Let Sleeping Vets Lie Read online

  dumpy little figure and walnut face among the spectators, the darting,

  black-button eyes. taking everything in. And always, on the end of its

  lead, her terrier dog.

  When I say 'old", I'm only guessing, because she appeared ageless; she

  seemed to have been around a long time but she could have been anything

  between fifty-five and seventy-five. She certainly had the vitality of a

  young woman because she must have walked vast distances in her dedicated

  quest to keep abreast of events. Many people took an uncharitable view

  of her acute curiosity but whatever the motivation, her activities took

  her into almost every channel of life in the town. One of these channels

  was our veterinary practice.

  Because Mrs. Donovan, among her other widely ranging interests, was an

  animal doctor. In fact I think it would be safe to say that this facet

  of her life transcended all the others.

  She could talk at length on the ailments of small animals and she had a

  whole armoury of medicines and remedies at her command, her two

  specialities being her miracle working condition powders and a dog

  shampoo of unprecedented value for improving the coat. She had an

  uncanny ability to sniff out a sick animal and it was not uncommon when

  I was on my rounds to find Mrs. Donovan's dark gipsy face poised

  intently over what I had thought was my patient while she administered

  calf's foot jelly or one of her own patent nostrums.

  I suffered more than Siegfried because I took a more active part in the

  small animal side of our practice. I was anxious to develop this aspect

  and to improve my image in this field and Mrs. Donovan didn't help at

  all. "Young Mr. Herriot," she would confide to my clients, 'is all right

  with cattle and such like, but he don't know nothing about dogs and

  cats."

  And of course they believed her and had implicit faith in her. She had

  the irresistible mystic appeal of the amateur and on top of that there

  was her habit, particularly endearing in Darrowby, of never charging for

  her advice, her medicines, her long periods of diligent nursing.

  Older folk in the town told how her husband, an Irish farm worker, had

  died many years ago and how he must have had a 'bit put away" because

  Mrs. Donovan had apparently been able to indulge all her interests over

  the years without financial strain. Since she inhabited the streets of

  Darrowby all day and every day I often encountered her and she always

  smiled up at me sweetly and told me how she had been sitting up all

  night with Mrs. So-and-so's dog that I'd been treating. She felt sure

  she'd be able to pull it through.

  There was no smile on her face, however, on the day when she rushed into

  the surgery while Siegfried and I were having tea.

  "Mr. Herriot!" she gasped. "Can you come? My little dog's been run

  over!"

  I jumped up and ran out to the car with her. She sat in the passenger

  seat with her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly on her knees.

  "He slipped his collar and ran in front of a car," she murmured. "He's

  Lying in front of the school half way up Cliffend Road. Please hurry."

  I was there within three minutes but as I bent over the dusty little

  body stretched on the pavement I knew there was nothing I could do. The

  fast-glazing eyes, the faint, gasping respirations, the ghastly pallor

  of the mucous membranes all told the same story.

  "I'll take him back to the surgery and get some saline into him, Mrs.

  Donovan," I said. "But I'm afraid he's had a massive internal

  haemorrhage. Did you see what happened exactly?"

  She gulped. "Yes, the wheel went right over him."

  Ruptured liver, for sure. I passed my hands under the little animal and

  began to lift him gently, but as I did so the breathing stopped and the

  eyes stared fixedly ahead.

  Mrs. Donovan sank to her knees and for a few moments she gently stroked

  the rough hair of the head and chest. "He's dead, isn't he?" she

  whispered at last.

  "I'm afraid he is," I said.

  She got slowly to her feet and stood bewilderedly among the little group

  of bystanders on the pavement. Her lips moved but she seemed unable to

  say any more.

  I took her arm, led her over to the car and opened the door. "Get in and

  sit down," I said. "I'll run you home. Leave everything to me."

  I wrapped the dog in my calving overall and laid him in the boot before

  driving away. It wasn't until we drew up outside Mrs. Donovan's house

  that she began to weep silently. I sat there without speaking till she

  had finished. Then she wiped her eyes and turned to me.

  "Do you think he suffered at all?"

  "I'm certain he didn't. It was all so quick - he wouldn't know a thing

  about it."

  She tried to smile. "Poor little Rex, I don't know what I'm doing to do

  without him. We've travelled a few miles together, you know."

  "Yes, you have. He had a wonderful life, Mrs. Donovan. And let me give

  you a bit of advice - you must get another dog. You'd be lost without

  one."

  She shook her head. "No, I couldn't. That little dog meant too much to

  me. I couldn't let another take his place."

  "Well I know that's how you feel just now but I wish you'd think about

  it. I don't want to seem callous - I tell everybody this when they lose

  an animal and I know it's good advice."

  "Mr. Herriot, I'll never have another one." She shook her head again,

  very decisively. "Rex was my faithful friend for many years and I just

  want to remember him. He's the last dog I'll ever have."

  I often saw Mrs. Donovan around the town after this and I was glad to

  see she was still as active as ever, though she looked strangely

  incomplete without the little dog on its lead. But it must have been

  over a month before I had the chance to speak to her.

  It was on the afternoon that Inspector Halliday of the RSPCA rang me.

  "Mr. Herriot," he said, "I'd like you to come and see an animal with me.

  A cruelty case."

  "Right, what is it?"

  "A dog, and it's pretty grim. A dreadful case of neglect." He gave me

  the name of a row of old brick cottages down by the river and said he'd

  meet me there.

  Halliday was waiting for me, smart and business-like in his dark

  uniform, as I pulled up in the back lane behind the houses. He was a

  big, blond man with cheerful blue eyes but he didn't smile as he came

  over to the car.

  "He's in here," he said, and led the way towards one of the doors in the

  long, crumbling wall. A few curious people were hanging around and with

  a feeling of inevitability I recognised a gnome-like brown face. Trust

  Mrs. Donovan, I thought, to be among those present at a time like this.

  We went through the door into the long garden. I had found that even the

  lowliest dwellings in Darrowby had long strips of land at the back as

  though the builders had taken it for granted that the country people who

  were going to live in them would want to occupy themselves with the

  pursuits of the soil; with vegetable and fruit growing, even stock

  keeping in a small way. You usually