James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

man's left ear on to the top of a tall cupboard. "Holy Moses!" said

  Tristan. "What the hell was that?" "That," I said, "was Boris, and

  now we've got to get hold of him again." I climbed on to a chair,

  reached slowly on to the cupboard top and started "puss-puss-

  pussing" in my most beguiling tone. After about a minute Tristan

  appeared to think he had a better idea; he made a sudden leap and

  grabbed Boris's tail. But only briefly, because the big cat freed

  himself in an instant and set off on a whirlwind circuit of the

  room; along the tops of cupboards and dressers, across the curtains,

  careering round and round like a wall-of-death rider. Tristan

  stationed himself at a strategic point and as Boris shot past he

  swiped at him with one of the gauntlets. "Missed the bloody thing!"

  he shouted in chagrin. "But here he comes again ... take that, you

  black devil! Damn it, I can't nail him!" The docile little inside

  cats, startled by the scattering of plates and tins and pans and by

  Tristan's cries and arm wavings, began to run around in their turn,

  knocking over whatever Boris had missed. The noise and confusion

  even got through to Mr. Bond because, just for a moment, he raised

  his head and looked around him in mild surprise at the hurtling

  bodies before returning to his newspaper. Tristan, flushed with the

  excitement of the chase, had really begun to enjoy himself. I

  cringed inwardly as he shouted over to me happily, "Send him on, Jim,

  I'll get the blighter next time round!" We never did catch Boris. We

  just had to leave the piece of bone to work its own way out, so it

  wasn't a successful veterinary visit. But Tristan smiled contentedly

  as we got back into the car. "That was great, Jim. I didn't realise

  you had such fun with your pussies." Mrs. Bond, on the other hand,

  when I next saw her, was rather tight-lipped over the whole thing.

  "Mr. Herriot," she said, "I hope you aren't going to bring that

  young man with you again."

  Olly and Ginny Two Kittens Who Came to Stay

  "Look at that, Jim! Surely that's a stray cat. I've never seen it

  before." Helen was at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, and she

  pointed through the window. Our new house in Hannerly had been built

  into a sloping field. There was a low retaining wall, chest high,

  just outside the window and, behind, the grassy bank led from the

  wall top up to some bushes and an open log shed perched about twenty

  yards away. A lean little cat was peering warily from the bushes.

  Two tiny kittens crouched by her side. "I think you're right," I

  said. "That's a stray with her family and she's looking for food."

  Helen put out a bowl of meat scraps and some milk on the flat top of

  the wall and retired to the kitchen. The mother cat did not move for

  a few minutes, then she advanced with the utmost caution, took up

  some of the food in her mouth and carried it back to her kittens.

  Several times she crept down the bank, but when the kittens tried to

  follow her, she gave them a quick "get back" tap with her paw. We

  watched, fascinated, as the scraggy, half-starved creature made sure

  that her family had eaten before she herself took anything from the

  bowl. Then, when the food was finished, we quietly opened the back

  door. But as soon as they saw us, cat and kittens flitted away into

  the field. "I wonder where they came from," Helen said. I shrugged.

  "Heaven knows. There's a lot of open country round here. They could

  have come from miles away. And that mother cat doesn't look like an

  ordinary stray. There's a real wild look about her." Helen nodded.

  "Yes, she looks as though she's never been in a house, never had

  anything to do with people. I've heard of wild cats like that who

  live outside. Maybe she only came looking for food because of her

  kittens." "I think you're right," I said as we returned to the

  kitchen. "Anyway, the poor little things have had a good feed. I

  don't suppose we'll see them again." But I was wrong. Two days later,

  the trio reappeared. In the same place, peeping from the bushes,

  looking hungrily towards the kitchen window. Helen fed them again,

  the mother cat still fiercely forbidding her kittens to leave the

  bushes, and once more they darted away when we tried to approach

  them. When they came again next morning, Helen turned to me and

  smiled. "I think we've been adopted," she said. She was right. The

  three of them took up residence in the log shed and after a few days

  the mother allowed the kittens to come down to the food bowls,

  shepherding them carefully all the way. They were still quite tiny,

  only a few weeks old. One was black and white, the other

  tortoiseshell. Helen fed them for a fortnight, but they remained

  unapproachable creatures. Then one morning, as I was about to go on

  my rounds, she called me into the kitchen. She pointed through the

  window. "What do you make of that?" I looked and saw the two kittens

  in their usual position under the bushes, but there was no mother

  cat. "That's strange," I said. "She's never let them out of her

  sight before." The kittens had their feed and I tried to follow them

  as they ran away, but I lost them in the long grass, and although I

  searched all over the field there was no sign of them or their

  mother. We never saw the mother cat again and Helen was quite upset.

  "What on earth can have happened to her?" she murmured a few days

  later as the kittens ate their morning meal. "Could be anything," I

  replied. "I'm afraid the mortality rate for wandering cats is very

  high. She could have been run over by a car or had some other

  accident. I'm afraid we'll never know." Helen looked again at the

  little creatures crouched side by side, their heads in the bowl. "Do

  you think she's just abandoned them?" "Well, it's possible. She was

  a maternal and caring little thing and I have a feeling she looked

  around till she could find a good home for them. She didn't leave

  till she saw that they could fend for themselves and maybe she's

  returned to her outside life now. She was a real wild one." It

  remained a mystery, but one thing was sure: the kittens were

  installed for good. Another thing was sure: they would never be

  domesticated. Try as we might, we were never able to touch them, and

  all our attempts to wheedle them into the house were unavailing.

  One wet morning, Helen and I looked out of the kitchen window at the

  two of them sitting on the wall, waiting for their breakfast, their

  fur sodden, their eyes nearly closed against the driving rain. "Poor

  little things," Helen said, "I can't bear to see them out there, wet

  and cold, we must get them inside." "How? We've tried often enough."

  "Oh, I know, but let's have another go. Maybe they'll be glad to

  come in out of the rain." We mashed up a dish of fresh fish, an

  irresistible delicacy to cats. I let them have a sniff and they were

  eager and hungry, then I placed the dish just inside the back door

  before retreating out of sight. But as we watched through the window

  the two of them sat motionless in the downpour, their eyes fixed on