James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  It was nearly one o’clock in the morning and we were getting well down the bottle when the shaggy brown head began to move.

  Siegfried leaned forward and touched one of the ears and immediately the tail flapped against the rug and a pink tongue lazily licked his fingers.

  ‘What an absolutely grand little dog,’ he murmured, but his voice had a distant quality. I knew he was worried too.

  I took the stitches out of the eyelids in two days and was delighted to find a normal eye underneath.

  The young policeman was as pleased as I was. ‘Look at that!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’d never know anything had happened there.’

  ‘Yes, it’s done wonderfully well. All the swelling and inflammation has gone.’ I hesitated for a moment. ‘Has anybody enquired about him?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. But there’s another eight days to go and we’re taking good care of him here.’

  I visited the Police Station several times and the little animal greeted me with undisguised joy, all his fear gone, standing upright against my legs on his plastered limb, his tail swishing.

  But all the time my sense of foreboding increased, and on the tenth day I made my way almost with dread to the police kennels. I had heard nothing. My course of action seemed inevitable. Putting down old or hopelessly ill dogs was often an act of mercy, but when it was a young healthy dog it was terrible. I hated it, but it was one of the things veterinary surgeons had to do.

  The young policeman was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Still no news?’ I asked, and he shook his head.

  I went past him into the kennel and the shaggy little creature stood up against my legs as before, laughing into my face, mouth open, eyes shining.

  I turned away quickly. I’d have to do this right how or I’d never do it.

  ‘Mr Herriot.’ The policeman put his hand on my arm. ‘I think I’ll take him.’

  ‘You?’ I stared at him.

  ‘Aye, that’s right. We get a lot o’ stray dogs in here and though I feel sorry for them you can’t give them all a home, can you?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ I said. ‘I have the same problem.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘But somehow this ’un’s different, and it seems to me he’s just come at the right time. I have two little girls and they’ve been at me for a bit to get ’em a dog. This little bloke looks just right for the job.’

  Warm relief began to ebb through me. ‘I couldn’t agree more. He’s the soul of good nature. I bet he’ll be wonderful with children.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then. I thought I’d ask your advice first.’ He smiled happily.

  I looked at him as though I had never seen him before. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Phelps,’ he replied. ‘P.C. Phelps.’

  He was a good-looking young fellow, clear-skinned, with cheerful blue eyes and a solid dependable look about him. I had to fight against an impulse to wring his hand and thump him on the back. But I managed to preserve the professional exterior.

  ‘Well, that’s fine.’ I bent and stroked the little dog. ‘Don’t forget to bring him along to the surgery in ten days for removal of the stitches, and we’ll have to get that plaster off in about a month.’

  It was Siegfried who took out the stitches, and I didn’t see our patient again until four weeks later.

  P.C. Phelps had his little girls, aged four and six, with him as well as the dog.

  ‘You said the plaster ought to come off about now,’ he said, and I nodded.

  He looked down at the children. ‘Well, come on, you two, lift him on the table.’

  Eagerly the little girls put their arms around their new pet and as they hoisted him the tail wagged furiously and the wide mouth panted in delight.

  ‘Looks as though he’s been a success,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘That’s an understatement. He’s perfect with these two. I can’t tell you what pleasure he’s given us. He’s one of the family.’

  I got out my little saw and began to hack at the plaster.

  ‘It’s worked both ways, I should say. A dog loves a secure home!’

  ‘Well, he couldn’t be more secure.’ He ran his hand along the brown coat and laughed as he addressed the little dog. ‘That’s what you get for begging among the stalls on market day, my lad. You’re in the hands of the law now.’

  This story covers a lot of the things which make veterinary surgery a beguiling life. The appeal of the begging dog, the total unpredictability, as when we finished up operating in starched evening shirts, and the kindness of people as epitomised by the young policeman. And, of course, the recurring situation of an attractive little animal finding a good home. The fact that children were involved at the end completed a happy story.

  37. The Stolen Car

  ‘Oh Mr Herriot!’ Mrs Ridge said delightedly. ‘Somebody stole our car last night.’ She looked at me with a radiant smile.

  I stopped in the doorway of her house. ‘Mrs Ridge, I’m terribly sorry. How . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, yes, oh I can’t wait to tell you!’ Her voice trembled with excitement and joy. ‘There must have been some prowlers around here last night, and I’m such a silly about leaving the car unlocked.’

  ‘I see . . . how unfortunate.’

  ‘But do come in,’ she giggled. ‘Forgive me for keeping you standing on the step, but I’m all of a dither!’

  I went past her into the lounge. ‘Well, it’s very understandable. It must have been quite a shock.’

  ‘Shock? Oh, but you don’t see what I mean. It’s wonderful!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ She clasped her hands and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Well yes,’ I said. ‘You’ve just told me.’

  ‘No, I haven’t told you half.’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘No, but do sit down. I know you’ll want to hear all about it.’

  To explain this I have to go back ten days to the afternoon when Mrs Ridge ran tearfully up the steps of Skeldale House.

  ‘My little dog’s had an accident,’ she gasped.

  I looked past her. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the car. I didn’t know whether I should move him.’

  I crossed the pavement and opened the door. Her Cairn Terrier, Joshua, lay very still on a blanket on the back seat.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  She put a hand over her eyes. ‘Oh it was terrible. You know he often plays in the farmer’s field opposite our house – well about half an hour ago he started to chase a rabbit and ran under the wheels of a tractor.’

  I looked from her face to the motionless animal and back again. ‘Did the wheels go over him?’

  She nodded as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

  I took her by the arm. ‘Mrs Ridge, this is important. Are you absolutely sure that wheel passed right over his body?’

  ‘Yes, I am – quite certain. I saw it happen. I couldn’t believe he’d be alive when I ran to pick him up.’ She took a long breath. ‘I don’t suppose he can live after that, can he?’

  I didn’t want to depress her but it seemed impossible that a small dog like this could survive being crushed under that great weight. Massive internal damage would be inevitable apart altogether from broken bones. It was sad to see the little sandy form lying still and unheeding when I had watched him so often running and leaping in the fields.

  ‘Let’s have a look at him,’ I said.

  I climbed into the car and sat down on the seat beside him. With the utmost care I felt my way over the limbs, expecting every moment to feel the crepitus which would indicate a fracture. I put my hand underneath him very slowly, supporting his weight every inch of the way. The only time Joshua showed any reaction was when I moved the pelvic girdle.

  The best sign of all was the pinkness of the mucous membranes of eye and mouth and I turned to Mrs Ridge rather more hopefully.

  ‘Miraculously he d