There now, they neednt sleep on the straw any more. Theyll be warm and comfortable in this nice box.
I rubbed my hands. Great. We wont have to worry about them in bad weather. Theyll really enjoy coming in here.
From that moment the kittens boycotted the shed. They still came for their meals every day, but we never saw them anywhere near their old dwelling.
Theyre just not used to it, Helen said.
Hmm. I looked again at the cushioned box tucked in the centre of the encircling logs.
Either that, or they dont like it.
We stuck it out for a few days, then, as we wondered where on earth the kittens could be sleeping, our resolve began to crack.
I went up the slope and dismantled the wall of logs. Immediately the two little creatures returned. They sniffed and nosed round the box and went away again.
Im afraid theyre not keen on your box either, I grunted as we watched from our vantage point.
Helen looked stricken.
Silly little things. Its perfect for them.
But after another two days during which the shed lay deserted, she went out and I saw her coming sadly down the bank, box in one hand, cushions under her arm. The kittens were back within hours, looking round the place, vastly relieved. They didnt seem to object to the wind-break and settled happily in the straw. Our attempts to produce a feline Hilton had been a total failure. It dawned on me that they couldnt bear to be enclosed, to have their escape routes cut off. Lying there on the open bed of straw, they could see all around them and were able to flit away between the slats at the slightest sign of danger.
Okay, my friends, I said, thats the way you want it, but Im going to find out something more about you.
Helen gave them some food and once they were concentrating on the food, I crept up on them and threw a fishermans landing net over them and after a struggle I was able to divine that the tortoiseshell was a female and the black and white a male.
Good, said Helen, Ill call them Olly and Ginny.
Why Olly?
Dont really know. He looks like an Olly. I like the name.
Oh, and how about Ginny? Short for Ginger.
Shes not really ginger, shes tortoiseshell.
Well, shes a bit ginger. I left it at that.
Over the next few months they grew rapidly and my veterinary mind soon reached a firm decision. I had to neuter them. And it was then that I was confronted for the first time with a problem which was to worry me for yearshow to minister to the veterinary needs of animals which I was unable even to touch.
The first time, when they were half grown, it wasnt so bad. Again I slunk up on them with my net when they were feeding and managed to bundle them into a cat cage from which they looked at me with terrified and, I imagined, accusing eyes.
In the surgery, as Siegfried and I lifted them one by one from the cage and administered the intravenous anaesthetic, I was struck by the fact that although they were terror-stricken at being in an enclosed space for the first time in their lives and by being grasped and restrained by humans, they were singularly easy to handle. Many of our domesticated feline patients were fighting furies until we had lulled them to sleep, and cats, with claws as well as teeth for weapons, can inflict a fair amount of damage. However, Olly and Ginny, although they struggled frantically, made no attempt to bite, never unsheathed their claws.
Siegfried put it briefly. These little things are scared stiff, but theyre absolutely docile. I wonder how many wild cats are like this.
I felt a little
strange as I carried out the operations, looking down at the small sleeping forms. These were my cats yet it was the first time I was able to touch them as I wished, examine them closely, appreciate the beauty of their fur and colourings.
When they had come out of the anaesthetic, I took them home and when I released the two of them from the cage, they scampered up to their home in the log shed. As was usual following such minor operations, they showed no after effects, but they clearly had unpleasant memories of me. During the next few weeks they came close to Helen as she fed them but fled immediately at the sight of me. All my attempts to catch Ginny to remove the single little stitch in her spay incision were fruitless.
That stitch remained for ever and I realised that Herriot had been cast firmly as the villain of the piece, the character who would grab you and bundle you into a wire cage if you gave him half a chance. It soon became clear that things were going to stay that way because, as the months passed and Helen plied them with all manner of titbits and they grew into truly handsome, sleek cats, they would come arching along the wall top when she appeared at the back door, but I had only to poke my head from the door to send them streaking away out of sight. I was the chap to be avoided at all times, and this rankled with me because I have always been fond of cats and I had become particularly attached to these two.
The day finally arrived when Helen was able to stroke them gently as they ate and my chagrin deepened at the sight. Usually they slept in the log shed but occasionally they disappeared to somewhere unknown and stayed away for a few days, and we used to wonder if they had abandoned us or if something had happened to them. When they reappeared, Helen would shout to me in great relief, Theyre back, Jim, theyre back! They had become part of our lives.