James Herriot's Dog Stories Read online

  Over the years Clancy’s treatment had all been at long range. My young boss, Siegfried Farnon, had told me on the first day I had arrived in Darrowby two years ago that there was nothing wrong with the dog, which he had described as a cross between an Airedale and a donkey, but his penchant for eating every bit of rubbish in his path had the inevitable result. A large bottle of bismuth–mag carb mixture had been dispensed at regular intervals. He had also told me that Clancy, when bored, used occasionally to throw Joe to the ground and worry him like a rat just for a bit of light relief. But his master still adored him.

  Prickings of conscience told me I should carry out a full examination. Take his temperature, for instance. All I had to do was to grab hold of that tail, lift it and push a thermometer into his rectum. The dog turned his head and met my eye with a blank stare; again I heard the low booming drum roll and the upper lip lifted a fraction to show a quick gleam of white.

  ‘Yes, yes, right, Mr Mulligan,’ I said briskly. ‘I’ll get you a bottle of the usual.’

  In the dispensary, under the rows of bottles with their Latin names and glass stoppers, I shook up the mixture in a ten-ounce bottle, corked it, stuck on a label and wrote the directions. Joe seemed well satisfied as he pocketed the familiar white medicine but as he turned to go my conscience smote me again. The dog did look perfectly fit but maybe he ought to be seen again.

  ‘Bring him back again on Thursday afternoon at two o’clock,’ I yelled into the old man’s ear. ‘And please come on time if you can. You were a bit late today.’

  I watched Mr Mulligan going down the street, preceded by his pipe from which regular puffs rose upwards as though from a departing railway engine. Behind him ambled Clancy, a picture of massive calm. With his all-over covering of tight brown curls he did indeed look like a gigantic Airedale.

  Thursday afternoon, I ruminated. That was my half-day and at two o’clock I’d probably be watching the afternoon cinema show in Brawton.

  The following Friday morning Siegfried was sitting behind his desk, working out the morning rounds. He scribbled a list of visits on a pad, tore out the sheet and handed it to me.

  ‘Here you are, James, I think that’ll just about keep you out of mischief till lunch time.’ Then something in the previous day’s entries caught his eye and he turned to his younger brother who was at his morning task of stoking the fire.

  ‘Tristan, I see Joe Mulligan was in yesterday afternoon with his dog and you saw it. What did you make of it?’

  Tristan put down his bucket. ‘Oh, I gave him some of the bismuth mixture.’

  ‘Yes, but what did your examination of the patient disclose?’

  ‘Well now, let’s see.’ Tristan rubbed his chin. ‘He looked pretty lively, really.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I think so.’

  Siegfried turned back to me. ‘And how about you, James? You saw the dog the day before. What were your findings?’

  ‘Well it was a bit difficult,’ I said. ‘That dog’s as big as an elephant and there’s something creepy about him. He seemed to me to be just waiting his chance and there was only old Joe to hold him. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to make a close examination but I must say I thought the same as Tristan – he did look pretty lively.’

  Siegfried put down his pen wearily. On the previous night, fate had dealt him one of the shattering blows which it occasionally reserves for vets – a call at each end of his sleeping time. He had been dragged from his bed at 1 a.m. and again at 6 a.m. and the fires of his personality were temporarily damped.

  He passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Well God help us. You, James, a veterinary surgeon of two years’ experience and you, Tristan, a final-year student, can’t come up with anything better between you than the phrase “pretty lively”. It’s a bloody poor thing! Hardly a worthy description of clinical findings is it? When an animal comes in here I expect you to record pulse, temperature and respiratory rate. To auscultate the chest and thoroughly palpate the abdomen. To open his mouth and examine teeth, gums and pharynx. To check the condition of the skin. To catheterise him and examine the urine if necessary.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ said Tristan.

  My employer rose from his seat. ‘Have you fixed another appointment?’

  ‘I have, yes.’ Tristan drew his packet of Woodbines from his pocket. ‘For Monday. And since Mr Mulligan’s always late for the surgery I said we’d visit the dog at his home in the evening.’

  ‘I see.’ Siegfried made a note on the pad, then he looked up suddenly. ‘That’s when you and James are going to the young farmers’ meeting, isn’t it?’

  The young man drew on his cigarette. ‘That’s right. Good for the practice for us to mix with the young clients.’

  ‘Very well,’ Siegfried said as he walked to the door. ‘I’ll see the dog myself.’

  On the following Tuesday I was fairly confident that Siegfried would have something to say about Mulligan’s dog, if only to point out the benefits of a thorough clinical examination. But he was silent on the subject.

  It happened that I came upon old Joe in the market-place sauntering over the cobbles with Clancy inevitably trotting at his heels.

  I went up to him and shouted in his ear. ‘How’s your dog?’

  Mr Mulligan removed his pipe and smiled with slow benevolence. ‘Oh foine, sorr, foine. Still womitin’ a bit, but not bad.’

  ‘Mr Farnon fixed him up, then?’

  ‘Aye, gave him some more of the white medicine. It’s wonderful stuff, sorr, wonderful stuff.’

  ‘Good, good,’ I said. ‘He didn’t find anything else when he examined him?’

  Joe took another suck at his pipe. ‘No he didn’t now, he didn’t. He’s a clever man, Mr Farnon – I’ve niver seen a man work as fast, no I haven’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well now he saw all he wanted in tree seconds, so he did.’

  I was mystified. ‘Three seconds?’

  ‘Yis,’ said Mr Mulligan firmly. ‘Not a moment more.’

  ‘Amazing. What happened?’

  Joe tapped out his pipe on his heel and without haste took out a knife and began to carve a refill from an evil looking coil of black twist. ‘Well now I’ll tell ye. Mr Farnon is a man who moves awful sudden, and that night he banged on our front door and jumped into the room.’ (I knew those cottages. There was no hall or lobby – you walked straight from the street into the living room.) ‘And as he came in he was pullin’ his thermometer out of its case. Well now Clancy was lyin’ by the fire and he rose up in a flash and he gave a bit of a wuff, so he did.’

  ‘A bit of a wuff, eh?’ I could imagine the hairy monster leaping up and baying into Siegfried’s face. I could see the gaping jaws, the gleaming teeth.

  ‘Aye, just a bit of a wuff. Well, Mr Farnon just put the thermometer straight back in its case, turned round and went out the door.’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything?’ I asked.

  ‘No, divil a word. Just turned about like a soldier and marched out the door, so he did.’

  It sounded authentic. Siegfried was a man of instant decision. I put my hand out to pat Clancy but something in his eyes made me change my mind.

  ‘Well, I’m glad he’s better,’ I shouted.

  The old man ignited his pipe with an ancient brass lighter, puffed a cloud of choking blue smoke into my face and tapped a little metal lid on to the bowl. ‘Aye, Mr Farnon sent round a big bottle of the white stuff and it’s done ’im good. Mind yous,’ he gave a beatific smile, ‘Clancy’s allus been one for the womitin’, so he has.’

  Nothing more was said about the big dog for over a week, but Siegfried’s professional conscience must have been niggling at him because he came into the dispensary one afternoon when Tristan and I were busy at the tasks which have passed into history – making up fever drinks, stomach powders, boric acid pessaries. He was elaborately casual.

  ‘Oh by the way,