JAMES HERRIOTS CAT STORIES
by
James Herriot
Copyright 1994 by James Herriot. All rights reserved.
BOOK JACKET INFORMATION
Illustrated by Lesley Holmes
What better match of author and subject than James Herriot, the
world's most beloved veterinarian and storyteller, and the adorable
feline friends who delight so many millions of cat lovers around the
world? Between these covers, teller and tales finally meet in a warm
and joyful new collection that will bring delight to the hearts of
readers the world over: James Herriot's Cat Stories. Here are Buster,
the kitten who arrived on Christmas; Alfred, the cat at the sweet
shop; little Emily, who lived with the gentleman tramp; and Olly and
Ginny, the kittens who charmed readers when they first appeared at
the Herriots" house in the worldwide bestseller Every Living Thing.
And along with these come others, each story as memorable and
heartwarming as the last, each told with that magic blend of gentle
wit and human compassion that marks every word from James Herriot's
pen.
For lovers of cats, James Herriot's books, or both, James Herriot's
Cat Stories will be a gift to treasure.
JAMES HERRIOT'S books include: All Creatures Great and Small, All
Things Bright and Beautiful, All Things Wise and Wonderful, The Lord
God Made Them All, Every Living Thing, and James Herriot's Dog
Stories.
Now retired after fifty years in veterinary practice, he lives with
his wife in North Yorkshire, England.
ALSO BY JAMES HERRIOT
All Creatures Great and Small All Things Bright and Beautiful All
Things Wise and Wonderful The Lord God Made Them All Every Living
Thing James Herriot's Yorkshire James Herriot's Dog Stories The Best
of James Herriot
FOR CHILDREN
Moses the Kitten Only One Woof The Christmas Day Kitten Bonny's Big
Day Blossom Comes Home The Market Square Dog Oscar, Cat-Ab-Town
Smudge, the Little Lost Lamb James Herriot's Treasury for Children
CONTENTS
Story Page
Introduction ........................
1 Alfred: The Sweet-Shop Cat ...
8 Oscar: The Socialite Cat ........
28 Boris and Mrs. Bond's Cat Establishment .....................
55 Olly and Ginny: Two Kittens Who Came to Stay ....................
70 Emily and the Gentleman of the Road .....
91 Olly and Ginny Settle In ........
112 Moses Found Among the Rushes ......
119 Frisk: The Cat with Many Lives ....
128 Olly and Ginny: The Greatest Triumph .................
139 Buster: The Feline Retriever ......
JAMES HERRIOT'S CAT STORIES
Introduction
Cats have always played a large part in my life, first when I was a
boy in Glasgow, then as a practising veterinary surgeon, and now, in
my retirement, they are still there, lightening my days. They were
one of the main reasons why I chose a career as a vet. In my school
days my animal world was dominated by a magnificent Irish setter
called Don with whom I walked the Scottish hills for close on
fourteen years, but when I returned from these rambles there were
always my cats to greet me, arching around my legs, purring and
rubbing their faces at my hands. There was never a time when our
household did not have several cats, and they each had their
particular charms. Their innate grace and daintiness and their
deeply responsive affection made them all dear to me and I longed
for the day when I would learn about them at the Veterinary College.
Their playfulness, too, was a constant source of entertainment. I
can remember one, Topsy by name, who was the instigator of many
games, repeatedly dancing, crabwise, up to Don with her ears
wickedly cocked until he could resist no longer and sprang at her,
which inevitably started a long wrestling match. Occasionally, we
had the local vet out when the cats were ill and I used to watch him
with awe: here was someone who had studied the species intimately
and knew every bone, nerve and sinew in their bodies. I was
astounded when I got to the College and found that nowhere was there
any interest in my beloved cats. One of my text books was an immense
tome called Sisson's Anatomy of Domestic Animals. It took a fairly
strong man to lift it from the shelf, and to carry it around was a
labour in itself. I searched the pages eagerly. They profusely
illustrated the innards of horse, ox, sheep, pig and dog in that
strict order. The dog only just squeezed in, but I couldn't find a
cat anywhere. Finally I consulted the index. There was nothing under
the letter c and I thought ah, of course, it would be under f for
feline, but again my search was fruitless and I was forced to
conclude, sadly, that my poor furry friends didn't even have a
mention. I couldn't believe it. I thought of the thousands of old
folks and housebound invalids who drew joy and comfort and
friendship from their cats. They were the only pets they could have.
What was my profession thinking of? The simple fact was that they
had fallen behind the times. Sisson's Anatomy was published in 1910
and reprinted several times up to 1930 and it was this edition,
fresh from the press, which I studied in my student days. I have
often gone on record saying that, although I spent my professional
life in large-animal practice, my original ambition was to be a
doctor of dogs and cats. But I qualified in the days of the great
depression of the thirties when jobs were difficult to find and I
ended up tramping in Wellington boots over the North Yorkshire Dales.
I did this for more than fifty years and loved every minute of it,
but at the beginning I thought I would miss my cats. I was wrong.
There were cats everywhere. Every farm had its cats. They kept the
mice away and lived a whole life of their own in those rural places.
Cats are connoisseurs of comfort, and when inspecting the head of a
cow I often found a cosy nest of kittens with their mother in the
hay rack. They were to be seen snuggled between bales of straw or
stretched blissfully in sunlit corners because they love warmth, and
in the bitter days of winter the warm bonnet of my car was an
irresistible attraction. No sooner had I drawn up in a farmyard than
a cat or two was perched just beyond my windscreen. Some farmers are
real cat lovers apart from wanting them around for their practical
uses; and in these places I might find a score of the little
creatures enjoying this unexpected bonus of warmth. When I drove
away I had a pattern of muddy paw-marks covering every inch of the
heated metal. This soon dried on, and since I had neither time nor
inclination for car washing they remained as a semi-permanent
decoration. On my daily round in our small cou
ntry town I found many
instances of old folks in their little cottages with a cat by the
fireside or curled in their laps. Such companionship made a huge
difference to their lives. All this to remind me of cats and yet our
official education ignored them. But that was more than fifty years
ago and things were beginning to change even then. They were
starting to include cats in the lectures at the veterinary colleges
and so I assiduously picked the brains of students who came to see
practice with us. Later, as the practice expanded, I did the same
with the young assistants who arrived bursting with the new
knowledge. Also, articles about cats began to appear in our
veterinary periodicals and I would read these avidly. This went on
throughout the fifty-odd years of my veterinary life and now, when I
am retired and it is all over, I often look back and think of the
changes which took place during my era. The recognition of cats was,
of course, only a small part of the almost explosive revolution
which transformed my profession; the virtual disappearance of the
farm horse, the advent of antibiotics which swept away the almost
medieval medicines I had to dispense, the new surgical procedures,
the wonderful protective vaccines which regularly appeared--all
these things seem like the realisation of a dream. Cats are now
arguably the most popular of all family pets. Large, prestigious
books are written about them by eminent veterinarians and, indeed,
some vets specialise in the species to the exclusion of all others.
In front of the desk where I write I have a long row of the old text
books I studied in those far-off days. Sisson is there, looking as
vast as ever, and all the others I keep to dip into when I try to
remember things about the past or when I just want a good laugh; but
side by side with them are the fine new volumes with only one theme-
-cats. I think back, too, on the strange views that many people held
about cats. They were selfish creatures reserving their affections
only for situations which would benefit them, and they were
incapable of the unthinking love a dog dispenses. They were totally
self-contained creatures who looked after their own interests only.
What nonsense! I have felt cats rubbing their faces against mine and
touching my cheek with claws carefully sheathed. These things, to me,
are expressions of love. At the moment of writing we have no cat,
because our border terrier does not approve of them and likes to
chase them. However, he does not start to run until they do because,
although he will fight any dog large or small, he is secretly wary
of cats. If a cat stands his ground, Bodie will make a wide circuit
to avoid him. But when he is asleep--his favourite occupation in his
thirteenth year--cats visit us from our neighbours in the village.
We have a chest-high wall outside our kitchen window and here the
assorted felines assemble to see what we have to offer. We keep
various goodies for them and spread them on the wall, but there is
one gorgeous yellow and white tom who is so affectionate that he
would rather be petted than fed. I have quite a battle with him as
he nearly knocks the carton of titbits from my hand in his efforts
to nose his way into my palm with a thunderous purring. Often I have
to abandon the feeding and concentrate on the rubbing, stroking and
chin tickling which he really wants. I think it is a sensible axiom
that, once retired, one should not continue to haunt one's former
place of business. Of course, Skeldale House is more than that to
me; it is a place of a thousand memories, where I shared the
bachelor days with Siegfried and Tristan, where I started my married
life, saw my children grow up from babyhood and went through a half
century of the triumphs and disasters of veterinary practice. Today,
though, I go there only to pick up my mail and, in the process, to
have a quick peep at how things are going. The practice is run by my
son, Jimmy, and his splendid young partners and last week I stood in
the office watching the constant traffic of little animals coming in
for consultations, operations, vaccinations; so different from my
early days when our work was 90 percent agricultural. I turned away
from the shaggy stream to speak to Jimmy. "Which animal do you see
most often in the surgery?" I asked. He thought for a moment before
replying. "Probably fifty-fifty dogs and cats, but I think the cats
are edging ahead."
Alfred The Sweet-Shop Cat
My throat was killing me. Three successive nocturnal lambings on the
windswept hillsides in my shirtsleeves had left me with the
beginnings of a cold and I felt in urgent need of a packet of Geoff
Hatfield's cough drops. An unscientific treatment, perhaps, but I
had a childish faith in those powerful little candies which exploded
in the mouth, sending a blast of medicated vapour surging through
the bronchial tubes. The shop was down a side alley, almost hidden
away, and it was so tiny--not much more than a cubby hole--that
there was hardly room for the sign, GEOFFREY HATFIELD, CONFECTIONER,
above the window. But it was full. It was always full, and, this
being market day, it was packed out. The little bell went "ching" as
I opened the door and squeezed into the crush of local ladies and
farmers" wives. I'd have to wait for a while but I didn't mind,
because watching Mr. Hatfield in action was one of the rewarding
things in my life. I had come at a good time, too, because the
proprietor was in the middle of one of his selection struggles. He
had his back to me, the silver-haired, leonine head nodding slightly
on the broad shoulders as he surveyed the rows of tall glass sweet
jars against the wall. His hands, clasped behind him, tensed and
relaxed repeatedly as he fought his inner battle, then he took a few
strides along the row, gazing intently at each jar in turn. It
struck me that Lord Nelson pacing the quarterdeck of the Victory,
wondering how best to engage the enemy, could not have displayed a
more portentous concentration. The tension in the little shop rose
palpably as he reached up a hand, then withdrew it with a shake of
the head, but a sigh went up from the assembled ladies as, with a
final grave nod and a squaring of the shoulders, he extended both
arms, seized a jar and swung round to face the company. His large
Roman Senator face was crinkled into a benign smile. "Now, Mrs.
Moffat," he boomed at a stout matron and, holding out the glass
vessel with both hands, inclined it slightly with all the grace and
deference of a Cartier jeweller displaying a diamond necklace, "I
wonder if I can interest you in this." Mrs. Moffat, clutching her
shopping basket, peered closely at the paper-wrapped confections in
the jar. "Well, ah don't know. ..." "If I remember rightly, madam,
you indicated that you were seeking something in the nature of a
Russian caramel, and I can thoroughly recommend these little
sweetmeats. Not quite a Russian, but nevertheless a very nice,
<
br /> smooth-eating toffee." His expression became serious, expectant. The
fruity tones rolling round his description made me want to grab the
sweets and devour them on the spot, and they seemed to have the same
effect on the lady. "Right, Mr. Hatfield," she said eagerly, "I'll
"ave half a pound." The shopkeeper gave a slight bow. "Thank you so
much, madam, I'm sure you will not regret your choice." His features
relaxed into a gracious smile and, as he lovingly trickled the
toffees onto his scales before bagging them with a professional
twirl, I felt a renewed desire to get at the things. Mr. Hatfield,
leaning forward with both hands on the counter, kept his gaze on his
customer until he had bowed her out of the shop with a courteous,
"Good day to you, madam," then he turned to face the congregation.
"Ah, Mrs. Dawson, how very nice to see you. And what is your
pleasure this morning?" The lady, obviously delighted, beamed at him.
"I'd like some of them fudge chocolates I "ad last week, Mr.
Hatfield. They were lovely. Have you still got some?" "Indeed I have,
madam, and I am delighted that you approve of my recommendation.
Such a deliciously creamy flavour. Also, it so happens that I have
just received a consignment in a special presentation box for Easter.
" He lifted one from the shelf and balanced it on the palm of his
hand. "Really pretty and attractive, don't you think?" Mrs. Dawson
nodded rapidly. "Oh, aye, that's real bonny. I'll take a box and
there's summat else I want. A right big bag of nice boiled sweets
for the family to suck at. Mixed colours, you know. What "ave you
got?" Mr. Hatfield steepled his fingers, gazed at her fixedly and
took a long, contemplative breath. He held this pose for several
seconds, then he swung round, clasped his hands behind him, and
recommenced his inspection of the jars. That was my favourite bit
and, as always, I was enjoying it. It was a familiar scene. The tiny,
, crowded shop, the proprietor wrestling with his assignment and
Alfred sitting at the far end of the counter. Alfred was Geoff's cat
and he was always there, seated upright and majestic on the polished
boards near the curtained doorway which led to the Hatfield sitting
room. As usual, he seemed to be taking a keen interest in the
proceedings, his gaze moving from his master's face to the
customer's, and though it may have been my imagination I felt that
his expression registered a grave involvement in the negotiations
and a deep satisfaction at the outcome. He never left his place or
encroached on the rest of the counter, but occasionally one or other
of the ladies would stroke his cheek and he would respond with a
booming purr and a gracious movement of the head towards them. It
was typical that he never yielded to any unseemly display of emotion.
That would have been undignified, and dignity was an unchanging part
of him. Even as a kitten he had never indulged in immoderate
playfulness. I had neutered him three years earlier--for which he
appeared to bear me no ill will--and he had grown into a massive,
benevolent tabby. I looked at him now, sitting in his place. Vast,
imperturbable, at peace with his world. There was no doubt he was a
cat of enormous presence. And it had always struck me forcibly that
he was exactly like his master in that respect. They were two of a
kind and it was no surprise that they were such devoted friends.
When it came to my turn I was able to reach Alfred and I tickled him
under his chin. He liked that and raised his head high while the
purring rumbled up from the furry rib cage until it resounded
throughout the shop. Even collecting my cough drops had its touch of
ceremony. The big man behind the counter sniffed gravely at the
packet and then clapped his hand a few times against his chest. "You
can smell the goodness, Mr. Herriot, the beneficial vapours. These
will have you right in no time." He bowed and smiled and I could
swear that Alfred smiled with him. I squeezed my way out through the
ladies and as I walked down the alley I marvelled for the umpteenth
time at the phenomenon of Geoffrey Hatfield. There were several
James Herriot's Cat Stories Page 1