James Herriot's Cat Stories Read online

rug, but they seemed to be used to Debbie because two of them

  sniffed her in a bored manner and the third merely cocked a sleepy

  eye at her before flopping back on the rich pile. Debbie sat among

  them in her usual posture; upright, intent, gazing absorbedly into

  the glowing coals. This time I tried to make friends with her. I

  approached her carefully but she leaned away as I stretched out my

  hand. However, by patient wheedling and soft talk I managed to touch

  her and gently stroked her cheek with one finger. There was a moment

  when she responded by putting her head on one side and rubbing back

  against my hand but soon she was ready to leave. Once outside the

  house she darted quickly along the road, then through a gap in a

  hedge, and the last I saw was the little black figure flitting over

  the rain-swept grass of a field. "I wonder where she goes," I

  murmured half to myself. Mrs. Ainsworth appeared at my elbow.

  "That's something we've never been able to find out."

  It must have been nearly three months before I heard from Mrs.

  Ainsworth, and in fact I had begun to wonder at the bassets" long

  symptomless run when she came on the "phone. It was Christmas

  morning and she was apologetic. "Mr. Herriot, I'm so sorry to bother

  you today of all days. I should think you want a rest at Christmas

  like anybody else." But her natural politeness could not hide the

  distress in her voice. "Please don't worry about that," I said.

  "Which one is it this time?" "It's not one of the dogs. It's ...

  Debbie." "Debbie? She's at your house now?" "Yes ... but there's

  something wrong. Please come quickly." Driving through the market

  place I thought again that Darrowby on Christmas Day was like

  Dickens come to life; the empty square with the snow thick on the

  cobbles and hanging from the eaves of the fretted lines of roofs;

  the shops closed and the coloured lights of the Christmas trees

  winking at the windows of the clustering houses, warmly inviting

  against the cold white bulk of the fells behind. Mrs. Ainsworth's

  home was lavishly decorated with tinsel and holly, rows of drinks

  stood on the sideboard and the rich aroma of turkey and sage and

  onion stuffing wafted from the kitchen. But her eyes were full of

  pain as she led me through to the lounge. Debbie was there all right,

  but this time everything was different. She wasn't sitting upright

  in her usual position; she was stretched quite motionless on her

  side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny black kitten. I looked

  down in bewilderment. "What's happened here?" "It's the strangest

  thing," Mrs. Ainsworth replied. "I haven't seen her for several

  weeks, and then she came in about two hours ago--sort of

  staggered into the kitchen, and she was carrying the kitten in her

  mouth. She took it through to the lounge and laid it on the rug and

  at first I was amused. But I could see all was not well because she

  sat as she usually does, but for a long time--over an hour--then she

  lay down like this and she hasn't moved." I knelt on the rug and

  passed my hand over Debbie's neck and ribs. She was thinner than

  ever, her fur dirty and mud-caked. She did not resist as I gently

  opened her mouth. The tongue and mucous membranes were abnormally

  pale and the lips ice-cold against my fingers. When I pulled down

  her eyelid and saw the glazing eye a knell sounded in my mind. I

  felt the abdomen with a grim certainty as to what I would find and

  there was no surprise, only a dull sadness as my fingers closed

  around a hard solid mass. Terminal and hopeless. I put my

  stethoscope on her heart and listened to the increasingly faint,

  rapid beat, then I straightened up and sat on the rug looking

  sightlessly into the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames on

  my face. Mrs. Ainsworth's voice seemed to come from afar. "Is she

  ill, Mr. Herriot?" I hesitated. "Yes ... yes, I'm afraid so. She has

  a malignant growth." I stood up. "There's absolutely nothing I can

  do. I'm sorry." "Oh!" Her hand went to her mouth and she looked at

  me wide-eyed. When at last she spoke her voice trembled. "Well, you

  must put her to sleep immediately. It's the only thing to do. We

  can't let her suffer." "Mrs. Ainsworth," I said, 'there's no need.

  She's dying now--in a coma--far beyond suffering." She turned

  quickly away from me and was very still as she fought with her

  emotions. Then she gave up the struggle and dropped on her knees

  beside Debbie. "Oh, poor little thing!" she sobbed and stroked the

  cat's head again and again as the tears fell unchecked on the matted

  fur. "What she must have come through. I feel I ought to have done

  more for her." For a few moments I was silent, feeling her sorrow,

  so discordant among the bright seasonal colours of this festive room.

  Then I spoke gently. "Nobody could have done more than you," I said.

  "Nobody could have been kinder." "But I'd have kept her here--in

  comfort. It must have been terrible out there in the cold when she

  was so desperately ill--I daren't think about it. And having kittens,

  too--I ... I wonder how many she did have?" I shrugged. "I don't

  suppose we'll ever know. Maybe just this one. It happens sometimes.

  And she brought it to you, didn't she?" "Yes ... that's right ...

  she did ... she did." Mrs. Ainsworth reached out and lifted the

  bedraggled black morsel. She smoothed her finger along the muddy fur

  and the tiny mouth opened in a soundless miaow. "Isn't it strange?

  She was dying and she brought her kitten here. And on Christmas Day.

  ." I bent and put my hand on Debbie's heart. There was no beat. I

  looked up. "I'm afraid she's gone." I lifted the small body, almost

  feather light, wrapped it in the sheet which had been spread on the

  rug and took it out to the car. When I came back Mrs. Ainsworth was

  still stroking the kitten. The tears had dried on her cheeks and she

  was bright-eyed as she looked at me. "I've never had a cat before,"

  she said. I smiled. "Well, it looks as though you've got one now."

  And she certainly had. That kitten grew rapidly into a sleek

  handsome cat with a boisterous nature which earned him the name of

  Buster. In every way he was the opposite to his timid little mother.

  Not for him the privations of the secret outdoor life; he stalked

  the rich carpets of the Ainsworth home like a king and the ornate

  collar he always wore added something more to his presence. On my

  visits I watched his development with delight but the occasion which

  stays in my mind was the following Christmas Day, a year from his

  arrival. I was out on my rounds as usual. I can't remember when I

  haven't had to work on Christmas Day because the animals have never

  got round to recognising it as a holiday; but with the passage of

  the years the vague resentment I used to feel has been replaced by

  philosophical acceptance. After all, as I tramped around the

  hillside barns in the frosty air I was working up a better appetite

  for my turkey than all the millions lying in bed or slumped by the

  fire; and this was aided by the innumerable aperitifs I received

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