James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  I looked. And I saw only what I had always seen, the snow-white, shaggy-haired little object regarded by local dog breeders and other cognoscenti as a negligible mongrel but nevertheless one of my favourite patients. Mr Partridge, looking through the window of a pet shop in Brawton about five years ago, had succumbed immediately to the charms of two soulful eyes gazing up at him from a six-week-old tangle of white hair and had put down his five bob and rushed the little creature home. Percy had been described in the shop somewhat vaguely as a ‘terrier’, and Mr Partridge had flirted fearfully with the idea of having his tail docked; but such was his infatuation that he couldn’t bring himself to cause such a mutilation and the tail had grown in a great fringed curve almost full circle over the back.

  To me, the tail nicely balanced the head which was undoubtedly a little too big for the body, but Mr Partridge had been made to suffer for it. His old friends in Darrowby who, like all country folks, considered themselves experts with animals, were free with their comments. I had heard them at it. When Percy was young it was:

  ‘Time ye had that tail off, Rolie. Ah’ll bite it off for ye if ye like.’ And later, again and again: ‘Hey, Rolie, you should’ve had that dog’s tail off when he were a pup. He looks bloody daft like that.’

  When asked Percy’s breed Mr Partridge always replied haughtily, ‘Sealyham Cross’, but it wasn’t as simple as that; the tiny body with its luxuriant bristling coat, the large, rather noble head with high, pricked ears, the short, knock-kneed legs and that tail made him a baffling mixture.

  Mr Partridge’s friends again were merciless, referring to Percy as a ‘tripe-’ound’ or a ‘mouse-’ound’, and though the little artist received these railleries with a thin smile I knew they bit deep. He had a high regard for me based simply on the fact that the first time I saw Percy I exclaimed quite spontaneously, ‘What a beautiful little dog!’ And since I have never had much time for the points and fads of dog breeding I really meant it.

  ‘Just what is wrong, Mr Partridge?’ I asked. ‘I can’t see anything unusual.’

  Again the little man appeared to be uneasy. ‘Well now, watch as he walks across the floor. Come, Percy my dear.’ He moved away from me and the dog followed him.

  ‘No . . . no . . . I don’t quite understand what you mean.’

  ‘Watch again.’ He set off once more. ‘It’s at his . . . his er . . . back end.’

  I crouched down. ‘Ah now, yes, wait a minute. Just hold him there, will you?’

  I went over and had a close look. ‘I see it now. One of his testicles is slightly enlarged.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . quite.’ Mr Partridge’s face turned a shade pinker. ‘That is . . . er . . . what I thought.’

  ‘Hang on to him a second while I examine it.’ I lifted the scrotum and palpated gently. ‘Yes, the left one is definitely bigger and it is harder too.’

  ‘Is it . . . anything serious?’

  I paused. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. Tumours of the testicles are not uncommon in dogs and fortunately they aren’t inclined to metastasise – spread through the body – very readily. So I shouldn’t worry too much.’

  I added the last bit hastily because at the mention of the word ‘tumour’ the colour had drained from his face alarmingly.

  ‘That’s a growth, isn’t it?’ he stammered.

  ‘Yes, but there are all kinds and a lot of them are not malignant. So don’t worry but please keep an eye on him. It may not grow much, but if it does you must let me know immediately.’

  ‘I see . . . and if it does grow?’

  ‘Well the only thing would be to remove the testicle.’

  ‘An operation?’ The little man stared at me and for a moment I thought he would faint.

  ‘Yes, but not a serious one. Quite straightforward, really.’ I bent down and felt the enlargement again. It was very slight. From the front end, Percy kept up a continuous musical growling. I grinned. He always did that – when I took his temperature, cut his nails, anything; a nonstop grumble – and it didn’t mean a thing. I knew him well enough to realise there was no viciousness in him; he was merely asserting his virility, reminding me what a tough fellow he was, and it was not idle boasting because for all his lack of size he was a proud, mettlesome little dog, absolutely crammed with character.

  After I had left the house I looked back and saw Mr Partridge standing there watching me. He was clasping and unclasping his hands.

  And even when I was back in the surgery half of me was still in that odd little studio. I had to admire Mr Partridge for doing exactly what he wanted to do, because in Darrowby he would never get any credit for it. A good horseman or cricketer would be revered in the town but an artist . . . never. Not even if he became famous, and Mr Partridge would never be famous. A few people bought his paintings but he could not have lived on the proceeds. I had one of them hanging in our bed-sitter and to my mind he had a definite gift. In fact I would have tried to afford more of them but for the fact that he obviously shrank from that aspect of the Yorkshire Dales which I loved most.

  If I had been able to paint I would have wanted to show how the walls climbed everywhere over the stark fell-sides. I would have tried to capture the magic of the endless empty moors with the reeds trembling over the black bog pools. But Mr Partridge went only for the cosy things: willows hanging by a rustic bridge, village churches, rose-covered cottages.

  Since Percy was a near neighbour I saw him nearly every day, either from our bed-sitter at the top of the house or from the surgery below. His master exercised him with great zeal and regularity and it was a common sight to see the artist passing on the other side of the road with the little animal trotting proudly beside him. But from that distance it was impossible to see if the tumour was progressing, and since I heard nothing from Mr Partridge I assumed that all was well. Maybe that thing had grown no more. Sometimes it happened that way.

  Keeping a close watch on the little dog reminded me of other incidents connected with him, particularly the number of times he was involved in a fight. Not that Percy ever started a brawl – at ten inches high he wasn’t stupid enough for that – but somehow big dogs when they saw that dainty white figure prancing along were inclined to go for him on sight. I witnessed some of these attacks from our windows and the same thing happened every time: a quick flurry of limbs, a snarling and yelping and then the big dog retreated bleeding.

  Percy never had a mark on him – that tremendous thick coat gave him complete protection – but he always got a nip in from underneath. I had stitched up several of the local street fighters after Percy had finished with them.

  It must have been about six weeks later when Mr Partridge came in again. He looked tense.

  ‘I’d like you to have a look at Percy again, Mr Herriot.’

  I lifted the dog on to the surgery table and I didn’t need to examine him very closely.

  ‘It’s quite a lot bigger, I’m afraid.’ I looked across the table at the little man.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He hesitated. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Oh there’s no doubt at all he’ll have to come in for an operation. That thing must come off.’

  Horror and despair flickered behind the thick spectacles.

  ‘An operation!’ He leaned on the table with both hands. ‘I hate the idea, I just can’t bear the thought of it!’

  I smiled reassuringly. ‘I know how you feel, but honestly there’s nothing to worry about. As I told you before, it’s quite a simple procedure.’

  ‘Oh I know, I know,’ he moaned. ‘But I don’t want him to be . . . cut about, you understand . . . it’s just the idea of it.’

  And I couldn’t persuade him. He remained adamant and marched resolutely from the surgery with his pet. I watched him crossing the road to his house and I knew he had let himself in for a load of worry, but I didn’t realise just how bad it was going to be.

  It was to be a kind of martyrdom.

  I do not think martyrdom is too stron