Every Living Thing Read online

  Weak-mindedly I invariably submitted and fobbed her off with some form of placebo that would do the little animal no harm, but the sense of shame was deep. I had to admit that I was overawed by the woman, a jellyfish and a wimp in her presence, allowing her to dismiss my wafflings with a wave of her hand. Why couldn’t I assert myself?

  However, at this moment, knotting my tie, humming a happy tune as the glittering eyes in the vermilion face glared back at me from the mirror, my past diffidence seemed totally incomprehensible. I was really looking forward to seeing the lady again.

  I ran downstairs, snatched a white coat from its hook, trotted along the passage and found Mrs. Featherstone standing by the consulting room table.

  Damn, she wasn’t a bad-looking woman! Very, very nice, in fact. Funny I had never noticed that before. Anyway, there was not the slightest doubt in my mind as to what I had to do. I would grab her, give her a big, smacking kiss and a good long squeeze and all our past misunderstandings would melt away like the morning mist in the sun.

  I was advancing on her when I noticed something strange. She had vanished. I was quite sure she had been standing there a second ago. I was blinking around me in bewilderment when I saw that she had ducked behind the table. How wonderful that she, too, was feeling skittish and ready for a game of peekaboo.

  In a moment her head bobbed up and I greeted it with a merry cry. “Yoo-hoo, I see you!” I trilled, but it seemed she had merely been stopping to lift her dog, which she deposited on the table.

  She gave me an odd look. “Have you been on holiday, Mr. Herriot? You have such a high colour.”

  “No, no, no, no. I feel extraordinarily well. In fact, I…”

  The lady pursed her lips and brushed off the rest of my sentence impatiently. “I really am most frightfully worried about poor Rollo.”

  At the sound of his name, the poodle, aggressively fit, began to caper around on the table and jump up at my face.

  “You are? Oh, what a shame. Tell me all about it.” I suppressed a chuckle.

  “Well, we had just started on our evening walk when he coughed quite suddenly.”

  “Just one cough?”

  “No, two, like this. Hock-hock.”

  “Hock-hock, eh?” I was having terrible trouble keeping a serious face. “And then what happened?”

  “Nothing else happened! Isn’t that enough? A nasty cough?”

  “Well, tell me, do you mean two hocks or one hock-hock?” I could not suppress a giggle, captivated as I was by my wit.

  “I mean, Mr. Herriot, one very unpleasant and alarming cough.” A dangerous light glinted in the lady’s eye.

  “Ah, yes.” I took out stethoscope and thermometer and began a thorough examination of the patient. Everything, of course, was normal, and I could swear I detected an apologetic glance from Rollo.

  And all the time the giggle was struggling steadily to the surface and finally it burst out into a loud “Ha-ha!”

  Mrs. Featherstone’s eyebrows shot up and she stared at me. “Why are you laughing?” she enquired in glacial tones. She made the word seem more portentous by drawing it out into a long “laawfing.”

  “Well, really, you see, it’s so funny.” I leaned on the table and laughed some more.

  “Funny!” Mrs. Featherstone’s expression was a mixture of horror and disbelief. Her mouth opened soundlessly a few times. “I fail to see anything funny in an animal’s suffering.”

  Wrapped in my cloak of heat and euphoria, I wagged a finger at her. “But he’s not suffering, that’s what’s so funny. He never is suffering when you bring him in to me.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Featherstone. All Rollo’s ailments are imagined by you.” The table shook as another paroxysm seized me.

  “How dare you say such a thing!” The lady glared at me down her nose. “You are being insulting and I really cannot—”

  “Hey, just wait a minute. Let me explain.” I wiped a few tears away and took a few gasping breaths. “Do you remember being worried to death by that habit of Rollo’s where he lifts up a hind leg for a few steps, then puts it down again? I told you it was nothing, just a mannerism, but you insisted on my treating him for arthritis?”

  “Well, yes, but I was worried.”

  “I know, but you wouldn’t believe me and he’s still doing it. There’s nothing wrong with him. Lots of little dogs do it.”

  “Well, possibly, but…”

  “And another thing,” I said between my chuckles. “There was the time you made me give him sleeping pills because of his terrible nightmares.”

  “Yes, and rightly so. He made the most pathetic whimpering sound while he was sleeping and his paws kept working as though he was running away from something terrible.”

  “He was dreaming, Mrs. Featherstone! Probably a nice dream about chasing his ball. All dogs have these dreams.”

  I took hold of Rollo’s head. “And look here, ha-ha! You must recall your insistence that there were things growing over his eyes. You would never believe me that they were his normal third eyelids, ha-ha-ha! And see, they’re still there, aren’t they? You can see them now and he’s quite happy with them, ha-ha-ha-ha!” I abandoned myself completely and bent over to dig her in the ribs, but she drew back and evaded my finger.

  She put her hand over her mouth and continued to stare at me. Her eyebrows had taken up permanent residence high on her forehead. “You…you cannot really mean all this!”

  Oh, but I do, I do. I could go on and on.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say. And about his cough tonight?”

  “You can take him away,” I said, “and if there are any more hock-hocks bring him back tomorrow, but there won’t be.” I wiped my streaming face and lifted Rollo from the table.

  The lady seemed in a daze as I steered her along the passage to the front door. She kept putting a hand over her mouth and giving me an incredulous sidelong glance, but she remained silent as though stunned.

  After I had shown her out I retired to bed and drifted to sleep with the satisfied feeling of having cleared up a problem happily and effortlessly. I had handled the whole thing beautifully.

  I didn’t feel like that next morning. My latest funny turn was following its usual course. After the elation of the night before, a devastating deflation, lethargy, gloom, despondency and, in this case, the horrid spectre of remorse. As I lay in bed, pulling the sheets round my chin, my recollection of the previous evening was a frightening jumble. I couldn’t get it all sorted out in my mind.

  I had been awake only a few moments before the memory hit me. Mrs. Featherstone! Oh, my God! What had I said to her? What had I done? Desperately I tried to bring back the details without success, but the main indisputable fact was that I had laughed, even jeered at her, possibly even pawed at her person. Had I really attempted to embrace her? Had I given her a little cuddle as I walked her down the passage? My mouth opened in a series of soft moans.

  Of one thing I could be sure—I had been guilty of the most ghastly impropriety and I had a searing conviction that I would have to pay dearly for it. Certainly she would never set foot in my surgery again. The whole shameful story would get around. She might even report me to the Royal College. I could see the headlines in the Darrowby and Houlton Times. Veterinary Surgeon on Serious Charge, Herriot to Appear Before Disciplinary Body.

  Groaning, I huddled deeper, gazing sightlessly at the cup of tea Helen had placed by my bedside. After my funny turns I always had a day’s rest and after that I had always made a remarkably quick recovery. But this time the mental scars would take a long time to heal. And how about the dire consequences?

  I couldn’t stand the self-torture any longer. I swallowed my tea, pulled on my clothes and trailed downstairs.

  “Feeling better, Jim?” my wife asked brightly as she washed the dishes. “You’ll soon be okay again, you always are. What a strange business it is, but anyway, the kids enjoyed it. I understand you we