James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘Good to see you, Jim!’ he exclaimed, wringing my hand warmly. Then before removing his jacket he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded it with a trace of anxiety for a second before giving it a polish with his yellow cloth and placing it tenderly in a drawer.

  It wasn’t long before I was under the lamp in the operating room bending over Toby’s small outstretched form while Granville – the other Granville Bennett – worked with fierce concentration inside the abdomen of the little animal.

  ‘You see the gross gastric dilatation,’ he murmured. ‘Classical lesion.’ He gripped the pylorus and poised his scalpel. ‘Now I’m going through the serous coat.’ A quick deft incision. ‘A bit of blunt dissection here for the muscle fibres . . . down . . . down . . . a little more . . . ah, there it is, can you see it – the mucosa bulging into the cleft. Yes . . . yes . . . just right. That’s what you’ve got to arrive at.’

  I peered down at the tiny tube which had been the site of all Toby’s troubles. ‘Is that all, then?’

  ‘That’s all, laddie.’ He stepped back with a grin. ‘The obstruction is relieved now and you can take bets that this little chap will start to put weight on now.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Granville. I’m really grateful.’

  ‘Nonsense, Jim, it was a pleasure. You can do the next one yourself now, eh?’ He laughed, seized needle and sutures and sewed up the abdominal muscles and skin at an impossible pace.

  A few minutes later he was in his office pulling on his jacket, then as he filled his pipe he turned to me.

  ‘I’ve got a little plan for the rest of the morning, laddie.’

  I shrank away from him and threw up a protective hand. ‘Well now, er . . . it’s kind of you, Granville, but I really . . . I honestly must get back . . . we’re very busy, you know . . . can’t leave Siegfried too long . . . work’ll be piling up . . .’ I stopped because I felt I was beginning to gibber.

  My colleague looked wounded. ‘All I meant, old son, was that we want you to come to lunch. Zoe is expecting you.’

  ‘Oh . . . oh, I see. Well that’s very kind. We’re not going . . . anywhere else, then?’

  ‘Anywhere else?’ He blew out his cheeks and spread his arms wide. ‘Of course not. I just have to call in at my branch surgery on the way.’

  ‘Branch surgery? I didn’t know you had one.’

  ‘Oh yes, just a stone’s throw from my house.’ He put an arm round my shoulders. ‘Well let’s go, shall we?’

  As I lay back, cradled in the Bentley’s luxury, I dwelt happily on the thought that at last I was going to meet Zoe Bennett when I was my normal self. She would learn this time that I wasn’t a perpetually drunken oaf. In fact the next hour or two seemed full of rosy promise; an excellent lunch illumined by my witty conversation and polished manners, then back with Toby, magically resuscitated, to Darrowby.

  I smiled to myself when I thought of Nellie’s face when I told her her pet was going to be able to eat and grow strong and playful like any other pup. I was still smiling when the car pulled up on the outskirts of Granville’s home village. I glanced idly through the window at a low stone building with leaded panes and a wooden sign dangling over the entrance. It read ‘Old Oak Tree Inn’. I turned quickly to my companion.

  ‘I thought we were going to your branch surgery?’

  Granville gave me a smile of childish innocence. ‘Oh that’s what I call this place. It’s so near home and I transact quite a lot of business here.’ He patted my knee. ‘We’ll just pop in for an appetiser, eh?’

  ‘Now wait a minute,’ I stammered, gripping the sides of my seat tightly. ‘I just can’t be late today. I’d much rather . . .’

  Granville raised a hand. ‘Jim, laddie, we won’t be in for long.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s exactly twelve thirty and I promised Zoe we’d be home by one o’clock. She’s cooking roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and it would take a braver man than me to let her pudding go flat. I guarantee we’ll be in that house at one o’clock on the dot – OK?’

  I hesitated. I couldn’t come to much harm in half an hour. I climbed out of the car.

  As we went into the pub a large man, who had been leaning on the counter, turned and exchanged enthusiastic greetings with my colleague.

  ‘Albert!’ cried Granville. ‘Meet Jim Herriot from Darrowby. Jim, this is Albert Wainright, the landlord of the Wagon and Horses over in Matherley. In fact he’s the president of the Licensed Victuallers’ Association this year, aren’t you, Albert?’

  The big man grinned and nodded and for a moment I felt overwhelmed by the two figures on either side of me. It was difficult to describe the hard, bulky tissue of Granville’s construction but Mr Wainright was unequivocally fat. A checked jacket hung open to display an enormous expanse of striped shirted abdomen overflowing the waistband of his trousers. Above a gay bow tie cheerful eyes twinkled at me from a red face and when he spoke his tone was rich and fruity. He embodied the rich ambience of the term ‘Licensed Victualler’.

  I began to sip at the half pint of beer I had ordered but when another appeared in two minutes I saw I was going to fall hopelessly behind and switched to the whiskies and sodas which the others were drinking. And my undoing was that both my companions appeared to have a standing account here; they downed their drinks, tapped softly on the counter and said, ‘Yes please, Jack,’ whereupon three more glasses appeared with magical speed. I never had a chance to buy a round. In fact no money ever changed hands.

  It was a quiet, friendly little session with Albert and Granville carrying on a conversation of the utmost good humour punctuated by the almost soundless taps on the bar. And as I fought to keep up with the two virtuosos the taps came more and more frequently till I seemed to hear them every few seconds.

  Granville was as good as his word. When it was nearly one o’clock he looked at his watch.

  ‘Got to be off now, Albert. Zoe’s expecting us right now.’

  And as the car rolled to a stop outside the house dead on time I realised with a dull despair that it had happened to me again. Within me a witch’s brew was beginning to bubble, sending choking fumes into my brain. I felt terrible and I knew for sure I would get rapidly worse.

  Granville, fresh and debonair as ever, leaped out and led me into the house.

  ‘Zoe, my love!’ he warbled, embracing his wife as she came through from the kitchen.

  When she disengaged herself she came over to me. She was wearing a flowered apron which made her look if possible even more attractive.

  ‘Hel-lo!’ she cried and gave me that look which she shared with her husband as though meeting James Herriot was an unbelievable boon. ‘Lovely to see you again. I’ll get lunch now.’ I replied with a foolish grin and she skipped away.

  Flopping into an armchair I listened to Granville pouring steadily over at the sideboard. He put a glass in my hand and sat in another chair. Immediately the obese Staffordshire Terrier bounded on to his lap.

  ‘Phoebles, my little pet!’ he sang joyfully. ‘Daddykins is home again.’ And he pointed playfully at the tiny Yorkie who was sitting at his feet, baring her teeth repeatedly in a series of ecstatic smiles. ‘And I see you, my little Victoria, I see you!’

  By the time I was ushered to the table I was like a man in a dream, moving sluggishly, speaking with slurred deliberation. Granville poised himself over a vast sirloin, stropped his knife briskly, then began to hack away ruthlessly. He was a prodigal server and piled about two pounds of meat on my plate, then he started on the Yorkshire puddings. Instead of a single big one, Zoe had made a large number of little round ones as the farmers’ wives often did, delicious golden cups, crisply brown round the sides. Granville heaped about six of these by the side of the meat as I watched stupidly. Then Zoe passed me the gravy boat.

  With an effort I took a careful grip on the handle, closed one eye and began to pour. For some reason I felt I had to fill up each of the little puddings with gravy and owlishly directed the stream into on