James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

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 r