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few days on the tablets,” I said, “and if he’s no better I’ll have to get him round to the surgery and go into the thing a bit more deeply.” I had a nasty feeling there would be no improvement and there wasn’t, so one evening I took a cat cage round to the shop.
    Alfred was so huge that there was a problem fitting him into the container, but he didn’t resist as I bundled him gently inside. At the surgery I took a blood sample from him and X-rayed him. The plate was perfectly clear and when the report came back from the laboratory it showed no abnormality. In a way, it was reassuring, but that did not help because the steady decline continued. The next few weeks were something like a nightmare. My anxious peering through the shop window became a daily ordeal. The big cat was still in his place, but he was getting thinner and thinner until he was almost unrecognisable. I rang the changes with every drug and treatment I could think of, but nothing did any good. I had Siegfried examine him, but he thought as I did. The progressive emaciation was the sort of thing you would expect from an internal tumour, but further X-rays still showed nothing. Alfred must have been thoroughly fed up of all the pushing around, the tests, the kneading of his abdomen, but at no time did he show any annoyance.
    He accepted the whole thing placidly as was his wont. There was another factor which made the situation much worse. Geoff himself was wilting under the strain. His comfortable coating of flesh was dropping steadily away from him, the normally florid cheeks were pale and sunken and, worse still, his dramatic selling style appeared to be deserting him. One day I left my viewpoint at the window and pushed my way into the press of ladies in the shop. It was a harrowing scene. Geoff, bowed and shrunken, was taking the orders without even a smile, pouring the sweets listlessly into their bags and mumbling a word or two. Gone was the booming voice and the happy chatter of the customers, and a strange silence hung over the company. It was just like any other sweet shop. Saddest sight of all was Alfred, still sitting bravely upright in his place.
    He was unbelievably gaunt, his fur had lost its bloom and he stared straight ahead, dead-eyed, as though nothing interested him any more.
    He was like a feline scarecrow. I couldn’t stand it any longer. That evening I went round to see Geoff Hatfield. “I saw your cat today,”
    I said, “and he’s going rapidly downhill. Are there any new symptoms?” The big man nodded dully. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I was going to ring you. He’s been vomiting a bit.” I dug my nails into my palms. “There it is again. Everything points to something abnormal inside him and yet I can’t find a thing.” I bent down and stroked Alfred. “I hate to see him like this. Look at his fur. It used to be so glossy.” “That’s right,” replied Geoff, “he’s neglecting himself. He never washes himself now. It’s as though he can’t be bothered. And before, he was always at it—lick, lick, lick for hours on end.” I stared at him. His words had sparked something in my mind. “Lick, lick, lick.” I paused in thought. “Yes … when I think about it, no cat I ever knew washed himself as much as Alfred.
    …” The spark suddenly became a flame and I jerked upright in my chair. “Mr. Hatfield,” I said, “I want to do an exploratory operation!” “What do you mean?” “I think he’s got a hair-ball inside him and I want to operate to see if I’m right.” “Open him up, you mean?” “That’s right.” He put a hand over his eyes and his chin sank onto his chest. He stayed like that for a long time, then he looked at me with haunted eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never thought of anything like that.” “We’ve got to do something or this cat is going to die.” He bent and stroked Alfred’s head again and again, then without looking up he spoke in a husky voice. “All right,