Maybe, I replied. Could be anything. An attack by a big dog or somebody could have kicked him or struck him.
All things were possible with cats because some people seemed to regard them as fair game for any cruelty.
Tristan nodded. Anyway, whatever happened, he must have been on the verge of starvation.
Hes a skeleton. I bet hes wandered miles from home.
Ah well, I sighed. Theres only one thing to do, Im afraid. Its hopeless.
Tristan didnt say anything but he whistled under his breath and drew the tip of his forefinger again and again across the furry cheek. And, unbelievably, from somewhere in the scraggy chest a gentle purring arose.
The young man looked at me, round-eyed. My God, do you hear that?
Yes amazing in that condition. Hes a good-natured cat.
Tristan, head bowed, continued his stroking. I knew how he felt because, although he preserved a cheerfully hardboiled attitude to our patients, he couldnt kid me about one thing; he had a soft spot for cats. Even now, when we are both around the sixty mark, he often talks to me over a beer about the cat he has had for many years. It is a typical relationshipthey tease each other unmercifullybut it is based on real affection.
Its no good, Triss, I said gently. Its got to be done.
I reached for the syringe but something in me rebelled against plunging a needle into that pathetic body. Instead I pulled a fold of the blanket over the cats head.
Pour a little ether onto the cloth, I said. Hell just slip away.
Wordlessly Tristan unscrewed the cap of the ether bottle and poised it above the head. Then from under the shapeless heap of blanket we heard it again; the deep purring which increased in volume till it boomed in our ears like a distant motor cycle.
Tristan was like a man turned to stone, hand gripping the bottle rigidly, eyes staring down at the mound of cloth from which the purring rose in waves of warm, friendly sound. At last he looked up at me and gulped.
I dont fancy this much, Jim. Cant we do something?
You mean, try to repair all this?
Yes. We could stitch the wounds, bit by little bit, couldnt we?
I lifted the blanket and looked again. Honestly, Triss, I wouldnt know where to start. And the whole thing is filthy.
He didnt say anything, but continued to look at me steadily. And I didnt need much persuading.
I had no more desire to pour ether on to that comradely purring than he had.
Come on, then, I said. Well have a go.
With the oxygen bubbling and the cats head in the anaesthetic mask we washed the whole body with warm saline. We did it again and again but it was impossible to remove every fragment of caked dirt. Then we started the painfully slow business of stitching the many wounds, and here I was glad of Tristans nimble fingers which seemed better able to manipulate the small round-bodied needles than mine. Two hours and yards of catgut later, we were finished and everything looked tidy.
Hes alive, anyway, Triss, I said as we began to wash the instruments.
Well put him on to sulphapyridine and keep our fingers crossed that peritonitis wont set in.
There were still no antibiotics at that time but the new drug was a big advance.
The door opened and Helen came in.
Youve been a long time, Jim.
She walked over to the table and looked down at the sleeping cat. What a poor skinny little thing. Hes all bones.
You should have seen him when he came in.
Tristan switched off the steriliser and screwed shut the valve on the anaesthetic machine.
He looks a lot better now.
She stroked the little animal for a moment.
Is he badly injured?
Im afraid so, Helen, I said. Weve done our best for him but I honestly dont think he has much chance.
What a shame. And hes pretty, too. Four white feet and all those unusual colours.
With her finger she traced the faint bands of auburn and copper-gold among the grey and black.
Tristan laughed. Yes, I think that chap has a ginger tom somewhere in his ancestry.
Helen smiled, too, but absently, and I noticed a broody look about her. She hurried out to the stock room and returned with an empty box.
Yes ... yes she said thoughtfully. I can make a bed in
this box for him and hell sleep in our room, Jim.
He will?
Yes, he must be warm, mustnt he?
Of course, especially with such chilly nights.
Later, in the darkness of our bed-sitter, I looked from my pillow at a cosy scene: Sam the beagle in his basket on one side of the flickering fire and the cat cushioned and blanketed in his box on the other. As I floated off into sleep it was good to know that my patient was so comfortable, but I wondered if he would be alive in the morning. I knew he was alive at 7:30 A.M. because my wife was already up and talking to him. I trailed across the room in my pyjamas and the cat and I looked at each other. I rubbed him under the chin and he opened his mouth in a rusty miaow. But he didnt try to move.
Helen, I said. This little thing is tied together inside with catgut. Hell have to live on fluids for a week and even then he probably wont make it. If he stays up here youll be spooning milk into him umpteen times a day.