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  I pointed to a cardboard box loosely tied with string. “Ah, good, you’ve got her in there, have you?”

  “Nay, bless you, she’s in t’garden. She allus has a bit of play out there of an afternoon.”

  “In the garden, eh?” I said nervously. “Well, please get her in, we’re in rather a hurry.”

  We went through a tiled kitchen to the back door. Most of these cottages had a surprising amount of land behind them and Mrs. Beck’s patch was in very nice order. Flower beds bordered a smooth stretch of lawn and the sunshine drew glittering colours from the apples and pears among the branches of the trees.

  “Georgina,” carolled Mrs. Beck. “Where are you, my pet?”

  No cat appeared and she turned to me with a roguish smile. “I think the little imp’s playin’ a game with us. She does that, you know.”

  “Really?” I said without enthusiasm. “Well, I wish she’d show herself. I really don’t have much …”

  At that moment a very fat tabby darted from a patch of chrysanthemums and flitted across the grass into a clump of rhododendrons with Tristan in close pursuit. The young man dived among the greenery and the cat emerged from the other end at top speed, did a couple of laps of the lawn then shot up a gnarled tree.

  Tristan, eyes gleaming in anticipation, lifted a couple of windfall apples from the turf. “I’ll soon shift the bugger from there, Jim,” he whispered and took aim.

  I grabbed his arm. “For heaven’s sake, Triss!” I hissed. “You can’t do that. Put those things down.”

  “Oh … all right.” He dropped the apples and made for the tree. “I’ll get hold of her for you, anyway.”

  “Wait a minute.” I seized his coat as he passed. “I’ll do it. You stay down here and try to catch her if she jumps.”

  Tristan looked disappointed but I gave him a warning look. The way the cat had moved, it struck me that it only needed a bit of my colleague’s ebullience to send the animal winging into the next county. I began to climb the tree.

  I like cats, I’ve always liked them, and since I feel that animals recognise this in a person I have usually been able to approach and handle the most difficult types. It is not too much to say that I prided myself on my cat technique; I didn’t foresee any trouble here.

  Puffing slightly, I reached the top branch and extended a hand to the crouching animal.

  “Pooss-pooss,” I cooed, using my irresistible cat tone.

  Georgina eyed me coldly and gave no answering sign other than a higher arching of the back.

  I leaned further along the branch. “Pooss-pooss, pooss-pooss.” My voice was like molten honey, my finger near her face. I would rub her cheek ever so gently and she would be mine. It never failed.

  “Pah!” replied Georgina warningly but I took no heed and touched the fur under her chin.

  “Pah-pah!” Georgina spat and followed with a lightning left hook which opened a bloody track across the back of my hand.

  Muttering fervently, I retreated and nursed my wounds. From below Mrs. Beck gave a tinkling laugh.

  “Oh, isn’t she a little monkey! She’s that playful, bless her.”

  I snorted and began to ease my way along the branch again. This time, I thought grimly, I would dispense with finesse. The quick grab was indicated here.

  As though reading my thoughts the little creature tripped to the end of the branch and as it bent low under her weight she dropped lightly to the grass.

  Tristan was on her in a flash, throwing himself full length and seizing her by the hind leg. Georgina whipped round and unhesitatingly sank her teeth into his thumb but Tristan’s core of resilience showed. After a single howl of agony he changed his grip at lightning speed to the scruff of the neck.

  A moment later he was standing upright holding a dangling fighting fury high in the air.

  “Right, Jim,” he called happily. “I have her.”

  “Good lad! Hang on!” I said breathlessly and slithered down the tree as quickly as I could. Too quickly, in fact, as an ominous ripping sound announced the removal of a triangular piece of my jacket elbow.

  But I couldn’t bother with trifles. Ushering Tristan at a gallop into the house I opened the cardboard box. There were no sophisticated cat containers in those days and it was a tricky job to enclose Georgina, who was lashing out in all directions and complaining bitterly in a bad-tempered wail.

  It took a panting ten minutes to imprison the cat but even with several yards of rough twine round the floppy cardboard I still didn’t feel very secure as I bore it to the car.

  Mrs. Beck raised a finger as we were about to drive away. I carefully explored my lacerated hand and Tristan sucked his thumb as we waited for her to speak.

  “Mr. Herriot, I ’ope you’ll be gentle with ’er,” she said anxiously. “She’s very timid, you know.”

  We had covered barely half a mile before sounds of strife arose from the back.

  “Get back! Get in there. Get back, you bugger!”

  I glanced behind me. Tristan was having trouble. Georgina clearly didn’t care for the motion of the car and from the slits in the box clawed feet issued repeatedly; on one occasion an enraged spitting face got free as far as the neck. Tristan kept pushing everything back with great resolution but I could tell from the rising desperation of his cries that he was fighting a losing battle.

  I heard the final shout with a feeling of inevitability.

  “She’s out, Jim! The bugger’s out!”

  Well this was great. Anybody who has driven a car with a hysterical cat hurtling around the interior will appreciate my situation. I crouched low over the wheel as the furry creature streaked round the sides or leaped clawing at the roof or windscreen with Tristan lunging vainly after her.

  But cruel fate had not finished with us yet. My colleague’s gasps and grunts from the rear ceased for a moment to be replaced by a horrified shriek.

  “The bloody thing’s shitting, Jim! She’s shitting everywhere!”

  The cat was obviously using every weapon at her disposal and he didn’t have to tell me. My nose was way ahead of him, and I frantically wound down the window. But I closed it just as quickly at the rising image of Georgina escaping and disappearing into the unknown.

  I don’t like to think of the rest of that journey. I tried to breathe through my mouth and Tristan puffed out dense clouds of Woodbine smoke but it was still pretty terrible. Just outside Darrowby I stopped the car and we made a concerted onslaught on the animal; at the cost of a few more wounds, including a particularly painful scratch on my nose, we cornered her and fastened her once more in the box.

  Even on the operating table Georgina had a few tricks left. We were using ether and oxygen as anaesthetic and she was particularly adept at holding her breath while the mask was on her face then returning suddenly to violent life when we thought she was asleep. We were both sweating when she finally went under.

  I suppose it was inevitable, too, that she should be a difficult case. Ovaro-hysterectomy in the cat is a fairly straightforward procedure and nowadays we do innumerable cases uneventfully, but in the thirties, particularly in country practice, it was infrequently done and consequently a much larger undertaking.

  I personally had my own preferences and aversions in this field. For instance, I found thin cats easy to do and fat cats difficult. Georgina was extremely fat.

  When I opened her abdomen an ocean of fat welled up at me, obscuring everything, and I spent a long nerve-racking period lifting out portions of bowel or omentum with my forceps, surveying them gloomily and stuffing them back in again. A great weariness had begun to creep over me by the time I at last managed to grip the pink ovary between the metallic jaws and drew forth the slender string of uterus. After that it was routine, but I still felt a strange sense of exhaustion as I inserted the last stitch.

  I put the sleeping cat into the box and beckoned to Tristan. “Come on, let’s get her home before she comes round.” I was starting along the passage when he put