Every Living Thing

by James Herriot

  Helen gave them some food and once they were concentrating on the food, I crept up on them and threw a fisherman’s landing net over them. After a struggle I was able to divine that the tortoiseshell was a female and the black and white a male.

  “Good,” said Helen. “I’ll call them Olly and Ginny.”

  “Why Olly?”

  “Don’t really know. He looks like an Olly. I like the name.”

  “Oh, and how about Ginny?”

  “Short for Ginger.”

  “She’s not really ginger, she’s tortoiseshell.”

  “Well, she’s a bit ginger.”

  I left it at that.

  Over the next few months they grew rapidly and my veterinary mind decided something else. I had to neuter them. And it was then that I was confronted for the first time with a problem that was to worry me for years—how to minister to the veterinary needs of animals I was unable even to touch.

  The first time, when they were half grown, it wasn’t so bad. Again I slunk up on them with my net when they were feeding and managed to bundle them into a cat cage from which they looked at me with terrified and, I imagined, accusing eyes.

  In the surgery, as Siegfried and I lifted them one by one from the cage and administered the intravenous anaesthetic, I was struck by the fact that though they were terror-stricken at being in an enclosed space for the first time in their lives and by being grasped and restrained by humans, they were singularly easy to handle. Many of our domesticated feline patients were fighting furies until we had lulled them to sleep, and cats, with claws as well as teeth for weapons, can inflict a fair amount of damage, but Olly and Ginny, though they struggled frantically, made no attempt to bite, never unsheathed their claws.

  Siegfried put it briefly. “These little things are scared stiff, but they’re absolutely docile. I wonder how many wild cats are like this.”

  I felt a little strange as I carried out the operations, looking down at the small sleeping forms. These were my cats, yet it was the first time I was able to touch them as I wished, to examine them closely and appreciate the beauty of their fur and colourings.

  When they had come out of the anaesthetic I took them home, and when I released the two of them from the cage they scampered up to their home in the log shed. As was usual following such minor operations, they showed no after-effects, but they clearly had unpleasant memories of me. During the next few weeks they came close to Helen as she fed them but fled immediately at the sight of me. All my attempts to catch Ginny to remove the single little stitch in her spay incision were fruitless. That stitch remained for ever and I realised that Herriot had been cast firmly as the villain of the piece, the character who would grab you and bundle you into a wire cage if you gave him half a chance.

  It soon became clear that things were going to stay that way, because as the months passed and Helen plied them with all manner of titbits and they grew into truly handsome, sleek cats, they would come arching along the wall top when she appeared at the back-door, but I had only to poke my head from the door to send them streaking away out of sight. I was the chap to be avoided at all times and it rankled with me because I have always been fond of cats and I had become particularly attached to these two. The day finally arrived when Helen was able to stroke them gently as they ate and my chagrin deepened at the sight.

  Usually they slept in the log shed but occasionally they disappeared to somewhere unknown and stayed away for a few days, and we used to wonder if they had abandoned us or if something had happened to them. When they reappeared, Helen would shout to me in great relief, “They’re back, Jim, they’re back!” They had become part of our lives.

  Summer lengthened into autumn and when the bitter Yorkshire winter set in we marvelled at their hardiness. We used to feel terrible, watching them from our warm kitchen as they sat out in the frost and snow, but no matter how harsh the weather, nothing would induce either of them to set foot inside the house. Warmth and comfort had no appeal for them.

  When the weather was fine we had a lot of fun just watching them. We could see right up into the log shed from our kitchen, and it was fascinating to observe their happy relationship. They were such friends. Totally inseparable, they spent hours licking each other and rolling about together in gentle play and they never pushed each other out of the way when they were given their food. At night we could see the two furry little forms curled close together in the straw.

  Then there was a time when we thought everything had changed for ever. The cats did one of their disappearances and as day followed day we became more anxious. Each morning, Helen started her day with the cry of “Olly, Ginny,” which always brought the two of them trotting down from their dwelling, but they did not appear, and when a week passed and then two we had almost run out of hope.

  When we came back from our half-day in Brawton, Helen ran to the kitchen and looked out. The cats knew our habits and they would always be sitting waiting for her but the empty wall stretched away and the log shed was deserted. “Do you think they’ve gone for good, Jim?” she said.

  I shrugged. “It’s beginning to look like it. You remember what old Herbert said about that family of cats. Maybe they’re nomads at heart—gone off to pastures new.”

  Helen’s face was doleful. “I can’t believe it. They seemed so happy here. Oh, I hope nothing terrible has happened to them.” Sadly she began to put her shopping away and she was silent all evening. My attempts to cheer her up were half-hearted because I was wrapped in a blanket of misery myself.

  Strangely, it was the very next morning when I heard Helen’s usual cry, but this time it wasn’t a happy one.

  She ran into the sitting room. “They’re back, Jim,” she said breathlessly, “but I think they’re dying!”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, they look awful! They’re desperately ill—I’m sure they’re dying.”

  I hurried through to the kitchen with her and looked through the window. The cats were sitting there side by side on the wall a few feet away. A watery discharge ran from their eyes, which were almost closed, more fluid poured from their nostrils and saliva drooled from their mouths. Their bodies shook from a continuous sneezing and coughing.

  They were thin and scraggly, unrecognisable as the sleek creatures we knew so well, and their appearance was made more pitiful by their situation in the teeth of a piercing east wind that tore at their fur and made their attempts to open their eyes even more painful.

  Helen opened the back-door. “Olly, Ginny, what’s happened to you?” she cried.

  A remarkable thing happened then. At the sound of her voice, the cats hopped carefully from the wall and walked unhesitatingly through the door into the kitchen. It was the first time they had been under our roof.

  “Look at that!” Helen exclaimed. “I can’t believe it. They must be really ill. But what is it, Jim? Have they been poisoned?”

  I shook my head. “No, they’ve got cat ’flu.”

  “You can tell?”

  “Oh yes, this is classical.”

  “And will they die?”

  I rubbed my chin. “I don’t think so.” I wanted to sound reassuring, but I wondered. Feline virus rhinotracheitis had a fairly low mortality rate, but bad cases can die and these cats were very bad indeed. “Anyway, close the door, Helen, and I’ll see if they’ll let me examine them.”

  But at the sight of the closing door, both cats bolted back outside.

  “Open up again,” I cried and, after a moment’s hesitation, the cats walked back into the kitchen.

  I looked at them in astonishment. “Would you believe it? They haven’t come in here for shelter, they’ve come for help!”

  And there was no doubt about it. The two of them sat there, side by side, waiting for us to do something for them.

  “The question is,” I said, “will they allow their bête noire to get near them? We’d better leave the back-door open so they don’t feel threatened.”

  I
approached inch by inch till I could put a hand on them, but they did not move. With a feeling that I was dreaming I lifted each of them, limp and unresisting, and examined them.

  Helen stroked them while I ran out to my car, which held my stock of drugs, and brought in what I’d need. I took their temperatures. They were both over 104° F, which was typical, so I injected them with oxytetracycline, the antibiotic I had always found best for treating the secondary bacterial infection that followed the initial virus attack. I also injected vitamins, cleaned away the pus and mucus from the eyes and nostrils with cotton wool and applied an antibiotic ointment. And all the time I marvelled that I was lifting and handling these yielding little bodies that I hadn’t even been able to touch before apart from when they had been under the anaesthetic for the neutering operations.

  When I had finished I couldn’t bear the thought of turning them out into that cruel wind. I lifted them again and tucked them one under each arm.

  “Helen,” I said. “Let’s have another try. Will you just gently close the door.”

  She took hold of the knob and began to push very slowly, but immediately both cats leaped like uncoiled springs from my arms and shot into the garden. We watched them as they trotted out of sight.

  “Well, that’s extraordinary,” I said. “Ill as they are, they won’t tolerate being locked in.”

  Helen was on the verge of tears. “But how will they stand it out there? They should be kept warm. I wonder if we’ll ever see them again.”

  “I just don’t know.” I looked at the empty garden. “But we’ve got to realise they are in their natural environment. They’re tough little things. I think they’ll be back.”

  I was right. Next morning they were outside the window, eyes closed against the wind, the fur on their faces streaked and stained with the copious discharge.

  Again Helen opened the door and again they walked calmly inside and made no resistance as I repeated my treatment, injecting them, swabbing out eyes and nostrils, examining their mouths for ulcers, lifting them around like any long-standing household pets.

  This happened every day for a week. The discharges became more purulent and their racking sneezing seemed no better, then, when I was losing hope, they started to eat a little food and, significantly, they weren’t so keen to come into the house.

  When I did get them inside, they were tense and unhappy as I handled them and finally I couldn’t touch them at all. They were by no means cured, so I mixed oxytet soluble powder in their food and treated them that way.

  The weather was even worse, with fine flakes of snow spinning in the wind, but the day came when they refused to come inside and we watched them through the window as they ate. But I had the satisfaction of knowing they were still getting the antibiotic with every mouthful.

  As I carried on this long-range treatment, observing them daily from the kitchen, it was rewarding to see the sneezing abating, the discharges drying up and the cats gradually regaining their lost flesh.

  It was a brisk sunny morning in March when I watched Helen putting their breakfast on the wall. Olly and Ginny, sleek as seals, their faces clean and dry, their eyes bright, came arching along the wire, purring like outboard motors. They were in no hurry to eat; they were clearly happy just to see her.

  As they passed to and fro, she ran her hand gently along their heads and backs. This was the kind of stroking they liked—not overdone, with them continually in motion.

  I felt I had to get into the action and stepped from the open door.

  “Ginny,” I said and held out a hand. “Come here, Ginny.” The little creature stopped her promenade along the wall and regarded me from a safe distance not with hostility but with all the old wariness. As I tried to move nearer to her she skipped away out of reach.

  “Okay,” I said, “and I don’t suppose it’s any good trying with you either, Olly.” The black-and-white cat backed well away from my outstretched hand and gave me a noncommittal gaze. I could see he agreed with me.

  Mortified, I called out to the two of them. “Hey, remember me?” It was clear by the look of them that they remembered me all right—but not in the way I hoped. I felt a stab of frustration. Despite my efforts I was back where I started.

  Helen laughed. “They’re a funny pair, but don’t they look marvellous! They’re a picture of health, as good as new. It says a lot for fresh air treatment.”

  “It does indeed,” I said with a wry smile. “But it also says something for having a resident veterinary surgeon.”

  Chapter 45

  “GET BACK HOME TO bed, James!” Siegfried was at his most imperious, chin jutting, arm outstretched, pointing to the door.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. “Honestly I am.”

  “Well, you don’t look so damn fine to me. About ready for Mallock’s yard, if you ask me. You’ve not fit to be out.”

  His reference to the local knacker man was not inapposite. I had trailed into the surgery the day after one of my brucellosis attacks in the hope that a bit of work and exercise would make me feel better, but I knew that the weak, shivery object I had seen in my mirror didn’t look much good for anything.

  I dug my hands into my pockets and tried to stop shaking. “I soon recover from these things, Siegfried, my temperature’s normal and lying in bed gives me the willies. I’ll be okay, I assure you.”

  “James, you’ll maybe be okay tomorrow but if you go out into the country now and start stripping off you could drop down dead. I’ve got to be on my way now and I’ve no time to argue, but I forbid you to work! Understand? I tell you what. If you refuse to go home, you can go with Calum on his round. Just sit in the car with him—but don’t do anything!” He lifted his medical bag and left the room at a half-trot.

  It didn’t seem a bad idea. Better than lying in bed listening to the household noises going on through the closed door with the depressing feelings of being detached from the workaday world. I had always hated that. I turned to our assistant. “Is that all right, Calum?”

  “Of course, Jim. I’ll enjoy your company.”

  I wasn’t such bright company as I sat silent, watching the dry-stone walls and the snow-covered hills roll past the car windows. When we arrived at the first farm, the gateway was blocked.

  “We’ll have to walk over a couple of fields, Jim,” Calum said. “Or you could stay here in the car.”

  “No, I’ll come with you.” I dragged myself out and we set off across the smooth unbroken blanket of white.

  Even that short journey held something for my colleague. “Look, Jim, a fox has been along here. See his paw marks and the long trailing groove made by his brush. And those little holes—there are mice down there. The heat from their bodies melts the snow above them.” He identified the tracks of the various birds that had landed on the snow. They were just marks to me but a whole thrilling book to him.

  The farmer, Edgar Stott, was waiting for us in the yard. Calum had never been to his farm and I introduced him. “I’m not too grand today, so Mr. Buchanan is going to see to your cow.”

  Mr. Stott was known as a “clever bugger” among the local farmers. This didn’t mean that they regarded him as intellectually superior, but rather as an aggressive know-all. In his own eyes he was an outstanding wit and he did not endear himself to his neighbours by his propensity for taking people down a peg.

  He was a big man and his bright little eyes in the fleshy face twinkled maliciously at Calum. “Oh, we’ve got the reserve man on the job today. Vet wi’ t’badger, eh? I’ve heard about you. We’ll soon see how much ye know.”

  In the byre I sank down on a bale of straw, relishing the sweet bovine warmth. Mr. Stott led Calum along the line of cows and pointed to a roan animal. “Well, there she is. What d’ye make of her?”

  Calum scratched the root of her tail and looked along the shaggy flank. “Well now, what’s the trouble, Mr. Stott?”

  “Ah, you’re t’vitnery. I want you to tell me.”

  My collea
gue smiled politely at the ancient joke. “Let’s put it another way. What are her symptoms? Is she off her food?”

  “Aye.”

  “Taking anything at all?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “How long has she been calved?”

  “About a month.”

  Calum took the temperature. Auscultated stomach and lungs. Pulled the head round and smelt the breath. Drew some milk onto his palm and smelt that, too, but he was clearly baffled. His enquiries about the animal’s history were answered by grunts from Mr. Stott, and several times when Calum stood back and gazed blankly at the animal the farmer’s mouth twisted in a sneer.

  “Will you bring me a bucket of hot water, soap and a towel, please?” the young man asked.

  He took off his shirt and thrust his arm first into the vagina then deeply up into the rectum where I knew he was palpating the abdominal organs. Then he turned to the farmer who was standing, hands in pockets, observing him with sardonic interest.

  “You know, this is very strange. Everything seems normal. Is there anything you haven’t told me, Mr. Stott?”

  The big man hunched his shoulders and chuckled. “Aye, there is summat I haven’t told ye. There’s nowt wrong wi’ that beast.”

  “Eh?”

  “I said there’s nowt wrong with ’er. She’s as healthy as thee and me. I just wanted to see if you know owt about the job.” Then he burst into a roar of laughter and slapped his knee in glee.

  As Calum, naked to the waist, his arm covered in faeces, looked back at him expressionlessly, the farmer tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Now then, ah know you can take a joke, young man, ha-ha-ha! There’s nowt like a good laugh! Heh-heh-heh-heh!”

  For several long seconds Calum continued to stare at him, then his face relaxed slowly into a smile, and as he soaped his arm in the bucket and pulled on his shirt, he began to giggle gently and finally he threw back his head and gave a great peal of mirth. “Yes, you’re right, Mr. Stott! Ha-ha-ha! There’s nowt like a good laugh. You’re right, so right.”

  The farmer led him along the byre. “This is the cow you ’ave to see.”