Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Which one is it this time?”
    “It’s not one of the dogs. It’s . . . Debbie.”
    “Debbie? She’s at your house now?”
    “Yes . . . but there’s something wrong. Please come quickly.”
    Driving through the marketplace, I thought again that Darrowby on Christmas Day was like Dickens come to life; the empty square with the snow thick on the cobbles and hanging from the eaves of the fretted lines of roofs; the shops closed and the colored lights of the Christmas trees winking at the windows of the clustering houses, warmly inviting against the cold white bulk of the fells behind.
    Mrs. Ainsworth’s home was lavishly decorated with tinsel and holly, rows of drinks stood on the sideboard and the rich aroma of turkey and sage-and-onion stuffing wafted from the kitchen. But her eyes were full of pain as she led me through to the lounge.
    Debbie was there all right, but this time everything was different. She wasn’t sitting upright in her usual position; she was stretched quite motionless on her side, and huddled close to her lay a tiny black kitten.
    I looked down in bewilderment. “What’s happened here?”
    “It’s the strangest thing,” Mrs. Ainsworth replied. “I haven’t seen her for several weeks then she came in about two hours ago—sort of staggered into the kitchen, and she was carrying the kitten in her mouth. She took it through the lounge and laid it on the rug, and at first I was amused. But I could see all was not well because she sat as she usually does, but for a long time—over an hour— then she lay down like this and she hasn’t moved.”
    I knelt on the rug and passed my hand over Debbie’s neck and ribs. She was thinner than ever, her fur dirty and mud-caked. She did not resist as I gently opened her mouth. The tongue and mucous membranes were abnormally pale and the lips ice-cold against my fingers. When I pulled down her eyelid and saw the dead white conjunctiva, a knell sounded in my mind. I palpated the abdomen with a grim certainty as to what I would find and there was no surprise, only a dull sadness as my fingers closed around a hard lobulated mass deep among the viscera. Massive lymphosarcoma. Terminal and hopeless. I put my stethoscope on her heart and listened to the increasingly faint, rapid beat then I straightened up and sat on the rug looking sightlessly into the fireplace, feeling the warmth of the flames on my face.
    Mrs. Ainsworth’s voice seemed to come from afar. “Is she ill, Mr. Herriot?”
    I hesitated. “Yes . . . yes, I’m afraid so. She has a malignant growth.” I stood up. “There’s absolutely nothing you can do. I’m sorry.”
    “Oh!” Her hand went to her mouth and she looked at me wide-eyed. When at last she spoke her voice trembled. “Well, you must put her to sleep immediately. It’s the only thing to do. We can’t let her suffer.”
    “Mrs. Ainsworth,” I said. “There’s no need. She’s dying now—in a coma—far beyond suffering.”
    She turned quickly away from me and was very still as she fought with her emotions. Then she gave up the struggle and dropped to her knees beside Debbie. “Oh, poor little thing!” She sobbed and stroked the cat’s head again and again as the tears fell unchecked on the matted fur. “What she must have come through! I feel I ought to have done more for her.”
    For a few moments I was silent, feeling her sorrow, so discordant among the bright seasonal colors of this festive room. Then I spoke gently. “Nobody could have done more than you,” I said. “Nobody could have been kinder.”
    “But I’d have kept her here—in comfort. It must have been terrible out there in the cold when she was so desperately ill—I daren’t think about it. And having kittens, too—I . . . I wonder how many she did have?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know. Maybe just this one. It happens sometimes. And she brought it to you, didn’t she?”
    “Yes . . . that’s right . . . she did . . .