Vets Might Fly Read online

  that the Slightest touch or sound throws them into violent

  contractions."

  "But why does a dog stretch out like that?"

  "Because the extensor muscles are stronger than the flexors, causing

  the back to be arched and the legs extended."

  He nodded.

  "I see, but . .. I believe it is usually fatal. What is it that .

  kills them?"

  "They die of asphyxia due to paralysis of the respiratory centre or

  contract) of the diaphragm."

  Maybe he wanted to ask more, but it was painful for him and he stay

  silent. .

  "There's one thing I'd like you to know, Mr Bartle," I said.

  "It is almost certainly not a painful condition."

  "Thank you." He bent and briefly stroked the sleeping dog.

  "So nothing more can be done?"

  I shook my head.

  "The barbiturate keeps the spasms in abeyance and we'll go on hoping he

  hasn't absorbed too much strychnine. I'll call back later, or y can

  ring me if he gets worse. I can be here in a few minutes."

  Driving away, I pondered on the irony that made Darrow by a paradise

  for dog killers as well as dog lovers. There were grassy tracks

  everywhere; wandering by the river's edge, climbing the fell-sides and

  coiling green and tempting among the heather on the high tops. I often

  felt sympathy for pet owners in the big' cities, trying to find places

  to walk their dogs. Here in Darrow by we could take our pick. But so

  could the poisoner. He could drop his deadly bait unobserved in a

  hundred different places.

  I was finishing the afternoon surgery when the 'phone rang. It was Mr

  Bartle.

  "Has he started the spasms again?" I asked.

  There was a pause.

  "No, I'm afraid Jasper is dead. He never regained consciousness."

  "Oh . . . I'm very sorry." I felt a dull despair. That was the

  seventh death in a week.

  "Well, thank you for your treatment, Mr Herriot. I'm sure nothing

  could have saved him."

  I hung up the 'phone wearily. He was right. Nothing or nobody could

  have done any good in this case, but it didn't help. If you finish up

  with a dead animal there is always the feeling of defeat.

  Next day I was walking on to a farm when the farmer's wife called to

  me.

  "I have a message for you to ring back to the surgery."

  I heard Helen's voice at the other end.

  "Jack Brim ham has just come in with his dog. I think it's another

  strychnine case." : I excused myself and drove back to Darrow by at

  top speed. Jack Brim ham was a builder. He ran a one-man business and

  whatever job he was on repairing roofs or walls or chimneys his little

  white rough-haired terrier went with him, and you could usually see the

  little animal nosing among the piles of bricks, exploring in the

  surrounding fields.

  Jack was a friend, too. I often had a beer with him at the Drovers'

  Arms and I recognised his van outside the surgery. I trotted along the

  passage and found him leaning over the table in the consulting room.

  His dog was stretched there in that attitude which I dreaded.

  "He's gone, Jim," he muttered.

  I looked at the shaggy little body. There was no movement, the eyes

  stared silently. The legs, even in death, strained across the smooth

  surface of the table.

  It was pointless, but I slipped my hand inside the thigh and felt for

  the femoral artery. There was no pulse.

  "I'm sorry, Jack," I said.

  He didn't answer for a moment.

  "I've been read in' about this in the paper, Jim, but I never thought

  it would happen to me. It's a bugger, isn't it?"

  I nodded He was a craggy-faced man, a tough Yorkshire man with a humour

  and integrity which I liked and a soft place inside which his dog had

  occupied.

  I did not know what to say to him.

  "Who's coin' this?" he said, half to himself.

  "I don't know, Jack. Nobody knows."

  "Well I wish I could have five minutes with him; that's all." He

  gathered the rigid little form into his arms and went out.

  My troubles were not over for that day. It was about 11 p.m. and I had

  just got into bed when Helen nudged me.

  "I think there's somebody knocking at the front door, Jim."

  I opened the window and looked out. Old Board man, the lame veteran of

  the first war who did odd jobs for us, was standing on the steps.

  "Mr Herriot," he called up to me.

  "I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, but Patch is ill."

  I leaned further out.

  "What's he doing?"

  "He's like a bit o' wood stiff like, and laid on 'is side."

  i I didn't bother to dress, Just pulled my working corduroys over my

  pyjamas and went down the stairs two at a time. I grabbed what I

  needed from the dispensary and opened the front door. The old man, in

  shirt sleeves, caught at my arm.

  "Come quickly, Mr Herriot!" He limped ahead of me to his little house

  about twenty yards away in the lane round the corner.

  Patch was like all the others. The fat spaniel I had seen so often

  waddling round the top yard with his master was in that nightmare

  position on the kitchen floor, but he had vomited, which gave me hope.

  I administered the intravenous injection but as I withdrew the needle

  the breathing stopped.

  Mrs Board man, in nightgown and slippers, dropped on her knees and

  stretched a trembling hand towards the motionless animal.

  "Patch...." She turned and stared at me, wide-eyed.

  "He's dead!"

  I put my hand on the old woman's shoulder and said some sympathetic

  words. I thought grimly that I was get ting good at it. As I left I

  looked back at the two old people. Board man was kneeling now by his

  wife and even after I had closed the door I could hear their voices:

  "Patch . . . oh Patch."

  I almost reeled over the few steps to Skeldale House and before going

  in I stood in the empty street breathing the cool air and trying to

  calm my racing thoughts. With Patch gone, this thing was get ting very

  near home. I saw that dog every day. In fact all the dogs that had

  died were old friends in a little town like Darrow by you came to know

  your patients personally. Where was it going to end?

  I didn't sleep much that night and over the next few days I was

  obsessed with apprehension. I expected another poison ing with every

  'phone call and took care never to let my own dog, Sam, out of the car

  in the region of the town. Thanks to my job I was able to exercise him

  miles away on the summits of the fells, but even there I kept him close

  to me.

  By the fourth day I was beginning to feel more relaxed. Maybe the

  nightmare was over. I was driving home in the late afternoon past the

  row of grey cottages at the end of the Houlton Road when a woman ran

  waving into the road.

  "Oh, Mr Herriot," she cried when I stopped.

  "I was just goin' to t'phone box when I saw you."

  I pulled up by the kerb.

  "It's Mrs Clifford, isn't it?"

  "Yes, Johnny's just come in and Fergus 'as gone queer. Collapsed and

  laid on t'floor."

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