Helen, and I'll see if they'll let me examine them." But at the
sight of the closing door, both cats bolted back outside. "Open up
again," I cried and, after a moment's hesitation, the cats walked
back into the kitchen. I looked at them in astonishment. "Would you
believe it? They haven't come in here for shelter, they've come for
help!" And there was no doubt about it. The two of them sat there,
side by side, waiting for us to do something for them. "The question
is," I said, "will they allow their bete noire to get near them?
We'd better leave the back door open so they don't feel threatened."
I approached inch by inch until I could put a hand on them, but they
did not move. With a feeling that I was dreaming, I lifted each of
them, limp and unresisting, and examined them. Helen stroked them
while I ran out to my car which held my stock of drugs and brought
in what I'd need. I took their temperatures; they were both over 104,
which was typical. Then I injected them with oxytetracycline, the
antibiotic which I had always found best for treating the secondary
bacterial infection which followed the initial virus attack. I also
injected vitamins, cleaned away the pus and mucus from the eyes and
nostrils with cotton wool and applied an antibiotic ointment. And
all the time I marvelled that I was lifting and handling these
yielding little bodies which I hadn't even been able to touch before
apart from when they had been under the anaesthetic for the
neutering ops. When I had finished I couldn't bear the thought of
turning them out into that cruel wind. I lifted them up and tucked them
one under each arm. "Helen," I said, "let's have another try. Will
you just gently close the door." She took hold of the knob and began
to push very slowly, but immediately both cats leaped like uncoiled
springs from my arms and shot into the garden. We watched them as
they trotted out of sight. "Well, that's extraordinary," I said.
"Ill as they are, they won't tolerate being shut in." Helen was on
the verge of tears. "But how will they stand it out there? They
should be kept warm. I wonder if they'll stay now or will they leave
us again?" "I just don't know." I looked at the empty garden. "But
we've got to realise they are in their natural environment. They're
tough little things. I think they'll be back." I was right. Next
morning they were outside the window, eyes closed against the wind,
the fur on their faces streaked and stained with the copious
discharge. Again Helen opened the door and again they walked calmly
inside and made no resistance as I repeated my treatment, injecting
them, swabbing out eyes and nostrils, examining their mouths for
ulcers, lifting them around like any long-standing household pets.
This happened every day for a week. The discharges became more
purulent and their racking sneezing seemed no better; then, when I
was losing hope, they started to eat a little food and,
significantly, they weren't so keen to come into the house. When I
did get them inside, they were tense and unhappy as I handled them
and finally I couldn't touch them at all. They were by no means
cured, so I mixed oxytet soluble powder in their food and treated
them that way. The weather was even worse, with fine flakes of snow
spinning in the wind, but the day came when they refused to come
inside and we watched them through the window as they ate. But I had
the satisfaction of knowing they were still getting the antibiotic
with every mouthful. As I carried on this long-range treatment,
observing them daily from the kitchen, it was rewarding to see the
sneezing abating, the discharges drying up and the cats gradually
regaining their lost flesh.
It was a brisk sunny morning in March and I was watching Helen
putting their breakfast on the wall. Olly and Ginny, sleek as seals,
their faces clean and dry, their eyes bright, came arching along the
wall, purring like outboard motors. They were in no hurry to eat;
they were clearly happy just to see her. As they passed to and fro,
she ran her hand gently along their heads and backs. This was the
kind of stroking they liked--not overdone, with them continually in
motion. I felt I had to get into the action and stepped from the
open door. "Ginny," I said and held out a hand. "Come here, Ginny."
The little creature stopped her promenade along the wall and
regarded me from a safe distance, not with hostility but with all
the old wariness. As I tried to move nearer to her, she skipped away
out of reach. "Okay," I said, "and I don't suppose it's any good
away from my outstretched hand and gave me a non-committal gaze. I
could see he agreed with me. Mortified, I called out to the two of
them. "Hey, remember me?" It was clear by the look of them that they
remembered me all right--but not in the way I hoped. I felt a stab
of frustration. Despite my efforts I was back where I started. Helen
laughed. "They're a funny pair, but don't they look marvellous!
They're a picture of health, as good as new. It says a lot for fresh
air treatment." "It does indeed," I said with a wry smile, "but it
also says something for having a resident veterinary surgeon."
Emily and the Gentleman of the Road
As I got out of my car to open the gate to the farm, I looked with
interest at the odd-looking structure on the grass verge; it was
standing in the shelter of the dry-stone wall, overlooking the
valley. It seemed as though sheets of tarpaulin had been stretched
over metal hoops to make some kind of shelter. It was like a big
black igloo, but for what? As I wondered, the sacking at the front
parted and a tall, white-bearded man emerged. He straightened up,
looked around him, dusted down his ancient frock coat and donned the
kind of high-crowned bowler hat which was popular in Victorian times.
He seemed oblivious of my presence as he stood, breathing deeply,
gazing at the heathery fellside which ran away from the roadside to
the beck far below. Then after a few moments he turned to me and
raised his hat gravely. "Good morning to you," he murmured in the
kind of voice which would have belonged to an archbishop. "Morning,"
I replied, fighting with my surprise. "Lovely day." His fine
features relaxed in a smile. "Yes, yes, it is indeed." Then he bent
and pulled the sacking apart. "Come, Emily." As I stared, a little
cat tripped out with dainty steps, and as she stretched luxuriously
the man attached a leash to the collar round her neck. He turned to
me and raised his hat again. "Good day to you." Then man and cat set
off at a leisurely pace towards the village whose church tower was
just visible a couple of miles down the road. I took my time over
opening the gate as I watched the dwindling figures. I felt almost
as though I were seeing an apparition. I was out of my usual
territory because a faithful client, Eddy Carless, had taken this
farm almost twenty miles away from Darrowby and had paid us the
complimen
t of asking our practice if we would still do his work. We
had said yes even though it would be inconvenient to travel so far,
especially in the middle of the night. The farm lay two fields back
from the road and as I drew up in the yard I saw Eddy coming down
the granary steps. "Eddy," I said, "I've just seen something very
strange." He laughed. "You don't have to tell me. You've seen Eugene.
" "Eugene?" "That's right. Eugene Ireson. He lives there." "What?"
"It's true--that's "is house. He built it himself two years ago and
took up residence. This used to be me dad's farm, as you know, and
he used to tell me about "im. He came from nowhere and settled in
that funny place with "is cat and he's never moved since." "I
wouldn't have thought he would be allowed to set up house on the
grass verge." "No, neither would I, but nobody seems to have
bothered "im. And I'll tell you another funny thing. He's an
educated man. He has travelled the world, living rough in wild
countries and having all kinds of adventures, but wherever he's been
he's come back to North Yorkshire." "But why does he live in that
strange erection?" "It's a mystery. "He seems happy and content
down there. Me dad was very fond of "im and the old chap used to
come up to the farm for the odd meal and a bath. Still does, but
he's very independent. Doesn't sponge on anybody. Goes down to the
village regularly for his food and "is pension. "And always with his
cat?" "Aye." Eddy laughed again. "Allus with his cat." We went into
the building to look at his sick cow I had come to visit, but I
couldn't rid my mind of the memory of that odd twosome.
When I drew up at the farm gate three days later to see how the cow
was faring, Mr. Ireson was sitting on a wicker chair in the sunshine,
reading, with his cat on his lap. When I got out of the car, he
raised his hat as before. "Good afternoon. A very pleasant day."
"Yes, it certainly is." As I spoke, Emily hopped down and stalked
over the grass to greet me, and as I tickled her under the chin she
said. The old man's manner moved from courtesy to something more.
"You like cats?" "Yes, I do. I've always liked them." As I continued
my stroking, then gave her tail a playful tug, the pretty tabby face
looked up at me and the purring rose in a crescendo. "Well, Emily
seems to have taken to you remarkably. I've never seen her so
demonstrative." I laughed. "She knows how I feel. Cats always know--
they are very wise animals." Mr. Ireson beamed his agreement. "I saw
you the other day, didn't I? You have some business with Mr.
Carless?" "Yes, I'm his vet." "Aah ... I see. So you are a
veterinary surgeon and you approve of my Emily." "I couldn't do
anything else. She's beautiful." The old man seemed to swell with
gratification. "How very kind of you." He hesitated. "I wonder, Mr. .
.. er ..." "Herriot." "Ah, yes, I wonder, Mr. Herriot, if, when you
have concluded your business with Mr. Carless, you would care to
join me in a cup of tea." "I'd love to. I'll be finished in less
than an hour." "Splendid, splendid. I look forward to seeing you
then." Eddy's cow was completely well again, and I was soon on my
way back down the farm road. Mr. Ireson was waiting by the gate. "It
is a little chilly now," he said. "I think we'd better go inside."
He led me over to the igloo, drew back the sacks and ushered me
through with Old World grace. "Do sit down," he murmured, waving me
to what looked like a one-time automobile seat in tattered leather
while he sank down on the wicker chair I had seen outside. As he
arranged two mugs, then took the kettle from a primus stove and
began to pour, I took in the contents of the interior. There was a
camp bed, a bulging rucksack, a row of books, a tilly lamp, a low
cupboard and a basket in which Emily was ensconced. "Milk and sugar,
Mr. Herriot?" The old man inclined his head gracefully. "Ah, no
sugar. I have some buns here, do have one. There is an excellent
little bakery down in the village and I am a regular customer." As I
bit into the bun and sipped the tea, I stole a look at the row of
books. Every one was poetry. Blake, Swinburne, Longfellow, Whitman,
all worn and frayed with reading. "You like poetry?" I said. He
smiled. "Ah, yes, I do read other things--the van comes up here from
the public library every week--but I always come back to my old
friends, particularly this one." He held up the dog-eared volume he
had been reading earlier. The Poems of Robert W. Service. "You like
that one, eh?" "Yes. I think Service is my favourite. Not classical
stuff perhaps, but his verses strike something very deep in me." He
gazed at the book, then his eyes looked beyond me into somewhere
only he knew. I wondered then if Alaska and the wild Yukon territory
might have been the scene of his wanderings andfora moment I hoped
he might be going to tell me something about his past, but it seemed
he didn't want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about his cat.
"It is the most extraordinary thing, Mr. Herriot. I have lived on my
own all my life but I have never felt lonely, but I know now that I
would be desperately lonely without Emily. Does that sound foolish
to you?" "Not at all. Possibly it's because you haven't had a pet
before. Have you?" "No, I haven't. Never seemed to have stayed still
long enough. I am fond of animals and there have been times when I
felt I would like to own a dog, but never a cat. I have heard so
often that cats do not dispense affection, that they are self-
sufficient and never become really fond of anybody. Do you agree
with that?" "Of course not. It's absolute nonsense. Cats have a
character of their own, but I've treated hundreds of friendly,
affectionate cats who are faithful friends to their owners." "I'm so
glad to hear you say that, because I flatter myself that this little
creature is really attached to me." He looked down at Emily, who had
jumped onto his lap, and gently patted her head. "That's easy to see,
" I said and the old man smiled his pleasure. "You know, Mr. Herriot,
" he went on, "when I first settled here," he waved his hand round
his dwelling as though it were the drawing room in a multi-acred
mansion, "I had no reason to think that I wouldn't continue to live
the solitary life that I was accustomed to, but one day this little
animal walked in from nowhere as though she had been invited and my
whole existence has changed." I laughed. "She adopted you. Cats do
that. And it was a lucky day for you." "Yes ... yes ... how very
true. You seem to understand these things so well, Mr. Herriot. Now,
do let me top up your cup." It was the first of many visits to Mr.
Ireson in his strange dwelling. I never went to the Carless farm
without looking in through the sacks and if Eugene was in residence
we had a cup of tea and a chat. We talked about many things--books,
the political situation, natural history, of which he had a deep
knowledge, but the conversation always got
round to cats. He wanted
to know everything about their care and feeding, habits and diseases.
While I was agog to hear about his world travels which he referred
to only in the vaguest terms, he would listen with the wide-eyed
interest of a child to my veterinary experiences. It was during one
of these sessions that I raised the question of Emily in particular.
"I notice she is either in here or on the lead with you, but does
she ever go wandering outside by herself?" "Well, yes ... now that
you mention it. Just lately she has done so. She only goes up to the
farm--I make sure she does not stray along the road where she may be
knocked down." "I didn't mean that, Mr. Ireson. What I was thinking
about was that there are several male cats up there at the farm. She
could easily become pregnant." He sat bolt upright in his chair.
"Good heavens, yes! I never thought of that--how foolish of me. I'd
better try to keep her inside." "Very difficult," I said. "It would
be much better to have her spayed. Then she'd be safe--you couldn't
do with a lot of kittens in here, could you?" "No ... no ... of
course not. But an operation ..." He stared at me with frightened
eyes. "There would be an element of danger ...?" "No, no," I said as
briskly as I could. "It's quite a simple procedure. We do lots of
them." His normal urbanity fell away from him. From the beginning he
had struck me as a man who had seen so many things in life that
nothing would disturb his serenity, but now he seemed to shrink
within himself. He slowly stroked the little cat, seated, as usual,
on his lap. Then he reached down to the black leather volume of The
Works of Shakespeare with its faded gold lettering which he had been
reading when I arrived. He placed a marker in the book and closed it
before putting it carefully on the shelf. "I really don't know what
to say, Mr. Herriot." I gave him an encouraging smile. "There's
nothing to worry about. I strongly advise it. If I could just
describe the operation, I'm sure it would put your mind at rest.
It's really keyhole surgery--we make only a tiny incision and bring
the ovaries and uterus through and ligate the stump. ..." I dried up
hurriedly because the old man closed his eyes and swayed so far to
one side that I thought he would fall off the wicker chair. It
wasn't the first time that one of my explanatory surgical vignettes
had had an undesirable effect and I altered my tactics. I laughed
loudly and patted him on the knee. "So, you see, it's nothing--
nothing at all." He opened his eyes and drew a long, quavering
breath. "Yes ... yes ... I'm sure you're right. But you must give me
a little time to think. This has come on me so suddenly." "All right.
I'm sure Eddy Carless will give me a ring for you. But don't be too
long."
I wasn't surprised when I didn't hear from the old man. The whole
idea obviously terrified him and it was over a month before I saw
him again. I pushed my head through the sacks. He was sitting in his
usual chair, peeling potatoes, and he looked at me with serious eyes.
"Ah, Mr. Herriot. Come and sit down. I've been going to get in touch
with you--I'm so glad you've called." He threw back his head with an
air of resolution. "I have decided to take your advice about Emily.
You may carry out the operation when you think fit." But his voice
trembled as he spoke. "Oh, that's splendid!" I said cheerfully. "In
fact, I've got a cat basket in the car so I can take her straight
away." I tried not to look at his stricken face as the cat jumped on
to my knee. "Well, Emily, you're coming with me." Then, as I looked
at the little animal, I hesitated. Was it my imagination or was
there a significant bulge in her abdomen? "Just a moment," I
murmured as I palpated the little body, then I looked up at the old
man. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ireson, but it's a bit late. She's pregnant."
His mouth opened, but no words came, then he swallowed and spoke in
a hoarse whisper. "But ... but what are we going to do?" "Nothing,