rug, but they seemed to be used to Debbie because two of them
sniffed her in a bored manner and the third merely cocked a sleepy
eye at her before flopping back on the rich pile. Debbie sat among
them in her usual posture; upright, intent, gazing absorbedly into
the glowing coals. This time I tried to make friends with her. I
approached her carefully but she leaned away as I stretched out my
hand. However, by patient wheedling and soft talk I managed to touch
her and gently stroked her cheek with one finger. There was a moment
when she responded by putting her head on one side and rubbing back
against my hand but soon she was ready to leave. Once outside the
house she darted quickly along the road, then through a gap in a
hedge, and the last I saw was the little black figure flitting over
the rain-swept grass of a field. "I wonder where she goes," I
murmured half to myself. Mrs. Ainsworth appeared at my elbow.
"That's something we've never been able to find out."
It must have been nearly three months before I heard from Mrs.
Ainsworth, and in fact I had begun to wonder at the bassets" long
symptomless run when she came on the "phone. It was Christmas
morning and she was apologetic. "Mr. Herriot, I'm so sorry to bother
you today of all days. I should think you want a rest at Christmas
like anybody else." But her natural politeness could not hide the
distress in her voice. "Please don't worry about that," I said.
"Which one is it this time?" "It's not one of the dogs. It's ...
Debbie." "Debbie? She's at your house now?" "Yes ... but there's
something wrong. Please come quickly." Driving through the market
place I thought again that Darrowby on Christmas Day was like
Dickens come to life; the empty square with the snow thick on the
cobbles and hanging from the eaves of the fretted lines of roofs;
the shops closed and the coloured lights of the Christmas trees
winking at the windows of the clustering houses, warmly inviting
against the cold white bulk of the fells behind. Mrs. Ainsworth's
home was lavishly decorated with tinsel and holly, rows of drinks
stood on the sideboard and the rich aroma of turkey and sage and
onion stuffing wafted from the kitchen. But her eyes were full of
pain as she led me through to the lounge. Debbie was there all right,
but this time everything was different. She wasn't sitting upright
in her usual position; she was stretched quite motionless on her
side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny black kitten. I looked
down in bewilderment. "What's happened here?" "It's the strangest
thing," Mrs. Ainsworth replied. "I haven't seen her for several
weeks, and then she came in about two hours ago--sort of
staggered into the kitchen, and she was carrying the kitten in her
mouth. She took it through to the lounge and laid it on the rug and
at first I was amused. But I could see all was not well because she
sat as she usually does, but for a long time--over an hour--then she
lay down like this and she hasn't moved." I knelt on the rug and
passed my hand over Debbie's neck and ribs. She was thinner than
ever, her fur dirty and mud-caked. She did not resist as I gently
opened her mouth. The tongue and mucous membranes were abnormally
pale and the lips ice-cold against my fingers. When I pulled down
her eyelid and saw the glazing eye a knell sounded in my mind. I
felt the abdomen with a grim certainty as to what I would find and
there was no surprise, only a dull sadness as my fingers closed
around a hard solid mass. Terminal and hopeless. I put my
stethoscope on her heart and listened to the increasingly faint,
rapid beat, then I straightened up and sat on the rug looking
sightlessly into the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames on
my face. Mrs. Ainsworth's voice seemed to come from afar. "Is she
ill, Mr. Herriot?" I hesitated. "Yes ... yes, I'm afraid so. She has
a malignant growth." I stood up. "There's absolutely nothing I can
do. I'm sorry." "Oh!" Her hand went to her mouth and she looked at
me wide-eyed. When at last she spoke her voice trembled. "Well, you
must put her to sleep immediately. It's the only thing to do. We
can't let her suffer." "Mrs. Ainsworth," I said, 'there's no need.
She's dying now--in a coma--far beyond suffering." She turned
quickly away from me and was very still as she fought with her
emotions. Then she gave up the struggle and dropped on her knees
beside Debbie. "Oh, poor little thing!" she sobbed and stroked the
cat's head again and again as the tears fell unchecked on the matted
fur. "What she must have come through. I feel I ought to have done
more for her." For a few moments I was silent, feeling her sorrow,
so discordant among the bright seasonal colours of this festive room.
Then I spoke gently. "Nobody could have done more than you," I said.
"Nobody could have been kinder." "But I'd have kept her here--in
comfort. It must have been terrible out there in the cold when she
was so desperately ill--I daren't think about it. And having kittens,
too--I ... I wonder how many she did have?" I shrugged. "I don't
suppose we'll ever know. Maybe just this one. It happens sometimes.
And she brought it to you, didn't she?" "Yes ... that's right ...
she did ... she did." Mrs. Ainsworth reached out and lifted the
bedraggled black morsel. She smoothed her finger along the muddy fur
and the tiny mouth opened in a soundless miaow. "Isn't it strange?
She was dying and she brought her kitten here. And on Christmas Day.
." I bent and put my hand on Debbie's heart. There was no beat. I
looked up. "I'm afraid she's gone." I lifted the small body, almost
feather light, wrapped it in the sheet which had been spread on the
rug and took it out to the car. When I came back Mrs. Ainsworth was
still stroking the kitten. The tears had dried on her cheeks and she
was bright-eyed as she looked at me. "I've never had a cat before,"
she said. I smiled. "Well, it looks as though you've got one now."
And she certainly had. That kitten grew rapidly into a sleek
handsome cat with a boisterous nature which earned him the name of
Buster. In every way he was the opposite to his timid little mother.
Not for him the privations of the secret outdoor life; he stalked
the rich carpets of the Ainsworth home like a king and the ornate
collar he always wore added something more to his presence. On my
visits I watched his development with delight but the occasion which
stays in my mind was the following Christmas Day, a year from his
arrival. I was out on my rounds as usual. I can't remember when I
haven't had to work on Christmas Day because the animals have never
got round to recognising it as a holiday; but with the passage of
the years the vague resentment I used to feel has been replaced by
philosophical acceptance. After all, as I tramped around the
hillside barns in the frosty air I was working up a better appetite
for my turkey than all the millions lying in bed or slumped by the
fire; and this was aided by the innumerable aperitifs I received
&nb
sp; from the hospitable farmers. I was on my way home, bathed in a rosy
glow. I had consumed several whiskies--the kind the inexpert
Yorkshiremen pour as though it was ginger ale--and I had finished
with a glass of old Mrs. Earnshaw's rhubarb wine which had seared
its way straight to my toenails. I heard the cry as I was passing
Mrs. Ainsworth's house. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Herriot!" She was
letting a visitor out of the front door and she waved to me gaily.
"Come in and have a drink to warm you up." I didn't need warming up
but I pulled in to the kerb without hesitation. In the house there
was all the festive cheer of last year and the same glorious whiff
of sage and onion which set my gastric juices surging. But there was
not the sorrow; there was Buster. He was darting up to each of the
dogs in turn, ears pricked, eyes blazing with devilment, dabbing a
paw at them, then streaking away. Mrs. Ainsworth laughed. "You know,
he plagues the life out of them. Gives them no peace." She was right.
To the bassets, Buster's arrival was rather like the intrusion of an
irreverent outsider into an exclusive London club. For a long time
they had led a life of measured grace; regular sedate walks with
their mistress, superb food in ample quantities and long snoring
sessions on the rugs and armchairs. Their days followed one upon
another in unruffled calm. And then came Buster. He was dancing up
to the youngest dog again, sideways this time, head on one side,
goading him. When he started boxing with both paws it was too much
even for the basset. He dropped his dignity and rolled over with the
cat in a brief wrestling match. "I want to show you something," Mrs.
Ainsworth lifted a hard rubber ball from the sideboard and went out
to the garden, followed by Buster. She threw the ball across the
lawn and the cat bounded after it over the frosted grass, the
muscles rippling under the black sheen of his coat. He seized the
ball in his teeth, brought it back to his mistress, dropped it at
her feet and waited expectantly. She threw it and he brought it back
again. I gasped incredulously. A feline retriever! The bassets
looked on disdainfully. Nothing would ever have induced them to
chase a ball, but Buster did it again and again as though he would
never tire of it. Mrs. Ainsworth turned to me. "Have you ever seen
anything like that?" "No," I replied. "I never have. He is a most
remarkable cat." She snatched Buster from his play and we went back
into the house where she held him close to her face, laughing as the
big cat purred and arched himself ecstatically against her cheek.
Looking at him, a picture of health and contentment, my mind went
back to his mother. Was it too much to think that that dying little
creature with the last of her strength had carried her kitten to the
only haven of comfort and warmth she had ever known in the hope that
it would be cared for there? Maybe it was. But it seemed I wasn't
the only one with such fancies. Mrs. Ainsworth turned to me and
though she was smiling her eyes were wistful. "Debbie would be
pleased," she said. I nodded. "Yes, she would. ... It was just a
year ago today she brought him, wasn't it?" "That's right." She
hugged Buster to her again. "The best Christmas present I ever had."
THE END
James Herriot's Cat Stories Page 10