James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  Paul indicated the right fore foot with the stem of his pipe. ‘It’s that one. He’s been going a bit lame off and on for the last few days.’

  ‘I see.’ I rolled the little animal on his back and then laughed. ‘Oh, he’s only got a broken claw. There’s a little bit hanging off here. He must have caught it on a stone. Hang on a minute.’ I delved in my pocket for the scissors which always dwelt there. A quick snip and the job was done.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  One eyebrow went up mockingly as he looked at Theo. ‘So that’s what you were making all the fuss about, eh? Silly old trout.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Back you go.’

  The little dog obediently leaped to the carpet and disappeared into his sanctuary beneath the stool. And at that moment I had a flash of intuition about Paul – about his charm which I had often admired and envied. He didn’t really care. He was fond of his dog, of course. He took him everywhere with him, exercised him regularly by the river, but there was none of the anxiety, the almost desperate concern which I had so often seen in the eyes of my clients when I dealt with even the most trivial of their ailments. They cared too much – as I have always done with my own animals.

  And of course he was right. It was an easier and more comfortable way to live. Caring made you vulnerable, while Paul cruised along, impregnable. That attractive casualness, the nonchalant good manners, the imperturbability – they’all had their roots in the fact that nothing touched him very deeply.

  And despite my snap diagnosis of his character I still envied him. I have always been blown around too easily by my emotions; it must be lovely to be like Paul. And the more I thought about it the more I realised how everything fitted in. He had never cared enough to get married. Even Bach, with his mathematical music, was part of the pattern.

  ‘I think that major operation deserves another pint, Jim.’ He smiled his lop-sided smile. ‘Unless you demand a higher fee?’

  I laughed. I would always like him. We are all different and we have to act as we are made, but as I started my second glass I thought again of his carefree life. He had a good job in the government offices in Brawton, no domestic responsibilities, and every night he sat on that same stool drinking beer with his dog underneath. He hadn’t in the world.

  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.

  ‘Mmmm, 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, a nd a 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 greatly 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 betted 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 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 l