Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul (4 page)

I was trying to strike an optimistic note, but I was pretty sure that I would never see Frisk again and I knew the old man felt the same.

His hands shook as he tied up the box and he didn’t speak until we reached the front door. He turned briefly to me and nodded. “Thank ye, Mr. Herriot.”

I watched him as he walked with shuffling steps down the street. He was going back to an empty little house with his dying pet. He had lost his wife many years ago— I had never known a Mrs. Fawcett—and he lived alone on his old age pension. It wasn’t much of a life. He was a quiet, kindly man who didn’t go out much and seemed to have few friends, but he had Frisk. The little cat had walked in on him six years ago and had transformed his life, bringing a boisterous, happy presence into the silent house, making the old man laugh with his tricks and playfulness, following him around, rubbing against his legs. Dick wasn’t lonely any more, and I had watched a warm bond of friendship growing stronger over the years. In fact, it was something more—the old man seemed to depend on Frisk. And now this.

Well, I thought, as I walked back down the passage, it was the sort of thing that happened in veterinary practice. Pets didn’t live long enough. But I felt worse this time because I had no idea what ailed my patient. I was in a total fog.

On the following morning I was surprised to see Dick Fawcett sitting in the waiting room, the cardboard box on his knee.

I stared at him. “What’s happened?”

He didn’t answer and his face was inscrutable as we went through to the consulting room and he undid the knots. When he opened the box I prepared for the worst, but to my astonishment the little cat leaped out onto the table and rubbed his face against my hand, purring like a motorcycle. The old man laughed, his thin face transfigured. “Well, what d’ye think of that?”

“I don’t know what to think, Dick.” I examined the little animal carefully. He was completely normal. “All I know is that I’m delighted. It’s like a miracle.”

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “It was that injection you gave ’im.

It’s worked wonders. I’m right grateful.”

Well, it was kind of him, but it wasn’t as simple as that. There was something here I didn’t understand, but never mind. Thank heaven it had ended happily.

The incident had receded into a comfortable memory when, three days later, Dick Fawcett reappeared at the surgery with his box. Inside was Frisk, motionless, unconscious, just as before.

Totally bewildered, I repeated the examination and then the injection and on the following day the cat was normal. From then on, I was in the situation which every veterinary surgeon knows so well—being involved in a baffling case and waiting with a feeling of impending doom for something tragic to happen.

Nothing did happen for nearly a week, then Mrs. Duggan, Dick’s neighbour, telephoned.

“I’m ringin’ on behalf of Mr. Fawcett. His cat’s ill.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, just lyin’ stretched out, unconscious-like.”

I suppressed a scream. “When did this happen?”

“Just found ’im this morning. And Mr. Fawcett can’t bring him to you—he’s poorly himself. He’s in bed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll come round straight away.”

And it was just the same as before. An almost lifeless little creature lying prone on Dick’s bed. Dick himself looked terrible—ghastly white and thinner than ever— but he still managed a smile.

“Looks like ’e needs another of your magic injections, Mr. Herriot.”

As I filled my syringe, my mind seethed with the thought that there was indeed some kind of magic at work here, but it wasn’t my injection.

“I’ll drop in tomorrow, Dick,” I said. “And I hope you’ll be feeling better yourself.”

“Oh, I’ll be awright as long as t’little feller’s better.” The old man stretched out a hand and stroked the cat’s shining fur. The arm was emaciated and the eyes in the skull-like face were desperately worried.

I looked around the comfortless little room and hoped for another miracle.

I wasn’t really surprised when I came back the next morning and saw Frisk darting about on the bed, pawing at a piece of string which the old man was holding up for him. The relief was great but I felt enveloped more suffo-catingly than ever in my fog of ignorance.
What the hell was
it?
The whole thing didn’t make sense. There was no known disease with symptoms like these. I had a strong conviction that reading a whole library of veterinary books wouldn’t help me.

Anyway, the sight of the little cat arching and purring round my hand was reward enough, and for Dick it was everything. He was relaxed and smiling.

“You keep gettin’ him right, Mr. Herriot. I can’t thank you enough.” Then the worry flickered again in his eyes. “But is he goin’ to keep doin’ it? I’m frightened he won’t come round one of these times.”

Well, that was the question. I was frightened too, but I had to try to be cheerful. “Maybe it’s just a passing phase, Dick. I hope we’ll have no more trouble now.” But I couldn’t promise anything and the frail man in the bed knew it.

Mrs. Duggan was showing me out when I saw the district nurse getting out of her car at the front door.

“Hello, Nurse,” I said. “You’ve come to have a look at Mr. Fawcett! I’m sorry he’s ill.”

She nodded. “Yes, poor old chap. It’s a great shame.”

“What do you mean! Is it something serious?”

“Afraid so.” Her mouth tightened and she looked away from me. “He’s dying. It’s cancer. Getting rapidly worse.”

“My God! Poor Dick. And a few days ago he was bringing his cat tomy surgery.He never said a word. Does he know?”

“Oh yes, he knows, but that’s him all over, Mr. Herriot. He’s as game as a pebble. He shouldn’t have been out, really.”

“Is he . . . is he . . . suffering?”

She shrugged. “Getting a bit of pain now, but we’re keeping him as comfortable as we can with medication. I give him a shot when necessary and he has some stuff he can take himself if I’m not around. He’s very shaky and can’t pour from the bottle into the spoon. Mrs. Duggan would gladly do it for him, but he’s so independent.” She smiled for a moment. “He pours the mixture into a saucer and spoons it up that way.”

“A saucer . . . ?” Somewhere in the fog a little light glimmered. “What’s in the mixture?”

“Oh, heroin and pethidene. It’s the usual thing Dr. Allinson prescribes.”

I seized her arm. “I’m coming back in with you, Nurse.”

The old man was surprised when I reappeared. “What’s the matter, Mr. Herriot? Have you left summat?”

“No, Dick, I want to ask you something. Is your medicine pleasant-tasting?”

“Aye, it’s nice and sweet. It isn’t bad to take at all.”

“And you put it in a saucer?”

“That’s right. Me hand’s a bit dothery.”

“And when you take it last thing at night there’s sometimes a bit left in the saucer?”

“Aye, there is, why?”

“Because you leave that saucer by your bedside, don’t you, and Frisk sleeps on your bed . . .”

The old man lay very still as he stared at me. “You mean the little beggar licks it out?”

“I’ll bet my boots he does.”

Dick threw back his head and laughed. A long, joyous laugh. “And that sends ’im to sleep! No wonder! It makes me right dozy, too!”

I laughed with him. “Anyway, we know now, Dick. You’ll put that saucer in the cupboard when you’ve taken your dose, won’t you?”

“I will that, Mr. Herriot. And Frisk will never pass out like that again?”

“No, never again.”

“Eee, that’s grand!” He sat up in bed, lifted the little cat and held him against his face. He gave a sigh of utter content and smiled at me.

“Mr. Herriot,” he said, “I’ve got nowt to worry about now.”

Out in the street, as I bade Mrs. Duggan good-bye for the second time, I looked back at the little house.

“ ‘Nowt to worry about,’ eh? That’s rather wonderful, coming from him.”

“Oh aye, and he means it, too. He’s not bothered about himself.”

I didn’t see Dick again for two weeks. I was visiting a friend in Darrowby’s little cottage hospital when I saw the old man in a bed in a corner of the ward.

I went over and sat down by his side. His face was desperately thin, but serene.

“Hello, Dick,” I said.

He looked at me sleepily and spoke in a whisper. “Now then, Mr. Herriot.” He closed his eyes for a few moments, then looked up again with the ghost of a smile. “I’m glad we found out what was wrong with t’little cat.”

“So am I, Dick.”

Again a pause. “Mrs. Duggan’s got ’im.”

“Yes. I know. He has a good home there.”

“Aye . . . aye . . .” The voice was fainter. “But oftens I wish I had ’im here.” The bony hand stroked the counterpane and his lips moved again. I bent closer to hear.

“Frisk . . .” he was saying, “Frisk . . .” Then his eyes closed and I saw that he was sleeping.

I heard the next day that Dick Fawcett had died, and it was possible that I was the last person to hear him speak. And it was strange, yet fitting, that those last words were about his cat.

“Frisk . . . Frisk . . .”

James Herriot, D.V.M.

Becky and the Wolf

H
is name is not wild dog anymore, but the first
friend, because he will be our friend for always
and always and always.

Rudyard Kipling

With all her big brothers and sisters off to school, our ranch became a lonely place for our three-year-old daughter, Becky. She longed for playmates. Cattle and horses were too big to cuddle and farm machinery dangerous for a child so small. We promised to buy her a puppy but in the meantime, “pretend” puppies popped up nearly every day.

I had just finished washing the lunch dishes when the screen door slammed and Becky rushed in, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Mama!” she cried. “Come see my new doggy! I gave him water two times already. He’s so thirsty!”

I sighed. Another of Becky’s imaginary dogs.

“Please come, Mama.” She tugged at my jeans, her brown eyes pleading. “He’s crying—and he can’t walk!”

“Can’t walk”? Now that was a twist. All her previous make-believe dogs could do marvelous things. One balanced a ball on the end of its nose. Another dug a hole that went all the way through the earth and fell out on a star on the other side. Still another danced on a tightrope. Why suddenly a dog that couldn’t walk?

“All right, honey,” I said. By the time I tried to follow her, Becky had already disappeared into the mesquite. “Where are you?” I called.

“Over here by the oak stump. Hurry, Mama!”

I parted the thorny branches and raised my hand against the glare of the Arizona sun. A numbing chill gripped me.

There she was, sitting on her heels, toes dug firmly in the sand, and cradled in her lap was the unmistakable head of a wolf! Beyond its head rose massive black shoulders. The rest of the body lay completely hidden inside the hollow stump of a fallen oak.

“Becky.” My mouth felt dry. “Don’t move.” I stepped closer. Pale-yellow eyes narrowed. Black lips tightened, exposing double sets of two-inch fangs. Suddenly the wolf trembled. Its teeth clacked, and a piteous whine rose from its throat.

“It’s all right, boy,” Becky crooned. “Don’t be afraid. That’s my mama, and she loves you, too.”

Then the unbelievable happened. As her tiny hands stroked the great shaggy head, I heard the gentle thump, thump, thumping of the wolf’s tail from deep inside the stump.

What was wrong with the animal?
I wondered. Why couldn’t he get up? I couldn’t tell. Nor did I dare to step any closer.

I glanced at the empty water bowl. My memory flashed back to the five skunks that last week had torn the burlap from a leaking pipe in a frenzied effort to reach water during the final agonies of rabies. Of course! Rabies! Warning signs had been posted all over the county, and hadn’t Becky said, “He’s so thirsty”?

I had to get Becky away. “Honey.” My throat tightened. “Put his head down and come to Mama. We’ll go find help.”

Reluctantly, Becky got up and kissed the wolf on the nose before she walked slowly into my outstretched arms. Sad yellow eyes followed her. Then the wolf’s head sank to the ground.

With Becky safe in my arms, I ran to the barns where Brian, one of our cowhands, was saddling up to check heifers in the north pasture.

“Brian! Come quickly. Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near the wash! I think it has rabies!”

“I’ll be there in a jiffy,” he said as I hurried back to the house, anxious to put Becky down for her nap. I didn’t want her to see Brian come out of the bunkhouse. I knew he’d have a gun.

“But I want to give my doggy his water,” she cried. I kissed her and gave her some stuffed animals to play with. “Honey, let Mom and Brian take care of him for now,” I said.

Moments later, I reached the oak stump. Brian stood looking down at the beast. “It’s a Mexican
lobo
, all right,” he said, “and a big one!” The wolf whined. Then we both caught the smell of gangrene.