James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  Mrs Sanders nodded. ‘That’s right. Then you think . . . this could be the end?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ I knew what she was thinking. A couple of weeks ago two healthy dogs rolling around and playing in this house and now there could soon be none.

  ‘But isn’t there anything else you can do?’

  ‘Well I can give him a course of digitalis for his heart. And perhaps you would bring in a sample of his urine. I want to see how his kidneys are functioning.’

  I tested the urine. There was a little albumen, but no more than you would expect in a dog of his age. I ruled out nephritis as a cause.

  As the days passed I tried other things: vitamins, iron tonics, organo-phosphates, but the little animal declined steadily. It was about a month after Jing’s death that I was called to the house again.

  Skipper was in his basket and when I called to him he slowly raised his head. His face was pinched and fleshless and the filmed eyes regarded me without recognition.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s see you get out of there.’

  Jack Sanders shook his head. ‘It’s no good, Mr Herriot. He never leaves his basket now and when we lift him out he’s almost too weak to walk. Another thing . . . he makes a mess down here in the kitchen during the night. That’s something he’s never done.’

  It was like the tolling of a sad bell. Everything he said pointed to a dog in the last stages of senility. I tried to pick my words.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but it all sounds as if the old chap has come to the end of the road. I don’t think fretting could possibly cause all this.’

  He didn’t speak for a moment. He looked at his wife then down at the forlorn little creature. ‘Well of course this has been in the back of our minds. But we’ve kept hoping he would start to eat. What . . . what do you suggest?’

  I could not bring myself to say the fateful words. ‘It seems to me that we can’t stand by and let him suffer. He’s just a little skeleton and I can’t think he’s getting any pleasure out of his life now.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And I agree. He lies there all day – he has no interest in anything.’ He paused and looked at his wife again. ‘I tell you what, Mr Herriot. Let us think it over till tomorrow. But you do think there’s no hope?’

  ‘Yes, Jack, I do. Old dogs often go this way at the end. Skipper has just cracked up . . . he’s finished, I’m afraid.’

  He drew a long breath. ‘Right, if you don’t hear from me by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, please come and put him to sleep.’

  I had small hope of the call coming and it didn’t. In those early days of our marriage Helen worked as a secretary for one of the local millers. We often started our day together by descending the long flights of stairs from our bed-sitter and I would see her out of the front door before getting ready for my round.

  This morning she gave me her usual kiss before going out into the street, but then she looked at me searchingly. ‘You’ve been quiet all through breakfast, Jim. What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s nothing, really. Just part of the job,’ I said. But when she kept her steady gaze on me I told her quickly about the Sanders.

  She touched my arm. ‘It’s such a shame, Jim, but you can’t let your sad cases depress you. You’d never survive.’

  ‘Aagh, I know that. But I’m a softy, that’s my trouble. Sometimes I think I should never have been a vet.’

  ‘You’re wrong there,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t imagine you as anything else. You’ll do what you have to do, and you’ll do it the right way.’ She kissed me again, turned and ran down the steps.

  It was mid-morning before I drew up outside the Sanders’s home. I opened the car boot and took out the syringe and the bottle of concentrated anaesthetic which would give the old dog a peaceful and painless end.

  The first thing I saw when I went into the kitchen was a fat little white puppy waddling across the floor.

  I looked down in astonishment. ‘What’s this . . . ?’

  Mrs Sanders gave me a strained smile. ‘Jack and I had a talk yesterday. We couldn’t bear the idea of not having a dog at all, so we went round to Mrs Palmer who bred Jing and found she had a litter for sale. It seemed like fate. We’ve called him Jingo, too.’

  ‘What a splendid idea!’ I lifted the pup which squirmed in my hand, grunted in an obese manner and tried to lick my face. This, I felt, would make my unpleasant task easier. ‘I think you’ve been very sensible.’

  I lifted the bottle of anaesthetic unobtrusively from my pocket and went over to the basket in the corner. Skipper was still curled in the unheeding ball of yesterday and the comforting thought came to me that all I was going to do was push him a little further along the journey he had already begun.

  I pierced the rubber diaphragm on the bottle with my needle and was about to withdraw the barbiturate when I saw that Skipper had raised his head. Chin resting on the edge of the basket, he seemed to be watching the pup. Wearily his eyes followed the tiny creature as it made its way to a dish of milk and began to lap busily. And there was something in his intent expression which had not been there for a long time.

  I stood very still as the Corgi made a couple of attempts then heaved himself to a standing position. He almost fell out of the basket and staggered on shaking legs across the floor. When he came alongside the pup he remained there, swaying, for some time, a gaunt caricature of his former self, but as I watched in disbelief, he reached forward and seized the little white ear in his mouth.

  Stoicism is not a characteristic of pups and Jingo the Second yelped shrilly as the teeth squeezed. Skipper, undeterred, continued to gnaw with rapt concentration.

  I dropped bottle and syringe back in my pocket. ‘Bring him some food,’ I said quietly.

  Mrs Sanders hurried to the pantry and came back with a few pieces of meat on a saucer. Skipper continued his ear-nibbling for a few moments then sniffed the pup unhurriedly from end to end before turning to the saucer. He hardly had the strength to chew but he lifted a portion of meat and his jaws moved slowly.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Jack Sanders burst out. ‘That’s the first thing he’s eaten for days!’

  His wife seized my arm. ‘What’s happened, Mr Herriot? We only got the puppy because we couldn’t have a house without a dog.’

  ‘Well, it looks to me as though you’ve got two again.’ I went over to the door and smiled back at the two people watching fascinated as the Corgi swallowed, then started determinedly on another piece of meat. ‘Good morning, I’m going now.’

  About eight months later, Jack Sanders came into the surgery and put Jingo Two on the table. He was growing into a fine animal with the wide chest and powerful legs of the breed. His good-natured face and whipping tail reminded me strongly of his predecessor.

  ‘He’s got a bit of eczema between his pads,’ Jack said, then he bent and lifted Skipper up.

  At that moment I had no eyes for my patient. All my attention was on the Corgi, plump and bright-eyed, nibbling at the big white dog’s hind limbs with all his old bounce and vigour.

  ‘Just look at that!’ I murmured. ‘It’s like turning the clock back.’

  Jack Sanders laughed. ‘Yes, isn’t it. They’re tremendous friends – just like before.’

  ‘Come here, Skipper.’ I grabbed the little Corgi and looked him over. When I had finished I held him for a moment as he tried to wriggle his way back to his friend. ‘Do you know, I honestly think he’ll go on for years yet.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack Sanders looked at me with a mischievous light in his eyes. ‘But I seem to remember you saying quite a long time ago that his days were over – he was finished.’

  I held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. But sometimes it’s lovely to be wrong.’

  One of my warm memories about the importance of animal relationships. The psychological side of animal doctoring is deeply interesting. If they feel they have nothing to live for they will very often die, and this holds good in all animal