James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

something comforting but nothing stemmed the flow of racking sobs.

  Feeling helpless and inadequate I could only sit close to her and

  stroke the back of her head. Maybe I could have said something if I

  hadn't felt just about as bad myself.

  You get over these things in time. After all, we told ourselves, it

  wasn't as though Oscar had died or got lost again--he had gone to a

  good family who would look after him. In fact he had really gone

  home. And of course, we still had our much-loved Sam, although he

  didn't help in the early stages by sniffing disconsolately where

  Oscar's bed used to lie, then collapsing on the rug with a long,

  lugubrious sigh. There was one other thing, too. I had a little

  notion forming in my mind, an idea which I would spring on Helen

  when the time was right. It was about a month after that shattering

  night and we were coming out of the cinema at Brawton at the end of

  our half day. I looked at my watch. "Only eight o"clock," I said.

  "How about going to see Oscar?" Helen looked at me in surprise. "You

  mean--drive on to Wederly?" "Yes, it's only about five miles." A

  smile crept slowly across her face. "That would be lovely. But do

  you think they would mind?" "The Gibbonses? No, I'm sure they

  wouldn't. Let's go." Wederly was a big village and the ploughman's

  cottage was at the far end a few yards beyond the Methodist chapel.

  I pushed open the garden gate and we walked down the path. A busy-

  looking little woman answered my knock. She was drying her hands on

  a striped towel. "Mrs. Gibbons?" I said. "Aye, that's me." "I'm

  James Herriot--and this is my wife." Her eyes widened

  uncomprehendingly. Clearly the name meant nothing to her. "We had

  your cat for a while," I added. Suddenly she grinned and waved her

  towel at us. "Oh, aye, ah remember now. Sep told me about you. Come

  in, come in!" The big kitchen-living room was a tableau of life with

  six children and thirty shillings a week. Battered furniture, rows

  of much-mended washing on a pulley, black cooking range and a

  general air of chaos. Sep got up from his place by the fire, put

  down his newspaper, took off a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and

  shook hands. He waved Helen to a sagging armchair. "Well, it's right

  nice to see you. Ah've often spoke of ye to t'missus." His wife hung

  up her towel. "Yes, and I'm glad to meet ye both. I'll get some tea

  in a minnit." She laughed and dragged a bucket of muddy water into a

  corner. "I've been washing football jerseys. Them lads just handed

  them to me tonight--as if I haven't enough to do." As she ran the

  water into the kettle I peeped surreptitiously around me and I

  noticed Helen doing the same. But we searched in vain. There was no

  sign of a cat. Surely he couldn't have run away again? With a

  growing feeling of dismay I realised that my little scheme could

  backfire devastatingly. It wasn't until the tea had been made and

  poured that I dared to raise the subject. "How--was I asked

  diffidently, "how is--er--Tiger?" "Oh, he's grand," the little

  woman replied briskly. She glanced up at the clock on the

  mantelpiece. "He should be back any time now, then you'll be able to

  see "im." As she spoke, Sep raised a finger. "Ah think ah can hear

  "im now." He walked over and opened the door and our Oscar strode in

  with all his old grace and majesty. He took one look at Helen and

  leaped on to her lap. With a cry of delight she put down her cup and

  stroked the beautiful fur as the cat arched himself against her hand

  and the familiar purr echoed round the room. "He knows me," she

  murmured. "He knows me." Sep nodded and smiled. "He does that. You

  were good to "im. He'll never forget ye, and we won't either, will

  we, Mother?" "No, we won't, Mrs. Herriot," his wife said as she

  applied butter to a slice of gingerbread. "That was a kind thing ye

  did for us and I "ope you'll come and see us all whenever you're

  near." "Well, thank you," I said. "We'd love to--we're often in

  Brawton." I went over and tickled Oscar's chin, then I turned again

  to Mrs. Gibbons. "By the way, it's after nine o"clock. Where has he

  been till now?" She poised her butter knife and looked into space.

  "Let's see, now," she said. "It's Thursday, isn't it? Ah yes, it's

  "is night for the yoga class."

  Boris and Mrs. Bond's Cat Establishment

  "I work for cats." That was how Mrs. Bond introduced herself on my

  first visit, gripping my hand firmly and thrusting out her jaw

  defiantly as though challenging me to make something of it. She was

  a big woman with a strong, high-cheekboned face and a commanding

  presence and I wouldn't have argued with her anyway, so I nodded

  gravely as though I fully understood and agreed, and allowed her to

  lead me into the house. I saw at once what she meant. The big

  kitchen-living room had been completely given over to cats. There

  were cats on the sofas and chairs and spilling in cascades on to the

  floor, cats sitting in rows along the window sills and right in the

  middle of it all, little Mr. Bond, pallid, wispy-moustached, in his

  shirt sleeves reading a newspaper. It was a scene which was going to

  become very familiar. A lot of the cats were obviously uncastrated

  toms because the atmosphere was vibrant with their distinctive

  smell--a fierce pungency which overwhelmed even the sickly wisps

  from the big saucepans of nameless cat food bubbling on the stove.

  And Mr. Bond was always there, always in his shirt sleeves and

  reading his paper, a lonely little island in a sea of cats. I had

  heard of the Bonds, of course. They were Londoners who for some

  obscure reason had picked on North Yorkshire for their retirement.

  People said they had a "bit o" brass" and they had bought an old

  house on the outskirts of Darrowby where they kept themselves to

  themselves--and the cats. I had heard that Mrs. Bond was in the

  habit of taking in strays and feeding them and giving them a home if

  they wanted it and this had predisposed me in her favour, because in

  my experience the unfortunate feline species seemed to be fair game

  for every kind of cruelty and neglect. They shot cats, threw things

  at them, starved them and set their dogs on them for fun. It was

  good to see somebody taking their side. My patient on this first

  visit was no more than a big kitten, a terrified little blob of

  black and white crouching in a corner. "He's one of the outside cats,

  " Mrs. Bond boomed. "Outside cats?" "Yes. All these you see here are

  the inside cats. The others are the really wild ones who simply

  refuse to enter the house. I feed them, of course, but the only time

  they come indoors is when they are ill." "I see." "I've had

  frightful trouble catching this one. I'm worried about his eyes--

  there seemed to be a skin growing over them, and I do hope you can

  do something for him. His name, by the way, is George." "George? Ah

  yes, quite." I advanced cautiously on the little half-grown animal

  and was greeted by a waving set of claws and a series of open-

  mouthed spittings. He was trapped in his corner or he would have