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My first glance last night had decided me that this was a no-charging

  job and I hadn't even written it in the book, but I nodded solemnly.

  "Very well, Mr Dimmock, I'll do that.'

  And throughout our long association, though no money ever changed hands,

  he always said the same thing -"You'll send me a bill, won't you.'

  This was the beginning of my close relationship with the Dimmocks.

  Obviously they had taken a fancy to me and wanted to see as much as

  possible of me. Over the succeeding weeks and months they brought in a

  varied selection of dogs, cats, budgies, rabbits at frequent intervals,

  and when they found that my services were free they stepped up the

  number of visits; and when one came they all came. I was anxiously

  trying to expand the small animal side of the practice and increasingly

  my hopes were raised momentarily then dashed when I opened the door and

  saw a packed waiting room.

  And it increased the congestion when they started bringing their auntie,

  Mrs Pounder, from down the road with them to see what a nice chap I was.

  Mrs Pounder, a fat lady who always wore a greasy velour hat perched on

  an untidy mound of hair, evidently shared the family tendency to

  fertility and usually brought a few of her own ample brood with her.

  That is how it was this particular morning. I swept the assembled

  company with my eye but could discern only beaming Dimmocks and

  Pounders; and this time I couldn't even pick out my patient. Then the

  assembly parted and spread out as though by a prearranged signal and I

  saw little Nellie Dimmock with a tiny puppy on her knee.

  Nellie was my favourite. Mind you, I liked all the family; in fact they

  were such nice people that I always enjoyed their visits after that

  first disappointment. Mum and Dad were always courteous and cheerful and

  the children, though boisterous, were never ill-mannered; they were

  happy and friendly and if they saw me in the street they would wave

  madly and go on waving till I was out of sight. And I saw them often

  because they were continually scurrying around the town doing odd jobs -

  delivering milk or papers. Best of all, they loved their animals and

  were kind to them.

  But as I say, Nellie was my favourite. She was about nine and had

  suffered an attack of "infantile paralysis', as it used to be called,

  when very young. It had left her with a pronounced limp and a frailty

  which set her apart from her robust brothers and sisters. Her painfully

  thin legs seemed almost too fragile to carry her around but above the

  pinched face her hair, the colour of ripe corn, flowed to her shoulders

  and her eyes, though slightly crossed, gazed out calm and limpid blue

  through steel-rimmed spectacles.

  "What's that you've got, Nellie?' I asked.

  "It's a little dog,' she almost whispered. ' 'e's mine.'

  "You mean he's your very own?'

  She nodded proudly. "Aye, 'e's mine.'

  "He doesn't belong to your brothers and sisters, too?'

  "New, 'e's mine.'

  Rows of Dimmock and Pounder heads nodded in eager acquiescence as Nellie

  lifted the puppy to her cheek and looked up at me with a smile of a

  strange sweetness. It was a smile that always tugged at my heart; full

  of a child's artless happiness and trust but with something else which

  was poignant and maybe had to do with the way Nellie was.

  "Well, he looks a fine dog to me,' I said. "He's a Spaniel, isn't he?'

  She ran a hand over the little head. "Aye, a Cocker. Mr Brown said 'e

  was a Cocker.'

  There was a slight disturbance at the back and Mr Dimmock appeared from

  the crush. He gave a respectful cough.

  "He's a proper pure bred, Mr Herriot,' he said. "Mr Brown from the

  bank's bitch had a litter and 'e gave this 'un to Nellie.' He tucked his

  stick under his arm and pulled a long envelope from an inside pocket. He

  handed it to me with a flourish. "That's 'is pedigree.'

  I read it through and whistled softly. "He's a real blue-blooded hound,

  all right, and I see he's got a big long name. Darrowby Tobias the

  third. My word, that sounds great.'

  I looked down at the little girl again. "And what do you call him

  Nellie?'

  "Toby,' she said softly. "I calls 'im Toby.'

  I laughed. "All right, then. What's the matter with Toby anyway. Why

  have you brought him? ' He's been sick, Mr Herriot.' Mrs Dimmock spoke

  from somewhere among the heads. "He can't keep nothin' down.'

  "Well I know what that'll be. Has he been wormed?'

  "No, don't think so.'

  "I should think he just needs a pill,' I said. "But bring him through

  and I'll have a look at him.'

  Other clients were usually content to send one representative through

  with their animals but the Dimmocks all had to come. I marched along

  with the crowd behind me filling the passage from wall to wall. Our

  consulting-cum operating room was quite small and I watched with some

  apprehension as the procession filed in after me. But they all got in,

  Mrs Pounder, her velour hat slightly askew, squeezing herself in with

  some difficulty at the rear.

  My examination of the puppy took longer than usual as I had to fight my

  way to the thermometer on the trolley then struggle in the other

  direction to get the stethoscope from its hook on the wall. But I

  finished at last.

  "Well I can't find anything wrong with him,' I said. "So I'm pretty sure

  he just has a tummy full of worms. I'll give you a pill now and you must

  give it to him first thing tomorrow morning.'

  Like a football match turning out, the mass of people surged along the

  passage and into the street and another Dimmock visit had come to an

  end.

  I forgot the incident immediately because there was nothing unusual

  about it. The pot-bellied appearance of the puppy made my diagnosis a

  formality; I didn't expect to see him again.

  But I was wrong. A week later my surgery was once more overflowing and I

  had another squashed-in session with Toby in the little back room. My

  pill had evacuated a few worms but he was still vomiting, still

  distended.

  "Are you giving him five very small meals a day as I told you?' I asked.

  I received emphatic affirmative and I believed them. The Dimmocks really

  took care of their animals. There was something else here, yet I

  couldn't find it. Temperature normal, lungs clear, abdomen negative on

  palpation, I couldn't make it out. I dispensed a bottle of our antacid

  mixture with a feeling of defeat. A young puppy like this shouldn't need

  such a thing.

  This was the beginning of a frustrating period, There would be a span of

  two or three weeks when I would think the trouble had righted itself

  then without warning the place would be full of Dimmocks and Pounders

  and I'd be back where I started And all the time Toby was growing

  thinner.

  I tried everything; gastric sedatives, variations of diet, quack

  remedies. I interrogated the Dimmocks repeatedly about the character of

  the vomiting how long after eating, what were the intervals between, and

  I received varying replies. Sometimes h