James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘There you are,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that will do her good.’ And after all, I thought, I wasn’t a complete charlatan – it wouldn’t do her any harm.

  Mr Cobb relaxed visibly. ‘Eee, that’s champion. You’ve set me mind at rest.’ He led the way into a luxurious drawing-room and tacked unsteadily towards a cocktail cabinet. ‘You’ll ’ave a drink before you go?’

  ‘No really, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, I’ll ’ave a drop. Just to steady me nerves. I was that upset.’ He tipped a lavish measure of whisky into a glass and waved me to a chair.

  My bed was calling me, but I sat down and watched as he drank. He told me that he was a retired bookmaker from the West Riding and that he had come to Darrowby only a month ago. Although no longer directly connected with horse racing, he still loved the sport and never missed a meeting in the north of England.

  ‘I allus get a taxi to take me and I have a right good day.’ His face was radiant as he recalled the happy times, then for a moment his cheeks quivered and his woebegone expression returned.

  ‘But I neglect me dog. I leave her at home.’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen you out in the fields with Myrtle. You give her plenty of exercise, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh aye, lots of walks every day.’

  ‘Well, then she really has a good life. This is just a silly little notion you’ve got.’

  He beamed at me and sloshed out another few fingers of whisky.

  ‘Eee, you’re a good lad. Come on, you’ll just have one before you go.’

  ‘Oh, all right, just a small one, then.’

  As we drank he became more and more benign until he was gazing at me with something like devotion.

  ‘James Herriot,’ he slurred. ‘I suppose it’ll be Jim, eh?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I’ll call you Jim, then, and you can call me Humphrey.’

  ‘Okay, Humphrey,’ I said, and swallowed the last of my whisky. ‘But I really must go now.’

  Out in the street again he put a hand on my arm and his face became serious again. ‘Thank ye, Jim. Myrtle was right bad tonight and I’m grateful.’

  Driving away, I realised that I had failed to convince him that there was nothing wrong with his dog. He was sure I had saved her life. It had been an unusual visit and as my 2 a.m. whisky burned in my stomach I decided that Humphrey Cobb was a very funny little man. But I liked him.

  After that night I saw him quite frequently exercising Myrtle in the fields. With his almost spherical build he seemed to bounce over the grass, but his manner was always self-contained and rational except that he kept thanking me for pulling his dog back from the jaws of death.

  Then quite suddenly I was back at the beginning again. It was shortly after midnight and as I lifted the bedside phone I could hear the distraught weeping before the receiver touched my ear.

  ‘Oooh . . . oooh . . . Jim, Jim. Myrtle’s in a terrible bad way. Will ye come?’

  ‘What . . . what is it this time?’

  ‘She’s twitchin’.’

  ‘Twitching?’

  ‘Aye, twitchin’ summat terrible. Oh, come on, Jim, lad, don’t keep me waiting. I’m worried to death. I’m sure she’s got distemper.’ He broke down again.

  My head began to reel. ‘She can’t have distemper, Humphrey. Not in a flash, like that.’

  ‘I’m beggin’ you Jim,’ he went on as though he hadn’t heard. ‘Be a pal. Come and see Myrtle.’

  ‘All right,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a good lad, Jim, you’re a good lad . . .’ The voice trailed away as I replaced the phone.

  I dressed at normal speed with none of the panic of the first time. It sounded like a repetition, but why after midnight again? On my way to Cedar House I decided it must be another false alarm – but you never knew.

  The same dizzying wave of whisky fumes enveloped me in the porch. Humphrey, sniffling and moaning, fell against me once or twice as he ushered me into the kitchen. He pointed to the basket in the corner.

  ‘There she is,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I’ve just got back from Ripon and found ’er like this.’

  ‘Racing again, eh?’

  ‘Aye, gamblin’ on them ’osses and drinkin’ and leavin’ me poor dog pining at home. I’m a rotter, Jim, that’s what I am.’

  ‘Rubbish, Humphrey! I’ve told you before. You’re not doing her any harm by having a day out. Anyway, how about this twitching? She looks all right now.’

  ‘Yes, she’s stopped doing it, but when I came in her back leg was goin’ like this.’ He made a jerking movement with his hand.

  I groaned inwardly. ‘But she could have been scratching or flicking away a fly.’

  ‘Nay, there’s summat more than that. I can tell she’s sufferin’. Just look at them eyes.’

  I could see what he meant. Myrtle’s Beagle eyes were pools of emotion and it was easy to read a melting reproach in their depths.

  With a feeling of futility I examined her. I knew what I would find – nothing. But when I tried to explain to the little man that his pet was normal he wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Oh, you’ll give her one of them wonderful tablets,’ he pleaded. ‘It cured her last time.’

  I felt I had to pacify him, so Myrtle received another instalment of vitamins.

  Humphrey was immensely relieved and weaved his way to the drawing-room and the whisky bottle.

  ‘I need a little pick-me-up after that shock,’ he said. ‘You’ll ’ave one too, won’t you, Jim lad?’

  This pantomime was enacted frequently over the next few months, always after race meetings and always between midnight and 1 a.m. I had ample opportunity to analyse the situation and I came to a fairly obvious conclusion.

  Most of the time Humphrey was a normal conscientious pet owner, but after a large intake of alcohol his affectionate feelings degenerated into a glutinous sentimentality and guilt. I invariably went out when he called me because I knew that he would be deeply distressed if I refused. I was treating Humphrey, not Myrtle.

  It amused me that not once did he accept my protestations that my visit was unnecessary. Each time he was sure that my magic tablets had saved his dog’s life.

  Mind you, I did not discount the possibility that Myrtle was deliberately working on him with those eyes. The canine mind is quite capable of disapproval. I took my own dog almost everywhere with me but if I left him at home to take Helen to the cinema he would lie under our bed, sulking, and when he emerged, would studiously ignore us for an hour or two.

  I quailed when Humphrey told me he had decided to have Myrtle mated because I knew that the ensuing pregnancy would be laden with harassment for me.

  That was how it turned out. The little man flew into a series of alcoholic panics, all of them unfounded, and he discovered imaginary symptoms in Myrtle at regular intervals throughout the nine weeks.

  I was vastly relieved when she gave birth to five healthy pups. Now, I thought, I would get some peace. The fact was that I was just about tired of Humphrey’s nocturnal nonsense. I have always made a point of never refusing to turn out at night but Humphrey had stretched this principle to breaking point. One of these times he would have to be told.

  The crunch came when the pups were a few weeks old. I had had a terrible day, starting with a prolapsed uterus in a cow at 5 a.m. and progressing through hours of road-slogging, missed meals and a late-night wrestle with Ministry forms, some of which I suspected I had filled up wrongly.

  My clerical incompetence has always infuriated me and when I crawled, dog tired, into bed, my mind was still buzzing with frustration. I lay for a long time trying to put those forms away from me, and it was well after midnight when I fell asleep.

  I have always had a silly fancy that our practice knows when I desperately want a full night’s sleep. It knows and gleefully steps in. When the phone exploded in my ea