James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  Having decided that I would finish work at teatime on Friday, I had a call from old Arnold Summergill at about three o’clock that afternoon; and I knew that would be my very last job because it was always an expedition rather than a visit to his smallholding which clung to a bracken-strewn slope in the depths of the hills. I didn’t speak directly to Arnold but to Miss Thompson, the postmistress in Hainby village.

  ‘Mr Summergill wants you to come and see his dog,’ she said over the phone.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ I asked.

  I heard a muttered consultation at the far end.

  ‘He says its leg’s gone funny.’

  ‘Funny? What d’you mean, funny?’

  Again the quick babble of voices. ‘He says it’s kind of stickin’ out.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be along very soon.’

  It was no good asking for the dog to be brought in. Arnold had never owned a car. Nor had he ever spoken on a telephone – all our conversations had been carried on through the medium of Miss Thompson. Arnold would mount his rusty bicycle, pedal to Hainby and tell his troubles to the postmistress. And the symptoms, they were typically vague and I didn’t suppose there would be anything either ‘funny’ or ‘sticking out’ about that leg when I saw it.

  Anyway, I thought, as I drove out of Darrowby, I wouldn’t mind having a last look at Benjamin. It was a fanciful name for a small farmer’s dog and I never really found out how he had acquired it. But after all he was an unlikely breed for such a setting, a massive Old English Sheepdog who would have looked more in place decorating the lawns of a stately home than following his master round Arnold’s stony pastures. He was a classical example of the walking hearthrug and it took a second look to decide which end of him was which. But when you did manage to locate his head you found two of the most benevolent eyes imaginable glinting through the thick fringe of hair.

  Benjamin was in fact too friendly at times, especially in winter when he had been strolling in the farmyard mud and showed his delight at my arrival by planting his huge feet on my chest. He did the same thing to my car, too, usually just after I had washed it, smearing clay lavishly over windows and bodywork while exchanging pleasantries with Sam inside. When Benjamin made a mess of anything he did it right.

  But I had to interrupt my musings when I reached the last stage of my journey. And as I hung on to the kicking, jerking wheel and listened to the creaking and groaning of springs and shock absorbers, the thought forced its way into my mind as it always did around here that it cost us money to come to Mr Summergill’s farm. There could be no profit from the visit because this vicious track must knock at least five pounds off the value of the car on every trip. Since Arnold did not have a car himself he saw no reason why he should interfere with the primeval state of his road.

  It was simply a six-foot strip of earth and rock and it wound and twisted for an awful long way. The trouble was that to get to the farm you had to descend into a deep valley before climbing through a wood towards the house. I think going down was worse because the vehicle hovered agonisingly on the top of each ridge before plunging into the yawning ruts beyond; and each time, listening to the unyielding stone grating on sump and exhaust, I tried to stop myself working out the damage in pounds, shillings and pence.

  And when at last, mouth gaping, eyes popping, tyres sending the sharp pebbles flying, I ground my way upwards in bottom gear over the last few yards leading to the house I was surprised to see Arnold waiting for me there alone. It was unusual to see him without Benjamin.

  He must have read my questioning look because he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘He’s in t’house,’ he grunted, and his eyes were anxious.

  I got out of the car and looked at him for a moment as he stood there in a typical attitude, wide shoulders back, head high. I have called him ‘old’ and indeed he was over seventy, but the features beneath the woollen tammy which he always wore pulled down over his ears were clean and regular and the tall figure lean and straight. He was a fine looking man and must have been handsome in his youth, yet he had never married. I often felt there was a story there but he seemed content to live here alone, a ‘bit of a ’ermit’ as they said in the village. Alone, that is, except for Benjamin.

  As I followed him into the kitchen he casually shooed out a couple of hens who had been perching on a dusty dresser. Then I saw Benjamin and pulled up with a jerk.

  The big dog was sitting quite motionless by the side of the table and this time the eyes behind the overhanging hair were big and liquid with fright. He appeared to be too terrified to move and when I saw his left fore leg I couldn’t blame him. Arnold had been right after all; it was indeed sticking out with a vengeance, at an angle which made my heart give a quick double thud; a complete lateral dislocation of the elbow, the radius projecting away out from the humerus at an almost impossible obliquity.

  I swallowed carefully. ‘When did this happen, Mr Summergill?’

  ‘Just an hour since.’ He tugged worriedly at his strange headgear. ‘I was changing the cows into another field and awd Benjamin likes to have a nip at their heels when he’s behind ’em. Well he did it once ower often and one of them lashed out and got ’im on the leg.’

  ‘I see.’ My mind was racing. This thing was grotesque. I had never seen anything like it, in fact thirty years later I still haven’t seen anything like it. How on earth was I going to reduce the thing away up here in the hills? By the look of it I would need general anaesthesia and a skilled assistant.

  ‘Poor old lad,’ I said, resting my hand on the shaggy head as I tried to think. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

  The tail whisked along the flags in reply and the mouth opened in a nervous panting, giving a glimpse of flawlessly white teeth.

  Arnold cleared his throat. ‘Can you put ’im right?’

  Well it was a good question. An airy answer might give the wrong impression yet I didn’t want to worry him with my doubts. It would be a mammoth task to get the enor­mous dog down to Darrowby; he nearly filled the kitchen, never mind my little car. And with that leg sticking out and with Sam already in residence. And would I be able to get the joint back in place when I got him there? And even if I did manage it I would still have to bring him all the way back up here. It would just about take care of the rest of the day.

  Gently I passed my fingers over the dislocated joint and searched my memory for details of the anatomy of the elbow. For the leg to be in this position the processus anconeus must have been completely disengaged from the supracondyloid fossa where it normally lay; and to get it back the joint would have to be flexed until the anconeus was clear of the epicondyles.

  ‘Now let’s see,’ I murmured to myself. ‘If I had this dog anaesthetised and on the table I would have to get hold of him like this.’ I grasped the leg just above the elbow and began to move the radius slowly upwards. Benjamin gave me a quick glance then turned his head away, a gesture typical of good-natured dogs, conveying the message that he was going to put up with whatever I thought it necessary to do.

  I flexed the joint still further until I was sure the anconeus was clear, then carefully rotated the radius and ulna inwards.

  ‘Yes . . . yes. . .’ I muttered again. ‘This must be about the right position . . .’ But my soliloquy was interrupted by a sudden movement of the bones under my hand; a springing, flicking sensation.

  I looked incredulously at the leg. It was perfectly straight.

  Benjamin, too, seemed unable to take it in right away, because he peered cautiously round through his shaggy curtain before lowering his nose and sniffing around the elbow. Then he seemed to realise all was well and ambled over to his master.

  And he was perfectly sound. Not a trace of a limp.

  A slow smile spread over Arnold’s face. ‘You’ve mended him, then.’

  ‘Looks like it, Mr Summergill.’ I tried to keep my voice casual, but I felt like cheering or bursting into hysterical la