From Lucillia: Dec 6. Small kitten found in a dustbin
Author's note: We have had a few like this already, so I have tried to go about it a little bit differently. I hope that I have not done too badly...
"Sometimes," growled Sherlock Holmes as he entered our sitting room, his coat pulled tightly about him and his arms folded across his chest, "I become quite disgusted with the human race. Upon my life Watson, cruelty is a dreadful trait for a fellow to have!"
"What do you mean?" I asked with no little concern as my imagination started to run away with me. After all, there was very little that could have befallen my companion to cause him to make such an announcement. "Have you been attacked?"
He stared back at me for a long moment and then smiled. "Yes, I expect that I do look a bit odd," he noted. "No, no! I am quite all right. It was not me against whom the cruelty was aimed. Really Watson! Do you honestly believe that I would return home to you complaining if that were the case? Why, I would have defended myself and returned in high spirits, having sent my aggressor packing, I assure you!"
That would rather have depended upon the act of cruelty itself and whether or not even Sherlock Holmes would have been able to defend himself, but I said no more.
"Then what are you talking about?" I asked of him instead.
Rather than giving me a reply, Holmes approached the fire and knelt before it with his back to me.
I approached the fellow slowly, still wondering what could be amiss. He was certainly behaving strangely.
"Still breathing," I heard him remark to himself with a quiet sigh of relief.
As I came to the fellow's side, I saw that his coat was now open and that he was holding a tiny ball of matted fur within his nervous fingers.
"What the deuce is that?"
My friend gave a slight start and then gazed up at me. "One of my Irregulars found this creature in a dustbin and brought it to me," he said quietly. "From all that he described, it was no accident that brought the poor thing to be in there either."
"But what do you intend to do with it?" I asked of him, surprised at this side to my companion perhaps more than I should have been.
He shrugged. "What would you suggest? This animal needs warmth first of all; that much is obvious."
"I am a doctor Holmes, not a veterinarian."
"Is that your advice then? That we send for one?" he asked. "You have not even looked at it! The kitten is frightfully thin and must be dreadfully cold, but I have seen no signs of illness."
"Exposure to the cold itself is dangerous," I informed him. "Regardless of the possible onset of illness as a result. Simply spending too much energy attempting to keep warm is dangerous enough."
"And if this kitten was a child suffering with exposure, what would you do?"
I smiled at him. "I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to warm some rags or a towel that she would not miss," I responded. "He shall need something to drink as well; exposure dehydrates and wastes energy. Warm sugared water is what I would give to a fellow human being."
"Then ask for some," Holmes requested. "And perhaps a hot water bottle. I cannot remain here in front of the fire like this for the rest of the evening. Oh! Watson..."
I turned in the doorway. "Yes?"
"Do not tell her about the kitten. I was thinking that I might surprise her."
I left the fellow to his ministrations while I gave our housekeeper a list of the things that we required.
"Oh my!" she threw up her hands and shook her head. "What has Mr. Holmes done to himself now? Will you be needing a basin of hot water?"
We might well have done, but I was not at all sure that she would like the thought of us bathing a dirty cat in one of her wash basins. All the same, I knew that Holmes would have told me that I should have replied that yes, we would, if only to give the appearance of normality.
"Then I shall send one up for you," she said kindly. "But warm sugared water? What is that for?"
I grimaced, but not for the reason that she undoubtedly thought. I wonder if Holmes had even considered the concern that not giving an explanation of these requirements would cause.
"Doctor," she snapped at the sight of my expression. "What is it used for?"
"Exposure patients," I replied quietly, wishing that I could only tell her that Holmes was perfectly all right. I had a feeling that he may not be when Mrs. Hudson learned the truth. "To rehydrate and restore energy," I added when she frowned at me quizzically.
She tutted. "I am surprised that he has not caught pneumonia," she grumbled as she put the kettle on to boil. "All the time that he spends wandering the streets. He doesn't eat enough, has little or no regard for his health..."
I patted her shoulder gently. "I shall try to persuade him to eat something," I assured her. That might serve to begin to make up for the concern that we were no doubt causing the kindly woman so needlessly.
When I returned to the sitting room, the cat's eyes were half-open and it was shivering feebly on my friend's lap.
"Is this a good sign?" my companion asked of me.
I nodded. "It means that he is warming up."
"When will we know that he is out of danger, would you say?"
"I am not sure Holmes. I suppose the best indication that he should survive would be if he is still with us in the morning."
He shook his head and stroked the animal with one finger.
"What made you decide to bring him home?"
He shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson has been complaining about mice invading the house. Besides, she is a kind-hearted woman and I thought that she might like some company," he smirked at me. "I have been wracking my brain, trying to work out what I should give to her, and then an ideal gift all but fell in my lap!"
I was not at all sure that the creature could be given as a pet. It smelt foul, for a start, and its fur was matted and filthy. Its green eyes were cloudy and seemed unable to open more than half-way.
"He shall need to be cleaned up, obviously," my companion remarked. "At least it is too cold out for fleas to survive; were it Summertime, we might have had to treat the rooms."
And Holmes too, no doubt. I grimaced at the thought. I do wish that my companion would have a care.
"Well, the first thing is to warm and feed this little chap, if chap he is," my companion noted. "We shall clean him when he is in less danger."
The hot water and rags arrived first, followed by a hot water bottle and some old, moth-eaten towels. We wrapped the hot water bottle in one of the towels and set the little cat upon it, allowing Holmes to at last stand and remove his outdoor clothing.
When the sugared water arrived, it was in a teacup. Holmes dismissed my suggestion that we pour some of the drink into a saucer and instead used his finger to feed the animal drop by drop. At first the kitten licked up the solution feebly, but it gradually perked itself up until it was able to drink the last of it from the saucer.
"More," my companion instructed as he thrust cup and saucer into my hand. "It is working. Get some more."
I obeyed without objection, though I was still surprised by Holmes' tenderness. I had not seen him quite like this before.
When we decided that the animal was strong enough, we washed him with the old rags and the basin of water, which we had kept warm in front of the fire. The kitten's dirty beige and brown coat proved to be silver tabby beneath. I commented that he was a handsome fellow and Holmes agreed with a small smile.
When supper arrived we ate heartily but the kitten did not move; his ordeal most likely leaving him too weary to feel any pangs of hunger.
After supper, my companion gathered the creature into his lap in his armchair and I sat across from him in my own. We chatted until I could no longer stifle my yawns and excused myself, but my friend showed no sign of tiredness or retiring to his bed.
"You do realise that there is little that you can do now?" I asked, concerned that he might blame himself should our efforts prove to be in vain. "We have done all that can be done; it is up to Providence whether he succumbs to shock from his ordeal during the night."
Holmes nodded. "I am aware of that Watson. Understand this: had you seen the state of this creature and heard the tale that my Irregular told to me when he was pressed into my hands, you would also wish to see that this animal received all the kindness that could be granted to him. If he should pass tonight, at least he shall go knowing of some affection."
I patted his shoulder. Words failed me for a moment and when I did again find my voice, all that I said was "Good night old fellow."
"Good night Watson," he returned quietly.
The following morning dawned bright and quiet. With some apprehension I dressed and made my way down to the sitting room.
Holmes was still seated in his chair before the fire, which had been allowed to go out. He appeared to be dozing, but one single finger was still stroking the silver and black fur. As I approached the hearth, I was aware of a soft purring; Holmes' ministrations, and perhaps more importantly show of affection, had been enough. I smiled to myself and tended to the fire before finding a rug for my friend, noting that he must have become cold by now.
When breakfast arrived, my companion set the sleeping animal upon our hearth rug, acknowledging that the danger should have passed. As we sat down to eat, I saw the kitten sit up and begin to put his fur in order. Before we were midway through our meal, the little fellow was purring loudly and rubbing himself against our legs and those of the furniture.
"He is hungry!" Holmes noted with a smile before giving the cat what remained of his bacon.
"Holmes!" I scolded.
He shrugged and smiled. "We cannot present him to Mrs. Hudson half-starved, can we? Incidentally, do you have any ribbon left from your wrapping?"
When Mrs. Hudson collected the breakfast tray, she was delighted to receive an early gift from us. She examined the fellow closely and announced that she had little doubt that he should become a fine mouser.
Noel, as the cat came to be named, has indeed grown to be a fine mouser. He is also very spoilt, as much by Holmes and myself as by the servants, and one would never believe that he was once an unwanted stray.