James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘This one’s out,’ I said.

  I didn’t wait for the announcement and was half-way up the steps to the manager’s office before I heard the request for my presence blared across the stadium.

  When I opened the door I half-expected Mr Coker to rush at me and attack me, and I was surprised when I found him sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands. I stood there on the carpet for some time before he raised a ghastly countenance to me.

  ‘Is it true?’ he whispered despairingly. ‘Have you done it again?’

  I nodded. ‘Afraid so.’

  His lips trembled but he didn’t say anything, and after a brief, disbelieving scrutiny he sank his head in his hands again.

  I waited for a minute or two but when he stayed like that, quite motionless, I realised that the audience was at an end and took my leave.

  I found no fault with the dogs for the next race and as I left the paddock an unaccustomed peace settled around me. I couldn’t understand it when I heard the loudspeaker again – ‘Will the vet please report . . .’ But this time it was to the paddock, and I wondered if a dog had been injured. Anyway, it would be a relief to do a bit of real vetting for a change.

  But when I arrived there were no animals to be seen; only two men cradling a fat companion in their arms.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked one of them.

  ‘Ambrose ’ere fell down the steps in the stand and skinned ’is knee.’

  I stared at him. ‘But I’m a vet, not a doctor.’

  ‘Ain’t no doctor on the track,’ the man mumbled. ‘We reckoned you could patch ’im up.’

  Ah well, it was a funny night. ‘Put him over on that bench,’ I said.

  I rolled up the trouser to reveal a rather revolting fat dimpled knee. Ambrose emitted a hollow groan as I touched a very minor abrasion on the patella.

  ‘It’s nothing much,’ I said. ‘You’ve just knocked a bit of skin off.’

  Ambrose looked at me tremblingly. ‘Aye, but it could go t’wrong way, couldn’t it? I don’t want no blood poisonin’.’

  ‘All right, I’ll put something on it.’ I looked inside Stewie’s medical bag. The selection was limited, but I found some tincture of iodine and I poured a little on a pad of cotton wool and dabbed the wound.

  Ambrose gave a shrill yelp. ‘Bloody ’ell, that ’urts! What are you doin’ to me?’ His foot jerked up and rapped me sharply on the elbow.

  Even my human patients kicked me, it seemed. I smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t sting for long. I’ll put a bandage on now.’

  I bound up the knee, rolled down the trouser and patted the fat man’s shoulder. ‘There you are – good as new.’

  He got off the bench, nodded, then grimacing painfully, prepared to leave. But an afterthought appeared to strike him and he pulled a handful of change from his pocket. He rummaged among it with a forefinger before selecting a coin which he pressed into my palm.

  ‘There y’are,’ he said.

  I looked at the coin. It was a sixpence, the fee for my only piece of doctoring of my own species. I stared stupidly at it for a long time, and when I finally looked up with the half-formed idea of throwing Ambrose’s honorarium back at his head the man was limping into the crowd and was soon lost to sight.

  Back in the bar I was gazing apathetically through the glass at the dogs parading round the track when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned and recognised a man I had spotted earlier in the evening. He was one of a group of three men and three women, the men dark, tight-suited, foreign-looking, the women loud and over-dressed. There was something sinister about them, and I remembered thinking they could have passed without question as members of the Mafia.

  The man put his face close to mine and I had a brief impression of black, darting eyes and a predatory smile.

  ‘Is number three fit?’ he whispered.

  I couldn’t understand the question. He seemed to know I was the vet and surely it was obvious that if I had passed the dog I considered him fit.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, he is.’

  The man nodded vigorously and gave me a knowing glance from hooded eyes. He returned and held a short, intimate conversation with his friends, then they all turned and looked over at me approvingly.

  I was bewildered, then it struck me that they may have thought I was giving them an inside tip. To this day I am not really sure, but I think that was it because when number three finished nowhere in the race their attitude changed dramatically and they flashed me some black glares which made them look more like the Mafia than ever.

  Anyway I had no more trouble down at the paddock for the rest of the evening. No more dogs to take out, which was just as well, because I had made enough enemies for one night.

  After the last race I looked around the long bar. Most of the tables were occupied by people having a final drink, but I noticed an empty one and sank wearily into a chair. Stewie had asked me to stay for half an hour after the finish to make sure all the dogs got away safely, and I would stick to my bargain even though what I wanted most in the world was to get away from here and never come back.

  George was still in splendid voice on the loudspeakers. ‘I always get to bed by half past nine,’ he warbled, and I felt strongly that he had a point there.

  Along the bar counter were assembled most of the people with whom I had clashed: Mr Coker and other officials and dog owners. There was a lot of nudging and whispering and I didn’t have to be told the subject of their discussion. The Mafia, too, were doing their bit with fierce side glances, and I could almost feel the waves of antagonism beating against me.

  My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a bookie and his clerk. The bookie dropped into a chair opposite me and tipped out a huge leather bag on to the table. I had never seen so much money in my life. I peered at the man over a mountain of fivers and pounds and ten-shilling notes while little streams and tributaries of coins ran down its flanks.

  The two of them began a methodical stacking and counting of the loot while I watched hypnotically. They had eroded the mountain to about half its height when the bookie caught my eye. Maybe he thought I looked envious or poverty-stricken or just miserable, because he put his finger behind a stray half-crown and flicked it expertly across the smooth surface in my direction.

  ‘Get yourself a drink, son,’ he said.

  It was the second time I had been offered money during the last hour and I was almost as much taken aback as the first time. The bookie looked at me expressionlessly for a moment then he grinned. He had an attractively ugly, good-natured face that I liked instinctively, and suddenly I felt grateful to him, not for the money but for the sight of a friendly face. It was the only one I had seen all evening.

  I smiled back. ‘Thanks,’ I said. I lifted the half-crown and went over to the bar.

  I awoke next morning with the knowledge that it was my last day at Hensfield. Stewie was due back at lunch time.

  When I parted the now familiar curtains at the morning surgery I still felt a vague depression, a hangover from my unhappy night at the dog track.

  But when I looked into the waiting-room my mood lightened immediately. There was only one animal among the odd assortment of chairs but that animal was Kim, massive, golden and beautiful, sitting between his owners, and when he saw me he sprang up with swishing tail and laughing mouth.

  There was none of the smell which had horrified me before, but as I looked at the dog I could sniff something else – the sweet, sweet scent of success. Because he was touching the ground with that leg; not putting any weight on it but definitely dotting it down as he capered around me.

  In an instant I was back in my world again and Mr Coker and the events of last night were but the dissolving mists of a bad dream.

  I could hardly wait to get started.

  ‘Get him on the table,’ I cried, then began to laugh as the Gillards automatically pushed their legs against the collapsible struts. They knew the drill now.