The Incident

To-day, the day after the 150th anniversary of the birth of Anton Chekhov, I listened to one of his stories on BBC Radio7. Titled 'The Incident', it tells how two children, a boy aged 6 and a girl aged 4, wake one morning to discover their cat has had kittens. The offspring of parents wealthy enough to have their children brought up by a nurse and a governess, they are filled with an interest and curiosity not shared by the adults around them. They treat the three blind kittens like toys and as objects for experimentation. They plan a future for each of the little animals and appoint their uncle's dog as the kittens' father. I shall not divulge how the story ends.

Chekhov has a strong opinion about the beneficial effect of pets in the life of children. Animals show patience, fidelity, readiness to forgive and sincerity, he claims. Living with them can have a greater effect on children than what is imparted during formal education.

Goldfinch

When it thawed during the night making the snow pleasantly slippery, I walked and slid round the house forming small snowballs and throwing them for Banjo to chase. He stayed outdoors when I was driven inside by icy red hands. Before these had warmed, I heard a cat's cry and rushed out fearing that Banjo had injured himself. Rounding a corner I saw him coming towards me with something in his mouth, and followed him back to the steps outside the back door. There he dropped a little bird which I picked up and stroked. It was the first time I had seen a goldfinch and I was astounded by the bright beauty of the feathers which covered its still warm body.

Banjo had brought the dead bird to show me and expected congratulations and, perhaps, reassurance that the bird was safe to eat. He purred while I petted him, feeling sad at the loss of the beautiful goldfinch whose gleaming gold, black and red on a sandy background had made it conspicuous to an accomplished hunter.

Soon I realised that I, a meat eater, was being superficial, in judging the value of a creature by what pleases the eye. No amount of sentimentality on my part can make a bird immortal and, even if cats did not exist, I suspect we would find very few geriatric goldfinches. The weather, disease or other predators might terminate a vulnerable life. I do not have the knowledge to decide which is more desirable; for Banjo to dine on beef or on goldfinch.

Banjo in his element

Hair-balls

In 'James Herriot's Cat Stories we read about a large, sleek, handsome neutered male cat who was at home in a tiny, but thriving sweet shop. He sat at the end of the counter (it was the middle of last century), placid and dignified, watching the owner of the shop whom he greatly resembled, serve his customers.

One afternoon Herriot, a vet, was asked to examine Alfred because Geoff, his master, was concerned by his loss of appetite and lack of energy. He could find nothing wrong with the animal and gave him a vitamin injection, but Alfred continued to deteriorate and was put on a course of mixed mineral and vitamin tablets. When these and other drugs and treatments failed to halt the loss of weight, the cat was brought to the surgery, but X-rays and blood tests showed no abnormality.

Alfred began to look gaunt; his fur was lacklustre, his eyes dull. His master too, lost weight and was showing signs of depression, but then, when the animal started to vomit, something was said which provided a clue to the problem. Geoff revealed how, before his illness, Alfred had groomed himself obsessively, and Herriot thought, 'Hair-balls.'

An operation revealed a large, matted hair-ball in the cat's stomach and several smaller ones in other parts of his digestive system. The operation was a major one and recovery of both Alfred and his master took about a month, but this story had a happy ending.

Our Banjo, like Alfred, is a large neutered male with a luxuriant coat. He occasionally regurgitates hair-balls. I have learned that he needs to have his fur combed with a fine comb, especially when he is moulting. Provided I am careful not to pull any matts he might have, he purrs loudly to show his appreciation.

Photographing Sherpa

Most of us want to look our best when we are having our photograph taken, and Sherpa seems to be no exception. When she saw me with the camera she decided to have a quick clean-up before looking straight at the lens. The three posts below show her doing this.

How many humans do you know who can do this?

Please be patient (like me). it"ll just take a few more licks

Wasn't it worth the trouble?

Paw Tracks in the Moonlight

Twelve people writing very similar reviews for Amazon lauded this book. We listened to excerpts on BBC Radio 4's 'Book of the Week' and enjoyed the story of the cat, Toby Jug, but I am rarely tempted to buy books featured on 'Book of the Week' and in this case did not make an exception.

The story begins when the author, going outside after a blizzard, heard the scream of an animal in pain. After a search of the neighbourhood he found a silvery grey cat held by a hind leg in a gin trap. While he freed her she scrabbed and bit him and, when she was released she fled. After he had tended his cuts he made up his mind to follow the blood trail from the trap and came to a derelict barn. In the corner of a hay loft he found the cat with two kittens. By the time he reached the vet only one animal was still alive. Denis insisted on bringing this frail kitten home, if only that it might die by his fire, but, contrary to his expectations, the little creature responded to his attempts to feed it using the washed out ink sac of a fountain pen. While he was at work he kept the kitten in a jug beside the fire, hence the name he gave it, Toby Jug.

Toby Jug became Denis O'Connor's companion, slithering around the back seat of his car, being taken for walks in a chiwawa harness, climbing on to the author's shoulder when he felt threatened. He helped himself to a neighbour's tomatoes when his red ball was lost and, occupying a pannier, he went on a trekking holiday.

The book dissolves preconceived ideas about cats. At least some cats are not obsessed with comfort. Like Banjo in his younger days, Toby Jug romps in snow. Neither has he fear of water. In hot weather he likes to cool off in a bucket of it. A book which makes us think twice before we generalise is to be welcomed.