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replied briskly. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “He should be back any time now, then you’ll be able to see “im.” As she spoke, Sep raised a finger. “Ah think ah can hear “im now.” He walked over and opened the door and our Oscar strode in with all his old grace and majesty. He took one look at Helen and leaped on to her lap. With a cry of delight she put down her cup and stroked the beautiful fur as the cat arched himself against her hand and the familiar purr echoed round the room. “He knows me,” she murmured. “He knows me.” Sep nodded and smiled. “He does that. You were good to “im. He’ll never forget ye, and we won’t either, will we, Mother?” “No, we won’t, Mrs. Herriot,” his wife said as she applied butter to a slice of gingerbread. “That was a kind thing ye did for us and I “ope you’ll come and see us all whenever you’re near.” “Well, thank you,” I said. “We’d love to—we’re often in Brawton.” I went over and tickled Oscar’s chin, then I turned again to Mrs. Gibbons. “By the way, it’s after nine o”clock. Where has he been till now?” She poised her butter knife and looked into space.
    “Let’s see, now,” she said. “It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Ah yes, it’s “is night for the yoga class.”
     
    Boris and Mrs. Bond’s Cat Establishment “I work for cats.” That was how Mrs. Bond introduced herself on my first visit, gripping my hand firmly and thrusting out her jaw defiantly as though challenging me to make something of it. She was a big woman with a strong, high-cheekboned face and a commanding presence and I wouldn’t have argued with her anyway, so I nodded gravely as though I fully understood and agreed, and allowed her to lead me into the house. I saw at once what she meant. The big kitchen-living room had been completely given over to cats. There were cats on the sofas and chairs and spilling in cascades on to the floor, cats sitting in rows along the window sills and right in the middle of it all, little Mr. Bond, pallid, wispy-moustached, in his shirt sleeves reading a newspaper. It was a scene which was going to become very familiar. A lot of the cats were obviously uncastrated toms because the atmosphere was vibrant with their distinctive smell—a fierce pungency which overwhelmed even the sickly wisps from the big saucepans of nameless cat food bubbling on the stove.
    And Mr. Bond was always there, always in his shirt sleeves and reading his paper, a lonely little island in a sea of cats. I had heard of the Bonds, of course. They were Londoners who for some obscure reason had picked on North Yorkshire for their retirement.
    People said they had a “bit o” brass” and they had bought an old house on the outskirts of Darrowby where they kept themselves to themselves—and the cats. I had heard that Mrs. Bond was in the habit of taking in strays and feeding them and giving them a home if they wanted it and this had predisposed me in her favour, because in my experience the unfortunate feline species seemed to be fair game for every kind of cruelty and neglect. They shot cats, threw things at them, starved them and set their dogs on them for fun. It was good to see somebody taking their side. My patient on this first visit was no more than a big kitten, a terrified little blob of black and white crouching in a corner. “He’s one of the outside cats, ” Mrs. Bond boomed. “Outside cats?” “Yes. All these you see here are the inside cats. The others are the really wild ones who simply refuse to enter the house. I feed them, of course, but the only time they come indoors is when they are ill.” “I see.” “I’ve had frightful trouble catching this one. I’m worried about his eyes-there seemed to be a skin growing over them, and I do hope you can do something for him. His name, by the way, is George.” “George? Ah yes, quite.” I advanced cautiously on the little half-grown animal and was greeted