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was a well-liked man. And, of course, the ladies adored him and flocked to bask in his attentions.
     
    About a month later I was in the shop again to get some of Rosie’s favourite liquorice all-sorts and the picture was the same-Geoffrey smiling and booming, Alfred in his place, following every move, the pair of them radiating dignity and well-being. As I collected my sweets, the proprietor whispered in my ear. “I’ll be closing for lunch at twelve noon, Mr. Herriot. Would you be so kind as to call in and examine Alfred?” “Yes, of course.” I looked along the counter at the big cat. “Is he ill?” “Oh, no, no … but I just feel there’s something not right.” Later I knocked at the closed door and Geoffrey let me into the shop, empty for once, then through the curtained doorway into his sitting room. Mrs. Hatfield was at a table, drinking tea. She was a much earthier character than her husband. “Now then, Mr. Herriot, you’ve come to see t”little cat.”
    “He isn’t so little,” I said, laughing. And indeed, Alfred looked more massive than ever seated by the fire, looking calmly into the flames. When he saw me he got up, stalked unhurriedly over the carpet and arched his back against my legs. I felt strangely honoured. “He’s really beautiful, isn’t he?” I murmured. I hadn’t had a close look at him for some time and the friendly face with the dark stripes running down to the intelligent eyes appealed to me as never before. “Yes,” I said, stroking the fur which shone luxuriantly in the flickering firelight, “you’re a big beautiful fellow.” I turned to Mr. Hatfield. “He looks fine to me. What is it that’s worrying you?” “Oh, maybe it’s nothing at all. His appearance certainly has not altered in the slightest, but for over a week now I’ve noticed that he is not quite so keen on his food, not quite so lively. He’s not really ill … he’s just different.” “I see. Well, let’s have a look at him.” I went over the cat carefully.
    Temperature was normal, mucous membranes a healthy pink. I got out my stethoscope and listened to heart and lungs—notothing abnormal to hear. Feeling around the abdomen produced no clue. “Well, Mr.
    Hatfield,” I said, ‘there doesn’t seem to be anything obviously wrong with him. He’s maybe a bit run down, but he doesn’t look it.
    Anyway, I’ll give him a vitamin injection. That should buck him up.
    Let me know in a few days if he’s no better.” “Thank you indeed, sir.
    I am most grateful. You have set my mind at rest.” The big man reached out a hand to his pet. The confident resonance of his voice was belied by the expression of concern on his face. Seeing them together made me sense anew the similarity of man and cat—human and animal, yes, but alike in their impressiveness. I heard nothing about Alfred for a week and assumed that he had returned to normal, but then his master telephoned. “He’s just the same, Mr. Herriot. In fact, if anything, he has deteriorated slightly. I would be obliged if you would look at him again.” It was just as before. Nothing definite to see even on close examination. I put him on to a course of mixed minerals and vitamin tablets. There was no point in launching into treatment with our new antibiotics—there was no elevation of temperature, no indication of any infectious agent. I passed the alley every day—it was only about a hundred yards from Skeldale House—and I fell into the habit of stopping and looking in through the little window of the shop. Each day, the familiar scene presented itself; Geoff bowing and smiling to his customers and Alfred sitting in his place at the end of the counter. Everything seemed right, and yet … there was something different about the cat. I called in one evening and examined him again. “He’s losing weight,” I said. Geoffrey nodded. “Yes, I do think so. He is still eating fairly well, but not as much as before.” “Give him another