James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘Well, that’s a rum ’un.’ The farmer passed a hand over the shaggy head and down the fine white markings of the cheeks. ‘Will he get better?’

  ‘It’s usually a long job,’ I replied. ‘Nervous tissue is slow to regenerate and it could take weeks or months. Treatment doesn’t seem to make much difference.’

  The farmer nodded. ‘Awright, we’ll just have to wait. There’s one thing,’ and again the bright smile flooded his face, ‘he can still get round them cows, lame or not. It ‘ud break ’is heart if he couldn’t work. Loves ’is job, does Rip.’

  On the way back to the car he nudged me and opened the door of a shed. In the corner, in a nest of straw, a cat was sitting with her family of tiny kittens. He lifted two out, holding, one in each of his roughened hands. ‘Look at them little fellers, aren’t they lovely!’ He held them against his cheeks and laughed.

  As I started the engine I felt I ought to say something encouraging. ‘Don’t worry too much about Rip, Jack. These cases usually recover in time.’

  But Rip did not recover. After several months his leg was as useless as ever and the muscles had wasted greatly. The nerve must have been irreparably damaged and it was an unhappy thought that this attractive little animal was going to be three-legged for the rest of his life.

  Jack was undismayed and maintained stoutly that Rip was still a good working dog.

  The real blow fell one Sunday morning as Siegfried and I were arranging the rounds in the office. I answered the door bell and found Jack on the step with his dog in his arms.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Is he worse?’

  ‘No, Mr Herriot.’ The farmer’s voice was husky. ‘It’s summat different. He’s been knocked down.’

  We examined the dog on the surgery table. ‘Fracture of the tibia,’ Siegfried said. ‘But there’s no sign of internal damage. Do you know exactly what happened?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Nay, Mr Farnon. He ran on to the village street and a car caught ’im. He dragged ’imself back into t’yard.’

  ‘Dragged?’ Siegfried was puzzled.

  ‘Aye, the broken leg’s on the same side as t’other thing.’

  My partner blew out his cheeks. ‘Ah yes, the radial paralysis. I remember you told me about it, James.’ He looked at me across the table and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I was. A fracture and a paralysis on the same side was a forbidding combination.

  ‘Right, let’s get on,’ Siegfried murmured.

  We set the leg in plaster and I held open the door of Jack’s old car as he laid Rip on the back seat.

  The farmer smiled out at me through the window. ‘I’m takin’ the family to church this mornin’ and I’ll say a little prayer for Rip while I’m there.’

  I watched until he drove round the corner of the street and when I turned I found Siegfried at my elbow.

  ‘I just hope that job goes right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Jack would take it hard if it didn’t.’ He turned and carelessly dusted his old brass plate on its new place on the wall. ‘He’s a truly remarkable chap. He says he’s going to say a prayer for his dog and there’s nobody better qualified. Remember what Coleridge said? “He prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small.” ’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. That’s Jack, all right.’

  The farmer brought his dog into the surgery six weeks later for the removal of the plaster.

  ‘Taking a cast off is a much longer job than putting it on,’ I said as I worked away with my little saw.

  Jack laughed. ‘Aye, ah can see that. It’s hard stuff to get through,’

  I have never liked this job and it seemed a long time before I splayed open the white roll with my fingers and eased it away from the hair of the leg.

  I felt at the site of the fracture and my spirits plummeted. Hardly any healing had taken place. There should have been a healthy callus by now but I could feel the loose ends of the broken bones moving against each other, like a hinge. We were no further forward.

  I could hear Siegfried pottering among the botdes in the dispensary and I called to him.

  He palpated the limb. ‘Damn! One of those! And just when we didn’t want it.’ He looked at the farmer. ‘We’ll have to try again, Jack, but I don’t like it.’

  We applied a fresh plaster and the farmer grinned confidently. ‘Just wanted a bit more time, I reckon. He’ll be right next time.’

  But it was not to be. Siegfried and I worked together to strip off the second cast but the situation was practically unchanged. There was little or no healing tissue around the fracture.

  We didn’t know what to say. Even at the present time, after the most sophisticated bone-pinning procedures, we still find these cases where the bones just will not unite. They are as frustrating now as they were that afternoon when Rip lay on the surgery table.

  I broke the silence. ‘It’s just the same, I’m afraid, Jack.’

  ‘You mean it ’asn’t joined up?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The farmer rubbed a finger along his upper lip. ‘Then ’e won’t be able to take any weight on that leg?’

  I don’t see how he possibly can.’

  ‘Aye . . . aye . . . well, we’ll just have to see how he goes on, then.’

  ‘But Jack,’ Siegfried said gently, ‘he can’t go on. There’s no way a dog can get around with two useless legs on the same side.’

  The silence set in again and I could see the familiar curtain coming down over the farmer’s face. He knew what was in our minds and he wasn’t going to have it. In fact I knew what he was going to say next.

  ‘Is he sufferin’?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ Siegfried replied. ‘There’s no pain in the fracture now and the paralysis is painless anyway, but he won’t be able to walk, don’t you see?’

  But Jack was already gathering his dog into his arms. ‘Well, we’ll give him a chance, any road,’ he said, and walked from the room.

  Siegfried leaned against the table and looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Well, what do you make of that, James?’

  ‘Same as you,’ I replied gloomily. ‘Poor old Jack. He always gives everything a chance, but he’s got no hope this time.’

  But I was wrong. Several weeks later I was called to the Scott farm to see a sick calf and the first thing I saw was Rip bringing the cows in for milking. He was darting to and fro around the rear of the herd, guiding them through the gate from the field, and I watched him in amazement.

  He still could not bear any appreciable weight on either of his right limbs, yet he was running happily. Don’t ask me how he was doing it because I’ll never know, but somehow he was supporting his body with his two strong left legs and the paws of the stricken limbs merely brushing the turf. Maybe he had perfected some balancing feat like a one-wheel bicycle rider but, as I say, I just don’t know. The great thing was that he was still the old friendly Rip, his tail swishing when he saw me, his mouth panting with pleasure.

  Jack didn’t say anything about ‘I told you so’, and I wouldn’t have cared, because it thrilled me to see the little animal doing the job he loved.

  I suppose the things I pick out to write about are the unusual ones. Jack Scott is the only farmer I have known who resolutely refused to have any animal put down, and Rip was the only dog in my experience who could run about despite two useless legs on one side. I always think of Jack as the man who had faith, and it was good to see that faith rewarded in the case of Rip.

  49. Ruffles and Muffles

  What horrible little dogs!

  It was a sentiment which rarely entered my mind, because I could find something attractive in nearly all my canine patients.

  I had to make an exception in the cases of Ruffles and Muffles Whithorn. Try as I might I could find no lovable traits, only unpleasant ones – like their unvarying method of welcoming me into their home.

  ‘Down! Down!’ I yelped, as I always did. The two little animals – West Highland Whites – were standin