Джеймс Хэрриот: Every Living Thing

“I’ll be closing for lunch at twelve noon, Mr. Herriot. Would you be so kind as to call in and examine Alfred?”

“Yes, of course.” I looked along the counter at the big cat. “Is he ill?”

“Oh, no, no…but I just feel there’s something not right.”

Later I knocked at the closed door and Geoffrey let me into the shop, empty for once, then through the curtained doorway into his sitting room. Mrs. Hatfield was at a table, drinking tea. She was a much earthier character than her husband. “Now then, Mr. Herriot, you’ve come to see t’little cat.”

“He isn’t so little,” I said, laughing. And indeed, Alfred looked more massive than ever seated by the fire, looking calmly into the flames. When he saw me he got up, stalked unhurriedly over the carpet and arched his back against my legs. I felt strangely honoured.

“He’s really beautiful, isn’t he?” I murmured. I hadn’t had a close look at him for some time and the friendly face with the dark stripes running down to the intelligent eyes appealed to me as never before. “Yes,” I said, stroking the fur, which shone luxuriantly in the flickering firelight, “you’re a big beautiful fellow.”

I turned to Mr. Hatfield. “He looks fine to me. What is it that’s worrying you?”

“Oh, maybe it’s nothing at all. His appearance certainly has not altered in the slightest, but for over a week now I’ve noticed that he is not quite so keen on his food, not quite so lively. He’s not really ill…he’s just different.”

“I see. Well, let’s have a look at him.” I went over the cat carefully. Temperature was normal, mucous membranes a healthy pink. I got out my stethoscope and auscultated heart and lungs—nothing abnormal to hear. Palpation of the abdomen produced no clue.

“Well, Mr. Hatfield,” I said, “there doesn’t seem to be anything obviously wrong with him. He’s maybe a bit run down, but he doesn’t look it. Anyway, I’ll give him a vitamin injection. That should buck him up. Let me know in a few days if he’s no better.”

“Thank you indeed, sir. I am most grateful. You have set my mind at rest.” The big man reached out a hand to his pet. The confident resonance of his voice was belied by the expression of concern on his face. Seeing them together made me sense anew the similarity of man and cat—human and animal, yes, but alike in their impressiveness.

I heard nothing about Alfred for a week and assumed that he had returned to normal, but then his master telephoned. “He’s just the same, Mr. Herriot. In fact, if anything, he had deteriorated slightly. I would be obliged if you would look at him again.”

It was just as before. Nothing definite to see even on close examination. I put him onto a course of mixed minerals and vitamin tablets. There was no point in launching into treatment with our new antibiotics—there was no elevation of temperature, no indication of any infectious agent.

I passed the alley every day—it was only about a hundred yards from Skeldale House—and I fell into the habit of stopping and looking in through the little window of the shop. Each day, the familiar scene presented itself; Geoff bowing and smiling to his customers and Alfred sitting in his place at the end of the counter. Everything seemed right, and yet…there was something different about the cat.

I called in one evening and examined him again. “He’s losing weight,” I said.

Geoffrey nodded. “Yes, I do think so. He is still eating fairly well, but not as much as before.”

“Give him another few days on the tablets,” I said, “and if he’s no better I’ll have to get him round to the surgery and go into this thing a bit more deeply.”

I had a nasty feeling there would be no improvement and there wasn’t, so one evening I took a cat cage round to the shop. Alfred was so huge that there was a problem fitting him into the container, but he did not resist as I bundled him gently inside.

At the surgery I took a blood sample from him and X-rayed him. The plate was perfectly clear and when the report came back from the laboratory it showed no abnormality.

In a way, it was reassuring, but that did not help because the steady decline continued. The next few weeks were something like a nightmare. My anxious peering through the shop window became a daily ordeal. The big cat was still in his place, but he was getting thinner and thinner until he was almost unrecognisable. I tried every drug and treatment I could think of, but nothing did any good. I had Siegfried examine him, but he thought as I did. The progressive emaciation was the sort of thing you would expect from an internal tumour, but further X-rays still showed nothing. Alfred must have been thoroughly fed up of all the pushing around, the tests, the kneading of his abdomen, but at no time did he show any annoyance. He accepted the whole thing placidly as was his wont.

There was another factor that made the situation much worse. Geoff himself was wilting under the strain. His comfortable coating of flesh was dropping steadily away from him, the normally florid cheeks were pale and sunken and, worse still, his dramatic selling style appeared to be deserting him. One day I left my viewpoint at the window and pushed my way into the press of ladies in the shop. It was a harrowing scene. Geoff, bowed and shrunken, was taking the orders without even a smile, pouring the sweets listlessly into their bags and mumbling a word or two. Gone was the booming voice and the happy chatter of the customers and a strange silence hung over the company. It was just like any other sweet shop.

Saddest sight of all was Alfred, still sitting bravely upright in his place. He was unbelievably gaunt, his fur had lost its bloom and he stared straight ahead, dead-eyed, as though nothing interested him any more. He was like a feline scarecrow.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. That evening I went round to see Geoff Hatfield.

“I saw your cat today,” I said, “and he’s going rapidly downhill. Are there any new symptoms?”

The big man nodded dully. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I was going to ring you. He’s been vomiting a bit.”

I dug my nails into my palms. “There it is again. Everything points to something abnormal inside him and yet I can’t find a thing.” I bent down and stroked Alfred. “I hate to see him like this. Look at his fur. It used to be so glossy.”

“That’s right,” replied Geoff. “He’s neglecting himself. He never washes himself now. It’s as though he can’t be bothered. And before, he was always at it. Lick, lick, lick for hours on end.”

I stared at him. His words had sparked something in my mind. “Lick, lick, lick.” I paused in thought. “Yes…when I think about it, no cat I ever knew washed himself as much as Alfred….” The spark suddenly became a flame and I jerked upright in my chair.

“Mr. Hatfield,” I said, “I want to do an exploratory laparotomy!”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’s got a hair-ball inside him and I want to operate to see if I’m right.”

“Open him up, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

He put a hand over his eyes and his chin sank onto his chest. He stayed like that for a long time, then he looked at me with haunted eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never thought of anything like that.”

“We’ve got to do something or this cat is going to die.”

He bent and stroked Alfred’s head again and again, then without looking up he spoke in a husky voice. “All right, when?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Next day, in the operating room, as Siegfried and I bent over the sleeping cat, my mind was racing. We had been doing much more small-animal surgery lately, but I had always known what to expect. This time I felt as though I was venturing into the unknown.