The Yorkshire Vet: One feisty feline and a funeral makes for an unusual Thursday afternoon

After the funeral, there was a very pleasant get together in the pub. An afternoon in the pub is not something that happens very often for me, especially not on a Thursday. There was plenty of reminiscence over happy times and amusing experiences shared over the years. Conversations brought more smiles than tears, which was how it should have been. Whilst waiting at the bar to organise some more drinks, a farmer came over to chat.

“I’m very impressed with how you find things to write about for your column in The Yorkshire Post,” he said. The conversation continued, as I explained the challenges, the process and its pitfalls. Anne nodded, adding, “We have a good system.”

It wasn’t long before my dad chipped into the conversation, too, “Well, you know, this chap is a regular writer of letters to the newspaper, so he knows a thing or two about contributing.” It transpired that he had a farm just up the road and bells quickly started to ring.

“Oh!” I said, “We used to call at your farm and pick strawberries in summer, on the way home from school.” He looked confused, until I explained, “I lived in Castleford and we went past your farm some days- as long as it wasn’t a day when I got the bus.”

“One weekend, when I was about five, we came to pick some raspberries,” I remembered, “I ate loads- rather than putting them in a punnet- and they were delicious. I decided I’d take a few extra, to eat later, and I filled the pockets of my shorts with them. It was only when I got home that I realised I’d made a terrible mistake as the squashed raspberries seeped through my shorts and pulped into the pockets. Mum went mad!”

There was no way of disguising my misdemeanour and I got a sound telling off. Not only had I stolen the raspberries (about twenty-five in total), but I had ruined my favourite pair of shorts- it was never going to end well. As I recounted the story, I felt it was opportune- forty-five years later- to buy the farmer a pint, to repay my debt for the misappropriated raspberries. But before I had chance, he was off to continue another discussion in the far corner of the pub with another local. I don’t think he was holding it against me.

Later that evening, back in Thirsk, I called into the practice to check the notes for the cat whose anal issues I’d left for others to deal with. I hoped the feisty tortoiseshell had behaved herself and that the investigation had been simple. According to the notes, it seemed so, although there were no details of how she had coped with the injections. Some laxatives had been prescribed. I hope the cat, and my colleagues, didn’t hold this against me either!