rigidly, eyes staring down at the mound of cloth from which the
purring rose in waves of warm, friendly sound. At last he looked up
at me and gulped. "I don't fancy this much, Jim. Can't we do
something?" "You mean, try to repair all this?" "Yes. We could
stitch the wounds, bit by little bit, couldn't we?" I lifted the
blanket and looked again. "Honestly, Triss, I wouldn't know where to
start. And the whole thing is filthy." He didn't say anything, but
continued to look at me steadily. And I didn't need much persuading.
I had no more desire to pour ether on to that comradely purring than
he had. "Come on, then," I said. "We'll have a go." With the oxygen
bubbling and the cat's head in the anaesthetic mask we washed the
whole body with warm saline. We did it again and again but it was
impossible to remove every fragment of caked dirt. Then we started
the painfully slow business of stitching the many wounds, and here I
was glad of Tristan's nimble fingers which seemed better able to
manipulate the small round-bodied needles than mine. Two hours and
yards of catgut later, we were finished and everything looked tidy.
"He's alive, anyway, Triss," I said as we began to wash the
instruments. "We'll put him on to sulphapyridine and keep our
fingers crossed that peritonitis won't set in." There were still no
antibiotics at that time but the new drug was a big advance. The
door opened and Helen came in. "You've been a long time, Jim." She
walked over to the table and looked down at the sleeping cat. "What
a poor skinny little thing. He's all bones." "You should have seen
him when he came in." Tristan switched off the steriliser and
screwed shut the valve on the anaesthetic machine. "He looks a lot
better now." She stroked the little animal for a moment. "Is he
badly injured?" "I'm afraid so, Helen," I said. "We've done our best
for him but I honestly don't think he has much chance." "What a
shame. And he's pretty, too. Four white feet and all those unusual
colours." With her finger she traced the faint bands of auburn and
copper-gold among the grey and black. Tristan laughed. "Yes, I think
that chap has a ginger tom somewhere in his ancestry." Helen smiled,
too, but absently, and I noticed a broody look about her. She
hurried out to the stock room and returned with an empty box. "Yes ..
. yes ..." she said thoughtfully. "I can make a bed in this box for
him and he'll sleep in our room, Jim." "He will?" "Yes, he must be
warm, mustn't he?" "Of course, especially with such chilly nights."
Later, in the darkness of our bed-sitter, I looked from my pillow at
a cosy scene: Sam the beagle in his basket on one side of the
flickering fire and the cat cushioned and blanketed in his box on
the other. As I floated off into sleep it was good to know that my
patient was so comfortable, but I wondered if he would be alive in
the morning. ... I knew he was alive at 7:30 A.M. because my wife
was already up and talking to him. I trailed across the room in my
pyjamas and the cat and I looked at each other. I rubbed him under
the chin and he opened his mouth in a rusty miaow. But he didn't try
to move. "Helen," I said. "This little thing is tied together inside
with catgut. He'll have to live on fluids for a week and even then
he probably won't make it. If he stays up here you'll be spooning
milk into him umpteen times a day." "Okay, okay." She had that broody
look again. It wasn't only milk she spooned into him over the next
few days. Beef essence, strained broth and a succession of
sophisticated baby foods found their way down his throat at regular
intervals. One lunch time I found Helen kneeling by the box. "We
shall call him Oscar," she said. "You mean we're keeping him?" "Yes.
" I am fond of cats but we already had a dog in our cramped quarters
and I could see difficulties. Still I decided to let it go. "Why
Oscar?" "I don't know." Helen tipped a few drops of chop gravy onto
the little red tongue and watched intently as he swallowed. One of
the things I like about women is their mystery, the unfathomable
part of them, and I didn't press the matter further. But I was
pleased at the way things were going. I had been giving the
sulphapyridine every six hours and taking the temperature night and
morning, expecting all the time to encounter the roaring fever, the
vomiting and the tense abdomen of peritonitis. But it never happened.
It was as though Oscar's animal instinct told him he had to move as
little as possible because he lay absolutely still day after day and
looked up at us--and purred. His purr became part of our lives and
when he eventually left his bed, sauntered through to our kitchen
and began to sample Sam's dinner of meat and biscuit it was a moment
of triumph. And I didn't spoil it by wondering if he was ready for
solid food; I felt he knew. From then on it was sheer joy to watch
the furry scarecrow fill out and grow strong, and as he ate and ate
and the flesh spread over his bones the true beauty of his coat
showed in the glossy medley of auburn, black and gold. We had a
handsome cat on our hands. Once Oscar had recovered, Tristan was a
regular visitor. He probably felt, and rightly, that he, more than I,
had saved Oscar's life in the first place and he used to play with
him for long periods. His favourite ploy was to push his leg round
the corner of the table and withdraw it repeatedly just as the cat
pawed at it. Oscar was justifiably irritated by this teasing but
showed his character by lying in wait for Tristan one night and
biting him smartly in the ankle before he could start his tricks.
From my own point of view Oscar added many things to our menage. Sam
was delighted with him and the two soon became firm friends; Helen
adored him and each evening I thought afresh that a nice cat washing
his face by the hearth gave extra comfort to a room.
Oscar had been established as one of the family for several weeks
when I came in from a late call to find Helen waiting for me with a
stricken face. "What's happened?" I asked. "It's Oscar--he's gone!"
"Gone? What do you mean?" "Oh, Jim, I think he's run away." I stared
at her. "He wouldn't do that. He often goes down to the garden at
night. Are you sure he isn't there?" "Absolutely. I've searched
right into the yard. I've even had a walk around the town. And
remember," her chin quivered, "he ... he ran away from somewhere
before." I looked at my watch. "Ten o"clock. Yes, that is strange.
He shouldn't be out at this time." As I spoke the front door bell
jangled. I galloped down the stairs and as I rounded the corner in
the passage I could see Mrs. Heslington, the vicar's wife, through
the glass. I threw open the door. She was holding Oscar in her arms.
"I believe this is your cat, Mr. Herriot," she said. "It is indeed,
Mrs. Heslington. Where did you find him?" She smiled. "Well, it was
rather odd. We were having a meeting of the Mothers" Union at the
church house and we noticed the cat sitting there in the room."
"Just sitting ...?" "Yes, as t
hough he were listening to what we
were saying and enjoying it all. It was unusual. When the meeting
ended I thought I'd better bring him along to you." "I'm most
grateful, Mrs. Heslington." I snatched Oscar and tucked him under my
arm. "My wife is distraught--she thought he was lost." It was a
little mystery. Why should he suddenly take off like that? But since
he showed no change in his manner over the ensuing week we put it
out of our minds. Then one evening a man brought in a dog for an
inoculation and left the front door open. When I went up to our flat
I found that Oscar had disappeared again. This time Helen and I
scoured the market place and side alleys in vain and when we
returned at half past nine we were both despondent. It was nearly
eleven and we were thinking of bed when the door bell rang. It was
Oscar again, this time resting on the ample stomach of Jack Newbould.
Jack was leaning against the doorpost and the fresh country air
drifting in from the dark street was richly intermingled with beer
fumes. Jack was a gardener at one of the big houses. He hiccuped
gently and gave me a huge benevolent smile. "Brought your cat, Mr.
Herriot." "Gosh, thanks, Jack!" I said, scooping up Oscar gratefully.
"Where the devil did you find him?" "Well, s'matter o" fact, "e sort
of found me." "What do you mean?" Jack closed his eyes for a few
moments before articulating carefully. "Thish is a big night, tha
knows, Mr. Herriot. Darts championship. Lots of t"lads round at
t"Dog and Gun--lotsh and lotsh of "em. Big gathering." "And our cat
was there?" "Aye, he were there, all right. Sitting among t"lads.
Shpent t"whole evening with us." "Just sat there, eh?" "That "e did.
" Jack giggled reminiscently. "By gaw, "e enjoyed isself. Ah gave
"im a drop o" best bitter out of me own glass and once or twice ah
thought "e was going to have a go at chucking a dart. He's some cat.
" He laughed again. As I bore Oscar upstairs I was deep in thought.
What was going on here? These sudden desertions were upsetting Helen
and I felt they could get on my nerves in time. I didn't have long
to wait till the next one. Three nights later he was missing again.
This time Helen and I didn't bother to search--we just waited. He
was back earlier than usual. I heard the door bell at nine o"clock.
It was the elderly Miss Simpson peering through the glass. And she
wasn't holding Oscar--he was prowling on the mat waiting to come in.
Miss Simpson watched with interest as the cat stalked inside and
made for the stairs. "Ah, good, I'm so glad he's come home safely. I
knew he was your cat and I've been intrigued by his behaviour all
evening." "Where ... may I ask?" "Oh, at the Women's Institute. He
came in shortly after we started and stayed till the end." "Really?
What exactly was your programme, Miss Simpson?" "Well, there was a
bit of committee stuff, then a short talk with lantern slides by Mr.
Walters from the water company and we finished with a cake-making
competition." "Yes ... yes ... and what did Oscar do?" She laughed.
"Mixed with the company, apparently enjoyed the slides and showed
great interest in the cakes." "I see. And you didn't bring him
home?" "No, he made his own way here. As you know, I have to pass
your house and I merely rang your bell to make sure you knew he had
arrived." "I'm obliged to you, Miss Simpson. We were a little
worried." I mounted the stairs in record time. Helen was sitting
with the cat on her knee and she looked up as I burst in. "I know
about Oscar now," I said. "Know what?" "Why he goes on these nightly
outings. He's not running away--he's visiting." "Visiting?" "Yes," I
said. "Don't you see? He likes getting around, he loves people,
especially in groups, and he's interested in what they do. He's a
natural mixer." Helen looked down at the attractive mound of fur
curled on her lap. "Of course ... that's it ... he's a socialite!"
"Exactly, a high stepper!" "A cat-about-town!" It all afforded us some
innocent laughter and Oscar sat up and looked at us with evident
pleasure, adding his own throbbing purr to the merriment. But for
Helen and me there was a lot of relief behind it; ever since our cat
had started his excursions there had been the gnawing fear that we
would lose him, and now we felt secure. From that night our delight
in him increased. There was endless joy in watching this facet of
his character unfolding. He did the social round meticulously,
taking in most of the activities of the town. He became a familiar
figure at whist drives, jumble sales, school concerts and scout
bazaars. Most of the time he was made welcome, but he was twice
ejected from meetings of the Rural District Council--they did not
seem to relish the idea of a cat sitting in on their deliberations.
At first I was apprehensive about his making his way through the
streets but I watched him once or twice and saw that he looked both
ways before tripping daintily across. Clearly, he had excellent
traffic sense and this made me feel that his original injury had not
been caused by a car. Taking it all in all, Helen and I felt that it
was a kind of stroke of fortune which had brought Oscar to us. He
was a warm and cherished part of our home life. He added to our
happiness.
When the blow fell it was totally unexpected. I was finishing the
morning surgery. I looked round the door and saw only a man and two
little boys. "Next, please," I said. The man stood up. He had no
animal with him. He was middle-aged, with the rough, weathered face
of a farm worker. He twirled a cloth cap nervously in his hands. "Mr.
Herriot?" he said. "Yes, what can I do for you?" He swallowed and
looked me straight in the eyes. "Ah think you've got ma cat."
"What?" "Ah lost ma cat a bit since." He cleared his throat. "We
used to live at Missdon but ah got a job as ploughman to Mr. Horne
of Wederly. It was after we moved to Wederly that t"cat went missing.
Ah reckon he was trying to find "is way back to his old home."
"Wederly? That's on the other side of Brawton--over thirty miles
away." "Aye, ah knaw, but cats is funny things." "But what makes you
think I've got him?" He twisted the cap around a bit more. "There's
a cousin o" mine lives in Darrowby and ah heard tell from "im about
this cat that goes around to meetin's. I "ad to come. We've been
hunting everywhere." "Tell me," I said, 'this cat you lost. What did
he look like?" "Grey and black and sort o" gingery. Right bonny "e
was. And "e was allus going out to gatherin's." A cold hand clutched
at my heart. "You'd better come upstairs. Bring the boys with you."
Helen was laying the table for lunch in our little bed-sitter.
"Helen," I said. "This is Mr.--er--I'm sorry, I don't know your name.
" "Gibbons, Sep Gibbons. They called me Septimus because ah was the
seventh in family and it looks like ah'm going that'same way "cause
we've got six already. These are our two youngest." The two boys,
obvious twins of about eight, looked up at us solemnly. I wished my
heart w
ould stop hammering. "Mr. Gibbons thinks Oscar is his. He
lost his cat some time ago." My wife laid down the plates. "Oh ...
oh ... I see." She stood very still for a moment, then smiled
faintly. "Do sit down. Oscar's in the kitchen, I'll bring him
through." She went out and reappeared with the cat in her arms. She
hadn't got through the door before the little boys gave tongue.
"Tiger!" they cried. "Oh, Tiger, Tiger!" The man's face seemed lit
from within. He walked quickly across the floor and ran his big
work-roughened hand along the fur. "Hullo, awd lad," he said, and
turned to me with a radiant smile. "It's "im, Mr. Herriot, it's "im
awright, and don't "e look well!" "You call him Tiger, eh?" I said.
"Aye," he replied happily. "It's them gingery stripes. The kids
called "im that. They were broken-hearted when we lost "im." As the
two little boys rolled on the floor our Oscar rolled with them,
pawing playfully, purring with delight. Sep Gibbons sat down again.
"That's the way "e allus went on wi" the family. They used to play
with "im for hours. By gaw we did miss "im. He were a right
favourite." I looked at the broken nails on the edge of the cap, at
the decent, honest, uncomplicated Yorkshire face so like the many I
had grown to like and respect. Farm men like him got thirty
shillings a week in those days and it was reflected in the thread-
bare jacket, the cracked, shiny boots and the obvious hand-me-downs
of the boys. But all three were scrubbed and tidy, the man's face
like a red beacon, the children's knees gleaming and their hair
carefully slicked across their foreheads. They looked like nice
people to me. I turned towards the window and looked out over the
tumble of roofs to my beloved green hills beyond. I didn't know what
to say. Helen said it for me. "Well, Mr. Gibbons." Her tone had an
unnatural brightness. "You'd better take him." The man hesitated.
"Now then, are ye sure, Missus Herriot?" "Yes ... yes, I'm sure. He
was your cat first." "Aye, but some folks "ud say finders keepers or
summat like that. Ah didn't come "ere to demand "im back or owt of
that'sort." "I know you didn't, Mr. Gibbons, but you've had him all
those years and you've searched for him so hard. We couldn't
possibly keep him from you." He nodded quickly. "Well, that's right
good of ye." He paused for a moment, his face serious, then he
stopped and picked Oscar up. "We'll have to be off if we're going to
catch the eight o"clock bus." Helen reached forward, cupped the
cat's head in her hands and looked at him steadily for a few seconds.
Then she patted the boys" heads. "You'll take good care of him,
won't you?" "Aye, missus, thank ye, we will that." The two small
faces looked up at her and smiled. "I'll see you down the stairs, Mr.
Gibbons," I said. On the descent I tickled the furry cheek resting
on the man's shoulder and heard for the last time the rich purring.
On the front door step we shook hands and they set off down the
street. As they rounded the corner of Trengate they stopped and
waved, and I waved back at the man, the two children and the cat's
head looking back at me over the shoulder. It was my habit at that
time in my life to mount the stairs two or three at a time but on
this occasion I trailed upwards like an old man, slightly breathless,
throat tight, eyes prickling. I cursed myself for a sentimental fool
but as I reached our door I found a flash of consolation. Helen had
taken it remarkably well. She had nursed that cat and grown deeply
attached to him, and I'd have thought an unforeseen calamity like
this would have upset her terribly. But no, she had behaved calmly
and rationally. You never knew with women, but I was thankful. It
was up to me to do as well. I adjusted my features into the
semblance of a cheerful smile and marched into the room. Helen had
pulled a chair close to the table and was slumped face down against
the wood. One arm cradled her head while the other was stretched in
front of her as her body shook with an utterly abandoned weeping. I
had never seen her like this and I was appalled. I tried to say
James Herriot's Cat Stories Page 3