James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

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 t