James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

Helen, and I'll see if they'll let me examine them." But at the

  sight of the closing door, both cats bolted back outside. "Open up

  again," I cried and, after a moment's hesitation, the cats walked

  back into the kitchen. I looked at them in astonishment. "Would you

  believe it? They haven't come in here for shelter, they've come for

  help!" And there was no doubt about it. The two of them sat there,

  side by side, waiting for us to do something for them. "The question

  is," I said, "will they allow their bete noire to get near them?

  We'd better leave the back door open so they don't feel threatened."

  I approached inch by inch until I could put a hand on them, but they

  did not move. With a feeling that I was dreaming, I lifted each of

  them, limp and unresisting, and examined them. Helen stroked them

  while I ran out to my car which held my stock of drugs and brought

  in what I'd need. I took their temperatures; they were both over 104,

  which was typical. Then I injected them with oxytetracycline, the

  antibiotic which I had always found best for treating the secondary

  bacterial infection which followed the initial virus attack. I also

  injected vitamins, cleaned away the pus and mucus from the eyes and

  nostrils with cotton wool and applied an antibiotic ointment. And

  all the time I marvelled that I was lifting and handling these

  yielding little bodies which I hadn't even been able to touch before

  apart from when they had been under the anaesthetic for the

  neutering ops. When I had finished I couldn't bear the thought of

  turning them out into that cruel wind. I lifted them up and tucked them

  one under each arm. "Helen," I said, "let's have another try. Will

  you just gently close the door." She took hold of the knob and began

  to push very slowly, but immediately both cats leaped like uncoiled

  springs from my arms and shot into the garden. We watched them as

  they trotted out of sight. "Well, that's extraordinary," I said.

  "Ill as they are, they won't tolerate being shut in." Helen was on

  the verge of tears. "But how will they stand it out there? They

  should be kept warm. I wonder if they'll stay now or will they leave

  us again?" "I just don't know." I looked at the empty garden. "But

  we've got to realise they are in their natural environment. They're

  tough little things. I think they'll be back." I was right. Next

  morning they were outside the window, eyes closed against the wind,

  the fur on their faces streaked and stained with the copious

  discharge. Again Helen opened the door and again they walked calmly

  inside and made no resistance as I repeated my treatment, injecting

  them, swabbing out eyes and nostrils, examining their mouths for

  ulcers, lifting them around like any long-standing household pets.

  This happened every day for a week. The discharges became more

  purulent and their racking sneezing seemed no better; then, when I

  was losing hope, they started to eat a little food and,

  significantly, they weren't so keen to come into the house. When I

  did get them inside, they were tense and unhappy as I handled them

  and finally I couldn't touch them at all. They were by no means

  cured, so I mixed oxytet soluble powder in their food and treated

  them that way. The weather was even worse, with fine flakes of snow

  spinning in the wind, but the day came when they refused to come

  inside and we watched them through the window as they ate. But I had

  the satisfaction of knowing they were still getting the antibiotic

  with every mouthful. As I carried on this long-range treatment,

  observing them daily from the kitchen, it was rewarding to see the

  sneezing abating, the discharges drying up and the cats gradually

  regaining their lost flesh.

  It was a brisk sunny morning in March and I was watching Helen

  putting their breakfast on the wall. Olly and Ginny, sleek as seals,

  their faces clean and dry, their eyes bright, came arching along the

  wall, purring like outboard motors. They were in no hurry to eat;

  they were clearly happy just to see her. As they passed to and fro,

  she ran her hand gently along their heads and backs. This was the

  kind of stroking they liked--not overdone, with them continually in

  motion. I felt I had to get into the action and stepped from the

  open door. "Ginny," I said and held out a hand. "Come here, Ginny."

  The little creature stopped her promenade along the wall and

  regarded me from a safe distance, not with hostility but with all

  the old wariness. As I tried to move nearer to her, she skipped away

  out of reach. "Okay," I said, "and I don't suppose it's any good

  trying with you either, Olly." The black-and-white cat backed well

  away from my outstretched hand and gave me a non-committal gaze. I

  could see he agreed with me. Mortified, I called out to the two of

  them. "Hey, remember me?" It was clear by the look of them that they

  remembered me all right--but not in the way I hoped. I felt a stab

  of frustration. Despite my efforts I was back where I started. Helen

  laughed. "They're a funny pair, but don't they look marvellous!

  They're a picture of health, as good as new. It says a lot for fresh

  air treatment." "It does indeed," I said with a wry smile, "but it

  also says something for having a resident veterinary surgeon."

  Emily and the Gentleman of the Road

  As I got out of my car to open the gate to the farm, I looked with

  interest at the odd-looking structure on the grass verge; it was

  standing in the shelter of the dry-stone wall, overlooking the

  valley. It seemed as though sheets of tarpaulin had been stretched

  over metal hoops to make some kind of shelter. It was like a big

  black igloo, but for what? As I wondered, the sacking at the front

  parted and a tall, white-bearded man emerged. He straightened up,

  looked around him, dusted down his ancient frock coat and donned the

  kind of high-crowned bowler hat which was popular in Victorian times.

  He seemed oblivious of my presence as he stood, breathing deeply,

  gazing at the heathery fellside which ran away from the roadside to

  the beck far below. Then after a few moments he turned to me and

  raised his hat gravely. "Good morning to you," he murmured in the

  kind of voice which would have belonged to an archbishop. "Morning,"

  I replied, fighting with my surprise. "Lovely day." His fine

  features relaxed in a smile. "Yes, yes, it is indeed." Then he bent

  and pulled the sacking apart. "Come, Emily." As I stared, a little

  cat tripped out with dainty steps, and as she stretched luxuriously

  the man attached a leash to the collar round her neck. He turned to

  me and raised his hat again. "Good day to you." Then man and cat set

  off at a leisurely pace towards the village whose church tower was

  just visible a couple of miles down the road. I took my time over

  opening the gate as I watched the dwindling figures. I felt almost

  as though I were seeing an apparition. I was out of my usual

  territory because a faithful client, Eddy Carless, had taken this

  farm almost twenty miles away from Darrowby and had paid us the

  complimen