A Comfort of Cats Read Online Free PDF

obvious.
    Â Â Not so much to Tim perhaps, who was used to it and in any case always closed the huts at dusk. But to Charles, six feet tall, venturing bent double into one of the runs to shut the door of the barrel... while it was still quite light because the door was a peculiar shape and he wanted to see what he was doing... 'Whass be up to now then?' came the inevitable question over the wall. Charles, turning to answer, collided with one of the random poles that supported the roof-wire, and before my own and Father Adams's very eyes the run collapsed on the floor.
    Â Â That was a minor incident, however. It was Polly who presented the biggest problem. If the Bannetts were going to be away for more than a few hours they brought her down to us, together with the number of feeding-bottles necessary to keep her going till they returned; a small bowl of concentrates with which, when it was her going-home time, we were supposed to entice her up the hill; her chain; a two-foot-long tethering pin shaped like a giant corkscrew; and a list of instructions as long as my arm.
    Â Â 'Be sure the pin is screwed right down to the base in the ground – you'd be surprised how strong she can be', was one. 'Make sure the milk is warmed to blood heat and don't let her suck air', was another.
    Â Â A chance would have been a fine thing. The moment that goat saw her milk-feed coming she was at it like a commando on an assault course. She made a jump for it, went backwards tugging like a rope-puller on it – I had a job to keep hold of the bottle. I had no chance to expel the air before she got at it and it wouldn't have made much difference if I had. She gulped in so much round the sides, sucking away like a corporation drain-clearer, it was a wonder she didn't blow up and float off.
    Â Â She survived though. Goats are obviously tougher than text-book writers imagine. She even appeared to like us. When Tim brought her down to the Valley to graze along the verges she'd start running as soon as she saw us. Hard down the road, trailing her lead, Tim following indulgently behind. She didn't bother about the gate. She came over the wall and rushed at us, ecstatically wagging her tail. Wasn't it wonderful , enthused Miss Wellington, how that dear little animal adored us?
    Â Â To a degree it was, but it didn't do the wall much good. It is dry-stone built and easily falls down. If Annabel was on the lawn, too – she didn't like Polly at all – Polly would put her head down and pretend-butt at Annabel. Annabel would turn her rear to kicking position. A pair of warning legs jutted backwards like the ready-cocked hammers of a shotgun – we were always having to jump in hastily to whip Polly out of firing range.
    Â Â It was no easier if the cats were with us. Shebalu crouched, crossed her eyes and growled like a tiger while Sass took up attack position. Back arched like a hairpin, tail bushed like a flue brush, he advanced sideways at her on long stiff legs with his head down, like a crab. The effect was somewhat spoiled by his tail sticking out at the wrong angle but there was no doubt that our dark man meant business. Tim would grab Polly's collar, I would pick up Saska – who would immediately take advantage of this to start up the most blood-curdling howling. Lucky for her I was holding him Back, he would announce from the safety of my shoulder. If he was down on the ground right now – gosh, he wouldn't half Fight.
    Â Â He might have done at that. He is the most fearless cat we have ever had, though whether it is innate bravery or thick-headedness we can't determine. Certainly neither the cats nor Annabel would have countenanced our having a goat of our own, though we liked Polly so much there were times when we thought of it. Only fleetingly, however. Something always seemed to happen to bring home the disadvantages of goat-keeping. Like the time we might have been arrested, had the public been