James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much indeed,’ Tristan said in a flat voice, still looking straight to his front.

  Siegfried looked at him narrowly for a moment, then turned away. ‘Right then, clear away this rubbish and let’s get to bed.’

  My bedroom and Tristan’s were connected by a door. Mine was the main room, huge, square, with a high ceiling, pillared fireplace and graceful alcoves like the ones downstairs. I always felt a little like a duke lying there.

  Tristan’s had been the old dressing-room and was long and narrow with his small bed crouching at one end as if trying to hide. There were no carpets on the smooth, varnished boards so I laid the dog on a heap of blankets and talked down soothingly at Tristan’s wan face on the pillow.

  ‘He’s quiet now – sleeping like a baby and looks as though he’s going to stay that way. You’ll be able to have a well-earned rest now.’

  I went back to my own room, undressed quickly and got into bed. I went to sleep immediately and I couldn’t tell just when the noises started next door, but I came suddenly wide awake with an angry yell ringing in my ears. Then there was a slithering and a bump followed by another distracted cry from Tristan.

  I quailed at the idea of going into the dressing-room – there was nothing I could do, anyway – so I huddled closer into the sheets and listened. I kept sliding into a half sleep then starting into wakefulness as more bumping and shouting came through the wall.

  After about two hours the noises began to change. The Labrador seemed to have gained mastery over his legs and was marching up and down the room, his claws making a regular tck-a-tck, tck-a-tck, tck-a-tck on the wooden floor. It went on and on, interminably. At intervals, Tristan’s voice, hoarse now, burst out. ‘Stop it, for Christ’s sake! Sit down, you bloody dog!’

  I must have fallen into a deeper sleep because when I awoke the room was grey with the cold light of morning. I rolled on to my back and listened. I could still hear the tck-a-tck of the claws but it had become irregular as though the Labrador was strolling about instead of blundering blindly from one end of the room to the other. There was no sound from Tristan.

  I got out of bed, shivering as the icy air of the room gripped me, and pulled on my shirt and trousers. Tiptoeing across the floor, I opened the connecting door and was almost floored as two large feet were planted on my chest. The Labrador was delighted to see me and appeared to be thoroughly at home. His fine brown eyes shone with intelligence and well-being and he showed rows of glittering teeth and a flawlessly pink tongue in a wide, panting grin. Far below, the tail lashed ecstatically.

  ‘Well, you’re all right, chum,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a look at that wound.’ I removed the horny paws from my chest and explored the line of stitches over the ribs. No swelling, no pain, no reaction at all.

  ‘Lovely!’ I cried. ‘Beautiful. You’re as good as new again.’ I gave the dog a playful slap on the rump which sent him into a transport of joy. He leaped all over me, clawing and licking.

  I was fighting him off when I heard a dismal groan from the bed. In the dim light Tristan looked ghastly. He was lying on his back, both hands clutching the quilt, and there was a wild look in his eyes. ‘Not a wink of sleep, Jim,’ he whispered. ‘Not a bloody wink. He’s got a wonderful sense of humour, my brother, making me spend the night with this animal. It’ll really make his day when he hears what I’ve been through. Just watch him – I’ll bet you anything you like he’ll look pleased.’

  Later, over breakfast, Siegfried heard the details of his brother’s harrowing night and was very sympathetic. He condoled with him at length and apologised for all the trouble the dog had given him. But Tristan was right. He did look pleased.

  I keep stressing the fact that animals are unpredictable things, and, indeed, this unpredictability is at the heart of much of my writing. One aspect of this is their varied reaction to anaesthetics. I understand that some human patients burst into song or come out with unprintable language. This dog just howled, and, of course, the incident is etched particularly deeply in my memory because poor Tristan was so closely involved. It is one of the things he and I laugh about now. The whole story gives me a nostalgic twinge with the recollection that in those days we would bring a patient into our sitting-room and even into our bedroom to look after him. We still like to think that we give personal attention, but I doubt if it will ever go as far as that again.

  3. A Triumph of Surgery

  I was really worried about Tricki this time. I had pulled up my car when I saw him in the street with his mistress and I was shocked at his appearance. He had become hugely fat, like a bloated sausage with a leg at each corner. His eyes, bloodshot and rheumy, stared straight ahead and his tongue lolled from his jaws.

  Mrs Pumphrey hastened to explain. ‘He was so listless, Mr Herriot. He,seemed to have no energy. I thought he must be suffering from malnutrition, so I have been giving him some little extras between meals to build him up. Some calfs foot jelly and malt and cod liver oil and a bowl of Horlick’s at night to make him sleep – nothing much really.’

  ‘And did you cut down on the sweet things as I told you?’

  ‘Oh, I did for a bit, but he seemed to be so weak I had to relent. He does love cream cakes and chocolates so. I can’t bear to refuse him.’

  I looked down again at the little dog. That was the trouble. Tricki’s only fault was greed. He had never been known to refuse food; he would tackle a meal at any hour of the day or night. And I wondered about all the things Mrs Pumphrey hadn’t mentioned: the pate on thin biscuits, the fudge, the rich trifles – Tricki loved them all.

  ‘Are you giving him plenty of exercise?’

  ‘Well, he has his little walks with me as you can see, but Hodgkin has been down with lumbago, so there has been no ring-throwing lately.’

  I tried to sound severe. ‘Now I really mean this. If you don’t cut his food right down and give him more exercise he is going to be really ill. You must harden your heart and keep him on a very strict diet.’

  Mrs Pumphrey wrung her hands. ‘Oh I will, Mr Herriot. I’m sure you are right, but it is so difficult, so very difficult.’ She set off, head down, along the road, as if determined to put the new regime into practice immediately.

  I watched their progress with growing concern. Tricki was tottering along in his little tweed coat; he had a whole wardrobe of these coats – warm tweed or tartan ones for the cold weather and macintoshes for the wet days. He struggled on, drooping in his harness. I thought it wouldn’t be long before I heard from Mrs Pumphrey.

  The expected call came within a few days. Mrs Pumphrey was distraught. Tricki would eat nothing. Refused even his favourite dishes; and besides, he had bouts of vomiting. He spent all his time lying on a rug, panting. Didn’t want to go walks, didn’t want to do anything.

  I had made my plans in advance. The only way was to get Tricki out of the house for a period. I suggested that he be hospitalised for about a fortnight to be kept under observation.

  The poor lady almost swooned. She had never been separated from her darling before; she was sure he would pine and die if he did not see her every day.

  But I took a firm line. Tricki was very ill and this was the only way to save him; in fact, I thought it best to take him without delay and, followed by Mrs Pumphrey’s wailings, I marched out to the car carrying the little dog wrapped in a blanket.

  The entire staff was roused and maids rushed in and out bringing his day bed, his night bed, favourite cushions, toys and rubber rings, breakfast bowl, lunch bowl, supper bowl. Realising that my car would never hold all the stuff, I started to drive away. As I moved off, Mrs Pumphrey, with a despairing cry, threw an armful of the little coats through the window. I looked in the mirror before I turned the corner of the drive; everybody was in tears.

  Out on the road, I glanced down at the pathetic little animal gasping on the seat by my side. I patted the head and Tricki made a brave effort to wag his tail. ‘Poor old lad,’ I said, ‘you haven�