Read James Herriot's Cat Stories Page 8

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

  veteri
nary 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