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  Anyway, he was part of the Darrowby scene, part of something I liked, and since I have always hated change it was in a sense reassuring to know that no matter what night you went into the Drovers’ you would find Paul Cotterell in the corner and Theo’s shaggy muzzle peeping from below.

  I felt like that one night when I dropped in near closing time.

  “D’you think he’s got worms?” The question was typically off-hand.

  “I don’t know, Paul. Why do you ask?”

  He drew on his pipe. “Oh I just thought he looked a bit thin lately. Come up, Theo!”

  The little dog, perched on his master’s knee, looked as chirpy as ever and when I reached over and lifted him he licked my hand. But his ribs did feel rather prominent.

  “Mmm, yes,” I said. “Maybe he has lost a bit of weight. Have you noticed him passing any worms?”

  “I haven’t, actually.”

  “Not even little bits—whitish segments sticking round his rear?”

  “No, Jim.” He shook his head and smiled. “But I haven’t looked all that closely, old boy.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s worm him, just in case. I’ll bring in some tablets tomorrow night. You’ll be here …?”

  The eyebrow went up. “I think that’s highly probable.”

  Theo duly got his worm tablets and after that there was a space of several weeks when I was too busy to visit the Drovers’. When I finally did get in it was a Saturday night and the Athletic Club dance was in full spate. A rhythmic beat drifted from the ballroom, the little bar was packed, and the domino players were under pressure, squashed into a corner by the crush of dinner jackets and backless dresses.

  In the noise and heat I struggled towards the bar, thinking that the place was unrecognisable. But there was one feature unchanged—Paul Cotterell on his stool at the far end of the counter.

  I squeezed in next to him and saw he was wearing his usual tweed jacket. “Not dancing, Paul?”

  He half closed his eyes, shook his head slowly and smiled at me over his bent little pipe. “Not for me, old boy,” he murmured. “Too much like work.”

  I glanced down and saw that something else hadn’t changed. Theo was there, too, keeping his nose well clear of the milling feet. I ordered two beers and we tried to converse, but it was difficult to shout above the babel. Arms kept poking between us towards the counter, red faces pushed into ours and shouted greetings. Most of the time we just looked around us.

  Then Paul leaned close and spoke into my ear. “I gave Theo those pills but he’s still getting thinner.”

  “Really?” I shouted back. “That’s unusual.”

  “Yes … perhaps you’d have a look at him?”

  I nodded, he snapped his fingers and the little dog was on his knee in an instant. I reached and lifted him onto mine and I noticed immediately that he was lighter in my hands.

  “You’re right” I said. “He’s still losing weight.”

  Balancing the dog in my lap, I pulled down an eyelid and saw that the conjunctiva was pale.

  I shouted again. “He’s anaemic.” I felt my way back over his face and behind the angle of the jaw I found that the post pharyngeal lymph glands were very enlarged. This was strange. Could he have some form of mouth or throat infection? I looked helplessly around me, wishing fervently that Paul wouldn’t invariably consult me about his dog in a pub. I wanted to examine the animal, but I couldn’t very well deposit him among the glasses on the bar.

  I was trying to get a better grip with a view to looking down his throat when my hand slipped behind his fore leg and my heart gave a sudden thump as I encountered the axillary gland. It, too, was grossly enlarged. I whipped my fingers back into his groin and there was the inguinal gland, prominent as an egg. The prescapular was the same, and as I groped around feverishly I realised that every superficial lymph gland was several times its normal size.

  Hodgkin’s disease. For a few moments I was oblivious of the shouting and laughter, the muffled blare of music. Then I looked at Paul who was regarding me calmly as he puffed his pipe. How could I tell him in these surroundings? He would ask me what Hodgkin’s disease was and I would have to explain that it was a cancer of the lymphatic system and that his dog was surely going to die.

  As my thoughts raced I stroked the shaggy head and Theo’s comic whiskered face turned towards me. People jostled past, hands reached out and bore gins and whiskies and beers past my face; a fat man threw his arm round my neck.

  I leaned across. “Paul,” I said.

  “Yes, Jim?”

  “Will you … will you bring Theo round to the surgery tomorrow morning. It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday.”

  Momentarily the eyebrow twitched upwards, then he nodded.

  “Right, old boy.”

  I didn’t bother to finish my drink. I began to push my way towards the door and as the crush closed around me I glanced back. The little dog’s tail was just disappearing under the stool.

  Next day I had one of those early waking mornings when I started tossing around at six o’clock and finished by staring at the ceiling.

  Even after I had got my feet on the ground and brought Helen a cup of tea the waiting was interminable until the moment arrived which I had been dreading—when I faced Paul across the surgery table with Theo standing between us.

  I told him straight away. I couldn’t think of any easy way to lead up to it.

  His expression did not change, but he took his pipe out of his mouth and looked steadily at me, then at the dog and back again at me.

  “Oh,” he said at last. “I see.”

  I didn’t say anything and he slowly ran his hand along the little animal’s back. “Are you quite sure, Jim?”

  “Absolutely. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Is there no treatment?”

  “There are various palliatives, Paul, but I’ve never seen any of them do any good. The end result is always the same.”

  “Yes …” He nodded slowly. “But he doesn’t look so bad. What will happen if we don’t do anything?”

  I paused. “Well, as the internal glands enlarge, various things will happen. Ascites—dropsy—will develop in the abdomen. In fact you can see he’s a little bit pot-bellied now.”

  “Yes … I do see, now you mention it. Anything else?”

  “As the thoracic glands get bigger he’ll begin to pant.”

  “I’ve noticed that already. He’s breathless after a short walk.”

  “And all the time he’ll get thinner and thinner and more debilitated.”

  Paul looked down at his feet for a few moments then faced me. “So what it amounts to is that he’s going to be pretty miserable for the rest of his life.” He swallowed. “And how long is that going to be?”

  “A few weeks. It varies. Maybe up to three months.”

  “Well, Jim.” He smoothed back his hair. “I can’t let that happen. It’s my responsibility. You must put him to sleep now, before he really starts to suffer. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Paul, it’s the kindest thing to do.”

  “Will you do it immediately—as soon as I am out of that door?”

  “I will,” I replied. “And I promise you he won’t know a thing.”

  His face held a curious fixity of expression. He put his pipe in his mouth, but it had gone out so he stuffed it into his pocket. Then he leaned forward and patted his dog once on the head. The bushy face with the funny shock of hair round the muzzle turned to him and for a few seconds they looked at each other.

  Then, “Goodbye, old chap,” he muttered and strode quickly from the room.

  I kept my promise.

  “Good lad, good old Theo,” I murmured, and stroked the face and ears again and again as the little creature slipped peacefully away. Like all vets I hated doing this, painless though it was, but to me there has always been a comfort in the knowledge that the last thing these helpless animals knew was the sound of a friendly voice and the touch of a gentle hand.