When I had finished I couldnt bear the thought of turning them out into that cruel wind. I lifted them up and tucked them one under each arm. Helen, I said, lets have another try. Will you just gently close the door.
She took hold of the knob and began to push very slowly, but immediately both cats leaped like uncoiled springs from my arms and shot into the garden. We watched them as they trotted out of sight.
Well, thats extraordinary, I said.Ill as they are, they wont tolerate being shut in.
Helen was on the verge of tears. But how will they stand it out there? They should be kept warm. I wonder if theyll stay now or will they leave us again? I just dont know.
I looked at the empty garden. But weve got to realise they are in their natural environment. Theyre tough little things. I think theyll be back.
I was right. Next morning they were outside the window, eyes closed against the wind, the fur on their faces streaked and stained with the copious discharge.
Again Helen opened the door and again they walked calmly inside and made no resistance as I repeated my treatment, injecting them, swabbing out eyes and nostrils, examining their mouths for ulcers, lifting them around like any long-standing household pets.
This happened every day for a week. The discharges became more purulent and their racking sneezing seemed no better; then, when I was losing hope, they started to eat a little food and, significantly, they werent so keen to come into the house. When I did get them inside, they were tense and unhappy as I handled them and finally I couldnt touch them at all.
They were by no means cured, so I mixed oxytet soluble powder in their food and treated them that way. The weather was even worse, with fine flakes of snow spinning in the wind, but the day came when they refused to come inside and we watched them through the window as they ate. But I had the satisfaction of knowing they were still getting the antibiotic with every mouthful. As I carried on this long-range treatment, observing them daily from the kitchen, it was rewarding to see the sneezing abating, the discharges drying up and the cats gradually regaining their lost flesh.
It was a brisk sunny morning in March and I was watching Helen putting their breakfast on the wall. Olly and Ginny, sleek as seals, their faces clean and dry, their eyes bright,
came arching along the wall, purring like outboard motors. They were in no hurry to eat; they were clearly happy just to see her. As they passed to and fro, she ran her hand gently along their heads and backs. This was the kind of stroking they likednot overdone, with them continually in motion.
I felt I had to get into the action and stepped from the open door.
Ginny, I said and held out a hand. Come here, Ginny.
The little creature stopped her promenade along the wall and regarded me from a safe distance, not with hostility but with all the old wariness. As I tried to move nearer to her, she skipped away out of reach.
Okay, I said, and I dont suppose its any good trying with you either, Olly.
The blackand-white cat backed well away from my outstretched hand and gave me a non-committal gaze. I could see he agreed with me. Mortified, I called out to the two of them. Hey, remember me? It was clear by the look of them that they remembered me all rightbut not in the way I hoped. I felt a stab of frustration. Despite my efforts I was back where I started.
Helen laughed. Theyre a funny pair, but dont they look marvellous! Theyre a picture of health, as good as new. It says a lot for fresh air treatment.
It does indeed, I said with a wry smile, but it also says something for having a resident veterinary surgeon.
Emily and the Gentleman of the Road
As I got out of my car to open the gate to the farm, I looked with interest at the odd-looking structure on the grass verge; it was standing in the shelter of the dry-stone wall, overlooking the valley. It seemed as though sheets of tarpaulin had been stretched over metal hoops to make some kind of shelter. It was like a big black igloo, but for what? As I wondered, the sacking at the front parted and a tall, white-bearded man emerged. He straightened up, looked around him, dusted down his ancient frock coat and donned the kind of high-crowned bowler hat which was popular in Victorian times.
He seemed oblivious of my presence as he stood, breathing deeply, gazing at the heathery fellside which ran away from the roadside to the beck far below. Then after a few moments he turned to me and raised his hat gravely. Good morning to you, he murmured in the kind of voice which would have belonged to an archbishop.
Morning, I replied, fighting with my surprise. Lovely day.
His fine features relaxed in a smile. Yes, yes, it is indeed.
Then he bent and pulled the sacking apart. Come, Emily.
As I stared, a little cat tripped out with dainty steps, and as she stretched luxuriously the man attached a leash to the collar round her neck.
He turned to me and raised his hat again. Good day to you.