James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

small object stood out, shiny black. I went over and looked closer.

  It was a tiny kitten, probably about six weeks old, huddled and

  immobile, eyes tightly closed. Bending down I poked gently at the

  furry body. It must be dead; a morsel like this couldn't possibly

  survive in such cold ... but no, there was a spark of life because

  the mouth opened soundlessly for a second and then closed. Quickly I

  lifted the little creature and tucked it inside my coat. As I drove

  into the farmyard I called to the farmer who was carrying two

  buckets out of the calf house. "I've got one of your kittens here,

  Mr. Butler. It must have strayed outside." Mr. Butler put down his

  buckets and looked blank. "Kitten? We haven't got no kittens at

  present." I showed him my find and he looked more puzzled. "Well,

  that's a rum "un, there's no black cats on this spot. We've all

  sorts o" colours but no black "uns." "Well, he must have come from

  somewhere else," I said. "Though I can't imagine anything so small

  travelling very far. It's rather mysterious." I held the kitten out

  and he engulfed it with his big, work-roughened hand. "Poor little

  beggar, he's only just alive. I'll take him into t"house and see if

  the missus can do owt for him." In the farm kitchen Mrs. Butler was

  all concern. "Oh, what a shame!" She smoothed back the bedraggled

  hair with one finger. "And it's got such a pretty face." She looked

  up at me. "What is it, anyway, a him or a her?" I took a quick look

  behind the hind legs. "It's a tom." "Right," she said. "I'll get

  some warm milk into him but first of all we'll give him the old cure.

  " She went over to the fireside oven on the big black kitchen range,

  opened the door and popped him inside. I smiled. It was the

  classical procedure when newborn lambs were found suffering from

  cold and exposure; into the oven they went and the results were

  often dramatic. Mrs. Butler left the door partly open and I could

  just see the little black figure inside; he didn't seem to care much

  what was happening to him. The next hour I spent in the byre

  wrestling with the overgrown hind feet of a cow. Still, I thought,

  as I eased the kinks from my spine when I had finished, there were

  compensations. There was a satisfaction in the sight of the cow

  standing comfortably on two almost normal-looking feet. "Well,

  that's summat like," Mr. Butler grunted. "Come in the house and wash

  your hands." In the kitchen as I bent over the brown earthenware

  sink I kept glancing across at the oven. Mrs. Butler laughed. "Oh,

  he's still with us. Come and have a look." It was difficult to see

  the kitten in the dark interior but when I spotted him I put out my

  hand and touched him and he turned his head towards me. "He's coming

  round," I said. "That hour in there has worked wonders." "Doesn't

  often fail." The farmer's wife lifted him out. "I think he's a

  little tough "un." She began to spoon warm milk into the tiny mouth.

  "I reckon we'll have him lapping in a day or two." "You're going to

  keep him, then?" "Too true we are. I'm going to call him Moses."

  "Moses?" "Aye, you found him among the rushes, didn't you?" I

  laughed. "That's right. It's a good name."

  I was on the Butler farm about a fortnight later and I kept looking

  around for Moses. Farmers rarely have their cats indoors and I

  thought that if the black kitten had survived he would have joined

  the feline colony around the buildings. Farm cats have a pretty good

  time. They may not be petted or cosseted but it has always seemed to

  me that they lead a free, natural life. They are expected to catch

  mice but if they are not so inclined there is abundant food at hand;

  bowls of milk here and there and the dogs" dishes to be raided if

  anything interesting is left over. I had seen plenty of cats around

  today, some flitting nervously away, others friendly and purring.

  There was a tabby loping gracefully across the cobbles and a big

  tortoiseshell was curled on a bed of straw at the warm end of the

  byre; cats are connoisseurs of comfort. When Mr. Butler went to

  fetch the hot water I had a quick look in the bullock house and a

  white tom regarded me placidly from between the bars of a hay rack

  where he had been taking a siesta. But there was no sign of Moses. I

  finished drying my arms and was about to make a casual reference to

  the kitten when Mr. Butler handed me my jacket. "Come round here

  with me if you've got a minute," he said, "I've got summat to show

  you." I followed him through the door at the end and across a

  passage into the long, low-roofed piggery. He stopped at a pen about

  halfway down and pointed inside. "Look "ere," he said. I leaned over

  the wall and my face must have shown my astonishment because the

  farmer burst into a shout of laughter. "That's summat new for you,

  isn't it?" I stared unbelievingly down at a large sow stretched

  comfortably on her side, suckling a litter of about twelve piglets,

  and right in the middle of the long pink row, furry black and

  incongruous, was Moses. He had a teat in his mouth and was absorbing

  his nourishment with the same rapt enjoyment as his smooth-skinned

  fellows on either side. "What the devil ...?" I gasped. Mr. Butler

  was still laughing. "I thought you'd never have seen anything like

  that before; I never have, any road." "But how did it happen?" I

  still couldn't drag my eyes away. "It was the missus's idea," he

  replied. "When she'd got the little youth lapping milk she took him

  out to find a right warm spot for him in the buildings. She settled

  on this pen because the sow, Bertha, had just had a litter and I had

  a heater in and it was grand and cosy." I nodded. "Sounds just right.

  " "Well, she put Moses and a bowl of milk in here," the farmer went

  on, "but the little feller didn't stay by the heater very long--

  next time I looked in he was round at t'milk bar." I shrugged my

  shoulders. "They say you see something new every day at this game,

  but this is something I've never even heard of. Anyway, he looks

  well on it--does he actually live on the sow's milk or does he still

  drink from his bowl?" "A bit of both, I reckon. It's hard to say."

  Anyway, whatever mixture Moses was getting he grew rapidly into a

  sleek, handsome animal with an unusually high gloss to his coat

  which may or may not have been due to the porcine element of his

  diet. I never went to the Butlers" without having a look in the pig

  pen. Bertha, his foster mother, seemed to find nothing unusual in

  this hairy intruder and pushed him around casually with pleased

  grunts just as she did the rest of her brood. Moses for his part

  appeared to find the society of the pigs very congenial. When the

  piglets curled up together and settled down for a sleep Moses would

  be somewhere in the heap, and when his young colleagues were weaned

  at eight weeks he showed his attachment to Bertha by spending most

  of his time with her. And it stayed that way over the years. Often

  he would be right inside the pen, rubbing himself happily along the

  comforting bulk of the sow, but I remember him best