James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

I looked at the printed page. There was a large picture at the top, a picture of a Dachshund exactly like Hermann. This dog, too, was paralysed, but its hind end was supported by a little four-wheeled bogie. On the picture it appeared to be sporting with its mistress. In fact it looked quite happy and normal except for those wheels.

  Ron seemed to hear the rustle of the paper because his head came round quickly. ‘What d’ye think of that, Mr Herriot? D’ye agree with it?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t really know, Ron. I don’t like the look of it, but I suppose the lady in the picture thought it was the only thing to do.’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ The husky voice trembled. ‘But ah don’t want Hermann to finish up like that.’ The arm dropped by the side of the bed and his fingers felt around on the carpet, but the little dog was still splayed out near the door. ‘It’s ’opeless now, Mr Herriot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it was a black lookout from the beginning,’ I said. ‘These cases are so difficult. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Nay, I’m not blamin’ you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done what ye could, same as vet for that dog in the picture did what ’e could. But is was no good, was it? What do we do now – put ’im down?’

  ‘No, Ron, forget about that just now. Sometimes paralysis cases just recover on their own after many weeks. We must carry on. At this moment I honestly cannot say there is no hope.’

  I paused for a moment, then turned to Mrs Cundall. ‘One of the problems is the dog’s natural functions. You’ll have to carry him out into the garden for that. If you gently squeeze each side of his abdomen you’ll encourage him to pass water. I’m sure you’ll soon learn how to do that.’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course,’ she replied. ‘I’ll do anything. As long as there’s some hope.’

  ‘There is, I assure you, there is.’

  But on the way back to the surgery the thought hammered in my brain. That hope was very slight. Spontaneous recovery did sometimes occur, but Hermann’s condition was extreme. I repressed a groan as I thought of the nightmarish atmosphere which had begun to surround my dealings with the Cundalls. The paralysed man and the paralysed dog. And why did that picture have to appear in the paper just at this very time? Every veterinary surgeon knows the feeling that fate has loaded the scales against him, and it weighed on me despite the bright sunshine spreading into the car.

  However, I kept going back every few days. Sometimes I took a couple of bottles of brown ale along in the evening and drank them with Ron. He and his wife were always cheerful but the little dog never showed the slightest sign of improvement. He still had to pull his useless hind limbs after him when he came to greet me, and though he always returned to his station by his master’s bed, nuzzling up into Ron’s hand, I was beginning to resign myself to the certainty that one day that arm would come down from the quilt and Hermann would not be there.

  It was on one of these visits that I noticed an unpleasant smell as I entered the house. There was something familiar about it.

  I sniffed and the Cundalls looked at each other guiltily. There was a silence and then Ron spoke.

  ‘It’s some medicine ah’ve been givin’ Hermann. Stinks like ’ell but it’s supposed to be good for dogs.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Aye, well . . .’ His fingers twitched uncomfortably on the bedclothes. ‘It was Bill Noakes put me on to it. He’s an old mate o’ mine – we used to work down t’pit together – and he came to visit me last weekend. Keeps a few Whippets, does Bill. Knows a lot about dogs and ’e sent me this stuff along for Hermann.’

  Mrs Cundall went to the cupboard and sheepishly presented me with a plain bottle. I removed the cork and as the horrid stench rose up to me my memory became suddenly clear. Asafoetida, a common constituent of quack medicines before the war and still lingering on the shelves of occasional chemist shops and in the medicine chests of people who liked to doctor their own animals.

  I had never prescribed the stuff myself but it was supposed to be beneficial in horses with colic and dogs with digestive troubles. My own feeling had always been that its popularity had been due solely to the assumption that anything which stank as badly as that must have some magical properties, but one thing I knew for sure was that it could not possibly do anything for Hermann.

  I replaced the cork. ‘So you’re giving him this, eh?’

  Ron nodded. ‘Aye, three times a day. He doesn’t like it much, but Bill Noakes has great faith in it. Cured hundreds o’ dogs with it, ’e says.’ The deep-sunk eyes looked at me with a silent appeal.

  ‘Well, fine, Ron,’ I said. ‘You carry on. Let’s hope it does the trick.’

  I knew the asafoetida couldn’t do any harm and since my treatment had proved useless I was in no position to turn haughty. But my main concern was that these two nice people had been given a glimmer of hope, and I wasn’t going to blot it out.

  Mrs Cundall smiled and Ron’s expression relaxed. ‘That’s grand, Mr Herriot,’ he said. ‘Ah’m glad ye don’t mind. I can dose the little feller myself. It’s summat for me to do.’

  It was about a week after the commencement of the new treatment that I called in at the Cundalls as I was passing through Gilthorpe.

  ‘How are you today, Ron?’ I asked.

  ‘Champion, Mr Herriot, champion.’ He always said that, but today there was a new eagerness in his face. He reached down and lifted his dog on to the bed. ‘Look ’ere.’

  He pinched the little paw between his fingers and there was a faint but definite retraction of the leg. I almost fell over in my haste to grab at the other foot. The result was the same.

  ‘My God, Ron,’ I gasped, ‘the reflexes are coming back.’

  He laughed his soft husky laugh. ‘Bill Noakes’s stuff’s working, isn’t it?’

  A gush of emotions, mainly professional shame and wounded pride, welled in me, but it was only for a moment. ‘Yes, Ron,’ I replied, ‘it’s working. No doubt about it.’

  He stared up at me. ‘Then Hermann’s going to be all right?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days yet, but that’s the way it looks to me.’

  It was several weeks more before the little Dachshund was back to normal and of course it was a fairly typical case of spontaneous recovery with nothing whatever to do with the asafoetida or indeed with my own efforts. Even now, thirty years later, when I treat these puzzling back conditions with steroids, broad spectrum antibiotics and sometimes colloidal calcium, I wonder how many of them would have recovered without my aid. Quite a number, I imagine.

  Sadly, despite the modern drugs, we still have our failures and I always regard a successful termination with profound relief.

  But that feeling of relief has never been stronger than it was with Hermann and I can recall vividly my final call at the cottage in Gilthorpe. As it happened it was around the same time as my first visit, eight o’clock in the evening, and when Mrs Cundall ushered me in, the little dog bounded joyously up to me before returning to his post by the bed.

  ‘Well, that’s a lovely sight,’ I said. ‘He can gallop like a racehorse now.’

  Ron dropped his hand down and stroked the sleek head. ‘Aye, isn’t it grand. By heck, it’s been a worryin’ time.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be going.’ I gave Hermann a farewell pat. ‘I just looked in on my way home to make sure all was well. I don’t need to come any more now.’

  ‘Nay, nay,’ Ron said. ‘Don’t rush off. You’ve time to have a bottle o’ beer with me before ye go.’

  I sat down by the bed and Mrs Cundall gave us our glasses before pulling up a chair for herself. It was exactly like that first night. I poured my beer and looked at the two of them. Their faces glowed with friendliness and I marvelled because my part in Hermann’s salvation had been anything but heroic.

  In their eyes everything I had done must have seemed bumbling and ineffectual, and in fact they must be convinced that all would have been lost if Ron’s old chum from the coal-face had not stepped in and effortlessly put th