cat stories by James Herriot

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 expect him to be totally unconscious. I’m wondering if he might have 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