James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

‘No, James, not even occasionally. It’s just not practical.’

  ‘But I’ve seen you do it – time and time again!’

  ‘Me?’ His eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Never! I’m too aware of the harsh realities of life for that. Everything has become so frightfully expensive. For instance, weren’t those M&B 693 tablets you were dishing out? Heaven help us, do you know those things are threepence each? It’s no good – you must never work without charging.’

  ‘But dammit, you’re always doing it!’ I burst out. ‘Only last week there was that . . .’

  Siegfried held up a restraining hand. ‘Please, James, please. You imagine things, that’s your trouble.’

  I must have given him one of my most exasperated stares because he reached out and patted my shoulder.

  ‘Believe me, my boy, I do understand. You acted from the highest possible motives and I have often been tempted to do the same. But you must be firm. These are hard times and one must be hard to survive. So remember in future – no more Robin Hood stuff, we can’t afford it.’

  I nodded and went on my way somewhat bemusedly, but I soon forgot the incident and would have thought no more about it had I not seen Mr Bailey about a week later.

  His dog was once more on the consulting room table and Siegfried was giving it an injection. I didn’t want to interfere so I went back along the passage to the front office and sat down to write in the day book. It was a summer afternoon, the window was open and through a parting in the curtain I could see the front steps.

  As I wrote I heard Siegfried and the old man passing on their way to the front door. They stopped on the steps. The little dog, still on the end of its string, looked much as it did before.

  ‘All right, Mr Bailey,’ my colleague said. ‘I can only tell you the same as Mr Herriot. I’m afraid he’s got that cough for life, but when it gets bad you must come and see us.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The old man put his hand in his pocket. ‘And what is the charge, please?’

  ‘The charge, oh yes . . . the charge . . .’ Siegfried cleared his throat a few times but seemed unable to articulate. He kept looking from the mongrel dog to the old man’s tattered clothing and back again. Then he glanced furtively into the house and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘It’s nothing, Mr Bailey.’

  ‘But Mr Farnon, I can’t let ye . . .’

  ‘Shh! Shh!’ Siegfried waved a hand agitatedly in the old man’s face. ‘Not a word now! I don’t want to hear any more about it.’

  Having silenced Mr Bailey he produced a large bag.

  ‘There’s about a hundred M&B tablets in here,’ he said, throwing an anxious glance over his shoulder. ‘He’s going to keep needing them, so I’ve given you a good supply.’

  I could see my colleague had spotted the hole in the trouser knee because he gazed down at it for a long time before putting his hand in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ He extracted a handful of assorted chattels. A few coins fell and rolled down the steps as he prodded in his palm among scissors, thermometers, pieces of string, bottle openers. Finally his search was rewarded and he pulled out a bank note.

  ‘Here’s a quid,’ he whispered and again nervously shushed the man’s attempts to speak.

  Mr Bailey, realising the futility of argument, pocketed the money.

  ‘Well, thank ye, Mr Farnon. Ah’ll take t’missus to Scarborough wi’ that.’

  ‘Good lad, good lad,’ muttered Siegfried, still looking around him guiltily. ‘Now off you go.’

  The old man solemnly raised his cap and began to shuffle painfully down the street.

  ‘Hey, hold on, there,’ my colleague called after him. ‘What’s the matter? You’re not going very well.’

  ‘It’s this dang arthritis. Ah go a long way in a long time.’

  ‘And you’ve got to walk all the way to the council houses?’ Siegfried rubbed his chin irresolutely. ‘It’s a fair step.’ He took a last wary peep down the passage then beckoned with his hand.

  ‘Look, my car’s right here,’ he whispered. ‘Nip in and I’ll run you home.’

  I must admit that I am rather attached to this little vignette. There isn’t much of it, but it illustrates quite a few things: the very common syndrome of chronic bronchitis in old dogs and, more particularly, Siegfried’s glorious inconsistency along with the generosity and compassion which he tried so hard to conceal.

  34. Jingo and Skipper

  Animals need friends. Have you ever watched two animals in a field? They may be of different species – a pony and a sheep – but they hang together. This comradeship between animals has always fascinated me, and I often think of Jack Sanders’s two dogs as a perfect example of mutual devotion.

  One of them was called Jingo, and as I injected the local anaesthetic alongside the barbed wire tear in his skin the powerful white Bull Terrier whimpered just once. Then he decided to resign himself to his fate and looked stolidly to the front as I depressed the plunger.

  Meanwhile his inseparable friend, Skipper the Corgi, gnawed gently at Jingo’s hind leg. It was odd to see two dogs on the table at once, but I knew the relationship between them and made no comment as their master hoisted them both up.

  After I had infiltrated the area around the wound I began to stitch and Jingo relaxed noticeably when he found that he could feel nothing.

  ‘Maybe this’ll teach you to avoid barbed wire fences in future, Jing,’ I said.

  Jack Sanders laughed. ‘I doubt if it will, Mr Herriot. I thought the coast was clear when I took him down the lane this morning, but he spotted a dog on the other side of the fence and he was through like a bullet. Fortunately it was a Greyhound and he couldn’t catch it.’

  ‘You’re a regular terror, Jing.’ I patted my patient, and the big Roman-nosed face turned to me with an ear-to-ear grin and at the other end the tail whipped delightedly.

  ‘Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it?’ his master said. ‘He’s always looking for a fight, yet people and children can do anything with him. He’s the best natured dog in the world.’

  I finished stitching and dropped the suture needle into a kidney dish on the trolley. ‘Well, you’ve got to remember that the Bull Terrier is the original English fighting dog and Jing is only obeying an age-old instinct.’

  ‘Oh I realise that. I’ll just have to go on scanning the horizon every time I let him off the lead. No dog is safe from him.’

  ‘Except this one, Jack.’ I laughed and pointed to the little Corgi who had tired of his companion’s leg and was now chewing his ear.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it marvellous. I think he could bite Jing’s ear off without reprisal.’

  It was indeed rather wonderful. The Corgi was eleven years old and beginning to show his age in stiffness of movement and impairment of sight, while the Bull Terrier was only three, at the height of his strength and power. A squat, barrel-chested bundle of bone and muscle, he was a formidable animal. But when the ear-chewing became too violent, all he did was turn and gently engulf Skipper’s head in his huge jaws till the little animal desisted. Those jaws could be as merciless as a steel trap but they held the tiny head in a loving embrace.

  Ten days later their master brought both dogs back to the surgery for the removal of the stitches. He looked worried as he lifted the animals on to the table.

  ‘Jingo isn’t at all well, Mr Herriot,’ he said. ‘He’s been off his food for a couple of days and he looks miserable. Could that wound make him ill if it turned septic?’

  ‘Yes it could, of course.’ I looked down anxiously at the area of the flank where I had stitched, and my fingers explored the long scar. ‘But there’s not the slightest sign of infection here. No swelling, no pain. He’s healed beautifully.’

  I stepped back and looked at the Bull Terrier. He was strangely disconsolate, tail tucked down, eyes gazing ahead with total lack of interest. Not even the busy nibbling of his friend at one of his paws relieved his apathy.

  Clearly