James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  The strain on Mr Partridge must have been almost intolerable. At times I noticed the thick spectacles glinting balefully at the mob through his window, but most of the time he kept himself in hand, working calmly at his easel as though he were oblivious that every one of the creatures outside had evil designs on his treasure.

  Only rarely did his control snap. I witnessed one of these occasions when he rushed screaming from his doorway, laying about him with a walking stick; and I noticed that the polished veneer slipped from him and his cries rang out in broadest Yorkshire.

  ‘Gerrout, ye bloody rotten buggers! Gerrout of it!’

  He might as well have saved his energy because the pack scattered only for a few seconds before taking up their stations again.

  I felt for the little man but there was nothing I could do about it. My main feeling was of relief that the tumour was going down, but I had to admit to a certain morbid fascination at the train of events across the street.

  Percy’s walks were fraught with peril. Mr Partridge always armed himself with his stick before venturing from the house and kept Percy on a short lead, but his precautions were unavailing as the wave of dogs swept down on him. The besotted creatures, mad with passion, leapt on top of the little animal as the artist beat vainly on the shaggy backs and yelled at them; and the humiliating procession usually continued right across the market-place to the great amusement of the inhabitants.

  At lunch time most of the dogs took a break and at nightfall they all went home to bed, but there was one little brown spaniel type who, with the greatest dedication, never left his post. I think he must have gone almost without food for about two weeks because he dwindled practically to a skeleton, and I think he might have died if Helen hadn’t taken pieces of meat over to him when she saw him huddled trembling in the doorway in the cold darkness of the evening. I know he stayed there all night because every now and then a shrill yelping wakened me in the small hours and I deduced that Mr Partridge had got home on him with some missile from his bedroom window. But it made no difference; he continued his vigil undaunted.

  I don’t quite know how Mr Partridge would have survived if this state of affairs had continued indefinitely; I think his reason might have given way. But mercifully signs began to appear that the nightmare was on the wane. The mob began to thin as Percy’s condition improved and one day even the little brown dog reluctantly left his beat and slunk away to his unknown home.

  That was the very day I had Percy on the table for the last time. I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I ran a fold of the scrotal skin between my fingers.

  ‘There’s nothing there now, Mr Partridge. No thickening, even. Not a thing.’

  The little man nodded. ‘Yes, it’s a miracle, isn’t it! I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve done. I’ve been so terribly worried.’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine. You’ve been through a bad time. But I’m really as pleased as you are yourself – it’s one of the most satisfying things in practice when an experiment like this comes off.’

  But often over the subsequent years, as I watched dog and master pass our window, Mr Partridge with all his dignity restored, Percy as trim and proud as ever, I wondered about that strange interlude.

  Did the Stilboestrol really reduce that tumour or did it regress naturally? And were the extraordinary events caused by the treatment or the condition or both?

  I could never be quite sure of the answer, but of the outcome I could be happily certain. That unpleasant growth never came back . . . and neither did all those dogs.

  Veterinarians and physicians have contacted me from all over the world about this case of a cancerous testicle in the hope that I might be able to help in similar problems. Sadly I have to record that Stilboestrol does not always work; but I am glad it did with Percy, especially after his harrowing spell as a bitch in heat. On another note, the memory of the queue of dogs outside Mr Partridge’s house brings home to me the fact that we very rarely see such a thing in our town now. Those amorous throngs used to be quite commonplace years ago but they are almost a thing of the past. Partly responsible, of course, is the spaying of bitches which we now do on a wide scale, and the various injections and tablets which can suppress or prevent a heat period. Many people prefer bitches for pets, but there is always that snag which happily can now be overcome.

  15. Granville Bennett

  This was one for Granville Bennett. I liked a bit of small animal surgery and was gradually doing more as time went on, but this one frightened me. A twelve-year-old spaniel bitch in the last stages of pyometritis, pus dripping from her vulva on to the surgery table, temperature a hundred and four, panting, trembling, and, as I held my stethoscope against her chest I could hear the classical signs of valvular insufficiency. A dicky heart was just what I needed on top of everything else.

  ‘Drinking a lot of water, is she?’ I asked.

  Old Mrs Barker twisted the strings of her shopping bag anxiously. ‘Aye, she never seems to be away from the water bowl. But she won’t eat – hasn’t had a bite for the last four days.’

  ‘Well I don’t know.’ I took off my stethoscope and stuffed it in my pocket. ‘You should have brought her in long ago. She must have been ill for weeks.’

  ‘Not rightly ill, but a bit off it. I thought there was nothing to worry about as long as she was eating.’

  I didn’t say anything for a few moments. I had no desire to upset the old girl but she had to be told.

  ‘I’m afraid this is rather serious, Mrs Barker. The condition has been building up for a long time. It’s in her womb, you see, a bad infection, and the only cure is an operation.’

  ‘Well, will you do it, please?’ The old lady’s lips quivered.

  I came round the table and put my hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I’d like to, but there are snags. She’s in poor shape and twelve years old. Really a poor operation risk. I’d like to take her through to the Veterinary Hospital at Harrington and let Mr Bennett operate on her.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, nodding eagerly. ‘I don’t care what it costs.’

  ‘Oh we’ll keep it down as much as possible.’ I walked along the passage with her and showed her out of the door. ‘Leave her with me – I’ll look after her, don’t worry. What’s her name, by the way?’

  ‘Dinah,’ she replied huskily, still peering past me down the passage.

  I went through and lifted the phone. Thirty years ago country practitioners had to turn to the small animal experts when anything unusual cropped up in that line. It is different nowadays when our practices are more mixed. In Darrowby now we have the staff and equipment to tackle any type of small animal surgery, but it was different then. I had heard it said that sooner or later every large animal man had to scream for help from Granville Bennett and now it was my turn.

  ‘Hello, is that Mr Bennett?’

  ‘It is indeed.’ A big voice, friendly, full of give.

  ‘Herriot here. I’m with Farnon in Darrowby.’

  ‘Of course! Heard of you, laddie, heard of you.’

  ‘Oh . . . er . . . thanks. Look, I’ve got a bit of a sticky job here. I wonder if you’d take it on for me.’

  ‘Delighted, laddie, what is it?’

  ‘A real stinking pyo.’

  ‘Oh lovely!’

  ‘The bitch is twelve years old.’

  ‘Splendid!’

  ‘And toxic as hell.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘And one of the worst hearts I’ve heard for a long time.’

  ‘Fine, fine! When are you coming through?’

  ‘This evening, if it’s OK with you. About eight.’

  ‘Couldn’t be better, laddie. See you.’

  Harrington was a fair-sized town – about 200,000 inhabitants – but as I drove into the centre the traffic had thinned and only a few cars rolled past the rows of shop fronts. I hoped my twenty-five mile journey had been worth it. Dinah, stretched out on a blanket in the back, looked as if she di