James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘Well, we’d better get out on the road again,’ he gasped, and as he spoke the front door bell rang again.

  The colour drained rapidly from his face and he clutched my arm. ‘That must be Miss Westerman this time. God almighty, she’s coming in!’

  Rapid footsteps sounded in the passage and the sitting room door opened. But it wasn’t Miss Westerman, it was Lydia again. She strode over to the sofa, reached underneath and extracted her handbag. She didn’t say anything but merely shrivelled Tristan with a sidelong glance before leaving.

  ‘What a night!’ he moaned, putting a hand to his forehead. ‘I can’t stand much more of this.’

  Over the next hour we made innumerable sorties but we couldn’t find Hamish and nobody else seemed to have seen him. I came in to find Tristan collapsed in an armchair. His mouth hung open and he showed every sign of advanced exhaustion. I shook my head and he shook his, then I heard the telephone.

  I lifted the receiver, listened for a minute and turned to the young man. ‘I’ve got to go out, Triss. Mr Drew’s old pony has colic again.’

  He reached out a hand from the depths of his chair. ‘You’re not going to leave me, Jim?’

  ‘Sorry, I must. But I won’t be long. It’s only a mile away.’

  ‘But what if Miss Westerman comes?’

  I shrugged. ‘You’ll just have to apologise. Hamish is bound to turn up – maybe in the morning.’

  ‘You make it sound easy . . .’ He ran a hand inside his collar. ‘And another thing – how about Siegfried? What if he arrives and asks about the dog? What do I tell him?’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that,’ I replied airily. ‘Just say you were too busy on the sofa with the Drovers’ barmaid to bother about such things. He’ll understand.’

  But my attempt at jocularity fell flat. The young man fixed me with a cold eye and ignited a quivering Woodbine. ‘I believe I’ve told you this before, Jim, but there’s a nasty cruel streak in you.’

  Mr Drew’s pony had almost recovered when I got there but I gave it a mild sedative injection before turning for home. On the way back a thought struck me and I took a road round the edge of the town to the row of modern bungalows where Miss Westerman lived. I parked the car and walked up the path of number ten.

  And there was Hamish in the porch, coiled up comfortably on the mat, looking up at me with mild surprise as I hovered over him.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ I said. ‘You’ve got more sense than we had. Why didn’t we think of this before?’

  I deposited him on the passenger seat and as I drove away he hoisted his paws on to the dash and gazed out interestedly at the road unfolding in the headlights. Truly a phlegmatic little hound.

  Outside Skeldale House I tucked him under my arm and was about to turn the handle of the front door when I paused. Tristan had notched up a long succession of successful pranks against me – fake telephone calls, the ghost in my bedroom and many others – and in fact, good friends as we were, he never neglected a chance to take the mickey out of me. In this situation, with the positions reversed, he would be merciless. I put my finger on the bell and leaned on it for several long seconds.

  For some time there was neither sound nor movement from within and I pictured the cowering figure mustering his courage before marching to his doom. Then the light came on in the passage and as I peered expectantly through the glass a nose appeared round the far corner followed very gingerly by a wary eye. By degrees the full face inched into view and when Tristan recognised my grinning countenance he unleashed a cry of rage and bounded along the passage with upraised fist.

  I really think that in his distraught state he would have attacked me, but the sight of Hamish banished all else. He grabbed the hairy creature and began to fondle him.

  ‘Good little dog, nice little dog,’ he crooned as he trotted through to the sitting-room. ‘What a beautiful thing you are.’ He laid him lovingly in the basket, and Hamish, after a ‘heigh-ho, here we are again’ glance around him, put his head along his side and promptly went to sleep.

  Tristan fell limply into the armchair and gazed at me with glazed eyes.

  ‘Well, we’re saved, Jim,’ he whispered. ‘But I’ll never be the same after tonight. I’ve run bloody miles and I’ve nearly lost my voice with shouting. I tell you I’m about knackered.’

  I too was vastly relieved, and the nearness of catastrophe was brought home to us when Miss Westerman arrived within ten minutes.

  ‘Oh, my darling!’ she cried as Hamish leaped at her, mouth open, short tail wagging furiously. ‘I’ve been so worried about you all day.’

  She looked tentatively at the ear with its rows of buttons. ‘Oh, it does look a lot better without that horrid swelling – and what a nice neat job you have made. Thank you, Mr Herriot, and thank you, too, young man.’

  Tristan, who had staggered to his feet, bowed slightly as I showed the lady out.

  ‘Bring him back in six weeks to have the stitches out,’ I called to her as she left, then I rushed back into the room.

  ‘Siegfried’s just pulled up outside! You’d better look as if you’ve been working.’

  He rushed to the bookshelves, pulled down Gaiger and Davis’s Bacteriology and a notebook and dived into a chair. When his brother came in he was utterly engrossed.

  Siegfried moved over to the fire and warmed his hands. He looked pink and mellow.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Miss Westerman,’ he said. ‘She’s really pleased. Well done, both of you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, but Tristan was too busy to reply, scanning the pages anxiously and scribbling repeatedly in the notebook.

  Siegfried walked behind the young man’s chair and looked down at the open volume.

  ‘Ah yes, Clostridium septique,’ he murmured, smiling indulgently. ‘That’s a good one to study. Keeps coming up in exams.’ He rested a hand briefly on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad to see you at work. You’ve been raking about too much lately and it’s getting you down. A night at your books will have been good for you.’

  He yawned, stretched, and made for the door. ‘I’m off to bed. I’m rather sleepy.’ He paused with his hand on the door. ‘You know, Tristan, I quite envy you – there’s nothing like a nice restful evening at home.’

  The situation of a patient escaping is by no means unique. It is something which has happened to many vets, particularly in the thirties when small animal work was very much a sideline and there were few organised arrangements for hospitalisation. It was especially traumatic when formidable people like Miss Westerman and Siegfried were involved. It is interesting to record another of the satisfying little operations – the treatment of an aural haematoma. A very quick relief from pain. I also relished the chance to chronicle a typical vignette from Tristan’s love life.

  41. Roddy Travers and Jake

  I suppose it isn’t unusual to see a man pushing a pram in a town, but on a lonely moorland road the sight merits a second glance. Especially when the pram contains a large dog.

  That was what I saw in the hills above Darrowby one morning and I slowed down as I drove past. I had noticed the strange combination before – on several occasions over the last few weeks – and it was clear that man and dog had recently moved into the district.

  As the car drew abreast of him the man turned, smiled and raised his hand. It was a smile of rare sweetness in a very brown face. A forty-year-old face, I thought, above a brown neck which bore neither collar nor tie, and a faded striped shirt lying open over a bare chest despite the coldness of the day.

  I couldn’t help wondering who or what he was. The outfit of scuffed suede golf jacket, corduroy trousers and sturdy boots didn’t give much clue. Some people might have put him down as an ordinary tramp, but there was a businesslike energetic look about him which didn’t fit the term.

  I wound the window down and the thin wind of a Yorkshire March bit at my cheeks.

  ‘Nippy this morning,’ I said.

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