by Colin Dann
As Scruff moved on to the next one he said, ‘There’s enough for you.’
‘Yes,’ said Sammy, ‘but surely—’
‘Oh, you can get something off ’em,’ Scruff told him. ‘Can’t pick and choose, can we?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Sammy. He took one of the ribs, more because he did not want to seem to be turning up his nose at it than because he thought it would do him any good. He was not at all used to bones and had no idea how to treat them. Scruff, of course, was an old hand. He knew just how to pin a bone down at one end so as to be able to lick or gnaw at the scraps of meat still attached. Sammy would have done well to have tried to ape him – that would have been the safest method. But, instead, he stupidly attempted to chew the bone itself, crunching it up and splintering it into sharp fragments.
It was only a matter of time before one of these dangerous shards of bone fixed itself in his throat. Sammy began to cough in a cat’s typically wheezy fashion. The more he coughed the more the bone seemed to penetrate. His coughs became more violent. He began to choke.
‘Spit it out! Spit it out!’ Scruff called to him urgently.
But Sammy could do nothing to help himself. He gasped and wheezed, his sides heaved, he lowered his head to the ground. His whole body was racked by the spasms of the painful choking coughs. He could not draw breath, his eyes began to dim. . . .
‘Jump about a bit, shake your head,’ Scruff advised. ‘You might loosen it.’
Sammy could no longer hear him. The bone was lodged fast and his strength seemed to be ebbing away. Still he coughed, savagely, painfully, as if his throat was being torn across. A final gurgling choke came from his mouth, his legs shook and then collapsed under him. He sank to his belly; his chin rested on the ground. There was a horrible stillness.
Scruff limped to his side, expecting the worst. But there was life still in Sammy’s eyes. They gazed at the lame cat with a hopeless expression. The splinter of bone had shifted its position slightly but only sufficient to allow the young tabby to take shallow breaths of air. He dared not move for fear of it choking him again. He could not speak. He lay almost motionless.
‘You should never try to swallow bone,’ Scruff said unhelpfully. ‘I didn’t realize; I would have told you before. Lie still now until you feel easier. Perhaps you’ve dislodged it. If not, there’s nothing to be done.’
Even in his agony Sammy was struck by the apparent heartlessness of Scruff’s remarks. But he knew that the vagabond cats’ (and, in particular, Scruff’s) attitude to life was one of resignation. The hardship and perils they constantly faced made life a tenuous sort of thing. It was a never-ending struggle and when they themselves could no longer cope with it, then they accepted their lot unquestioningly.
Sammy’s breath gradually came a little more easily. Still he dared not stir. Scruff was disinclined to stay with him. He was restless. He would limp away from Sammy a little way and then come back to examine him again.
The lame black cat needed to spend a good deal of his time in scavenging. It was the only way he could get enough to eat. So far this night he had found almost nothing. Sammy did not want him to stay around. Scruff could not assist him. He tried to indicate this in his expression but Scruff could not quite bring himself to desert Sammy. And so he would wander to and fro while, at the same time, wishing he were elsewhere.
At last Sammy could bear this no longer. He struggled slowly to his feet, keeping his head hanging low so as not to set off the coughing again. His breathing was much freer now and he felt himself recovering.
‘You – need – not linger – here,’ he managed to gasp. ‘I’ll – manage.’ He could feel the sharpness of the bone in his gullet as he panted out the words but, thankfully, he did not dislodge it again. He knew it was too big a piece for him to swallow right down. If only it did not move from its present position he would at least be able to breathe. He longed to take a drink. Perhaps there was a pool of water lying somewhere in the garden. There had been a lot of rain. He would have to move very, very slowly to look.
Scruff muttered something which Sammy did not catch and left him. Sammy began to haul himself along, one pace at a time, keeping his body low and his head perfectly still. He spied a place where rain water had collected against a wall of the house and edged himself towards it. His throat was sore and burning. He stared at the water. How cool and refreshing it looked. But he was scared. He did not know what would happen if he should try to swallow again. However, he had no option but to try. He must drink. He lapped a little and, very gently, he swallowed. The water slid down quite easily. He could feel the bone fragment as he drank but it stayed where it had come to rest.
Sammy was encouraged and perked up a bit. He finished his drink and wondered what to do next. He could not remain in this strange garden. Now his breathing was a little better, and he could move more easily. He decided to return to the waste ground. There was no choice for him.
He moved across the garden carefully, but with more like his usual gait. Now came his biggest problem. The fence. How could he jump and climb with a lump of bone in his gullet? But he remembered Scruff’s advice when he had first started choking. He had recommended jumping as a means of loosening the object. Sammy sprang at the fence and pulled himself up. Nothing happened. There was only the constant nagging consciousness of the bone digging into his throat. It was firmly fixed.
Slowly he made his way to his hideaway in the undergrowth. Brindle saw him before he got there. He noticed something awkward about Sammy’s movements, and came towards him.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.
‘Yes. How do you know?’ Sammy wheezed.
‘Well, you seem to be sort of – slinking,’ said Brindle.
‘I’m in pain.’
‘What is it?’
‘A piece of bone – stuck in my throat.’
Brindle was aware that this usually meant death for a cat in the wild. He did not know what to say. But Sammy knew very well what straits he was in.
‘You needn’t look like that,’ he gasped. ‘I suppose the game’s up with me.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘Does it matter? It happened. I can’t – talk well.’
‘I’m sorry, Sammy. Can I help you at all?’
‘How?’
‘I – don’t know.’
‘You can’t, Brindle. You would if you could. I know.’
‘If you try eating, the food might carry the bone down,’ Brindle suggested.
‘I don’t think so. It’s too big. Don’t – concern yourself. I just want to rest.’
Sammy pushed his way through the weeds and slumped down. He was weary and frightened. His remaining stock of mice stared him in the face. He began to consider what Brindle had said. Fright had taken away his appetite, but he knew it would eventually return with a vengeance. And supposing Brindle had been right? The more he looked at the mice, the more Sammy was tempted to take the gamble. After all, he could not stay as he was indefinitely. He lay a bit longer and then suddenly, in a mood of do or die, he snatched up one of the mice and began to eat.
No sooner did the first mouthful of food reach his throat than he began to choke all over again. This time his coughs were even more violent and more painful than before. The mouthful would not pass the obstruction. Sammy coughed it out but the bone dug deeper still. The coughs gradually subsided as before, but now Sammy knew the worst. He could no longer eat. If the bone stayed in his throat he would die of starvation.
16
Survival of the Fittest
The days passed slowly for Sammy. The splinter of bone did not seem to shift. He shunned company, trying to sleep as much as possible in his usual place. It was the one way he could forget the pain and discomfort. He moved only occasionally to take a few laps of water. He grew thin and weak. Scruff and Brindle knew of Sammy’s misery but they could do nothing to help him. Brute was sure he had given up and gone back to Stella. Pinkie, however, silently kept
faith with Sammy. She believed he would reappear eventually.
The only other cat who had any real interest in the tabby’s whereabouts was Sunny, who had been keeping his eyes open for Sammy all along. Sunny was sure the young cat would try to evade Brute’s demands somehow, and he meant to stop him. He made regular tours of the area in search of Sammy and at last one day he happened to come upon him as he drank. The ginger cat noticed at once Sammy’s listless appearance. He had never forgotten how he had lost the fight with Sammy over the rabbit, and now he saw his chance to turn the tables on him. Sammy was clearly at a disadvantage.
Sammy noticed the ginger cat’s reflection in the puddle where he was drinking. He looked up and saw Sunny watching him, ginger tail swishing ominously. Sammy knew he was intent on trouble, and he was afraid. He could expect no sympathy from this animal for his present plight. He must avoid a fight if he could or it might be the end of him. The cats stared at each other. Sammy was ready to run.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ Sunny observed. ‘We’re more of an even match now.’
Sammy knew it was pointless to remonstrate and in any case he was not given time. The ginger leapt at him. Sammy darted away. But his legs seemed unwilling to carry him. They had lost their speed. He tried to shake off his pursuer by running through the vegetation, then quickly changing his direction, but he knew he had no choice of avoiding him for long. Sunny caught him up and was upon him. They went bowling down a bank, locked together, and Sammy landed with the other cat on top of him. He was pressed hard against the ground. He began to gasp under the weight and, as he gasped, the awful coughing returned. Sunny released him and stood away. He seemed to think he had done enough to avenge himself.
Sammy went on coughing, and now he thought he would never catch his breath again. Each cough shook his whole body: he felt he would cough up his life in a few more moments. There was a tearing sensation in his throat and Sammy shuddered under the most violent cough of all. Then something entered his mouth from low down in his throat and he spat it on to the ground in front of him.
It was the fragment of bone.
The coughing fit subsided and, weak as a new-born kitten, Sammy stared at the tiny object that had nearly killed him. He swallowed hard several times. His throat was on fire. It burnt mercilessly. But there was no block-age there any longer.
Sunny had disappeared by now, alarmed despite himself at the spectacle Sammy had presented. The tabby stayed still for a while longer, enjoying the sense of relief, and breathing in deep breaths. It was then that Brindle found him.
‘Oh Sammy,’ he said gravely, ‘you look terrible.’
‘Ah but, Brindle,’ Sammy croaked, ‘I feel marvellous.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Come here. Look.’ Sammy showed him the piece of bone. ‘Now I’m free again.’
Brindle was delighted. ‘I really thought it was all up with you,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ Sammy replied in a whisper. ‘Not yet.’
‘Brownie and I – we saved some scraps for you,’ Brindle said excitedly. ‘We were going to eat them, but now—’
‘Take me to them,’ Sammy croaked, ‘though first I must drink again. My throat feels like an open wound.’
Brindle’s scraps proved worthless. Brownie had eaten most of them and now only a few odd dried-up pieces were left.
‘Leave them for Scruff,’ Sammy remarked. ‘I’ve got a better store myself.’
‘Sorry, Sammy,’ Brindle said contritely.
‘Forget it. I’ll look after myself.’ Sammy returned with haste to his stock of mice. He ate two. They tasted vile but he did not care. All he was concerned about was that he could swallow once again. Already his throat had eased a bit, and his hunger was returning in a healthy sort of way. Now he had to regain his strength for the real test ahead. In late afternoon he set off to fetch his pigeon.
Of course the holly tree had long ago been stripped of this source of food. It was not in the nature of keen-eyed crows and magpies to overlook such a bounty. But Sammy was dismayed. He had really been counting on this food to build himself up. Well, there was no help for it. He must now put his other plan into effect.
At dusk he hid himself well to the rear of the several vagabonds who lay hopefully waiting for the rabbits’ arrival. Brute was there and so was Sunny, but Sammy wanted nothing to do with them. He was hoping that Patch or Mottle or even Pinkie would be lucky in the hunt. Weak as he was, he felt he had an even chance against any of these. All the cats waited eagerly. Soon their patience was rewarded: three rabbits, all youngsters, came searching out their favourite food-plants without much caution. As soon as the time was right, Brute made sure of one of them.
Most of the cats had aimed for the same rabbit and so fell back obediently as the King Cat rushed out. The second rabbit escaped. The third bolted in the direction of Patch. Patch was no longer swift but he had a lifetime of experience in rabbit-hunting. He did not betray his presence until the last possible moment. The rabbit was crushed and held firm before it knew much about it. Sammy watched avidly. He wanted to be positive that the animal was dead.
Patch grabbed his prey by the neck, preparing to carry it away. Since he had lost several of his teeth he found it difficult to get a good grip on large animals, so he had to drop the rabbit frequently and begin again. Sammy soon noted this. It was just the opportunity he had hoped for. It was obvious the rabbit was lifeless. There was not the slightest movement about it as Patch dropped it, hauled it a little way, then dropped it again. It was carrion.
Sammy did not intend to fight for it. He did not think Patch would fight him anyway. He merely walked over and, when old Patch had to let his quarry go once more, Sammy commandeered it and made off without a word.
Patch was completely taken aback. He had not seen Sammy in days – had almost forgotten his existence. Now here he was, appearing from nowhere, and snatching his dinner off him. Patch made no attempt to give chase. He just sat down with a bemused expression on his face. The sheer cheek of it! It was outrageous that Sammy should get away with it – but he was going to let him. Sammy deserved it. He certainly looked as if he needed the food more than Patch felt he did himself.
Naturally the other cats had seen what had happened. They reacted in different ways.
‘Get after him, Patch!’ snarled Sunny. ‘The thief!’
Pinkie was overjoyed to see Sammy again but shocked by his appearance. She ran past Patch who still sat staring, and caught up the young tabby.
‘How clever of you, Sammy,’ she chattered. ‘I’ve missed you. I thought you’d forgotten me.’
Sammy’s one interest for the present was food. That was the only reason he had shown himself. As his jaws were fully employed with his load, he merely grunted and moved on his way. Pinkie fell back, disappointed. Her eyes, however, told her that Sammy must nearly have starved, and she understood his preoccupation.
Brute was watching with mixed feelings. He was, first of all, surprised that Sammy was still around. He regretted that he had failed to drive him away from the area. As Pinkie ran eagerly after his son, a wave of jealousy swept over him – he was reminded once again that he had a rival. But Sammy’s coolness in dispossessing Patch earned Brute’s grudging admiration. It seemed that he meant to prove that he was by no means beaten, despite his sufferings. Brute took a decision. It was obvious Sammy had experienced great difficulty finding food. Yet he had not given up. There was one final chance of fulfilling Stella’s wishes and also of ridding himself of Sammy’s rivalry. That was to demand that now his son must deal with the next part of the test.
Leaving his own kill where it lay, Brute followed Sammy’s direction. He did not intend to speak now, but he wanted to know where Sammy could be located. The young tabby had dragged Patch’s rabbit through the gap in the high wire fence and was on his way to his own corner of the vegetation. Brute kept him in view.
Sunny was furious that Sammy appeared to be getting away. Patch had
not moved at all and Brute, the King Cat himself, was clearly not going to do anything.
‘This can’t be borne!’ he snarled to Pinkie, who happened to be nearest to him. ‘What’s wrong with you all? Can’t you see what that animal’s up to?’
‘Why are you so interested, Sunny?’ Pinkie asked sweetly. ‘It’s not your rabbit.’
‘No, and it’s not Sammy’s either!’ the ginger cat cried. ‘Just let him try that with me.’
‘What a state you’re getting yourself in,’ Mottle remarked.
At last Patch spoke up. ‘Save your anger for your own affairs,’ he said. ‘If I’m not bothered, why should you be?’
‘But . . . but . . . how can you just—’ spluttered Sunny.
‘Just allow it?’ Patch suggested. ‘Oh, I suppose because of a sneaking respect for Sammy. And a certain amount of sympathy’
‘Sympathy! That beats everything! Of all the stupid—’
‘Oh, do shut up, Sunny,’ said Pinkie. ‘Your envy is very tedious.’
‘Envy?’ growled Sunny. ‘Of a human’s pet?’
‘He doesn’t look much like a pet any more,’ Patch answered him.
‘That’s what he can’t stand,’ Pinkie observed. ‘That Sammy is as much a vagabond now as he is.’
Brute saw Sammy to his hideout and turned away. He was not going to interrupt his meal for a while. He returned for his own catch.
‘It’s time for the next phase of the trial,’ he announced to the others.
The other cats knew perfectly well what that entailed. Sammy was to be allowed to hunt for himself again now that he looked too weak to be able to manage it.
‘I still think Sammy will fool us all,’ Pinkie said confidently.
‘He’s fooled me very well already,’ Patch remarked ruefully.
‘He won’t fool me,’ Sunny vowed. ‘I’ll see to it that he never catches another rabbit.’
The other cats ignored him. They thought his obsession was ludicrous. Even Brute’s face held an expression of contempt.