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 stroked the counterpane and his lips moved again. I bent closer to hear. “Frisk …” he was saying, “Frisk …” Then his eyes closed and I saw that he was sleeping. I heard next day that Dick Fawcett had died, and it was possible that I was the last person to hear him speak. And it was strange, yet fitting, that those last words were about his cat. “Frisk … Frisk …”
Olly and Ginny The Greatest Triumph
Months passed without any thawing of relations between me and our two wild cats and I noticed with growing apprehension that Olly’s long coat was reverting to its previous disreputable state. The familiar knots and tangles were reappearing and within a year it was as bad as ever. It became more obvious every day that I had to do something about it. But could I trick him again? I had to try. I made the same preparations, with Helen placing the nembutal-laden food on the wall, but this time Olly sniffed, licked, then walked away. We tried at his next meal time but he examined the food with deep suspicion and turned away from it. It was very clear that he sensed there was something afoot. Hovering in my usual position at the kitchen window I turned to Helen. “I’m going to have to try to catch him.” “Catch him? With your net, do you mean?” “No, no. That was all right when he was a kitten. I’d never get near him now.”
“How, then?” I looked out at the scruffy black creature on the wall.
“Well, maybe I can hide behind you when you feed him and grab him and bung him into the cage. I could take him down to the surgery then, give him a general anaesthetic and make a proper job of him.”
“Grab him? And then fasten him in the cage?” Helen said incredulously. “It sounds impossible to me.” “Yes, I know, but I’ve grabbed a few cats in my time and I can move fast. If only I can keep hidden.
“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 stroked the counterpane and his lips moved again. I bent closer to hear. “Frisk …” he was saying, “Frisk …” Then his eyes closed and I saw that he was sleeping. I heard next day that Dick Fawcett had died, and it was possible that I was the last person to hear him speak. And it was strange, yet fitting, that those last words were about his cat. “Frisk … Frisk …”
Olly and Ginny The Greatest Triumph
Months passed without any thawing of relations between me and our two wild cats and I noticed with growing apprehension that Olly’s long coat was reverting to its previous disreputable state. The familiar knots and tangles were reappearing and within a year it was as bad as ever. It became more obvious every day that I had to do something about it. But could I trick him again? I had to try. I made the same preparations, with Helen placing the nembutal-laden food on the wall, but this time Olly sniffed, licked, then walked away. We tried at his next meal time but he examined the food with deep suspicion and turned away from it. It was very clear that he sensed there was something afoot. Hovering in my usual position at the kitchen window I turned to Helen. “I’m going to have to try to catch him.” “Catch him? With your net, do you mean?” “No, no. That was all right when he was a kitten. I’d never get near him now.”
“How, then?” I looked out at the scruffy black creature on the wall.
“Well, maybe I can hide behind you when you feed him and grab him and bung him into the cage. I could take him down to the surgery then, give him a general anaesthetic and make a proper job of him.”
“Grab him? And then fasten him in the cage?” Helen said incredulously. “It sounds impossible to me.” “Yes, I know, but I’ve grabbed a few cats in my time and I can move fast. If only I can keep hidden.
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