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Siegfried’s student brother Tristan didn’t help, either. When seeing practice he was very selective in the cases he wished to observe, but he was immediately attracted to Cedric’s symptoms and insisted on coming with me on one occasion. I never took him again because as we went in the big dog bounded from his mistress’ side and produced a particularly sonorous blast as if in greeting.

  Tristan immediately threw out a hand in a dramatic gesture and declaimed: “Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie!” That was his only visit. I had enough trouble without that.

  I didn’t know it at the time but a greater blow awaited me. A few days later Mrs. Rumney was on the ’phone again.

  “Mr. Herriot, a friend of mine has such a sweet little Boxer bitch. She wants to bring her along to be mated with Cedric.”

  “Eh?”

  “She wants to mate her bitch with my dog.”

  “With Cedric …?” I clutched at the edge of the desk. It couldn’t be true! “And … and are you agreeable?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I shook my head to dispel the feeling of unreality. I found it incomprehensible that anyone should want to reproduce Cedric, and as I gaped into the receiver a frightening vision floated before me of eight little Cedrics all with his complaint. But of course such a thing wasn’t hereditary. I took a grip of myself and cleared my throat.

  “Very well, then, Mrs. Rumney, you’d better go ahead.”

  There was a pause. “But Mr. Herriot I want you to supervise the mating.”

  “Oh really, I don’t think that’s necessary.” I dug my nails into my palms. “I think you’ll be all right without me.”

  “Oh but I would be much happier if you were there. Please come,” she said appealingly.

  Instead of emitting a long-drawn groan I took a deep breath.

  “Right” I said. “I’ll be along in the morning.”

  All that evening I was obsessed by a feeling of dread. Another acutely embarrassing session was in store with this exquisite woman. Why was it I always had to share things like this with her? And I really feared the worst. Even the daftest dog, when confronted with a bitch in heat knows instinctively how to proceed, but with a really ivory-skulled animal like Cedric I wondered …

  And next morning all my fears were realised. The bitch, Trudy, was a trim little creature and showed every sign of willingness to cooperate. Cedric, on the other hand, though obviously delighted to meet her, gave no hint of doing his part. After sniffing her over, he danced around her a few times, goofy-faced, tongue lolling. Then he had a roll on the lawn before charging at her and coming to a full stop, big feet outsplayed, head down, ready to play. I sighed. It was as I thought. The big chump didn’t know what to do.

  This pantomime went on for some time and, inevitably, the emotional strain brought on a resurgence of his symptoms. Frequently he paused to inspect his tail as though he had never heard noises like that before.

  He varied his dancing routine with occasional headlong gallops round the lawn and it was after he had done about ten successive laps that he seemed to decide he ought to do something about the bitch. I held my breath as he approached her but unfortunately he chose the wrong end to commence operations. Trudy had put up with his nonsense with great patience but when she found him busily working away in the region of her left ear it was too much. With a shrill yelp she nipped him in the hind leg and he shot away in alarm.

  After that whenever he came near she warned him off with bared teeth. Clearly she was disenchanted with her bridegroom and I couldn’t blame her.

  “I think she’s had enough, Mrs. Rumney,” I said.

  I certainly had had enough and so had the poor lady, judging by her slight breathlessness, flushed cheeks and waving handkerchief.

  “Yes … yes … I suppose you’re right,” she replied.

  So Trudy was taken home and that was the end of Cedric’s career as a stud dog.

  This last episode decided me. I had to have a talk with Mrs. Rumney and a few days later I called in at The Laurels.

  “Maybe you’ll think it’s none of my business,” I said. “But I honestly don’t think Cedric is the dog for you. In fact he’s so wrong for you that he is upsetting your life.”

  Mrs. Rumney’s eyes widened. “Well … he is a problem in some ways … but what do you suggest?”

  “I think you should get another dog in his place. Maybe a poodle or a corgi—something smaller, something you could control.”

  “But Mr. Herriot, I couldn’t possibly have Cedric put down.” Her eyes filled quickly with tears. “I really am fond of him despite his … despite everything.”

  “No, no, of course not!” I said. “I like him too. He has no malice in him. But I think I have a good idea. Why not let Con Fenton have him?”

  “Con …?”

  “Yes, he admires Cedric tremendously and the big fellow would have a good life with the old man. He has a couple of fields behind his cottage and keeps a few beasts. Cedric could run to his heart’s content out there and Con would be able to bring him along when he does the garden. You’d still see him three times a week.”

  Mrs. Rumney looked at me in silence for a few moments and I saw in her face the dawning of relief and hope.

  “You know, Mr. Harriot, I think that could work very well. But are you sure Con would take him?”

  “I’d like to bet on it. An old bachelor like him must be lonely. There’s only one thing worries me. Normally they only meet outside and I wonder how it would be when they were indoors and Cedric started to … when the old trouble …”

  “Oh, I think that would be all right,” Mrs. Rumney broke in quickly. “When I go on holiday Con always takes him for a week or two and he has never mentioned any … anything unusual … in that way.”

  I got up to go. “Well, that’s fine. I should put it to the old man right away.”

  Mrs. Rumney rang within a few days. Con had jumped at the chance of taking on Cedric and the pair had apparently settled in happily together. She had also taken my advice and acquired a poodle puppy.

  I didn’t see the new dog till it was nearly six months old and its mistress asked me to call to treat it for a slight attack of eczema. As I sat in the graceful room looking at Mrs. Rumney, cool, poised, tranquil, with the little white creature resting on her knee I couldn’t help feeling how right and fitting the whole scene was. The lush carpet, the trailing velvet curtains, the fragile tables with their load of expensive china and framed miniatures. It was no place for Cedric.

  Con Fenton’s cottage was less than half a mile away and on my way back to the surgery, on an impulse I pulled up at the door. The old man answered my knock and his big face split into a delighted grin when he saw me.

  “Come in, young man!” he cried in his strange snuffly voice. “I’m right glad to see tha!”

  I had hardly stepped into the tiny living room when a hairy form hurled itself upon me. Cedric hadn’t changed a bit and I had to battle my way to the broken armchair by the fireside. Con settled down opposite and when the Boxer leaped to lick his face he clumped him companionably on the head with his fist.

  “Siddown, ye great daft bugger,” he murmured with affection. Cedric sank happily on to the tattered hearthrug at his feet and gazed up adoringly at his new master.

  “Well, Mr. Herriot,” Con went on as he cut up some villainous-looking plug tobacco and began to stuff it into his pipe. “I’m right grateful to ye for gettin” me this grand dog. By gaw, he’s a topper and ah wouldn’t sell ’im for any money. No man could ask for a better friend.’’

  “Well, that’s great, Con,” I said. “And I can see that the big chap is really happy here.”

  The old man ignited his pipe and a cloud of acrid smoke rose to the low, blackened beams. “Aye, he’s ’ardly ever inside. A gurt strong dog like ’im wants to work ’is energy off, like.”

  But just at that moment Cedric was obviously working something else off because the familiar pungency rose from him even above th