Every Living Thing Read online

  “You’ll be lucky,” the old man grunted and his head moved away from the hedge.

  In the kitchen I passed on my instructions to Mrs. Birse and she sniffed.

  “Ah see you’ve been talkin’ to awd Howell. He’s a nosey awd bugger. Allus watchin’ ower that hedge.”

  Nosey or not, I thought, he was a lot more concerned about her dog than she was. And as I took my leave with a last look back at Jet wagging cheerfully despite his plight, I knew that I’d be back at No. 10 next Monday.

  And, feeling daft but determined, I was duly there on the day, ringing that bell. Mrs. Birse displayed her usual lack of enthusiasm and beckoned me unsmilingly into the house. She led me into the back garden and jerked her head in the direction of the hedge.

  “Them next door’s doin’ ’im.” She turned and went back into the house.

  I looked over the hedge. In the middle of a tidy little garden Jet was standing by a steaming bucket while Mr. Howell and his wife busily rubbed the mange wash into his coat.

  The old man looked up at me and grinned. “Now then, vitnery, we’re doin’ your job. Them Birses would never bathe ’im every week like you said so I asked if we could have a go. We like this dog.”

  “Well…that’s fine. You’re doing a good job, too.”

  Jet looked up at me and though his face was thickly smeared with my concoction his eyes danced with pleasure and his tail lashed. This, he was telling me, is great. As the two old people worked they were talking to him all the time. “Now then, a bit more on ’ere, Jet, lad.” “Let’s have hold of that other leg, old feller.” The friendly murmurings went on, and the big dog was lapping up the unaccustomed affection.

  I watched until they were finished and as they towelled my patient I spoke again. “That’s absolutely terrific. You’ve done him properly, you haven’t missed an inch.”

  The old lady smiled. “Aye, well, we heard what you said at t’start. We want to get ’im better.”

  “Good…good…you’re going the right way about it.” I looked at Jet, still as bare and scruffy as ever. “You understand that it’s going to be a long time before his coat gets back to normal, if it ever does, but the main question is—is he scratching less?”

  “Oh, aye,” replied Mr. Howell. “He still does a bit, but nothing like before. He’s much less itchy now, and he’s eatin’ well again.”

  “Fine, fine. So far, so good, but there’s a lot of work still to do. Are you prepared to do this for several weeks? After all, he isn’t your dog.”

  “Oh, we’ll do ’im all right,” said the old lady eagerly. “We’ll stick to ’im—you needn’t worry about that.”

  I looked at the two Howells in wonder. “You’re real dog lovers, aren’t you? And yet you haven’t got a dog of your own?”

  There was a silence. “Oh, we did ’ave,” said the old man. “Had ’im for twelve years, but you never saw him, Mr. Herriot, because he never ailed a thing.” He paused and swallowed. “But he was knocked down and killed just a month ago.”

  I gazed for a few moments at the stricken faces. “I’m so sorry, I know what it’s like. It’s awful. But…you didn’t think of getting another dog? It’s the only thing to do, you know.”

  Mrs. Howell shrugged. “We understand that and we thought about it, but we’re both in our seventies and if we got a pup now and anythin’ happened to us he’d be left and we’d never know if he was properly looked after.”

  I nodded and looked at the old couple with renewed respect. It was the attitude of caring people.

  “Anyway,” I said, “you’ve got a good friend in Jet for the time being. I can see that he appreciates all you’re doing for him. I’ll leave you a few more packets of the wash and I know he’ll be in good hands.”

  My confidence was such that I didn’t call at the house again and it was three weeks before I saw Jet again. The Howells were shopping in the market-place and Jet was by their side. He was cheerful, but his skin was still wrinkled and hairless with many half-healed sores.

  “You’ve got him out, then,” I said.

  “Aye, we have.” The old lady clutched my arm. “He’s ours now.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Birse said ’e was still bare and scabby and she didn’t think he’d ever get better and she didn’t want a big vet bill with all them visits and packets of stuff. She said her husband and her wanted Jet put down.”

  “Oh…what then?”

  “Well, I said we’d tek ’im and we’d pay the bill.”

  “You did?”

  “Aye. She wasn’t sure at first but I said it would be a whackin’ big bill and you’d charge double for comin’ out that Saturday night.”

  I looked at her for a moment and detected the suggestion of a twinkle in her eye.

  “We don’t do that. Maybe we should, but we don’t. But…maybe you wanted to persuade her, eh?”

  “Well…” It was indisputably a twinkle.

  I smiled. “Anyway, Jet has moved next door and I’m sure it’s a good thing for everybody. Even the Birses—they didn’t seem to have any interest in him.”

  “Aye, that’s right, and he’s lovely. They never took ’im out for a walk—just let him wander about by himself. I don’t know why some people have dogs at all.”

  “And how about what you were saying to me before? About your fears about being too old?”

  She squared her shoulders. “Oh, well, we talked that over, and we thought that after all, Jet isn’t a pup—he’s six now, so… the three of us will just potter on together.”

  “That’s great. ‘Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be.’”

  They both laughed, and Mr. Howell held up a finger. “Yes, that’s just it. That poem’s got it right. It’s so grand havin’ Jet—it was awful being without a dog after we lost ours. We’ve always had one and now we’re happy.”

  They did indeed look happy, as did Jet, laughing up at me and lashing his tail.

  It was many weeks before I saw them again. I was walking along one of the many bridle tracks that wound among the fields around Darrowby. The sun was blazing from a cloudless sky and even from a distance it was easy to see the rich black gloss of Jet’s coat. When I came abreast of them I bent and stroked the big dog’s head. “Well, what a handsome dog you are!” I said, running my hand over the flawless sheen of the neck and ribs. I turned to the old couple. “There’s not a bare patch anywhere—I can nearly see my face in his coat. You’ve done wonderfully well with him.”

  The Howells smiled modestly and Jet, perfectly aware that we were talking about him, wagged his entire rear end and capered around in panting delight.

  “Oh, it’s been worth it,” said the old lady. “We’re having a great time with ’im—we can’t believe our luck having such a dog.”

  I watched them as they went their way along the green path and under the overhanging branches of an oak tree. Jet was chasing a stick and I could hear the cheerful voices of the Howells as they shouted their encouragement to him.

  I thought again of Browning’s lines, and as I watched the trio until a patch of woodland hid them from view I felt a strong conviction that the best was yet to be for those three.

  Chapter 35

  “RIGHT, MR. BUSBY,” I said, feeling a rising tension in response to the urgency of the voice at the other side of the phone. “I’ll be out very soon.”

  “Well, see that you are! Ah don’t like the look of this cow at all. She’s sunken-eyed and gruntin’ and she won’t look at ’er hay. She could die. Don’t be long!”

  As I listened to the aggressive harangue I could almost see the red-haired man shouting, bulging-eyed, into the receiver. He had told me all the symptoms several times over to make sure they penetrated my thick skull. Mr. Busby wasn’t a bad chap, but he had a temper to go with his hair and always seemed to operate on the edge of panic. I’d better hurry.

  I looked at my list, then at my watch. It was 9:00 A.M. and there weren’t any really urge