James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘Right . . . right . . .’ I stumbled down the garden path and drove away. It was not a happy departure.

  Next morning I could hardly believe it when there was no call from Marston. Maybe all was well at last. But I turned cold when an urgent call to go to Lilac Cottage was passed on to one of the farms on my round. I was right at the far end of the practice area and was in the middle of a tough calving, and it was well over three hours before I got out at the now familiar garden gate. The cottage door was open and as I ventured up the path a little brown missile hurtled out at me. It was Cindy, but a transformed Cindy, a snarling, barking little bundle of ferocity; and though I recoiled she fastened her teeth in my trouser cuff and hung on grimly.

  I was hopping around on one leg trying to shake off the growling little creature when a peal of almost girlish laughter made me look round.

  Mrs Dooley, vastly amused, was watching me from the doorway. ‘My word, she’s different since she had them pups. Just shows what a good little mother she is, guarding them like that.’ She gazed fondly at the tiny animal dangling from my ankle.

  ‘Had the pups . . . ?’

  ‘Aye, when they said you’d be a long time I rang Mr Farnon. He came right away and d’you know he gave Cindy that injection I’ve wanted all along. And I tell you ’e wasn’t right out of t’garden gate before the pups started. She’s had seven – beauties they are.’

  ‘Ah well that’s fine, Mrs Dooley . . . splendid.’ Siegfried had obviously felt a pup in the passage. I finally managed to rid myself of Cindy and when her mistress lifted her up I went into the kitchen to inspect the family.

  They certainly were grand pups and I lifted the squawking little morsels one by one from their basket while their mother snarled from Mrs Dooley’s arms like a starving wolfhound.

  ‘They’re lovely, Mrs Dooley,’ I murmured.

  She looked at me pityingly. ‘I told you what to do, didn’t I, but you wouldn’t ’ave it. It only needed a little prick. Ooo, that Mr Farnon’s a lovely man – just like Mr Broomfield.’

  That was a bit much. ‘But you must realise, Mrs Dooley, he just happened to arrive at the right time. If I had come . . .’

  ‘Now, now, young man, be fair. Ah’m not blamin’ you, but some people have had more experience. We all ’ave to learn.’ She sighed reminiscently. ‘It was just a little prick – Mr Farnon’ll have to show you how to do it. I tell you he wasn’t right out of t’garden gate . . .’

  Enough is enough. I drew myself up to my full height. ‘Mrs Dooley, madam,’ I said frigidly, ‘let me repeat once and for all . . .’

  ‘Oh, hoity toity, hoity toity, don’t get on your high horse wi’ me!’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ve managed very nicely without you so don’t complain.’ Her expression became very severe. ‘And one more thing – me name’s not Mrs Dooley.’

  My brain reeled for a moment. The world seemed to be crumbling about me. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said me name’s not Mrs Dooley.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘Naw!’ She lifted her left hand and as I gazed at it dully I realised it must have been all the mental stress which had prevented me from noticing the total absence of rings.

  ‘Naw!’ she said. ‘It’s Miss!’

  Points up the fact that sometimes you feel you are a loser from the start. When you can’t even get a client’s name right it is no use trying to prove you are using the correct treatment. When I first came to Darrowby Siegfried told me that veterinary practice offered unrivalled opportunities for making a fool of yourself. He was right.

  19. Only One Woof

  ‘Is this the thing you’ve been telling me about?’ I asked.

  Mr Wilkin nodded. ‘Aye, that’s it, it’s always like that.’

  I looked down at the helpless convulsions of the big dog lying at my feet; at the staring eyes, the wildly pedalling limbs. The farmer had told me about the periodic attacks which had begun to affect his sheepdog, Gyp, but it was coincidence that one should occur when I was on the farm for another reason.

  ‘And he’s all right afterwards, you say?’

  ‘Right as a bobbin. Seems a bit dazed, maybe, for about an hour, then he’s back to normal.’ The farmer shrugged. ‘I’ve had lots o’ dogs through my hands as you know and I’ve seen plenty of dogs with fits. I thought I knew all the causes – worms, wrong feeding, distemper – but this has me beat. I’ve tried everything.’

  ‘Well you can stop trying, Mr Wilkin,’ I said. ‘You won’t be able to do much for Gyp. He’s got epilepsy.’

  ‘Epilepsy? But he’s a grand, normal dog most of t’time.’

  ‘Yes, I know. That’s how it goes. There’s nothing actually wrong with his brain – it’s a mysterious condition. The cause is unknown but it’s almost certainly hereditary.’

  Mr Wilkin raised his eyebrows. ‘Well that’s a rum ’un. If it’s hereditary why hasn’t it shown up before now? He’s nearly two years old and he didn’t start this till a few weeks ago.’

  ‘That’s typical,’ I replied. ‘Eighteen months to two years is about the time it usually appears.’

  Gyp interrupted us by getting up and staggering towards his master, wagging his tail. He seemed untroubled by his experience. In fact the whole thing had lasted less than two minutes.

  Mr Wilkin bent and stroked the rough head briefly. His craggy features were set in a thoughtful cast. He was a big powerful man in his forties and now as the eyes narrowed in that face which rarely smiled he looked almost menacing. I had heard more than one man say he wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Sep Wilkin and I could see what they meant. But he had always treated me right and since he farmed nearly a thousand acres I saw quite a lot of him.

  His passion was sheepdogs. A lot of farmers like to run dogs at the trials but Mr Wilkin was one of the top men. He bred and trained dogs which regularly won at the local events and occasionally at the national trials. And what was troubling me was that Gyp was his main hope.

  He had picked out the two best pups from a litter – Gyp and Sweep – and had trained them with the dedication that had made him a winner. I don’t think I have ever seen two dogs enjoy each other quite as much; whenever I was on the farm I would see them together, sometimes peeping nose by nose over the half-door of the loose box where they slept, occasionally slinking devotedly round the feet of their master but usually just playing together. They must have spent hours rolling about in ecstatic wrestling matches, growling and panting, gnawing gently at each other’s limbs.

  A few months ago George Crossley, one of Mr Wilkin’s oldest friends and a keen trial man, had lost his best dog with nephritis and Mr Wilkin had let him have Sweep. I was surprised at the time because Sweep was shaping better than Gyp in his training and looked like turning out a real champion. But it was Gyp who remained. He must have missed his friend but there were other dogs on the farm and if they didn’t quite make up for Sweep he was never really lonely.

  As I watched, I could see the dog recovering rapidly. It was extraordinary how soon normality was restored after that frightening convulsion. And I waited with some apprehension to hear what his master would say.

  The cold, logical decision for him to make would be to have Gyp put down and, looking at the friendly, tail-wagging animal, I didn’t like the idea at all. There was something very attractive about him. The big-boned, well-marked body was handsome but his most distinctive feature was his head, where one ear somehow contrived to stick up while the other lay flat, giving him a lop-sided, comic appeal. Gyp, in fact, looked a bit of a clown. But a clown who radiated goodwill and camaraderie.

  Mr Wilkin spoke at last. ‘Will he get any better as he grows older?’

  ‘Almost certainly not,’ I replied.

  ‘Then he’ll always ’ave these fits?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. You say he has them every two or three weeks – well it will probably carry on more or less like that with occasional variations.’

  ‘But he could have o