James Herriot's Cat Stories by James Herriot

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

  complimen
t 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,