James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘What did you call it?’

  ‘Myxoedema. It’s a thyroid deficiency – there’s a gland in his neck which isn’t doing its job properly.’

  ‘And that makes ’is hair fall out?’

  ‘Oh yes. And it also causes this typical scaliness and wrinkling of the skin.’

  ‘Aye, but he’s half asleep all t’time. How about that?’

  ‘Another classical symptom. Dogs with this condition become very lethargic – lose all their energy.’

  She reached out and touched the dog’s skin, bare and leathery where once the coat had grown in bushy glory. ‘And can you cure it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now Mr Herriot, don’t take this the wrong way, but could you be mistaken? Are ye positive it’s this myxi-whatever-it-is?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s a straightforward case.’

  ‘Straightforward to you, maybe.’ She flushed and appeared to be grinding her teeth. ‘But not straightforward to that clever husband o’ mine. The great lubbert! When ah think what he’s put me good dog through – ah could kill ’im.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he thought he was acting for the best, Mrs Pilling.’

  ‘Ah don’t care what he thought, he’s made this poor dog suffer, the big fool. Wait till ah get hold of ’im.’

  I gave her a supply of tablets. ‘These are thyroid extract, and I want you to give him one night and morning.’ I also handed her a bottle of potassium iodide which I had found helpful in these cases.

  She looked at me doubtfully. ‘But surely he’ll want summat rubbed on ’is skin.’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Applications to the skin do no good at all.’

  ‘Then you mean,’ she turned a dark purple colour and began snorting again, ‘you mean all them bottles o’ filthy stuff me husband put on ’im were a waste o’ time?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Oh ah’ll murder ’im!’ she burst out. ‘Mucky, oily rubbish, it was. And that fancy feller in Brawton sent some ’orrible lotion – yeller it was, and stank the place out. Ruined me carpets and good chair covers an’ all!’

  Sulphur, whale oil and creosote, I thought. Splendid old-fashioned ingredients, but quite useless in this case and definitely antisocial.

  Mrs Pilling heaved the Keeshond to the floor and strode along the passage, head down, powerful shoulders hunched. I could hear her muttering to herself as she went.

  ‘By gaw, just wait till ah get home. Ah’ll sort ’im, by gaw ah will!’

  I was naturally interested in the progress of my patient, and when I failed to see him around for the next fortnight I could only conclude that Seth Pilling was keeping out of my way. Indeed there was one occasion when I thought I saw him and the dog disappearing down an alley, but I couldn’t be sure.

  When I did see them both it was by accident. I was driving round the corner into the market-place and I came upon a man and dog coming away from one of the stalls on the cobbles.

  And as I peered through the window I caught my breath. Even in that short space of time the animal’s skin was covered with a healthy down of new hair, and he was stepping out with something very like his old vitality.

  His master swung round as I slowed down. He gave me a single hunted look then tugged on the lead and scuttled away.

  I could only imagine the turmoil in his mind, the conflict of emotions. No doubt he wanted to see his dog recover, but not this way. And as it turned out, the dice were loaded against the poor man because this was an unbelievably rapid recovery. I have seen some spectacular cures in myxoedema, but none so dramatic as that Keeshond.

  Mr Pilling’s sufferings were communicated to me in various ways. For instance I heard he had changed his pub and now went to the Red Bear of an evening. In a little place like Darrowby, news fairly crackles around, and I had a good idea that the farm men in the Crown and Anchor would have had a bit of quiet Yorkshire sport with the expert.

  But his main martyrdom was at home. It was about six weeks after I had finished treating the dog that Mrs Pilling brought him to the surgery.

  As before, she lifted him easily on to the table and looked at me, her face as always grim and unsmiling.

  ‘Mr Herriot,’ she said, ‘ah’ve just come to say thank ye, and ah thought you’d be interested to see me dog now.’

  ‘I am indeed, Mrs Pilling. It’s nice of you to come.’ I gazed wonderingly at the thick coat, bushy, shining and new, and at the sparkling eyes and alert expression. ‘I think you can say he’s about back to normal.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s what I thought and ah’m grateful to ye for what you’ve done.’

  I walked with her to the front door and as she led her dog on to the street she turned her tough little face to me again. As the stern eyes met mine she looked very menacing.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ she said. ‘Ah’ll never forgive that man o’ mine for what he did to me dog. By gum, I’ve given ’im some stick, the great goof! He’ll never hear the last of it from me.’

  As she made off down the street, the little animal trotting briskly by her side, I brimmed with pleasant emotions. It is always warming to see a case recover so well, but in this instance there was an additional bonus.

  For a long time little Mrs Pilling was going to give her husband pure hell.

  There are not many unpleasant characters in my books, but Seth Pilling is one of them. And yet, although I took an unholy delight in his discomfiture, I can find it in my heart to feel sorry for him. It was incredibly bad luck for a professional know-all like him to come across a condition like myxoedema which is comparatively rare but which is easily and dramatically curable if you REALLY know.

  36. The Stray

  It was when Siegfried and I were making one of our market day sorties that we noticed the little dog among the stalls.

  When things were quiet in the surgery we often used to walk together across the cobbles and have a word with the farmers gathered round the doorway of the Drovers’ Arms. Sometimes we collected a few outstanding bills or drummed up a bit of work for the forthcoming week – and if nothing like that happened we still enjoyed the fresh air.

  The thing that made us notice the dog was that he was sitting up begging in front of the biscuit stall.

  ‘Look at that little chap,’ Siegfried said. ‘I wonder where he’s sprung from.’

  As he spoke, the stallholder threw a biscuit which the dog devoured eagerly, but when the man came round and stretched out a hand the little animal trotted away.

  He stopped, however, at another stall which sold produce: eggs, cheese, butter, cakes and scones. Without hesitation he sat up again in the begging position, rock steady, paws dangling, head pointing expectantly.

  I nudged Siegfried. ‘There he goes again.’

  My colleague nodded. ‘Yes, he’s an engaging little thing, isn’t he? What breed would you call him?’

  ‘A cross, I’d say. He’s like a little brown Sheepdog, but there’s a touch of something else — maybe Terrier.’

  It wasn’t long before he was munching a bun, and this time we walked over to him. And as we drew near I spoke gently.

  ‘Here, boy,’ I said, squatting down a yard away. ‘Come on, let’s have a look at you.’

  He faced me and for a moment two friendly brown eyes gazed at me from a singularly attractive little face. The fringed tail waved in response to my words, but as I inched nearer he turned and ambled unhurriedly among the market-day crowd till he was lost to sight. I didn’t want to make a thing out of the encounter because I could never quite divine Siegfried’s attitude to the small animals. He was eminently wrapped up in his horse work and often seemed amused at the way I rushed around after dogs and cats.

  At that time, in fact, Siegfried was strongly opposed to the whole idea of keeping animals as pets. He was quite vociferous on the subject – said it was utterly foolish – despite the fact that five assorted dogs travelled everywhere with him in his car. Now, thirty-five years later, he is just as str