Let Sleeping Vets Lie Read online

  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, Will 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 "Be-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

  t o 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 along the wall-side 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 lighting speed, swathing him in

  roll upon roll of stout material.

  ; :1 , 1~ ,~

  .

  1 2 ~i 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 wi