James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  When I look back on the whole episode my feeling is of thankfulness. All sorts of things help people to pull out of a depression. Mostly it is their family – the knowledge that wife and children are dependent on them – sometimes it is a cause to work for, but in Andrew Vine’s case it was a dog.

  I often think of the dark valley which closed around him at that time and I am convinced he came out of it on the end of Digger’s lead.

  This is a glorious contrast with the other story and a good example of the therapeutic benefit of owning a pet. I know beyond doubt that just being with a dog and talking to it has a cheering and soothing effect – my morning chat with my own dog sets me up for the day – and when Andrew had the responsibility of looking after Digger it was a lifesaver. This story also gave me the opportunity of recording a case of a dog going blind. It is a heartbreaking thing to observe and, in a way, worse for the owner. I hope that I have been able to point out that animals can adjust in a miraculous way to this affliction, because it is a great comfort to people to realise that their pet can still be very happy in its way.

  40. The Great Escape

  I poised my knife over a swollen ear. Tristan, one elbow leaning wearily on the table, was holding an anaesthetic mask over the nose of the sleeping dog when Siegfried came into the room.

  He glanced briefly at the patient. ‘Ah yes, that haematoma you were telling me about, James.’ Then he looked across the table at his brother. ‘Good God, you’re a lovely sight this morning! When did you get in last night?’

  Tristan raised a pallid countenance. His eyes were bloodshot slits between puffy lids. ‘Oh, I don’t quite know. Fairly late, I should think.’

  ‘Fairly late! I got back from a farrowing at four o’clock and you hadn’t arrived then. Where the hell were you, anyway?’

  ‘I was at the Licensed Victuallers’ Ball. Very good do, actually.’

  ‘I bet it was!’ Siegfried snorted. ‘You don’t miss a thing, do you? Darts Team Dinner, Bellringers’ Outing, Pigeon Club Dance, and now it’s the Licensed Victuallers’ Ball. If there’s a good booze-up going on anywhere you’ll find it.’

  When under fire Tristan always retained his dignity and he drew it around him now like a threadbare cloak.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘many of the Licensed Victuallers are my friends.’

  His brother flushed. ‘I believe you. I should think you’re the best bloody customer they’ve ever had!’

  Tristan made no reply but began to make a careful check of the flow of oxygen into the ether bottle.

  ‘And another thing,’ Siegfried continued. ‘I keep seeing you slinking around with about a dozen different women. And you’re supposed to be studying for an exam.’

  ‘That’s an exaggeration.’ The young man gave him a pained look. ‘I admit I enjoy a little female company now and then – just like yourself.’

  Tristan believed in attack as the best form of defence, and it was a telling blow, because there was a constant stream of attractive girls laying siege to Siegfried at Skeldale House.

  But the elder brother was only temporarily halted. ‘Never mind me!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve passed all my exams. I’m talking about you! Didn’t I see you with that new barmaid from the Drovers’ the other night? You dodged rapidly into a shop doorway but I’m bloody sure it was you.’

  Tristan cleared his throat. ‘It quite possibly was. I have recently become friendly with Lydia – she’s a very nice girl.’

  ‘I’m not saying she isn’t. What I am saying is that I want to see you indoors at night with your books instead of boozing and chasing women. Is that clear?’

  ‘Quite.’ The young man inclined his head gracefully and turned down the knob on the anaesthetic machine.

  His brother regarded him balefully for a few moments, breathing deeply. These remonstrations always took it out of him. Then he turned away quickly and left.

  Tristan’s facade crumbled as soon as the door closed.

  ‘Watch the anaesthetic for a minute, Jim,’ he croaked. He went over to the basin in the corner, filled a measuring jar with cold water and drank it at a long gulp. Then he soaked some cotton wool under the tap and applied it to his brow.

  ‘I wish he hadn’t come in just then. I’m in no mood for the raised voices and angry words.’ He reached up to a large bottle of aspirins, swallowed a few and washed them down with another gargantuan draught. ‘All right then, Jim,’ he murmured as he returned to the table and took over the mask again. ‘Let’s go.’

  I bent once more over the sleeping dog. He was a Scottie called Hamish and his mistress, Miss Westerman, had brought him in two days ago.

  She was a retired schoolteacher and I always used to think she must have had little trouble in keeping her class in order. The chilly pale eyes looking straight into mine reminded me that she was as tall as I was and the square jaw between the muscular shoulders completed a redoubtable presence.

  ‘Mr Herriot,’ she barked, ‘I want you to have a look at Hamish. I do hope it’s nothing serious but his ear has become very swollen and painful. They don’t get – er – cancer there, do they?’ For a moment the steady gaze wavered.

  ‘Oh that’s most unlikely.’ I lifted the little animal’s chin and looked at the left ear which was drooping over the side of his face. His whole head, in fact, was askew, as though dragged down by pain.

  Carefully I lifted the ear and touched the tense swelling with a forefinger. Hamish looked round at me and whimpered.

  ‘Yes, I know, old chap. It’s tender, isn’t it?’ As I turned to Miss Westerman I almost bumped into the close-cropped iron-grey head which was hovering close over the little dog.

  ‘He’s got an aural haematoma,’ I said.

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘It’s when the little blood vessels between the skin and cartilage of the ear rupture and the blood flows out and causes this acute distension.’

  She patted the jet-black shaggy coat. ‘But what causes it?’

  ‘Canker, usually. Has he been shaking his head lately?’

  ‘Yes, now you mention it he has. Just as though he had got something in his ear and was trying to get rid of it.’

  ‘Well, that’s what bursts the blood vessels. I can see he has a touch of canker, though it isn’t common in this breed.’

  She nodded. ‘I see. And how can you cure it?’

  ‘Only by an operation, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I’m not keen on that.’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘It’s just a case of letting the blood out and stitching the layers of the ear together. If we don’t do this soon he’ll suffer a lot of pain and finish up with a cauliflower ear, and we don’t want that because he’s a bonny little chap.’

  I meant it, too. Hamish was a proud-strutting, trim little dog. The Scottish Terrier is an attractive creature and I often lament that there are so few around in these modern days.

  After some hesitation Miss Westerman agreed and we fixed a date two days from then. When she brought him in for the operation she deposited Hamish in my arms, stroked his head again and again, then looked from Tristan to me and back again.

  ‘You’ll take care of him, won’t you?’ she said, and the jaw jutted and the pale blue eyes stabbed. For a moment I felt like a little boy caught in mischief, and I think my colleague felt the same because he blew out his breath as the lady departed.

  ‘By gum, Jim, that’s a tough baby,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, and she thinks all the world of this dog, so let’s make a good job of him.’

  ‘After Siegfried’s departure I lifted the ear which was now a turgid cone and made an incision along the inner skin. As the pent up blood gushed forth I caught it in an enamel dish, then I squeezed several big clots through the wound.

  ‘No wonder the poor little chap was in pain,’ I said softly. ‘He�€