Every Living Thing Read online

“No, no, of course you’re not. And he’s still eating well, you say?”

  “Aye, never better, that’s what puzzles me.”

  “And is he drinking a lot?”

  “He is—allus at it.”

  I began to examine Bouncer, but even before I started there wasn’t much doubt in my mind. Loss of weight, voracious appetite, abnormal thirst, extreme lethargy. It could mean only one thing.

  “Arnie,” I said, “I think he has diabetes.”

  “Oh, ’ell, is that bad?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is when it has got as far as this. It can be fatal.”

  The big man stared at me, totally shocked. “Oh, don’t tell me that! Is he goin’ to die?”

  “I hope not. There’s a lot we can do.”

  “Can you start right away, Jim?” He ruffled his hair distractedly. “I mustn’t lose ’im.”

  “I will, Arnie, but first I’ve got to make sure. I must eliminate one or two other things like kidney trouble. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to get a urine sample from him. Stick a nice clean soup-plate under him when he cocks his leg and put it in this bottle, and bring it straight round with Bouncer to the surgery.”

  He nodded. “Right…I will…but maybe he’s not as bad as all that.” He lifted a football and rolled it up to the dog. “Now, lad,” he cried eagerly, “let’s see you do your Tom Finney.”

  Bouncer did not move. He touched the ball listlessly with his nose, then looked up at us with lack-lustre eyes. His master went over to him and stroked his head. “Oh, Bouncer, Bouncer,” he whispered.

  Next morning I tested the sample. Positive for glucose.

  “Now we know for sure, Arnie. It is diabetes, so this is what we do. I’m now giving him this injection of a small amount of insulin and you must come in every morning bringing Bouncer with a fresh sample which I will test. If still positive I will slightly increase the dose of insulin until he is stabilised, that is, when the urine is negative for glucose.”

  “Aye, ah’ll come in every day, for as long as it takes…that is, if he…if he stays alive.” The old man’s face was a doleful mask.

  I nodded. “If he stays alive, Arnie.”

  Sometimes in diabetes the first shot of insulin brings a spectacular improvement, but it wasn’t so with Bouncer. He was too far gone for that. For several mornings Arnie brought him round and I looked in vain for even a hint of better things. The big dog was a woebegone, lifeless creature so different from the all-round athlete of former days. Arnie, grim and resolute, was there on the dot of nine o’clock, and after ten days I commiserated with him.

  “Arnie, it’s tough on you having to do this day after day.”

  He stuck out his chin. “I’ll come round here on me hands and knees till kingdom come if it’ll save me dog.”

  It was just around then that I sensed a difference in Bouncer. He was still as skinny as ever, still as apathetic, but there was the suggestion of a gleam in his eyes—they were losing something of their dead look. From then on my hopes grew, as the big dog slowly began to show signs of his old vitality, and after three weeks of the treatment the daily sample was negative and I had a happy, tail-wagging animal looking at me as though he was quite ready for a game.

  “Arnie,” I said, “he’s stabilised at last. He’s going to be all right. But it’s over to you, now. You’ll have to give your dog a shot of insulin every morning for the rest of his life.”

  “Eh? Me inject ’im?” He didn’t look very happy about it.

  “Yes, you can do that, can’t you? After his morning meal. It’ll soon be part of your daily programme.”

  He gave me a doubtful look, but didn’t say anything and I supplied him with all he would require.

  Once Bouncer had turned the corner his recovery proceeded at a galloping pace, and Arnie after a few days brushed aside my doubts about his ability to carry out the injections. In fact it transpired that for some time he had been a sort of personal assistant to an army surgeon during the Balkans campaign and was very familiar with hypodermics.

  My final happy memory of the diabetes episode was when I looked over the hedge into Arnie’s garden and saw him wrestling with Bouncer on the grass.

  “What are you up to, Arnie?” I cried.

  “Doing a low tackle on Bouncer—teachin’ ’im rugby,” came the reply.

  As autumn stretched into winter, there was considerable excitement in Darrowby when it was announced that the important men’s hockey match between the rural counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire was to be played on the local ground. They were two of the top teams and contained several international players. Everybody was looking forward to seeing these famous men in action and on the Saturday afternoon I got to the ground in what I hoped would be good time. However, people were already standing several deep round the touch-lines—I’d never seen such a crowd there—and I was wondering where I could find a vantage spot when I heard a voice calling.

  “Hey, Jim, there’s a spare seat over here.”

  It was Arnie, comfortably settled in one of the seats in front of the clubhouse.

  “Are you sure, Arnie?”

  “Aye, ah’ve been keeping it for you. Sit down.”

  Well, this was very nice. The game was just about to start and I had a perfect view. I felt something stirring against my trouser leg and saw that it was Bouncer’s nose pushing at me. He was in his usual place under his master’s seat and he seemed to be telling me that he was in top form again.

  I tickled his ears while I watched the match. The standard of play was very high with the four internationals shining above the rest.

  Arnie kept up a running commentary.

  “There’s Pip Chapman, Yorkshire captain and England centre forward—old pal of mine. And Greg Holroyd, captain of Lancashire and England winger—another good old mate, and those two other internationals, Tim Mowbray and Johnnie Hart—I know ’em all well, known ’em for years.”

  At half-time as the players gathered in the middle of the pitch, Arnie was in expansive mood. “It’s nice to see the winter games startin’ again, but I keep thinkin’ about that last cricket match of the season at Scarborough cricket festival. I was just sittin’ there enjoying the sunshine when Fred Trueman spotted me. ‘Arnie,’ he said, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ ?

  This last remark attributed to another of cricket’s immortals seemed to amuse a group of young men sitting behind us. After a few half-stifled giggles one of them spoke up.

  “Fred Trueman, Arnie? The real Fred Trueman? Looking for you everywhere?” Arnie, grim-faced, nodded slightly with the dignity born of long practice, and this evoked another outburst of sniggers with sotto voce repetitions of “looking for you everywhere,” a phrase that seemed to tickle them.

  My friend ignored them, rigid in his seat, eyes gazing fixedly ahead, till another of the youths returned to the attack. “I hear you’ve got some old pals out there on the field, too, Arnie? Those four top men—known ’em for years, eh?” Again Arnie nodded briefly and I felt a sharp twinge of apprehension. We were heading into deep water this time with the tangible evidence of his claims running around in front of us. Arnie was sitting on the end seat, right next to the aisle up which the teams would have to pass to get to the clubhouse; those men would be within touching distance of him. They couldn’t fail to see him.

  When the final whistle blew and the players began to make their way towards us, my throat tightened. Something awful was surely going to happen and I wished with all my heart that I was somewhere else.

  Holroyd, the big, black-moustached Lancastrian, was the first to come clumping up the steps, face sweating, knees mud-spattered. He glanced at Arnie and brushed past him, then, as my stomach began to lurch, he stopped and took a step back. There was a pause as he looked down, then, “It’s Arnie Braithwaite!” he burst out. “Hello! How are you, old chap?” He began to pump my friend’s hand and called out to his team-mates. “Hey, Pip, Johnnie, Tim, look who’s here. It�€