small object stood out, shiny black. I went over and looked closer.
It was a tiny kitten, probably about six weeks old, huddled and
immobile, eyes tightly closed. Bending down I poked gently at the
furry body. It must be dead; a morsel like this couldn't possibly
survive in such cold ... but no, there was a spark of life because
the mouth opened soundlessly for a second and then closed. Quickly I
lifted the little creature and tucked it inside my coat. As I drove
into the farmyard I called to the farmer who was carrying two
buckets out of the calf house. "I've got one of your kittens here,
Mr. Butler. It must have strayed outside." Mr. Butler put down his
buckets and looked blank. "Kitten? We haven't got no kittens at
present." I showed him my find and he looked more puzzled. "Well,
that's a rum "un, there's no black cats on this spot. We've all
sorts o" colours but no black "uns." "Well, he must have come from
somewhere else," I said. "Though I can't imagine anything so small
travelling very far. It's rather mysterious." I held the kitten out
and he engulfed it with his big, work-roughened hand. "Poor little
beggar, he's only just alive. I'll take him into t"house and see if
the missus can do owt for him." In the farm kitchen Mrs. Butler was
all concern. "Oh, what a shame!" She smoothed back the bedraggled
hair with one finger. "And it's got such a pretty face." She looked
up at me. "What is it, anyway, a him or a her?" I took a quick look
behind the hind legs. "It's a tom." "Right," she said. "I'll get
some warm milk into him but first of all we'll give him the old cure.
" She went over to the fireside oven on the big black kitchen range,
opened the door and popped him inside. I smiled. It was the
classical procedure when newborn lambs were found suffering from
cold and exposure; into the oven they went and the results were
often dramatic. Mrs. Butler left the door partly open and I could
just see the little black figure inside; he didn't seem to care much
what was happening to him. The next hour I spent in the byre
wrestling with the overgrown hind feet of a cow. Still, I thought,
as I eased the kinks from my spine when I had finished, there were
compensations. There was a satisfaction in the sight of the cow
standing comfortably on two almost normal-looking feet. "Well,
that's summat like," Mr. Butler grunted. "Come in the house and wash
your hands." In the kitchen as I bent over the brown earthenware
sink I kept glancing across at the oven. Mrs. Butler laughed. "Oh,
he's still with us. Come and have a look." It was difficult to see
the kitten in the dark interior but when I spotted him I put out my
hand and touched him and he turned his head towards me. "He's coming
round," I said. "That hour in there has worked wonders." "Doesn't
often fail." The farmer's wife lifted him out. "I think he's a
little tough "un." She began to spoon warm milk into the tiny mouth.
"I reckon we'll have him lapping in a day or two." "You're going to
keep him, then?" "Too true we are. I'm going to call him Moses."
"Moses?" "Aye, you found him among the rushes, didn't you?" I
laughed. "That's right. It's a good name."
I was on the Butler farm about a fortnight later and I kept looking
around for Moses. Farmers rarely have their cats indoors and I
thought that if the black kitten had survived he would have joined
the feline colony around the buildings. Farm cats have a pretty good
time. They may not be petted or cosseted but it has always seemed to
me that they lead a free, natural life. They are expected to catch
mice but if they are not so inclined there is abundant food at hand;
bowls of milk here and there and the dogs" dishes to be raided if
anything interesting is left over. I had seen plenty of cats around
today, some flitting nervously away, others friendly and purring.
There was a tabby loping gracefully across the cobbles and a big
tortoiseshell was curled on a bed of straw at the warm end of the
byre; cats are connoisseurs of comfort. When Mr. Butler went to
fetch the hot water I had a quick look in the bullock house and a
white tom regarded me placidly from between the bars of a hay rack
where he had been taking a siesta. But there was no sign of Moses. I
finished drying my arms and was about to make a casual reference to
the kitten when Mr. Butler handed me my jacket. "Come round here
with me if you've got a minute," he said, "I've got summat to show
you." I followed him through the door at the end and across a
passage into the long, low-roofed piggery. He stopped at a pen about
halfway down and pointed inside. "Look "ere," he said. I leaned over
the wall and my face must have shown my astonishment because the
farmer burst into a shout of laughter. "That's summat new for you,
isn't it?" I stared unbelievingly down at a large sow stretched
comfortably on her side, suckling a litter of about twelve piglets,
and right in the middle of the long pink row, furry black and
incongruous, was Moses. He had a teat in his mouth and was absorbing
his nourishment with the same rapt enjoyment as his smooth-skinned
fellows on either side. "What the devil ...?" I gasped. Mr. Butler
was still laughing. "I thought you'd never have seen anything like
that before; I never have, any road." "But how did it happen?" I
still couldn't drag my eyes away. "It was the missus's idea," he
replied. "When she'd got the little youth lapping milk she took him
out to find a right warm spot for him in the buildings. She settled
on this pen because the sow, Bertha, had just had a litter and I had
a heater in and it was grand and cosy." I nodded. "Sounds just right.
" "Well, she put Moses and a bowl of milk in here," the farmer went
on, "but the little feller didn't stay by the heater very long--
next time I looked in he was round at t'milk bar." I shrugged my
shoulders. "They say you see something new every day at this game,
but this is something I've never even heard of. Anyway, he looks
well on it--does he actually live on the sow's milk or does he still
drink from his bowl?" "A bit of both, I reckon. It's hard to say."
Anyway, whatever mixture Moses was getting he grew rapidly into a
sleek, handsome animal with an unusually high gloss to his coat
which may or may not have been due to the porcine element of his
diet. I never went to the Butlers" without having a look in the pig
pen. Bertha, his foster mother, seemed to find nothing unusual in
this hairy intruder and pushed him around casually with pleased
grunts just as she did the rest of her brood. Moses for his part
appeared to find the society of the pigs very congenial. When the
piglets curled up together and settled down for a sleep Moses would
be somewhere in the heap, and when his young colleagues were weaned
at eight weeks he showed his attachment to Bertha by spending most
of his time with her. And it stayed that way over the years. Often
he would be right inside the pen, rubbing himself happily along the
comforting bulk of the sow, but I remember him best
in his favourite
place; crouching on the wall looking down perhaps meditatively on
what had been his first warm home.
Frisk The Cat with Many Lives
Sometimes, when our dog and cat patients died, the owners brought
them in for us to dispose of them. It was always a sad occasion and
I had a sense of foreboding when I saw old Dick Fawcett's face. He
put the improvised cat box on the surgery table and looked at me
with unhappy eyes. "It's Frisk," he said. His lips trembled as
though he was unable to say more. I didn't ask any questions, but
began to undo the strings on the cardboard container. Dick couldn't
afford a proper cat box, but he had used this one before, a home-
made affair with holes punched in the sides. I untied the last knot
and looked inside at the motionless body. Frisk. The glossy black,
playful little creature I knew so well, always purring and
affectionate and Dick's companion and friend. "When did he die,
Dick?" I asked gently. He passed a hand over his haggard face and
through the straggling grey hairs. "Well, I just found "im stretched
out by my bed this morning. But ... I don't rightly know if he's
dead yet, Mr. Herriot." I looked again inside the box. There was no
sign of breathing. I lifted the limp form on to the table and
touched the cornea of the unseeing eye. No reflex. I reached for my
stethoscope and placed it over the chest. "The heart's still going,
Dick, but it's a very faint beat." "Might stop any time, you mean?"
I hesitated. "Well, that's the way it sounds, I'm afraid." As I
spoke, the little cat's rib cage lifted slightly, then subsided.
"He's still breathing," I said, "but only just." I examined the cat
thoroughly and found nothing unusual. The conjunctiva of the eye was
a good colour. In fact, there was no abnormality. I passed a hand
over the sleek little body. "This is a puzzler, Dick. He's always
been so lively--lived up to his name, in fact, yet here he is, flat
out, and I can't find any reason for it." "Could he have "ad a
stroke or summat?" "I suppose it's just possible, but I wouldn't
had a blow on the head." "I don't think so. He was as right as rain
when I went to bed, and he was never out during t"night." The old
man shrugged his shoulders. "Any road, it's a poor look-out for
"im?" "Afraid so, Dick. He's only just alive. But I'll give him a
stimulant injection and then you must take him home and keep him
warm. If he's still around tomorrow morning, bring him in and I'll
see how he's going on." I was trying to strike an optimistic note,
but I was pretty sure that I would never see Frisk again and I knew
the old man felt the same. His hands shook as he tied up the box and
he didn't speak until we reached the front door. He turned briefly
to me and nodded. "Thank ye, Mr. Herriot." I watched him as he
walked with shuffling steps down the street. He was going back to an
empty little house with his dying pet. He had lost his wife many
years ago--I had never known a Mrs. Fawcett--and he lived alone on
his old age pension. It wasn't much of a life. He was a quiet,
kindly man who didn't go out much and seemed to have few friends,
but he had Frisk. The little cat had walked in on him six years ago
and had transformed his life, bringing a boisterous, happy presence
into the silent house, making the old man laugh with his tricks and
playfulness, following him around, rubbing against his legs. Dick
wasn't lonely any more, and I had watched a warm bond of friendship
growing stronger over the years. In fact, it was something more--the
old man seemed to depend on Frisk. And now this. Well, I thought, as
I walked back down the passage, it was the sort of thing that
happened in veterinary practice. Pets didn't live long enough. But I
felt worse this time because I had no idea what ailed my patient. I
was in a total fog. On the following morning I was surprised to see
Dick Fawcett sitting in the waiting room, the cardboard box on his
knee. I stared at him. "What's happened?" He didn't answer and his
face was inscrutable as we went through to the consulting room and
he undid the knots. When he opened the box I prepared for the worst,
but to my astonishment the little cat leaped out onto the table and
rubbed his face against my hand, purring like a motor cycle. The old
man laughed, his thin face transfigured. "Well, what d"ye think of
that?" "I don't know what to think, Dick." I examined the little
animal carefully. He was completely normal. "All I know is that I'm
delighted. It's like a miracle." "No, it isn't," he said. "It was
that injection you gave "im. It's worked wonders. I'm right grateful.
" Well, it was kind of him, but it wasn't as simple as that. There
was something here I didn't understand, but never mind. Thank heaven
it had ended happily.
The incident had receded into a comfortable memory when, three days
later, Dick Fawcett reappeared at the surgery with his box. Inside
was Frisk, motionless, unconscious, just as before. Totally
bewildered, I repeated the examination and then the injection and on
the following day the cat was normal. From then on, I was in the
situation which every veterinary surgeon knows so well--being
involved in a baffling case and waiting with a feeling of impending
doom for something tragic to happen. Nothing did happen for nearly a
week, then Mrs. Duggan, Dick's neighbour, telephoned. "I'm ringing
on behalf of Mr. Fawcett. His cat's ill." "In what way?" "Oh, just
lying stretched out, unconscious, like." I suppressed a scream.
"When did this happen?" "Just found "im this morning. And Mr.
Fawcett can't bring him to you--he's poorly himself. He's in bed."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll come round straight away." And it was
just the same as before. An almost lifeless little creature lying
prone on Dick's bed. Dick himself looked terrible--ghastly white and
thinner than ever--but he still managed a smile. "Looks like "e
needs another of your magic injections, Mr. Herriot." As I filled my
syringe, my mind seethed with the thought that there was indeed some
kind of magic at work here, but it wasn't my injection. "I'll drop
in tomorrow, Dick," I said. "And I hope you'll be feeling better
yourself." "Oh, I'll be awright as long as t"little feller's better.
" The old man stretched out a hand and stroked the cat's shining fur.
The arm was emaciated and the eyes in the skull-like face were
desperately worried. I looked around the comfortless little room and
hoped for another miracle. I wasn't really surprised when I came
back next morning and saw Frisk darting about on the bed, pawing at
relief was great but I felt enveloped more suffocatingly than ever
in my fog of ignorance. What the hell was it? The whole thing just
didn't make sense. There was no known disease with symptoms like
these. I had a strong conviction that reading a whole library of
veteri
nary books wouldn't help me. Anyway, the sight of the little
cat arching and purring round my hand was reward enough, and for
Dick it was everything. He was relaxed and smiling. "You keep
getting him right, Mr. Herriot. I can't thank you enough." Then the
worry flickered again in his eyes. "But is he going to keep doing
it? I'm frightened he won't come round one of these times." Well,
that was the question. I was frightened too, but I had to try to be
cheerful. "Maybe it's just a passing phase, Dick. I hope we'll have
no more trouble now." But I couldn't promise anything and the frail
man in the bed knew it. Mrs. Duggan was showing me out when I saw
the district nurse getting out of her car at the front door. "Hello,
Nurse," I said, "you've come to have a look at Mr. Fawcett? I'm
sorry he's ill." She nodded. "Yes, poor old chap. It's a great shame.
" "What do you mean? Is it something serious?" "Afraid so." Her
mouth tightened and she looked away from me. "He's dying. It's
cancer. Getting rapidly worse." "My God! Poor Dick. And a few days
ago he was bringing his cat to my surgery. He never said a word.
Does he know?" "Oh yes, he knows, but that's him all over, Mr.
Herriot. He's as game as a pebble. He shouldn't have been out,
really." "Is he ... is he ... suffering?" She shrugged. "Getting a
bit of pain now, but we're keeping him as comfortable as we can with
medication. I give him a shot when necessary and he has some stuff
he can take himself if I'm not around. He's very shaky and can't
pour from the bottle into the spoon. Mrs. Duggan would gladly do it
for him, but he's so independent." She smiled for a moment. "He
pours the mixture into a saucer and spoons it up that way." "A
saucer ...?" Somewhere in the fog a little light glimmered. "What's
in the mixture?" "Oh, heroin and pethidene. It's the usual thing Dr.
Allinson prescribes." I seized her arm. "I'm coming back in with you,
Nurse." The old man was surprised when I reappeared. "What's matter,
Mr. Herriot? Have you left summat?" "No, Dick, I want to ask you
something. Is your medicine pleasant tasting?" "Aye, it's nice and
sweet. It isn't bad to take at all." "And you put it in a saucer?"
"That's right. Me hand's a bit dothery." "And when you take it last
thing at night there's sometimes a bit left in the saucer?" "Aye,
there is, why?" "Because you leave that saucer by your bedside,
don't you, and Frisk sleeps on your bed ..." The old man lay very
still as he stared at me. "You mean the little beggar licks it out?"
"I'll bet my boots he does." Dick threw back his head and laughed. A
long, joyous laugh. "And that sends "im to sleep! No wonder! It
makes me right dozy, too!" I laughed with him. "Anyway, we know now,
Dick. You'll put that saucer in the cupboard when you've taken your
dose, won't you?" "I will that, Mr. Herriot. And Frisk will never
pass out like that again?" "No, never again." "Eee, that's grand!"
He sat up in bed, lifted the little cat and held him against his
face. He gave a sigh of utter content and smiled at me. "Mr. Herriot,
" he said, "I've got nowt to worry about now." Out in the street, as
I bade Mrs. Duggan goodbye for the second time, I looked back at the
little house. ""Nowt to worry about," eh? That's rather wonderful,
coming from him." "Oh aye, and he means it, too. He's not bothered
about himself."
I didn't see Dick again for two weeks. I was visiting a friend in
Darrowby's little cottage hospital when I saw the old man in a bed
in a corner of the ward. I went over and sat down by his side. His
face was desperately thin, but serene. "Hello, Dick," I said. He
looked at me sleepily and spoke in a whisper. "Now then, Mr. Herriot.
" He closed his eyes for a few moments, then he looked up again with
the ghost of a smile. "I'm glad we found out what was wrong with
t"little cat." "So am I, Dick." Again a pause. "Mrs. Duggan's got
"im." "Yes. I know. He has a good home there." "Aye ... aye ..." The
voice was fainter. "But oftens I wish I had "im here." The bony hand