James Herriot's Cat Stories

by James Herriot

stroked the counterpane and his lips moved again. I bent closer to

  hear. "Frisk ..." he was saying, "Frisk ..." Then his eyes closed

  and I saw that he was sleeping. I heard next day that Dick Fawcett

  had died, and it was possible that I was the last person to hear him

  speak. And it was strange, yet fitting, that those last words were

  about his cat. "Frisk ... Frisk ..."

  Olly and Ginny The Greatest Triumph

  Months passed without any thawing of relations between me and our

  two wild cats and I noticed with growing apprehension that Olly's

  long coat was reverting to its previous disreputable state. The

  familiar knots and tangles were reappearing and within a year it was

  as bad as ever. It became more obvious every day that I had to do

  something about it. But could I trick him again? I had to try. I

  made the same preparations, with Helen placing the nembutal-laden

  food on the wall, but this time Olly sniffed, licked, then walked

  away. We tried at his next meal time but he examined the food with

  deep suspicion and turned away from it. It was very clear that he

  sensed there was something afoot. Hovering in my usual position at

  the kitchen window I turned to Helen. "I'm going to have to try to

  catch him." "Catch him? With your net, do you mean?" "No, no. That

  was all right when he was a kitten. I'd never get near him now."

  "How, then?" I looked out at the scruffy black creature on the wall.

  "Well, maybe I can hide behind you when you feed him and grab him

  and bung him into the cage. I could take him down to the surgery

  then, give him a general anaesthetic and make a proper job of him."

  "Grab him? And then fasten him in the cage?" Helen said

  incredulously. "It sounds impossible to me." "Yes, I know, but I've

  grabbed a few cats in my time and I can move fast. If only I can

  keep hidden. We'll try tomorrow." My wife looked at me, wide-eyed. I

  could see that she had little faith. Next morning she placed some

  delicious fresh chopped raw haddock on the wall. It was the cats"

  favourite. They were not particularly partial to cooked fish but

  this was irresistible. The open cage lay hidden from sight. The cats

  stalked along the wall, Ginny sleek and shining, Olly a pathetic

  sight with his ravelled hair and ugly knotted appendages dangling

  from his neck and body. Helen made her usual fuss of the two of them,

  then, as they descended happily on the food, she returned to the

  kitchen where I was lurking. "Right, now," I said. "I want you to

  walk out very slowly again and I am going to be tucked in behind you.

  When you go up to Olly he'll be concentrating on the fish and maybe

  won't notice me." Helen made no reply as I pressed myself into her

  back, in close contact from head to toe. "Okay, off we go." I nudged

  her left leg with mine and we shuffled off through the door, moving

  as one. "This is ridiculous," Helen wailed. "It's like a music hall

  act." Nuzzling the back of her neck, I hissed into her ear, "Quiet,

  just keep going." As we advanced on the wall, double-bodied, Helen

  reached out and stroked Olly's head, but he was too busy with the

  haddock to look up. He was there, chest-high, within a couple of

  feet of me. I'd never have a better chance. Shooting my hand round

  Helen, I seized him by the scruff of his neck, held him, a flurry of

  flailing black limbs, for a couple of seconds, then pushed him into

  the cage. As I crashed the lid down, a desperate paw appeared at one

  end but I thrust it back and slotted home the steel rod. There was

  no escape now. I lifted the cage on to the wall with Olly and me at

  eye level and I flinched as I met his accusing stare through the

  bars. "Oh no, not again! I don't believe this!" it said. "Is there

  no end to your treachery?" In truth, I felt pretty bad. The poor cat,

  terrified as he was by my assault, had not tried to scratch or bite.

  It was like the other occasions--his only thought was to get away. I

  couldn't blame him for thinking the worst of me. However, I told

  myself, the end result was going to be a fine handsome animal again.

  "You won't know yourself, old chap," I said to the petrified little

  creature, crouched in his cage on the car seat by my side as we

  drove to the surgery. "I'm going to fix you up properly, this time.

  You're going to look great and feel great." Siegfried had offered to

  help me and when we got him on the table, a trembling Olly submitted

  to being handled and to the intravenous anaesthetic. As he lay

  sleeping peacefully, I started on the awful tangled fur with a

  fierce pleasure, snipping and trimming and then going over him with

  the electric clippers followed by a long combing until the last tiny

  knot was removed. I had only given him a makeshift hair-do before,

  but this was the full treatment. Siegfried laughed when I held him

  up after I had finished. "Looks ready to win any cat show," he said.

  I thought of his words next morning when the cats came to the wall

  for their breakfast. Ginny was always beautiful, but she was almost

  outshone by her brother as he strutted along, his smooth, lustrous

  fur gleaming in the sunshine. Helen was enchanted at his appearance

  and kept running her hand along his back as though she couldn't

  believe the transformation. I, of course, was in my usual position,

  peeking furtively from the kitchen window. It was going to be a long

  time before I even dared to show myself to Olly.

  It very soon became clear that my stock had fallen to new depths,

  because I had only to step out of the back door to send Olly

  scurrying away into the fields. The situation became so bad that I

  began to brood about it. "Helen," I said one morning, 'this thing

  with Olly is getting on my nerves. I wish there was something I

  could do about it." "There is, Jim," she said. "You'll really have

  to get to know him. And he'll have to get to know you." I gave her a

  glum look. "I'm afraid if you asked him, he'd tell you that he knows

  me only too well." "Oh, I know, but when you think about it, over

  all the years that we've had these cats, they've hardly seen

  anything of you, except in an emergency. I've been the one to feed

  them, talk to them, pet them, day in day out. They know me and trust

  me." "That's right, but I just haven't had the time." "Of course you

  haven't. Your life is one long rush. You're no sooner in the house

  than you're out again." I nodded thoughtfully. She was so right.

  Over the years I had been attached to those cats, enjoyed the sight

  of them trotting down the slope for their food, playing in the long

  grass in the field, being fondled by Helen, but I was a comparative

  stranger to them. I felt a pang at the realisation that all that

  time had flashed past so quickly. "Well, probably it's too late. Do

  you think there is anything I can do?" "Yes," she said. "You have to

  start feeding them. You'll just have to find the time to do it. Oh,

  I know you can't do it always, but if there's the slightest chance,

  you'll have to get out there with their food." "So you think it's

  just a case of cupboard love with them?" "Absolutely not. I'm
sure

  you've seen me with them often enough. They won't look at their food

  until I've made a fuss of them for quite a long time. It's the

  attention and friendship they want most." "But I haven't a hope.

  They hate the sight of me." "You'll just have to persevere. It took

  me a long time to get their trust. Especially with Ginny. She's

  always been the more timid one. Even now if I move my hand too

  quickly, she's off. Despite all that's happened, I think Olly might

  be your best hope--there's a big well of friendliness in that cat."

  "Right," I said. "Give me the food and milk. I'll start now." That

  was the beginning of one of the little sagas in my life. At every

  opportunity, I was the one who called them down, placed the food on

  the wall top and stood there waiting. At first I waited in vain. I

  could see the two of them watching me from the log shed--the black-

  and-white face and the yellow, gold and white one observing me from

  the straw beds--andfora long time they would never venture down

  until I had retreated into the house. Because of my irregular job,

  it was difficult to keep the new system going and sometimes when I

  had an early morning call they didn't get their breakfast on time,

  but it was on one of those occasions when breakfast was over an hour

  late that their hunger overcame their fear and they came down

  cautiously while I stood stock still by the wall. They ate quickly

  with nervous glances at me, then scurried away. I smiled in

  satisfaction. It was the first breakthrough. After that, there was a

  long period when I just stood there as they ate until they became

  used to me as part of the scenery. Then I tried a careful extension

  of a hand. To start with, they backed away at that but, as the days

  passed, I could see that my hand was becoming less and less of a

  threat and my hopes rose steadily. As Helen had prophesied, Ginny

  was the one who shied right away from me at the slightest movement,

  whereas Olly, after retreating, began to look at me with an

  appraising eye as though he might possibly be willing to forget the

  past and revise his opinion of me. With infinite patience, day by

  day, I managed to get my hand nearer and nearer to him, and it was a

  memorable occasion when he at last stood still and allowed me to

  touch his cheek with a forefinger. As I gently stroked the fur, he

  regarded me with unmistakably friendly eyes before skipping away.

  "Helen," I said, looking round at the kitchen window, "I've made it!

  We're going to be friends at last. It's a matter of time now till

  I'm stroking him as you do." I was filled with an irrational

  pleasure and sense of fulfilment. It did seem a foolish reaction in

  a man who was dealing every day with animals of all kinds, but I was

  looking forward to years of friendship with that particular cat. I

  was wrong. At that moment I could not know that Olly would be dead

  within forty-eight hours. It was the following morning when Helen

  called to me from the back garden. She sounded distraught. "Jim,

  come quickly! It's Olly!" I rushed out to where she was standing

  near the top of the slope near the log shed. Ginny was there, but

  all I could see of Olly was a dark smudge on the grass. Helen

  gripped my arm as I bent over him. "What's happened to him?" He was

  motionless, his legs extended stiffly, his back arched in a dreadful

  rigor, his eyes staring. "I ... I'm afraid he's gone. It looks like

  strychnine poisoning." But as I spoke he moved slightly. "Wait a

  minute!" I said. "He's still alive, but only just." I saw that the

  rigor had relaxed and I was able to flex his legs and lift him

  without any recurrence. "This isn't strychnine. It's like it, but it

  isn't. It's something cerebral, maybe a stroke." Dry-mouthed, I

  carried him down to the house where he lay still, breathing almost

  imperceptibly. Helen spoke through her tears. "What can you do?"

  "Get him to the surgery right away. We'll do everything we can." I

  kissed her wet cheek and ran out to the car. Siegfried and I sedated

  him because he had begun to make paddling movements with his limbs,

  then we injected him with steroids and antibiotics and put him on an

  intravenous drip. I looked at him as he lay in the big recovery cage,

  his paws twitching feebly. "Nothing more we can do, is there?"

  Siegfried shook his head and shrugged. He agreed with me about the

  diagnosis--stroke, seizure, cerebral haemorrhage, call it what you

  like, but certainly the brain. I could see that he had the same

  feeling of hopelessness as I had. We attended Olly all that day and,

  during the afternoon, I thought for a brief period that he was

  improving, but by evening he was comatose again and he died during

  the night. I brought him home and as I lifted him from the car, his

  smooth, tangle-free fur was like a mockery now that his life was

  ended. I buried him just behind the log shed a few feet from the

  straw bed where he had slept for so many years. Vets are no

  different from other people when they lose a pet, and Helen and I

  were miserable. We hoped that the passage of time would dull our

  unhappiness, but we had another poignant factor to deal with. What

  about Ginny? Those two cats had become a single entity in our lives

  and we never thought of one without the other. It was clear that to

  Ginny the world was incomplete without Olly. For several days she

  ate nothing. We called her repeatedly but she advanced only a few

  yards from the log house, looking around her in a puzzled way before

  turning back to her bed. For all those years, she had never trotted

  down that slope on her own and over the next few weeks her

  bewilderment as she gazed about her continually, seeking and

  searching for her companion, was one of the most distressing things

  we had ever had to witness. Helen fed her in her bed for several

  days and eventually managed to coax her on to the wall, but Ginny

  could scarcely put her head down to the food without peering this

  way and that, still waiting for Olly to come and share it. "She's so

  lonely," Helen said. "We'll have to try to make a bigger fuss of her

  now than ever. I'll spend more time outside talking with her, but if

  only we could get her inside with us. That would be the answer, but

  I know it will never happen." I looked at the little creature,

  wondering if I'd ever get used to seeing only one cat on the wall,

  but Ginny sitting by the fireside or on Helen's knee was an

  impossible dream. "Yes, you're right, but maybe I can do something.

  I'd just managed to make friends with Olly--I'm going to start on

  Ginny now." I knew I was taking on a long and maybe hopeless

  challenge because the tortoiseshell cat had always been the more

  timid of the two, but I pursued my purpose with resolution. At meal

  times and whenever I had the opportunity, I presented myself outside

  the back door, coaxing and wheedling, beckoning with my hand. For a

  long time, although she accepted the food from me, she would not let

  me near her. Then, maybe because she needed companionship so

  desperately that she felt she
might as well even resort to me, the

  day came when she did not back away but allowed me to touch her

  cheek with my finger as I had done with Olly. After that, progress

  was slow but steady. From touching I moved week by week to stroking

  her cheek, then to gently rubbing her ears, until finally I could

  run my hand the length of her body and tickle the root of her tail.

  From then on, undreamed-of familiarities gradually unfolded until

  she would not look at her food until she had paced up and down the

  wall top, again and again, arching herself in delight against my

  hand and brushing my shoulders with her body. Among these daily

  courtesies one of her favourite ploys was to press her nose against

  mine and stand there for several moments looking into my eyes. It

  was one morning several months later that Ginny and I were in this

  posture--she on the wall, touching noses with me, gazing into my

  eyes, drinking me in as though she thought I was rather wonderful

  and couldn't quite get enough of me--when I heard a sound

  from behind me. "I was just watching the veterinary surgeon at work,

  " Helen said softly. "Happy work, too," I said, not moving from my

  position, looking deeply into the green eyes, alight with friendship,

  fixed on mine a few inches away. "I'll have you know that this is

  one of my greatest triumphs."

  Buster The Feline Retriever

  Christmas will never go by without my remembering a certain little

  cat. I first saw her when I was called to see one of Mrs.

  Ainsworth's dogs, and I looked in some surprise at the furry black

  creature sitting before the fire. "I didn't know you had a cat," I

  said. The lady smiled. "We haven't, this is Debbie." "Debbie?" "Yes,

  at least that's what we call her. She's a stray. Comes here two or

  three times a week and we give her some food. I don't know where she

  lives but I believe she spends a lot of her time around one of the

  farms along the road." "Do you ever get the feeling that she wants

  to stay with you?" "No." Mrs. Ainsworth shook her head. "She's a

  timid little thing. Just creeps in, has some food, then flits away.

  There's something so appealing about her but she doesn't seem to

  want to let me or anybody into her life." I looked again at the

  little cat. "But she isn'tjust having food today." "That's right.

  It's a funny thing but every now and again she slips through here

  into the lounge and sits by the fire for a few minutes. It's as

  though she was giving herself a treat." "Yes ... I see what you mean.

  " There was no doubt there was something unusual in the attitude of

  the little animal. She was sitting bolt upright on the thick rug

  which lay before the fireplace in which the coals glowed and flamed.

  She made no effort to curl up or wash herself or do anything other

  than gaze quietly ahead. And there was something in the dusty black

  of her coat, the half-wild scrawny look of her, that gave me a clue.

  This was a special event in her life, a rare and wonderful thing;

  she was lapping up a comfort undreamed of in her daily existence. As

  I watched she turned, crept soundlessly from the room and was gone.

  "That's always the way with Debbie," Mrs. Ainsworth laughed. "She

  never stays more than ten minutes or so, then she's off." She was a

  plumpish, pleasant-faced woman in her forties and the kind of client

  veterinary surgeons dream of; well off, generous, and the owner of

  three cosseted basset hounds. And it only needed the habitually

  mournful expressions of one of the dogs to deepen a little and I was

  round there post haste. Today one of the bassets had raised its paw

  and scratched its ear a couple of times and that was enough to send

  its mistress scurrying to the phone in great alarm. So my visits to

  the Ainsworth home were frequent but undemanding, and I had ample

  opportunity to look out for the little cat which had intrigued me.

  On one occasion I spotted her nibbling daintily from a saucer at the

  kitchen door. As I watched she turned and almost floated on light

  footsteps into the hall, then through the lounge door. The three

  bassets were already in residence, draped snoring on the fireside