James Herriot's Cat Stories, Page 2

other sweet shops in Darrowby, big double-fronted places with their

  wares attractively displayed in the windows, but none of them did

  anything like the trade of the poky establishment I had just left.

  There was no doubt that it was all due to Geoff's unique selling

  technique and it was certainly not an act on his part, it was born

  of a completely sincere devotion to his calling, a delight in what

  he was doing. His manner and "posh" diction gave rise to a certain

  amount of ribald comment from men who had left the local school with

  him at the age of fourteen, and in the pubs he was often referred to

  as 'the bishop," but it was good-natured stuff because he was a

  well-liked man. And, of course, the ladies adored him and flocked to

  bask in his attentions.

  About a month later I was in the shop again to get some of Rosie's

  favourite liquorice all-sorts and the picture was the same--

  Geoffrey smiling and booming, Alfred in his place, following every

  move, the pair of them radiating dignity and well-being. As I

  collected my sweets, the proprietor whispered in my ear. "I'll be

  closing for lunch at twelve noon, Mr. Herriot. Would you be so kind

  as to call in and examine Alfred?" "Yes, of course." I looked along

  the counter at the big cat. "Is he ill?" "Oh, no, no ... but I just

  feel there's something not right." Later I knocked at the closed

  door and Geoffrey let me into the shop, empty for once, then through

  the curtained doorway into his sitting room. Mrs. Hatfield was at a

  table, drinking tea. She was a much earthier character than her

  husband. "Now then, Mr. Herriot, you've come to see t"little cat."

  "He isn't so little," I said, laughing. And indeed, Alfred looked

  more massive than ever seated by the fire, looking calmly into the

  flames. When he saw me he got up, stalked unhurriedly over the

  carpet and arched his back against my legs. I felt strangely

  honoured. "He's really beautiful, isn't he?" I murmured. I hadn't

  had a close look at him for some time and the friendly face with the

  dark stripes running down to the intelligent eyes appealed to me as

  never before. "Yes," I said, stroking the fur which shone

  luxuriantly in the flickering firelight, "you're a big beautiful

  fellow." I turned to Mr. Hatfield. "He looks fine to me. What is it

  that's worrying you?" "Oh, maybe it's nothing at all. His appearance

  certainly has not altered in the slightest, but for over a week now

  I've noticed that he is not quite so keen on his food, not quite so

  lively. He's not really ill ... he's just different." "I see. Well,

  let's have a look at him." I went over the cat carefully.

  Temperature was normal, mucous membranes a healthy pink. I got out

  my stethoscope and listened to heart and lungs--notothing abnormal

  to hear. Feeling around the abdomen produced no clue. "Well, Mr.

  Hatfield," I said, 'there doesn't seem to be anything obviously

  wrong with him. He's maybe a bit run down, but he doesn't look it.

  Anyway, I'll give him a vitamin injection. That should buck him up.

  Let me know in a few days if he's no better." "Thank you indeed, sir.

  I am most grateful. You have set my mind at rest." The big man

  reached out a hand to his pet. The confident resonance of his voice

  was belied by the expression of concern on his face. Seeing them

  together made me sense anew the similarity of man and cat--human and

  animal, yes, but alike in their impressiveness. I heard nothing

  about Alfred for a week and assumed that he had returned to normal,

  but then his master telephoned. "He's just the same, Mr. Herriot. In

  fact, if anything, he has deteriorated slightly. I would be obliged

  if you would look at him again." It was just as before. Nothing

  definite to see even on close examination. I put him on to a course

  of mixed minerals and vitamin tablets. There was no point in

  launching into treatment with our new antibiotics--there was no

  elevation of temperature, no indication of any infectious agent. I

  passed the alley every day--it was only about a hundred yards from

  Skeldale House--and I fell into the habit of stopping and looking in

  through the little window of the shop. Each day, the familiar scene

  presented itself; Geoff bowing and smiling to his customers and

  Alfred sitting in his place at the end of the counter. Everything

  seemed right, and yet ... there was something different about the

  cat. I called in one evening and examined him again. "He's losing

  weight," I said. Geoffrey nodded. "Yes, I do think so. He is still

  eating fairly well, but not as much as before." "Give him another

  few days on the tablets," I said, "and if he's no better I'll have

  to get him round to the surgery and go into the thing a bit more

  deeply." I had a nasty feeling there would be no improvement and

  there wasn't, so one evening I took a cat cage round to the shop.

  Alfred was so huge that there was a problem fitting him into the

  container, but he didn't resist as I bundled him gently inside. At

  the surgery I took a blood sample from him and X-rayed him. The

  plate was perfectly clear and when the report came back from the

  laboratory it showed no abnormality. In a way, it was reassuring,

  but that did not help because the steady decline continued. The next

  few weeks were something like a nightmare. My anxious peering

  through the shop window became a daily ordeal. The big cat was still

  in his place, but he was getting thinner and thinner until he was

  almost unrecognisable. I rang the changes with every drug and

  treatment I could think of, but nothing did any good. I had

  Siegfried examine him, but he thought as I did. The progressive

  emaciation was the sort of thing you would expect from an internal

  tumour, but further X-rays still showed nothing. Alfred must have

  been thoroughly fed up of all the pushing around, the tests, the

  kneading of his abdomen, but at no time did he show any annoyance.

  He accepted the whole thing placidly as was his wont. There was

  another factor which made the situation much worse. Geoff himself

  was wilting under the strain. His comfortable coating of flesh was

  dropping steadily away from him, the normally florid cheeks were

  pale and sunken and, worse still, his dramatic selling style

  appeared to be deserting him. One day I left my viewpoint at the

  window and pushed my way into the press of ladies in the shop. It

  was a harrowing scene. Geoff, bowed and shrunken, was taking the

  orders without even a smile, pouring the sweets listlessly into

  their bags and mumbling a word or two. Gone was the booming voice

  and the happy chatter of the customers, and a strange silence hung

  over the company. It was just like any other sweet shop. Saddest

  sight of all was Alfred, still sitting bravely upright in his place.

  He was unbelievably gaunt, his fur had lost its bloom and he stared

  straight ahead, dead-eyed, as though nothing interested him any more.

  He was like a feline scarecrow. I couldn't stand it any longer. That

  evening I went round to see Geoff Hatfield. "I saw your cat today,"

  I said, "and he's going r
apidly downhill. Are there any new

  symptoms?" The big man nodded dully. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I

  was going to ring you. He's been vomiting a bit." I dug my nails

  into my palms. "There it is again. Everything points to something

  abnormal inside him and yet I can't find a thing." I bent down and

  stroked Alfred. "I hate to see him like this. Look at his fur. It

  used to be so glossy." "That's right," replied Geoff, "he's

  neglecting himself. He never washes himself now. It's as though he

  can't be bothered. And before, he was always at it--lick, lick, lick

  for hours on end." I stared at him. His words had sparked something

  in my mind. "Lick, lick, lick." I paused in thought. "Yes ... when I

  think about it, no cat I ever knew washed himself as much as Alfred.

  ..." The spark suddenly became a flame and I jerked upright in my

  chair. "Mr. Hatfield," I said, "I want to do an exploratory

  operation!" "What do you mean?" "I think he's got a hair-ball inside

  him and I want to operate to see if I'm right." "Open him up, you

  mean?" "That's right." He put a hand over his eyes and his chin sank

  onto his chest. He stayed like that for a long time, then he looked

  at me with haunted eyes. "Oh, I don't know. I've never thought of

  anything like that." "We've got to do something or this cat is going

  to die." He bent and stroked Alfred's head again and again, then

  without looking up he spoke in a husky voice. "All right, when?"

  "Tomorrow morning." Next day, in the operating room, as Siegfried

  and I bent over the sleeping cat, my mind was racing. We had been

  doing much more small-animal surgery lately, but I had always known

  what to expect. This time I felt as though I was venturing into the

  unknown. I made an incision and in the stomach I found a large,

  matted hair-ball, the cause of all the trouble. Something which

  wouldn't show up on an X-ray plate. Siegfried grinned. "Well, now we

  know!" "Yes," I said as the great waves of relief swept over me.

  "Now we know." I found more, smaller hair-balls, all of which had to

  be removed and then the incision stitched. I didn't like this. It

  meant a bigger trauma and shock to my patient, but finally all was

  done and only a neat row of skin sutures was visible. When I

  returned Alfred to his home, his master could hardly bear to look at

  him. At length he took a timid glance at the cat, still sleeping

  under the anaesthetic. "Will he live?" he whispered. "He has a good

  chance," I replied. "He has had some major surgery and it might take

  him some time to get over it, but he's young and strong. He should

  be all right." I could see Geoff wasn't convinced, and that was how

  it was over the next few days. I kept visiting the little room

  behind the shop to give the cat penicillin injections and it was

  obvious that Geoff had made up his mind that Alfred was going to die.

  Mrs. Hatfield was more optimistic, but she was worried about her

  husband. "Eee, he's given up hope," she said. "And it's all because

  Alfred just lies in his bed all day. I've tried to tell "im that

  it'll be a bit o" time before the cat starts running around, but he

  won't listen." She looked at me with anxious eyes. "And, you know,

  it's getting him down, Mr. Herriot. He's a different man. Sometimes

  I wonder if he'll ever be the same again." I went over and peeped

  past the curtain into the shop. Geoff was there, doing his job like

  an automaton. Haggard, unsmiling, silently handing out the sweets.

  When he did speak it was in a listless monotone and I realised with

  a sense of shock that his voice had lost all its old timbre. Mrs.

  Hatfield was right. He was a different man. And, I thought, if he

  stayed different, what would happen to his clientele? So far they

  had remained faithful, but I had a feeling they would soon start to

  drift away. It was a week before the picture began to change for the

  better. I entered the sitting room, but Alfred wasn't there. Mrs.

  Hatfield jumped up from her chair. "He's a lot better, Mr. Herriot,"

  she said eagerly. "Eating well and seemed to want to go into t'shop.

  He's in there with Geoff now." Again I took a surreptitious look

  past the curtain. Alfred was back in his place, skinny but sitting

  upright. But his master didn't look any better. I turned back into

  the room. "Well, I won't need to come any more, Mrs. Hatfield. Your

  cat is well on the way to recovery. He should soon be as good as new.

  " I was quite confident about this, but I wasn't so sure about Geoff.

  At this point, the rush of spring lambing and post-lambing troubles

  overwhelmed me as it did every year, and I had little time to think

  about my other cases. It must have been three weeks before I visited

  the sweet shop to buy some chocolates for Helen. The place was

  packed and as I pushed my way inside all my fears came rushing back

  and I looked anxiously at man and cat. Alfred, massive and dignified

  again, sat like a king at the far end of the counter. Geoff was

  leaning on the counter with both hands, gazing closely into a lady's

  face. "As I understand you, Mrs. Hird, you are looking for something

  in the nature of a softer sweetmeat." The rich voice reverberated

  round the little shop. "Could you perhaps mean a Turkish Delight?"

  "Nay, Mr. Hatfield, it wasn't that. ..." His head fell on his chest

  and he studied the polished boards of the counter with fierce

  concentration. Then he looked up and pushed his face nearer to the

  lady's. "A pastille, possibly ...?" "Nay ... nay." "A truffle? A

  soft caramel? A peppermint cream?" "No, nowt like that." He

  straightened up. This was a tough one. He folded his arms across his

  chest and as he stared into space and took the long inhalation I

  remembered so well I could see that he was a big man again, his

  shoulders spreading wide, his face ruddy and well fleshed. Nothing

  having evolved from his cogitations, his jaw jutted and he turned

  his face upwards, seeking further inspiration from the ceiling.

  Alfred, I noticed, looked upwards, too. There was a tense silence as

  Geoff held this pose, then a smile crept slowly over his noble

  features. He raised a finger. "Madam," he said, "I do fancy I have

  it. Whitish, you said ... sometimes pink ... rather squashy. May I

  suggest to you ... marshmallow?" Mrs. Hird thumped the counter. "Aye,

  that's it, Mr. Hatfield. I just couldn't think of t"name." "Ha-ha, I

  thought so," boomed the proprietor, his organ tones rolling to the

  roof. He laughed, the ladies laughed, and I was positive that Alfred

  laughed, too. All was well again. Everybody in the shop was happy--

  Geoff, Alfred, the ladies and, not least, James Herriot.

  Oscar The Socialite Cat

  One late spring evening, when Helen and I were still living in the

  little bed-sitter under the tiles of Skeldale House, Tristan shouted

  up the stairs from the passage far below. "Jim! Jim!" I went out and

  stuck my head over the bannisters. "What is it, Triss?" "Sorry to

  bother you, Jim, but could you come down for a minute?" The upturned

  face had an anxious look I went down the long flights of steps two
/>   at a time and when I arrived slightly breathless on the ground floor

  Tristan beckoned me through to the consulting room at the back of

  the house. A teenage girl was standing by the table, her hand

  resting on a stained roll of blanket. "It's a cat," Tristan said. He

  pulled back a fold of the blanket and I looked down at a large,

  deeply striped tabby. At least he would have been large if he had

  had any flesh on his bones, but ribs and pelvis stood out painfully

  through the fur and as I passed my hand over the motionless body I

  could feel only a thin covering of skin. Tristan cleared his throat.

  "There's something else, Jim." I looked at him curiously. For once

  he didn't seem to have a joke in him. I watched as he gently lifted

  one of the cat's hind legs. There was a large gash on his abdomen

  and innumerable other wounds. I was still shocked and staring when

  the girl spoke. "I saw this cat sitting in the dark, down Brown's

  yard. I thought "e looked skinny, like, and a bit quiet and I bent

  down to give "im a pat. Then I saw "e was badly hurt and I went home

  for a blanket and brought "im round to you." "That was kind of you,"

  I said. "Have you any idea who he belongs to?" The girl shook her

  head. "No, he looks like a stray to me." "He does indeed." I dragged

  my eyes away from the terrible wound. "You're Marjorie Simpson,

  aren't you?" "Yes." "I know your dad well. He's our postman."

  "That's right." She gave a half smile, then her lips trembled. "Well,

  I reckon I'd better leave "im with you. You'll be going to put him

  out of his misery. There's nothing anybody can do about ... about

  that?" I shrugged and shook my head. The girl's eyes filled with

  tears. She stretched out a hand and touched the emaciated animal,

  then turned and walked quickly to the door. "Thanks again, Marjorie,

  " I called after the retreating back. "And don't worry--we'll look

  after him." In the silence that followed, Tristan and I looked down

  at the shattered animal. Under the surgery lamp it was all too easy

  to see. The injuries were very serious and the wounds were covered

  in dirt and mud. "What d"you think did this?" Tristan said at length.

  "Has he been run over?" "Maybe," I replied. "Could be anything. An

  attack by a big dog or somebody could have kicked him or struck him.

  " All things were possible with cats because some people seemed to

  regard them as fair game for any cruelty. Tristan nodded. "Anyway,

  whatever happened, he must have been on the verge of starvation.

  He's a skeleton. I bet he's wandered miles from home." "Ah well," I

  sighed. "There's only one thing to do, I'm afraid. It's hopeless."

  Tristan didn't say anything but he whistled under his breath and

  drew the tip of his forefinger again and again across the furry

  cheek. And, unbelievably, from somewhere in the scraggy chest a

  gentle purring arose. The young man looked at me, round-eyed. "My

  God, do you hear that?" "Yes ... amazing in that condition. He's a

  good-natured cat." Tristan, head bowed, continued his stroking. I

  knew how he felt because, although he preserved a cheerfully hard-

  boiled attitude to our patients, he couldn't kid me about one thing;

  he had a soft spot for cats. Even now, when we are both around the

  sixty mark, he often talks to me over a beer about the cat he has

  had for many years. It is a typical relationship--they tease each

  other unmercifully--but it is based on real affection. "It's no good,

  Triss," I said gently. "It's got to be done." I reached for the

  syringe but something in me rebelled against plunging a needle into

  that pathetic body. Instead I pulled a fold of the blanket over the

  cat's head. "Pour a little ether onto the cloth," I said. "He'll

  just slip away." Wordlessly Tristan unscrewed the cap of the ether

  bottle and poised it above the head. Then from under the shapeless

  heap of blanket we heard it again; the deep purring which increased

  in volume till it boomed in our ears like a distant motor cycle.

  Tristan was like a man turned to stone, hand gripping the bottle