James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  Sitting there in his shop I looked at him as he worked. He was a tiny man in his fifties with a bald head which made a mockery of the rows of hair restorer on his shelves, and on his face rested the gentle smik which never seemed to leave him. That smile and the big, curiously unworldly eyes gave him an unusual attraction.

  And then there was his obvious love of his fellow men. As his client rose from the chair, patently relieved that his ordeal was over, Josh fussed around him, brushing him down, patting his back and chattering gaily. You could see that he hadn’t been just cutting this man’s hair, he had been enjoying a happy social occasion.

  Next to the big farmer, Josh looked smaller than ever, a minute husk of humanity, and I marvelled as I had often done at how he managed to accommodate all that beer.

  Of course foreigners are often astonished at the Englishman’s ability to consume vast quantities of ale. Even now, after forty years in Yorkshire, I cannot compete. Maybe it is my Glasgow upbringing, but after two or three pints discomfort sets in. The remarkable thing is that throughout the years I can hardly recall seeing a Yorkshireman drunk. Their natural reserve relaxes and they become progressively jovial as the long cascade goes down their throats, but they seldom fall about or do anything silly.

  Josh, for instance. He would swallow around eight pints every night of the week except Saturday, when he stepped up his intake to between ten and fourteen, yet he never looked much different. His professional skill suffered, but that was all.

  He was turning to me now. ‘Well, Mr Herriot, it’s good to see you again.’ He warmed me with his smile and those wide eyes with their almost mystic depths caressed me as he ushered me to the chair. ‘Are you very well?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Anderson,’ I replied. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Nicely, sir, nicely.’ He began to tuck the sheet under my chin, then laughed delightedly as my little Beagle trotted in under the folds.

  ‘Hullo, Sam, you’re there as usual, I see.’ He bent and stroked the sleek ears. ‘By gum, Mr Herriot, he’s a faithful friend. Never lets you out of ’is sight if he can help it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘And I don’t like to go anywhere without him.’ I screwed round in my chair. ‘By the way, didn’t I see you with a dog the other day?’

  Josh paused, scissors in hand. ‘You did an’ all. A little bitch. A stray – got ’er from the Cat and Dog Home at York. Now that our kids have all left home, t’missus and I fancied gettin’ a dog and we think the world of her. I tell ye, she’s a grand ’un.’

  ‘What breed is she?’

  ‘Eee, now you’re askin’. Nobbut a mongrel, I reckon. I can’t see any pedigree about her but money wouldn’t buy ’er.’

  I was about to agree with him when he held up a hand. ‘Hang on a minute and I’ll bring ’er down.’

  He lived above the shop and his feet clumped on the stairs as he returned with a little bitch in his arms.

  ‘There you are, Mr Herriot. What d’you think of that?’ He stood her on the floor for my inspection.

  I looked at the little animal. She was a light grey in colour with very long crinkled hair. In fact at a quick glance she looked like a miniature Wensleydale sheep. Definitely a hound of baffling lineage, but the panting mouth and swishing tail bore witness to her good nature.

  ‘I like her,’ I said. ‘I think you’ve picked a winner there.’

  ‘That’s what we think.’ He stopped and fondled his new pet and I noticed that he kept picking up the long hairs and rubbing them gently between finger and thumb again. It looked a little odd, then it occurred to me that was what he was used to doing with his human customers. ‘We’ve called her Venus,’ he said.

  ‘Venus?’

  ‘Aye, because she’s so beautiful.’ His tone was very serious.

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘I see.’

  He washed his hands, took up his scissors again and grasped a few strands of my hair. Again I saw that he went through the same procedure of rubbing the hairs between his fingers before cutting them.

  I couldn’t understand why he did this but my mind was too preoccupied to give the matter much thought. I was steeling myself. Still, it wasn’t too bad with the scissors – just an uncomfortable tug as the blunt edges came together.

  It was when he reached for the clippers that I gripped the arms of the chair as though I were at the dentist. It was all right as long as he was running the things up the back of my neck; it was that jerk at the end, plucking the last tuff from its roots, which set my face grimacing at me in the mirror. Once or twice an involuntary ‘Ooh!’ or ‘Aah!’ escaped me but Josh gave no sign of having heard.

  I remember that for years I had sat in that shop listening to the half-stilled cries of pain from the customers, but at no time had the barber shown any reaction.

  The thing was that, although he was the least arrogant or conceited of men, he did consider himself a gifted hairdresser. Even now as he gave me a final combing, I could see the pride shining from his face. Head on one side, he patted my hair repeatedly, circling the chair and viewing me from all angles, making a finicky snip here and there before holding up the hand mirror for my inspection.

  ‘All right, Mr Herriot?’ he enquired with the quiet satisfaction which comes from a job well done.

  ‘Lovely, Mr Anderson, just fine.’ Relief added warmth to my voice.

  He bowed slightly, well pleased. ‘Aye, you know, it’s easy enough to cut hair off. The secret is knowin’ what to leave on.’

  I had heard him say it a hundred times before, but I laughed dutifully as he whisked his brush over the back of my coat.

  My hair used to grow pretty fast in those days, but I didn’t have time to pay another visit to the barber before he arrived on my front door step. I was having tea at the time and I trotted to the door in answer to the insistent ringing of the bell.

  He was carrying Venus in his arms but she was a vastly different creature from the placid little animal I had seen in his shop. She was bubbling saliva from her mouth, retching and pawing frantically at her face.

  Josh looked distraught. ‘She’s chokin’, Mr Herriot. Look at ’er! She’ll die if you don’t do summat quick!’

  ‘Wait a minute, Mr Anderson. Tell me what’s happened. Has she swallowed something?’

  ‘Aye, she’s ’ad a chicken bone.’

  ‘A chicken bone! Don’t you know you should never give a dog chicken bones?’

  ‘Aye, ah know, ah know, everybody knows that, but we’d had a bird for our dinner and she pinched the frame out of the dustbin, the little beggar. She had a good crunch at it afore I spotted ’er and now she’s goin’ to choke!’ He glared at me, lips quivering. He was on the verge of tears.

  ‘Now just calm down,’ I said. ‘I don’t think Venus is choking. By the way she’s pawing, I should say there’s something stuck in her mouth.’

  I grabbed the little animal’s jaws with finger and thumb and forced them apart. And I saw with a surge of relief the sight familiar to all vets – a long spicule of bone jammed tightly between the back molars and forming a bar across the roof of the mouth.

  As I say, it is a common occurrence in practice and a happy one, because it is harmless and easily relieved by a flick of the forceps. Recovery is instantaneous, skill minimal and the kudos most warming. I loved it.

  I put my hand on the barber’s shoulder. ‘You can stop worrying, Mr Anderson, it’s just a bone stuck in her teeth. Come through to the consulting room and I’ll have it out in a jiffy.’

  I could see the man relaxing as we walked along the passage to the back of the house. ‘Oh, thank God for that, Mr Herriot. I thought she’d had it, honest, I did. And we’ve grown right fond of the little thing. I couldn’t bear to lose ’er.’

  I gave a light laugh, put the dog on the table and reached for a strong pair of forceps. ‘No question of that, I assure you. This won’t take a minute.’

  Jimmy, aged five, had left his tea and trailed after us