In front of the desk where I write I have a long row of the old text books I studied in those far-off days. Sisson is there, looking as vast as ever, and all the others I keep to dip into when I try to remember things about the past or when I just want a good laugh; but side by side with them are the fine new volumes with only one theme-cats. I think back, too, on the strange views that many people held about cats. They were selfish creatures reserving their affections only for situations which would benefit them, and they were incapable of the unthinking love a dog dispenses. They were totally self-contained creatures who looked after their own interests only.
What nonsense! I have felt cats rubbing their faces against mine and touching my cheek with claws carefully sheathed. These things, to me, are expressions of love. At the moment of writing we have no cat, because our border terrier does not approve of them and likes to chase them. However, he does not start to run until they do because, although he will fight any dog large or small, he is secretly wary of cats. If a cat stands his ground, Bodie will make a wide circuit to avoid him. But when he is asleephis favourite occupation in his thirteenth yearcats visit us from our neighbours in the village.
We have a chest-high wall outside our kitchen window and here the assorted felines assemble to see what we have to offer. We keep various goodies for them and spread them on the wall, but there is one gorgeous yellow and white tom who is so affectionate that he would rather be petted than fed. I have quite a battle with him as he nearly knocks the carton of titbits from my hand in his efforts to nose his way into my palm with a thunderous purring. Often I have to abandon the feeding and concentrate on the rubbing, stroking and chin tickling which he really wants. I think it is a sensible axiom that, once retired, one should not continue to haunt ones former place of business. Of course, Skeldale House is more than that to me; it is a place of a thousand memories, where I shared the bachelor
days with Siegfried and Tristan, where I started my married life, saw my children grow up from babyhood and went through a half century of the triumphs and disasters of veterinary practice. Today, though, I go there only to pick up my mail and, in the process, to have a quick peep at how things are going. The practice is run by my son, Jimmy, and his splendid young partners and last week I stood in the office watching the constant traffic of little animals coming in for consultations, operations, vaccinations; so different from my early days when our work was 90 percent agricultural. I turned away from the shaggy stream to speak to Jimmy. Which animal do you see most often in the surgery? I asked. He thought for a moment before replying. Probably fifty-fifty dogs and cats, but I think the cats are edging ahead.
Alfred: The Sweet-Shop Cat
My throat was killing me. Three successive nocturnal lambings on the windswept hillsides in my shirtsleeves had left me with the beginnings of a cold and I felt in urgent need of a packet of Geoff Hatfields cough drops. An unscientific treatment, perhaps, but I had a childish faith in those powerful little candies which exploded in the mouth, sending a blast of medicated vapour surging through the bronchial tubes. The shop was down a side alley, almost hidden away, and it was so tinynot much more than a cubby holethat there was hardly room for the sign above the window.
GEOFFREY HATFIELD, CONFECTIONER
But it was full. It was always full, and, this being market day, it was packed out.
The little bell went ching as I opened the door and squeezed into the crush of local ladies and farmers' wives. Id have to wait for a while but I didnt mind, because watching Mr. Hatfield in action was one of the rewarding things in my life. I had come at a good time, too, because the proprietor was in the middle of one of his selection struggles. He had his back to me, the silver-haired, leonine head nodding slightly on the broad shoulders as he surveyed the rows of tall glass sweet jars against the wall. His hands, clasped behind him, tensed and relaxed repeatedly as he fought his inner battle, then he took a few strides along the row, gazing intently at each jar in turn. It struck me that Lord Nelson pacing the quarterdeck of the Victory, wondering how best to engage the enemy, could not have displayed a more portentous concentration.
The tension in the little shop rose palpably as he reached up a hand, then withdrew it with a shake of the head, but a sigh went up from the assembled ladies as, with a final grave nod and a squaring of the shoulders, he extended both arms, seized a jar and swung round to face the company. His large Roman Senator face was crinkled into a benign smile.
Now, Mrs. Moffat, he boomed at a stout matron and, holding out the glass vessel with both hands, inclined it slightly with all the grace and deference of a Cartier jeweller displaying a diamond necklace, I wonder if I can interest you in this.