James Herriot's Cat Stories

by James Herriot

something comforting but nothing stemmed the flow of racking sobs.

  Feeling helpless and inadequate I could only sit close to her and

  stroke the back of her head. Maybe I could have said something if I

  hadn't felt just about as bad myself.

  You get over these things in time. After all, we told ourselves, it

  wasn't as though Oscar had died or got lost again--he had gone to a

  good family who would look after him. In fact he had really gone

  home. And of course, we still had our much-loved Sam, although he

  didn't help in the early stages by sniffing disconsolately where

  Oscar's bed used to lie, then collapsing on the rug with a long,

  lugubrious sigh. There was one other thing, too. I had a little

  notion forming in my mind, an idea which I would spring on Helen

  when the time was right. It was about a month after that shattering

  night and we were coming out of the cinema at Brawton at the end of

  our half day. I looked at my watch. "Only eight o"clock," I said.

  "How about going to see Oscar?" Helen looked at me in surprise. "You

  mean--drive on to Wederly?" "Yes, it's only about five miles." A

  smile crept slowly across her face. "That would be lovely. But do

  you think they would mind?" "The Gibbonses? No, I'm sure they

  wouldn't. Let's go." Wederly was a big village and the ploughman's

  cottage was at the far end a few yards beyond the Methodist chapel.

  I pushed open the garden gate and we walked down the path. A busy-

  looking little woman answered my knock. She was drying her hands on

  a striped towel. "Mrs. Gibbons?" I said. "Aye, that's me." "I'm

  James Herriot--and this is my wife." Her eyes widened

  uncomprehendingly. Clearly the name meant nothing to her. "We had

  your cat for a while," I added. Suddenly she grinned and waved her

  towel at us. "Oh, aye, ah remember now. Sep told me about you. Come

  in, come in!" The big kitchen-living room was a tableau of life with

  six children and thirty shillings a week. Battered furniture, rows

  of much-mended washing on a pulley, black cooking range and a

  general air of chaos. Sep got up from his place by the fire, put

  down his newspaper, took off a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and

  shook hands. He waved Helen to a sagging armchair. "Well, it's right

  nice to see you. Ah've often spoke of ye to t'missus." His wife hung

  up her towel. "Yes, and I'm glad to meet ye both. I'll get some tea

  in a minnit." She laughed and dragged a bucket of muddy water into a

  corner. "I've been washing football jerseys. Them lads just handed

  them to me tonight--as if I haven't enough to do." As she ran the

  water into the kettle I peeped surreptitiously around me and I

  noticed Helen doing the same. But we searched in vain. There was no

  sign of a cat. Surely he couldn't have run away again? With a

  growing feeling of dismay I realised that my little scheme could

  backfire devastatingly. It wasn't until the tea had been made and

  poured that I dared to raise the subject. "How--was I asked

  diffidently, "how is--er--Tiger?" "Oh, he's grand," the little

  woman replied briskly. She glanced up at the clock on the

  mantelpiece. "He should be back any time now, then you'll be able to

  see "im." As she spoke, Sep raised a finger. "Ah think ah can hear

  "im now." He walked over and opened the door and our Oscar strode in

  with all his old grace and majesty. He took one look at Helen and

  leaped on to her lap. With a cry of delight she put down her cup and

  stroked the beautiful fur as the cat arched himself against her hand

  and the familiar purr echoed round the room. "He knows me," she

  murmured. "He knows me." Sep nodded and smiled. "He does that. You

  were good to "im. He'll never forget ye, and we won't either, will

  we, Mother?" "No, we won't, Mrs. Herriot," his wife said as she

  applied butter to a slice of gingerbread. "That was a kind thing ye

  did for us and I "ope you'll come and see us all whenever you're

  near." "Well, thank you," I said. "We'd love to--we're often in

  Brawton." I went over and tickled Oscar's chin, then I turned again

  to Mrs. Gibbons. "By the way, it's after nine o"clock. Where has he

  been till now?" She poised her butter knife and looked into space.

  "Let's see, now," she said. "It's Thursday, isn't it? Ah yes, it's

  "is night for the yoga class."

  Boris and Mrs. Bond's Cat Establishment

  "I work for cats." That was how Mrs. Bond introduced herself on my

  first visit, gripping my hand firmly and thrusting out her jaw

  defiantly as though challenging me to make something of it. She was

  a big woman with a strong, high-cheekboned face and a commanding

  presence and I wouldn't have argued with her anyway, so I nodded

  gravely as though I fully understood and agreed, and allowed her to

  lead me into the house. I saw at once what she meant. The big

  kitchen-living room had been completely given over to cats. There

  were cats on the sofas and chairs and spilling in cascades on to the

  floor, cats sitting in rows along the window sills and right in the

  middle of it all, little Mr. Bond, pallid, wispy-moustached, in his

  shirt sleeves reading a newspaper. It was a scene which was going to

  become very familiar. A lot of the cats were obviously uncastrated

  toms because the atmosphere was vibrant with their distinctive

  smell--a fierce pungency which overwhelmed even the sickly wisps

  from the big saucepans of nameless cat food bubbling on the stove.

  And Mr. Bond was always there, always in his shirt sleeves and

  reading his paper, a lonely little island in a sea of cats. I had

  heard of the Bonds, of course. They were Londoners who for some

  obscure reason had picked on North Yorkshire for their retirement.

  People said they had a "bit o" brass" and they had bought an old

  house on the outskirts of Darrowby where they kept themselves to

  themselves--and the cats. I had heard that Mrs. Bond was in the

  habit of taking in strays and feeding them and giving them a home if

  they wanted it and this had predisposed me in her favour, because in

  my experience the unfortunate feline species seemed to be fair game

  for every kind of cruelty and neglect. They shot cats, threw things

  at them, starved them and set their dogs on them for fun. It was

  good to see somebody taking their side. My patient on this first

  visit was no more than a big kitten, a terrified little blob of

  black and white crouching in a corner. "He's one of the outside cats,

  " Mrs. Bond boomed. "Outside cats?" "Yes. All these you see here are

  the inside cats. The others are the really wild ones who simply

  refuse to enter the house. I feed them, of course, but the only time

  they come indoors is when they are ill." "I see." "I've had

  frightful trouble catching this one. I'm worried about his eyes--

  there seemed to be a skin growing over them, and I do hope you can

  do something for him. His name, by the way, is George." "George? Ah

  yes, quite." I advanced cautiously on the little half-grown animal

  and was greeted by a waving set of claws and a series of open-

  mouthed spittings. He was trapped in his corner or he would have
<
br />   been off with the speed of light. Examining him was going to be a

  problem. I turned to Mrs. Bond. "Could you let me have a sheet of

  some kind? An old ironing sheet would do. I'm going to have to wrap

  him up." "Wrap him up?" Mrs. Bond looked very doubtful but she

  disappeared into another room and returned with a tattered sheet of

  cotton which looked just right. I cleared the table of an amazing

  variety of cat feeding dishes, cat books, cat medicines and spread

  out the sheet, then I approached my patient again. You can't be in a

  hurry in a situation like this and it took me perhaps five minutes

  of wheedling and "puss-pussing" while I brought my hand nearer and

  nearer. When I got as far as being able to stroke his cheek I made a

  quick grab at the scruff of his neck and finally bore George,

  protesting bitterly and lashing out in all directions, over to the

  table. There, still holding tightly to his scruff, I laid him on the

  sheet and started the wrapping operation. This is something which

  has to be done quite often with obstreperous felines and, although I

  say it, I am rather good at it. The idea is to make a neat, tight

  roll, leaving the relevant piece of cat exposed; it may be an

  injured paw, perhaps the tail, and in this case of course the head.

  I think it was the beginning of Mrs. Bond's unquestioning faith in

  me when she saw me quickly enveloping that cat till all you could

  see of him was a small black and white head protruding from an

  immovable cocoon of cloth. He and I were now facing each other, more

  or less eyeball to eyeball, and George couldn't do a thing about it.

  As I say, I rather pride myself on this little expertise and even

  today my veterinary colleagues have been known to remark: "Old

  Herriot may be limited in many respects but by God he can wrap a cat.

  " As it turned out, there wasn't a skin growing over Alfred's eyes.

  There never is. "He's got a paralysis of the third eyelid, Mrs. Bond.

  Animals have this membrane which flicks across the eye to protect it.

  In this case it hasn't gone back, probably because the cat is in low

  condition--maybe had a touch of cat flu or something else which has

  weakened him. I'll give him an injection of vitamins and leave you

  some powder to put in his food if you could keep him in for a few

  days. I think he'll be all right in a week or two." The injection

  presented no problems with Alfred furious but helpless inside his

  sheet and I had come to the end of my first visit to Mrs. Bond's.

  It was the first of many. The lady and I established an immediate

  rapport which was strengthened by the fact that I was always

  prepared to spend time over her assorted charges; crawling on my

  stomach under piles of logs in the outhouses to reach the outside

  cats, coaxing them down from trees, stalking them endlessly through

  the shrubbery. But from my point of view it was rewarding in many

  ways. For instance there was the diversity of names she had for her

  cats. True to her London upbringing she had named many of the toms

  after the great Arsenal team of those days. There was Eddie Hapgood,

  Cliff Bastin, Ted Drake, Wilf Copping, but she did slip up in one

  case because Alex James had kittens three times a year with

  unfailing regularity. Then there was her way of calling them home.

  The first time I saw her at this was on a still summer evening. The

  two cats she wanted me to see were out in the garden somewhere and I

  walked with her to the back door where she halted, clasped her hands

  across her bosom, closed her eyes and gave tongue in a mellifluous

  contralto. "Bates, Bates, Bates, Ba-hates." She actually sang out

  the words in a reverent monotone except for a delightful little lilt

  on the "Ba-hates." Then once more she inflated her ample rib cage

  like an operatic prima donna and out it came again, delivered with

  the utmost feeling. "Bates, Bates, Bates, Ba-hates." Anyway it

  worked, because Bates the cat came trotting from behind a clump of

  laurel. There remained the other patient and I watched Mrs. Bond

  with interest. She took up the same stance, breathed in, closed her

  eyes, composed her features into a sweet half-smile and started

  again. "Seven-times-three, Seven-times-three, Seven-times-three-hee.

  " It was set to the same melody as Bates with the same dulcet rise

  and fall at the end. She didn't get the quick response this time,

  though, and had to go through the performance again and again, and

  as the notes lingered on the still evening air the effect was

  startlingly like a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. At length

  she was successful and a fat tortoiseshell slunk apologetically into

  the house. "By the way, Mrs. Bond," I asked, making my voice casual.

  "I didn't quite catch the name of that last cat." "Oh, Seven-times-

  three?" She smiled reminiscently. "Yes, she is a dear. She's had

  three kittens seven times running, you see, so I thought it rather a

  good name for her, don't you?" "Yes, yes, I do indeed. Splendid name,

  splendid." Another thing which warmed me towards Mrs. Bond was her

  concern for my safety. I appreciated this because it is a rare trait

  among animal owners. I can think of the trainer, after one of his

  racehorses had kicked me clean out of a loose box, examining the

  animal anxiously to see if it had damaged its foot; the little old

  lady dwarfed by the bristling, teeth-bared Alsatian saying: "You'll

  be gentle with him, won't you, and I hope you won't hurt him-- he's

  very nervous"; the farmer, after an exhausting calving which I feel

  certain has knocked about two years off my life expectancy, grunting

  morosely: "I doubt you've tired that cow out, young man." Mrs. Bond

  was different. She used to meet me at the door with an enormous pair

  of gauntlets to protect my hands against scratches and it was an

  inexpressible relief to find that somebody cared. It became part of

  the pattern of my life; walking up the garden path among the

  innumerable slinking, wild-eyed little creatures which were the

  outside cats, the ceremonial acceptance of the gloves at the door,

  then the entry into the charged atmosphere of the kitchen with

  little Mr. Bond and his newspaper just visible among the milling

  furry bodies of the inside cats. I was never able to ascertain Mr.

  Bond's attitude to cats--come to think of it he hardly ever said

  anything--but I had the impression he could take them or leave them.

  The gauntlets were a big help and at times they were a veritable

  godsend. As in the case of Boris. Boris was an enormous blue-black

  member of the outside cats and my bete noire in more senses than

  one. I always cherished a private conviction that he had escaped

  from a zoo; I had never seen a domestic cat with such sleek,

  writhing muscles, such dedicated ferocity. I'm sure there was a bit

  of puma in Boris somewhere. It had been a sad day for the cat colony

  when he turned up. I have always found it difficult to dislike any

  animal; most of the ones which try to do us a mischief are activated

  by fear, but Boris was different; he was a malevolent bully and


  after his arrival the frequency of my visits increased because of

  his habit of regularly beating up his colleagues. I was forever

  stitching up tattered ears, dressing gnawed limbs. We had one trial

  of strength fairly early. Mrs. Bond wanted me to give him a worm

  dose and I had the little tablet all ready held in forceps. How I

  ever got hold of him I don't quite know, but I hustled him on to the

  table and did my wrapping act at lightning speed, swathing him in

  roll upon roll of stout material. Just for a few seconds I thought I

  had him as he stared up at me, his great brilliant eyes full of hate.

  But as I pushed my loaded forceps into his mouth he clamped his

  teeth viciously down on them and I could feel claws of amazing power

  tearing inside the sheet. It was all over in moments. A long leg

  shot out and ripped its way down my wrist, I let go my tight hold of

  the neck and in a flash Boris sank his teeth through the gauntlet

  into the ball of my thumb and was away. I was left standing there

  stupidly, holding the fragmented worm tablet in a bleeding hand and

  looking at the bunch of ribbons which had once been my wrapping

  sheet. From then on Boris loathed the very sight of me and the

  feeling was mutual.

  But this was one of the few clouds in a serene sky. I continued to

  enjoy my visits there and life proceeded on a tranquil course except,

  perhaps, for some legpulling from my colleagues. They could never

  understand my willingness to spend so much time over a lot of cats.

  And of course this fitted in with the general attitude because

  Siegfried didn't believe in people keeping pets of any kind. He just

  couldn't understand their mentality and propounded his views to

  anybody who cared to listen. He himself, of course, kept five dogs

  and two cats. The dogs, all of them, travelled everywhere with him

  in the car and he fed dogs and cats every day with his own hands--

  -wouldn't allow anybody else to do the job. In the evening all seven

  animals would pile themselves round his feet as he sat in his chair

  by the fire. To this day he is still as vehemently anti-pet as ever,

  though another generation of waving dogs" tails almost obscures him

  as he drives around and he also has several cats, a few tanks of

  tropical fish and a couple of snakes. Tristan saw me in action at

  Mrs. Bond's on only one occasion. I was collecting some long forceps

  from the instrument cupboard when he came into the room. "Anything

  interesting, Jim?" he asked. "No, not really. I'm just off to see

  one of the Bond cats. It's got a bone stuck between its teeth." The

  young man eyed me ruminatively for a moment. "Think I'll come with

  you. I haven't seen much small animal stuff lately." As we went down

  the garden at the cat establishment I felt a twinge of embarrassment.

  One of the things which had built up my happy relationship with Mrs.

  Bond was my tender concern for her charges. Even with the wildest

  and the fiercest I exhibited only gentleness, patience and

  solicitude; it wasn't really an act, it came quite naturally to me.

  However, I couldn't help wondering what Tristan would think of my

  cat bedside manner. Mrs. Bond in the doorway had summed up the

  situation in a flash and had two pairs of gauntlets waiting. Tristan

  looked a little surprised as he received his pair but thanked the

  lady with typical charm. He looked still more surprised when he

  entered the kitchen, sniffed the rich atmosphere and surveyed the

  masses of furry creatures occupying almost every available inch of

  space. "Mr. Herriot, I'm afraid it's Boris who has the bone in his

  teeth," Mrs. Bond said. "Boris!" My stomach lurched. "How on earth

  are we going to catch him?" "Oh, I've been rather clever," she

  replied. "I've managed to entice him with some of his favourite food

  into a cat basket." Tristan put his hand on a big wicker cage on the

  table. "In here, is he?" he asked casually. He slipped back the

  catch and opened the lid. For something like a third of a second the

  coiled creature within and Tristan regarded each other tensely, then

  a sleek black body exploded silently from the basket past the young