S e c r e t s

One Sunday, at the end of his rounds, father came in with a twinkle in his eyes, carrying his battered old doctor’s “Gladstone bag” with more care than usual. He unfastened the catch, releasing a tiny meow, and then from the dark interior, the tiniest of kittens emerged. The funny thing was that in time he became father’s cat rather than ours. “Old Gladstone,” as he became known, always stayed by my father’s side of an evening, and, in later years, would often be seen out with him on his rounds. They’ve grown a bit old and deaf together, and father has now got himself a smart new case, so Gladstone can keep snug in the bag from whence he had once sprung. On the interior, Gladstone gets a fish served on one of the doctor’s kidney dishes.