managed to make friends with Olly--I'm going to start on
Ginny now." I knew I was taking on a long and maybe hopeless
challenge because the tortoiseshell cat had always been the more
timid of the two, but I pursued my purpose with resolution. At meal
times and whenever I had the opportunity, I presented myself outside
the back door, coaxing and wheedling, beckoning with my hand. For a
long time, although she accepted the food from me, she would not let
me near her. Then, maybe because she needed companionship so
desperately that she felt she might as well even resort to me, the
day came when she did not back away but allowed me to touch her
cheek with my finger as I had done with Olly. After that, progress
was slow but steady. From touching I moved week by week to stroking
her cheek, then to gently rubbing her ears, until finally I could
run my hand the length of her body and tickle the root of her tail.
From then on, undreamed-of familiarities gradually unfolded until
she would not look at her food until she had paced up and down the
wall top, again and again, arching herself in delight against my
hand and brushing my shoulders with her body. Among these daily
courtesies one of her favourite ploys was to press her nose against
mine and stand there for several moments looking into my eyes. It
was one morning several months later that Ginny and I were in this
posture--she on the wall, touching noses with me, gazing into my
eyes, drinking me in as though she thought I was rather wonderful
and couldn't quite get enough of me--when I heard a sound
from behind me. "I was just watching the veterinary surgeon at work,
" Helen said softly. "Happy work, too," I said, not moving from my
position, looking deeply into the green eyes, alight with friendship,
fixed on mine a few inches away. "I'll have you know that this is
one of my greatest triumphs."

Buster The Feline Retriever

Christmas will never go by without my remembering a certain little
cat. I first saw her when I was called to see one of Mrs.
Ainsworth's dogs, and I looked in some surprise at the furry black
creature sitting before the fire. "I didn't know you had a cat," I
said. The lady smiled. "We haven't, this is Debbie." "Debbie?" "Yes,
at least that's what we call her. She's a stray. Comes here two or
three times a week and we give her some food. I don't know where she
lives but I believe she spends a lot of her time around one of the
farms along the road." "Do you ever get the feeling that she wants
to stay with you?" "No." Mrs. Ainsworth shook her head. "She's a
timid little thing. Just creeps in, has some food, then flits away.
There's something so appealing about her but she doesn't seem to
want to let me or anybody into her life." I looked again at the
little cat. "But she isn'tjust having food today." "That's right.
It's a funny thing but every now and again she slips through here
into the lounge and sits by the fire for a few minutes. It's as
though she was giving herself a treat." "Yes ... I see what you mean.
" There was no doubt there was something unusual in the attitude of
the little animal. She was sitting bolt upright on the thick rug
which lay before the fireplace in which the coals glowed and flamed.
She made no effort to curl up or wash herself or do anything other
than gaze quietly ahead. And there was something in the dusty black
of her coat, the half-wild scrawny look of her, that gave me a clue.
This was a special event in her life, a rare and wonderful thing;
she was lapping up a comfort undreamed of in her daily existence. As
I watched she turned, crept soundlessly from the room and was gone.
"That's always the way with Debbie," Mrs. Ainsworth laughed. "She
never stays more than ten minutes or so, then she's off." She was a
plumpish, pleasant-faced woman in her forties and the kind of client
veterinary surgeons dream of; well off, generous, and the owner of
three cosseted basset hounds. And it only needed the habitually
mournful expressions of one of the dogs to deepen a little and I was
round there post haste. Today one of the bassets had raised its paw
and scratched its ear a couple of times and that was enough to send
its mistress scurrying to the phone in great alarm. So my visits to
the Ainsworth home were frequent but undemanding, and I had ample
opportunity to look out for the little cat which had intrigued me.
On one occasion I spotted her nibbling daintily from a saucer at the
kitchen door. As I watched she turned and almost floated on light
footsteps into the hall, then through the lounge door. The three
bassets were already in residence, draped snoring on the fireside
rug, but they seemed to be used to Debbie because two of them
sniffed her in a bored manner and the third merely cocked a sleepy
eye at her before flopping back on the rich pile. Debbie sat among
them in her usual posture; upright, intent, gazing absorbedly into
the glowing coals. This time I tried to make friends with her. I
approached her carefully but she leaned away as I stretched out my
hand. However, by patient wheedling and soft talk I managed to touch
her and gently stroked her cheek with one finger. There was a moment
when she responded by putting her head on one side and rubbing back
against my hand but soon she was ready to leave. Once outside the
house she darted quickly along the road, then through a gap in a
hedge, and the last I saw was the little black figure flitting over
the rain-swept grass of a field. "I wonder where she goes," I
murmured half to myself. Mrs. Ainsworth appeared at my elbow.
"That's something we've never been able to find out."

It must have been nearly three months before I heard from Mrs.
Ainsworth, and in fact I had begun to wonder at the bassets" long
symptomless run when she came on the "phone. It was Christmas
morning and she was apologetic. "Mr. Herriot, I'm so sorry to bother
you today of all days. I should think you want a rest at Christmas
like anybody else." But her natural politeness could not hide the
distress in her voice. "Please don't worry about that," I said.
"Which one is it this time?" "It's not one of the dogs. It's ...
Debbie." "Debbie? She's at your house now?" "Yes ... but there's
something wrong. Please come quickly." Driving through the market
place I thought again that Darrowby on Christmas Day was like
Dickens come to life; the empty square with the snow thick on the
cobbles and hanging from the eaves of the fretted lines of roofs;
the shops closed and the coloured lights of the Christmas trees
winking at the windows of the clustering houses, warmly inviting
against the cold white bulk of the fells behind. Mrs. Ainsworth's
home was lavishly decorated with tinsel and holly, rows of drinks
stood on the sideboard and the rich aroma of turkey and sage and
onion stuffing wafted from the kitchen. But her eyes were full of
pain as she led me through to the lounge. Debbie was there all right,
but this time everything was different. She wasn't sitting upright
in her usual position; she was stretched quite motionless on her
side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny black kitten. I looked
down in bewilderment. "What's happened here?" "It's the strangest
thing," Mrs. Ainsworth replied. "I haven't seen her for several
weeks, and then she came in about two hours ago--sort of
staggered into the kitchen, and she was carrying the kitten in her
mouth. She took it through to the lounge and laid it on the rug and
at first I was amused. But I could see all was not well because she
sat as she usually does, but for a long time--over an hour--then she
lay down like this and she hasn't moved." I knelt on the rug and
passed my hand over Debbie's neck and ribs. She was thinner than
ever, her fur dirty and mud-caked. She did not resist as I gently
opened her mouth. The tongue and mucous membranes were abnormally
pale and the lips ice-cold against my fingers. When I pulled down
her eyelid and saw the glazing eye a knell sounded in my mind. I
felt the abdomen with a grim certainty as to what I would find and
there was no surprise, only a dull sadness as my fingers closed
around a hard solid mass. Terminal and hopeless. I put my
stethoscope on her heart and listened to the increasingly faint,
rapid beat, then I straightened up and sat on the rug looking
sightlessly into the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames on
my face. Mrs. Ainsworth's voice seemed to come from afar. "Is she
ill, Mr. Herriot?" I hesitated. "Yes ... yes, I'm afraid so. She has
a malignant growth." I stood up. "There's absolutely nothing I can
do. I'm sorry." "Oh!" Her hand went to her mouth and she looked at
me wide-eyed. When at last she spoke her voice trembled. "Well, you
must put her to sleep immediately. It's the only thing to do. We
can't let her suffer." "Mrs. Ainsworth," I said, 'there's no need.
She's dying now--in a coma--far beyond suffering." She turned
quickly away from me and was very still as she fought with her
emotions. Then she gave up the struggle and dropped on her knees
beside Debbie. "Oh, poor little thing!" she sobbed and stroked the
cat's head again and again as the tears fell unchecked on the matted
fur. "What she must have come through. I feel I ought to have done
more for her." For a few moments I was silent, feeling her sorrow,
so discordant among the bright seasonal colours of this festive room.
Then I spoke gently. "Nobody could have done more than you," I said.
"Nobody could have been kinder." "But I'd have kept her here--in
comfort. It must have been terrible out there in the cold when she
was so desperately ill--I daren't think about it. And having kittens,
too--I ... I wonder how many she did have?" I shrugged. "I don't
suppose we'll ever know. Maybe just this one. It happens sometimes.
And she brought it to you, didn't she?" "Yes ... that's right ...
she did ... she did." Mrs. Ainsworth reached out and lifted the
bedraggled black morsel. She smoothed her finger along the muddy fur
and the tiny mouth opened in a soundless miaow. "Isn't it strange?
She was dying and she brought her kitten here. And on Christmas Day.
." I bent and put my hand on Debbie's heart. There was no beat. I
looked up. "I'm afraid she's gone." I lifted the small body, almost
feather light, wrapped it in the sheet which had been spread on the
rug and took it out to the car. When I came back Mrs. Ainsworth was
still stroking the kitten. The tears had dried on her cheeks and she
was bright-eyed as she looked at me. "I've never had a cat before,"
she said. I smiled. "Well, it looks as though you've got one now."

And she certainly had. That kitten grew rapidly into a sleek
handsome cat with a boisterous nature which earned him the name of
Buster. In every way he was the opposite to his timid little mother.
Not for him the privations of the secret outdoor life; he stalked
the rich carpets of the Ainsworth home like a king and the ornate
collar he always wore added something more to his presence. On my
visits I watched his development with delight but the occasion which
stays in my mind was the following Christmas Day, a year from his
arrival. I was out on my rounds as usual. I can't remember when I
haven't had to work on Christmas Day because the animals have never
got round to recognising it as a holiday; but with the passage of
the years the vague resentment I used to feel has been replaced by
philosophical acceptance. After all, as I tramped around the
hillside barns in the frosty air I was working up a better appetite
for my turkey than all the millions lying in bed or slumped by the
fire; and this was aided by the innumerable aperitifs I received
from the hospitable farmers. I was on my way home, bathed in a rosy
glow. I had consumed several whiskies--the kind the inexpert
Yorkshiremen pour as though it was ginger ale--and I had finished
with a glass of old Mrs. Earnshaw's rhubarb wine which had seared
its way straight to my toenails. I heard the cry as I was passing
Mrs. Ainsworth's house. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Herriot!" She was
letting a visitor out of the front door and she waved to me gaily.
"Come in and have a drink to warm you up." I didn't need warming up
but I pulled in to the kerb without hesitation. In the house there
was all the festive cheer of last year and the same glorious whiff
of sage and onion which set my gastric juices surging. But there was
not the sorrow; there was Buster. He was darting up to each of the
dogs in turn, ears pricked, eyes blazing with devilment, dabbing a
paw at them, then streaking away. Mrs. Ainsworth laughed. "You know,
he plagues the life out of them. Gives them no peace." She was right.
To the bassets, Buster's arrival was rather like the intrusion of an
irreverent outsider into an exclusive London club. For a long time
they had led a life of measured grace; regular sedate walks with
their mistress, superb food in ample quantities and long snoring
sessions on the rugs and armchairs. Their days followed one upon
another in unruffled calm. And then came Buster. He was dancing up
to the youngest dog again, sideways this time, head on one side,
goading him. When he started boxing with both paws it was too much
even for the basset. He dropped his dignity and rolled over with the
cat in a brief wrestling match. "I want to show you something," Mrs.
Ainsworth lifted a hard rubber ball from the sideboard and went out
to the garden, followed by Buster. She threw the ball across the
lawn and the cat bounded after it over the frosted grass, the
muscles rippling under the black sheen of his coat. He seized the
ball in his teeth, brought it back to his mistress, dropped it at
her feet and waited expectantly. She threw it and he brought it back
again. I gasped incredulously. A feline retriever! The bassets
looked on disdainfully. Nothing would ever have induced them to
chase a ball, but Buster did it again and again as though he would
never tire of it. Mrs. Ainsworth turned to me. "Have you ever seen
anything like that?" "No," I replied. "I never have. He is a most
remarkable cat." She snatched Buster from his play and we went back
into the house where she held him close to her face, laughing as the
big cat purred and arched himself ecstatically against her cheek.
Looking at him, a picture of health and contentment, my mind went
back to his mother. Was it too much to think that that dying little
creature with the last of her strength had carried her kitten to the
only haven of comfort and warmth she had ever known in the hope that
it would be cared for there? Maybe it was. But it seemed I wasn't
the only one with such fancies. Mrs. Ainsworth turned to me and
though she was smiling her eyes were wistful. "Debbie would be
pleased," she said. I nodded. "Yes, she would. ... It was just a
year ago today she brought him, wasn't it?" "That's right." She
hugged Buster to her again. "The best Christmas present I ever had."

THE END

