Vet in Harness [112-066-4.0]

By: James Herriot

Synopsis:

James is now married, and he and Helen live on the top floor of Skeldale
House, while his former boss, now partner, lives downstairs. James
continues the rich and rewarding day-to-day life of a small-town
veterinarian, with the usual menagerie of farm animals, pets and owners
demanding his constant attention, and teaching him a few lessons along
the way.

With love To MY MOTHER In dear old Glasgow town

Chapter One.

As I crawled into bed and put my arm around Helen it occurred to me, not
for the first time, that there are few pleasures in this world to
compare with snuggling up to a nice woman when you are half frozen.

There weren't any electric blankets in the thirties Which was a pity
because nobody needed the things more than country vets. It is
surprising how deeply bone-marrow cold a man can get when he is dragged
from his bed in the small hours and made to strip off in farm buildings
when his metabolism is at a low ebb. Often the worst part was coming
back to bed; I often lay exhausted for over an hour, longing for sleep
but kept awake until my icy limbs and feet had thawed out.

But since my marriage such things were but a dark memory. Helen stirred
in her sleep - she had got used to her husband leaving her in the night
and returning like a blast from the North Pole - and instinctively moved
nearer to me. With a sigh of thankfulness I felt the blissful warmth
envelop me and almost immediately the events of the last two hours began
to recede into unreality.

It had started with the aggressive shrilling of the bedside phone at one
a.m. And it was Sunday morning, a not unusual time for some farmers
after a late Saturday night to have a look round their stock and decide
to send for the vet.

This time it was Harold Ingledew. And it struck me right away that he
would have just about had time to get back to his farm after his ten
pints at the Four Horse Shoes where they weren't too fussy about closing
time.

And there was a significant slurr in the thin croak of his voice.

"I 'ave a ewe amiss. Will you come?'

"Is she very bad?' In my semi-conscious state I always clung to the
faint hope that one night somebody would say it would wait till morning.
It had never happened yet and it didn't happen now: Mr. Ingledew was not
to be denied.

"Aye, she's in a bad way. She'll have to have summat done for 'er soon.'

Not a minute to lose, I thought bitterly. But she had probably been in a
bad way all the evening when Harold was out carousing.

Still, there were compensations. A sick sheep didn't present any great
threat. It was worst when you had to get out of bed facing the prospect
of a spell of sheer hard labour in your enfeebled state. But in this
case I was confident that I would be able to adopt my half-awake
technique, which meant simply that I would be able to go out there and
deal with the emergency and return between the sheets while still
enjoying many of the benefits of sleep.

There was so much night work in country practice that I had been
compelled to perfect this system as, I suspect, had many of my fellow
practitioners. I had one some sterling work while in a somnambulistic
limbo.

So, eyes closed, I tiptoed across the carpet and pulled on my working
clothes. effortlessly accomplished the journey down the long flights of
stairs but when I opened the side door the system began to crumble,
because even in the shelter of the high-walled garden the wind struck at
me with savage force. It was difficult to stay asleep.

In the yard as I backed out of the garage the high ranches of the elms
groaned in the darkness as they bent before the blast.

Driving from the town I managed to slip back into my trance and my mi'
played lazily with the phenomenon of Harold Ingledew. This drinking of t
was so out of character. He was a tiny mouse of a man about seventy
years ol and when he came into the surgery on an occasional market day
it was difficult to extract more than a few muttered words from him.
Dressed in his best suit his scrawny neck protruding from a shirt collar
several sizes too big for him, was the very picture of a meek and solid
citizen; the watery blue eyes a~ fleshless cheeks added to the effect
and only the brilliant red colouration of t tip of his nose gave any
hint of other possibilities.

His fellow smallholders in Therby village were all steady characters and
d not indulge beyond a social glass of beer now and then, and his next
door neighbour had been somewhat bitter when he spoke to me a few weeks
ago.

"He's nowt but a bloody nuisance is awd Harold.'

"How do you mean?'

"Well, every Saturday night and every market night he's up roarin' and
sin~ till four o'clock in the mornin'.'

"Harold Ingledew? Surely not! He's such a quiet little chap.'

"Aye, he is for the rest of "'week.'

"But I can't imagine him singing!'

"You should live next door to 'im, Mr Herriot. He makes a 'elf of a rack
There's no sleep for anybody till he settles down.'

Since then I had heard from another source that this was perfectly true
a that Mrs Ingledew tolerated it because her husband was entirely
submissive all other times.

The road to Therby had a few sharp little switchbacks before-it dipped
to t village and looking down I could see the long row of silent houses
curving aw to the base of the fell which by day hung in peaceful green
majesty over t huddle of roofs but now bulked black and menacing under
the moon.

As I stepped from the car and hurried round to the back of the house t
wind caught at me again, jerking me to wakefulness as though somebody h
thrown a bucket of water over me. But for a moment I forgot the cold in
t feeling of shock as the noise struck me. Singing .. . Loud raucous
singing echoing around the old stones of the yard.

It was coming from the lighted kitchen window.

JUST A SONG AT TWILIGHT, WHEN THE LIGHTS ARE LOW!

I looked inside and saw little Harold sitting,with his stockinged feet
extent towards the dying embers of the fire while one hand clutched a
bottle of brown' ale.

AND THE FLICKERING SHADOWS SOFTLY COME AND Go!' He was really letting'
rip, head back, mouth wide.

I thumped on the kitchen door.

THOUGH THE HEART BE WEARY, SAD THE DAY AND LONG!' replied Harold's ret
tenor and I banged impatiently at the woodwork again.

The noise ceased and I waited an unbelievably long time till I heard the
I turning and the bolt rattling back. The little man pushed his nose out
and me a questioning look.

"I've come to see your sheep,' I said.

"Oh aye.' He nodded curtly with none of his usual diffidence. "Ah'll put
boots on.' He banged the door in my face and I heard the bolt shooting
hon Taken aback as I was I realised that he wasn't being deliberately
rude Bolting the door was proof that he was doing everything
mechanically. But all that he had left me standing in an uncharitable
spot. Vets will tell you t there are corners in farmyards which are
colder than any hill top and I we' one now. Just beyond the kitchen door
was a stone archway leading to the 1

fields and through this black opening there whistled a Siberian draught
which cut effortlessly through my clothes.

I had begun to hop from one foot to the other when the singing started
again.

"THERE S AN OLD MILL 8Y THE STREAM, NELLIE DEAN!'

Horrified, I rushed back to the window. Harold was back in his chair,
pulling on a vast boot and taking his time about it. As he bellowed he
poked owlishly at the lace holes and occasionally refreshed himself from
the bottle of brown ale.

I tapped on the window. "Please hurry, Mr Ingledew.'

"WHERE WE USED TO SIT AND DREAM, NELLIE DEAN! bawled Harold in response.

My teeth had begun to chatter before he got both boots on but at last he
reappeared in the doorway.

"Come on then,' I gasped. "Where is this ewe? Have you got her in one of
these boxes?'

The old man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, she's not 'ere.'

"Not here?'

"Nay, she's up at t'top buildings.'

"Right back up the road, you mean?'

"Aye, ah stopped off on t'way home and had a look at 'er.'

I stamped and rubbed my hands. "Well, we'll have to drive back up. But
there's no water, is there? You'd better bring a bucket of warm water,
some soap and a towel.'

"Very good.' He nodded solemnly and before I knew what was happening the
door was slammed shut and bolted and I was alone again in the darkness.
I trotted immediately to the window and was not surprised to see Harold
seated comfortably again. He leaned forward and lifted the kettle from
the hearth and for a dreadful moment I thought he was going to start
heating the water on the ashes of the fire. But with a gush of relief I
saw him take hold of a ladle and reach into the primitive boiler in the
old black grate.

AND THE WATERS AS THEY FLOW SEEM TO MURMUR SWEET AND LOW! he warbled
happy at his work, as he unhurriedly filled a bucket.

I think he had forgotten I was there when he finally came out because he
looked at me blankly as he sang.

YOU RE MY HEART'S DESIRE, I LOVE YOU, NELLIE DEAN! he informed me at
tile top of his voice.

"All right, all right,' I grunted. "Let's go.' I hurried him into the
car and we set off on the way I had come.

Harold held the bucket at an angle on his lap, and as we went over the
switchbacks the water slopped gently on to my knee. The atmosphere in
the car soon became so highly charged with beer fumes that I began to
feel lightheaded.

"In 'ere!' the old man barked suddenly as a gate appeared in the
headlights. I pulled on to the grass verge and stood on one leg for a
few moments till I had shaken a surplus pint or two of water from my
trousers. We went through the gate and I began to hurry towards the dark
bulk of the hillside barn, but I noticed that Harold wasn't following
me. He was walking aimlessly around the "What are you doing, Mr
Ingledew?'

Lookin' for t'ewe.'

"You mean she's outside?' I repressed an impulse to scream. H Aye, she
lambed this afternoon and ah thowt she'd be right enough out 'ere.' He
produced a torch, a typical farmer's torch tiny and with a moribund
battery d and projected a fitful beam into the darkness. It made not the
slightest As I stumbled across the field a sense of hopelessness
assailed me. Above, the egged clouds scurried across the face of the
moon but down here I could see ~

nothing. And it was so cold. The recent frosts had turned the ground to
iron an the crisp grass cowered under the piercing wind. I had just
decided that tha was no way of finding an animal in this black waste
land when Harold pip. up.

"She's over 'ere.'

And sure enough when I groped my way towards the sound of his voice I
was standing by an unhappy looking ewe. I don't know what instinct ha
brought him to her but there she was. And she was obviously in trouble;
h. head hung down miserably and when I put my hand on her fleece she
took on a few faltering steps instead of galloping off as a healthy
sheep would her, a tiny lamb huddled close to her flank.

I lifted her tail and took her temperature. It was normal. There were no
sign' of the usual post-lambing ailments; no staggering to indicate a
deficiency, r discharge or accelerated respirations. But there was
something very far wrorg I looked again at the lamb. He was an unusually
early arrival in this hi' country and it seemed unfair to bring the
little creature into the inhospitable world of a Yorkshire March. And he
was so small ... yes ...  yes ... it w; beginning to filter through to
me. He was too damn small for a single lamb.

"Bring me that bucket, Mr Ingledew!' I cried. I could hardly wait to see
if was right. But as I balanced the receptacle on the grass the full
horror of the situation smote me. I was going to have to strip off.

They don't give vets medals for bravery but as I pulled off my overcoat
and jacket and stood shivering in my shirt sleeves on that black
hillside I felt deserved one.

"Hold her head,' I gasped and soaped my arm quickly. By the light of the
torch I felt my way into the vagina and I didn't have to go very far
before found what I had expected; a woolly little skull. It was bent
downwards with the nose under the pelvis and the legs were back.

"There's another lamb in here,' I said. "It's laid wrong or it would
have be. born with its mate this afternoon.'

Even as I spoke my fingers had righted the presentation and I drew the
little creature gently out and deposited him on the grass. I hadn't
expected him to I alive after his delayed entry but as he made contact
with the cold ground h limbs gave a convulsive twitch and almost
immediately I felt his ribs heaving under my hand.

For a moment I forgot the knife-like wind in the thrill which I always
fout in new life, the thrill that was always fresh, always warm. The
ewe, too, seem. stimulated because in the darkness I felt her nose
pushing interestedly at the new arrival.

But my pleasant ruminations were cut short by a scuffling from behind n
and some muffled words.

"Bugger it!' mumbled Harold.

"What's the matter?'

"Ah've kicked bucket ower.'

"Oh no! Is the water all gone?'

"Aye, nowt left.'

Well this was great. My arm was smeared with mucus after being inside
the ewe. I couldn't possibly put my jacket on without a wash.

Harold's voice issued again from the darkness. "There's some water ower
building.'

"Oh good. We've got to get this ewe and lambs over there anyway.' I
threw my clothes over my shoulder, tucked a lamb under each arm and
began blunder over the tussocks of grass to where I thought the barn
lay. The c~ clearly feeling better without her uncomfortable burden,
trotted behind me.,:;

It was Harold again who had to give me directions.

"Ower 'ere!' he shouted When I reached the barn I cowered thankfully
behind the massive stones. It was no night for a stroll in shirt
sleeves. Shaking uncontrollably I peered at the old man I could just see
his form in the last faint radiance of the torch and I wasn~t quite sure
what he was doing. He had lifted a stone from the pasture and was
bashing something with it; then I realised he was bending over the water
trough, breaking the ice.

When he had finished he plunged the bucket into the trough and handed it
to me.

"There's your water,' he said triumphantly.

I thought I had reached the ultimate in frigidity but when I plunged my
hands into the black liquid with its floating icebergs I changed my
mind. The torch had finally expired and I lost the soap very quickly.
When I found I was trying to work up a lather with one of the pieces of
ice I gave it up and dried my arms.

Somewhere nearby I could hear Harold humming under his breath, as
comfortable as if he was by his own fireside. The vast amount of alcohol
surging through his bloodstream must have made him impervious to the
cold.

We pushed the ewe and lambs into the barn which was piled high with hay
and before leaving I struck a match and looked down at the little sheep
and her new family settled comfortably among the fragrant clover. They
would be safe and warm in there till morning.

My journey back to the village was less hazardous because the bucket on
Harold's knee was empty. I dropped him outside his house then I had to
drive to the bottom of the village to turn; and as I came past the house
again the sound forced its way into the car.

"If YOU WERE THE ONLY GIRL IN THE WORLD AND ~ WERE THE ONLY BOY!

I stopped, wound the window down and listened in wonder. It was
incredible how the noise reverberated around the quiet street and if it
went on till four o'clock in the morning as the neighbours said, then
they had my sympathy.

NOTHING ELSE WOULD MATTER IN THE WORLD TODAY!

It struck me suddenly that I could soon get tired of Harold's singing.
His volume was impressive but for all that he would never be in great
demand at Covent Garden; he constantly wavered off key and there was a
grating quality in his top notes which set my teeth on edge.

WE WOULD GO ON LOVING in THE SAME OLD WAY!

Hurriedly I wound the window up and drove off. As the heaterless car
picked its way between the endless flitting pattern of walls I crouched
in frozen immobility behind the wheel. I had now reached the state of
total numbness and I can't remember much about my return to the yard at
Skeldale House, nor my automatic actions of putting away the car,
swinging shut the creaking doors of what had once been the old coach
house, and trailing slowly down the long garden.

But a realisation of my blessings began to return when I slid into bed
and He!en, instead of shrinking away from me as it would have been
natural to do, deliberately draped her feet and legs over the human ice
block that was her husband. The bliss was unbelievable. It was worth
getting out just to come back I glanced at the luminous dial of the
alarm clock. It was three o'clock and as the Warmth flowed over me and I
drifted away, my mind went back to the ewe and lambs, snug in their
scented barn. They would be asleep now, I would soon asleep, everybody
would be asleep.

Except, that is, Harold Ingledew's neighbours. They still had an hour to
go.

Chapter Two.

I had only to sit up in bed to look right across Darrowby to the hills
beyond.

I got up and walked to the window. It was going to be a fine morning and
the early sun glanced over the weathered reds and greys of the jumbled
roofs, some of them sagging under their burden of ancient tiles, and
brightened the tufts of green where trees pushed upwards from the
gardens among the bristle) of chimney pots. And behind everything the
calm bulk of the fells.

It was my good fortune that this was the first shine I saw every
morning; after Helen, of course, w. which was better still.

Following our unorthodox tuberculin testing honeymoon we had set up ow
first home on the top of Skeldale House. Siegfried, my boss up to my
wedding and now my partner, had offered us free use of these empty rooms
on the thin storey and we had gratefully accepted; and though it was a
makeshift arrangement there was an airy charm, an exhilaration in our
high perch that many would have envied.

It was makeshift because everything at that time had a temporary
complexion and we had no idea how long we would be there. Siegfried and
I had bot volunteered for the RAF and were on deferred service but that
is all I am going to say about the war. This book is not about such
things which in any case were so very far from Darrowby; it is the story
of the months I had with Helen between our marriage and my call-up and
is about the ordinary things which have always made up our lives, my
work, the animals, the Dales.

This front room was our bed-sitter and though it was not luxuriously
furnished it did have an excellent bed, a carpet, a handsome side table
which had belonged. to Helen's mother and two armchairs. It had an
ancient wardrobe, too, but th~ lock didn't work and the only way we kept
the door closed was by jamming One of my socks in it. The toe always
dangled outside but it never seemed of an~t importance.

I went out and across a few feet of landing to our kitchen-dining room
at t back. This apartment was definitely spartan. I clumped over bare
boards to bench we had rigged against the wall by the window. This held
a gas ring a our crockery and cutlery. I seized a tall jug and began my
long descent to t main kitchen downstairs because one minor snag was
that there was no water at the top of the house. Down two flights to the
three rooms on the first storey then down two more and a final gallop
along the passage to the big stone-flagb kitchen at the end.

I filled the jug and returned to our eyrie two steps at a time. I
wouldn't like to do this now whenever I needed water but at that time I
didn't find it the least ~.

inconvenience.

Helen soon had the kettle boiling and we drank our first cup of tea by
window looking down on the long garden. From up here we had an aerial
vi' of the unkempt lawns, the fruit trees, the wisteria climbing the
weathered brick towards our window, and the high walls with their old
stone copings stretch) away to the cobbled yard under the elms. Every
day I went up and down t path to the garage in the yard but it looked so
different from above.

~wait a minute, Helen,' I said. "Let me sit on that chair.'

She had laid the breakfast on the bench where we ate and this was where
the difficulty arose. Because it was a tall bench and our recently
acquired high stool fitted it but our chair didn't.

"No, I'm all right, Jim, really I am.' She smiled at me reassuringly
from her absurd position, almost at eye level with her plate.

"You can't be all right,' I retorted. "Your chin's nearly in among your
cornflakes Please let me sit there.'

She patted the seat of the stool. "Come on, stop arguing. Sit down and
have your breakfast.'

This, I felt, just wouldn't do. I tried a different tack.

"Helen!' I said severely. "Get off that chair!'

"No!' she replied without looking at me, her lips pushed forward in a
characteristic pout which I always found enchanting but which also meant
she wasn't kidding.

I was at a loss. I toyed with the idea of pulling her off the chair, but
she was a big girl. We had had a previous physical try-out when a minor
disagreement had escalated into a wrestling match and though I
thoroughly enjoyed the contest and actually won in the end I had been
surprised by her sheer strength. At this time in the morning I didn't
feel up to it. I sat on the stool.

After breakfast Helen began to boil water for the washing-up, the next
stage in our routine. Meanwhile I went downstairs, collected my gear,
including suture material for a foal which had cut its leg and went out
the side door into the garden. Just about opposite the rockery I turned
and looked up at our window. It was open at the bottom and an arm
emerged holding a dishcloth. I waved and the dishcloth waved back
furiously. It was the start to every day.

And, driving from the yard, it seemed a good start. In fact everything
was good. The raucous cawing of the rooks in the elms above as I closed
the double doors, the clean fragrance of the air which greeted me every
morning, and the challenge and interest of my job.

The injured foal was at Robert Corner's farm and I hadn't been there
long before I spotted Jock, his sheepdog. And I began to watch the dog
because behind a vet's daily chore of treating his patients there is
always the fascinating kaleidoscope of animal personality and Jock was
an interesting case.

A lot of farm dogs are partial to a little light relief from their work.
They like to play and one of their favourite games is chasing cars off
the premises. Often I drove off with a hairy form galloping alongside
and the dog would usually give a final defiant bark after a few hundred
yards to speed me on my way. But Jock was different.

He was really dedicated. Car chasing to him was a deadly serious art
which he practised daily without a trace of levity. Corner's farm was at
the end of a long track, twisting for nearly a mile between its stone
walls down through the gently sloping fields to the road below and Jock
didn't consider he had done his Job properly until he had escorted his
chosen vehicle right to the very foot. So his hobby was an exacting one.

I watched him now as I finished stitching the foal's leg and began to
tie on a bandage. He was slinking about the buildings, a skinny little
creature who Without his mass of black and white hair would have been an
almost invisible mite, and he was playing out a transparent charade of
pretending he was taking no noticed of me - wasn't the least bit
interested in my presence, in fact. But his furtive glances in the
direction of the stable, his repeated cries-crossing of my line of
vision gave him away. He was waiting for his big moment.

When I was putting on my shoes and throwing my Wellingtons into the boot
I saw him again. Or rather part of him; just a long nose and one eye
protruding from beneath a broken door. It wasn't till I had started the
engine and began to move off that he finally declared himself, stealing
out from his hiding place, body low, tail trailing, eyes fixed intently
on the car's front wheels, and as I gathered speed and headed down the
track he broke into an effortless lope I had been through this before
and was always afraid he might run in front of me so I put my foot down
and began to hurtle downhill. This was where Jock came into his own. I
often wondered how he'd fare against a racing greyhound because by golly
he could run. That sparse frame housed a perfect physical machine and
the slender limbs reached and flew again and again, devouring the stony
ground beneath, keeping up with the speeding car with joyful ease.

There was a sharp bend about half way down and here Jock would
invariably sail over the wall and streaked across the turf, a little
dark blur against the are and having craftily cut off the corner he
reappeared like a missile zooming off the grey stones lower down. This
put him into a nice position for the run to the road and when he finally
saw me on to the tarmac my last view of him was a happy panting face
looking after me. Clearly he considered it was a job well done and he
would wander contentedly back up to the farm to await the next session,
perhaps with the postman or the baker's van.

And there was another side to Jock. He was an outstanding performer at
sheepdog trials and Mr Corner had won many trophies with him. In fact
the farmer could have sold the little animal for a lot of money but
couldn't be persuaded to part with him. Instead he purchased a bitch, a
scrawny little female counterpart of Jock and a trial winner in her own
right. With this combination Mr Corner thought he could breed some
world-beating types for sale. On Visits to the farm the bitch joined in
the car-chasing but it seemed as though she was doing it more or less to
humour her new mate and she always gave up at the first bend leaving
Jock in command. You could see her heart wasn't in it.

When the pups arrived, seven fluffy black balls tumbling about the yard
and getting under everybody's feet. Jock watched indulgently as they
tried to follow him in his pursuit of my vehicle and you could almost
see him laughing as they fell over their feet and were left trailing far
behind.

It happened that I didn't have to go there for about ten months but I
saw ~ Robert Corner in the market occasionally and he told me he was
training the pups and they were shaping well. Not that they needed much
training; it's in their blood and he said they had tried to round up the
cattle and sheep as soon as they could walk. When I finally saw them
they were like seven Jocks - meagre, darting little creatures flitting
noiselessly about the buildings - and it didn't take me long to find out
that they had learned more than sheep herding from their father. There
was something very evocative about the way they began to prowl around in
the background as I prepared to get into my car, peeping furtively from
behind straw bales, slinking with elaborate nonchalance to favourable
positions for a quick getaway. And as I settled in my seat I could sense
they were all crouched in readiness for the take off.

I revved my engine, let in the clutch with a bump and shot across the y.
and in a second the immediate vicinity erupted in a mass of hairy forms.
I roared on to the track and put my foot down and on either side of me
the little animals pelted along shoulder to shoulder, their faces all
wearing the inti fanatical expression I knew so well. When Jock cleared
the wall the seven pups went with him and when they reappeared and
entered the home straight I noticed something different. On past
occasions Jock had always had one eye on the car - this was what he
considered his opponent, but now on that last quail mile as he hurtled
along at the head of a shaggy phalanx he was glancing at the pups on
either side as though they were the main opposition. ~

And there was no doubt he was in trouble. Superbly fit though he was.
The Stringy bundles of bone and sinew which he had fathered had all his
speed plus the newly minted energy of youth and it was taking every
shred of his power to keep up with them. Indeed there was one terrible
moment when he stumbled and was engulfed by the bounding creatures
around him; it seemed that all was lost but there was a core of steel in
Jock. Eyes popping, nostrils dilated, he fought his way through the pack
until by the time we reached the road he was once more in the lead.

But it had taken its toll. I slowed down before driving away and looked
down at the little animal standing with lolling tongue and heaving
flanks on the grass verge. It must have been like this with all the
other vehicles and it wasn't a merry game any more. I suppose it sounds
silly to say you could read a dog's thoughts but everything in his
posture betrayed the mounting apprehension that his days of supremacy
were numbered. Just round the corner lay the unthinkable ignominy of
being left trailing in the rear of that litter of young up-starts and as
I drew away Jock looked after me and his expression was eloquent.

"How long can I keep this up?'

I felt for the little dog and on my next visit to the farm about two
months later I wasn't looking forward to witnessing the final
degradation which I felt was inevitable. But when I drove into the yard
I found the place strangely unpopulated.

Robert Corner was forking hay into the cow's racks in the byre. He
turned as I came in.

"Where are all your dogs?' I asked.

He put down his fork. "All gone. By yaw, there's a market for good
workin' sheepdogs. I've done right well out of t'job.'

"But you've still got Jock?'

"Oh aye, ah couldn't part with t'awd lad. He's over there.'

And so he was, creeping around as of old, pretending he wasn't watching
me. And when the happy time finally arrived and I drove away it was like
it used to be with the lean little animal haring along by the side of
the car, but relaxed, enjoying the game, winging effortlessly over the
wall and beating the car down to the tarmac with no trouble at all.

I think I was as relieved as he was that he was left alone with his
supremacy unchallenged; that he was still top dog.

Chapter Three.

you could hardly expect to find a more unlikely character in Darrowby
than Roland Partridge. The thought came to me for the hundredth time as
I saw him peering through the window which looked on to Trengate just a
little way up the other side of the street from our surgery He was
tapping the glass and beckoning to me and the eyes behind the thick
Spectacles were wide with concern. I waited and when he opened the door
I Stepped straight from the street into his living room because these
were tiny dwellings with only a kitchen in the rear and a single small
bedroom overlooking the street above. But when I went in I had the
familiar feeling of surprise.

Because most of the other occupants of the row were farmworkers and
their furnishings were orthodox; but this place was a studio.

An easel stood in the light from the window and the walls were covered
from floor to ceiling with paintings. Unframed canvases were stacked
everywhere and the few ornate chairs and the table with its load of
painted china and other bric-a-brac added to the artistic atmosphere. ~

The simple explanation was, of course, that Mr Partridge was in fact an
. artist. But the unlikely aspect came into it when you learned that
this middle aged velvet jacketed aesthete was the son of a small farmer,
a man whose forebears had been steeped in the soil for generations.

"I happened to see you passing there, Mr Herriot,' he said. "Are you
terribly busy?'

"Not too busy, Mr Partridge. Can I help you?'

He nodded gravely. "I wonder whether you could spare a moment to look at
Percy. I'd be most grateful.'

"Of course,' I replied. "Where is he?'

He was ushering me towards the kitchen when there was a bang on the
outer door and Bert Hardisty the postman burst in. Bert was a rough-hewn
character and he dumped a parcel unceremoniously on the table.

"There y'are, Rolie!' he shouted and turned to go.

Mr Partridge gazed with unruffled dignity at the retreating back. "Thank
you very much indeed, Bertram, good day to you.'

Here was another thing. The postman and the artist were both Darrowby
born and bred, had the same social background, had gone to the same
school, yet their voices were quite different. Roland Partridge, in
fact, spoke with the precise, well-modulated syllables of a
barrister-at-law.

We went into the kitchen. This was where he cooked for himself in his
bachelor state. When his father died many years ago he had sold the farm
immediately. Apparently his whole nature was appalled by the earthy
farming scene and he could not get out quickly enough. At any rate he
had got sufficient money from the sale to indulge his interests and he
had taken up painting and lived ever since in this humble cottage,
resolutely doing his own thing. This had all happened long before I came
to Darrowby and the dangling lank hair was silver now. I always had the
feeling that he was happy in his way because I couldn't imagine that
small, rather exquisite figure plodding round a muddy farmyard.

It was probably in keeping with his nature that he had never married.
There was a touch of asceticism in the thin cheeks and pale blue eyes
and it was possible that his self-contained imperturbable personality
might denote a lack of warmth. But that didn't hold good with regard to
his dog, Percy.

He loved Percy with a fierce protective passion and as the little animal
trotted towards him he bent over him, his face alight with tenderness.

"He looks pretty bright to me,' I said. "He's not sick, is he?'

"No .. . no .. .' Mr Partridge seemed strangely ill at ease. "He's
perfectly well in himself, but I want you to look at him and see if you
notice anything.'

I looked. And I saw only what I had always seen, the snow-white, shaggy
haired little object regarded by local dog breeders and other
cognoscenti as negligible mongrel but nevertheless one of my- favourite
patients. Mr Partridge; looking through the window of a pet shop in
Brawton about five years ago had succumbed immediately to the charms of
two soulful eyes gazing up at him from a six-week-old tangle of white
hair and had put down his five bob and rushed the little creature home.
Percy had been described in the shop somewhat vaguely~ as a 'terrier'
and Mr Partridge had flirted fearfully with the idea of having his tail
docked; but such was his infatuation that he couldn't bring himself to
cause such a mutilation and the tail had grown in a great fringed curve
almost full circle over the back.

To me, the tail nicely balanced the head which was undoubtedly a little
too big for the body but Mr Partridge had been made to suffer for it.
His old friends in Darrowby who, like all country folks, considered
themselves experts with animals, were free with their comments. I had
heard them at it. When Percy was young it was:

"Time ye had that tail off, Rolie. Ah'll bite it off for ye if ye like.'
And later, again and again. "Hey Rolie, you should've had that dog's
tail off when he were a pup. He looks bloody daft like that.'

When asked Percy's breed Mr Partridge always replied haughtily,
"Sealyham Cross', but it wasn't as simple as that; the tiny body with
its luxuriant bristling coat, the large, rather noble head with high,
pricked ears, the short, knock-kneed legs and that tail made him
a~baffling mixture.

Mr Partridge's friends again were merciless, referring to Percy as a
'tripe' ound' or a 'mouse-'ound' and though the little artist received
these railleries with a thin smile I knew they bit deep. He had a high
regard for me based simply on the fact that the first time I saw Percy I
exclaimed quite spontaneously "What a beautiful little dog!' And since I
have never had much time for the points and fads of dog breeding I
really meant it.

"Just what is wrong, Mr Partridge?' I asked. "I can't see anything
unusual.'

Again the little man appeared to be uneasy. "Well now, watch as he walks
across the floor. Come, Percy my dear.' He moved away from me and the
dog followed him.

"No .. . no .. . I don't quite understand what you mean.'

"Watch again.' He set off once more. "It's at his .. . his er .. . back
end.'

I crouched down. "Ah now, yes, wait a minute. Just hold him there, will
you?'

I went over and had a close look. "I see it now. One of his testicles is
slightly enlarged.'

"Yes .. . yes .. . quite.' Mr Partridge's face turned a shade pinker.
"That is ... er .. . what I thought.'

"Hang on to him a second while I examine it.' I lifted the scrotum and
palpated gently. "Yes, the left one is definitely bigger and it is
harder too.'

"Is it .. . anything serious?'

I paused. "No, I shouldn't think so. Tumours of the testicles are not
uncommon in dogs and fortunately they aren't inclined to metastasise
spread through the body - very readily. So I shouldn't worry too much.'

I added the last bit hastily because at the mention of the word 'tumour'
the colour had drained from his face alarmingly.

"That's a growth, isn't it?' he stammered.

"Yes, but there are all kinds and a lot of them are not malignant. So
don't worry but please keep an eye on him. It may not grow much but if
it does you must let me know immediately.'

"I see .. . and if it does grow?'

"Well the only thing would be to remove the testicle.'

"An operation?' The little man stared at me and for a moment I thought
he would faint.

"Yes, but not a serious one. Quite straightforward, really.' I bent down
and felt the enlargement again. It was very slight. From the front end,
Percy kept up a continuous musical growling. I grinned. He always did
that - when I took his temperature, cut his nails, anything; a nonstop
grumble and it didn't mean a thing. I knew him well enough to realise
there was no viciousness in him; he was merely asserting his virility,
reminding me what a tough fellow he was, and it was not idle boasting
because for all his lack of size he was a proud, mettlesome little dog,
absolutely crammed with character.

After I had left the house I looked back and saw Mr Partridge standing
there watching me. He was clasping and unclasping his hands.

And even when I was back in the surgery half of me was still in that odd
little studio. I had to admire Mr Partridge for doing exactly what he
wanted to do because in Darrowby he would never get any credit for it. A
good horseman or cricketer would be revered in the town but an artist ..
. never. Not even if he became famous, and Mr Partridge would never be
famous. A few people bought his paintings but he could not have lived on
the proceeds. I had one of them hanging in our bed-sitter and to my mind
he had a definite gift. In fact I would have tried to afford more of
them but for the fact that he obviously shrank from: that aspect of the
Yorkshire Dales which I loved most.

If I had been able to paint I would have wanted to show how the walls
climbed everywhere over the stark fell-sides. I would have tried to
capture the magic of the endless empty moors with the reeds trembling
over the black bog pools. But Mr Partridge went only for the cosy
things; willows hanging by a rustic bridge, village churches,
rose-covered cottages.

Since Percy was a near neighbour I saw him nearly every day, either from
our bed-sitter at the top of the house or from the surgery below. His
master exercised him with great zeal and regularity and it was a common
sight to see the artist passing on the other side of the road with the
little animal trotting proudly beside him. But from that distance it was
impossible to see if the tumour was progressing, and since I heard
nothing from Mr Partridge I assumed that all was well. Maybe that thing
had grown no more. Sometimes it happened that way.

Keeping a close watch on the little dog reminded me of other incidents:
connected with him, particularly the number of times he was involved in
a fight. Not that Percy ever started a brawl - at ten inches high he
wasn't stupid enough for that - but somehow big dogs when they saw that
dainty white figure prancing along were inclined to go for him on sight.
I witnessed some of these attacks from our windows and the same thing
happened every time; a quick flurry of limbs, a snarling and yelping and
then the big dog retreated bleeding. Percy never had a mark on him -
that tremendous thick coat gave him complete protection - but he always
got a nip in~from underneath. I had stitched up several of the local
street fighters after Percy had finished with them.

It must have been about six weeks later when Mr Partridge came in again.
He looked tense.

"I'd like you to have a look at Percy again, Mr Herriot.'

I lifted the dog on to the surgery table and I didn't need to examine
him very closely..

"It's quite a lot bigger, I'm afraid.' I looked across the table at the
little man.

"Yes, I know.' He hesitated. "What do you suggest?'

"Oh there's no doubt at all he'll have to come in for an operation. That
thing must come off.' :

Horror and despair flickered behind the thick spectacles.

"An operation!' He leaned on the table with both hands.

"I hate the idea, I just can't bear the thought of it!'

I smiled reassuringly. "I know how you feel, but honestly there's
nothing to worry about. As I told you before, it's quite a simple
procedure.'

"Oh I know, I know,' he moaned. "But I don't want him to be .. . cut
about you understand .. . it's just the idea of it.'

And I couldn't persuade him. He remained adamant and marched resolutely
from the surgery with his pet. I watched him crossing the road to his
house and I knew he had let himself in for a load of worry, but I didn't
realise just how bad it was going to be.

It was to be a kind of martyrdom.

Chapter Four.

I do not think martyrdom is too strong a word for what Mr Partridge went
through over the next few weeks, because with the passage of time that
testicle became more and more massive and due to the way Percy carried
his tail the thing was lamentably conspicuous.

People used to turn and stare as man and dog made their way down the
street, Percy trotting bravely, his master, eyes rigidly to the front,
putting up a magnificent pretence of being quite unaware of anything
unusual. It really hurt me to see them and I found the sight of the
smart little dog's disfigurement particularly hard to bear.

Mr Partridge's superior facade had always made him a natural target for
a certain amount of legpulling which he bore stoically; but the fact
that it now involved his pet pierced him to the soul.

One afternoon he brought him over to the surgery and I could see that
the little man was almost in tears. Gloomily I examined the offending
organ which was now about six inches long; gross, pendulous, undeniably
ludicrous.

"You know, Mr Herriot,' the artist gasped. "Some boys chalked on my
window, "Roll up and see the famous Chinese dog, Wun Hung Lo." I've just
been wiping it off.'

I rubbed my chin. "Well that's an ancient joke, Mr Partridge. I
shouldn't worry about that.'

"But I do worry! I can't sleep because of the thing!'

"For heaven's sake, then, why don't you let me operate? I could put the
whole business right for you.'

"No! No! I can't do that!' His head rolled on his shoulders; he was the
very picture of misery as he stared at me. "I'm frightened, that's what
it is. I'm frightened he'll die under the anaesthetic.'

"Oh come now! He's a strong little animal. There's no reason at all for
such fears.'

"But there is a risk isn't there?'

I looked at him helplessly. "Well there's a slight risk in all
operations if you come right down to it, but honestly in this case .

..'

"No! That's enough. I won't hear of it,' he burst out and seizing
Percy's lead he strode away.

Things went from bad to worse after that. The tumour grew steadily,
easily visible now from my vantage point in the surgery window as the
dog went by on the other side of the street, and I could see too that
the stares and occasional ridicule were beginning to tell on Mr
Partridge. His cheeks had hollowed and he had lost some of his high
colour.

But I didn't have words with him till one market day several weeks
later. It was early afternoon - the time the farmers often came in to
pay their bills. I was showing one of them out when I saw Percy and his
master coming out of the house. And I noticed immediately that the
little animal now had to swing one hind leg slightly to clear the
massive obstruction.

On an impulse I called out and beckoned to Mr Partridge.

"Look,' I said as he came across to me. "You've just got to let me take
that thing off. It's interfering with his walking - making him lame. He
can't go on like this.'

The artist didn't say anything but stared back at me with hunted eyes.
We were standing there in silence when Bill Dalton came round the corner
and marched up to the surgery steps, cheque book in hand. Bill was a
large beefy farmer who spent most of market day in the bar of the Black
Swan and he was preceded by an almost palpable wave of beer fumes.

"Nah then, Rolie lad, how ista?' he roared, slapping the little man
violently on the back.

"I am quite well, William, thank you, and how are you?'

But Bill didn't answer. His attention was all on Percy who had strolled
a few paces along the pavement. He watched him intently for a few
moments, then, repressing a giggle, he turned to Mr Partridge with a
mock-serious expression.

"The knows, Rolie,' he said, 'that blood 'ound of your reminds me of the
young man of Devizes, whose balls were of different sizes. The one was
so small it was no ball at all, but the other one won several prizes.'
He finished with a shout of laughter which went on and on till he
collapsed weakly against the iron railings.

For a moment I thought Mr Partridge was going to strike him. He glared
up at the big man and his chin and mouth trembled with rage, then he
seemed to gain control of himself and turned to me.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr Herriot?'

"Certainly.' I walked a few yards with him down the street.

"You're right,' he said. "Percy will have to have that operation. When
can you %ood and bring him in at little dog stretched on the quickly
removed the huge e complete excision of all ~s that the scrotum itself
t. This is the sort of thing way the affected parts of ~n. I put in the
last stitch ~ng his pet alive after my want to spoil everything f the
tumour did recur I pleasure at my patient's ton whenever I saw him
remeet which had bulked; roll casually behind him nothing to Mr
Partridge Percy's tail. ::'~ he pathology department ~ me that it was a
Sertoli." ~ation that this type wa5]

usually benign and that metastasis into the internal organs occurred in
only a very small proportion of cases. Maybe this lulled me into a
deeper security than was warranted because I stopped following Percy
around and in fact, in the nonstop rush of new cases, forgot all about
his spell of trouble.

So that when Mr Partridge brought him round to the surgery I thought it
was for something else and when his master lifted him on to the table
and turned him round to show his rear end I stared uncomprehendingly for
a moment. But I leaned forward anxiously when I spotted the ugly
swelling on the left side of the scrotum. I palpated quickly, with
Percy's growls and grousings providing an irritable obligato, and there
was no doubt about it, the tumour was growing again. It meant business,
too, because it was red, angry-looking, painful; a dangerously active
growth if ever I had seen one.

"It's come up quite quickly, has it?' I asked.

Mr Partridge nodded. "Yes, indeed. I can almost see it getting bigger
every day.'

We were in trouble. There was no hope of trying to cut this lot away; it
was a great diffuse mass without clear boundaries and I wouldn't have
known where to start. Anyway, if I began any more poking about it would
be just what was needed to start a spread into the internal organs, and
that would be the end of Percy.

"It's worse this time, isn't it?' The little man looked at me and
gulped.

"Yes .. . yes .. . I'm afraid so.'

"Is there anything at all you can do about it?' he asked.

I was trying to think of a painless way of telling him that there wasn't
when I remembered something I had read in the Veterinary Record a week
ago. It was about a new drug, Stilboestrol, which had just come out and
was supposed to be useful for hormonal therapy in animals; but the bit I
was thinking about was a small print extract which said it had been
useful in cancer of the prostate in men. I wondered .. .

"There's one thing I'd like to try,' I said, suddenly brisk, "I can't
guarantee anything, of course, because it's something new. But we'll see
what a week or two's course does.'

"Oh good, good,' Mr Partridge breathed, snatching gratefully at the
straw.

I rang May and Baker's and they sent the Stilboestrol to me immediately.

I injected Percy with 10 mg of the oily suspension and put him on to 10
mg tablets daily. They were big doses for a little dog but in a
desperate situation I felt they were justified. Then I sat back and
waited.

For about a week the tumour continued to grow and I nearly stopped the
treatment' then there was a spell lasting several days during which I
couldn't be sure; but then with a surge of relief I realised there could
be no further doubt - the thing wasn't getting any bigger. I wasn't
going to throw my hat in the air and I knew anything could still happen
but I had done something with my treatment; I had halted that fateful
progress.

The artist's step acquired a fresh spring as he passed on his daily walk
and then as the ugly mass actually began to diminish he would wave
towards the Surgery window and point happily at the little white animal
trotting by his side.

Poor Mr Partridge. He was on the crest of the wave but just ahead of him
was the second and more bizarre phase of his martyrdom.

At first neither I nor anybody else realised what was going on. All we
knew was there suddenly seemed to be a lot of dogs in Trengate - dogs we
didn't usually see, from other parts of the town; big ones, small ones,
shaggy mongrels and sleek aristocrats all hanging round apparently
aimlessly, but then it was noticed that there was a focal point of
attraction. It was Mr Partridge's house.

And it hit me blindingly one morning as I looked out of our bedroom
window. They were after Percy. For some reason he had taken on the
attributes of a bitch in heat. I hurried downstairs and got out my
pathology book. Yes, there it was. The Sertoli Cell tumour occasionally
made dogs attractive to other male dogs. But why should it be happening
now when the thing was reducing and not when it was at its height? Or
could it be the Stilboestrol? The new drug was said to have a feminising
effect, but surely not to that extent.

Anyway, whatever the cause, the undeniable fact remained that Percy was
under siege, and as the word got around the pack increased, being
augmented by several of the nearby farm dogs, a Great Dane who had made
the journey from Houlton, and Magnus, the little dachschund from the
Drovers' Arms. The queue started forming almost at first light and by
ten o'clock there would be a milling throng almost blocking the street.
Apart from the regulars the odd canine visitor passing through would
join the company, and no matter what his breed or size he was readily
accepted into the club, adding one more to the assortment of stupid
expressions, lolling tongues and waving tails; because, motley crew
though they were, they were all happily united in the roisterous, bawdy
camaraderie of lust.

The strain on Mr Partridge must have been almost intolerable. At times I
noticed the thick spectacles glinting balefully at the mob through his
window but most of the time he kept himself in hand, working calmly at
his easel as though he were oblivious that every one of the creatures
outside had evil designs on his treasure.

Only rarely did his control snap. I witnessed one of these occasions
when he rushed screaming from his doorway, laying about him with a
walking stick; and I noticed that the polished veneer slipped from him
and his cries rang out in broadest Yorkshire.

"Gerrout, ye bloody rotten buggers! Gerrout of it!'

He might as well have saved his energy because the pack scattered only
for a few seconds before taking up their stations again.

I felt for the little man but there was nothing I could do about it. My
main feeling was of relief that the tumour was going down but I had to
admit to a certain morbid fascination at the train of events across the
street.

Percy's walks were fraught with peril. Mr Partridge always armed
himself: with his stick before venturing from the house and kept Percy
on a short lead, but his precautions were unavailing as the wave of dogs
swept down on him. The besotted creatures, mad with passion, leapt on
top of the little animal as the artist beat vainly on the shaggy backs
and yelled at them; and the humiliating procession usually continued
right across the market place to the great amusement of the inhabitants.

At lunch time most of the dogs took a break and at nightfall they all
went home to bed, but there was one little brown spaniel type who, with
the greatest dedication, never left his post. I think he must have gone
almost without food for about two weeks because he dwindled practically
to a skeleton and I think he might have died if Helen hadn't taken
pieces of meat over to him when she saw him huddled trembling in the
doorway in the cold darkness of the evening. I know he stayed there all
night because every now and then a shrill yelping-~ wakened me in the
small hours and I deduced that Mr Partridge had got home" on him with
some missile from his bedroom window. But it made no difference;] he
continued his vigil undaunted.

I don't quite know how Mr Partridge would have survived if this state of
affairs had continued indefinitely; I think his reason might have given
way. But mercifully signs began to appear that the nightmare was on the
wane. The mob began to thin as Percy's condition improved and one day
even the little brown dog reluctantly left his beat and slunk away to
his unknown home.

That was the very day I had Percy on the table for the last time. I felt
a thrill of satisfaction as I ran a fold of the scrotal skin between my
fingers.

"There's nothing there now, Mr Partridge. No thickening, even. Not a
thing.'

The little man nodded. "Yes, it's a miracle, isn't it! I'm very grateful
to you for all you've done. I've been so terribly worried.'

"Oh, I can imagine. You've been through a bad time. But I'm really as
pleased as you are yourself - it's one of the most satisfying things in
practice when an experiment like this comes off.'

But often over the subsequent years, as I watched dog and master pass
our window, Mr Partridge with all his dignity restored, Percy as trim
and proud as ever, I wondered about that strange interlude.

Did the Stilboestrol really reduce that tumour or did it regress
naturally? And were the extraordinary events caused by the treatment or
the condition or both?

I could never be quite sure of the answer, but of the outcome I could be
happily certain. That unpleasant growth never came back .. . and neither
did all those dogs.

Chapter Five.

This was the real Yorkshire with the clean limestone wall riding the
hill's edge and the path cutting brilliant green through the crowding
heather. And, walking face on to the scented breeze I felt the old
tingle of wonder at being alone on the wide moorland where nothing
stirred and the spreading miles of purple blossom and green turf reached
away till it met the hazy blue of the sky.

But I wasn't really alone. There was Sam, and he made all the
difference. Helen had brought a lot of things into my life and Sam was
one of the most precious; he was a Beagle and her own personal pet. He
would be about two years old when I first saw him and I had no way of
knowing that he was to be my faithful companion, my car dog, my friend
who sat by my side through the lonely hours of driving till his life
ended at the age of fourteen. He was the first of a series of cherished
dogs whose comradeship have warmed and lightened my working life.

Sam adopted me on sight. It was as though he had read the Faithful Hound
Manual because he was always near me; paws on the dash as he gazed
eagerly through the windscreen on my rounds, head resting on my foot in
our bedsitting room, trotting just behind me wherever I moved. If I had
a beer in a pub he would be under my chair and even when I was having a
haircut you only had to lift the white sheet to see Sam crouching
beneath my legs. The only place I didn't dare take him was to the cinema
and on these occasions he crawled under the bed and sulked.

Most dogs love car riding but to Sam it was a passion which never waned
even in the night hours; he would gladly leave his basket when the world
was asleep, stretch a couple of times and follow me out into the cold.
He would be on to the seat before I got the car door fully open and this
action became so much a part of my life that for a long time after his
death I still held the door open unthinkingly, waiting for him. And I
still remember the pain I felt when he did not bound inside.

And having him with me added so much to the intermissions I granted
myself on my daily rounds. Whereas in offices and factories they had tea
breaks I just stopped the car and stepped out into the splendour which
was always at hand and walked for a spell down hidden lanes, through
woods, or as today, along one of the grassy tracks which ran over the
high tops.

This thing which I had always done had a new meaning now. Anybody who
has ever walked a dog knows the abiding satisfaction which comes from
giving pleasure to a loved animal, and the sight of the little form
trotting ahead of me lent a depth which had been missing before.

Round the curve of the path I came to where the tide of heather lapped
thickly down the hillside on a little slope facing invitingly into the
sun. It was a call I could never resist. I looked at my watch; oh I had
a few minutes to spare and there was nothing urgent ahead, just Mr
Dacre's tuberculin test. In a moment I was stretched out on the springy
stems, the most wonderful natural mattress in the world.

Lying there, eyes half closed against the sun's glare, the heavy heather
fragrance around me, I could see the cloud shadows racing across the
flanks of the fells, throwing the gulleys and crevices into momentary
gloom but trailing a fresh flaring green in their wake.

Those were the days when I was most grateful I was in country practice;
the shirt sleeve days when the bleak menace of the bald heights melted
into friendliness, when I felt at one with all the airy life and growth
about me and was glad that I had become what I never thought I would be,
a doctor of farm animals My partner, Siegfried would be somewhere out
there, thrashing round the practice and Tristan his student brother
would probably be studying in Skeldale House. This latter was quite a
thought because I had never seen Tristan open a text book until lately.
He had been blessed with the kind of brain which made swotting
irrelevant but he would take his finals this year and even he had to get
down to it. I had little doubt he would soon be a qualified man and in a
way it seemed a shame that his free spirit should be shackled by the
realities of veterinary practice. It would be the end of a luminous
chapter.

A long-eared head blotted out the sunshine as Sam came and sat on my
chest. He looked at me questioningly. He didn't hold with this laziness
but I knew if I didn't move after a few minutes he would curl up
philosophically on my ribs and have a sleep until I was ready to go. But
this time I answered the unspoken appeal by sitting up and he leaped
around me in delight as I rose and began to make my way back to the car
and Mr Dacre's test.

"Move over, Bill!' Mr Dacre cried some time later as he tweaked the big
bull's tail.

Nearly every farmer kept a bull in those days and they were all called
Billy or Bill. I suppose it was because this was a very mature animal
that he received the adult version. Being a docile beast he responded to
the touch on his tail by shuffling his great bulk to one side, leaving
me enough space to push in between him and the wooden partition against
which he was tied by a chain.

I was reading a tuberculin test and all I wanted to do was to measure
the intradermal reaction. I had to open my calipers very wide to take in
the thickness of the skin on the enormous neck.

"Thirty,' I called out to the farmer.

He wrote the figure down on the testing book and laughed.

"By heck, he's got some pelt on 'im.'

"Yes,' I said, beginning to squeeze my way out. "But he's a big fellow,
isn't he?'

Just how big he was was brought home to me immediately because the bull
suddenly swung round, pinning me against the partition. Cows did this
regularly and I moved them by bracing my back against whatever was
behind me and pushing them away. But it was different with Bill.

Gasping, I pushed with all my strength against the rolls of fat which
covered the vast roan-coloured flank, but I might as well have tried to
shift a house.

The farmer dropped his book and seized the tail again but this time the
bull showed no response. There was no malice in his behaviour - he was
simply having a comfortable lean against the boards and I don't suppose
he even noticed the morsel of puny humanity wriggling frantically
against his rib-cage.

Still, whether he meant it or not, the end result was the same; I was
having the life crushed out of me. Pop-eyed, groaning, scarcely able to
breathe, I struggled with everything I had, but I couldn't move an inch.
And just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, Bill started to
rub himself up and down against the partition. So that was what he had
come round for; he had an itch and he just wanted to scratch it.

The effect on me was catastrophic. I was certain my internal organs were
being steadily ground to pulp and as I thrashed about in complete panic
the huge animal leaned even more heavily.

I don't like to think what would have happened if the wood behind me had
not been old and rotten, but just as I felt my senses leaving me there
was a cracking and splintering and I fell through into the next stall.
Lying there like a stranded fish on a bed of shattered timbers I looked
up at Mr Dacre, waiting till my lungs started to work again.

The farmer, having got over his first alarm, was rubbing his upper lip
vigorously in a polite attempt to stop himself laughing. His little girl
who had watched the whole thing from her vantage point in one of the hay
racks had no such inhibitions. Screaming with delight, she pointed at
me.

"Ooo, Dad, Dad, look at that man! Did you see him, Dad, did you see him?
Ooo what a funny man!' She went into helpless convulsions. She was only
about five but I had a feeling she would remember my performance all her
life.

At length I picked myself up and managed to brush the matter off
lightly, but after I had driven a mile or so from the farm I stopped the
car and looked myself over. My ribs ached pretty uniformly as though a
light road roller had passed over them and there was a tender area on my
left buttock where I had landed on my calipers but otherwise I seemed to
have escaped damage. I removed a few spicules of wood from my trousers,
got back into the car and consulted my list of visits.

And when I read my next call a gentle smile of relief spread over my
face. "Mrs Tompkin, 14, Jasmine Terrace. Clip budgie's beak.'

Thank heaven for the infinite variety of veterinary practice. After that
bull I needed something small and weak and harmless and really you can't
ask for much better in that line than a budgie.

Number 14 was one of a row of small mean houses built of the cheap
bricks so beloved of the jerry builders after the First World War. I
armed myself with a pair of clippers and stepped on to the narrow strip
of pavement which separated the door from the road. A pleasant looking
red-haired woman answered my knock.

"I'm Mrs Dodds from next door,' she said. "I keep an eye on t'old lady.
She's over eighty and lives alone. I've just been out gettin' her
pension for her.'

She led me into the cramped little room. "Here y'are, love,' she said to
the old woman who sat in a corner. She put the pension book and money on
the mantelpiece "And here's Mr Herriot come to see Peter for you.'

Mrs Tompkin nodded and smiled. "Oh that's good. Poor little feller can't
hardly eat with 'is long beak and I'm worried about him. He's me only
companion, you know.'

"Yes, I understand, Mrs Tompkin.' I looked at the cage by the window
with the green budgie perched inside. "These little birds can be
wonderful company when they start chattering.'

She laughed. "Aye, but it's a funny thing. Peter never has said owl
much. I think he's lazy! But I just like havin' him with me.'

"Of course you do,' I said. "But he certainly needs attention now.'

The beak was greatly overgrown, curving away down till it touched the
feathers of the breast. I would be able to revolutionise his life with
one quick snip from my clippers. The way I was feeling this job was
right up my street.

I opened the cage door and slowly inserted my hand.

"Come on, Peter,' I wheedled as the bird fluttered away from me. And I
soon cornered him and enclosed him gently in my fingers. As I lifted him
out I felt in my pocket with the other hand for the clippers, but as I
poised them I stopped.

The tiny head was no longer poking cheekily from my fingers but had
fallen loosely to one side. The eyes were closed. I stared at the bird
uncomprehendingly for a moment then opened my hand. He lay quite
motionless on my palm. He was dead.

Dry mouthed, I continued to stare; at the beautiful iridescence of the
plumage, the long beak which I didn't have to cut now, but mostly at the
head dropping down over my forefinger. I hadn't squeezed him or been
rough with him in any way but he was dead. It must have been sheer
fright.

Mrs Dodds and I looked at each other in horror and I hardly dared turn
my head towards Mrs Tompkin. When I did, I was surprised to see that she
was still nodding and smiling.

I drew her neighbour to one side. "Mrs Dodds, how much does she see?'

"Oh she's very short-sighted but she's right vain despite her age. Never
would wear glasses. She's hard of hearin' too.'

"Well look,' I said. My heart still pounding. "I just don't know what to
do. If I tell her about this the shock will be terrible. Anything could
happen.'

Mrs Dodds nodded, stricken-faced. "Aye, you're right. She's that
attached to the little thing.'

"I can only think of one alternative,' I whispered. "Do you know where I
can get another budgie?'

Mrs Dodds thought for a moment. "You could try Jack Almond at t'town
end. I think he keeps birds.'

I cleared my throat but even then my voice came out in a dry croak. "Mrs
Tompkin, I'm just going to take Peter along to the surgery to do this
job. I won't be long.'

I left her still nodding and smiling and, cage in hand, fled into the
street. I was at the town end and knocking at Jack Almond's door within
three minutes.

"Mr Almond?' I asked of the stout, shirtsleeved man who answered.

"That's right, young man.' He gave me a slow, placid smile.

"Do you keep birds?'

He drew himself 'up with dignity. "I do and I'm t'president of the
n~r,~why and Houlton Cage Bird Society.'

"Fine,' I said breathlessly. "Have you got a green budgie?'

"Ah've got Canaries, Budgies, Parrots, Parakeets, Cockatoos .. .

"I just want a budgie.'

"Well ah've got Albinos, Blue-greens, Barreds, Litinos .. .'

"I just want a green one.'

A slightly pained expression flitted across the man's face as though he
found my attitude of haste somewhat unseemly.

"Aye .. . well, we'll go and have a look,' he said.

I followed him as he paced unhurriedly through the house into the back
yard which was largely given over to a long shed containing a
bewildering variety of birds.

Mr Almond gazed at them with gentle pride and his mouth opened as though
he was about to launch into a dissertation then he seemed to remember
that he had an impatient chap to deal with and dragged himself back to
the job in hand.

"There's a nice little green 'un here. But he's a bit older than
"'others. Matter of fact I've got 'im talkin'.'

"All the better, just the thing. How much do you want for him?'

"But .. . there's some nice 'uns along here. Just let me show you .. .'

I put a hand on his arm. "I want that one. How much?'

He pursed his lips in frustration then shrugged his shoulders.

"Ten bob.'

"Right. Bung him in this cage.'

As I sped back up the road I looked in the driving mirror and could see
the poor man regarding me sadly from his doorway.

Mrs Dodds was waiting for me back at Jasmine Terrace.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?' I asked her in a whisper.

"I'm sure you are,' she replied. "Poor awd thing, she hasn't much to
think about and I'm sure she'd fret over Peter.'

"That's what I thought.' I made my way into the living room.

Mrs Tompkin smiled at me as I went in. "That wasn't a long job, Mr
Herriot.'

"No,' I said, hanging the cage with the new bird up in its place by the
window. "I think you'll find all is well now.'

It was months before I had the courage to put my hand into a budgie's
cage again. In fact to this day I prefer it if the owners will lift the
birds out for me. People look at me strangely when I ask them to do
this; I believe they think I am scared the little things might bite me.

It was a long time, too, before I dared go back to Mrs Tompkins but I
was driving down Jasmine Terrace one day and on an impulse I stopped
outside Number 14.

The old lady herself came to the door.

"How .. .' I said. "How is .. . er .. .?'

She peered at me closely for a moment then laughed. "Oh I see who it is
now. You mean Peter, don't you, Mr Herriot. Oh 'e's just grand. Come in
and see 'im'

In the little room the cage still hung by the window and Peter the
Second took a quick look at me then put on a little act for my benefit;
he hopped around the bars of the cage, ran up and down his ladder and
rang his little bell a couple of times before returning to his perch.

His mistress reached up, tapped the metal and looked lovingly at him.

"You know, you wouldn't believe it,' she said. "He's like a different
bird.'

I swallowed. "Is that so? In what way?'

"Well he's so active now. Lively as can be. You know 'e chatters to me
all day long. It's wonderful what cutting' a beak can do.'

Chapter Six.

This was one for Granville Bennett. I liked a bit of small animal
surgery and was gradually doing more as time went on but this one
frightened me. A twelve-year-old spaniel bitch in the last stages of
pyometritis, pus dripping from her vulva on to the surgery table,
temperature a hundred and four, panting, trembling, and, as I held my
stethoscope against her chest I could hear the classical signs of
valvular insufficiency. A dicky heart was just what I needed on top of
everything else.

"Drinking a lot of water, is she?' I asked.

Old Mrs Barker twisted the strings of her shopping bag anxiously. "Aye,
she never seems to be away from the water bowl. But she won't eat -
hasn't had a bite for the last four days.'

"Well I don't know,' I took off my stethoscope and stuffed it in my
pocket. You should have brought her in long ago. She must have been ill
for weeks.'

"Not rightly ill, but a bit off it. I thought there was nothing to worry
about as long as she was eating.'

I didn't say anything for a few moments. I had no desire to upset the
old girl but she had to be told.

"I'm afraid this is rather serious, Mrs Barker. The condition has been
building up for a long time. It's in her womb, you see, a bad infection,
and the only cure is an operation.'

"Well will you do it, please?' The old lady's lips quivered.

I came round the table and put my hand on her shoulder.

"I'd like to, but there are snags. She's in poor shape and twelve years
old. Really a poor operation risk. I'd like to take her through to the
Veterinary Hospital at Hartington and let Mr Bennett operate on her.'

"All right,' she said, nodding eagerly. "I don't care what it costs.'

"Oh we'll keep it down as much as possible.' I walked along the passage
with her and showed her out of the door. "Leave her with me I'll look
after her, don't worry. What's her name, by the way?'

"Dinah,' she replied huskily, still peering past me down the passage.

I went through and lifted the phone. Thirty years ago country
practitioners had to turn to the small animal experts when anything
unusual cropped up in that line. It is different nowadays when our
practices are more mixed. In Darrowby now we have the staff and
equipment to tackle any type of small animal surgery but it was
different then. I had heard it said that sooner or later every large
animal man had to scream for help from Granville Bennett and now it was
my turn.

"Hello, is that Mr Bennett?'

"It is indeed.' A big voice, friendly, full of give.

"Herriot here. I'm with Farnon in Darrowby.'

"Of course! Heard of you, laddie, heard of you.'

"Oh .. . er .. . thanks. Look, I've got a bit of a sticky job here. I
wonder if you'd take it on for me.'

"Delighted, laddie, what is it?'

' A real stinking pyo.'

"Oh lovely!'

"The bitch is twelve years old.'

"Splendid!'

"And toxic as hell.'

"Excellent!'

"And one of the worst hearts I've heard for a long time.'

"Fine, fine! When are you coming through?'

"This evening, if it's O.K. with you. About eight.'

"Couldn't be better, laddie. See you.'

Hartington was a fair-sized town - about 2(~0,000 inhabitants - but as I
drove into the centre the traffic had thinned and only a few cars rolled
past the rows of shop fronts. I hoped my twenty-five mile journey had
been worth it. Dinah, stretched out on a blanket in the back looked as
if she didn't care either way. I glanced behind me at the head drooping
over the edge of the seat, at the white muzzle and the cataracts in her
eyes gleaming palely in the light from the dash. She looked so old.
Maybe I was wasting my time, placing too much faith in this man's
reputation.

There was do doubt Granville Bennett had become something of a legend in
northern England. In those days when specialisation was almost unknown
he had gone all out for small animal work - never looked at farm stock -
and had set a new standard by the modern procedures in his animal
hospital which was run as nearly as possible on human lines. It was, in
fact, fashionable for veterinary surgeons of that era to belittle dog
and cat work; a lot of the older men who had spent their lives among the
teeming thousands of draught horses in city and agriculture would
sneer,"Oh I've no time to bother with those damn things.' Bennet had
gone dead in the opposite direction.

I had never met him but I knew he was a young man in his early thirties.
I had heard a lot about his skill, his business acumen, and about his
reputation as a l~on viveur. He was, they said, a dedicated devotee of
the work-hardplay- hard school.

The Veterinary Hospital was a long low building near the top of a busy
street. I drove into a yard and knocked at a door in the corner. I was
looking with some awe at a gleaming Bentley dwarfing my own battered
little Austin when the door was opened by a pretty receptionist.

"Good evening,' she murmured with a dazzling smile which I thought must
be worth another half crown on the bill for a start. "Do come in, Mr
Bennett is expecting you.'

I was shown into a waiting room with magazines and flowers on a corner
table and many impressive photographs of dogs and cats on the walls
taken, I learned later, by the principal himself. I was looking closely
at a superb study of two white poodles when I heard a footstep behind
me. I turned and had my first view of Granville Bennett.

He seemed to fill the room. Not over tall but of tremendous bulk. Fat, I
thought at first, but as he came nearer it seemed to me that the tissue
of which he was composed wasn't distributed like fat. He wasn't fiabby,
he didn't stick out in any particular place, he was just a big wide,
solid, hard-looking man. From the middle of a pleasant blunt-featured
face the most magnificent pipe I had ever seen stuck forth shining and
glorious, giving out delicious wisps of expensive smoke. It was an
enormous pipe, in fact it would have looked downright silly with a
smaller man, but on him it was a thing of beauty. I had a final
impression of a beautifully cut dark suit and sparkling shirt cuffs as
he held out a hand.

"James Herriot!' He said it as somebody else might have said "Winston
Churchill', or "Stanley Matthews'.

"That's right.'

"Well, this is grand. Jim, is it?'

"Well yes, usually.'

"Lovely We've got everything laid on for you, Jim. The girls are waiting
in the theatre.'

"That's very kind of you, Mr Bennett.'

"Granville, Granville please!' He put his arm through mine and led me to
the operating room.

Dinah was already there, looking very woebegone. She had had a sedative
injection and her head nodded wearily Bennett went over to her and gave
her a swift examination.

"Mm, yes, let's get on, then.'

The two girls went into action like cogs in a smooth machine. Bennett
kept a large lay staff and these animal nurses, both attractive, clearly
knew what they were about. While one of them pulled up the anaesthetic
and instrument trolleys the other seized Dinah's foreleg expertly above
the elbow, raised the radial vein by pressure and quickly clipped and
disinfected the area.

The big man strolled up with a loaded needle and effortlessly slipped
the needle into the vein.

"Pentothal,' he said as Dinah slowly collapsed and lay unconscious on
the table. It was one of the new short-acting anaesthetics which I had
never seen used.

While Bennett scrubbed up and donned sterilised gown and cap the girls
rolled Dinah on her back and secured her there with ties to loops on the
operating table. They applied the ether and oxygen mask to her face then
shaved and swabbed the operation site. The big man returned in time to
have a scalpel placed in his hand.

With almost casual speed he incised skin and muscle layers and when he
went through the peritoneum the horns of the uterus which in normal
health would have been two slim pink ribbons now welled into the wound
like twin balloons, swollen and turgid with pus. No wonder Dinah had
felt ill, carrying that lot around with her.

The stubby fingers tenderly worked round the mass, ligated the ovarian
vessels and uterine body then removed the whole thing and dropped it
into an enamel bowl. It wasn't till he had begun to stitch that I
realised that the operation was nearly over though he had been at the
table for only a few minutes. It would all have looked childishly easy
except that his total involvement showed in occasional explosive
commands to the nurses.

And as I watched him working under the shadowless lamp with the white
tiled walls around him and the rows of instruments gleaming by his side
it came to me with a rush of mixed emotions that this was what I had
always wanted to do myself. My dreams when I had first decided on
veterinary work had been precisely of this. Yet here I was, a somewhat
shaggy cow doctor; or perhaps more correctly a farm physician, but
certainly something very different. The scene before me was a far cry
from my routine of kicks and buffets, of muck and sweat. And yet I had
no regrets; the life which had been forced on me by circumstances had
turned out to be a thing of magical fulfilment. It came to me with a
flooding certainty that I would rather spend my days driving over the
unfenced roads of the high country than stooping over that operating
table.

And anyway I couldn't have been a Bennett. I don't think I could have
matched his technique and this whole set up was eloquent of a lot of
things like business sense, foresight and driving ambition which I just
didn't possess.

~ 1

~My colleague was finished now and was fitting up an intravenous saline
drip. He taped the needle down in the vein then turned to me.

"That's it, then, Jim. It's up to the old girl now.' He began to lead me
from the room and it struck me how very pleasant it must be to finish
your job and walk away from it like this. In Darrowby I'd have been
starting now to wash the instruments, scrub the table, and the final
scene would have been of Herriot the great surgeon swilling the floor
with mop and bucket. This was a better way.

Back in the waiting room Bennett pulled on his jacket and extracted from
a side pocket the immense pipe which he inspected with a touch of
anxiety as if he feared mice had been nibbling at it in his absence. He
wasn't satisfied with his examination because he brought forth a soft
yellow cloth and began to polish the briar with intense absorption. Then
he held the pipe high, moving it slightly from side to side, his eyes
softening at the play of the light on the exquisite grain. Finally he
produced a pouch of mammoth proportions, filled the bowl, applied a
match with a touch of reverence and closed his eyes as a fragrant mist
drifted from his lips.

"That baccy smells marvelous,' I said. "What is it?'

"Navy Cut De Luxe.' He closed his eyes again. "You know, I could eat the
smoke.'

I laughed. "I use the ordinary Navy Cut myself.'

He gazed at me like a sorrowing Buddha, "Oh you mustn't, laddie, you
mustn't. This is the only stuff. Rich ... fruity  ... ' His hand made
languid motions in the air. "Here, you can take some away with you.'

He pulled open a drawer. I had a brief view of a stock which wouldn't
have disgraced a fair-sized tobacconist's shop; innumberable tins,
pipes, cleaners, reamers, cloths.

"Try this,' he said, 'and tell me if I'm not right.'

I looked down at the first container in my hand. "Oh but I can't take
all this. It's a four ounce tin!'

"Rubbish, my boy. Put it in your pocket.' He became suddenly brisk. "Now
I expect you'll want to hang around till old Dinah comes out of the
anaesthetic so why don't we have a quick beer? I'm a member of a nice
little club just across the road.'

"Well fine, sounds great.'

He moved lightly and swiftly for a big man and I had to hurry to keep up
with him as he left the surgery and crossed to a building on the other
side of the street.

Inside the club was masculine comfort, hails of welcome from some
prosperous looking members and a friendly greeting from the man behind
the bar.

"Two pints, Fred,' murmured Bennett absently, and the drinks appeared
with amazing speed. My colleague poured his down apparently without
swallowing and turned to me.

"Another Jim?'

Chapter Seven.

I had just tried a sip at mine and began to gulp anxiously at the bitter
ale. "Right, but let me get this one.'

"No can do, laddie.' He ~glanced at me with mild severity. "Only members
can buy drinks. Same again, Fred.'

I found I had two glasses at my elbow and with a tremendous effort I got
the first one down. Gasping slightly I was surveying the second one
timidly when I noticed that Bennett was threequarters down his. As I
watched he drained it effortlessly.

"You're slow, Jim,' he said, smiling indulgently. "Just set them up
again will you, Fred.'

In some alarm I watched the barman ply his handle and attacked my second
pint resolutely. I surprised myself by forcing it over my tonsils then,
breathing heavily I got hold of the third one just as Bennett spoke
again.

"We'll just have one for the road, Jim,' he said pleasantly. "Would you
be so kind, Fred?'

This was ridiculous but I didn't want to appear a piker at our first
meeting. With something akin to desperation I raised the third and began
to suck feebly at it. When my glass was empty I almost collapsed against
the counter. My stomach was agonisingly distended and a light
perspiration had broken out on my brow. As I almost lay there I saw my
colleague moving across the carpet towards the door.

"Time we were off, Jim,' he said. "Drink up.'

It's wonderful what the human frame can tolerate when put to the test. I
would have taken bets that it was impossible for me to drink that fourth
pint without at least half an hour's rest, preferably in the prone
position, but as Bennett's shoe tapped impatiently I tipped the beer a
little at a time into my mouth, feeling it wash around my back teeth
before incredibly disappearing down my gullet. I believe the water
torture was a favourite with the Spanish Inquisition and as the pressure
inside me increased I knew just how their victims felt.

When I at last blindly replaced my glass and splashed my way from the
bar the big man was holding the door open. Outside in the street he
placed an arm across my shoulder.

"The old Spaniel won't be out of it yet,' he said. "We'll just slip to
my house and have a bite - I'm a little peckish.'

Sunk in the deep upholstery of the Bentley, cradling my swollen abdomen
in my arms I watched the shop fronts Hicker past the windows and give
way to the darkness of the open countryside. We drew up outside a fine
grey stone house in a typical Yorkshire village and Bennett ushered me
inside.

He pushed me towards a leather armchair. "Make yourself at home, laddie.
Zoe's out-at the moment but I'll get some grub.' He bustled through to
the kitchen and reappeared in seconds with a deep bowl which he placed
on a table by my side.

"You know, Jim,' he said, rubbing his hands. "There's nothing better
after beer than a few pickled onions.'

I cast a timorous glance into the bowl. Everything in this man's life
seemed to be larger than life, even the onions. They were bigger than
golf balls,. brownish-white, glistening. ;

"Well thanks Mr Ben ... Granville.' I took one of them, held it between
finger and thumb and stared at it helplessly. The beer hadn't even begun
to sort 3 itself out inside me; the idea of starting on this
potent-looking vegetable was unthinkable. '-I Granville reached into the
bowl, popped an onion into his mouth, crunched] it quickly, swallowed
and sank his teeth into a second. "By God, that's good~

You know, my little wife's a marvelous cook. She even makes pickled
onions better than anyone.'

Munching happily he moved over to the sideboard and clinked around for a
few moments before placing in my hand a heavy cut glass tumbler about
two thirds full of neat whisky. I couldn't say anything because I had
taken the plunge and put the onion in my mouth; and as I bit boldly into
it the fumes rolled in a volatile wave into my nasal passages, making me
splutter. I took a gulp at the whisky and looked up at Granville with
watering eyes.

He was holding out the onion bowl again and when I declined he regarded
it for a moment with hurt in his eyes. "It's funny you don't like them,
I always thought Zoe did them marvellously.'

"Oh you're wrong, Granville, they're delicious. I just haven't finished
this one.'

He didn't reply but continued to look at the bowl with gentle sorrow. I
realised there was nothing else for it; I took another onion.

Immensely gratified, Granville hurried through to the kitchen again.
This time when he came back he bore a tray with an enormous cold roast,
a loaf of bread, butter and mustard.

"I think a beef sandwich would go down rather nicely, Jim,' he murmured,
as he stropped his carving knife on a steel. Then he noticed my glass of
whisky still half full.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!' he said with some asperity. "You're not touching
your drink.' He watched me benevolently as I drained the glass then he
refilled it to its old level. "That's better. And have another onion.'

I stretched my legs out and rested my head on the back of the chair in
an attempt to ease my internal turmoil. My stomach was a lake of
volcanic lava bubbling and popping fiercely in its crater with each
additional piece of onion, every sip of whisky setting up a fresh
violent reaction. Watching Granville at work, a great wave of nausea
swept over me. He was sawing busily at the roast, carving off slices
which looked to be an inch thick, slapping mustard on them and enclosing
them in the bread. He hummed with contentment as the pile grew. Every
now and then he had another onion.

"Now then, laddie,' he cried at length, putting a heaped plate at my
elbow. "Get yourself round that lot.' He took his own supply and
collapsed with a sigh into another chair.

He took a gargantuan bite and spoke as he chewed. "You know, Jim, this
is something I enjoy - a nice little snack. Zoe always leaves me plenty
to go at when she pops out.' He engulfed a further few inches of
sandwich. "And I'll tell you something, though I say it myself, these
are bloody good, don't you think so?'

"Yes indeed.' Squaring my shoulders I bit, swallowed and held my breath
as another unwanted foreign body slid down to the ferment below.

Just then I heard the front door open.

"Ah, that'll be Zoe,' Granville said, and was about to rise when a
disgracefully fat Staffordshire Bull Terrier burst into the room,
waddled across the carpet and leapt into his lap.

"Phoebles, my dear, come to daddykins!' he shouted. "Have you had nice
walkies with mummy?'

The Staffordshire was closely followed by a Yorkshire Terrier which was
also enthusiastically greeted by Granville.

Yoo-hoo, Victoria, Yoo-hoo!'

The Yorkie, an obvious smiler, did not jump up but contented herself
with Sitting at her master's feet, baring her teeth ingratiatingly every
few seconds.

I smiled through my pain. Another myth exploded; the one about these ~
t~6 `~1 I JU/ 16~3

specialist small animal vets not being fond of dogs themselves. The big
man crooned over the two little animals. The fact that he called Phoebe
"Phoebles' was symptomatic.

I heard light footsteps in the hall and looked up expectantly. I had
Granville's wife taped neatly in my mind; domesticated, devoted, homely;
many of these dynamic types had wives like that, willing slaves content
to lurk in the background. I waited confidently for the entrance of a
plain little hauserau.

When the door opened I almost let my vast sandwich fall. Zoe Bennett was
a glowing warm beauty who would make any man alive stop for another
look. A lot of soft brown hair, large grey-green friendly eyes, a tweed
suit sitting sweetly on a slim but not too slim figure; and something
else, a wholesomeness, an inner light which made me wish suddenly that I
was a better man or at least that I looked better than I did.

In an instant I was acutely conscious of the fact that my shoes were
dirty, that my old jacket and corduroy trousers were out of place here.
I hadn't troubled to change but had rushed straight out in my working
clothes, and they were different from Granville's because I couldn't go
round the farms in a suit like his.

"My love, my love!' he carolled joyously as his wife bent over and
kissed him fondly. "Let me introduce Jim Herriot from Darrowby.'

The beautiful eyes turned on me.

"How d'you do, Mr Herriot!' She looked as pleased to see me as her
husband had done and again I had the desperate wish that I was more
presentable; that my hair was combed, that I didn't have this mounting
conviction that I was going to explode into a thousand pieces at any
moment.

"I'm going to have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot. Would you like one?'

"No-no, no no, thank you very much but no, no, not at the moment.' I
backed away slightly.

"Ah well, I see you've got one of Granville's little sandwiches.' She
giggled and went to get her tea.

When she came back she handed a parcel to her husband. "I've been
shopping today, darling. Picked up some of those shirts you like so
much.'

"My sweet! how kind of you!' He began to tear at the brown paper like a
schoolboy and produced three elegant shirts in cellophane covers.
"They're marvelous, my pet, you spoil me.' He looked Up? at me. "Jim!

These are the most wonderful shirts, you must have one.' He flicked a
shining package across the room on to my lap.

I looked down at it in amazement. "No, really I can't .. .'

"Of course you can. You keep it.'

"But Granville, not a shirt .. . it's too .. .'

"It's a very good shirt.' He was beginning to look hurt again.

I subsided.

They were both so kind. Zoe sat right by me with her tea cup, chatting
pleasantly, while Granville beamed at me from his chair as he finished
the last of the sandwiches and started again on the onions.

The proximity of the attractive woman was agreeable but embarrassing. My
corduroys in the warmth of the room had begun to give off the
unmistakable bouquet of the farmyard where they spent most of their
time. And though it was one of my favourite scents there was no doubt it
didn't go with these elegant surroundings.

And worse still, I had started a series of internal rumblings and
musical tinklings which resounded only too audibly during every lull in
the conversation. The only other time I have heard such sounds was in a
cow with an advanced case of displacement of the abomasum. My companions
delicately feign:,]

~L deafness even when I produced a shameful, explosive belch which made
the little fat dog start up in alarm, but when another of these mighty
borborygmi escaped me and almost made the windows rattle I thought it
time to go.

In any case I wasn't contributing much else. The alcohol had taken hold
and I was increasingly conscious that I was just sitting there with a
stupid leer on my face. In striking contrast to Granville who looked
just the same as when I first met him back at the surgery. He was cool
and possessed, his massive urbanity unimpaired. It was a little hard.

So, with the tin of tobacco bumping against my hip and the shirt tucked
under my arm I took my leave.

Back at the hospital I looked down at Dinah. The old dog had come
through wonderfully well and she lifted her head and gazed at me
sleepily. Her colour was good and her pulse strong. The operative shock
had been dramatically minimised by my colleague's skilful speedy
technique and by the intravenous drip.

I knelt down and stroked her ears. "You know, I'm sure she's going to
make it, Granville.'

Above me the great pipe nodded with majestic confidence.

"Of course, laddie, of course.'

And he was right. Dinah was rejuvenated by her hysterectomy and lived to
delight her mistress for many more years.

On the way home that night she lay by my side on the passenger seat, her
nose poking from a blanket. Now and then she rested her chin on my hand
as it gripped the gear lever and occasionally she licked me lazily.

I could see she felt better than I did.

Chapter Eight.

As I looked at the group of sick young cattle on the hillside a mixture
of apprehension and disbelief flooded through me. Surely not more
trouble for the Dalbys.

The old saw "It never rains but it pours' seems to apply with particular
force to farming. The husk outbreak last year and now this. It had all
started with the death of Billy Dalby; big, slow-smiling, slow-talking
Billy. He was as strong and tough as any of the shaggy beasts which
ranged his fields but he had just melted away in a few weeks. Cancer of
the pancreas they said it was and Billy was gone before anybody could
realise it and there was only his picture smiling down from the kitchen
mantelpiece on his wife and three young children.

The general opinion was that Mrs Dalby should sell up and get out. You
needed a man to run this place and anyway Prospect House was a bad farm.
Neighbouring farmers would stick out their lower lips and shake their
heads when they looked at the boggy pastures on the low side of the
house with the tufts of spiky grass sticking from the sour soil or at
the rocky outcrops and scattered stones on the hillside fields. No, it
was a poor place and a woman would never make a go of it.

Everybody thought the same thing except Mrs Dalby herself. There wasn't
much of her, in fact she must have been one of the smallest women I have
ever seen - around five feet high - but there was a core of steel in
her.

She had her own mind and her own way of doing things.

I remember when Billy was still alive I had been injecting some sheep up
there and Mrs Dalby called me into the house.

"You'll have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot?' She said it in a gracious way,
not casually, her head slightly on one side and a dignified little smile
on her face.

And when I went into the kitchen I knew what I would find; the
inevitable tray. It was always a tray with Mrs Dalby. The hospitable
Dales people were continually asking me in for some kind of refreshment
- a 'bit o' dinner' perhaps, but if it wasn't midday there was usually a
mug of tea and a scone or a hunk of thick-crusted apple pie - but Mrs
Dalby invariably set out a special tray. And there it was today with a
clean cloth and the best china cup and saucer and side plates with
sliced buttered scones and iced cakes and malt bread and biscuits. It
was on its own table away from the big kitchen table.

"Do sit down, Mr Herriot,' she said in her precise manner. "I hope that
tea isn't too strong for you.'

Her speech was what the farmers would call 'very proper' but it went
with her personality which to me embodied a determination to do
everything as correctly as possible.

"Looks perfect to me, Mrs Dalby.' I sat down, feeling somewhat exposed,
in the middle of the kitchen with Billy smiling comfortably from an old
armchair by the fire and his wife standing by my side.

She never sat down with us but stood there, very erect, hands clasped in
front of her, head inclined, ceremoniously attending to my every wish.
"Let me fill your cup, Mr Herriot,' or "Won't you try some of this
custard tart?'

She wasn't what you would call pretty; it was a rough-skinned red little
face with tiny, very dark eyes but there was a sweet expression and a
quiet dignity. And as I say, there was strength.

Billy died in the spring and as everybody waited for Mrs Dalby to make
arrangement for the sale she went right on with the running of the farm.
She did it with the help of a big farm worker called Charlie who had
helped Billy occasionally but now came full time. During the summer I
was called out a few times for trivial ailments among the cattle and I
could see that Mrs Dalby was managing to hang on; she looked a bit
haggard because she was now helping in the fields and buildings as well
as coping with her housework and young family, but she was still
fighting. '

It was half way through September when she asked me to call to see some
young cattle - stirks of around nine months - which were coughing.

"They were really fit when they were turned out in May,' she said, as we
walked across the grass to the gate in the corner. "But they've gone
down badly this last week or two.'

I held the gate open, we walked through, and as I approached the group
of animals I grew progressively uneasy. Even at this distance I could
see that something was far wrong; they were not moving around or grazing
as they should have been but were curiously immobile. There would be
about thirty of them and many had their necks extended forward as if
seeking air. And from the bunch a barking cough was carried to us on the
soft breeze of late summer.

By the time we reached the cattle my uneasiness had been replaced by a
dry-mouthed dread. They didn't seem to care as I moved in among them and
I had to shout and wave my arms to get them moving; and they had barely
begun to stir before the coughing broke out throughout the group; not
just an occasional bark but a hacking chorus which seemed almost to be
tearing the little animals apart. And they weren't just coughing; most
of them were panting, standing straddle-legged, ribs heaving in a
desperate fight for breath. A few~v showed bubbles of saliva at their
lips and from here and there among the pack groans of agony sounded as
the lungs laboured.

I turned as in a dream to Mrs Dalby.

"They've got husk.' Even as I said it it sounded a grimly inadequate
description of the tragedy I was witnessing. Because this was neglected
husk, a terrible doom-laden thing.

"Husk?' the little woman said brightly. "What causes it?'

I looked at her for a moment then tried to make my voice casual.

"Well it's a parasite. A tiny worm which infests the bronchial tubes and
sets up bronchitis - in fact that's the proper name, parasitic
bronchitis. The larvae climb up the blades of grass and the cattle eat
them as they graze. Some pastures are badly affected with it.' I broke
off. A lecture was out of place at a time like this.

What I felt like saying was why in God's name hadn't I been called in
weeks ago. Because this wasn't only bronchitis now; it was pneumonia,
pleurisy, emphysema and any other lung condition you cared to name with
not merely a few of the hair-like worms irritating the tubes, but great
seething masses of them crawling everywhere, balling up and blocking the
vital air passages. I had opened up a lot of calves like these and I
knew how it looked.

I took a deep breath. "They're pretty bad, Mrs Dalby. A mild attack
isn't so bad if you can get them off the grass right away, but this has
gone a long way beyond that. You can see for yourself, can't you they're
like a lot of little skeletons. I wish I'd seen them sooner.'

She looked up at me apprehensively and I decided not to belabour the
point. It would be like rubbing it in; saying what her neighbours had
said all along, that her inexperience would land her in trouble sooner
or later. If Billy had been here he probably would never have turned his
young cattle on to this marshy field; or he would have spotted the
trouble right at the start and brought them inside. Charlie would be no
help in a situation like this; he was a good willing chap but lived up
to the Yorkshire saying, "Strong in t'arm and thick in "'head.' Farming
is a skilful business and Billy, the planner, the stocksman, the
experienced agriculturist who knew his own farm inside out, just wasn't
there.

Mrs Dalby drew herself up with that familiar gesture.

"Well what can we do about it, Mr Herriot?'

An honest reply in those days would have been, "Medicinally nothing.'
But I didn't say that.

"We've got to get them all inside immediately. Every mouthful of this
grass is adding to the worm burden. Is Charlie around to give us a
hand?'

"Yes, he's in the next field, mending a wall.' She trotted across the
turf and in a minute or two returned with the big man ambling by her
side.

"Aye, ah thought it were a touch of husk,' he said amiably, then with a
hint of eagerness. "Are ye going' to give them the throat injection?'

"Yes .. . yes .. . but let's get them up to the buildings.' As we drove
the cattle slowly up the green slope I marvelled ruefully at this
further example of faith in the intratracheal injection for husk. There
was really no treatment for the condition and it would be another twenty
years before one appeared in the shape of diethylcarbamazine' but the
accepted procedure was to inject a mixture of chloroform, turpentine and
creosote into the windpipe.

Modern vets may raise their eyebrows at the idea of introducing this
barbaric concoction directly into the delicate lung tissue and we old
ones didn't think much of it either. But the farmers loved it.

When we had finally got the stirks into the fold yard I looked round
them with something like despair. The short journey had exacerbated
their symptoms tremendously and I stood in the middle of a symphony of
coughs, grunts and groans while the cattle, tongues protruding, ribs
pumping, gasped for breath ~

I got a bottle of the wonderful injection from the car, and with Charlie
holding the head and little Mrs Dalby hanging on to the tail I began to
go through the motions. Seizing the trachea in my left hand I inserted
the needle between the cartilaginous rings and squirted a few c.c.'s
into the lumen and, as always, the, stirk gave a reflex cough, sending
up the distinctive aroma of the medicaments into our faces.

"By yaw, you can smell it straight off, guvnor,' Charlie said with deep
satisfaction. "Ye can tell it's gettin' right to "'spot.' :.~.

Most of the farmers said something like that. And they had faith. The
books spoke comfortably about the chloroform stupefying the worms, the
turpentine killing them and the creosote causing increased coughing
which expelled then~ But I didn't believe a word of it. The good results
which followed were in my opinion due entirely to bringing the animals
in from the infected pasture.

But I knew I had to do it and we injected every animal in the yard.
There were thirty-two of them and Mrs Dalby's tiny figure was involved
in the catching of all of them; clutching vainly at their necks,
grabbing their tails, pushing them; up against the wall. William, the
eldest son, aged eight, came in from school and plunged into the fray by
his mother's side.

My repeated "Be careful, Mrs Dalby!' or Charlie's gruff "Watch thisself,
Missis, or you'll get lamed!' had no effect. During the melee both she
and the little boy were kicked, trodden on and knocked down but they
never showed the slightest sign of being discouraged.

At the end, the little woman turned to me, her face flushed to an even
deeper hue. Panting, she looked up, "Is there anything else we can do,
Mr Herriot?'

"Yes there is.' In fact the two things I was going to tell her were the
only things which ever did any good. "First, I'm going to leave you some
medicine for the worms which are in the stomach. We can get at them
there, so Charlie must give every stirk a dose. Secondly, you'll have to
start giving them the best possible food - good hay and high protein
cake.'

Her eyes widened. "Cake? That's expensive stuff. And hay .. .'

I knew what she was thinking. The precious hay safely garnered for this
winter's feed; to have to start using it now was a cruel blow,
especially with all that beautiful grass out there; grass, the most
natural, most perfect food for cattle but every blade carrying its own
load of death.

"Can't they go out again .. . ever?' she asked in a small voice.

"No, I'm sorry. If they had just had a mild attack you could have kept
them in at nights and turned them out after the dew had left the grass
in the morning. The larvae climb up the grass mainly when it's wet. But
your cattle have gone too far. We daren't risk them picking up any more
worms.'

"Right . thank you, Mr Herriot. We know where we are, anyway.' she
paused. "Do you think we'll lose any of them?'

My stomach contracted into a tight ball. I had already told her to buy
cake she couldn't afford and it was a certainty she would have to lay
out more precious cash for hay in the winter. How was I going to tell
her that nothing in the world was going to stop this batch of beasts
dying like flies? When animals with husk started blowing bubbles it was
nearly hopeless and the ones who were groaning with every breath were
quite simply doomed. Nearly half of them were in these two categories
and what about the rest? The pathetic barking' other half? Well, they
had a chance.

"Mrs Dalby,' I said, 'it would be wrong of me to make light of this.
Some of them are going to die, in fact unless there's a miracle you are
going to lose quite a few of them.' At the sight of her stricken face I
made an attempt w} encouraging "However, where there's life there's hope
and sometimes you get pleasant surprises at this job.' I held up a
finger. "Worm them and get some good grub into them! That's your hope -
to help them to fight it off themselves.'

"I see.' She lifted her chin in her characteristic way. "And now you
must come in for a wash.'

And of course there it was in its usual place in the kitchen; the tray
with all the trimmings.

"Really, Mrs Dalby. You shouldn't have bothered. You have enough to do
without this.'

"Nonsense', she said, the smile back on her face. "You take one spoonful
of sugar don't you?'

As I sat there she stood in her habitual position, hands clasped in
front of her, watching me while the middle boy, Dennis, who was five,
looked up at me solemnly and Michael, a mere toddler of two, fell over
the coal scuttle and started to bawl lustily.

The usual procedure was to repeat the intratracheal injection in four
days so I had to go through with it. Anyway, it gave me a chance to see
how the cattle were faring.

When I drew up in the yard my first sight was of a long sack-covered
mound on the cobbles. A row of hooves protruded from beneath the sacks.
I had expected something of the sort but the reality was still like a
blow in the face. It was still quite early in the morning and perhaps I
wasn't feeling quite strong enough to have the evidence of my failure
thrust before my eyes. Because failure it undoubtedly was; even though I
had been in a hopeless position from the start there was something
damning in those motionless hooves jutting from their rough blanket.

I made a quick count. There were four dead cattle under there. Wearily I
made my way into the fold yard, I had no cheerful expectation of what I
would find inside. Two of the stirks were down and unable to rise from
the deep straw the rest were still panting, but I noticed with a faint
lifting of my gloom that several of them were doggedly munching at the
cubes of cake in the troughs and others were pulling an occasional wisp
of hay from the racks. It was incredible how animals with advanced
respiratory symptoms would still eat; and it provided the only gleam of
hope.

I walked over to the house. Mrs Dalby greeted me cheerfully as though
those carcases outside didn't exist.

"It's time for the second injection,' I said, and then after some
hesitation, "I see you've lost four of them .. . I'm sorry.'

"Well you told me, Mr Herriot.' She smiled through the tired lines on
her face. "You said I had to expect it so it wasn't as big a shock as it
might have been.' She finished washing the youngest child's face, seized
a towel in her work-roughened hands and rubbed him briskly, then she
straightened up. It was Saturday and William was at home and I noticed
not for the first time that there was something about the little boy
which suggested that even at his age he had decided he was going to be
the man about the house. He pulled on his little Wellingtons and marched
resolutely with us across the yard to do his bit as he saw it. I rested
my hand on his shoulder as he walked beside me, he would have to grow up
a lot more rapidly than most youngsters but I had the feeling that the
realities of life wouldn't bowl him over very easily.

we gave the animals their second injection with the two little Dalbys
again throwing themselves fearlessly into the rough and tumble and that
was about the last practical thing I did in the husk outbreak.

Looking back, there is a macabre fascination in recalling situations
like this When we veterinary surgeons were utterly helpless in the face
of inevitable disaster. Nowadays, thank heavens, the young members of
the profession do not have to stand among a group of gasping, groaning
creatures with the sick knowledge that they can't do a thing about it;
they have an excellent oral vaccine to prevent husk and efficient
therapeutic agents to treat it.

But with the Dalbys who needed my help so desperately I had nothing to
offer; my memories are of repeated comfortless visits, of death, and of
an allpervading reek of chloroform, creosote and turpentime. When the
business had finally come to an end a dozen of the stirks had died,
about five were alive but blowing hard and would probably be stunted and
unthrifty for the rest of their lives. The rest, thanks to the good
feeding and not to my treatment, had recovered.

It was a crushing blow for any farmer to take but for a widow struggling
to survive it could have been fatal. But on my last visit little Mrs
Dalby, hovering as usual, hands clasped, above the tea tray, was
undefeated.

"Only them as has them can lose them,' she said firmly, her head tilted
as always..

I had heard that said many times and they were brave Yorkshire words.
But I wondered .. . did she have enough to be able to lose so many?

She went on, "I know you've told me not to turn -the young beasts on to
that field next year but isn't there anything we can give- them to stop
them getting; husk?'

"No, Mrs Dalby, I'm sorry.' I put down my cup. "I don't think there's
anything country vets need and want more than a husk vaccine. People
keep asking us that question and we have to keep on saying no.'

We had to keep on saying no for another twenty years as we watched
disasters like I had just seen at the Dalbys', and the strange thing is
that now we have a first rate vaccine it is taken completely for
granted.

Driving away I stopped to open the gate at the end of the track and
looked back at the old stone farmhouse crouching against the lower
slopes. It was a perfect autumn day with mellow golden sunshine
softening the harsh sweep of fell and moor with their striding walls and
the air so' still and windless that the whirring of a pigeon's wings
overhead was loud in the silence. Across the valley on the hilltop a
frieze of sparse trees stood as motionless as though they had~ been
painted across the blue canvas of sky.

It seemed wrong that in the midst of this beauty was worry and anxiety,
grinding struggle and the threat of ruin. I closed the gate and got back
into the car. That little woman over there may have weathered this
calamity but as I started the engine the thought was strong in my mind
that another such thing would finish her.

Chapter Nine.

I was vastly relieved when winter came and spring followed and I saw
virtually nothing of Mrs Dalby. It was one market day in miid-summer
that she came to the surgery. I was just going to open the door when
Siegfried beat me to it. More than most people he appreciated the
hospitality we were shown on the farms and he had sampled Mrs Dalby's
tray as often as I had. On top of this he had the deepest admiration for
her indomitable battle to keep the farm for her children, so that
whenever she appeared at Skeldale House he received her like royalty.
His manners, always impeccable, became those of a Spanish grandee.

I watched him now as he threw the door wide and hurried to the top step.

~Why, Mrs Dalby! How very nice to see you! Do come inside.' He extended
his hand towards the house.

The little woman, dignified as ever, inclined her head, smiled and
walked past him while Siegfried hastened to her side; and as they
negotiated the passage he kept up a running fire of enquiries. "And how
is William .. . and Dennis .. . and little Michael? Good, good,
splendid.'

At the sitting-room door there was the same ceremonious opening and
courteous gestures and once inside a tremendous scraping of armchairs as
he hauled them around to make sure she was comfortable and in the right
position.

Next he galloped through to the kitchen to organise some refreshment and
when Mrs Hall appeared with the tray he raked it with an anxious glance
as though he feared it might fall below the standard of Mrs Dalby's.
Apparently reassured, he poured the tea, hovered around solicitously for
a moment or two then sat down opposite, the very picture of rapt
attention.

The little woman thanked him and sipped at her cup.

"Mr Farnon, I have called to see you about some young beasts. I turned a
batch of thirty-five out this spring and they looked in good condition
but now they're losing ground fast - all of them.'

My heart gave a great thump and something must have shown in my face
because she smiled across at me.

"Oh don't worry, Mr Herriot, it's not husk again. There's not a cough
among the lot of them. But they are going thin and they're badly
scoured.'

"I think I know what that will be,' Siegfried said, leaning across to
push a plate of Mrs Hall's flapjack towards her. "They'll have picked up
a few worms. Not lungworms but the stomach and intestinal kind. They
probably just need a good dose of medicine to clear them out.'

She nodded and took a piece of the flapjack. "Yes, that's what Charlie
thought and we've dosed the lot of them. But it doesn't seem to have
made any difference.'

"That's funny.' Siegfried rubbed his chin. "Mind you they sometimes need
a repeat but you should have seen some improvement. Perhaps we'd better
have a look at them.'

"That's what I would like,' she said. "It would set my mind at rest.'

Siegfried opened the appointment book. "Right, and the sooner the
better. Tomorrow morning all right? Splendid.' He made a quick note then
looked up at her. "By the way I'm going off for a week's holiday
starting this evening so Mr Herriot will be coming.'

"That will be fine,' she replied, turning to me and smiling without a
trace of doubt or misgiving. If she was thinking "This is the fellow who
supervised the deaths of nearly half of my young stock last year' she
certainly didn't show it. In fact when she finally finished her tea and
left she waved and smiled again as though she could hardly wait to see
me again.

And when I walked across the fields with Mrs Dalby next day it was like
turning the clock back to last year, except that we were going in the
other direction; not down towards the marshy ground below the house but
up to the stony pastures which climbed in an uneven checkerboard between
their stone walls over the lower slopes of the hill.

The similarity persisted as we approached, too. These young beasts
roans, h s, red and whites - were an almost exact counterpart of last
year's batch shaggy little creatures, little more than calves, they
stood spindly-legged and knoc -kneed regarding us apathetically as we
came up the rise. And although their symptoms were entirely different
from the previous lot there was one thing I could say for sure; they
were very ill.

As I watched I could see the dark watery diarrhoea flowing from them
without any lifting of the tails as though there was nothing they could
do to control it. And every one of them was painfully thin, the skin
stretched over the jutting pelvic bones and the protruding rows of ribs.

"I haven't neglected them this time,' Mrs Dalby said.

"I know they look dreadful but this seems to have happened within a few
days.'

"Yes .. . yes .. . I see .. . ' My eyes were hunting desperately among
the little animals trying to find some sort of clue. I had seen
unthriftiness from parasitism but nothing like this.

"Have you kept a lot of cattle in these fields over the last year or
two?' I asked.

She paused in thought for a moment. "No .. . no .. . I don't think so.
Billy used to let the milk cows graze up here now and then but that's
all.'

The grass wouldn't be likely to be 'sick' with worms, then. In any case
it didn't look like that. What it did look like was Johne's disease, but
how in God's name could thirty-five young things like this get Johne's
at the same time? Salmonella  ... ? Coccidiosis  ... ?

Some form of poisoning, perhaps ... this was the time of year when
cattle ate strange plants. I walked slowly round the field, but there
was nothing unusual to be seen; it took even the grass all its time to
grow on these wind-blown hillsides and there was no great range of other
herbage. I could see bracken higher up the fell but none down here;
Billy would have cleared it years ago.

"Mrs Dalby,' I said. "I think you'd better give these stirks another
dose of the worm medicine just to be sure and in the meantime I'm going
to take some samples of the manure for examination at the laboratory.'

I brought up some sterile jars from the car and went painstakingly round
the pasture scooping up as wide a range as possible from the pools of
faeces.

I took them to the lab myself and asked them to phone the results
through. The call came within twenty-four hours; negative for
everything. I resisted the impulse to dash out to the farm immediately;
there was nothing I could think of doing and it wouldn't look so good
for me to stand there gawping at the beasts and scratching my head.
Better to wait till tomorrow to see if the second dose of worm medicine
did any good. There was no reason why it should, because none of the
samples showed a pathogenic worm burden.

In these cases I always hope that inspiration will come to me as I am
driving around or even when I am examining other animals but this time
as I climbed from the car outside Prospect House I was barren of ideas.

The young beasts were slightly worse. I had decided that if I still
couldn't think of anything I would give the worst ones vitamin
injections more or less for the sake of doing something; so with Charlie
holding the heads I inserted the hypodermic under the taut skins of ten
of the little creatures, trying at the same ~ time to put away the
feeling of utter futility. We didn't have to drive them:] inside; they
were easily caught in the open field and that was a bad sign in itself.]

"Well you'll let me know, Mrs Dalby,' I said hoarsely as I got back into
the ~ car. "If that injection improves them I'll do the lot.' I gave
what I hoped was a' confident wave and drove off.

I felt so bad that it had a numbing effect on me and over the next few
days'~ my mind seemed to shy away from the subject of the Dalby stirks
as though by] not thinking about them they would just go away. I was
reminded that they;;' were still very much there by a phone call from
Mrs Dalby. -~

"I'm afraid my cattle aren't doing any good, Mr Herriot.' Her voice wad
]1

strained. ~; I grimaced into the receiver. "And the ones I injected ..
.?'

"Just the same as the others.'

I had to face up to reality now and drove out to Prospect House
immediately but the feeling of cold emptiness, of having nothing to
offer, made the journey a misery I hadn't the courage to go to the
farmhouse and face Mrs Dalby but hurried straight up through the fields
to where the young beasts were gathered.

And when I walked among them and studied them at close range the
apprehension I had felt on the journey was nothing to the sick horror
which rushed through me now. Another catastrophe was imminent here. The
big follow-up blow which was all that was needed to knock the Dalby
family out once and for all was on its way. These animals were going to
die. Not just half of them like last year but all of them, because there
was hardly any variation in their symptoms; there didn't seem to be a
single one of them which was fighting off the disease.

But what disease? God almighty, I was a veterinary surgeon! Maybe not
steeped in experience but I wasn't a new beginner any more. I should
surely have some small inkling why a whole great batch of young beasts
was sinking towards the knacker yard in front of my eyes.

I could see Mrs Dalby coming up the field with little William, striding
in his tough, arm-swinging way by her side, and Charlie following
behind.

What the hell was I going to say to them? Shrug my shoulders with a
light laugh and say I hadn't a single clue in my head and that it would
probably be best to phone Mallock now and ask them to shoot the lot of
them straight away for dog meat? They wouldn't have any cattle to bring
on for next year but that wouldn't matter because they would no longer
be farming.

Stumbling among the stricken creatures I gazed at them in turn, almost
choking as I looked at the drooping, sunken-eyed heads, the gaunt little
bodies, the eternal trickle of that deadly scour. There was a curious
immobility about the group, probably because they were too weak to walk
about; in fact as I watched, one of them took a few steps, swayed and
almost fell.

Charlie was pushing open the gate into the field just a hundred yards
away. I turned and stared at the nearest animal, almost beseeching it to
tell me what was wrong with it, where it felt the pain, how this thing
had all started. But I got no response. The stirk, one of the smallest,
only calf-size, with a very dark roan-coloured head showed not the
slightest interest but gazed back at me incuriously through its
spectacles. What was that .. . what was I thinking about  ...
spectacles? Was my reason toppling  ... ? But yes, by God, he did have
spectacles .. . a ring of lighter hair surrounding each eye. And that
other beast over there .. . he was the same. Oh glory be, now I knew!

At last I knew!

Mrs Dalby, panting slightly, had reached me.

"Good morning, Mr Herriot,' she said, trying to smile. "What do you
think then?' She looked around the cattle with anxious eyes.

"Ah, good morning to you, Mrs Dalby,' I replied expansively, fighting
down the impulse to leap in the air and laugh and shout and perhaps do a
few cartwheels. "Yes, I've had a look at them and it is pretty clear now
what the trouble is.'

"Really? Then what .. .?'

It's copper deficiency.' I said it casually as though I had been turning
such a thing over in my mind right from the beginning. "You can tell by
the loss of the pigment in the coat, especially around the eyes. In fact
when you look at them you can see that a lot of them are a bit paler
than normal.' I waved an airy hand in the general direction of the
stirks.

Charlie nodded. "Aye, by yaw, you're right. Ah thowt they'd gone a funny
colour.'

"Can we cure it?' Mrs Dalby asked the inevitable question.

"Oh yes, I'm going straight back to the surgery now to make up a copper
mixture and we'll dose the lot. And you'll have to repeat that every
fortnight while they are out at grass. It's a bit of a nuisance, I'm
afraid, but there's no other way. Can you do it?'

"Oh aye, we'll do it,' Charlie said.

And "Oh aye, we'll do it,' little William echoed, sticking out his chest
and strutting around aggressively as though he wanted to start catching
the beasts right away.

The treatment had a spectacular effect. I didn't have the modern
long-lasting copper injections at my disposal but the solution of copper
sulphate which I concocted under the surgery tap at Skeldale House
worked like magic. Within a few weeks that batch of stirks was capering,
lively and fully fleshed, over those hillside fields. Not a single
death, no lingering unthriftiness. It was as though the whole thing had
never happened, as though the hand of doom had never hovered over not
only the cattle but the little family of humans.

It had been a close thing and, I realised, only a respite. That little
woman had a long hard fight ahead of her still.

~_

I have always abhorred change of any kind but it pleases me to come
forward twenty years and spectate at another morning in the kitchen at
Prospect House. I was seated at the same little table picking a buttered
scone from the same tray and wondering whether I should follow it with a
piece of malt bread or one of the jam tarts.

Billy still smiled down from the mantelpiece and Mrs Dalby, hands
clasped in front of her, was watching me, her head a little on one side,
the same half smile curving her lips. The years had not altered her
much; there was some grey in her hair but the little red, weathered face
and the bright eyes were as I had always known them.

I sipped my tea and looked across at the vast bulk of William sprawled
in his father's old chair, smiling his father's smile at me. There were
about fifteen stones of William and I had just been watching him in
action as he held a fully grown bullock's hind foot while I examined it.
The animal had made a few attempts to kick but the discouragement on its
face had been obvious as William's great hands effortlessly engulfed its
fetlock and a corner of his wide shoulder span dug into its abdomen.

No, I couldn't expect William to be the same, nor Dennis and Michael
clattering into the kitchen now in their heavy boots and moving over to
the sink to wash their hands. They were six footers too with their
father's high-shouldered easy slouching walk but without Williams sheer
bulk.

Their tiny mother glanced at them then up at the picture on the
mantelpiece.

"It would have been our thirtieth anniversary today,' she said
conversationally.

I looked up at her, surprised. She never spoke of such things and I
didn't know how to answer. I couldn't very well say 'congratulations'
when she had spent twenty of those years alone. She had never said a
word about her long fight; and it had been a winning fight. She had
bought the neighboring farm lower down the Dale when old Mr Mason
retired; it was a good farm with better land and William had lived there
after his marriage and they ran the two places as one. Things were
pretty good now with her three expert stocksman sons eliminating the
need for outside labour except old Charlie who still pottered around
doing odd jobs.

"Yes, thirty years,' Mrs Dalby said, looking slowly round the room as
though she was seeing it for the first time. Then she turned back and
bent over me, her face serious.

"Mr Herriot,' she said, and I was sure that at last, on this special
day, she was going to say something about the years of struggle, the
nights of worry and tears, the grinding toil.

For a moment she rested her hand lightly on my shoulder and her eyes
looked into mine.

"Mr Herriot, are you quite sure that tea is to your liking?'

Chapter Ten.

Every professional visit has its beginning in a call, a summons from the
client which can take varying forms ... "This is Joe Bentley speaking,'
said the figure on the surgery doorstep. It was an odd manner of
address, made stranger by the fact that Joe was holding his clenched
fist up by his jaw and staring vacantly past me.

"ello, 'ello,' Joe continued as though into space, and suddenly
everything became clear. That was an imaginary telephone he was holding
and he was doing his best to communicate with the vet; and not doing
badly considering the innumerable pints of beer that were washing around
inside him.

On market days the pubs stayed open from ten o'clock till five and Joe
was one of the now extinct breed who took their chance to drink
themselves almost insensible. The modern farmer may have a few drinks on
market day but the old reckless intake is rare now.

In Darrowby it was confined to a group of hard-bitten characters, all of
them elderly, so even then the custom was on the wane. But it wasn't
uncommon to see them when they came to pay their bills, leaning
helplessly against the surgery wall and pushing their cheque books
wordlessly at us. Some of them still used a pony and trap and the old
joke about the horse taking them home was illustrated regularly. One old
chap kept an enormously powerful ancient car simply for the purpose of
getting him home; even if he engaged top gear by mistake when he
collapsed into the driver's seat the vehicle would still take off. Some
didn't go home at all on market day but spent the night carousing and
playing cards till dawn.

As I looked at Joe Bentley swaying on the step I wondered what his
programme might be for the rest of the evening. He closed his eyes, held
his fist close to his face, and spoke again.

"Hellow, who's there?' he asked in an affected telephone voice.

"Herriot speaking,' I replied. Clearly Joe wasn't trying to be funny. He
was JUST a little confused. It was only right to cooperate with him.
"How are you, Mr Bentley?'

"Nicely, thank ye,' Joe answered solemnly, eyes still tightly closed.
"Are you very well?'

"I'm fine, thanks. Now what can I do for you?'

This seemed to floor him temporarily because he remained silent for
several seconds, opening his eyes occasionally and squinting somewhere
over my left shoulder with intense concentration. Then something seemed
to click; he closed his eyes again, cleared his throat and recommenced.

"Will you come up to ma place? I've a cow wants cleansin'.'

"Do you want me to come tonight?'

Joe gave this serious thought, pursing his lips and scratching his ear
with his free hand before answering.

"Nay, morning'll do. Goodbye and thank ye.' He replaced the phantom
telephone carefully in its rest, swung round and made his way down the
street with great dignity. He hardly staggered at all and there was
something purposeful in his bearing which convinced me that he was
heading back to the Red Bear. For a moment I thought he would fall
outside Johnson's the ironmongers but by the time he rounded the corner
into the market place he was going so well that I felt sure he'd make
it.

And I can remember Mr Biggins standing by the desk in our office, hands
deep in his pockets, chin thrust forward stubbornly.

"I'ave a cow gruntin' a bit.'

"Oh, right, we'll have a look at her' I reached for a pen to write the
visit in the book.

He shuffled his feet. "Well ah don't know. She's maybe not as bad as all
that.'

"Well, whatever you say .. .'

"No,' he said, "It's what you say - you're t'vet.'

"It's a bit difficult.' I replied. "After all, I haven't seen her.

Maybe I'd better pay you a visit.'

"Aye, that's all very fine, but it's a big expense. It's ten bob every
time you fellers walk on to ma place and that's before you start.
There's all "'medicines and everything on top.'

"Yes, I understand, Mr Biggins. Well, would you like to take something
away with you? A tin of stomach powder, perhaps?'

"How do you know it's "'stomach?'

"Well I don't actually .. .'

"It might be summat else.'

"That's very true, but .. .'

"She's a right good cow, this,' he said with a touch of aggression.
"Paid fifty pound for her at Scarburn Market.'

"Yes, I'm sure she is. And consequently I really think she'd be worth a
visit. I could come out this afternoon.'

There was a long silence. "Aye, but it wouldn't be just one visit, would
it? You'd be comin' again next day and maybe the one after that and
before we knew we'd 'ave a clonkin' great bill.'

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mr Biggins, everything is so expensive these days.'

"Yes, by gaw!' He nodded vigorously."Sometimes it ud be cheaper to give
you t'cow at t'end of it.'

"Well now, hardly that .. . but I do see your point.'

I spent a few moments in thought. "How about taking a fever drink as
well as the stomach powder? That would be safer.'

He gave me a long blank stare. "But you still wouldn't be sure, would
you?'

"No, not quite sure, not absolutely  ... '

"She could even 'ave a wire in 'er'.

"True, very true.'

"Well then, shoving medicines down her neck isn't going' to do no good
is it?'

"It isn't, you're right.'

"Ah don't want to lose this cow, the knows!' he burst out truculently.
"Ah can't afford to lose 'er!' "I realise that, Mr Biggins. That's why I
feel I should see her - I did suggest that if you remember.'

He did not reply immediately and only the strain in his eyes and a faint
twitching of a cheek muscle betrayed the inner struggle which was
raging. When he finally spoke it was in a hoarse croak.

"Aye, well, it might be best ... but ... er we could mebbe leave 'er
till mornin' and see how she is then.'

"That's a good idea.' I smiled in relief. "You have a look at her first
thing in the morning and give me a ring before nine if she's no better.'

My words seemed to deepen his gloom. "But what if she doesn't last till
mornin'?'

"Well of course there is that risk.'

"Not much good ringin' you if she's dead, is it?'

"That's true, of course.'

"Ah'd be ringin' Mallock the knacker man, wouldn't I?'

"Afraid so, yes .. .'

"Well that's no bloody use to me, gettin' five quid from Mallock for a
good cow.

"Mm, no .. . I can see how you feel.'

"Ah think a lot about this cow!'

"I'm sure you do.'

"It ud be a big loss for me.'

"Quite.'

Mr Biggins hunched his shoulders and glared at me belligerently. "Well
then what are you going' to do about 'er?'

"Let's see.' I ran my fingers through my hair. "Perhaps you could wait
till tonight and see if she recovers and if she isn't right by say,
eight o'clock you could let me know and I'd come out.'

"You'd come out then, would you?' he said slowly, narrowing his eyes.

I gave him a bright smile. "That's right.'

"Aye, but last time you came out at night you charged extra, ah'm sure
you did.'

"Well, probably,' I said, spreading my hands. "That's usual in
veterinary practices.'

"So we're worse off than afore, aren't we?'

"When you look at it like that .. . I suppose so .. .'

"Ah'm not a rich man, the knows.'

"I realise that.'

"Takes me all ma time to pay "'ordinary bill without extras.'

"Oh I'm sure .. .'

"So that idea's a bad egg, ain't it?'

"Seems like it .. . yes .. .' I lay back in my chair, feeling suddenly
tired.

Mr Biggins glowered at me morosely but I wasn't going to be tempted into
any further gambits. I gave him what I fancied was a neutral stare and I
hoped it conveyed the message that I was open to suggestions but wasn't
going to make any myself.

The silence which now blanketed the room seemed to be of a durable
nature. Down at the end of the street the church clock tolled the
quarter hour, far off in the market place a dog barked, Miss Dobson, the
grocer's daughter, glided past the window on her bicycle but no word was
uttered.

Mr Biggins, biting his lower lip, darting his eyes desperately from his
feet to me and back again, was clearly at the end of his resources, and
it came to me at last that I had to take a firm initiative.

"Mr Biggins,' I said. "I've got to be on my way. I have a lot of calls
and one of them is within a mile of your farm, so I shall see your cow
around three o'clock.' I stood up to indicate that the interview was
over.

The farmer gave me a hunted look. I had the feeling that he had been
resigned to a long period of stalemate and this sudden attack had taken
him out of his stride. He opened his mouth as though to speak then
appeared to change his mind and turned to go. At the door he paused,
raised his hand and looked at me beseechingly for a moment, then he sank
his chin on his chest and left the room.

I watched him through the window and as he crossed the road he stopped
half way in the street in the same indeterminate way, muttering to
himself and glancing back at the surgery; and as he lingered there I
grew anxious that he might be struck by a passing car, but at length he
squared his shoulders and trailed slowly out of sight.

And sometimes it isn't easy to get a clear picture over the telephone ..
.

"This is Bob Fryer.'

"Good morning, Herriot here.'

"Now then, one of me sows is bad.'

"Oh right, what's the trouble?'

A throaty chuckle. "Ah, that's what ah want you to tell me!'

"Oh, I see.'

"Aye, ah wouldn't be ringin' you up if I knew what the trouble was,
would I? Heh, inch, heh, heh!'

The fact that I had heard this joke about two thousand times interfered
with my full participation in the merriment but I managed a cracked
laugh in return.

"That's perfectly true, Mr Fryer. Well, why have you rung me?'

"Damn, I've told ye - to find out what the trouble is.'

"Yes, I understand that, but I'd like some details. What do you mean
when you say she's bad?'

"Well, she's just a bit off it.'

"Quite, but could you tell me a little more?'

A pause. "She's dowry, like.'

"Anything else?'

"No .. . no .. . she's a right poorly pig, though.'

I spent a few moments in thought. "Is she doing anything funny?'

"Funny? Funny? Nay, there's nowt funny about t'job, I'll tell the!

It's no laughin' matter.'

"Well .. . er ... let me put it this way. Why are you calling me out?'

"I'm calling ye out because you're a vet. That's your job, isn't it?'

I tried again. "It would help if I knew what to bring with me. What are
her symptoms?'

"Symptoms? Well, she's just off colour, like.'

"Yes, but what is she doing?'

"She's doin' nowt. That's what bothers me.'

"Let's see.' I scratched my head. "Is she very ill?'

"I reckon she's in bad fettle.'

"But would you say it was an urgent matter?'

Another long pause. "Well, she's nobbut middlin'. She's not framin' at
all.'

"Yes .. . yes .. . and how long has she been like this?'

"Oh, for a bit.'

"But how long exactly?'

"For a good bit.'

"But Mr Fryer, I want to know when she started these symptoms. How long
has she been affected?'

"Oh .. . ever since we got 'er.'

Ah, and when was that?'

Well, she came wi' the others .. .'

Chapter Eleven.

It was going to take a definite effort of will to get out of the car.

I had driven about ten miles from Darrowby, thinking all the time that
the Dales always looked their coldest, not when they were covered with
snow, but as now, when the first sprinkling streaked the bare flanks of
the fells in bars of black and white like the ribs of a crouching beast.
And now in front of me was the farm gate rattling on its hinges as the
wind shook it.

The car, heaterless and draughty as it was, seemed like a haven in an
uncharitable world and I gripped the wheel tightly with my
woollen-gloved hands for a few moments before opening the door. The wind
almost tore the handle from my fingers as I got out but I managed to
crash the door shut before stumbling over the frozen mud to the gate.
Muffled as I was in heavy coat and scarf pulled up to my ears I could
feel the icy gusts biting at my face, whipping up my nose and hammering
painfully into the air spaces in my head.

I had driven through and, streaming-eyed, was about to get back into the
car when I noticed something unusual. There was a frozen pond just off
the path and among the rime-covered rushes which fringed the dead
opacity of the surface a small object stood out, shiny black.

I went over and looked closer. It was a tiny kitten, probably about six
weeks old, huddled and immobile, eyes tightly closed. Bending down I
poked gently at the furry body. It must be dead; a morsel like this
couldn't possibly survive in such cold .. . but no, there was a spark of
life because the mouth opened soundlessly for a second then closed.

Quickly I lifted the little creature and tucked it inside my coat. As I
drove into the farmyard I called to the farmer who was carrying two
buckets out of the calf house. "I've got one of your kittens here, Mr
Butler. It must have strayed outside.'

Mr Butler put down his buckets and looked blank. "Kitten? We haven't got
no kittens at present.'

I showed him my find and he looked more puzzled.

"Well that's a rum 'un, there's no black cats on this spot. We've all
sorts o' colours but no black 'uns.'

"Well he must have come from somewhere else,' I said. "Though I can't
imagine anything so small travelling very far. It's rather mysterious.'

I held the kitten out and he engulfed it with his big, work-roughened
hand.

"Poor little beggar, he's only just alive. I'll take him into t'house
and see if the missus can do owl for him.'

In the farm kitchen Mrs Butler was all concern. "Oh what a shame!' She
smoothed back the bedraggled hair with one finger. "And it's got such a
pretty face.' She looked up at me. "What is it, anyway, a him or a her?'

I took a quick look behind the hind legs. "It's a Tom.'

"Right,' she said. "I'll get some warm milk into him but first of all
we'll give him the old cure.'

She went over to the fireside oven on the big black kitchen range,
opened the door and popped him inside.

I smiled. It was the classical procedure when new-born lambs were found
suffering from cold and exposure; into the oven they went and the
results were often dramatic. Mrs Butler left the door partly open and I
could just see the little black figure inside; he didn't seem to care
much what was happening to him.

The next hour I spent in the byre wrestling with the hind feet of a cow.
The cleats were overgrown and grossly misshapen and upturned, causing
the animal to hobble along on her heels. My job was to pare and hack
away the excess horn and my long held opinion that the hind feet of a
cow were never meant to be handled by man was thoroughly confirmed. We
had a rope round the hock and the leg pulled up over a-beam in the roof
but the leg still pistoned back and forth while I hung on till my teeth
rattled. By the time I had finished the sweat was running into my eyes
and I had quite forgotten the cold day outside.

Still, I thought, as I eased the kinks from my spine when I had
finished, there were compensations. There was a satisfaction in the
sight of the cow standing comfortably on two almost normal looking feet.

"Well that's summat like,' Mr Butler grunted. "Come in the house and
wash your hands.'

In the kitchen as I bent over the brown earthenware sink I kept glancing
across at the oven.

Mrs Butler laughed. "Oh he's still with us. Come and have a look.'

It was difficult to see the kitten in the dark interior but when I
spotted him I put out my hand and touched him and he turned his head
towards me.

"He's coming round,' I said. "That hour in there has worked wonders.'

"Doesn't often fail.' The farmers wife lifted him out. "I think he's a
little tough 'un.' She began to spoon warm milk into the tiny mouth. "I
reckon we'll have him lappin' in a day or two.'

"You're going to keep him, then?'

"Too true we are. I'm going to call him Moses.'

"Moses?'

"Aye, you found him among the rushes, didn't you?'

I laughed. "That's right. It's a good name.'

I was on the Butler farm about a fortnight later for the ever recurring
job of 'cleansing' a cow and I kept looking around for Moses. Farmers
rarely have their cats indoors and I thought that if the black kitten
had survived he would have joined the feline colony around the
buildings.

Farm cats have a pretty good time. They may not be petted or cosseted
but it has always seemed to me that they lead a free, natural life. They
are expected to catch mice but if they are not so inclined there is
abundant food at hand; bowls of milk here and there and the dogs' dishes
to be raided if anything interesting is left over. I had seen plenty of
cats around today, some flitting nervously away, others friendly and
purring. There was a tabby loping gracefully across the cobbles and a
big tortoiseshell was curled on a bed of straw at the warm end of the
byre; cats are connoisseurs of comfort. When Mr Butler went to fetch the
hot water I had a quick look in the bullock house and a white Tom
regarded me placidly from between the bars of a hay rack where he had
been taking a siesta. But there was no sign of Moses.

I finished drying my arms and was about to make a casual reference to
the kitten when Mr Butler handed me my jacket.

"Come round here with me if you've got a minute,' he said. "I've got
summat to show you.'

I followed him through the door at the end and across a passage into the
long, low-roofed piggery. He stopped at a pen about half way down and
pointed inside.

"Look 'ere,' he said.

I leaned over the wall and my face must have shown my astonishment
because the farmer burst into a shout of laughter.

"That's summat new for you, isn't it?'

I stared unbelievingly down- at a large sow stretched comfortably on her
side, suckling a litter of about twelve piglets and right in the middle
of the long pink row, furry black and incongruous, was Moses. He had a
teat in his mouth and was absorbing his nourishment with the same rapt
enjoyment as his smoothskinned fellows on either side.

"What the devil .. .?' I gasped.

Mr Butler was still laughing. "I thought you'd never have seen anything
like that before, I never have, any road.'

"But how did it happen?' I still couldn't drag my eyes away.

"It was the Missus's idea,' he replied. "When she'd got the little youth
lappin' milk she took him out to find a right warm spot for him in the
buildings. She settled on this pen because the sow, Bertha, had just had
a litter and I had a heater in and it was grand and cosy.'

I nodded. "Sounds just right.'

"Well she put Moses and a bowl of milk in here,' the farmer went on,
'but the little feller didn't stay by the heater very long - next time I
looked in he was round at t'milk bar.'

I shrugged my shoulders. "They say you see something new every day at
this game, but this is something I've never even heard of. Anyway, he
looks well on it - does he actually live on the sow's milk or does he
still drink from his bowl?'

"A bit of both, I reckon. It's hard to say.'

Anyway, whatever mixture Moses was getting he grew rapidly into a sleek,
handsome animal with an unusually high gloss to his coat which may or
may not have been due to the porcine element of his diet. I never went
to the Butlers' without having a look in the pig pen. Bertha, his foster
mother, seemed to find nothing unusual in this hairy intruder and pushed
him around casually with pleased grunts just as she did with the rest of
her brood.

Moses for his part appeared to find the society of the pigs very
congenial. When the piglets curled up together and settled down for a
sleep Moses would be somewhere in the heap and when his young colleagues
were weaned at eight weeks he showed his attachment to Bertha by
spending most of his time with her.

And it stayed that way over the years. Often he would be right inside
the pen, rubbing himself happily along the comforting bulk of the sow,
but I remember him best in his favourite place; crouching on the wall
looking down perhaps meditatively on what had been his first warm home.

Chapter Twelve.

I was beginning to learn a few tricks of my own.

In my bachelor days those early morning rings at the doorbell used to
start me galloping downstairs into the freezing passage in my pyjamas
full of enthusiasm, in fact almost bursting with impatience to learn
what the immediate future held for me. But marriage had maybe softened
me. At any rate, a long run of sessions in my bare feet on the doorstep
with the bracing Yorkshire air whistling round my ankles had persuaded
me that this was an overrated pastime.

The trouble was that in those days there were very few telephones on the
farms and many of the farmers used to cycle in to the surgery when they
wanted the vet; and of course farmers are inclined to rise rather early,
a lot of them seemed to think that around 7 a.m. was a good time.

I just had to alter my system and now when I heard that long jangling
downstairs I crawled out from beside Helen, tiptoed over to the window
and opened it. Our bed-sitter being at the front of the house I was able
to push my head through a few inches of space and carry on long
conversations while most of me stayed warmly inside.

~ But on this Sunday morning something was wrong. I had heard the ring,
taken up my kneeling position on the floor and got my head through the
window. But I couldn't see anybody.

"Hello!' I called.

"ellow!' came back the reply immediately. But there was nobody on the
step.

"Hello!' I shouted.

' 'ellow!' a hearty bellow responded.

"Hello!' I bawled at the top of my voice. I still couldn't see a soul.

' 'ellow, 'ellow, 'ellow!' echoed a full-throated yell with just a touch
of asperity in it.

This was ridiculous. I didn't feel up to another effort - my head was
beginning to throb - so I pushed the sash up a few inches more and
leaned further out into the street.

And as I gazed down over the long stretch of ivy-covered brick it became
clear why I had been unable to see anybody on the step. A man with very
bandy legs encased in brown leggings was leaning against the wall of the
house; he was bent double and apparently hollering straight down at the
ground. I was baffled at first then I realised that he was directing his
cries down through the small iron grating which led to the cellar. There
was a chute there where the coalman used to tip his bags.

From my new vantage point I was able to attract the man's attention and
when he looked up I saw it was Mr Dawson of Highstones.

He grinned cheerfully, quite unabashed. "Oh, you're there are you? I
have a cow with a touch o' felon. Give us a call some time this morning
will you?' He waved and was gone.

I returned thoughtfully to Helen's side. And as I tried to drop off to
sleep again the strong impression kept pushing into my consciousness
that Mr Dawson wouldn't have been at all surprised if I had popped my
head up through the grating instead of the window. It seemed to me that
he had accepted the fact that I dwelt somewhere in the grimy darkness at
the bottom of that cleft. It lent weight to an idea that had been
growing in my mind for some time; that farmers looked on vets as
different beings. We weren't really people at all.

There was Mr Coates last week. He had got me out of bed at 3 a.m. to a
farrowing and when I stumbled, eyes half closed, from the car he was
standing outside the piggery holding a lamp.

"Well now, Mr Herriot,'he said brightly, 'were you in bed when ah
phoned?'

I stared at the man. "In bed? Where the heck do you think I'd be at
three o'clock in the morning?'

"Well ah don't know.' Mr Coates looked a little confused. "Ah thought
you might be up studyin'.'

There it was again. Up studyin'! Did they really think a vet was a
creature apart - a kind of troglodyte who lived in a cell with only his
text books and instruments for company? He didn't have a social life, he
required no sleep, he didn't even have to eat. This last point was a
very real one; I have often noticed a certain puzzlement in a farmer's
face when I said I'd be as quick as I could but I'd have to finish my
dinner first; or a pregnant silence at the end of the phone when I said
I was just starting my breakfast.

But the man who most blatantly ignored my nutritional requirements and
actually seemed to be trying to sabotage them was Mr Grainger of
Beckton. He was a fierce man in his sixties and he called to see me
every Saturday evening at six o'clock. What made this particularly
wearing was that Helen chose each Saturday to put on a sumptuous high
tea. Maybe she wanted to remind me of my Scottish upbringing but she
used to set before me things like herrings in oatmeal with mustard sauce
or sole and chips or ham and eggs and fill in the spaces on the table
with new-baked scones, pancakes, curd tarts, cherry cakes.

It was usually when I was half way through the first course that the
bell rang and there, sure enough, was Mr Grainger glaring belligerently
through the glass door. He would never come into the house. All he
wanted was a ten minutes' discussion on the doorstep. At first I used to
say, "I'm just at my tea,' or something like that, or I'd go on chewing
in an exaggerated manner and keep wiping my lips on a napkin until I
realised I was wasting my time. Mr Grainger was only interested in me as
an object to talk at.

I said he wanted a discussion but that was the wrong word; he just
wanted to air his views. An insight into his character could be gained
from the remarks of one of his neighbours who told me that the Beckton
Farmers' Discussion Group had folded up because whenever Mr Grainger got
up to speak all the other farmers walked out.

In any case it seemed to enliven his Saturday evening to hold me trapped
there while he described the symptoms displayed by his livestock during
the previous week. He never asked me for advice; he made it quite clear
that he knew a lot better than me how to treat his animals, but he did
want to tell me about it. And he told me at great length, his hands
clasped over his stick in front of him, his eyes fixed on mine in a
hostile stare.

But nothing is wholly bad and I did reap some small recompense from
observing his antics as he tried to illustrate his case histories with
actions.

I can recall one Saturday when he was complaining bitterly that he had
been swindled over a carthorse he had just purchased. He was a
particularly stiffjointed man and not cut out for portraying the
lameness of horses, but he managed to give an astounding impression of
stringhalt. I diagnosed it instantly as he strutted up and down the
pavement in front of Skeldale House, jerking one leg up behind him at
every step. Then he stopped abruptly and held the offending limb out,
quivering, behind him .. . good heavens, maybe he was a shiverer, too!
The farmer kept his eyes on me and seemed oblivious of the interest of
the passers-by. There were quite a few people in the street, probably
bound for the early show at the cinema, but for the moment they appeared
to find Mr Grainger more entertaining.

"And that's not all,' he cried. "There's summat wrang with his
watterworks.'

"Really? How do you mean?'

"Why 'e can't stale properly. Has a 'ell of a job. Gets himself all
wraxed up Mr Grainger went into another of his impersonations - that of
a horse having difficulty in passing urine - and I had to admit it was
probably his best yet. He planted his stick firmly on the pavement and
holding the top with both hands he backed away from it till his body was
parallel with the ground. Then he began to straddle his legs further and
further apart. The knot of people on the other side of the road had
increased to a fair-sized crowd and they stared, fascinated, at the
extraordinary sight. Mr Grainger was indeed the very picture of equine
suffering and as he hollowed his back and paddled his wide-spaced feet I
could almost share the desperate battle for release. When he finally
raised his head and groaned the effect was harrowing.

When all was finished Mr Grainger did as he always did - gave me a cold
nod and stumped off without a word. There was no need for him to say,
"See you next Saturday'. I knew he'd be back.

Then there was Mr Grimsdale. His attitude towards me was something I
couldn't quite make out, but I did know that he always had a depressing
effect on me. He did this by the simple expedient of telling me that I
didn't look very well.

I thought back to the visit to his farm yesterday when he had called me
to a cow with a cut teat. He was a tall cadaverous man with sunken
cheeks and a mournful expression - he would have made a wonderful
undertaker - and he looked at me in his own particular way as I got out
of the car.

I wondered what it would be today. My own conviction is that you should
never tell anybody they don't look well, no matter what you think. And
Mr Grimsdale's little sallies bit especially deeply because he always
referred to me in agricultural terms as though I were one of his
bullocks.

"You've lost a bit o' ground lately, young man,' he would say, directing
a piercing glance from my face down to my feet and down again. "Aye,
you're rosin' ground fast - it's plain to see.'

Or another time it might be, "You've run off a bit, Mr Herriot. There's
no doubt you've run off.' And his stick would twitch in his hand as if
he would have liked to give me an exploratory poke.

But today he didn't say anything until I had finished stitching the teat
and was washing my hands in a bucket of water. Then as I straightened up
he adopted his usual stance; throwing up his head and jutting his chin
he appraised me gloomily.

"You've failed since ah last saw you, young man. Soon as you walked
across t'yard this morning ah thought to meself, aye that lad's failed
over t'last week or two.'

And as the sharp eyes bored into me from behind the long pointed nose
his viewpoint was plain. He, at any rate, could contemplate the prospect
of my early demise with some compassion but without going to pieces.

I worked up a sickly smile as I always did.

"Oh, I'm fine, Mr Grimsdale, never felt better.' But the voice had an
uncertain quaver and I knew by my sinking stomach that his shaft had
gone home again. And then there was the usual humiliating business when
I had driven away. I always stopped the car just round the corner where
a high curve of wall hid me from the farm.

Staring into the car mirror I put out my tongue, pulled down my eyelids
to have a look at my mucous membranes and muttered desperately as though
Mr Grimsdale was still there.

"I feel fine, really I do .. . fine .. . fine .. .'

Talking of farmers' attitudes to their vets, I think it is fair to say
that in Robert Hewison's cheerful household, though Siegfried's prowess
as an animal doctor was highly regarded, his main claim to fame was as a
judge of Christmas cake.

Mrs Hewison was a baker of great repute and when she started long before
the festive season to stir up vast quantities of fruit and candied peel
and butter and all the other things that went into her peerless cakes it
was a very serious business. Not that there was any question of a
failure - her cakes varied from excellent to superb but once the long
process had been completed and the last piece of marzipan and icing
applied she dearly loved to have the accolade from an expert. And in her
eyes Siegfried was number one.

Robert Hewison confided in me once: "The knows, my missus is never
content till your guvnor's had a taste.'

I was privileged to be present on one of these occasions. It was a few
days before Christmas and Siegfried and I had gone together to Robert's
farm to lift a horse which had got cast in its stall. We did the job
successfully with the aid of slings and a block and tackle and Robert,
as always, asked us into the house.

The farmer's wife, her dark, rather solemn face illumined by friendly
eyes, ushered us to the two tall wooden chairs by the fireside.

"Come and get warmed up, gentleman,' she said. "And you'll have a drink
and a bit o' cake, won't you?'

"You're very kind, Mrs Hewison,' replied Siegfried. "That would be
lovely.'

He sat down, but I went through to the offshoot of the kitchen to wash
my hands at the sink. The farmer's wife was cutting at a large cake on a
table nearby. She nudged me and whispered conspiratorially.

"This isn't me own cake. It's one me sister baked, but I'm not telling
Mr Farnon that. We'll just see what he says.'

I stared at her. "But is that quite fair? Hadn't you better tell him?'

"No, I want to have his true judgement, so I'm not sayin' a word.'

I went back to the kitchen with some misgiving. It was unlike this lady
to play jokes, but maybe after years of unqualified approbation she
wanted to put my colleague's sincerity to the test. Anyway, I hoped
nothing unfortunate would happen.

As I took my place by the fire Robert and his three sons; came in and
sat around in a circle. I was given a piece of cake, too, but nobody
paid any attention to me; all eyes were on Siegfried.

"I'd like to know what you think of t'cake this year, Mr Farnon,' our
hostess said.

My colleague toasted the family gracefully, sipped at his whisky then
lifted the plate with its slice of cake. Silence fell upon the company.
Holding the plate in the palm of his hand he studied the cake carefully
from various angles before breaking off a fair-sized piece. This he
massaged gently between thumb and forefinger for a few moments, his eyes
half closed. Then after sniffing at it a couple of times he put it in
his mouth.

I could feel the tension building in the room as he chewed gravely, his
face quite expressionless. When he had finally swallowed the portion he
smacked his lips once or twice meditatively then turned his head and
looked full at Mrs Hewison Amid a deathly hush they gazed into each
other's eyes for several long seconds but Siegfried still didn't say
anything. Instead he reached for his glass again and took another drink
of whisky which he seemed to wash around his mouth before breaking off
another portion of cake.

He took a long time over this piece, chewing in a slow motion, his eyes,
deadly serious, staring sightlessly in front of him. Robert, the boys,
all of us, leaned a little forward in our chairs, as he finally
swallowed the last crumb, wiped his lips and sat immobile, apparently
wrapped in thought. Then as he clearly came to a decision he sat upright
in his chair, straightened his shoulders and turned resolutely towards
the lady of the house once more.

Siegfried was and is a man of the highest principle. Over the years I
have known him he has always given his opinions truthfully, fearlessly
and with a total disregard of the consequences; and though this trait
ruffled the stream of his life on occassion, there were times, as now,
when it stood him in good stead.

"Mrs Hewison,' he said, his eyes steady and unwavering. "This is a good
cake.' He paused. "A very good cake indeed.' He hesitated again and I
could see the real iron in the man coming out. "But if you will permit
me, I'm bound to say that it is not up to your usual standard.'

Mrs Hewison, usually an undemonstrative person, burst into a loud cry of
delight and Robert and his sons, who were obviously in on the joke,
roared and clapped their hands.

Siegfried looked around in some surprise at the sudden tumult which went
on and on as though somebody had scored a goal in the cup final. He was
obviously puzzled and of course there was no way he could know that his
previous exalted position in the household was now utterly impregnable.

Chapter Thirteen.

I was back at Granville Bennett's again. Back in the tiled operating
theatre with the great lamp pouring its harsh light over my colleague's
bowed head, over the animal nurses, the rows of instruments, the little
animal stretched on the table.

Until late this afternoon I had no idea that another visit to Hartington
was in store for me; not until the doorbell rang as I was finishing a
cup of tea and I went along the passage and opened the door and saw
Colonel Bosworth on the step. He was holding a wicker cat basket.

"Can I trouble you for a moment, Mr Herriot?' he said.

His voice sounded different and I looked up at him questioningly. Most
people had to look up at Colonel Bosworth with his lean six feet three
inches and his tough soldier's face which matched the DSO and MC which
he had brought out of the war. I saw quite a lot of him, not only when
he came to the surgery but out in the country where he spent most of his
time hacking along the quiet roads around Darrowby on a big hunter with
two Cairn terriers trotting behind. I liked him. He was a formidable man
but he was unfailingly courteous and there was a gentleness in him which
showed in his attitude to his animals.

"No trouble,' I replied. "Please come inside.'

In the waiting room he held out the basket. His eyes were strained and
there was shock and hurt in his face.

"It's little Maudie,'he said.

"Maudie .. . your black cat?' When I had been to his house the little
creature had usually been in evidence, rubbing down the colonel's
ankles, jumping on his knee competing assiduously with the terriers for
his attention.

"What's the matter, is she ill?'

"No .. . no .. .' He swallowed and spoke carefully. "She's had an
accident, I'm afraid.'

"What kind of accident?'

"A car struck her. She never goes out into the road in front of the
house but for some reason she did this afternoon.'

"I see.' I took the basket from him. "Did the wheel go over her?'

"No, I don't think it can have done that because she ran back into the
house afterwards.'

"Oh well,' I said. "That sounds hopeful. It probably isn't anything very
much.'

The colonel paused for a moment. "Mr Herriot, I wish you were right but
it's .. . rather frightful. It's her face you see. Must have been a
glancing blow but I .. . really don't see how she can live.'

"Oh .. . as bad as that .. . I'm sorry. Anyway come through with me and
I'll have a look.'

He shook his head. "No, I'll stay here if you don't mind. And there's
just one thing.' He laid his hand briefly on the basket. "If you think,
as I do, that it's hopeless, please put her to sleep immediately. She
must not suffer any more.'

I stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment then hurried along the
passage to the operating room. I put the basket on the table, slid the
wooden rod from its loops and opened the lid. I could see the sleek
little black form crouched in the depths and as I stretched my hand out
gingerly towards it the head rose slowly and turned towards me with a
long, open-mouthed wail of agony.

And it wasn't just an open mouth. The whole lower jaw was dangling
uselessly, the mandible shattered and splintered, and as another
chilling cry issued from the basket I had a horrific glimpse of jagged
ends of bone gleaming from the froth of blood and saliva.

I closed the basket quickly and leaned on the lid.

"Christ!' I gasped. "Oh Christ!'

I closed my eyes but couldn't dispel the memory of the grotesque face,
the terrible sound of pain and worst of all the eyes filled with the
terrified bewilderment which makes animal suffering so unbearable.

With trembling haste I reached behind me to the trolley for the bottle
of Nembutal. This was the one thing vets could do, at any rate; cut
short this agony with merciful speed. I pulled 5 c.c.'s into the
syringe; more than enough - she'd drift into sleep and never wake up
again. Opening the basket I reached down and underneath the cat and
slipped the needle through the abdominal skin; an intraperitoneal
injection would have to do. But as I depressed the plunger it was as
though a calmer and less involved person was tapping me on the shoulder
and saying, "Just a minute, Herriot, take it easy. Why don't you think
about this for a bit?'

I stopped after injecting 1 c.c. That would be enough to anaesthetise
Maudie. In a few minutes she would feel nothing. Then I closed the lid
and began to walk about the room. I had repaired a lot of cats' broken
jaws in my time; they seemed to be prone to this trouble and I had
gained much satisfaction from wiring up symphyseal fractures and
watching their uneventful healing. But this was different.

After five minutes I opened the basket and lifted the little cat, sound
asleep and as limp as a rag doll, on to the table.

I swabbed out the mouth and explored with careful fingers, trying to
piece the grisly jigsaw together. The symphysis had separated right
enough and that could be fastened together with wire, but how about
those mandibular rami, smashed clean through on both sides - in fact
there were two fractures on the left. And some of the teeth had been
knocked out and others slackened; there was nothing to get hold of.
Could they be held together by metal plates screwed into the bone? Maybe
.. . and was there a man with the skill and equipment to do such a job
.. .? I thought I just might know one.

I went over the sleeping animal carefully; there wasn't a thing amiss
except that pathetic drooping jaw. Meditatively I stroked the smooth,
shining fur. She was only a young cat with years of life in front of her
and as I stood there the decision came to me with a surge of relief and
I trotted back along the passage to ask the colonel if I could take
Maudie through to Granville Bennett.

It had started to snow heavily when I set out and I was glad it was
downhill all the way to Hartington; many of the roads higher up the Dale
would soon be impassable on a night like this.

In the Veterinary Hospital I watched the big man drilling, screwing,
stitching. It wasn't the sort of job which could be hurried but it was
remarkable how quickly those stubby fingers could work. Even so, we had
been in the theatre for nearly an hour and Granville's complete
absorption showed in the long silences broken only by the tinkling of
instruments, occasional barking commands and now and then a sudden flare
of exasperation. And it wasn't only the nurses who suffered; I had
scrubbed up and had been pressed into service and when I failed to hold
the jaw exactly as my colleague desired he exploded in my face.

"Not that bloody way, Jim! .. . What the hell are you playing at? ..

. No, no, ...  ... .no, no, no! Oh God Almighty!'

But at last all was finished and Granville threw off his cap and turned
away from the table with that air of finality which had made me envy him
the first time. He was sweating. In his office he washed his hands,
towelled his brow, and pulled on an elegant grey jacket from the pocket
of which he produced a pipe. It was a different pipe from last time; I
learned in time that all Granville's pipes were not only beautiful but
big and this one had a bowl like a fair-sized coffee cup. He rubbed it
gently along the side of his nose, gave it a polish with the yellow
cloth he always seemed to carry and held it lovingly against the light.

"Straight grain, Jim. Superb, isn't it?'

He contentedly scooped tobacco from his vast pouch, ignited it and
puffed a cloud of delectable smoke at me before taking me by the arm.
"Come on, laddie. I'll show you round while they're clearing up in
there.'

We did a tour of the hospital, taking in the waiting and consulting
rooms, X-ray room, dispensary and, of course, the office with its
impressive card index system with case histories of all patients, but
the bit I enjoyed most was walking along the row of heated cubicles
where an assortment of animals were recovering from their operations.

Granville stabbed his pipe at them as we went along. "Spay, enterotomy,
aural haematoma, entropion.' Then he bent suddenly, put a finger through
the wire front and adopted a wheedling tone. "Come now, George, come on
little fellow, don't be frightened, it's only Uncle Granville.'

A small West Highland with a leg in a cast hobbled to the front and my
colleague tickled his nose through the wire.

"That's George Wills-Fentham,' he said in explanation. "Old Lady
Willsfentham's pride and joy. Nasty compound fracture but he's doing
very nicely. He's a bit shy is George but a nice little chap when you
get to know him, aren't you, old lad?' He continued his tickling and in
the dim light I could see the short white tail wagging furiously. Maudie
was lying in the very last of the recovery pens, a tiny, trembling
figure. That trembling meant she was coming out of the anaesthetic and I
opened the door and stretched my hand out to her. She still couldn't
raise her head but she was looking at me and as I gently stroked her
side, her mouth opened in a faint rusty miaow. And with a thrill of deep
pleasure I saw that her lower jaw belonged to her again; she could open
and close it; that hideous dangling taller of flesh and bone was only a
bad memory.

"Marvelous, Granville,' I murmured. "Absolutely bloody marvelous.'

Smoke plumed in quiet triumph from the noble pipe. "Yes, it's not bad,
is it laddie. A week or two on fluids and she'll be as good as new. No
problems there.'

I stood up. "Great! I can't wait to tell Colonel Bosworth. Can I take
her home tonight?'

"No, Jim, no. Not this time. I just want to keep an eye on her for a
couple of days then maybe the colonel can collect her himself.' He led
me back into the brightly lit office where he eyed me for a moment.

"You must come and have a word with Zoe while you're here,' he said.
"But first, just a suggestion. I wonder if you'd care to slip over with
me to .. .'

I took a rapid step backward. "Well ... er ... really. I don't think
so,' I gabbled. "I enjoyed my visit to the club that other night but .
.. er .. . perhaps not this evening.'

"Hold on, laddie, hold on,' Granville said soothingly. "Who said
anything about the club? No, I just wondered if you'd like to come to a
meeting with me?'

"Meeting?'

"Yes, Professor Milligan's come through from Edinburgh to speak to the
Northern Veterinary Society about metabolic diseases. I think you'd
enjoy it.'

"You mean milk fever, acetonaemia and all that.'

"Correct. Right up your street, old son.'

"Well it is, isn't it? I wonder .. .' I stood for a few moments deep in
thought, and one of the thoughts was why an exclusively small animal man
like Granville wanted to hear about cow complaints. But I was maybe
doing him an injustice; he probably wanted to maintain a broad, liberal
view of veterinary knowledge.

It must have been obvious that I was dithering because he prodded me a
little further.

"I'd like to have your company, Jim, and anyway I see you're all dressed
and ready for anything. Matter of fact when you walked in tonight I
couldn't help thinking what a smart lad you looked.'

He was right there. I hadn't dashed through in my farm clothes this
time. With the memory of my last visit still painfully fresh in my mind
I was determined that if I was going to meet the charming Zoe again I
was going to be: (a) Properly dressed, (b) Sober (c) in a normal state
of health and not bloated and belching like an impacted bullock. Helen,
agreeing that my image needed refurbishing, had rigged me out in my best
suit.

Granville ran his hand along my lapel. "Fine piece of serge if I may say
so.'

I made up my mind. "Right, I'd like to come with you. Just let me ring
Helen to say I won't be straight back and then I'm your man.'

Chapter Fourteen.

Outside it was still snowing; city snow drifting down in a wet curtain
which soon lost itself in the dirty churned-up slush in the streets. I
pulled my coat higher round my neck and huddled deeper in the Bentley's
leather luxury. As we swept past dark buildings and shops I kept
expecting Granville to turn up some side street and stop, but within a
few minutes we were speeding through the suburbs up towards the North
Road. This meeting, I thought, must be out in one of the country
institutes, and I didn't say anything until we had reached Scotch Corner
and the big car had turned on to the old Roman Road at Bowes.

I stretched and yawned. "By the way, Granville, where are they holding
this meeting?'

"Appleby,'my colleague replied calmly.

I came bolt upright in my seat then I began to laugh.

"What's the joke, old son?' Granville enquired.

"Well .. . Appleby .. . ha-ha-ha! Come on, where are we really-heading?'

"I've told you, laddie, the Pemberton Arms, Appleby, to be exact.'

"Do you mean it?'

"Of course.'

"But hell, Granville, that's on the other side of the Pennines.'

"Quite right. Always has been, laddie.'

I ran a hand through my hair. "Wait a minute. Surely it isn't worth
going about forty miles in weather like this. We'll never get over Bowes
Moor you know - in fact I heard yesterday it was blocked. Anyway, it's
nearly eight o'clock - we'd be too late.'

The big man reached across and patted my knee.

"Stop worrying, Jim. We'll get there and wel~l be in plenty of time.
You've got to remember you're sitting in a proper motor car now. A drop
of snow is nothing.'

As if determined to prove his word he put his foot down and the great
car hurtled along the dead straight stretch of road. We skidded a bit on
the corner at Greta Bridge then roared through Bowes and up to the
highest country. I couldn't see much. In fact on the moor top I couldn't
see anything, because up there it was the real country snow, big dry
nakes driving straight into the headlights and settling comfortably with
millions of their neighbours on the already deep white carpet on the
road. I just didn't know how Granville was able to see, never mind drive
fast; I had no idea how we were going to get back over here in a few
hours time when the wind had drifted the snow across the road. But I
kept my mouth shut. It was becoming increasingly obvious that I emerged
as a sort of maiden aunt in Granville's company, so I held my peace and
prayed.

I followed this policy through Brough and along the lower road where the
going was easier until I climbed out with a feeling of disbelief in the
yard of the Pemberton Arms. It was nine o'clock.

We slipped into the back of the room and I settled into my chair,
prepared to improve my mind a little. There was a man on the platform
holding forth and ., L_ ~, ~o~

at first I had difficulty in picking up the substance of his words, he
wasn't mentioning anything about animal diseases but suddenly everything
clicked into place.

"We are indeed grateful,' the man was saying, 'to Professor Milligan for
coming all this way and for giving us a most interesting and instructive
talk. I know I speak for the entire audience when I say we have enjoyed
it thoroughly, so may I ask you to show your appreciation in the usual
manner. There was a long round of applause then an outburst of talk and
a pushing back of chairs.

I turned to Granville in some dismay. "That was the vote of thanks. It's
finished.'

"So it is, laddie.' My colleague didn't seem unduly disappointed or even
surprised. "But come with me - there are compensations.'

We joined the throng of vets and moved across the richly carpeted hall
to another room where bright lights shone down on a row of tables laden
with food. Then I recognised Bill Warrington the Burroughs Wellcome
representative and all became clear.

This was a commercially sponsored evening and the real action, in
Granville's estimation, began right here. I remembered then that
Siegeried had once told me that Granville hated to miss any of these
occasions. Though the most generous of men there was some piquancy in
the gratis food and drink which attracted him irresistibly.

Even now he was guiding me purposefully towards the bar. But our
progress was slow due to a phenomenon peculiar to Granville; everybody
seemed to know him. Since those days I have been with him to
restaurants, pubs, dances and it has been just the same. In fact I have
often thought that if I took him to visit some lost tribe in the jungles
of the Amazon one of them would jump and say, "Well hello, Granville old
boy!' and slap him on the back.

Finally however he fought his way through his fellow vets and we reached
the bar where two dark little men in white coats were already under
pressure; they were working with the impersonal concentration of people
who knew that the whisky always took a hammering on veterinary evenings,
but they paused and smiled as my colleague's massive presence hovered at
the counter.

"Now then, Mr Bennptt. How are you, Mr Bennett?'

"Good evening, Bob. Nice to see you, Reg.' Granville responded
majestically.

I noticed that Bob put down his bottle of ordinary whisky and reached
down for a bottle of Glenlivet Malt to charge Granville's glass. The big
man sniffed the fine spirit appreciatively.

"And one for my friend, Mr Herriot,' he said.

The barmen's respectful expressions made me feel suddenly important and
I found myself in possession of my own vast measure of Glenlivet. I had
to get it down quickly followed by a few speedy refills since the barmen
took their cue from my companion s consumption.

Then I followed in Granville's regal wake as he made his way among the
tables with the air of a man in his natural environment. Messrs
Burroughs Wellcome had done us proud and we worked our way through a
variety of canapes, savouries and cold meats. Now and again we revisited
the bar for more of the Glenlivet then back to the tables.

I knew I had drunk too much and now I was eating too much. But the
difficulty with Granville was that if I ever declined anything he took
it as a personal insult.

"Try one of those prawn things,' he would say, sinking his teeth into a
mushroom vol au vent and if I hesitated a wounded look would come into
his eyes.

R',t I was enjoying myself. Veterinary surgeons are my favourite people
and *9 Vet zn Harness I revelled as I always did in their tales of
successes and failures. Especially the failures; they were particular
soothing. Whenever the thought of how we were going to get home stole
into my mind I banished it quickly.

Granville seemed to have no qualms because he showed no signs of moving
when the company began to thin out; in fact we were the last to leave,
our departure being accorded a touch of ceremony by a final substantial
stirrup cup from Bob and Reg.

As we left the hotel I felt fine; a little light-headed perhaps and with
the merest hint of regret at being pressed to a second helping of trifle
and cream, but otherwise in excellent shape. As we settled once more
into the Bentley Granville was at his most expansive.

"Excellent meeting that, Jim. I told you it would be worth the journey.'

We were the only members of the company who were headed eastward and
were alone on the road. In fact it occurred to me that we hadn't seen a
single car on the road to Appleby and now there was something
uncomfortable in our total isolation. The snow had stopped and the
brilliant moon flooded its cold light over a white empty world. Empty,
that is, except for us, and our solitary state was stressed by the
smooth, virgin state of the glistening carpet ahead.

I was conscious of an increasing disquiet as the great gaunt spine of
the Pennines bulked before us and as we drew nearer it reared up like an
angry white monster.

Past the snow-burdened roofs of Brough then the long climb with the big
car slipping from side to side as it fought its way up the bending,
twisting hill, engine bellowing. I thought I'd feel better when we
reached the top but the first glimpse of the Bowes Moor road sent my
stomach into a lurch of apprehension; miles and miles of it coiling its
way across the most desolate stretch of country in all England. And even
from this distance you could see the drifts, satin smooth and beautiful,
pushing their deadly way across our path.

On either side of the road a vast white desert rolled and dipped
endlessly toward the black horizon; there was not a light, not a
movement, not a sign of life anywhere.

The pipe jutted aggressively as Granville roared forward to do battle.
We hit the first drift, slewed sideways for a tense few seconds then we
were on the other side, speeding into the unbroken surface. Then the
next drift and the next and the next. Often I thought we were stuck but
always, wheels churning, engine screaming we emerged. I had had plenty
of experience of snow driving and I could appreciate Granville's
expertise as, without slackening speed he picked out the shallowest,
narrowest part of each obstruction for his attack. He had this heavy
powerful car to help him but he could drive all right.

However, my trepidation at being stranded in this waste land was
gradually being overshadowed by another uneasiness. When I had left the
hotel I was pretty well topped up with food and drink and if I had been
handled gently for the next few hours I'd have been all right. But on
the bumpy journey to Brough I had be.en increasingly aware of a rising
queasiness; my mind kept flitting back unhappily to that exotic
cocktail, Reg's speciality, which Granville had said I must try; he had
prevailed on me too, to wash down the whiskies with occasional beers
which, he said, were essential to maintain a balanced intake of fluids
and solids. And that final trifle - it had been a mistake.

And now I wasn't just being bumped, I was being thrown around like a pea
in a drum as the Bentley lurched and skidded and occasionally took off
altogether. Soon I began to feel very ill indeed. And like a seasick man
who didn't care if the ship foundered I lost all interest in our
progress; I closed my eyes, braced my feet on the floor and shrunk into
an inner misery.

I hardly noticed as, after an age of violent motion, we finally began to
go Vet ~n Harness ;

l ..

465

downhill and thundered through Bowes. After that there was little danger
of having to spend the night in the car but Granville kept his foot down
and we rocked over the frozen ground while I felt steadily worse.

I would dearly have loved to ask my colleague to stop and allow me to be
quietly sick by the roadside but how do you say such a thing to a man
who never seemed to be in the least affected by over indulgence and who,
even at that moment was chatting gaily as he refilled his pipe with his
free hand. The internal pounding seemed to have forced extra alcohol
into my bloodstream because on top of-my other discomforts my vision was
blurred, I was dizzy and had the strong conviction that if I tried to
stand up I would fall flat on my face.

I was busy with these preoccupations when the car stopped.

"We'll just pop in and say hello to Zoe,' Granville said.

"Wha's that?' I slurred.

"We'll go inside for a few minutes.'

I looked around. "Where are we?'

Granville laughed. "Home, old son. I can see a light, so Zoe's still up.
You must come and have a quick cup of coffee.'

I crawled laboriously from the seat and stood leaning on the car. My
colleague tripped lightly to the door and rang the bell. He was as fit
as a fiddle I thought bitterly as I reeled after him. I was slumped
against the porch breathing heavily when the door opened and there was
Zoe Bennett, bright eyed, glowing, beautiful as ever.

"Why Mr Herriot!' she cried. "How nice to see you again!'

Slackjawed, green-faced, rumple-suited, I stared into her eyes, gave a
gentle hiccup and staggered past her into the house.

Next morning Granville rang to say all was going to be well because
Maudie had been able to lap a little milk. It was kind of him to let me
know and I didn't want to sound churlish by saying that was all I had
managed to do, too.

It happened that morning by a coincidence that I had a far outlying
visit and had to pass the Scotch Corner turning on the North Road. I
stopped the car and sat gazing at the long snow-covered road stretching
towards the Pennines. I was starting my engine when an AA man came over
and spoke at my window.

"You're not thinking of trying the Bowes Moor road, are you?'he said.

"No, no. I was just looking.'

He nodded in satisfaction.

"I'm glad to hear that. It's blocked you know. There hasn't been a car
over there for two days.'

Chapter Fifteen.

One of the things Helen and I had to do was furnish our bedsitter and
kitchen. And when I say 'furnish' I use the word in its most austere
sense. We had no high-flown ideas about luxury; it was, after all, a
temporary arrangement and anyway we had no money to throw around.

My present to Helen at the time of our marriage was a modest gold watch
and this had depleted my capital to the extent that a bank statement at
the commencement of our married life revealed the sum of twenty-five
shillings standing to my credit. Admittedly I was a partner now but when
you start from scratch it takes a long time to get your head above
water.

But we did need the essentials like a table, chairs, cutlery, crockery,
the odd rug and carpet, and Helen and I decided that it would be most
sensible to pick up these things at house sales. Since I was constantly
going round the district I was able to drop in at these events and the
duty of acquiring our necessities had been delegated to me. But after a
few weeks it was clear that I was falling down on the job.

I had never realised it before but I had a blind spot in these matters.
I would go to a sale and come away with a pair of brass candlesticks and
a stuffed owl. On another occasion I acquired an ornate inkwell with a
carved metal figure of a dog on it together with a polished wooden box
with innumerable fascinating little drawers and compartments for keeping
homeopathic prescriptions. I could go on for a long time about the
things I bought but they were nearly all useless.

Helen was very nice about it.

"Jim,' she said one day when I was proudly showing her a model of a
fully rigged sailing ship in a bottle which I had been lucky enough to
pick up, 'it's lovely, but I don't think we need it right now.'

I must have been a big disappointment to the poor girl and also to the
local auctioneers who ran the sales. These gentlemen, when they saw me
hovering around the back of the crowd would cheer up visibly. They, in
common with most country folk, thought all vets were rich and that I
would be bidding for some of the more expensive items. When a nice baby
grand piano came up they would look over the heads at me with an
expectant smile and their disappointment was evident when I finally went
away with a cracked-faced barometer or a glove stretcher.

A sense of my failure began.to seep through to me and when I had to take
a sample through to the Leeds laboratory I saw a chance to atone.

"Helen,' I said, 'there's a huge saleroom right in the city centre.

I'll take an hour off and go in there. I'm bound to see something we
need.'

"Oh good!' my wife replied. "That's a great idea! There'll be lots to
choose from there. You haven't had much chance to find anything at those
country sales.' Helen was always kind.

After my visit to the Leeds lab I asked the way,to the salerooms.

"Leave your car here,' one of the locals advised me. "You'll never park
in the main street and you can get a tram right to the door.'

I was glad I listened to him because when I arrived the traffic was
surging both ways in a nonstop stream. The saleroom was at the top of an
extraordinarily long fli~ht of smooth stone steps leading right to the
top of the building. When I err slightly out of breath, I thought
immediately I had come to the right r'

enclosure strewn with furniture, cookers, gramophones, carpets could
possibly want in a house. O> ~und fascinated for quite a long time then
my attention centred ~S ~ books quite near to where the auctioneer was
selling. I lifted ,v ~ ~ ~e Geography of the World. I had never seen
such beautiful 0,~, <& ,o, ~, A~aedias and with thick embossed covers
and gold lettering. ~- ~O~A ~, '0~ ~ "Ndn with gold and the paper was of
a delightfully smooth A . \> <0~`, ~A ~ ~ turned the pages, marvelling
at the handsome ~n a drum a~ ~, ~o,;;, ~ ~res each with its covering
transparent sheet. They Soon I began to-~ ~ ~ ~ubt, and when I looked at
the front I saw they the ship foundered I l~ ~ =", ~re things of beauty.
my feet on the floor and s~ ~ - ~a hand here because I had just
reluctantly I hardly noticed as, after an ~ ~r's voice.

r ~` `1` ``ull`~, "r~

"Now then, here's a lovely set of books. The Ceography of the World in
Twenty Four Volumes. Just look at them. You don't find books like them
today. Who'll give me a bid?'

I agreed with him. They were unique. But they must be worth pounds. I
looked round the company but nobody said a word.

"Come on, ladies and gentlemen, surely somebody wants this wonderful
addition to their library. Now what do I hear?'

Again the silence then a seedy looking man in a soiled mackintosh spoke
up.

tarf a crown,' he said morosely.

I looked around expecting a burst of laughter at this sally, but nobody
was amused. In fact the auctioneer didn't seem surprised.

"I have a half a crown bid.' He glanced about him and raised his hammer.
With a thudding of the heart I realised he was going to sell.

I heard my own voice, slightly breathless. "Three shillings.'

"I have a bid of three shillings for The Geography of the World in
Twenty Four Volumes. Are you all done?' Bang went the hammer. "Sold to
the gentleman over there.'

They were mine! I couldn't believe my luck. l~his surely was the bargain
to end all bargains. I paid my three shillings while one of the men tied
a length of rough string round each pile. The first pause in my elation
came when I tried to lift my purchases. Books are heavy things and these
were massive specimens; and there were twenty-four of them.

With a hand under each string I heaved like a weight-lifter and,
pop-eyed, veins standing out on my forehead, I managed to get them off
the ground and began to stagger shakily to the exit.

The first string broke on the top step and twelve of my volumes cascaded
downwards over the smooth stone. After the first moment of panic I
decided that the best way was to transport the intact set down to the
bottom and come back for the others. I did this but it took me some time
and I began to perspire before I was all tied up again and poised on the
kerb ready to cross the road.

The second string broke right in the middle of the tramlines as I
attempted a stiff-legged dash through a break in the traffic. For about
a year I scrabbled there in the middle of the road while horns hooted,
tram bells clanged and an interested crowd watched from the sidewalks. I
had just got the escaped volumes in a column and was reknotting the
string when the other lot burst from their binding and slithered gently
along the metal rails; and it was when I was retrieving them that I
noticed a large policeman, attracted by the din and the long line of
vehicles, walking with measured strides in my direction.

In my mental turmoil I saw myself for the first time in the hands of the
law. I could be done on several charges - Breach of the Peace,
Obstructing Traffic to name only two - but I perceived that the officer
was approaching very slowly and rightly or wrongly I feel that when a
policeman strolls towards you like that he is a decent chap and is
giving you a chance to get away. I took my chance. He was still several
yards off when I had my two piles reassembled and I thrust my hands
under the strings, tottered to the far kerb and lost myself in the
crowd.

When I finally decided there was no longer any fear of feeling the dread
grip on my shoulder I stopped in my headlong flight and rested in a shop
doorway. I was puffing like a broken-winded horse and my hands hurt
abominably. The saleroom string was coarse, hairy and abrasive and
already it threatened to take the skin off my fingers.

Anyway, I thought, the worst was over. The tram stop was just at the end
of the block there. I joined the queue and when the tram arrived,
shuffled forward with the others. I had one foot on the step when a
large hand was thrust before my eyes.

~two V ~` ITI l l U7 76~3

"Just a minute, broth'er, just a minute! Where d'you think you're
going'?' The face under the conductor's hat was the meaty, heavy jowled,
pop-eyed kind which seems to take a mournful pleasure in imparting bad
news.

"You're not bringin' that bloody lot on 'ere, brother. I'll tell the
now!'

I looked up at him in dismay. "But .. . it's just a few books .. .'

"Few books! You want a bloody delivery van for that lot. You're not
usin' my tram - passengers couldn't stir inside!' His mouth turned down
aggressively.

"Oh but really,' I said with a ghastly attempt at an ingratiating smile,
"I'm just going as far as .. .'

"You're not going' anywhere in 'ere, brother! Ah've no time to argue
move your foot, ah'm off!'

The bell ding-dinged and the tram began to move. As I hopped off
backwards one of the strings broke again.

After I had got myself sorted out I surveyed my situation and it
appeared fairly desperate. My car must be over a mile away, mostly
uphill, and I would defy the most stalwart Nepalese Sherpa to transport
these books that far. I could of course just abandon the things; lean
them against this wall and take to my heels .. . But no, that would be
anti-social and anyway they were beautiful. If 'v I could get them home
all would be well.

- tram rumbled up to the stop and again I hefted my burden and
nassengers, hoping nobody would notice.

' '- time.

-~" was middle-aged, motherly and her plump n~

was c stret~=~1> 6

A sense~ ,;_. f!6 2 c ~ ;5 .} ~S :

-qinst "'rules.'

-~n books. I've just "Helen,' I ~ :~;~ "Oh good!' my -~? 0-0-7 ~ C &~ '2
~ O ^= ~ ~ ~ . ~ from there. You h`~ -c O 3 ~ ~ c ,; ~go ~ 6 c ~ ~ ~ ,~
~, c sales.' Helen was alw ~, ._ ~ ,) C ~g -C ;? lp S ~ `7 C After my
visit to the~ ~ ~ :~` ~ O `] ,;_, ~ t1 ~ ~ 6 ~ w-C7 "Leave your car
here,'5 ~ 6.5 ~ 4 2 ,; ~z~6 64 3 ~ ~ ~{ , main street and you can ge .c
;~ ~ ~4~ ,; ~ ~ ~ ,c ~ ~c I was glad I listened to hl. =6 4 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
8-c '~ ~ 6~ '~ both ways in a nonstop stream.~ ~c ~, c ~,~ c~ ~ t? ~ ~
OQ ~ c long flio~t of smooth stone steps~,8 6~ 2 ~~O ~?~ ~c~ ~ ,~, I
err"'lightly out of breath, I ;.8 ~ ,> S c~ ~C7 ' ~6 ~c r'~enclosure
strewn with~ ~c ~ ~ ~-c 6 c .,2 c ~could possibly want ifi~ 6 ~ <~~c~ ~;
0,~ N<,und fascinated for qui~ c Oc ~0 ~ , ~i-, -c ~S) ~ooks quite near
to wh~ O O t ~S ~c O ,d,N~ ~e Geography of the ~C ,? c ~0N ~ ~ C~ ~ ~,
C*~, ~aedias and with thick e ~ ~c ~ =,~o, =o ~ ~ with gold and the pa]
=~ ~ cr~ Anti. St <;~O ~\ ~-turned the pages, ~ ~ ~ m a drum a~ ~ ~, *.~
~res each with its cove. ~o ~c Soon I began tot ~^ ~ ~ubt, and when I
looh 8,_,c the ship foundered 1 I~ ~ ~,.~" ~Fe things of beauty. ~c my
feet on the floor and sh~ ~k, ~a hand here becaust I hardly noticed as,
after an ~ ~r's voice.

extra before away I began to acrid reek fumes and as climbing le. ,sy
air flowed ly. I stopped, was no doubt Ah well, they must have been kept
in a damp place or something like that. I was sure it would soon pass
off. But in the meantime it certainly was powerful; it nearly made my
eyes water.

I had never really noticed the long climb to our eyrie on top of
Skeldale House but it was different today. I suppose my arms and
shoulders were finally beginning to feel the strain and that string,
bristly but fragile, was digging into my hands harder than ever, but it
was true that every step was an effort and when I at last gained the top
landing I almost collapsed against the door of our bed-sitter.

When, perspiring and dishevelled, I entered, Helen was on her knees,
dusting the hearth. She looked up at me expectantly.

"Any luck, Jim?'

"Yes, I think so,' I replied with a trace of smugness. "I think I got a
bargain.'

Helen rose and looked at me eagerly. "Really?'

"Yes.' I decided to play my trump card. "I only had to spend three
shillings!'

"Three shillings! What .. . where .. .?'

"Wait there a minute.' I went out to the landing and put my hand under
those strings. This, thank heaven, would be the last time I would have
to do this. A lunge and a heave and I had my prizes through the doorway
and displayed for my wife's inspection.

She stared at the two piles. "What have you got there?'

"The Geography of the World in Twenty FOUT Volumes,' I replied
triumphantly.

"The Geography of the .. . and is that all?'

"Yes, couldn't manage anything else, I'm afraid. But look - aren't they
magnificent books!'

My wife's level gaze had something of disbelief, a little of wonder. For
a moment one corner of her mouth turned up then she coughed and became
suddenly brisk.

"Ah well, we'll have to see about getting some shelves for them. Anyway,
leave them there for now.' She went over and kneeled again by the
hearth. But after a minute or two she paused in her dusting.

"Can you smell anything funny?'

"Well, er .. . I think it's the books, Helen. They're just a bit musty
.. . I don't think it'll last long.'

But the peculiar exhalation was very pervasive and it was redolent of
extreme age. Very soon the atmosphere in our room was that of a freshly
opened mausoleum.

I could see Helen didn't want to hurt my feelings but she kept darting
looks of growing alarm at my purchases. I decided to say it for her.

"Maybe I'd better take them downstairs just for now.'

She nodded gratefully.

The descent was torture, made worse by the fact that I had thought I was
finished with such things. I finally staggered into the office and
parked the books behind the desk. I was panting and rubbing my hands
when Siegfried came in.

"Ah, James, had a nice run through to Leeds?'

"Yes, they said at the lab that they'd give us a ring about those sheep
as soon as they've cultured the organisms.'

"Splendid!' My colleague opened the door of the cupboard and put some
forms inside then he paused and began to sniff the air.

"James, there's a bloody awful stink in here.'

I cleared my throat. "Well yes, Siegfried, I bought a few books while I
was ~n Leeds. They seem a little damp.' I pointed behind the desk.

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X V ~L Lll ~ d "1 11~3

There was another night when Tristan and I were tidying up after a cat
spay. The sound of heavy boots echoed on the passage tiles then the door
burst open and a stocky man in a cloth cap and collarless shirt strode
in "I'm not going' to be waitin' along there!' he said belligerently in
the rich tones of Erin.

"Is that so?' I replied.

"Yiss, it is so. I haven't the time to be sittin' waitin'!'

"I see. Well what can we do for you?'

He grabbed a chair, pulled it up to the table, sat down, leaned his
elbow on the freshly washed surface and looked up at me with a truculent
eye.

"It's me ear!' He cocked the offending organ in my direction.

I realised he was~one of the many Irish labourers who came to the
district every year to help with the turnip hoeing. I could understand
his entering the wrong door but was surprised at his aggressiveness;
most of his compatriots were noted for their charm.

I was about to redirect him when Tristan, loth as always to pass up the
slightest chance of a giggle, broke in.

"Your ear, eh?' he murmured sympathetically. "Is it very painful?'

"Oh aye, it hurts bad. I think I've got a little bile startin' in
there.'

Tristan tut-tutted. "Too bad, too bad, let's have a look at it.' He
moved over to the instrument cupboard and produced the auroscope which
we used for examining dogs with ear canker. Taking it from its case he
switched on the light and bent over the man.

"Just bend your head over a little, will you? Fine, fine.' He sounded
very professional.

He inserted the auroscope and peered into the depths of the ear. "Hmm ..
. hmm .. . yes, yes, I see. Oh that's rather nasty.' At last he nodded
gently. "You are quite right. You have a little infected spot in there.'

"That's what I thought,' the man grunted. "What are you going to do,
then?'

Tristan rested his chin on his hand for a moment.

"I really think I ought to give you an injection. It would be the
quickest way of clearing the thing up.' He spoke seriously but
confidently with the hint of a grave smile at the corner of his lips.
Like me he was wearing a white coat and would have passed without a
quibble as a Harley Street specialist.

The man seemed similarly impressed. He squares! his shoulders and
nodded. "Right then, let's be havin' it. You ought to know.'

As I watched wonderingly Tristan laid our white enamel tray on the table
and on it he deposited a roll of cotton wool, a bottle of iodine and a
row of enormous needles. They were the big, wide-bored needles for
running calcium under a cow's skin and Lying there they looked like
items from a plumber's kit.

Next he rummaged in a cupboard for some time then emerged bearing the
only 100 c.c. syringe in the practice. This was very rarely used
occasionally for giving sodium iodide injections to bullocks - and it
was a fearsome object. Unlike its modern plastic counterparts it was
made of glass and with its massive mounting of stainless steel and great
metal plunger it looked much bigger.

The Irishman had been shifting uneasily in his seat as Tristan set out
his stall but as the syringe clattered down on the enamel his eyes
widened and he swallowed a couple of times.

My colleague, however, was wonderfully composed. He whistled softly as
he fitted one of the huge needles to the nozzle of the syringe, then
hummed a light tune while he hoisted a jar of acrivlavine solution on to
the table. Carefully almost lovingly, he drew up the full 100 c.c.'s
then stood with the syringe poised against the light, giving off
iridescent gleams as he rocked it gently to and fro.

The man had lost a lot of his bluster. His mouth hung slightly open.

ve' In rlarness 41'

"Just a minute,' he said a trifle breathlessly. "Phwhaat doctors are
you?'

"I beg your pardon,' enquired Tristan, still juggling with his dreadful
instrument.

"Phwhaat's your names? Phwhaat do you call you doctors?'

Tristan gave a light laugh. "Oh we're not doctors. We're vets.'

"Vits!' the chair grated on the floor as the man pushed back from the
table.

"Yes, that's right,' Tristan said innocently, advancing with the loaded
syringe. "But you needn't worry. I assure you .. .'

I don't think I have ever seen anybody leave a room as quickly as that
man His chair overturned, there was a scurry, a scrapjng of hobnails,
the clattering of fieeing feet in the passage then the banging of the
outside door.

He was gone, never to return .. .

I don't think there is much doubt that we held an earthy fascination for
our medical colleagues. They were constantly drifting in to watch us at
work, particularly my own doctor, Harry Allinson, whose bald head often
hovered over me as I operated on the small animals.

"I've got to hand it to you boys,' he used to say. "When we come up
against a surgical case we write a note to the hospital but you just
switch on the steriliser.'

He was interested, too, in our work with the microscope. It intrigued
him that we should spend so much time peering down at skin scrapings for
mange, blood films for anthrax milk and sputum smears for tuberculosis.

"Sometimes I think you are a really scientific chap, Jim,' he would
laugh. "Then I see you with your instruments.'

He was referring to the occasions when he met me coming out of the
surgery in the morning carrying my kit for the round; the grisly docking
knives, firing tools, tooth forceps and dehorning shears which are now
mercifully consigned to the museum. He would lift them from my arms and
examine them wonderingly. ' You put the horse's tail in there, do you?
And you bring the blade down like this .. . bang .. . just like a
guillotine .. . my God!'

I felt the same way myself.

Harry Allinson's towering, wide-shouldered frame was part of the scenery
of Darrowby. He was a Scot, like so many of the doctors in Yorkshire, a
great athlete in his youth, a scratch golfer and an ebullient
personality. One of his main characteristics was sheer noisiness and it
was his habit to march into his patients' homes shouting and banging
about. He was to deliver both my children and years later when one or
the other was ill I have heard him come hollering into the house .. .
"Anybody in? Who's there? Come on, let's be having you!' And it was
wonderful how the little measles-ridden form revived and began to shout
back at him.

It was rewarding, too, to discover the gentleness and understanding
behind the uproar Those qualities were always there when people needed
them.

Although he saw so much of my own work I was unable, naturally enough,
to see him in action apart from when he was attending my own family.
There was one time, however, when I did have a peep behind the curtain.

I was called to see a lame cart horse and as I walked on to the farm I
was surprised to see the vast form of Gobber Newhouse almost obscuring
the view. The entire twenty stones of him was leaning on a shovel and he
appeared to be part of a gang of building workers putting up a new barn.

"Nah then, Herriot,' he said affably, 'what've ye been killin' this
morning'?' He followed this typical sally with a throaty chuckle and
looked round at his colleagues for applause.

I gave him a nod and passed by. Fortunately I didn't often see Gobber
but 4/4

Vet In llarness when I did he always addressed me as "Herriot' and he
invariably got in some little dig. And incidentally this was the first
time I had ever observed him going through the motions of work; the
Labour Exchange must have put some pressure on him because normally his
life consisted of drinking, gambling, fighting and knocking his
long-suffering little wife about.

I spent some time with the horse's hind foot resting on my knee as I
pared away at the sole. But there was no sign of pus and the only
abnormality was a smelly disintegration of the horn around the frog.

"He's got thrush,' I said to the farmer. "This doesn't often make them
lame but he has shed quite a lot of horn and some of the sensitive
tissues are exposed. I'll leave you some lotion for him.'

I was walking back to get the bottle from the car when I saw there was
some kind of commotion among the builder's men. They were standing in a
group around Gobber who was seated on an upturned milk pail. He had his
boot off and was anxiously examining his foot.

The foreman called over to me. "Are you going straight back to Darrowby,
Mr Herriot?'

"Yes, I am.'

"Well maybe you wouldn't mind givin' this feller a lift. He's stood on a
nail - went clean through his boot. Could you take him to a doctor?'

"Yes, of course.' I went over and viewed the fat man whose mates seemed
to be enjoying the situation.

"Here's the vet come to see ye, Gobber,' one of them cried. "He'll soon
fix you up. He's been doctorin' t'oss's foot, now he can do yours. Will
we haud 'im down for ye, Mr Herriot?'

Another peered gloomily at the punctured wound on the foot. "By Gaw,
this is a 'elf of a farm for lockjaw, Gobber. Ah'm afraid ye'll die a
'orrible death.'

The big man was not amused. His face was a tragic mask and the eflort of
hauling his foot into view above his enormous belly made him shake
uncontrollably.

I opened the car door and, supported by a man on either side, he limped
with many facial contortions across the farmyard. At first I thought
we'd never be able to get him into the little vehicle and he groaned
piteously as we pushed, pulled and finally wedged him into the passenger
seat.

As we headed along the road to Darrowby he cl~eared his throat
nervously.

"Mr Herriot,' he said. It was the first time he had ever accorded me
a'mister'. "Is it true that where there's a lot of 'osses there's more
lockjaw?'

"Yes, I should say so,' I replied.

He swallowed. "There's allus been a lot of 'osses at that farm, hasn't
there?'

"There has indeed.'

"And what .. .' He passed a hand across his forehead. "What kind of . ..
_ .. . cuts gets lockjaw in them?'

I saw no reason to be merciful. "Oh, deep punctured wounds like you
have. Especially in the feet.'

"Oh bloody 'elf!' moaned Gobber. Like many bullies he was a big baby
when his own hide was in danger.

Watching him sweating there I relented a little.

"Don't worry,' I said. "The doctor will give you a little shot and
you'll have nothing to worry about.'

The big man squirmed and wrung his hands. "Ah but I don't like
"'needle.'

"It's nothing, really,' I said, with only the slightest touch of sadism.
"Just a quick jab.'

"Oh bloody 'ell!'

: 1

. 1

1

. 1

~" At the surgery Harry Allinson gave us a cold look as we staggered in.
He had attended a few of Mrs Newhouse's black eyes and he didn't approve
of Gobber.

"Right, Jim,' he grunted. "Leave him to me.'

I was about to go when Gobber caught at my sleeve.

"Stay with me, Mr Herriot!' he whimpered. The man was in a pitiable
state of fright and I looked questioningly at the doctor.

Harry shrugged. "OK, you can stay and hold his hand if that's what he
wants.'

He produced a phial of tetanus antitoxin and a syringe.

"Drop your trousers and bend over, Newhouse,' he ordered curtly.

Gobber complied, exposing flaccid acres of the biggest backside, horses
included, which I had ever seen.

"You know, Newhouse,' Harry said conversationally as he filled the
syringe before the big man's terrified eyes. "Your wife tells me you
have no feelings.' He laughed gently. "Yes, that's what she says .. .
you have absolutely no feelings.'

He stepped quickly to the rear, rammed the needle deep into the
quivering buttock, then, as a shrill howl shook the windows, he looked
into Gobber's face with a wolfish grin.

"But you bloody well felt that, didn't you!'

Chapter Seventeen.

You often see dogs running along a road but there was something about
this one which made me slow down and take a second look.

It was a small brown animal and it was approaching on the other side;
and it wasn't just ambling by the grass verge but galloping all out on
its short legs, head extended forward as though in desperate pursuit of
something unseen beyond the long empty curve of tarmac ahead. As the dog
passed I had a brief glimpse of two staring eyes and a lolling tongue,
then he was gone.

My car stalled and lurched to a halt but I sat unheeding, still gazing
into the mirror at the small form receding rapidly until it was almost
invisible against the browns and greens of the surrounding moor. As I
switched on the engine I had difficulty in dragging my thoughts back to
the job in hand; because I had seen something chilling there, a
momentary but vivid impression of frantic effort, despair, blind terror.
And driving away, the image stayed with me. Where had that dog come
from? There were no roadside farms on this high, lonely by-way, not a
parked car anywhere. And in any case he wasn't just casually going
somewhere; there was a frenzied urgency in his every movement.

It was no good I had to find out. I backed off the unfenced road among
the spare tufts of heather and turned back in the direction I had come.
I had to drive a surprisingly long way before I saw the little animal,
still beating his solitary way, and at the sound of the approaching car
he halted, stared for a moment then trotted on again. But his labouring
limbs told me he was near exhaustion and I pulled up twenty yards ahead
of him, got out and waited.

He made no protest as I knelt on the roadside turf and caught him gently
as he came up to me. He was a Border terrier and after another quick
glance at the car his eyes took on their terrified light as he looked
again at the empty road ahead.

He wasn't wearing a collar but there was a ring of flattened hair on his
neck as though one had recently been removed. I opened his mouth and
looked at his teeth; he wasn't very old - probably around two or three.
There were rolls of fat along his ribs so he hadn't been starved. I was
examining his skin when suddenly the wide panting mouth closed and the
whole body stiffened as another car approached. For a moment he stared
at it with fierce hope but when the vehicle flashed by he sagged and
began to pant again.

So that was it. He had been dumped. Some time ago the humans he had
loved and trusted had opened their car door, hurled him out into an
unknown world and driven merrily away. I began to feel sick physically
sick - and a murderous rage flowed through me. Had they laughed, I
wondered, these people at the idea of the bewildered little creature
toiling vainly behind them?

I passed my hand over the rough hairs of the head. I could forgive
anybody for robbing a bank but never for this, "Come on, fella,' I said,
lifting him gently, 'you're coming home with me.'

Sam was used to strange dogs in the car and he sniffed incuriously at
the newcomer. The terrier huddled on the passenger seat trembling
violently and I kept my hand on him as I drove.

Back in our bed-sitter Helen pushed a bowl of meat and biscuit under his
nose but the little animal showed no interest.

"How could anybody do this?' she murmured. "And anyway, why? What reason
could they have?'

I stroked the head again. "Oh you'd be surprised at some of the reasons.
Sometimes they do it because a dog turns savage, but that can't be so in
this case.' I had seen enough of dogs to interpret the warm friendly
light behind the fear in those eyes. And the way the terrier had
submitted unquestioningly as I had prised his mouth open, lifted him,
handled him, all pointed to one thing; he was a docile little creature.

"Or sometimes,' I continued, 'they dump dogs just because they're tired
of them. They got them when they were charming puppies and have no
interest in them when they grow up. Or maybe the licence is due to be
paid - that's a good enough reason for some people to take a drive into
the country and push their pets out into the unknown.' I didn't say any
more. There was quite a long list and why should I depress Helen with
tales of the other times when I had seen it happen?

People moving to another house where they couldn't keep a dog. A baby
arriving and claiming all the attention and affection. And dogs were
occasionally abandoned when a more glamorous pet superseded them.

I looked at the little terrier. This was the sort of thing which could
have happened to him. A big dashing Alsatian, an eye-catching Saluki
anything like that would take over effortlessly from a rather roly-poly
Border terrier with some people. I had seen it in the past. The little
fellow was definitely running to fat despite his comparative youth; in
fact when he had been running back there his legs had splayed out from
his shoulders. That was another clue; it was possible he had spent most
of his time indoors without exercise.

Anyway I was only guessing. I rang the police. No reports of a lost dog
in the district. I hadn't really expected any.

During the evening we did our best to comfort the terrier but he lay
trembling, his head on his paws, his eyes closed. The only time he
showed interest was when a car passed along the street outside, then he
would raise his head and listen, ears pricked, for a few seconds till
the sound died away. Helen hoisted him on to her lap and held him there
for over an hour, but he was too deeply sunk in his misery to respond to
her caresses and soft words.

I finally decided it would be the best thing to sedate him and gave him
a shot of morphine. When we went to bed he was stretched out sound
asleep in Sam's basket with Sam himself curled up philosophically on the
rug by his side.

Next morning he was still unhappy but sufficiently recovered to look
around him and take stock. When I went up and spoke to him he rolled
over on his back, not playfully but almost automatically as though it
was a normal mannerism. I bent and rubbed his chest while he looked up
at me non-commitally. I liked dogs which rolled over like this; they
were usually good-natured and it was a gesture of trust.

"That's better, old lad,' I said. "Come on, cheer up!'

For a moment his mouth opened wide. He had a comical little monkey face
and briefly it seemed to be split in two by a huge grin, making him look
extraordinarily attractive.

Helen spoke over my shoulder. "He's a lovely little dog, Jim! He's so
appealing - I could get really fond of him.'

Yes, that was the trouble. So could I. I could get too fond of all the
unwanted animals which passed through our hands; not just the abandoned
ones but the dogs which came in for euthanasia with the traumatic
addendum 'unless you can find him a home'. That put the pressure on me.
Putting an animal to sleep when he was incurably ill, in pain, or so old
that life had lost its savour was something I could tolerate. In fact
often it seemed as though I were doing the suffering creature a favour.
But when a young, healthy, charming animal was involved then it was a
harrowing business.

What does a vet do in these circumstances. Refuse and send the owner
away with the lurking knowledge that the man might go round to the
chemist and buy a dose of posion? That was far worse than our humane,
painless barbiturate. One thing a vet can't do is take in all those
animals himself. If I had given way to all my impulses I would have
accumulated a positive menagerie by now.

It was a hell of a problem which had always troubled me and now I had a
soft hearted wife which made the pull twice as strong.

I turned to her now and voiced my thoughts.

"Helen, we can't keep him, you know. One dog in a bed-sitter is enough.'
I didn't add that we ourselves probably would not be in the bed-sitter
much longer; that was another thing I didn't want to bring up.

She nodded. "I suppose so. But I have the feeling that this is one of
the sweetest little dogs I've seen for a long time. When he gets over
his fear, I mean. What on earth can we do with him?'

"Well, he's a stray.' I bent again and rubbed the rough hair over the
chest. "So he should really go to the kennels at the police station. But
if he isn't claimed in ten days we are back where we started.' I put my
hand under the terrier's body and lifted him, limp and unresisting, into
the crook of my arm. He liked people, this one; liked and trusted them.
"I could ask around the practice, of course, but nobody seems to want a
dog when there's one going spare.' I thought for a moment or two. "Maybe
an advert in the local paper.'

"Wait a minute,' Helen said. "Talking about the paper - didn't I read
something about an animal shelter last week?'

I looked at her uncomprehendingly then I remembered.

"That's right. Sister Rose from the Topley Banks hospital. They were
interviewing her about the stray animals she had taken in. It would be
worth a try' I replaced the terrier in Sam's basket. "We'll keep this
little chap today and I'll ring Sister Rose when I finish work tonight.'

At teatime I could see that things were getting out of hand. When I came
in the little dog was on Helen's knee and it looked as though he had
been there for a long time. She was stroking his head and looking
definitely broody.

Not only that, but as I looked down at him I could feel myself
weakening.

Little phrases were creeping unbidden into my mind .. . "I wonder if we
could ~ find room for him  ... ' ... "Not much extra trouble  ... ' ...
"Perhaps if .) we .. .'

I had to act quickly or I was sunk. Reaching for the phone I dialled the
hospital number. They soon found Sister Rose and I listened to a
cheerful, businesslike voice. She didn't seem to find anything unusual
in the situation and the matter-of fact way she asked questions about
the terrier's age, appearance, temperament etc. gave the impression that
she had seen a lot of unwanted animals through her hands.

I could hear the firm pencilling sounds as she took notes then, "Well
now that sounds fine. He's the sort we can usually find a home for. When
can you bring him along?'

"Now,' I replied.

The misty look in Helen's eyes as I marched out with the dog under my
arm told me I was only just in time. And as I drove along the road I
couldn't put away the thought that if things had been different - the
future settled and a proper home - this little brown creature rolling on
his back on the passenger seat with his wide mouth half open and the
friendly eyes fixed questioningly on mine would never have got away from
me. Only when the occasional car trashed by did he spring upright and
look from the window with the old despairing expression. Would he ever
forget?

Sister Louisa Rose was a rather handsome woman in her late forties with
the sort of healthy smiling face I had imagined at the other end of the
phone. She reached out and took the terrier from me with the eager
gesture of the animal lover.

"Oh, he looks rather a dear, doesn't he?' she murmured.

Behind her house, a modern bungalow in the open country near the
hospital, she led me to a row of kennels with outside runs. Some of them
housed single dogs but there was one large one with an assortment of
mixed breeds playing happily together on the grass.

"I think we'll put him in here,' she said. "It'll cheer him up quicker
than anything and I'm sure he'll mix in well.' She opened a door in the
wire netting surround and pushed the little animal in. The other dogs
surrounded him and there was the usual ceremonious sniffing and
leg-cocking.

Sister Rose cupped her chin with her hand and looked down thoughtfully
through the wire. "A name, we must have a name .. . let me see .. no ..
. no .. . yes .. . Pip! We'll call him Pip!'

She looked at me with raised eyebrows and I nodded vigorously. "Yes,
definitely - just right. He looks like a Pip.'

She smiled impishly. "I think so, too, but I've had a lot of practice,
you know. I've become rather good at it.'

"I'll bet you have. I suppose you've named all this lot?'

"Of course.' She began to point them out one by one. "There's Bingo he
was a badly neglected puppy. And Fergus - just lost. That bigger
retriever is Griff - he was the survivor of a car crash where his owners
were killed. And Tessa, badly injured when she was thrown from a
fast-moving vehicle. Behind her over there is Sally Anne who really
started me in the business of Animal Sheltering. She was found heavily
pregnant with her paws bleeding so she must have run for many miles. I
took her in and managed to find homes for all her puppies and she's
still here. Placing those pups got me into contact with a lot of pet
owners and before I knew what was happening everybody had the idea that
I regularly took in stray animals. So I started and you can see the
result. I shall have to expand these premises soon.'

Pip didn't look so lonely now and after the preliminary courtesies he
joined a group watching interestedly a fierce tug-of-war on a stick
between a Collie and a crossed Labrador I laughed "You know I had no
idea you had all these dogs. How long do you keep them?'

"Till I can find a home for them. Some are only here a day, others stay
for weeks or months. And there are one or two like Sally Anne who seem
to be permanent boarders now.'

"But how on earth do you feed them all? It must be an expensive
business.'

She nodded and smiled. "Oh I run little dog shows, coffee mornings,
raffles, jumble sales, anything, but whatever my efforts I'm arraid the
strays keep munching their way into the red. But I manage.'

She managed, I guessed, by dipping deeply into her own pocket Around me
the abandoned and rejected dogs barked and ran around happily. I had
often thought when I encountered cruelty and neglect that there was a
whole army of people who did these unspeakable things, a great unheeding
horde who never spared a thought for the feelings of the helpless
creatures who depended on them. It was frightening in a way, but thank
heavens there was another army ranged on the other side, an army who
fought for the animals with everything they had - with their energy,
their time, their money.

I looked at Sister Rose, at the steady eyes in the clear-skinned,
scrubbed, nurse's face. I would have thought her profession of
dedication to the human race would have filled her life utterly with no
room for anything else, but it was not so.

"Well, I'm very grateful to you, Sister,' I said. "I hope somebody will
take Pip off your hands soon and if there's anything else I can do,
please let me know.'

She smiled. "Oh don't worry, I have a feeling this little chap won't be
here very long.'

Before leaving I leaned on the wire and took another look at the Border
terrier. He seemed to be settling all right but every now and then he
stopped and looked up at me with those questioning eyes which pulled so
hard. I had the nasty feeling that I, too, was letting him down. His
owners, then me, then Sister Rose, all in a couple of days . .. I hoped
it would work out for him.

Chapter Eighteen.

I found it difficult to get that dog out of my mind and I lasted only a
week before dropping in at the Animal Shelter. Sister Rose in an old
mackintosh and Wellingtons was filling the feed bowls in one of the
kennels.

"You've come about Pip, I expect,' she said, putting down her bucket.
"Well he went yesterday. I thought I'd have no trouble. A very nice
couple called round They wanted to give a home to a stray and they
picked him out straight away., She pushed the hair back from her
forehead. "In fact I've had a good week. I've found excellent homes for
Griff and Fergus too.'

"Fine, fine. That's great.' I paused for a moment. "I was wondering .. .
er .. . about Pip. Has he gone out of the district?'

Oh, no, he's right here in Darrowby. The people are called Plenderleith
he's a retired civil servant, quite high up I believe and he gave a
generous donation to the centre though I didn't expect one. They've
bought one of those nice little houses on the Houlton Road and there's a
lovely garden for Pip to play. I gave them your name, by the way, so no
doubt they'll be coming round to see you.'

A wave of totally irrational pleasure swept over me.

"Ah well, I'm glad to hear that. I'll be able to see how he's getting
on.'

I didn't have long to wait. It was less than a week later that I opened
the waiting-room door and saw an elderly couple sitting there with Pip
on the end of a very new lead. He adopted his usual gambit of rolling on
to his back as soon as he saw me, but this time there was no helpless
appeal in his expression but sheer joyous abandon with the comical
little face split across by a wide panting grin. As I went through the
ritual of chest rubbing I noticed he was wearing a new collar, too
expensive looking, with a shining medallion bearing his name, address
and telephone number. I lifted him and we all went through to the
consulting room.

"Well now, what's the trouble?' I asked.

"No trouble, really,' the man replied. He was plump, and the pink face,
grave eyes and immaculate dark suit accorded perfectly with my idea of a
top civil servant.

"I have recently acquired this small animal and should be grateful for
your advice about him. By the way, my name is Plenderleith and may I
introduce my wife.

Mrs Plenderleith was plump too, but it was a giggly plumpness. She
didn't look such a solid citizen as her husband.

"Firstly,' he continued, "I should like you to give him a thorough
check-up.'

I had already done this, but went through it again, though Pip made
things difficult by rolling over every time I got the stethoscope on his
chest. And as I took his temperature I noticed that Mr Plenderleith ran
his hand repeatedly over the brown hair of the back while his wife,
looking over his shoulder, made encouraging noises and nodded
reassuringly at the little dog.

"Absolutely sound in wind and limb,' I pronounced as I finished.

"Splendid,' the man said. "Er ... there was this little brown mark on
his abdomen .. .' A touch of anxiety showed in his eyes.

"Just a patch of pigment. Nothing, I assure you.'

"Ah yes, good, good.' Mr Plenderleith cleared~his throat. "I have to
confess, Mr Herriot, that my wife and I have never owned an animal
before. Now I believe in doing things thoroughly, so in order to give
him proper care and attention I have decided to study the matter. With
this in view I have purchased some book~ on the subject.' He produced
some shiny volumes from under his arm. (- The Dog, The Dog in Sickness
and Health, and finally The Border Te " eplied. Normally I would have
shied away from this imposing case I liked the way things were going. I
had the growing vas on a good wicket here.

<, ~ ~ned a considerable amount from my reading,' Mr Plen .'~ ~ l
believe it is desirable that he be inoculated against \ he is a stray so
there is no means of ascertaining ,~, ~ done.'

'\, '0 = C~act I was going to suggest that.' I produced a phial she s
Still he~. ~O ~; ta syringe.

and before I kne~ ~ ~ Nhan his owners as I gently injected the content5
took in stray animals. \, ~0, \~is face rigid with apprehension, kept
patting expand these premises soo~. ~ \,ther end stroked the hind limbs
and adjured After I had put the syringe away. Mr Plenderleith, visibly
relieved, recommenced his investigations. "Let me see now.' He put on
his spectacles, produced a gold pencil and snapped open a leather bound
pad where I could see a long list of neatly written notes. "I have one
or two queries here.'

And he had indeed. He grilled me at length on feeding, housing,
exercise, the relative values of wicker dog baskets and metal frame
beds, the salient features of the common ailments, often referring to
his shiny books. "I have a note here concerning page 143, line 9. It
says .. .'

I answered him patiently, leaning across the table. I had a waiting list
of farm visits including several fairly urgent jobs but I listened with
growing contentment. I had hoped for concerned and responsible persons
to take this little animal over and these people were right out of the
blueprint.

When at length Mr Plenderleith had finished he put away his note-book
and pencil and removed his spectacles with the firm precise movements
which seemed part of him.

"One of the reasons I desired a dog, Mr Herriot,' he went on, 'was to
provide myself with exercise. Don't you think that is a good idea?'

"It certainly is. One of the surest ways to keep fit is to own an active
little animal like this. You simply have to take him out and just think
of all the lovely grassy tracks over the hills around here. On Sunday
afternoons when other people are lying asleep in their chairs under
their newspapers you'll be out there striding the fells, rain, hail or
snow.'

Mr Plenderleith squared his shoulders and his jaw jutted as though he
already saw himself battling through a blizzard.

"And another thing,' his wife giggled, 'it'll take some of this off.'

She thumped him irreverently on his bulging waistline.

"Now now, my dear,' he admonished her gravely, but I had seen the
makings of a sheepish grin which completely belied his stuffed shirt
image. Mr Plenderleith, I felt, was all right.

He put his books under his arm and reached out for the little dog.
"Come, Pip, we mustn't delay Mr Herriot any longer.' But his wife was
too quick for him. She gathered the terrier into her arms and as we
walked along the passage she held the rough face against her own.

Outside the surgery door I saw them installed in a spotless little
family saloon and as they drove away Mr Plenderleith inclined his head
gravely, his wife gave a gay wave, but Pip, his hind legs on her knee,
feet on the dashboard, gazing eagerly through the windscreen was too
busy and interested to look at me.

As they rounded the corner I had the impression of a little cycle coming
to a happy end. And of course the main cog in the sequence of events had
been Sister Rose. This was just one of the helpless creatures she had
salvaged. Her Animal Shelter would grow and expand and daily she would
work harder without gain to herself. There were other people like her
all over the country, other Shelters; and I felt I had been given a
privileged glimpse of that selfless army which battled ceaselessly and
untiringly on the side of the great throng of dependent animals.

But right now I was concerned only with one thing. Pip had come home for
good.

Chapter Nineteen.

"Double Bezique!' Helen said, laying out the two queens of spades and
the jacks of diamonds And she looked across at me with a grin of
triumph.

She had the right kind of mouth, wide and generous, for such a grin and
there was no doubt she had cause for jubilation.

"Well that's torn it,' I grunted moodily. "I've been wondering where
those cards were and now I know. But why didn't you declare them
separately?'

"It's better fun this way,' my wife replied with a callous laugh. "I
wanted to see your face when I put them all out at once.'

"O.K., O.K.,' I said. "Gloat all you want. I didn't realise I had
married a sadist.'

With a sinking heart I saw her move her little peg five hundred points
up the board. It was a body blow and one from which I knew I would never
recover. She had already won two games tonight - I was being thrashed.

Still, there were compensations. There was a subdued excitement in just
sitting there by our fireside on a black winter's night like this and
listening to the wind buffeting the tall old house. I think it was the
nearness of the wild that made the coals burn brighter and the room seem
cosier, the awareness of the towering bare hills close by and the night
wind shrieking over the high tops and over the vast white emptiness of
the moors where it was cold, cold, and a man could quite easily lose
himself and die.

I dealt the next hand and looked with disgust at the rubbish I had given
myself. I stole a glance at Helen. The faintest trace of smugness showed
in her face as she viewed her hand. This wasn't going to be my night.

We played a lot of Bezique on those dark evenings. There wasn't much to
do in Darrowby but boredom was never a problem. in the beginning, in the
summer days, we walked every day along the grassy tracks in the hills
which make Yorkshire the finest walking country in England. We started
to cultivate a piece of the long garden behind the house for our own use
and I discovered an undreamed-of fascination in peas and broad beans. We
picked mushrooms which may not sound very exciting but I have warm
memories of the two of us wandering around sunlit fields with carrier
bags and stopping now and then to look at the beautynearby. In those
days before the old permanent pastures were ploughed up and artificial
fertilisers were scarcely used mushrooms grew abundantly; and they were
marvelous to eat. There was tennis, too, and at weekends Helen came with
me on my rounds.

But when the winter closed in Bezique was the thing. I studied my cards
again and listened to the wind. It made a soft whistling noise down in
the tiled passage far below. It was always as cold as the street in that
passage and not much warmer in the graceful sitting room where the wind
would tug at the heavy curtains over the french windows and perhaps send
fugitive gusts up the stairs to Siegfried's and Tristan's rooms and then
up to us on the top.

And the wind would push its fingers up under the tiles into the two
empty silent rooms which lay even higher than us. Rooms where the dust
lay thick beneath their tiny windows and the wind would stir the rafters
and pull at the little bell hanging from the great coiled spring. I
could hear the faint tinkling which in the days of the old house's glory
would summon a little maidservant from her high nest.

But now the bell went unheeded in the empty darkness. There was nobody
to answer it. The six servants who used to look after the Georgian
elegance of Skeldale House were only a memory among the older folk of
Darrowby and there was only Mrs Hall the housekeeper in her room at the
end of the offshoot.

"Royal marriage,' I said stiffly, putting out the king and queen of
trumps and advancing my peg a paltry forty points.

Helen nodded and I could see she was trying not to look condescending.
She hadn't declared anything for some time now and I had a nasty feeling
she was building up to something big. She bent over and poked the fire.
There was too much coal on it because I had laid the fire this evening.

We had a system that whoever was first home did that job. We had to
arrange something like this because Helen was a working girl now. There
wasn't much to do in our two rooms and our finances were at a low ebb so
she had taken a job as secretary to the local millers. The mill was on
the roadside down by the river and passers-by could see the big mill
wheel turning in the water and hear the great stones grinding the corn
in the room upstairs with the opening on to the road where the lorries
came to collect the loaded bags.

Helen's office was behind the mill shop, a floury, dusty, mealy place
stacked tightly with sacks of cow cake, sheep nuts, hen pellets and
drums of black treacle and when I slowed down outside I could often
catch a glimpse of her redsweatered back as she bent over her books.

Tonight I had been first home and Helen had come in as I was lighting my
pile of sticks and coal. Girls used to wear things called 'pixie hoods'
in those days and I can see her now in a blue pixie hood, her face
flushed with the long climb up the stairs looking round that door at me
busy with my chores.

But tonight my worst fears were being realised. My wife gave a long
contented sigh and laid out one by one the dread ace, king, queen, jack
and ten.

"Sequence,' she murmured in a matter of fact tone and moved her peg up
another two hundred and fifty.

It wasn't a defeat, it was a massacre. It was obvious I hadn't long to
live. But as I scanned the board anxiously the front door bell echoed
along the passage downstairs.

Maybe I was going to be saved. I leapt to my feet and began the familiar
descent.

A bulky figure loomed beyond the glass door at the end of the passage
and as I turned the handle a waft of beer fumes blew in.

"Ah want a cleansing drink,' the figure said.

I opened the door wide. "Come inside for a minute, it's a cold night.'

It was Reg Mallaby, a member of the large body of farmers who liked to
drop in at the surgery on the way home after a night in the pub or the
cinema, just to pick up some medicaments for the livestock.

We went into the office and he stood leaning on the desk, breathing
heavily.

"A cleansing drink, eh?' I said. "Right, I'll bring one through.'

Of course there was no such thing as a cleansing drink - there never has
been - and when I first came to Darrowby and didn't know any better I
used to waste a lot of time telling the farmers so. I went out of my way
to explain as lucidly as I could that nothing you poured down a cow's
throat could possibly influence the separation of the afterbirth and
that they shouldn't throw their money away on something which was
useless. The farmers listened with growing disbelief then left,
offended, to purchase a cleansing drink at the chemist's shop.

I took a more practical view now and went through to the stockroom.
There was quite a pile of the square packets there. They were wrapped in
bright red paper with lettering in confident black capitals and we did a
brisk trade in them at half a crown a time. We bought them by the gross
from a wholesaler and though I never had them analysed I had a strong
suspicion that they consisted of a pound of Epsom salts flavoured with
aromatic powder.

"Here you are, Mr Mallaby,' I said. "That's what you want, isn't it?'

"Aye, that's it, young man.' The farmer handled the packet almost
lovingly. "They're champion things, these, the knows. Ah've never known
'em fail. Must have some wonderful stuff in 'em.'

He handed over his half crown then looked at me benevolently. "I 'ope I
haven't disturbed you, lad. Maybe you were doing summat important like?'

"No, that's quite all right, Mr Mallaby.' I looked at him with mingled
surprise and gratitude. He was the first of the nocturnal callers who
had shown any interest or concern. It had always been another symptom of
the general opinion that vets have no private life. "No, you needn't
worry about that. I was just playing cards with my wife.'

The farmer nodded and a slow seraphic smile crept over his face. There
was no doubt he had been indulging to the full. Then he narrowed his
eyes suddenly.

"Is your Missus t'lass that works at "'mill?'

"Yes, that's right. She's in the office there.'

His face became very solemn. "Aye well, I 'ave a complaint to make.'

"A complaint? What do you mean?'

I must have looked astonished because he held up a placatory hand.

"Now then, young man, she's a grand lass, I'm not sayin' nowt about
that. But she sent me a wrong bill.'

"A wrong bill? In what way?'

"There was a mistake in it. She charged me for a lot o' things I never
'ad.'

"Well that's very strange. Are you absolutely sure?' I could easily
imagine myself making clerical errors but in my experience Helen was a
model of efficiency in that line.

"Aye, ah'm sure,' he replied. "Haud on a minute and I'll show you. I
'ave it in my pocket here.'

He put his cleansing drink on the desk and began a laborious search of
his pockets. He tracked down the offending account among a huge wad of
envelopes which he extracted from inside his coat.

"There y'are, young man,' he said importantly. "Just have a look at
that.'

I studied the paper carefully. Opposite a date at the top there was an
entry "Two bags pig meal' and underneath on dates when the order had
obviously been repeated Helen had put dittos by writing 'do .. . do . ..
do .. . do'.

"Well what's wrong with it, Mr Mallaby?'

The farmer pursed his lips. "Ah'll tell ye. Ye see that about pig meal?'

I nodded.

'well,' he went on, 'ah've had a few bags o' that, I'm not denyint and I
expect to pay for't. But  ... ' and here he raised a portentous
forefinger, 'there's one thing I'm certain of. Ah've never 'ad none o'
them bloody doo-doo's.'

~ _ .~

Chapter Twenty.

No vet likes to have his job made more difficult and as I worked inside
the ewe I fought a rising tide of irritation.

"You know, Mr Kitson,' I said testily, 'you should have got me out
sooner. How long have you been trying to lamb this ewe?'

The big man grunted and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, for a bit - not
ower long.'

"Half an hour - an hour?'

"Nay, nay, nobbut a few minutes.' Mr Kitson regarded me gloomily along
his pointed nose. It was his habitual expression; in fact I had never
seen him smile and the idea of a laugh ever disturbing those pendulous
cheeks was unthinkable.

I gritted my teeth and decided to say no more about it, but I knew it
had taken more than a few minutes to cause the swelling of the vaginal
wall, this sandpaper dryness of the little creature's inside. And it was
a simple enough presentation - biggish twins, one anterior the other
posterior, but of course as often happens the hind legs of one were laid
alongside the head of the other giving the illusion that they belonged
to the same lamb. I'd like to bet that Mr Kitson had been guddling for
ages inside her with his big rough hands in a dogged attempt to bring
that head and those legs out together.

If I had been there at the start it would have been the work of a few
moments but instead here I was without an inch of space, trying to push
things around with one finger instead of my full hand and getting
nowhere.

Fortunately the present day farmer doesn't often play this trick on us.
The usual thing I hear at a lambing is, "Nay, I just had a quick feel
and I knew it wasn't a job for me,' or something I heard from a farmer
the other day, "Two men at one ewe's no good,' and I think that says it
very well.

But Mr Kitson was of the old school. He didn't believe in getting the
vet out until every other avenue had been explored and when he did
finally have to fall back on our services he was usually dissatisfied
with the result.

"This is no good,' I said, withdrawing my hand and swilling it quickly
in the bucket. "I'll have to do something about this dryness.'

I walked the length of the old stable which had been converted into
temporary lambing pens and lifted a tube of lubricating cream from the
car boot. Coming in again I heard a faint sound from my left. The stable
was dimly lit and an ancient door had been placed across the darkest
corner to make a small enclosure. I looked inside and in the gloom could
just discern a ewe lying on her chest, head outstretched. Her ribs rose
and fell with the typical quick distressed respirations of a sheep in
pain. Occasionally she moaned softly.

"What's the trouble here?' I asked.

Mr Kitson regarded me impassively from the other end of the building.
"She 'ad a roughish time lambin' yesterday.'

"How do you mean, roughish?'

"Well .. . a big single lamb wi ' a leg back and I couldn't fetch it
round.'

"So you just pulled it out as it was .. . with the leg back?'

"Aye, nowt else ah could do.'

I leaned over the door and lifted the ewe's tail, filthy with faeces and
discharge. I winced as I saw the tumefied, discoloured vulva and
perineum.

"She could do with a bit of attention, Mr Kitson.'

The farmer looked startled. "Nay, nay, I don't want none o' that. It's
ower with her - there's nowt you can do.'

"You mean she's dying?'

"That's right.'

I put my hand on the sheep's head, feeling the coldness of the ears and
lips. He could be right.

"Well have you rung Mallock to come and pick her up? She really should
be put out of her pain as soon as possible.'

"Aye .. . ah'll do that.' Mr Kitson shuffled his feet and looked away.

I knew what the situation was. He was going to let the ewe 'take her
chance'. The lambing season was always a rewarding and fulfilling time
for me but this was the other side of the coin. It was a hectic time in
the farming year, a sudden onslaught of extra work on top of the routine
jobs and in some ways it overwhelmed the resources of farmers and vets
alike. The flood of new life left a pathetic debris behind it; a flotsam
and jetsam of broken creatures; ewes too old to stand a further
pregnancy, some debilitated by diseases like liver fluke and toxaemia,
others with infected arthritic joints and others who had just had a
'roughish time'. You were inclined to find them lying half forgotten in
dark corners like the one in this stable. They had been left there
to'take their chance'.

I returned in silence to my original patient. My lubricating cream made
a great difference and I was able to use more than one finger to
explore. I had to make up my mind whether to repel the posterior or
anterior presentation and since the head was well into the vagina I
decided to bring out the anterior first.

With the farmer's help I raised the ewe's hindquarters till they were
resting on a straw bale. I could work downhill now and gently pushed the
two hind limbs away into the depths of the uterus. In the space which
this left I was able to hook a finger round the fore limbs which were
laid back along the ribs of the anterior lamb and bring them into the
passage. I only needed another application of the cream and a few
moments' careful traction and the lamb was delivered.

But it was all too late. The tiny creature was quite dead and the knell
of disappointment sounded in me as it always did at the sight of a
perfectly formed body which lacked only the spark of life.

Hurriedly I greased my arm again and felt inside for the repelled lamb.
There was plenty of room now and I was able to loop my hand round the
hocks and draw the lamb out without effort. This time I had little hope
of life and my effort were solely to relieve the ewe's discomfort but as
the lamb came into the cold outside air I felt the convulsive jerk and
wriggle of the woolly little form in my hands which told me all was
well.

It was funny how often this happened; you got a dead lamb - sometimes
even a decomposed one - with a live one lurking behind it. Anyway it was
a bonus and with a surge of pleasure I wiped the mucus from its mouth
and pushed it forward for its mother to lick. A further exploration of
the uterus revealed nothing more and I got to my feet.

"Well she's come to no harm, and I think she'll be all right now,' I
said. "And could I have some fresh water, Mr Kitson, please?'

The big man wordlessly emptied the bucket on to the stable floor and
went off towards the house. In the silence I could faintly hear the
panting of the ewe in the far corner. I tried not to think of what lay
in front of her. Soon I would drive off and see other cases, then I
would have lunch and start my afternoon round while hidden in this
cheerless place a helpless animal was gasping her life away. How long
would it take her to die? A day? Two days. It was no good. I had to do
something about it. I ran out to my car, grabbed the bottle of nembutal
and my big fifty c.c. syringe and hurried back into the stable. I
vaulted over the rotting timbers of the door, drew out forty c.c.'s from
the bottle and plunged the whole dose into the sheep's peritoneal
cavity. Then I leapt back, galloped the length of the stable and when Mr
Kitson returned I was standing innocently where he had left me.

I towelled myself, put on my jacket and gathered up my bottle of
antiseptic and the tube of cream which had served me so well.

Mr Kitson preceded me along the stable and on the way out he glanced
over the door in the corner.

"By yaw, she's going' fast,' he grunted.

I looked over his shoulder into the gloom. The panting had stopped and
was replaced by slow, even respirations. The eyes were closed. The sheep
was anaesthetised. She would die in peace.

"Yes,' I said. "She's definitely sinking. I don't think it will be very
long now.' I couldn't resist a parting shaft. "You've lost this ewe and
that lamb back there. I think I could have saved both of them for you if
you'd given me a chance.'

Maybe my words got through to Mr Kitson, because I was surprised to be
called back to the farm a few days later to a ewe which had obviously
suffered very little interference.

The animal was in a field close to the house and she was clearly
bursting with lambs; so round and fat she could hardly waddle. But she
looked bright and healthy.

"There's a bloody mix-up in there,' Mr Kitson said morosely. "Ah could
feel two heads and God only knows how many feet. Didn't know where the
'ell I was.'

"But you didn't try very hard?'

"Nay, never tried at all.'

Well, we were making progress. As the farmer gripped the sheep round the
neck I knelt behind her and dipped my hands in the bucket. For once it
was a warm morning. Looking back, my memories of lambing times have been
of bitter winds searing the grass of the hill pastures, of chapped
hands, chafed arms, gloves, scarves and cold-nipped ears. For years
after I left Glasgow I kept waiting for the balmy early springs of
western Scotland. After thirty years I am still waiting and it has begun
to dawn on me that it doesn't happen that way in Yorkshire.

But this morning was one of the exceptions. The sun blazed from a sky of
soft blue, there was no wind but a gentle movement of the air rolled the
fragrance of the moorland flowers and warm grass over and around me as I
knelt there.

And I had my favourite job in front of me. I almost chuckled as I fished
around inside the ewe. There was all the room in the world, everything
was moist and fresh and unspoiled, and it was child's play to fit the
various jigsaws together. In about thirty seconds I had a lamb wriggling
on the grass, in a few moments more a second, then a third and finally
to my delight I reached away forward and found another little cloven
foot and whisked it out into the world.

"Quadruplets!' I cried happily, but the farmer didn't share my
enthusiasm.

"Nowt but a bloody nuisance,' he muttered. "She'd be far better wi' just
two.' He paused and gave me a sour look. "Any road, ah reckon there
wasn't no need to call ye. I could've done that job meself.'

I looked at him sadly from my squatting position. Sometimes in our job
you feel you just can't win. If you take too long, you're no good, if
you're too quick the visit wasn't necessary. I have never quite
subscribed to the views of a cynical -old colleague who once adjured me:
"Never make a lambing look easy. Hold the buggers in for a few minutes
if necessary.' But at times I felt he had a point.

Anyway, I had my own satisfaction in watching the four lambs. So often I
had pitied these tiny creatures in their entry into an uncharitable
world, :sometimes even of snow and ice, but today it was a joy to see
them trying to struggle to their feet under the friendly sun, their
woolly coats already drying rapidly. Their mother, magically deflated,
was moving among them in a bemused manner as though she couldn't quite
believe what she saw. As she nosed and licked them her deep-throated
chuckles were answered by the first treble quaverings of her family. I
was listening, enchanted, to this conversation when Mr Kitson spoke up.

"There's t'ewe you lambed t'other day.'

I looked up and there indeed she was, trotting proudly past, her lamb
close at her flank.

"Ah yes, she looks fine,' I said. That was good to see but my attention
was caught by something else. I pointed across the grass.

"That ewe away over there .. .' As a rule all sheep look alike to me but
there was something about this one I recognised .. . a loss of wool from
her back, a bare strip of skin stretched over the jutting ridge of her
spinal column .. . surely I couldn't be mistaken.

The farmer followed my pointing finger. "Aye, that's t'awd lass that was
laid in the stable last time you were here.' He turned an expressionless
gaze on me. "The one you told me to get Mallock to fetch.'

~ "But .. . but .. . she was dying!' I blurted out. i The corner of Mr
Kitson's mouth twitched upwards in what must have been the nearest
possible approach to a smile. "Well, that's what you tells me, young ,
feller.' He hunched his shoulders. "Said she 'adn't long to go, didn't
you?'

I had no words to offer. I just gaped at him. I must have been the
picture of bewilderment and it seemed the farmer was puzzled too because
he went on.

"But I'll tell the summat. Ah've been among sheep all me life but ah've
never seen owl like it. That ewe just went to sleep.'

"Is that so?'

"Aye, went to sleep, ah tell you and she stayed sleepin'for two days!'

- "She slept for two days?'

"She did, ah'm not jokin', nor jestin'. Ah kept going' into "'stable but
she never altered. Lay there peaceful as you like all t'first day, then
all "'second, then when I went in on t'third morning she was standin'
there lookin' at me and ready for some grub.'

"Amazing!' I got to my feet. "I must have a look at her.'

I really wanted to see what had become of that mass of inflammation and
tumefaction under her tail and I approached her carefully, jockeying her
bit by bit into the bottom corner of the field. There we faced each
other for a few tense moments as I tried a few feints and she responded
with nimble side-steps; then as I made my final swoop to catch her
fleece she eluded me effortlessly and shot past me with a thundering of
hooves. I gave chase for twenty yards but it was too hot and wellingtons
aren't the ideal gear for running. In any case I have long held the
notion that if a vet can't catch his patient there's nothing much to
worry about.

And as I walked back up the field a message was tapping in my brain. I
had discovered something, discovered something by accident. That ewe's
life had ~ been saved not by medicinal therapy but simply by stopping
her pain and allowing nature to do its own job of healing. It was a
lesson I have never: forgotten; that animals confronted with severe
continuous pain and the terror ~ and shock that goes with it will often
retreat even into death, and if you can ;] ~ ..] remove that pain
amazing things can happen. It is difficult to explain rationally but I
know that it is so.

By the time I had got back to Mr Kitson the sun was scorching the back
of my neck and I could feel a trickle of sweat under my shirt. The big
man was still watching the ewe which had finished its gallop and was
cropping the grass contentedly.

"Ah can't get over it,' he murmured, scratching the thin bristle on his
jaw. "Two whole days and never a move.' He turned to me and his eyes
widened.

"Ah'll tell the, young man, you'd just think she'd been drugged!'

Chapter Twenty-one.

I found it difficult to get Mr Kitson's ewe out of my mind but I had to
make the effort because while all the sheep work was going on the rest
of the practice problems rolled along unabated. One of these concerned
the Flaxtons' Poodle, Penny.

Penny's first visit to the surgery was made notable by the
attractiveness of her mistress. When I stuck my head round the
waiting-room door and said, "Next please,' Mrs Flaxton's little round
face with its shining tight cap of blue-black hair seemed to illumine
the place like a beacon. It is possible that the effect was heightened
by the fact that she was sitting between fifteen stone Mrs Barmby, who
had brought her canary to have its claws clipped, and old Mr Spence who
was nearly ninety and had called round for some flea powder for his cat,
but there was no doubt she was good to look at.

And it wasn't just that she was pretty; there was a round-eyed, innocent
appeal about her and she smiled all the time. Penny, sitting on her
knee, seemed to be smiling from under the mound of brown curls on her
forehead.

In the consulting room I lifted the little dog on to the table. "Well
now, what's the trouble?'

"She has a touch of sickness and diarrhoea,' Mrs Flaxton replied. "It
started yesterday.'

"I see.' I turned and lifted the thermometer from the trolley. "Has she
had a change of food?'

"No, nothing like that.'

"Is she inclined to eat rubbish when she's out?'

Mrs Flaxton shook her head. "No, not as a rule. But I suppose even the
nicest dog will have a nibble at a dead bird or something horrid like
that now and then.' She laughed and Penny laughed back at her.

"Well, she has a slightly raised temperature but she seems bright
enough.' I put my hand round the dog's middle. "Let's have a feel at
your tummy, Penny.'

The little animal winced as I gently palpated the abdomen, and there was
a tenderness throughout the stomach and intestines.

"She has gastroenteritis,' I said. "But it seems fairly mild and I think
it should clear up quite soon. I'll give you some medicine for her and
you'd better keep her on a light diet for a few days.'

Yes, I'll do that. Thank you very much.' Mrs Flaxton's smile deepened as
she patted her dog's head. She was about twenty-three and she and her
young husband had only recently come to Darrowby. He was a
representative of one of the big agricultural firms which supplied meal
and cattle cake to the farms and I saw him occasionally on my rounds.
Like his wife, and indeed his dog, he gave off an ambience of eager
friendliness.

I sent Mrs Flaxton off with a bottle of bismuth, kaolin and chlorodyne
mixture which was one of our cherished treatments. The little dog
trotted down the surgery steps, tail wagging, and I really didn't expect
any more trouble.

Three days later, however, Penny was in the surgery again. She was still
vomiting and the diarrhoea had not taken up in the least.

I got the dog on the table again and carried out a further examination
but there was nothing significant to see. She had now had five days of
this weakening condition but though she had lost a bit of her perkiness
she still looked remarkably bright. The Toy Poodle is small but tough
and very game and this one wasn't going to let anything get her down
easily.

But I still didn't like it. She couldn't go on like this. I decided to
alter the treatment to a mixture of carbon and astringents which had
served me well in the past.

"This stuff looks a bit messy,' I said, as I gave Mrs Flaxton a powder
box full of the black granules. "But I have had good results with it.
She's still eating, isn't she, so I should mix it in her food.'

"Oh thank you.' She gave me one of her marvelous smiles as she put the
box in her bag and I walked along the passage with her to the door. She
had left her pram at the foot of the steps and I knew before I looked
under the hood what kind of baby I would find. Sure enough the chubby
face on the pillow gazed at me with round friendly eyes and then split
into a delighted grin.

They were the kind of people I liked to see but as they moved off down
the street I hoped for Penny's sake that I wouldn't be seeing them for a
long time. However, it was not to be. A couple of days later they were
back and this time the Poodle was showing signs of strain. As I examined
her she stood motionless and dead-eyed with only the occasional twitch
of her tail as I stroked her head and spoke to her.

"I'm afraid she's just the same, Mr Herriot,' her mistress said. "She's
not eating much now and whatever she does goes straight through her. And
she has a terrific thirst - always at her water bowl and then she brings
it back.'

I nodded. "I know. This inflammation inside her gives her a raging
desire for water and of course the more she drinks the more she vomits.
And this is terribly weakening.'

Again I changed the treatment. In fact over the next few days I ran
through just about the entire range of available drugs. I look back with
a wry smile at the things I gave that little dog, powdered epicacuanha
and opium, sodium salicylate and tincture of camphor, even way-out
exotics like decoction of haematoxylin and infusion of caryophyllum
which thank heavens have been long forgotten. I might have done a bit of
good if I had had access to a gut-active antibiotic like neomycin but as
it was I got nowhere.

I was visiting Penny daily as she was unfit to bring to the surgery. I
had her on a diet of arrowroot and boiled milk but that, like my medical
treatment, achieved nothing. And all the time the little dog was
slipping away.

The climax came about three o'clock one morning. As I lifted the bedside
phone Mr Flaxton's voice, with a tremor in it, came over the line.

"I'm terribly sorry to get you out of your bed at this hour, Mr Herriot,
but I wish you'd come round to see Penny.'

"Why, is she worse?'

"Yes, and she's .. . well .. . she's suffering now, I'm afraid. You saw
her this afternoon didn't you? Well since then she's been drinking and
vomiting and this diarrhoea running away from her all the time till
she's about at the far end. She's just lying in her basket crying. I'm
sure she's in great pain.'

"Right, I'll be there in a few minutes.'

"Oh thank you.' He paused for a moment. "And Mr Herriot .. . you'll come
prepared to put her down won't you?'

My spirits, never very high at that time in the morning, plummeted to
the depths. "As bad as that, is it?'

"Well honestly we can't bear to see her. My wife is so upset .. . I
don't think she can stand any more.'

"I see.' I hung up the phone and threw the bedclothes back with a
violence which brought Helen wide awake. Being disturbed in the small
hours was one of the crosses a vet's wife has to bear, but normally I
crept out as quietly as I could. This time, however, I stamped about the
bedroom, dragging on my clothes and muttering to myself; and though she
must have wondered what this latest crisis meant she wisely watched me
in silence until I turned out the light and left.

I had not far to go. The Flaxtons lived in one of the new bungalows on
the Brawton Road less than a mile away. The young couple, in their
dressing gowns, led me into the kitchen and before I reached the dog
basket in the corner I could hear Penny's whimperings. She was not lying
comfortably curled up, but on her chest, head forward, obviously acutely
distressed. I put my hands under her and lifted her and she was almost
weightless. A Toy Poodle in its prime is fairly insubstantial but after
her long illness Penny was like a bedraggled little piece of
thistledown, her curly brown coat wet and soiled by vomit and diarrhoea.

Mrs Flaxton's smile for once was absent. I could see she was keeping
back the tears as she spoke.

"It really would be the kindest thing .. .'

"Yes .. . yes .. .' I replaced the tiny animal in her basket and
crouched over her, chin in hand. "Yes, I suppose you're right.'

But still I didn't move but stayed, squatting there, staring down in
disbelief at the evidence of my failure. This dog was only two years old
- a lifetime of running and jumping and barking in front of her; all she
was suffering from was gastroenteritis and now I was going to extinguish
the final spark in her. It was a bitter thought that this would be just
about the only positive thing I had done right from the start.

A weariness swept over me that was not just due to the fact that I had
been snatched from sleep. I got to my feet with the slow stiff movements
of an old man and was about to turn away when I noticed something about
the little animal. She was on her chest again, head extended, mouth
open, tongue lolling as she panted. There was something there I had seen
before somewhere .. . that posture .. . and the exhaustion, pain and
shock .. . it slid almost imperceptibly into my sleepy brain that she
looked exactly like Mr Kitson's ewe in its dark corner A different
species, yes, but all the other things were there.

"Mrs Flaxton,' I said, "I want to put Penny to sleep. Not the way you
think, but to anaesthetise her. Maybe if she has a rest from this
nonstop drinking and vomiting and straining it will give nature a
chance.'

The young couple looked at me doubtfully for a few moments then it was
the husband who spoke.

"Don't you think she has been through enough, Mr Herriot?'

"She has, yes she has.' I ran a hand through my rumpled uncombed hair.
"But this won't cause her any more distress. She won't know a thing
about it.'

When they still hesitated I went on. "I would very much like to try it -
it's just an idea I've got.'

They looked at each other, then Mrs Flaxton nodded. "All right, go
ahead, but this will be the last, won't it?'

Out into the night air to my car for the same bottle of nembutal and a
very small dose for the little creature. I went back to my bed with the
same feeling I had had about the ewe; come what may there would be no
more suffering.

Next morning Penny was still stretched peacefully on her side and when,
about four o'clock in the afternoon, she showed signs of awakening I
repeated the injection.

Like the ewe she slept for forty-eight hours and when she finally did
stagger to her feet she did not head immediately for her water bowl as
she had done for so many days. Instead she made her feeble way outside
and had a walk round the garden.

From then on, recovery, as they say in the case histories, was
uneventful. Or as I would rather write it, she wonderfully and
miraculously just got better and never ailed another thing throughout
her long life.

Helen and I used to play tennis on the grass courts near the Darrowby
cricket ground. So did the Flaxtons and they always brought Penny along
with them. I used to look through the wire at her romping with other
dogs and later with the Flaxtons' fast growing young son and I
marvelled.

I do not wish to give the impression that I advocate wholesale
anaesthesia for all animal ailments but I do know that sedation has a
definite place. Nowadays we have a sophisticated range of sedatives and
tranquillisers to choose from and when I come up against an acute case
of gastroenteritis in dogs I use one of them as an adjunct to the normal
treatment; because it puts a brake on the deadly exhausting cycle and
blots out the pain and fear which go with it.

And over the years, whenever I saw Penny running around, barking,
bright-eyed, full of the devil, I felt a renewed welling of thankfulness
for the cure which I discovered in a dark corner of a stable by
accident.

Chapter Twenty-two.

The name was on the garden gate - Lilac Cottage. I pulled out my list of
visits and checked the entry again. "Cook, Lilac Cottage, Marston Hall.
Bitch overdue for whelping.' This was the place all right, standing in
the grounds of the Hall, a nineteenth-century mansion house whose
rounded turrets reared above the fringe of pine trees less than half a
mile away.

The door was opened by a heavy featured dark woman of about sixty who
regarded me unsmilingly.

"Good morning, Mrs Cook,' I said. "I've come to see your bitch.'

She still didn't smile. "Oh, very well. You'd better come in.'

She led me into the small living room and as a little Yorkshire Terrier
jumped down from an armchair her manner changed.

"Come here, Cindy my darling',' she cooed. "This gentleman's come to
make you better.' She bent down and stroked the little animal, her face
radiant with affection.

I sat down in another armchair. "Well what's the trouble, Mrs Cook?'

"Oh, I'm worried to death.' She clasped her hands anxiously. "She should
have had her pups yesterday and there's nothing happenin'. Ah couldn't
sleep all night - I'd die if anything happened to this dog.'

I looked at the terrier, tail wagging, gazing up, bright-eyed under her
mistress' caress. "She doesn't seem distressed at all. Has she shown any
signs of labour?'

"What d'you mean?'

Well, has she been panting or uneasy in any way? Is there any
discharge?'

"No, nothing like that.'

I beckoned to Cindy and spoke to her and she came timidly across the
lino till I was able to lift her on to my lap. I palpated the distended
abdomen; there was a lot of pups in there but everything appeared
normal. I took her temperature - normal again.

"Bring me some warm water and soap, Mrs Cook, will you please?' I said.
The terrier was so small that I had to use my little finger, soaped and
disinfected, to examine her, and as I felt carefully forward the walls
of the vagina were dry and clinging and the cervix, when I reached it,
tightly closed.

I washed and dried my hands. "This little bitch isn't anywhere near
whelping, Mrs Cook. Are you sure you haven't got your dates wrong?'

"No, I 'aven't, it was sixty-three days yesterday.' She paused in
thought for a moment. "Now ah'd better tell you this, young man. Cindy's
had pups before and she did self and same thing - wouldn't get on with
t'job. That was two years ago when I was livin' over in Listondale. I
got Mr Broomfield the vet to her and he just gave her an injection. It
was wonderful - she had the pups half an hour after it.'

I smiled. "Yes, that would be pituitrin. She must have been actually
whelping when Mr Broomfield saw her.'

"Well whatever it was, young man, I wish you'd give her some now. Ah
can't stand all this suspense.'

"I'm sorry.' I lifted Cindy from my lap and stood up. "I can't do that.
It would be very harmful at this stage.'

She stared at me and it struck me that that dark face could look very
forbidding. "So you're not going'to do anything at all?'

"Well .. .' There are times when it is a soothing procedure to give a
client something to do even if it is unnecessary. "Yes, I've got some
tablets in the car. They'll help to keep the little dog fit until she
whelps.'

"But I'd far rather have that injection. It was just a little prick.

Didn't take Mr Broomfield more than a second to do.'

"I assure you, Mrs Cook, it can't be done at the moment. I'll get the
tablets from the car.'

Her mouth tightened. I could see she was grievously disappointed in me.
"Oh well if you won't you won't, so you'd better get them things.' She
paused: "And me name isn't Cook!'

"It isn't?'

"No it isn't, young man.' She didn't seem disposed to offer further
information so I left in some bewilderment.

Out in the road, a few yards from my car, a farm man was trying to start
a tractor. I called over to him.

"Hey, the lady in there says her name isn't Cook.'

"She's right an' all. She's the cook over at the Hall. You've gotten a
bit mixed up.' He laughed heartily.

It all became suddenly clear; the entry in the day book, everything.
"What's her right name, then?'

"Booby,' he shouted just as the tractor roared into life.

Funny name, I thought, as I produced my harmless vitamin tablets from
the boot and returned to the cottage. Once inside I did my best to put
things right ~ ~` ~rl l lu/II~3

with plenty of "Yes, Mrs Booby' and "No, Mrs Booby' but the lady didn't
thaw. I told her not to worry and that I was sure nothing would happen
for several days but I could tell I wasn't impressing her.

I waved cheerfully as I went down the path.

"Goodbye, Mrs Booby,' I cried. "Don't hesitate to ring me if you're in
doubt about anything.'

She didn't appear to have heard.

"Oh I wish you'd do as I say,' she wailed. "It was just a little prick.'

The good lady certainly didn't hesitate to ring. She was at me again the
next day and I had to rush out to her cottage. Her message was the same
as before; she wanted the wonderful injection which would make those
pups pop out and she wanted it right away. Mr Broomfield hadn't messed
about and wasted time like I had. And on the third and fourth and fifth
mornings she had me out at Marston examining the little bitch and
reciting the same explanations. Things came to a head on the sixth day.

In the room at Lilac Cottage the dark eyes held a desperate light as
they stared into mine. "I'm about at the end of my tether, young man. I
tell you I'll die if anything happens to this dog. I'll die. Don't you
understand?'

"Of course I know how you feel about her, Mrs Booby. Believe me, I fully
understand.'

"Then why don't you do something?' she snapped.

I dug my nails into my palms. "Look, I've told you. A pituitrin
injection works by contracting the muscular walls of the uterus so it
can only bc given when labour has started and the cervix is open. If I
find it is indicated I will do it, but if I give this injection now it
could cause rupture of the uterus. It could cause death.' l stopped
because I fancied little bubbles were beginning to collect at the
corners of my mouth.

But I don't think she had listened to a word. She sunk her head in her
hands. "All this time, I can't stand it.'

I was wondering if I could stand much more of it myself. Bulging
Yorkshire Terriers had begun to prance through my dreams at night and I
greeted each new day with a silent prayer that the pups had arrived. I
held out my hand to Cindy and she crept reluctantly towards me. She was
heartily sick of this strange man who came every day and squeezed her
and~stuck fingers into her and she submitted again with trembling limbs
and frightened eyes to the indignity.

"Mrs Booby,' I said, 'are you absolutely sure that dog didn't have
access to Cindy after the service date you gave me?'

She sniffed. "You keep asking' me that and ah've been thinking about it.
Maybe he did come a week after, now I think on.'

"Well, that's it, then!' I spread my hands. "She's held to the second
mating, so she should be due tomorrow.'

"Ah would still far rather you would get it over with today like Mr
Broomfield did .. . it was just a little prick.'

"But Mrs Booby .. .!'

"And let me tell you another thing, me name's not Booby!'

I clutched at the back of the chair. "It's not?'

"Naw!'

"Well .. . what is it, then?'

"It's Dooley .. . Dooley!' She looked very cross.

"Right .. . right .. .'1 stumbled down the garden path and drove away.
It was not a happy departure.

Maybe all was well at last. But I turned cold when an urgent call to go
to Lilac Cottage was passed on to one of the farms on my round. I was
right at the far end of the practice area and was in the middle of a
tough calving and it was well over three hours before I got out at the
now familiar garden gate. The cottage door was open and as I ventured up
the path a little brown missile hurtled out at me. It was Cindy, but a
transformed Cindy, a snarling, barking little bundle of ferocity; and
though I recoiled she fastened her teeth in my trouser cuff and hung on
grimly.

I was hopping around on one leg trying to shake off the growling little
creature when a peal of almost girlish laughter made me look round.

Mrs Dooley, vastly amused, was watching me from the doorway. "My word,
she's different since she had them pups. Just shows what a good little
mother she is, guarding them like that.' She gazed fondly at the tiny
animal dangling from my ankle.

"Had the pups ... ?'

"Aye, when they said you'd be a long time I rang Mr Farnon. He came
right away and d'you know he gave Cindy that injection I've wanted all
along. And I tell you 'e wasn't right out of "'garden gate before the
pups started. She's had seven - beauties they are.'

"Ah well that's fine, Mrs Dooley ... splendid.' Siegfried had obviously
felt a pup in the passage. I finally managed to rid myself of Cindy and
when her mistress lifted her up I went into the kitchen to inspect the
family.

They certainly were grand pups and I lifted the squawking little morsels
one by one from their basket while their mother snarled from Mrs
Dooley's arms like a starving wolphound.

"They're lovely, Mrs Dooley,' I murmured.

She looked at me pityingly. "I told you what to do, didn't 1, but you
wouldn't 'ave it. It only needed a little prick. Ooo, that Mr Farnon's a
lovely man - just like Mr Broomfield.'

This was a bit much. "But you must realise, Mrs Dooley, he just happened
to arrive at the right time. If I had come .. .'

"Now, now, young man, be fair. Ah'm not blamin' you, but some people
have had more experience. We all 'ave to learn.' She sighed
reminiscently. "It was just a little prick - Mr Farnon'll have to show
you how to do it. I tell you he wasn't right out of "'garden gate.. .'

Enough is enough. I drew myself up to my full height. "Mrs Dooley,
madam,' I said frigidly, 'let me repeat once and for all .. .'

"Oh, hoity toity, hoity toity, don't get on your high horse wi' me!' she
exclaimed. "We've managed very nicely without you so don't complain.'
Her expression became very severe. "And one more thing - me name's not
Mrs Dooley.'

My brain reeled for a moment. The world seemed to be crumbling about me.
"What did you say?'

"I said me name's not Mrs Dooley.'

"It isn't?'

"Naw!' She lifted her left hand and as I gazed at it dully I realised it
must have been all the mental stress which have prevented me from
noticing the total absence of rings.

"New!' she said. "It's Miss!'

Next morning I could hardly believe it when there was no call from
Marston.

Chapter Twenty-three.

I had never been married before so there was nothing in my past
experience to go by but it was beginning to dawn on me that I was very
nicely fixed.

I am talking, of course, of material things. It would have been enough
for me or anybody else to be paired with a beautiful girl whom I loved
and who loved me. I hadn't reckoned on the other aspects.

This business of studying my comfort, for instance. I thought such
things had gone out of fashion, but not so with Helen. It was brought
home to me again as I walked in to breakfast this morning. We had at
last acquired a table - I had bought it at a farm sale and brought it
home in triumph tied to the roof of my car - and now Helen had vacated
the chair on which she used to sit at the bench and had taken over the
high stool. She was perched away up there now, transporting her food
from far below, while I was expected to sit comfortably in the chair. I
don't think I am a selfish swine by nature but there was nothing I could
do about it.

And there were other little things. The neat pile of clothing laid out
for me each morning; the clean, folded shirt and handkerchief and socks
so different from the jumble of my bachelor days. And when I was late
for meals, which was often, she served me with my food but instead of
going off and doing something else she would down tools and sit watching
me while I ate. It made me feel like a sultan.

It was this last trait which gave me a clue to her behaviour. I suddenly
remembered that I had seen her sitting by Mr Alderson while he had a
late meal; sitting in the same pose, one arm on the table, quietly
watching him. And I realised I was reaping the benefit of her lifetime
attitude to her father. Mild little man though he was she had catered
gladly to his every wish in the happy acceptance that the man of the
house was number one; and the whole pattern was rubbing off on me now.

In fact it set me thinking about the big question of how girls might be
expected to behave after marriage. One old farmer giving me advice about
choosing a wife once said; "Have a bloody good look at the mother first,
lad', and I am sure he had a point. But if I may throw in my own little
word of counsel it would be to have a passing glance at how she acts
towards her father.

Watching her now as she got down and started to serve my breakfast the
warm knowledge flowed through me as it did so often that my wife was the
sort who just liked looking after a man and that I was so very lucky.

And I was certainly blooming under the treatment. A bit too much, in
fact, and I was aware I shouldn't be attacking this plateful of porridge
and cream; especially with all that material sizzling in the frying pan.
Helen had brought with her to Skeldale House a delicious dowry in the
shape of half a pig and there hung from the beams of the topmost attic a
side of bacon and a majestic ham; a constant temptation. Some samples
were in the pan now and though I had never been one for large breakfasts
I did not demur when she threw in a couple of big brown eggs to keep
them company. And I put up only feeble resistance when she added some
particularly tasty smoked sausage which she used to buy in a shop in the
market place.

When I had got through it all I rose rather deliberately from the table
and as I put on my coat I noticed it wasn't so easy to button as it used
to be.

"Here are your sandwiches, Jim,' Helen said, putting a parcel in my
hand. I was spending a day in the Scarburn district, tuberculin testing
for Ewan Ross and my wife was always concerned lest I grow faint from
lack of nourishment on the long journey.

I kissed her, made a somewhat ponderous descent of the long flights of
stairs and went out the side door. Half way up the garden I stopped as
always and looked up at the window under the tiles. An arm appeared and
brandished a dishcloth vigorously. I waved back and continued my walk to
the yard. I found I was puffing a little as I got the car out and I laid
my parcel almost guiltily on the back seat. I knew what it would
contain; not just sandwiches but meat and onion pie, buttered scones,
ginger cake to lead me into further indiscretions.

There is no doubt that in those early days I would have grown
exceedingly gross under Helen's treatment. But my job saved me; the
endless walking between the stone barns scattered along the hillsides,
the climbing in and out of calf pens, pushing cows around, and regular
outbursts of hard physical effort in calving and foaling. So I escaped
with only a slight tightening of my collar and the occasional farmer's
remark, "By yaw, you've been on a good pasture, young man!'

Driving away, I marvelled at the way she indulged my little whims, too.
I have always had a pathological loathing of fat, so Helen carefully
trimmed every morsel from my meat. This feeling about fat, which almost
amounted to terror, had been intensified since coming to Yorkshire,
because back in the thirties the farmers seemed to live on the stuff.
One old man, noticing my pop-eyed expression as I viewed him relishing
his lunch of roast fat bacon, told me he had never touched lean meat in
his life.

"Ah like to feel "'grease runnin' down ma chin!' he chuckled. He
pronounced it 'grayus' which made it sound even worse. But he was a
ruddy-faced octogenarian, so it hadn't done him any harm; and this held
good for hundreds of others just like him. I used to think that the day
in day out hard labour of farming burned it up in their systems but if I
had to eat the stuff it would kill me very rapidly.

The latter was, of course, a fanciful notion as was proved to me one
day.

It was when I was torn from my bed one morning at 6 a.m. to attend a
calving heifer at old Mr Homer's small farm and when I got there I found
there was no malpresentation of the calf but that it was simply too big.
I don't like a lot of pulling but the heifer, lying on her bed of straw,
was obviously in need of assistance. Every few seconds she strained to
the utmost and a pair of feet came into view momentarily then
disappeared as she relaxed.

"Is she getting those feet out any further?' I asked.

"Nay, there's been no change for over an hour,' the old man replied.

"And when did the water bag burst?'

"Two hours since.'

There was no doubt the calf was well and truly stuck and getting drier
all the time, and if the labouring mother had been able to speak I think
she would have said: "For Pete's sake get this thing away from me!'

I could have done with a big strong man to help me but Mr Homer, apart
from his advanced age, was a rather shaky lightweight. And since the
farm was perched on a lonely eminence miles from the nearest village
there was no chance of calling in a neighbour. I would have to do the
job myself.

It took me nearly an hour. With a thin rope behind the calf's ears and
through his mouth to stop the neck from telescoping I eased the little
creature inch by inch into the world. Not so much pulling but rather
leaning back and helping the heifer as she strained. She was a rather
undersized little animal and she lay patiently on her side, accepting
the situation with the resignation of her kind. She could never have
calved without help and all the time I had the warm conviction that I
was doing what she wanted and needed. I felt I should be as patient as
she wasso I didn't hurry but let things come in their normal sequence;
the little nose with the nostrils twitching reassuringly, then the eyes
wearing a preoccupied light curing the tight squeeze, then the ears and
with a final rush the rest of the calf.

The young mother was obviously none the worse because she rolled on to
her chest almost immediately and began to sniff with the utmost interest
at the new arrival. She was in better shape than myself because I
discovered with some surprise that I was sweating and breathless and my
arms and shoulders were aching.

The farmer, highly pleased, rubbed my back briskly with the towel as I
bent over the bucket, then he helped me on with my shirt.

"Well that's champion, lad. You'll come in and have a cup of tea now,
won't you?'

In the kitchen mrs Homer placed a steaming mug on the table and smiled
across at me.

"Will you sit down along o' my husband and have a bit o' breakfast?' she
asked.

There is nothing like an early calving to whet the appetite and I nodded
readily. "That's very kind of you, I'd love to.'

It is always a good feeling after a successful delivery and I sighed
contentedly as I sank into a chair and watched the old lady set out
bread, butter and jam in front of me. I sipped my tea and as I exchanged
a word with the farmer I didn't see what she was doing next. Then my
toes curled into a tight ball as I found two huge slices of pure white
fat lying on my plate.

Shrinking back in my seat I saw Mrs Homer sawing at a great hunk of cold
boiled bacon. But it wasn't ordinary bacon, it was one hundred per cent
fat without a strip of lean anywhere. Even in my shocked state I could
see it was a work of art; cooked to a turn, beautifully encrusted with
golden crumbs and resting on a spotless serving dish . .. but fat.

She dropped two similar slices on her husband's plate and looked at me
expectantly.

My position was desperate. I could not possibly offend this sweet old
person but on the other hand I knew beyond all doubt that there was no
way I could eat what lay in front of me. Maybe I could have managed a
tiny piece if it had been hot and crisp, but cold, boiled and clammy ..
. never. And there was an enormous quantity; two slices about six inches
by four and at least half an inch thick with ~he golden border of crumbs
down one side. The thing was impossible.

Mrs Homer sat down opposite me. She was wearing a flowered mob cap over
her white hair and for a moment she reached out, bent her head to one
side and turned the dish with the slab of bacon a little to the left to
show it off better. Then she turned to me and smiled. It was a kind,
proud smile.

There have been times in my life when, confronted by black and hopeless
circumstances, I have discovered in myself undreamed-of resources of
courage and resolution. I took a deep breath, seized knife and fork and
made a bold incision in one of the slices, but as I began to transport
the greasy white segment to my mouth I began to shudder and my hand
stayed frozen in space. It was at that momment I spotted the jar of
piccalilli. Feverishly I scooped a mound of it on to my plate. It seemed
to contain just about everything; onions, apples, cucumber and other
assorted vegetables jostling each other in a powerful mustard-vinegar
sauce. It was the work of a moment to smother my loaded fork with the
mass, then I popped it into my mouth, gave a couple of quick chews and
swallowed. It was a start and I hadn't tasted a thing except the
piccalilli.

"Nice bit ,of bacon,' Mr Homer murmured.

"Delicious!' I replied, munching desperately at the second forkful.
"Absolutely delicious!'

"And you like ma piccalilli too!' The old lady beamed at me. "Ah can
tell by the way you're slappin' it on!' She gave a peal of delighted
laughter.

"Yes, indeed.' I looked at her with streaming eyes. "Some of the best
I've ever tasted.'

Looking back, I realise it was one of the bravest things I have ever
done. I stuck to my task unwaveringly, dipping again and again into the
jar, keeping my mind a blank, refusing grimly to think of the horrible
thing that was happening to me. There was only one bad moment, when the
piccalilli, which packed a tremendous punch and was never meant to be
consumed in large mouthfuls, completely took my breath away and I went
into a long coughing spasm. But at last I came to the end. A final
heroic crunch and swallow, a long gulp at my tea and the plate was
empty. The thing was accomplished.

And there was no doubt it had been worth it. I had been a tremendous
success with the old folks. Mr Homer slapped my shoulder.

"By yaw, it's good to see a young feller enjoyin' his food! When I were
a lad I used to put it away sharpish, like that, but ah can't do it
now.' Chuckling to himself, he continued with his breakfast.

His wife showed me the door. "Aye, it was a real compliment to me.' She
looked at the table and giggled. "You've nearly finished the jar!'

"Yes, I'm sorry, Mrs Homer,' I said, smiling through my tears and trying
to ignore the churning in my stomach. "But I just couldn't resist it.'

Contrary to my expectations I didn't drop down dead soon afterwards but
for a week I was oppressed by a feeling of nausea which I am prepared to
believe was purely psychosomatic.

At any rate, since that little episode I have never knowingly eaten fat
again. My hatred was transformed into something like an obsession from
then on.

And I haven't been all that crazy about piccalilli either.

Chapter Twenty-four.

I wondered how long this feeling of novelty at being a married man would
last. Maybe it went on for years and years. At any rate I did feel an
entirely different person from the old Herriot as I paced with my wife
among the stalls at the garden fete.

It was an annual affair in aid of the Society for the Prevention of
Cruelty to Children and it was held on the big lawn behind the Darrowby
vicarage with the weathered brick of the old house showinv meiinw r-A
h^~^rerl t1~ tr~c Tl~ hot June sunshine bathed the typically English
scene; the women in their flowered dresses, the men perspiring in their
best suits, laughing children running from the tombola to the coconut
shy or the ice-cream kiosk. In a little tent at one end, Mrs Newbould,
the butcher's wife, thinly disguised as Madame Claire the fortune
teller, was doing a brisk trade. It all seemed a long way from Glasgow.

And the solid citizen feeling was heightened by the pressure of Helen's
hand on my arm and the friendly nods of the passers-by. One of these was
the curate. Mr Blenkinsopp. He came up to us, exuding, as always, a
charm that was completely unworldly.

"Ah, James,' he murmured. "And Helen!' He beamed on us with the
benevolence he felt for the entire human race. "How nice to see you
here!'

He walked along with us as the scent from the flower beds and the
trodden grass rose in the warm air.

"You know, James, I was just thinking about you the other day. I was in
Rainby - you know I take the service there every second week - and they
were telling me they were having great difficulty in finding young men
for the cricket team. I wondered if you would care to turn out for
them.'

"Me? Play cricket?'

"Yes, of course.'

I laughed. "I'm afraid I'm no cricketer. I'm interested in the game and
I like to watch it, but where I come from they don't play it very much.'

"Oh, but surely you must have played at some time or other.'

"A bit at school, but they go more for tennis in Scotland. And anyway it
was a long time ago.'

"Oh well, there you are.' Mr Blenkinsopp spread his hands. "It will come
back to you easily.'

"I don't know about that,' I said. "But another thing, I don't live in
Rainby, doesn't that matter?'

"Not really,' the curate replied. "It is such a problem finding eleven
players in these tiny villages that they often call on outsiders. Nobody
minds.'

I stopped my stroll over the grass and turned to Helen. She was giving
me an encouraging smile and I began to think, well ... why not? It
looked as though I had settled in Yorkshire. I had married a Yorkshire
girl. I might as well start doing the Yorkshire things, like playing
cricket - there wasn't anything more Yorkshire than that.

"All right then, Mr Blenkinsopp,"I said. "You're not getting any bargain
but I don't mind having a go.'

"Splendid! The next match is on Tuesday evening - against Hedwick. I am
playing so I'll pick you up at six o'clock. His face radiated happiness
as though I had done him the greatest favour.

"Well, thanks,' I replied. "I'll have to fix it with my partner to be
off that night, but I'm sure it will be O.K.'

The weather was still fine on Tuesday and, going round my visits, I
found it difficult to assimilate the fact that for the first time in my
life I was going to perform in a real genuine cricket match.

It was funny the way I felt about cricket. All my experience of the game
was based on the long-range impressions I had gained during my Glasgow
boyhood. Gleaned from newspapers, from boys' magazines, from occasional
glimpses of Hobbs and Sutcliffe and Woolley on the cinema newsreels,
they had built up a strangely glamorous picture in my mind. The whole
thing, it seemed to me, was so deeply and completely English; the gentle
clunk of bat on ball, the white-clad figures on the wide sweep of smooth
turf; there was a softness a graciousness about cricket which you found
nowhere else; nobody ever got excited or upset at this leisurely
pursuit. There was no doubt at all that I looked on cricket with a
romanticism and nostalgia which would have been incomprehensible to
people who had played the game all their lives.

Promptly at six Mr Blenkinsopp tooted the horn of his little car outside
the surgery. Helen had advised me to dress ready for action and she had
clearly been right because the curate, too, was resplendent in white
flannels and blazer. The three young farmers crammed in the back were,
however, wearing opennecked shirts with their ordinary clothes.

"Hello, James!' said Mr Blenkinsopp.

"Now then, Jim,' said two of the young men in the back. But "Good
afternoon, Mr Herriot,' said the one in the middle.

He was Tom Willis, the captain of the Rainby team and in my opinion, one
of nature's gentlemen. He was about my own age and he and his father ran
the kind of impoverished small-holding which just about kept them alive.
But there was a sensitivity and refinement about him and a courtesy
which never varied. I never cared how people addressed me and a lot of
the farmers used my first name, but to Tom and his father I was always
Mr Herriot. They considered it was the correct way to address the vet
and that was that.

Tom leaned from the back seat now, his lean face set in its usual
serious expression.

"It's good of you to give up your time, Mr Herriot. I know you're a busy
man but we're allus short o' players at Rainby.'

"I'm looking forward to it, Tom, but I'm no cricketer, I'll tell you
now.'

He gazed at me with gentle disbelief and I had an uncomfortable feeling
that everybody had the impression that because I had been to college I
was bound to have a blue.

Hedwick was at the top end of Allerdale, a smaller offshoot of the main
Dale, and as we drove up the deep ever-narrowing cleft in the moorland I
wound down the window. It was the sort of country I saw every day but I
wasn't used to being a passenger and there was no doubt you could see
more this way. From the overlapping fringe of heather far above, the
walls ran in spidery lines down the bare green flanks to the softness of
the valley floor where grey farmhouses crouched; and the heavy scent of
the new cut hay lying in golden swathes in the meadows drifted
deliciously into the car. There were trees, too, down here, not the
stunted dwarfs of the high country above us, but giants in the exultant
foliage of high summer.

We stopped at Hedwick because we could go no further. This was the head
of the Dale, a cluster of cottages, a farm and a pub. Where the road
curved a few cars were drawn up by the side of a solid-looking wall on
which leaned a long row of cloth-capped men, a few women and chattering
groups of children.

"Ah,' said Mr Blenkinsopp. "A good turn-out of spectators. Hedwick
always support their team well. They must have come from all over the
Dale.'

I looked around in surprise. "Spectators?'

"Yes, of course. They've come to see the match.'

Again I gazed about me. "But I can't see the pitch.'

"It's there,' Tom said. "Just over "'wall.'

I leaned across the rough stones and stared in some bewilderment at a
wildly undulating field almost knee deep in rough grass among which a
cow, some sheep and a few hens wandered contentedly. "Is this it?'

"Aye, that's it. If you stand on t'wall you can see the square.'

I did as he said and could just discern a five foot wide strip of bright
green cut from the crowding herbage. The stumps stood expectantly at
either end. A massive oak tree sprouted from somewhere around mid-on.

The strip stood on the only level part of the field, and that was a
small part.

Within twenty yards it swept up steeply to a thick wood which climbed
over the lower slopes of the fell. On the other side it fell away to a
sort of ravine where the rank grass ended only in a rocky stream. The
wall bordering the near side ran up to a group of farm buildings.

There was no clubhouse but the visiting team were seated on a form on
the grass while nearby, a little metal score board about four feet high
stood near its pile of hooked number plates.

The rest of our team had arrived, too, and with a pang of alarm I
noticed that there was not a single pair of white flannels among them.
Only the curate and I were properly attired and the immediate and
obvious snag was that he could play and I couldn't.

Tom and the home captain tossed a coin. Hedwick won and elected to bat.
The umpires, two tousle-haired, sunburnt young fellows in grubby white
coats strolled to the wicket, our team followed and the Hedwick batsmen
appeared. Under their pads they both wore navy blue serge trousers (a
popular colour among both teams) and one of them sported a bright yellow
sweater.

Tom Willis with the air of authority and responsibility which was
natural to him began to dispose the field. No doubt convinced that I was
a lynx-eyed catcher he stationed me quite close to the bat on the off
side then after a grave consultation with Mr Blenkinsopp he gave him the
ball and the game was on.

And Mr Blenkinsopp was a revelation. In his university sweater, gleaming
flannels and brightly coloured cap he really looked good. And indeed it
was soon very clear that he was good. He handed his cap to the umpire,
retreated about twenty yards into the undergrowth, then turned and,
ploughing his way back at ever increasing speed delivered the ball with
remarkable velocity bang on the wicket. The chap in yellow met it
respectfully with a dead bat and did the same with the next but then he
uncoiled himself and belted the third one high over the fielders on to
the slope beneath the wood. As one of our men galloped after it the row
of heads above the wall broke into a babel of noise.

They cheered every hit, not with the decorous ripple of applause I had
always imagined, but with raucous yells. And they had plenty to shout
about. The Hedwick lads, obviously accustomed to the peculiarities of
their pitch wasted no time on classical strokes; they just gave a great
hoick at the ball and when they connected it travelled immense
distances. Occasionally they missed and Mr Blenkinsopp or one of our
other bowlers shattered their stumps but the next man started cheerfully
where they left off. '

It was exhilarating stuff but I was unable to enjoy it. Everything I
did, in fact my every movement proclaimed my ignorance to the
knowledgeable people around me. I threw the ball in to the wrong end, I
left the ball when I should have chased it and sped after it when I
should have stayed in my place. I couldn't understand half the jargon
which was being bandied around. No, there was not a shadow of a doubt
about it; here in this cricket mad corner of a cricket mad county I was
a foreigner.

Five wickets had gone down when a very fat lad came out to bat. His
appearance of almost perfect rotundity was accentuated by the Fair Isle
sweater stretched tightly over his bulging abdomen and judging by the
barrage of witticisms which came from the heads along the wall it seemed
he was a loca I character. He made a violent cross-batted swish at the
first delivery, missed, and the ball sank with a thud into his midriff.
Howls of laughter arose from players, spectators and umpires alike as he
collapsed slowly at the crease and massaged himself ruefully. He slashed
at the next one and it flew off the edge of his bat like a bullet,
struck my shinbone a fearful crack and dropped into the grass. Resisting
the impulse to scream and hop around in my agony I gritted my teeth,
grabbed the ball and threw it in.

LL ~ C. LI L I I U/ ILC33

.

JIJ J "Oh well stopped, Mr Herriot,' Tom Willis called from his position
at mid on. He clapped his hands a few times in encouragement.

Despite his girth the fat lad smote lustily and was finally caught in
the outfield for fifteen.

The next batsman seemed to be taking a long time to reach the wicket. He
was shuffling, bent-kneed, through the clover like a very old man,
trailing his bat wearily behind him, and when he finally arrived at the
crease I saw that he was indeed fairly advanced in years. He wore only
one pad, strapped over baggy grey trousers which came almost up to his
armpits and were suspended by braces. A cloth cap surmounted a face
shrunken like a sour apple. From one corner of the downturned mouth a
cigarette dangled.

He took guard and looked at the umpire.

"Middle and leg,' he grunted.

"Aye, that's about it, Len,' the umpire replied.

Len pursed his little mouth.

"About it .. . about it .. .? Well is it or bloody isn't it?' he
enquired peevishly.

The young man in white grinned indulgently. "Aye it is, Len, that's it.'

The old man removed his cigarette, flicked it on to the grass and took
up his guard again. His appearance suggested that he might be out first
ball or in fact that he had no right to be there at all, but as the
delivery came down he stepped forward and with a scything sweep thumped
the ball past the bowler and just a few inches above the rear end of the
cow which had wandered into the line of fire. The animal looked round in
some surprise as the ball whizzed along its backbone and the old man's
crabbed features relaxed into the semblance of a smile.

"By yaw, vitnery,' he said, looking over at me, 'ah damn near made a bit
of work for the there.' He eyed me impassively for a moment. "Ah reckon
the's never took a cricket ball out of a cow's arse afore, eh?'

Len returned to the job in hand and proved a difficult man to dislodge.
But it was the batsman at the other end who was worrying Tom Willis. He
had come in first wicket down, a ruddy faced lad of about nineteen
wearing a blue shirt and he was still there piling on the runs.

At the end of the over, Tom came up to me. "Fancy turning your arm over,
Mr Herriot?' he enquired gravely.

"Huh?'

"Would you like a bowl? A fresh man might just unsettle this feller.'

"Well .. . er .. .' I didn't know what to say. The idea of me bowling in
a real match was unthinkable. Tom made up my mind by throwing me the
ball.

Clasping it in a clammy hand I trotted up to the wicket while the lad in
the blue shirt crouched intently over his bat. All the other bowlers had
hurled their missiles down at top speed but as I ambled forward it burst
on me that if I tried that I would be miles off my target. Accuracy, I
decided, must be my watchword and I sent a gentle lob in the direction
of the wicket. The batsman, obviously convinced that such a slow ball
must be laden with hidden malice followed its course with deep suspicion
and smothered it as soon as it arrived. He did the same with the second
but that was enough for him to divine that I wasn't bowling off breaks,
leg breaks or googlies but simply little dollies and he struck the third
ball smartly into the ravine.

There was a universal cry of "Maurice!' from our team because Maurice
Briggs' the Rainby blacksmith was fielding down there and since he
couldn't see the wicket he had to be warned. In due course the ball
soared back from the depths, propelled no doubt by Maurice's strong
right arm, and I recommenced my attack. The lad in blue thumped my
remaining three deliveries effortlessly for six. The first flew strai~ht
over the wall and the row of cars into the adioinin~

au' vel zn marness field, the next landed in the farmyard and the third
climbed in a tremendous arc away above the ravine and I heard it splash
into the beck whence it was retrieved with a certain amount of profanity
by the invisible Maurice.

An old farm man once said to me when describing a moment of
embarrassment. "Ah could've got down a mouse 'ole.' And as I returned to
my place in the field I knew just what he meant. In fact the bowler at
the other end got through his over almost without my noticing it and I
was still shrunk in my cocoon of shame when I saw Tom Willis signalling
to me.

I couldn't believe it. He was throwing me the ball again. It was a
typ~cally magnanimous gesture, a generous attempt to assure me that I
had done well enough to have another go.

Again I shambled forward and the blue-shined lad awaited me, almost
licking his lips. He had never come across anyone like me before and it
seemed too good to be true that I should be given another over; but
there I was, and he climbed gratefully into each ball I sent down and
laid into it in a kind of ecstasy with the full meat of the bat.

I would rather not go into details. Sufficient to say that I have a
vivid memory of his red face and blue shirt and of the ball whistling
back over my head after each delivery and of the almost berserk yells of
the spectators. But he didn't hit every ball for six. In fact there were
two moments of light relief in my torment; one when the ball smashed
into the oak tree, ricocheted and almost decapitated old Len at the
other end; the other when a ball snicked off the edge of the bat and
ploughed through a very large cow pat, sending up a noisome spray along
its course. It finished at the feet of Mr Blenkinsopp and the pour man
was clearly in a dilemma. For the last hour he had been swooping on
everything that came near him with the grace of the born cricketer.

But now he hovered over the unclean object, gingerly extending a hand
then withdrawing it as his earthier colleagues in the team watched in
wonder. The batsmen were galloping up and down, the crowd was roaring
but the curate made no move. Finally he picked the thing up with the
utmost daintiness in two fingers, regarded it distastefully for a few
moments and carried it to the wicketkeeper who was ready with a handful
of grass in his big gloves.

At the end of the over Tom came up to me. "Thank ye, Mr Herriot, but I'm
afraid I'll have to take you off now. This wicket's not suited to your
type of bowling - not takin' spin at all.' He shook his he,ad in his
solemn way.

I nodded thankfully and Tom went on. "Tell ye what, go down and relieve
that man in the outfield. We could do wi' a safe pair of hands down
there.'

Chapter Twenty-Five.

I obeyed my skipper's orders and descended to the ravine and when
Maurice had clambered up the small grassy cliff which separated me from
the rest of the field I felt strangely alone. It was a dank,
garlic-smelling region, perceptively colder than the land above and
silent except for the gurgle of the beck behind me. There was a little
hen house down here with several hens pecking around and some sheep who
obviously felt it was safer than the higher ground.

I could see nothing of the pitch, only occasional glimpses of the heads
of ve' zn rlarness 3U~

players so I had no idea of what was going on. In fact it was difficult
to believe I was still taking part in a cricket match but for the
spectators. From their position along the wall they had a grandstand
view of everything and in fact were looking down at me from short range
They appeared to find me quite interesting, too, because a lot of them
kept their eyes on me, puffing their pipes and making remarks which I
couldn't hear but which caused considerable hilarity.

It was a pity about the spectators because it was rather peaceful in the
ravine. It took a very big hit to get down there and I was more or less
left to ruminate. Occasionally the warning cries would ring out from
above and a ball would come bounding over the top. Once a skied drive
landed with a thud in a patch of deep grass and with an enraged
squawking a Rhode Island cockerel emerged at top speed and legged it
irascibly to a safer haven.

Now and then I clawed my way up the bank and had a look at the progress
of the game. Len had gone but the lad in blue was still there. After
another dismissal I was surprised to see one of the umpires give his
coat to the outgoing batsman, seize the bat and start laying about him.
Both umpires were in fact members of the team.

It was after a long spell of inaction and when I was admiring the long
splash of gold which the declining sun was throwing down the side of the
fell when I heard the frantic yells. "Jim! James! Mr Herriot!' The whole
team was giving tongue and, as I learned later, the lad in the blue
shirt had made a catchable shot.

But I knew anyway. Nobody but he could have struck the blow which sent
that little speck climbing higher and higher into the pale evening sky
above me; and as it began with terrifying slowness to fall in my
direction time came to a halt. I was aware of several of my team mates
breasting the cliff and watching me breathlessly, of the long row of
heads above the wall, and suddenly I was gripped by a cold resolve. I
was going to catch this fellow out. He had humiliated me up there but it
was my turn now.

The speck was coming down faster now as I stumbled about in the tangled
vegetation trying to get into position. I nearly fell over a ewe with
two big fat lambs sucking at her then I was right under the ball, hands
cupped, waiting.

It fell, at the end, like a cannon ball, heavy and unyielding, on the
end of my right thumb, bounded over my shoulder and thumped mournfully
on the turf.

A storm of derision broke from the heads, peals of delighted laughter,
volleys of candid comment.

"Get a basket!' advised one worthy.

"Fetch 'im a bucket!' suggested another.

As I scrabbled for the ball among the herbage I didn't know which was
worse - the physical pain which was excruciating, or the mental anguish.
After I had finally hurled the thing up the cliff I cradled the
throbbing thumb in my other hand and rocked back and forth on my heels,
moaning softly.

My team mates returned sadly to their tasks but Tom Willis, I noticed,
hngered on, looking down at me.

"Hard luck, Mr Herriot. Very easy to lose t'ball against them trees.' He
nodded encouragingly then was gone.

I was not troubled further in the innings. We never did get blueshirt
out and he had an unbeaten sixty-two at the close. The Hedwick score was
a hundred and fifty-four, a very useful total in village cricket.

There was a ten minute interval while two of our players donned the
umpires' Coats and our openers strapped on their pads. Tom Willis showed
me the batting list he had drawn up and I saw without surprise that I
was last man in.

jute ver In marnes;Y "Our team's packed with batting, Mr Herriot,' he
said seriously. "I couldn't find a place for you higher up the order.'

Mr Blenkinsopp, preparing to receive the first ball, really looked the
part, gay cap pulled well down, college colours bright on the broad V of
his sweater. But in this particular situation he had one big
disadvantage; he was too good.

All the coaching he had received had been aimed at keeping the ball
down. An 'uppish'stroke was to be deplored. But everything had to be
uppish on this pitch.

As I watched from my place on the form he stepped out and executed a
flawless cover drive. At Headingley the ball would have rattled against
the boards for four but here it travelled approximately two and a half
feet and the fat lad stooped carelessly, lifted it from the dense
vegetation and threw it back to the bowler. The next one the curate
picked beautifully off his toes and flicked it to square leg for what
would certainly have been another four anywhere else. This one went for
about a yard before the jungle claimed it.

It saddened me to watch him having to resort to swiping tactics which
were clearly foreign to him. He did manage to get in a few telling blows
but was caught on the boundary for twelve.

It was a bad start for Rainby with that large total facing them and the
two Hedwick fast bowlers looked very formidable. One of them in
particular, ~ gangling youth with great long arms and a shock of red
hair seemed to fire his missiles with the speed of light, making the
batsmen duck and dodge as the ball flew around their ears.

"That's Tagger Hird,' explained my nearest team mate on the bench. "By
gaw 'e does chuck 'em down. It's a bugger facie' him when the light's
getting bad.'

I nodded in silence. I wasn't looking forward to facing him at all, in
any kind of light. In fact I was dreading any further display of my
shortcomings and I had the feeling that walking out there to the middle
was going to be the worst part of all.

But meanwhile I couldn't help responding to the gallant fight Rainby
were putting up. As the match went on I found we had some stalwarts in
our ranks. Bert Chapman the council roadman and an old acquaintance of
mine strode out with his ever present wide grin splitting his brick-red
face and began to hoist the ball all over the field. At the other end
Maurice Briggs the blacksmith, sleeves rolled high over his mighty
biceps and the ,bat looking like a Woolworths toy in his huge hands,
clouted six after six, showing a marked preference for the ravine where
there now lurked some hapless member of the other team. I felt for him,
whoever it was down there; the sun had gone behind the hills and the
light was fading and it must have been desperately gloomy in those humid
depths.

And then when Tom came in he showed the true strategical sense of a
captain. When Hedwick were batting it had not escaped his notice that
they aimed a lot of their shots at a broad patch of particularly
impenetrable vegetation, a mato grosso of rank verdure containing not
only tangled grasses but nettles, thistles and an abundance of nameless
flora. The memory of the Hedwick batsmen running up and down while his
fielders thrashed about in there was fresh in his mind as he batted, and
at every opportunity he popped one with the greatest accuracy into the
jungle himself.

It was the kind of innings you would expect from him; not spectacular,
but thoughtful and methodical. After one well-placed drive he ran
seventeen while the fielders clawed at the undergrowth and the yells
from the wall took on a frantic note.

And all the time we were creeping nearer to the total. When eight
wickets had fallen we had reached a hundred and forty and our batsmen
were running .

; 1

whether they hit the ball or not. It was too dark by now, to see, in any
case, with great black banks of cloud driving over the fell top and the
beginnings of a faint drizzle in the air.

In the gathering gloom I watched as the batsman swung, but only managed
to push the ball a few yards up the pitch. Nevertheless he broke into a
full gallop and collided with his partner who was roaring up from the
other end. They fell in a heap with the ball underneath and the
wicketkeeper, in an attempt at a run-out, dived among the bodies and
scrabbled desperately for the ball. Animal cries broke out from the
heads on the wall, the players were all bellowing at each other and at
that moment I think the last of my romantic illusions about cricket
slipped quietly away.

But soon I had no more time to think about such things. There was an
eldritch scream from the bowler and our man was out L.B.W. It was my
turn to bat.

Our score was a hundred and forty-five and as, dry-mouthed, I buckled on
my pads, the lines of the poem came back to me. "Ten to win and the last
man in.' But I had never dreamed that my first innings in a cricket
match would be like this, with the rain pattering steadily on the grass
and the oil lamps on the farm winking through the darkness.

Pacing my way to the wicket I passed close by Tagger Hird who eyed me
expressionlessly, tossing the ball from one meaty hand to another and
whistling softly to himself. As I took guard he began his pounding run
up and I braced myself. He had already dropped two of our batsmen in
groaning heaps and I realised I had small hope of even seeing the ball.

But I had decided on one thing! I wasn't going to just stand there and
take it. I wasn't a cricketer but I was going to try to hit the ball.
And as Tagger arrived at full gallop and brought his arm over I stepped
out and aimed a violent lunge at where I thought the thing might be.
Nothing happened. I heard the smack on the sodden turf and the thud into
the wicketkeeper's gloves, that was all.

The same thing happened with the next two deliveries. Great flailing
blows which nearly swung me off my feet but nothing besides the smack
and the thud. As Tagger ran up the fourth time I was breathless and my
heart was thumping. I was playing a whirlwind innings except that I
hadn't managed to make contact so far.

Again the arm came over and again I leapt out. And this time there was a
sharp crack. I had got a touch but I had no idea where the ball had
gone. I was standing gazing stupidly around me when I heard a bellowed
"Come on!' and saw my partner thundering towards me. At the same time I
spotted a couple of fielders running after something away down on my
left and then the umpire made a signal. I had scored a four.

With the fifth ball I did the same thing and heard another crack, but
this time, as I glared wildly about me I saw there was activity
somewhere behind me on my right. We ran three and I had made seven.

There had been a no-ball somewhere and with the extra delivery Tagger
scattered my partner's stumps and the match was over. We had lost by two
runs.

"A merry knock, Mr Herriot,' Tom said, as I marched from the arena.
"Just for a minute I was beginnin' to think you were going' to pull it
off for us there.'

There was a pie and pea supper for both teams in the pub and as I
settled down w~th a frothing pint of beer the thought kept coming back
to me. Seven not out! After the humiliations of the evening it was an
ultimate respectability. I had not at any time seen the ball during my
innings and I had no idea how it had arrived in those two places but I
had made seven not out. And as tte meal arrived in front of me -
delicious home-made steak and kidney pie with mounds of mushy peas - and
I looked around at the roomful of laughing sunburnt men I began to feel
good.

Tom sat on one side of me and Mr Blenkinsopp on the other. I had been
interested to see that the curate could sink a pint with the best of
them and he smiled as he put down his glass.

"Well done indeed, James. Nearly a story book ending. And you know, I'm
quite sure you'd have clinched it if your partner had been able to keep
going.'

I felt myself blushing. "Well it's very kind of you, but I was a bit
lucky.'

"Lucky? Not a bit of it!' said Mr Blenkinsopp. "You played two beautiful
strokes- I don't know how you did it in the conditions.'

"Beautiful strokes?'

"Most certainly. A delightful leg glance followed by a late cut of the
greatest delicacy. Don't you agree, Tom?'

Tom sprinkled a little salt on his peas and turned to me. "Ah do agree.
And the best bit was how you got 'em up in the air to clear t'long
grass. That was clever that was.' He conveyed a forkful of pie to his
mouth and began to munch stolidly.

I looked at him narrowly. Tom was always serious so there was nothing to
be learned from his expression. He was always kind, too, he had been
kind all evening.

But I really think he meant it this time.

Chapter Twenty-six.

"Is this the thing you've been telling me about?' I asked.

Mr Wilkin nodded. "Aye, that's it, it's always like that.'

I looked down at the helpless convulsions of the big dog lying at my
feet; at the staring eye the wildly pedalling limbs. The farmer had told
me about the periodic a.which had begun to affect his sheepdog, Gyp, but
it was coincir'e should occur when I was on the farm for another reason.
afterwards, you say?' Seems a bit dazed, maybe, for about an hour then
he's -mer shrugged. "I've had lots o' dogs through my hands ~0~;~; n
plenty of dogs with fits. I thought I knew all the G ~,A,o ~?',* %'
ding, distemper - but this has me beat. I've tried ~ ~ ~ ~0 ~

~ ~0 ~ " ~ A, '< Wilkin,' I said. "You won't be able to do much run`.~ ~
~, ~ ~ ~A ~ mind as .~, ~ ~ .P~A. o ~,A, \`nal dog most of "'time.'
accuracy into . , j;' ~\There's nothing actually wrong with his It was
the kin~ ~-' , Y>, ~ ~he cause is unknown but it's almost thoughtful and
methoc~.~., 0> ~,~ ~ the fielders clawed at the u.~ %,~3 ~'\at's a rum
'un. If it's hereditary why frantic note..~0~ '\ two years old and he
didn't start That's typical,' I replied. "Eighteen months to two years
is about the time it usually appears'

Gyp interrupted us by getting up and staggering towards his master,
wagging his tail. He seemed untroubled by his experience. In fact the
whole thing had lasted less than two minutes.

Mr Wilkin bent and stroked the rough head briefly. His craggy features
were set in a thoughtful cast. He was a big powerful man in his forties
and now as the eyes narrowed in that face which rarely smiled he looked
almost menacing. I had heard more than one man say he wouldn't like to
get on the wrong side of Sep Wilkin and I could see what they meant. But
he had always treated me right and since he farmed nearly a thousand
acres I saw quite a lot of him.

His passion was sheepdogs. A lot of farmers liked to run dogs at the
trials but Mr Wilkin was one of the top men. He bred and trained dogs
which regularly won at the local events and occasionally at the national
trials. And what was troubling me was that Gyp was his main hope.

He had picked out the two best pups from a litter - Gyp and Sweep and
had trained them with the dedication that had made him a winner. I don't
think I have ever seen two dogs enjoy each other quite as much; whenever
I was on the farm I would see them together, sometimes peeping nose by
nose over the half door of the loose box where they slept, occasionally
slinking devotedly round the feet of their master but usually just
playing together. They must have spent hours rolling about in ecstatic
wrestling matches, growling and panting, gnawing gently at each other's
limbs.

A few months ago George Crossley, one of Mr Wilkin's oldest friends and
a keen trial man, had lost his best dog with nephritis and Mr Wilkin had
let him have Sweep. I was surprised at the time because Sweep was
shaping better than Gyp in his training and looked like turning out a
real champion. But it was Gyp who remained. He must have missed his
friend but there were other dogs on the farm and if they didn't quite
make up for Sweep he was never really lonely.

As I watched, I could see the dog recovering rapidly. It was
extraordinary how soon normality was restored after that frightening
convulsion. And I waited with some apprehension to hear what his master
would say.

The cold, logical decision for him to make would be to have Gyp put down
and, looking at the friendly, tail-wagging animal I didn't like the idea
at all. There was something very attractive about him. The big-boned,
well-marked body was handsome but his most distinctive feature was his
head where one ear somehow contrived to stick up while the other lay
flat, giving him a lop-sided, comic appeal. Gyp, in fact, looked a bit
of a clown. But a clown who radiated goodwill and camaraderie.

Mr Wilkin spoke at last. "Will he get any better as he grows older?'

"Almost certainly not,' I replied.

"Then he'll always 'ave these fits?'

"I'm afraid so. You say he has them every two or three weeks - well it
will probably carry on more or less like that with occasional
variations.'

"But he could have one any time?'

"Yes.'

"In the middle of a trial, like.' The farmer sunk his head on his chest
and his voice rumbled deep. "That's it, then.'

In the long silence which followed, the fateful words became more and
more inevitable Sep Wilkin wasn't the man to hesitate in a matter which
concerned his ruling passion. Ruthless culling of any animal which
didn't come up to standard would be his policy. When he finally cleared
his throat I had a sinking premonition of what he was going to say.

: ~

"If I kept him, could you do anything for him?' he asked.

"Well I could give you some pills for him. They might decrease the
frequency of the fits.' I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

"Right .. . right .. . I'll come into "'surgery and get some,' he
muttered.

"Fine. But .. . er .. . you won't ever breed from him, will you?' I
said.

"New, new, new,' the farmer grunted with a touch of irritability as
though he didn't want to pursue the matter further.

And I held my peace because I felt intuitively that he did not want to
be detected in a weakness; that he was prepared to keep the dog simply
as a pet. It was funny how events began to slot into place and suddenly
make sense. That was why he had let Sweep, the superior trial dog, go.
He just liked Gyp. In fact Sep Wilkin, hard man though he may be, had
succumbed to that off-beat charm So I shifted to some light chatter
about the weather as I walked back to the car, but when I was about to
drive off: the farmer returned to the main subject.

"There's one thing about Gyp I never mentioned,' he said, bending to the
window. "I don't know whether it has owl to do with the job or not. He
has never barked in his life.' . I looked at him in surprise. "You mean
never, ever?'

"That's right. Not a single bark. T'other dogs make a noise when
strangers come on the farm but I've never heard Gyp utter a sound since
he was born.'

"Well that's very strange,' I said. "But I can't see that it is
connected with his condition in any way.'

And as I switched on the engine I noticed for the first time that while
a bitch and two half grown pups gave tongue to see me on my way Gyp
merely regarded me in his comradely way, mouth open, tongue lolling, but
made no noise. A silent dog.

The thing intrigued me. So much so that whenever I was on the farm over
the next few months I made a point of watching the big sheepdog at
whatever he was doing. But there was never any change. Between the
convulsions which had settled down to around th"- intervals he was a
normal active happy animal. But soundl~r I saw h; ~ m~r~-r ^~ ~ ~`

~A~

master came in to market. Gyp was car, but if I happened to speak to Mr
iubject because, as I said, I had the :~ ~uld hate to be exposed in
keeping a 5 ~ ~ ,C o O ~on that most farm dogs were more \ of course
indispensable working doubt performed a function in teem on my daily
rounds I often at haytime, chasing rats among ings or roaming the fields
at the \ they really do?

\es - as when I was trying to tried to get into the act by ~oarse yell
of'siddown, dog!'

mind as .5, ~ ;~ accuracy into . , ~, ~, G_ ~~ ~. It was the kino .~~\,$
~c ~ ~ . theory; most farm dogs are thoughtful and methoo~., '~ ~s`;' G
~ ~ ~ ~' likes to have them around. the fielders clawed at the u~ ~3` ~
~ ~im to admit it but I think frantic note. ~.,` ~ ~ c ~o nderful time.
They don't And all the time we were creepin ~V .~0 \in the company of
their had fallen we had reached a hundred ano . \ ~ \\s dog, knowing the
man .

won't be far away. I try to give my own dogs a good life but it cannot
compare with the life of the average farm dog.

There was a long spell when Sep Wilkin's stock stayed healthy and I
didntt seec either him or Gyp, then I came across them both by accident
at a sheepdog trial It was a local event run in conjunction with the
Mellerton Agricultural Show and since I was in the district I decided to
steal an hour off.

I took Helen with me, too, because these trials have always fascinated
us. The wonderful control of the owners over their animals, the intense
involvement of the dogs themselves, the sheer skill of the whole
operation always held us spellbound.

She put her arm through mine as we went in at the entrance gate to where
a crescent of cars was drawn up at one end of a long field. The field
was on the river's edge and through a fringe of trees the afternoon
sunshine glinted on the tumbling water of the shallows and turned the
long beach of bleached stones to a dazzling white. Groups of men, mainly
competitors, stood around chatting as they watched. They were quiet,
easy, bronzed men and as they seemed to be drawn from all social strata
from prosperous farmers to working men their garb was varied; cloth
caps, trilbies, deerstalkers or no hat at all, tweed jackets, stiff best
suits, open-necked shirts, fancy ties, sometimes neither collar nor tie.
Nearly all of them leaned on long crooks with the handles fashioned from
rams' horns.

Snatches of talk reached us as we walked among them.

"You got 'ere, then, Fred.' "That's a good gather.' "Nay, 'e's missed
one, 'e'll get nowt for that. "Them sheep's a bit flighty.' "Aye they're
buggers.' And above it all the whistles of the man running a dog; every
conceivable level and pitch of whistle with now and then a shout. "Sit!'
"Get by!' Every man had his own way with his dog.

The dogs waiting their turn were tied up to a fence with a hedge growing
over it. There were about seventy of them and it was rather wonderful to
see that long row of waving tails and friendly expressions. They were
mostly strangers to each other but there wasn't even the semblance of
disagreement never mind a fight. It seemed that the natural obedience of
these little creatures was linked to an amicable disposition.

This appeared to be common to their owners, too. There was no animosity
no resentment at defeat, no unseemly display of triumph in victory. If a
man overran his time he ushered his group of sheep quietly in the corner
and returned with a philosophical grin to his colleagues. There was a
little quiet leg-pulling but that was all.

We came across Sep Wilkin leaning against his car at the best vantage
point about thirty yards away from the final pen. Gyp, tied to the
bumper, turned and gave me his crooked grin while Mrs Wilkin on a camp
stool by his side rested a hand on his shoulder. Gyp, it seemed, had got
under her skin too.

Helen went over to speak to her and I turned to her husband. "Are you
running a dog today, Mr Wilkin?'

"No, not this time, just come to watch. I know a lot o' the dogs.'

I stood near him for a while watching the competitors in action,
breathing in the clean smell of trampled grass and plug tobacco. In
front of us next to the pen the judge stood by his post.

I had been there for about ten minutes when Mr Wilkin lifted a pointing
finger. "Look who's there!'

George Crossley with Sweep trotting at his heels was making his way
unhurriedly to the post. Gyp suddenly stiffened and sat up very
straight, his cocked ears accentuating the lop-sided look. It was many
months since he had seen his brother and companion; it seemed unlikely I
thought, that he would remember him. But his interest was clearly
intense, and as the judge waved his white handkerchief and the three
sheep were released from the far corner he rose slowly to his feet.

A gesture from Mr Crossley sent Sweep winging round the perimeter of the
field in a wide, joyous gallop and as he neared the sheep a whistle
dropped him on his belly. From then on it was an object lesson in the
cooperation of man and dog. Sep Wilkin had always said Sweep would be a
champion and he looked the part, darting and falling at his master's
commands. Short piercing whistles, shrill plaintive whistles; he was in
tune with them all.

No dog all day had brought his sheep through the three lots of gates as
effortlessly as Sweep did now and as he approached the pen near us it
was obvious that he would win the cup unless some disaster struck. But
this was the touchy bit; more than once with other dogs the sheep had
broken free and gone bounding away within feet of the wooden rails.

George Crossley held the gate wide and extended his crook. You could see
now why they all carried those long sticks. His commands to Sweep,
huddled flat along the turf, were now almost inaudible but the quiet
words brought the dog inching first one way then the other. The sheep
were in the entrance to the pen now but they still looked around them
irresolutely and the game was not over yet. But as Sweep wriggled
towards them almost imperceptibly they turned and entered and Mr
Crossley crashed the gate behind them.

As he did so he turned to Sweep with a happy cry of "Good lad!' and the
dog responded with a quick jerking wag of his tail.

At that, Gyp, who had been standing very tall, watching every move with
the most intense concentration raised his head and emitted a single
resounding bark.

"Woop' went Gyp as we all stared at him in astonishment.

"Did you hear that?' gasped Mrs Wilkin.

"Well, by gaw!' her husband burst out, looking open-mouthed at his dog.

Gyp didn't seem to be aware that he h~ ~^~ 'ring unusual. He was too
r~r^~ :_ ~ ~ . 1in seconds the two dogs ~s of old.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

A full surgery! But the ripple of satisfaction as I surveyed the packed
rows of heads waned quickly as realisation dawned. It was only the
Dimmocks again.

I first encountered the Dimmocks one evening when I had a call to a dog
which had been knocked down by a car. The address was down in the old
part of the town and I was cruising slowly along the row of decaying
cottages looking for the number when a door burst open and three
shock-headed little children ran into the street and waved me down
frantically.

"He's in 'ere, Mister!' they gasped in unison as I got out, and then
began immediately to put me in the picture.

"It's Bonzo!' "Aye, a car'it 'im!' "We 'ad to carry 'im in, Mister!'

They all got their words in as I opened the garden gate and struggled up
the path with the three of them hanging on to my arms and tugging at my
coat; and en route I gazed in wonder at the window of the house where a
mass of other young faces mouthed at me and a tangle of arms
gesticulated.

Once through the door which opened directly into the living room I was
swamped by a rush of bodies and borne over to the corner where I saw my
patient.

Bonzo was sitting upright on a ragged blanket. He was a large shaggy
animal of indeterminate breed and though at a glance there didn't seem
to be much ailing him he wore a pathetic expression of self pity. Since
everybody was talking at once I decided to ignore them and carry out my
examination. I worked my way over legs, pelvis, ribs and spine; no
fractures. His mucous membranes were a good colour, there was no
evidence of internal injury. In fact the only thing I could find was
slight bruising over the left shoulder. Bonzo had sat like a statue as I
felt over him, but as I finished he toppled over on to his side and lay
looking up at me apologetically, his tail thumping on the blanket.

"You're a big soft dog, that's what you are,' I said and the tail
thumped faster.

I turned and viewed the throng and after a moment or two managed to pick
out the parents. Mum was fighting her way to the front while at the
rear, Dad, a diminutive figure, was beaming at me over the heads. I did
a bit of shushing and when the babel died down I addressed myself to Mrs
Dimmock.

"I think he's been lucky,' I said. "I can't find any serious injury. I
think the car must have bowled him over and knocked the wind out of him
for a minute, or he may have been suffering from shock.'

The uproar broke out again. "Will 'e die, Mister?' "What's the matter
with 'im?' "What are you going to do?'

I gave Bonzo an injection of a mild sedative while he lay rigid, a
picture of canine suffering, with the tousled heads looking down at him
with deep concern and innumerable little hands poking out and caressing
him.

Mrs Dimmock produced a basin of hot water and while I washed my hands I
was able to make a rough assessment of the household. I counted eleven
little Dimmocks from a boy in his early teens down to a grubby faced
infant crawling around the floor; and judging by the significant bulge
in Mum's midriff the number was soon to be augmented. They were clad in
a motley selection of hand-me downs; darned pullovers, patched trousers,
tattered dresses, yet the general atmosphere in the house was of
unconfined joie de vivre.

Bonzo wasn't the only animal and I stared in disbelief as another
biggish dog and a cat with two half grown kittens appeared from among
the crowding legs and feet. I would have thought that the problem of
filling the human mouths would have been difficult enough without
importing several animals.

But the Dimmocks didn't worry about such things; they did what they
wanted to do, and they got by. Dad, I learned later, had never done any
work within living memory. He had a 'bad back' and lived what seemed to
me a reasonably gracious life, roaming interestedly around the town by
day and enjoying a quiet beer and a game of dominoes in a corner of the
Four Horse Shoes by night.

I saw him quite often; he was easy to pick out because he invariably
carried a walking stick which gave him an air of dignity and he always
walked briskly and purposefully as though he were going somewhere
important.

I took a final look at Bonzo, still stretched on the blanket, looking up
at me with soulful eyes then I struggled towards the door.

"I don't think there's anything to worry about,' I shouted above the
chattering which had speedily broken out again, 'but I'll look in
tomorrow and make sure.'

When I drew up outside the house next morning I could see Bonzo
lolloping around the garden with several of the children. They were
passing a ball from one to the other and he was leaping ecstatically
high in the air to try to intercept it.

He was clearly none the worse for his accident but when he saw me
opening the gate his tail went down and he dropped almost to his knees
and slunk into the house. The children received me rapturously.

"You've made 'im better, Mister!' "He's all right now, isn't he?' "He's
'ad a right big breakfast this mornin', Mister!'

I went inside with little hands clutching at my coat. Bonzo was sitting
bolt upright on his blanket in the same attitude as the previous
evening, but as I approached he slowly collapsed on to his side and lay
looking up at me with a martyred expression.

I laughed as I knelt by him. "You're the original old soldier, Bonzo,
but you can't fool me. I saw you out there.'

I gently touched the bruised shoulder and the big dog tremblingly closed
his eyes as he resigned himself to his fate. Then when I stood up and he
realised he wasn't going to have another injection he leapt to his feet
and bounded away into the garden.

There was a chorus of delighted cries from the Dimmocks and they turned
and looked at me with undisguised admiration. Clearly they considered
that I had plucked Bonzo from the jaws of death. Mr Dimmock stepped
forward from the mass.

"You'll send me a bill, won't you,' he said, with the dignity that was
peculiar to him.

My first glance last night had decided me that this was a no-charging
job and I hadn't even written it in the book, but I nodded solemnly.

"Very well, Mr Dimmock, I'll do that.'

And throughout our long association, though no money ever changed hands,
he always said the same thing -"You'll send me a bill, won't you.'

This was the beginning of my close relationship with the Dimmocks.
Obviously they had taken a fancy to me and wanted to see as much as
possible of me. Over the succeeding weeks and months they brought in a
varied selection of dogs, cats, budgies, rabbits at frequent intervals,
and when they found that my services were free they stepped up the
number of visits; and when one came they all came. I was anxiously
trying to expand the small animal side of the practice and increasingly
my hopes were raised momentarily then dashed when I opened the door and
saw a packed waiting room.

And it increased the congestion when they started bringing their auntie,
Mrs Pounder, from down the road with them to see what a nice chap I was.
Mrs Pounder, a fat lady who always wore a greasy velour hat perched on
an untidy mound of hair, evidently shared the family tendency to
fertility and usually brought a few of her own ample brood with her.

That is how it was this particular morning. I swept the assembled
company with my eye but could discern only beaming Dimmocks and
Pounders; and this time I couldn't even pick out my patient. Then the
assembly parted and spread out as though by a prearranged signal and I
saw little Nellie Dimmock with a tiny puppy on her knee.

Nellie was my favourite. Mind you, I liked all the family; in fact they
were such nice people that I always enjoyed their visits after that
first disappointment. Mum and Dad were always courteous and cheerful and
the children, though boisterous, were never ill-mannered; they were
happy and friendly and if they saw me in the street they would wave
madly and go on waving till I was out of sight. And I saw them often
because they were continually scurrying around the town doing odd jobs -
delivering milk or papers. Best of all, they loved their animals and
were kind to them.

But as I say, Nellie was my favourite. She was about nine and had
suffered an attack of "infantile paralysis', as it used to be called,
when very young. It had left her with a pronounced limp and a frailty
which set her apart from her robust brothers and sisters. Her painfully
thin legs seemed almost too fragile to carry her around but above the
pinched face her hair, the colour of ripe corn, flowed to her shoulders
and her eyes, though slightly crossed, gazed out calm and limpid blue
through steel-rimmed spectacles.

"What's that you've got, Nellie?' I asked.

"It's a little dog,' she almost whispered. ' 'e's mine.'

"You mean he's your very own?'

She nodded proudly. "Aye, 'e's mine.'

"He doesn't belong to your brothers and sisters, too?'

"New, 'e's mine.'

Rows of Dimmock and Pounder heads nodded in eager acquiescence as Nellie
lifted the puppy to her cheek and looked up at me with a smile of a
strange sweetness. It was a smile that always tugged at my heart; full
of a child's artless happiness and trust but with something else which
was poignant and maybe had to do with the way Nellie was.

"Well, he looks a fine dog to me,' I said. "He's a Spaniel, isn't he?'

She ran a hand over the little head. "Aye, a Cocker. Mr Brown said 'e
was a Cocker.'

There was a slight disturbance at the back and Mr Dimmock appeared from
the crush. He gave a respectful cough.

"He's a proper pure bred, Mr Herriot,' he said. "Mr Brown from the
bank's bitch had a litter and 'e gave this 'un to Nellie.' He tucked his
stick under his arm and pulled a long envelope from an inside pocket. He
handed it to me with a flourish. "That's 'is pedigree.'

I read it through and whistled softly. "He's a real blue-blooded hound,
all right, and I see he's got a big long name. Darrowby Tobias the
third. My word, that sounds great.'

I looked down at the little girl again. "And what do you call him
Nellie?'

"Toby,' she said softly. "I calls 'im Toby.'

I laughed. "All right, then. What's the matter with Toby anyway. Why
have you brought him? ' He's been sick, Mr Herriot.' Mrs Dimmock spoke
from somewhere among the heads. "He can't keep nothin' down.'

"Well I know what that'll be. Has he been wormed?'

"No, don't think so.'

"I should think he just needs a pill,' I said. "But bring him through
and I'll have a look at him.'

Other clients were usually content to send one representative through
with their animals but the Dimmocks all had to come. I marched along
with the crowd behind me filling the passage from wall to wall. Our
consulting-cum operating room was quite small and I watched with some
apprehension as the procession filed in after me. But they all got in,
Mrs Pounder, her velour hat slightly askew, squeezing herself in with
some difficulty at the rear.

My examination of the puppy took longer than usual as I had to fight my
way to the thermometer on the trolley then struggle in the other
direction to get the stethoscope from its hook on the wall. But I
finished at last.

"Well I can't find anything wrong with him,' I said. "So I'm pretty sure
he just has a tummy full of worms. I'll give you a pill now and you must
give it to him first thing tomorrow morning.'

Like a football match turning out, the mass of people surged along the
passage and into the street and another Dimmock visit had come to an
end.

I forgot the incident immediately because there was nothing unusual
about it. The pot-bellied appearance of the puppy made my diagnosis a
formality; I didn't expect to see him again.

But I was wrong. A week later my surgery was once more overflowing and I
had another squashed-in session with Toby in the little back room. My
pill had evacuated a few worms but he was still vomiting, still
distended.

"Are you giving him five very small meals a day as I told you?' I asked.

I received emphatic affirmative and I believed them. The Dimmocks really
took care of their animals. There was something else here, yet I
couldn't find it. Temperature normal, lungs clear, abdomen negative on
palpation, I couldn't make it out. I dispensed a bottle of our antacid
mixture with a feeling of defeat. A young puppy like this shouldn't need
such a thing.

This was the beginning of a frustrating period, There would be a span of
two or three weeks when I would think the trouble had righted itself
then without warning the place would be full of Dimmocks and Pounders
and I'd be back where I started And all the time Toby was growing
thinner.

I tried everything; gastric sedatives, variations of diet, quack
remedies. I interrogated the Dimmocks repeatedly about the character of
the vomiting how long after eating, what were the intervals between, and
I received varying replies. Sometimes he brought his food straight back,
at others he retained it for several hours. I got nowhere.

It must have been over eight weeks later - Toby would be about four
months old - when I again viewed the assembled Dimmocks with a sinking
heart. Their visits had become depressing affairs and I could not
foresee anything better today as I opened the waiting-room door and
allowed myself to be almost carried along the passage. This time it was
Dad who was the last to wedge himself into the consulting room then
Nellie placed the little dog on the table.

I felt an inward lurch of sheer misery. Toby had grown despite his
disability and was now a grim caricature of a Cocker Spaniel, the long
silky ears drooping from an almost fleshless skull, the spindly legs
pathetically feathered. I had thought Nellie was thin but her pet had
outdone her. And he wasn't just thin, he was trembling slightly as he
stood arch-backed on the smooth surface, and his face had the dull
inward look of an animal which has lost interest.

The little girl ran her hand along the jutting ribs and the pale,
squinting eyes looked up at me through the steel spectacles with that
smile which pulled at me more painfully than ever before. She didn't
seem worried. Probably she had no idea how things were, but whether she
had or not I knew I'd never be able to tell her that her dog was slowly
dying.

I rubbed my eyes wearily. "What has he had to eat today?'

Nellie answered herself. "He's 'ad some bread and milk.'

"How long ago was that?' I asked, but before anybody could reply the
little dog vomited, sending the half digested stomach contents soaring
in a graceful arc to land two feet away on the table.

I swung round on Mrs Dimmock. "Does he always do it like that?'

"Aye he mostly does - sends it flying out, like.'

"But why didn't you tell me?'

The poor lady looked flustered. "Well .. . I don't know .. . I .. .'

I held up a hand. "That's all right, Mrs Dimmock, never mind.' It
occurred to me that all the way through my totally ineffectual treatment
of this dog not a single Dimmock or Pounder had uttered a word of
criticism so why should I start to complain now?

But I knew what Toby's trouble was now. At last, at long last, I knew.

And in case my present day colleagues reading this may think I had been
more than usually thick-headed in my handling of the case I would like
to offer in my defence that such limited text books as there were in
those days made only a cursory reference to pyloric stenosis (narrowing
of the exit of the stomach where it joins the small intestine) and if
they did they said nothing about treatment.

But surely, I thought, somebody in England was ahead of the books. There
must be people who were actually doing this operation .. . and if there
were I had a feeling one might not be too far away .. .

I worked my way through the crush and trotted along the passage to the
phone.

"Is that you Granville?'

"Jim!' A bellow of pure unalloyed joy. "How are you laddie?'

"Very well, how are you?'

"Ab-so-lutely tip top, old son! Never better!'

"Granville, I've got a four-month-old spaniel pup I'd like to bring
through to you. It's got pyloric stenosis.'

"Oh lovely!'

"I'm afraid the little thing's just about on its last legs - a bag of
bones.'

"Splendid, splendid!'

"This is because I've been mucking about for four weeks in ignorance.'

"Fine, just fine!'

"And the owners are a very poor family. They can't pay anything I'm
afraid.'

"Wonderful!'

I hesitated a moment. "Granville, you do .. . er .. you have .. .

operated on these cases before?'

"Did five yesterday.'

"What!'

A deep rumble of laughter. "I do but jest, old son, but you needn't
worry, I've done a few. And it isn't such a bad job.'

"Well that's great.' I looked at my watch. "It's half past nine now,
I'll get Siegfried to take over my morning round and I'll see you before
eleven.'

Chapter Twenty-eight.

Granville had been called out when I arrived and I hung around his
surgery till I heard the expensive sound of the Bentley purring into the
yard. Through the window I saw yet another magnificent pipe glinting
behind the wheel then my colleague, in an impeccable pin-striped suit
which made him look like the Director of the Bank of England, paced
majestically towards the side door.

"Good to see you, Jim!' he exclaimed, wringing my hand warmly. Then
before removing his jacket he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded
it with a trace of anxiety for a second before giving it a polish with
his yellow cloth and placing it tenderly in a drawer.

It wasn't long before I was under the lamp in the operating room bending
over Toby's small outstretched form while Granville - the other
Granville Bennett - worked with fierce concentration inside the abdomen
of the little animal.

"You see the gross gastric dilatation,' he murmured. "Classical lesion.'
He gripped the pylorus and poised his scalpel. "Now I'm going through
the serous coat.' A quick deft incision. "A bit of blunt dissection here
for the muscle fibres ... down ... down ... a little more ... ah, there
it is, you can see it - the mucosa bulging into the cleft. Yes .. . yes
.. . just right. That's what you've got to arrive at.'

I peered down at the tiny tube which had been the site of all Toby's
troubles. "Is that all, then?'

"That's all, laddie.' He stepped back with a grin. "The obstruction is
relieved now and you can take bets that this little chap will start to
put weight on now.'

"That's wonderful, Granville. I'm really grateful.'

"Nonsense, Jim, it was a pleasure. You can do the next one yourself now,
eh?' He laughed, seized needle and sutures and sewed up the abdominal
muscles and skin at an impossible pace.

A few minutes later he was in his office pulling on his jacket, then as
he filled his pipe he turned to me.

"I've got a little plan for the rest of the morning, laddie.'

I shrank away from him and threw up a protective hand. "Well now, er .
.. it's kind of you, Granville, but I really .. . I honestly must get
back .. . we're very busy, you know .. . can't leave Siegfried too long
.. . work'll be piling up .. .' I stopped because I felt I was beginning
to gibber.

My colleague looked wounded. "All I meant, old son, was that we want you
to come to lunch. Zoe is expecting you.'

"Oh .. . oh, I see. Well that's very kind. We're not going .. .

anywhere else, then?'

"Anywhere else?' He blew out his cheeks and spread his arms wide. "Of
course not. I just have to call in at my branch surgery on the way.'

"Branch surgery? I didn't know you had one.'

"Oh yes, just a stone's throw from my house.' He put an arm round my
shoulders. "Well let's go, shall we?'

As I lay back, cradled in the Bentley's luxury, I dwelt happily on the
thought that at last I was going to meet Zoe Bennett when I was my
normal self. She Would learn this time that I wasn't a perpetually
drunken oaf. In fact the next hour or two seemed full of rosy promise;
an excellent lunch illumined by my witty conversation and polished
manners, then back with Toby, magically resuscitated, to Darrowby I
smiled to myself when I thought of Nellie's face when I told her her pet
was going to be able to eat and grow strong and playful like any other
pup. I was still smiling when the car pulled up on the outskirts of
Granville's home village. I glanced idly through the window at a low
stone building with leaded panes and a wooden sign dangling over the
entrance. It read "Old Oak Tree Inn'. I turned quickly to my companion.

"I thought we were going to your branch surgery?'

Granville gave me a smile of childish innocence. "Oh that's what I call
this place. It's so near home and I transact quite a lot of business
here.' He patted my knee. "We'll just pop in for an appetiser, eh?'

"Now wait a minute,' I stammered, gripping the sides of my seat tightly.
"I just can't be late today. I'd much rather .. .'

Granville raised a hand. "Jim, laddie, we won't be in for long.' He
looked at his watch. "It's exactly twelve thirty and I promised Zoe we'd
be home by one o'clock. She's cooking roast beef and Yorkshire pudding
and it would take a braver man than me to let her pudding go flat. I
guarantee we'll be in that house at one o'clock on the dot O.K.?'

I hesitated. I couldn't come to much harm in half an hour. I climbed out
of the car.

As we went into the pub a large man, who had been leaning on the
counter, turned and exchanged enthusiastic "Albert!' cried Granville.
"Meet Albert Wainright, the landlord of ~ .

greetings with my colleague.

Jim Herriot from Darrowby. Jim, this is the Wagon and Horses over in
Matherley. In fact he's president of the Licensed Victuallers'
Association this year, aren't you Albert?'

The big man grinned and nodded and for a moment I felt overwhelmed by
the two figures on either side of me. It was difficult to describe the
hard, bulky tissue of Granville's construction but Mr Wainright was
unequivocally fat. A elrecked jacket hung open to display an enormous
expanse of striped shirted abdomen overflowing the waistband of his
trousers. Above a gay bow tie cheerful eyes twinkled at me from a red
face and when he spoke his tone was rich and fruity He embodied the rich
ambience of the term "I~icensed Victualler'.

I began to sip at the half pint of beer I had ordered but when another
appeared in two minutes I saw I was going to fall hopelessly behind and
switched to the whiskies and sodas which the others were drinking. And
my undoing was that both my companions appeared to have a standing
account here; they downed their drinks, tapped softly on the counter and
said, "Yes please, Jack,' whereupon three more glasses appeared with
magical speed. I never had a chance to buy a round. In fact no money
ever changed hands.

It was a quiet, friendly little session with Albert and Granville
carrying on a conversation of the utmost good humour punctuated by the
almost soundless taps on the bar. And as I fought to keep up with the
two virtuosos the taps came more and more frequently till I seemed to
hear them every few seconds.

Granville was as good as his word. When it was nearly one o'clock he
looked at his watch.

"Got to be ofl now, Albert. Zoe's expecting us right now.'

And as the car rolled to a stop outside the house dead on time I
realised with a dull despair that it had happened to me again. Within me
a witch's brew was ~u ve' zn rlarness beginning to bubble, sending
choking fumes into my brain. I felt terrible and I knew for sure I would
get rapidly worse.

Granville, fresh and debonair as ever, leaped out and lead me into the
house "Zoe, my love!' he warbled, embracing his wife as she came through
from the kitchen.

When she disengaged herself she came over to me. She was wearing a
flowered apron which made her look if possible even more attractive.

"Her-lo!' she cried and gave me that look which she shared with her
husband as though meeting James Herriot was an unbelievable boon.
"Lovely to see you again. I'll get lunch now.' I replied with a foolish
grin and she skipped away.

Flopping into an armchair I listened to Granville pouring steadily over
at the sideboard. He put a glass in my hand and sat in another chair.
Immediately the obese Staffordshire Terrier bounded on to his lap.

"Phoebles, my little pet!' he sang joyfully. "Daddykins is home again'.
And he pointed playfully at the tiny Yorkie who was sitting at his feet,
baring her teeth repeatedly in a series of ecstatic smiles. "And I see
you, my little Victoria, I see you!'

By the time I was ushered to the table I was like a man in a dream,
moving sluggishly, speaking with slurred deliberation. Granville poised
himself over a vast sirloin, stropped his knife briskly then began to
hack away ruthlessly. He was a prodigal server and piled about two
pounds of meat on my plate then he started on the Yorkshire puddings.
Instead of a single big one, Zoe had made a large number of little round
ones as the farmers' wives often did, delicious golden cups, crisply
brown round the sides. Granville heaped about six of these by the side
of the meat as I watched stupidly. Then Zoe passed me the gravy boat.

With an effort I took a careful grip on the handle, closed one eye and
began to pour. For some reason I felt I had to fill up each of the
little puddings with gravy and owlishly directed the stream into one
then another till they were all overflowing. Once I missed and spilled a
few drops of the fragrant liquid on the tablecloth. I looked up guiltily
at Zoe and giggled.

Zoe giggled back, and I had the impression that she felt that though I
was a peculiar individual there was no harm in me. I just had this
terrible weakness that I was never sober day or night, but I was~'t such
a bad fellow at heart.

It usually took me a few days to recover from a visit to Granville and
by the following Saturday I was convalescing nicely. It happened that I
was in the market place and saw a large concourse of people crossing the
cobbles. At first I thought from the mixture of children and adults that
it must be a school outing but on closer inspection I realised it was
only the Dimmocks and Pounders going shopping.

When they saw me they diverted their course and I was engulfed by a
human wave.

"Look at 'im now, Mister!' "He's eatin' like a 'oss now!' "He's going'

to get fat soon, Mister!' The delighted cries rang around me.

Nellie had Toby on a lead and as I bent over the little animal I could
hardly believe how a few days had altered him. He was still skinny but
the hopeless look had gone; he was perky, ready to play. It was just a
matter of time now.

His little mistress ran her hand again and again over the smooth brown
coat.

"You are proud of your little dog, aren't you Nellie,' I said, and the
gentle squinting eyes turned on me.

"Yes, I am.' She smiled that smile again. "Because 'e's mine.'

Chapter Twenty-nine.

There is plenty of time for thinking during the long hours of driving
and now as I headed home from a late call my mind was idly assessing my
abilities as a planner.

I had to admit that planning was not one of my strong points. Shortly
after we were married I told Helen that I didn't think we should have
children just at present. I pointed out that I would soon be going away,
we did not have a proper home, our financial state was precarious and it
would be far better to wait till after the war.

I had propounded my opinions weightily, sitting back in my chair and
puffing my pipe like a sage, but I don't think I was really surprised
when Helen's pregnancy was positively confirmed.

From the warm darkness the grass smell of the Dales stole through the
open window and as I drove through a silent village it was mingled
briefly with the mysterious sweetness of wood smoke. Beyond the houses
the road curved smooth and empty between the black enclosing fells. No
.. . I hadn't organised things very well. Leaving Darrowby and maybe
England for an indefinite period, no home, no money and a pregnant wife.
It was an untidy situation. But I was beginning to realise that life was
not a tidy little parcel at any time.

The clock tower showed 11 p.m. as I rolled through the market place and,
turning into Trengate, I saw that the light had been turned off in our
room. Helen had gone to bed. I drove round the yard at the back, put
away the car and walked down the long garden. It was the end to every
day, this walk; sometimes stumbling over frozen snow but tonight moving
easily through the summer darkness under the branches of the apple trees
to where the house stood tall and silent against the stars.

In the passage I almost bumped into Siegfried.

"Just getting back from Allenby's, James?' he asked. "I saw on the book
that you had a colic.'

I nodded. "Yes, but it wasn't a bad one. Just a bit of spasm. Their grey
horse had been feasting on some of the hard pears lying around the
orchard.'

Siegfried laughed. "Well I've just beaten you in by a few minutes. I've
been round at old Mrs Dewar's for the last hour holding her cat's paw
while it had kittens.'

We reached the corner of the passage and he hesitated. "Care for a
nightcap, James?'

"I would, thanks,' I replied, and we went into the sitting room. But
there was a constraint between us because Siegfried was off to London
early next morning to enter the Air Force - he'd be gone before I got up
- and we both knew that this was a farewell drink.

I dropped into my usual armchair while Siegfried reached into the
glassfronted cupboard above the mantelpiece and fished out the whisky
bottle and glasses. He carelessly tipped out two prodigal measures and
sat down opposite.

We had done a lot of this over the years, often yarning till dawn, but
naturally enough it had faded since my marriage. It was like turning
back the clock to sip the whisky and look at him on the other side of
the fireplace and to feel, as though it were a living presence, the
charm of the beautiful room with its high ceiling, graceful alcoves and
french window.

We didn't talk about his departure but about the things we had always
talked about and still do; the miraculous recovery of that cow, what old
Mr Jenks said yesterday, the patient that knocked us flat, leapt the
fence and disappeared for good. Then Siegfried raised a finger.

"Oh, James, I nearly forgot. I was tidying up the books and I find I owe
you some money.'

"You do?'

"Yes, and I feel rather bad about it. It goes back to your
pre-partnership days when you used to get a cut from Ewan Ross's
testing.

somewhere and you were underpaid. Anyway, you've got "Fifty pounds! Are
you sure?'

"Quite sure, James, and I do apologise.'

There was a slip-up fifty pounds to come.'

"No need to apologise, Siegfried. It'll come in very handy right now.'

"Good, good .. . anyway, the cheque's in the top drawer of the desk if
you'll have a look tomorrow.' He waved a languid hand and started to
talk about some sheep he had seen that afternoon.

But for a few minutes I hardly heard him. Fifty pounds! It was a lot of
money in those days, especially when I would soon be earning three
shillings a day as an AC2 during my initial training. It didn't solve my
financial problem but it would be a nice little cushion to fall back on.

My nearest and dearest are pretty unanimous that I am a bit slow on the
uptake and maybe they are right because it was many years later before
it got through to me that there never was any fifty pounds owing.
Siegfried knew I needed a bit of help at that time and when it all
became clear long afterwards I realised that this was exactly how he
would do it. No embarrassment to me. He hadn't even handed me the cheque
... As the level in the bottle went down the conversation became more
and more effortless. At one point some hours later my mind seemed to
have taken on an uncanny clarity and it was as if I was disembodied and
looking down at the pair of us. We had slid very low in our chairs, our
heads well down the backs, legs extended far across the rug. My
partner's face seemed to stand out in relief and it struck me that
though he was only in his early thirties he looked a lot older. It was
an attractive face, lean, strong-boned with steady humorous eyes, but
not young. In fact, Siegfried, in the time I had known him, had never
looked young, but he has the last laugh now because he has hardly
altered with the years and is one of those who will never look old.

At that moment of the night when everything was warm and easy and I felt
omniscient it seemed a pity that Tristan wasn't there to make up the
familiar threesome. As we talked, the memories marched through the room
like a strip of bright pictures; of November days on the hillsides with
the icy rain driving into our faces, of digging the cars out of snow
drifts, of the spring sunshine warming the hard countryside. And the
thought recurred that Tristan had been part of it all and that I was
going to miss him as much as I would miss his brother.

I could hardly believe it when Siegfried rose, threw back the curtains,
and the grey light of morning streamed in. I got up and stood beside him
as he looked at his watch.

"Five o'clock, James,' he said, and smiled. "We've done it again.'

He opened the french window and we stepped into the hushed stillness of
the garden. I was taking grateful gulps of the sweet air when a single
bird call broke the silence.

"Did you hear that blackbird?' I said.

He nodded and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as myself;
that it sounded just like the same blackbird which had greeted the early
daylight when we talked over my first case those years ago.

We went up the stairs together in silence. Siegfried stopped at his
door.

"Well, James  ... ' he held out his hand and his mouth twitched up at
one corner.

I gripped the hand for a moment then he turned and went into his room.
And as I trailed dumbly up the next flight it seemed strange that we had
never said goodbye. We didn't know when, if ever, we would see each
other again yet neither of us had said a word. I don't know if Siegfried
wanted to say anything but there was a lot trying to burst from me.

I wanted to thank him for being a friend as well as a boss, for teaching
me so much, for never letting me down. There were other things, too, but
I never said them.

Come to think of it, I've never even thanked him for that fifty pounds
...  until now.

Chapter Thirty.

Look, Jim,' Helen said, 'this is one engagement we can't be late for.
Old Mrs Hodgson is an absolute pet - she'd be terribly hurt if we let
her supper spoil.'

I nodded. "You're right, my girl, that mustn't happen. But I've got only
three calls this afternoon and Tristan's doing the evening. I can't see
anything going wrong.'

This nervousness about a simple action like going out for a meal might
be incomprehensible to the layman but to vets and their wives it was
very real, particularly in those days of one or two-man practices. The
idea of somebody preparing a meal for me then waiting in vain for me to
turn up was singularly horrifying but it happened to all of us
occasionally.

It remained a gnawing worry whenever Helen and I were asked out;
especially to somebody like the Hodgsons. Mr Hodgson was a particularly
likeable old farmer, short-sighted to the point of semi-blindness, but
the eyes which peered through the thick glasses were always friendly.
His wife was just as kind and she had looked at me quizzically when I
had visited the farm two days ago.

"Does it make you feel hungry, Mr Herriot?'

"It does indeed, Mrs Hodgson. It's a marvelous sight.'

I was washing my hands in the farm kitchen and stealing a glance at a
nearby table where all the paraphernalia of the family pig-killing lay
in their full glory. Golden rows of pork pies, spareribs, a mound of
newly made sausages, jars of brawn. Great pots were being filled with
lard, newly rendered in the fireside oven.

She looked at me thoughtfully. "Why don't you bring Mrs Herriot round
one night and help us eat it?'

"Well that's most kind of you and I'd love to, but .. .'

"Now then, no buts!' She laughed. "You know there's far too much stuff
here - we have to give so much away.'

This was quite true. In the days when every farmer and many of the
townsfolk of Darrowby kept pigs for home consumption, killing time was
an occasion for feasting. The hams and sides were cured and hung up but
the masses of offal and miscellaneous pieces had to be eaten at the
time; and though farmers with big families could tackle it, others
usually passed delicious parcels round their friends in the happy
knowledge that there would be a reciprocation in due course.

"Well, thanks, Mrs Hodgson,' I said. "Tuesday evening, then, seven
o'clock.'

And here I was on Tuesday afternoon heading confidently into the country
with the image of Mrs Hodgson's supper hanging before me like a vision
of the promised land. I knew what it would be; a glorious mixed grill of
spareribs, onions, liver and pork fillet garlanded with those divine
farm sausages which are seen no more. It was something to dream about.

In fact I was still thinking about it when I drew into Edward Wiggin's
farmyard. I walked over to the covered barn and looked in at my patients
- a dozen half grown bullocks resting on the deep straw. I had to inject
these fellows with Blackleg vaccine. If I didn't it was a fair bet that
one or more of them would be found dead due to infection with the deadly
Clostridium which dwelt in the pastures of that particular farm.

It was a common enough disease and stockholders had recognised it for
generations and had resorted to some strange practices to prevent it;
such as running a seton - a piece of twine or bandage - through the
dewlap of the animal. But now wei was thinkin~r I'd he here for only ;~
few minl~tec hee~,se Mr Wiggin's man, ~ss the yard led his eyes rst.

process of was a frail merica. He that he had ~ drawl and . Anything ~s
his lasso. turn a hair of his rope e thing was '. C ~ ~ ~ CJ ~D ~ O ~C ~
uncann' b :^ c ~ 0~ ~ b ~c~J ~a ~c c of us. We ~ ~., 5 ., ~ c ~ ~`~s ~ ~
c extended fal ~o ~c ~ ~ ~3 ~ ~ s., ~0 c it struck me th', ~ ~ ~ ~ c ~ ~
5 It was an attract ~Y ~ ~ ,., ~be.5 4, ~8

young. In fact, Siegt, ~ .o ~ 3 ~ << ~ ~v, but he has the last lau~ ~ ~
~^. b5O b.0 5 is one of those who willl. ~ 3 c c ~< _ 3 > ~^ At that
moment of the m~ ~ ~v, ", ~3

 ... ... ...  ... .omniscient it seemed a pity th ~3 ~c .bc~= c D D _C
threesome. As we talked, the me.- _ ~ c~ =^ O ~O^ 3 of bright pictures;
of November da> 0' c ;~5 ~-- 4" C into our faces, of digging the cars L
~ ~ = c c o warming the hard countryside. And the t 4t, ~ -3 ~ >" part
of it all and that I was going to mis" ~ ~c brother. ' ~c ~ I could
hardly believe it when Siegfried rose ~ c~ `:

the grey light of morning streamed in. I got up :' ` ~ 3

looked at his watch. ~o c c "Five o'clock, James,' he said, and smiled.
"We've doi ~ u: ~ He opened the french window and we stepped into the
r.^~ 5 garden. I was taking grateful gulps of the sweet air wher? u,
broke the silence.

l d he began :. When he ly half way f deliberate ~ethodically dvanced on
Ice.

If,' he said ~e retrieved :,f the barn. ~row which v rr LTI I l UI l~raa
sent it high into the cries-cross of beams in the roof where it stuck.

The farmer tugged at it several times in vain.

"Goldurn it, it's got round a nail up there. Slip across the yard and
fetch a Iadder, Will.'

As I waited for the ladder then watched Will climbing into the shadowy
heights of the barn I pondered on Mr Wiggin. The way he spoke, the
expressions he used were familiar to most Yorkshire folk since they
filtered continually across the Atlantic in films and books. In fact
there were dark mutterings that Mr Wiggin had learned them that way and
had never been near a ranch in his life. There was no way of knowing.

At last the rope was retrieved, the ladder put away, and the little man
went into action once more. He missed again but one of the bullocks got
its foot in the loop and for a few moments the farmer hung on with
fierce determination as the animal produced a series of piston-like
kicks to rid itself of the distraction. And as I watched the man's lined
face set grimly, the thin shoulders jerking, it came to me that Mr
Wiggin wasn't just catching a beast for injection; he was roping a
steer, the smell of the prairie was in his nostrils, the cry of the
coyote in his ears.

It didn't take long for the bullock to free itself and with a grunt of
"Ornery crittur!' Mr Wiggin started again. And as he kept on throwing
his rope ineffectually I was uncomfortably aware that time was passing
and that our chances of doing our job were rapidly diminishing. When you
have to handle a bunch of young beasts the main thing is not to upset
them. If Mr Wiggin hadn't been there we would have penned them quietly
in a corner and Will would have moved among them and caught their noses
in his powerful fingers.

They were thoroughly upset. They had been peacefully chewing the cud or
having a mouthful of hay from the rack but now, goaded by the teasing
rope, were charging around like racehorses. Will and I watched in
growing despair as Mr Wiggin for once managed to get a loop round one of
them, but it was too wide and slipped down and round the body. The
bullock shook it off with an angry bellow then went off at full gallop,
bucking and kicking. I looked at the throng of frenzied creatures
milling past; it was getting more like a rodeo every minute.

And it was a disastrous start to the afternoon. I had seen a couple of
dogs at the surgery after lunch and it had been nearly two thirty when I
set out. It was now nearly four o'clock and I hadn't done a thing.

And I don't think I ever would have if fate hadn't stepped in. By an
amazing fluke Mr Wiggin cast his loop squarely over the horns of a
shaggy projectile as it thundered past him, the rope tightened on the
neck and Mr Wiggin on the other end flew gracefully through the air for
about twenty feet till he crashed into a wooden feeding trough.

We rushed to him and helped him to his feet. Badly shaken but uninjured
he looked at us.

"Doggone, I jest couldn't hold the blame thing,' he murmured. "Reckon
I'd better sit down in the house for a while. You'll have to catch that
pesky lot yourselves.'

Back in the barn, Will whispered to me, "By gaw it's an ill wind,
guvnor. We can get on now. And maybe it'll make 'im forget that bloody
lasso for a bit.'

The bullocks were too excited to be caught by the nose but instead Will
treated me to an exhibition of roping, Yorkshire style. Like many of the
local stocksmen he was an expert with a halter and it fascinated me to
see him dropping it on the head of a moving animal so that one loop fell
behind the ears and the other snared the nose.

J w ~ C~ &/` ~ ~1 I`GJJ With a gush of relief I pulled the syringe and
bottle of vaccine from my pocket and had the whole batch inoculated
within twenty minutes.

Driving off I glanced at my watch and my pulse quickened as I saw it was
a quarter to five. The afternoon had almost slipped away and there were
still two more calls. But I had till seven o'clock and surely I wouldn't
come across any more Mr Wiggin's. And as the stone walls flipped past I
ruminated again on that mysterious little man. Had he once been a
genuine cowboy or was the whole thing fantasy?

I recalled that one Thursday evening Helen and I were leaving the
Brawton cinema where we usually finished our half day; the picture had
been a Western and just before leaving the dark interior I glanced along
the back row and right at the far end I saw Mr Wiggin all on his own,
huddled in the corner and looking strangely furtive.

Ever since then I have wondered ... Five o'clock saw me hurrying into
the smaliholding belonging to the Misses Dunn. Their pig had cut its
neck on a nail and my previous experience of this establishment
suggested that it wouldn't be anything very serious.

These two maiden ladies farmed a few acres just outside Dollingsford
village. They were objects of interest because they did most of the work
themselves and in the process they lavished such affection on their
livestock that they had become like domestic pets. The little byre held
four cows and whenever I had to examine one of them I could feel the
rough tongue of her neighbour licking at my back; their few sheep ran up
to people in the fields and sniffed round their legs like dogs; calves
sucked at your fingers, an ancient pony wandered around wearing a benign
expression and nuzzling anyone within reach. The only exception among
the amiable colony was the pig, Prudence, who was thoroughly spoiled.

I looked at her now as she nosed around the straw in her pen. She was a
vast sow and the four-inch laceration in her neck muscles was obviously
posing no threat to her life; but it was gaping and couldn't be left
like that.

"I'll have to put a few stitches in there,' I said, and the big Miss
Dunn gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

"Oh dear! Will it hurt her? I shall't be able to look, I'm afraid.'

She was a tall muscular lady in her fifties with a bright red face and
often as I looked at her wide shoulders and the great arms with their
bulging biceps I had the feeling that she could flatten me effortlessly
with one blow if she so desired. But strangely she was nervous and
squeamish about the realities of animal doctoring and it was always her
little wisp of a sister who helped at lambings, carvings and the rest.

'()h you needn't worry, Miss Dunn,' I replied. "It'll be all over before
she knows what's happening.' I climbed into the pen, went up to
Prudence, and touched her gently on the neck.

Immediately the sow unleashed a petulant scream as though she had been
stabbed with a hot iron and when I tried to give her back a friendly
scratch the huge mouth opened again and the deafening sound blasted out.
And this time she advanced on me threateningly. I stood my ground till
the yawning cavern with its yellowed teeth was almost touching my leg
then I put a hand on the rail and vaulted out of the pen.

"We'll have to get her into a smaller space,' I said. "I'll never be
able to stitch her in that big pen. She has too much room to move around
and she's too big to hold.'

Little Miss Dunn held up her hand. "We have the very place. In the calf
house across the yard. If we got her into one of those narrow stalls she
wouldn't be able to turn round.'

"Fine!' I rubbed my hands. "And I'll be able to do the stitching over
the top from the passage Let's get her over there.'

I opened the door and after a bit of poking and pushing Prudence ambled
majestically out on to the cobbles of the yard. But there she stood,
grunting sulkily, a stubborn glint in her little eyes, and when I leaned
my weight against her back end it was like trying to move an eltphant.
She had no intention of moving any further; and that calf house was
twenty yards away.

I stole a look at my watch. Five fifteen, and I didn't seem to be
getting anywhere.

The little Miss Dunn broke into my thoughts. "Mr Herriot, I know how we
can get her across the yard.'

"You do?'

"Oh yes, Prudence has been naughty before and we have found a way of
persuading her to move.'

I managed a smile. "Great! How do you do it?'

"Well now,' and both sisters giggled, 'she is very fond of digestive
biscuits.'

"What's that?'

"She simply loves digestive biscuits.'

"She does?'

"Adores them!'

"Well, that's very nice,' I said. "But I don't quite see .. .'

The big Miss Dunn laughed. "Just you wait and I'll show you.'

She began to stroll towards the house and it seemed to me that though
those ladies were by no means typical Dales' farmers they did share the
general attitude that time was of no consequence. The door closed behind
her and I waited ... and as the minutes ticked away I began to think she
was brewing herself a cup of tea. In my mounting tension I turned away
and gazed down over the hillside fields to where the grey roofs and old
church tower of Dollingsford showed above the riverside trees. The quiet
peace of the scene was in direct contrast to my mental state.

Just when I was giving up hope, big Miss Dunn reappeared carrying a long
round paper container. She gave me a roguish smile as she held it up to
me.

"These are what she likes. Now just watch.'

She produced a biscuit and threw it down on the cobbles a few feet in
front of the sow. Prudence eyed it impassively for a few moments then
without haste strolled forward, examined it carefully, and began to eat
it.

When she had finished, big Miss Dunn glanced at me conspiratorially and
threw another biscuit in front of her. The pig again moved on
unhurriedly and started on the second course. This was gradually leading
her towards the buildings across the yard but it was going to take a
long time. I reckoned that each biscuit was advancing her about ten feet
and the calf house would be all of twenty yards away, so allowing three
minutes a biscuit it was going to take nearly twenty minutes to get
there.

I broke out in a sweat at the thought, and my fears were justified
because nobody was in the slightest hurry. Especially Prudence who
slowly munched each titbit then snuffled around picking up every crumb
while the ladies smiled down at her fondly.

"Look,' I stammered. "Do you think you could throw the biscuits a bit
further ahead of her .. . just to save time, I mean?'

Little Miss Dunn laughed gaily. "Oh we've tried that, but she's such a
clever old darling. She knows she'll get less that way.'

To demonstrate she threw the next biscuit about fifteen feet away from
the pig but the massive animal surveyed it with a cynical expression and
didn't ~ Gl ill I 1~1 11~3

budge until it was kicked back to the required spot. Miss Dunn was
right; Prudence wasn't so daft.

So I just had to wait, gritting my teeth as I watched the agonising
progress. I was almost at screaming point at the end though the others
were thoroughly enjoying themselves. But at last the final biscuit was
cast into the calf pen, the pig made her leisurely way inside and the
ladies, with triumphant giggles, closed the door behind her.

I leapt forward with my needle and suture silk and of course as soon as
I laid a finger on her skin Prudence set up an almost unbearable nonstop
squeal of rage. Big Miss Dunn put her hands over her ears and fled in
terror but her little sister stayed with me bravely and passed me my
scissors and dusting powder whenever I asked in sign language above the
din.

My head was still ringing as I drove away, but that didn't worry me as
much as the time. It was six o'clock.

Chapter Thirty-one.

Tensely I assessed my position. The next and final visit was only a
couple of miles away - I could make it in ten minutes. Then say twenty
minutes on the farm, fifteen minutes back to Darrowby, a lightning wash
and change and I could still be pushing my knees under Mrs Hodgson's
table by seven o'clock.

And the next job wasn't a long one; just a bull to ring. Nowadays, since
the advent of Artificial Insemination, there aren't many bulls about -
only the big dairy men and pedigree breeders keep them - but in the
thirties nearly every farmer had one, and inserting rings in their noses
was a regular job. The rings were put in when they were about a year old
and were necessary to restrain the big animals when they had to be led
around.

I was immensely relieved when I arrived to find the gaunt figure of old
Ted Buckle the farmer and his two men waiting for me in the yard. A
classical way for a vet to waste time is to go hollering around the
empty buildings then do more of the same out in the empty fields, waving
madly, trying to catch the eye of a dot on the far horizon.

"Now then, young men,' Tfed said, and even that short phrase took a fair
time to come out. To me, the old man was a constant delight; speaking
the real old Yorkshire - which you seldom hear now and which I won't try
to reproduce here - with slow deliberation as though he were savouring
every syllable as much as I was enjoying listening to him. "You've come,
then.'

"Yes, Mr Buckle, and I'm glad to see you're ready and waiting for me.'

"Aye, ah doan't like keepin' you fellers hangin' about.' He turned to
his men. "Now then, lads, go into that box and get haud'n that big
lubber for Mr Herriot.'

The 'lads', Ernest and Herbert, who were both in their sixties, shuffled
into the bull's loose box and closed the door after them. There was a
few seconds of muffled banging against the wood, a couple of bellows and
the occasional Anglo-Saxon expression from the men, then silence.

"Ah think they have 'im now,' Ted murmured and, not for the first time,
I looked wonderingly at his wearing apparel. I had never seen him in
anything else but that hat and coat in the time I had known him. With
regard to the coat, which countless years ago must have been some kind
of mackintosh, two things puzzled me: why he put it on and how he put it
on. The long taller of unrelated ribbons tied round the middle with
binder twine could not possibly afford him any protection from the
elements and how on earth did he know which were the sleeve holes among
all the other apertures? And the hat, an almost crownless trilby from
the early days of the century whose brim drooped vertically in sad folds
over ears and eyebrows; it seemed incredible that he actually hung the
thing up on a peg each night and donned it again in the morning.

Maybe the answer was to be found in the utterly serene humorous eyes
which looked out from the skeleton-thin face. Nothing changed for Ted
and the passage of a decade was a fleeting thing. I remember him showing
me the old-fashioned 'reckon' which held the pans and kettles over the
fire on his farm kitchen. He pointed out the row of holes where you
could adjust it for large pans or small as though it were some modern
invention.

"Aye, it's a wonderful thing, and t'lad that put it in for me made a
grand job!'

"When was that, Mr Buckle?'

"It were eighteen ninety-seven. Ah remember it well. He was a right good
workman was t'lad.'

But the men had reappeared with the young bull on a halter and they soon
had him held in the accepted position for ringing.

There was a ritual about this job, a set pattern as unvarying as a
classical ballet. Ernest and Herbert pulled the bull's head over the
half door and held it there by pulling on a shank on either side of the
halter. The portable crush had not yet been invented and this
arrangement with the bull inside the box and the men outside was adopted
for safety's sake. The next step was to make a hole through the tough
tissue at the extremity of the nasal septum with the special punch which
I had ready in its box.

But first there was a little refinement which I had introduced myself.
Though it was the general custom to punch the hole without any
preliminaries I always had the feeling that the bull might not like it
very much; so I used to inject a couple of c.c.'s of local anaesthetic
into the nose before I started. I poised my syringe now and Ernest,
holding the left shank, huddled back apprehensively against the door.

"The's standin' middlin' to t'side, Ernest,' Ted drawled. "Doesta think
he's going' to jump on top o' the?'

"New, new.' The man grinned sheepishly and took a shorter hold of the
rope.

But he jumped back to his former position when I pushed the needle into
the gristle just inside the nostril because the bull let loose a sudden
deep-throated bellow of anger and reared up above the door. Ted had
delayed ringing this animal; he was nearly eighteen months and very big.

"Haud 'im, lads,' Ted murmured as the two men clung to the ropes.
"That's right - he'll settle down shortly.'

And he did. With his chin resting on the top of the door, held by the
ropes on either side, he was ready for the next act. I pushed my punch
into the nose, gripped the handles and squeezed. I never felt much like
a professional gentleman when I did this, but at least my local had
worked and the big animal didn't stir as the jaws of the instrument
clicked together, puncturing a small round hole in the hard tissue.

The next stage in the solemn rite was unfolded as I unwrapped the bronze
ring from its paper covering, took out the screw and opened the ring
wide on its hinge. I waited for the inevitable words.

Ted supplied them. "Take the cap off, Herbert. Tha woan't catch caud
just for a minute.'

It was always a cap. A big bucket, a basin would have been more
practical to hold that stupid, tiny screw and equally foolish little
screwdriver, but it was always a cap. And a greasy old cap such as
Herbert now removed from his polished pate.

My next step would be to slip the ring through the hole I had made,
close it, insert the screw and tighten it up. That was where the cap
came in; it was held under the ring to guard against sudden movements,
because if the screw fell and was lost in the dirt and straw then all
was lost. Then Ted would hand me the long rasp or file which every
farmer had around somewhere and I would carefully smooth off the rim of
the screw whether it needed it or not But this time there was to be a
modification of the stereotyped little drama. As I stepped forward with
my ring the young bull and I stood face to face and for a moment the
wide set eyes under the stubby horns looked into mine. And as I reached
out he must have moved slightly because the sharp end of the ring
pricked him a little on the muzzle; the merest touch, but he seemed to
take it as a personal insult because his mouth opened in an exasperated
bawl and again he reared on his hind legs.

He was a well grown animal and in that position he looked very large
indeed; and when his fore feet clumped down on the half door and the
great rib cage loomed above us he was definitely formidable.

"The bugger's comin' over!' Ernest gasped and released his hold on the
halter shank. He had never had much enthusiasm for the job and he
abandoned it now without regret. Herbert was made of sterner stuff and
he hung on grimly to his end as the bull thrashed above him, but after a
cloven hoof had whizzed past his ear and another whistled just over his
gleaming dome he too let go and fled.

Ted, untroubled as always, was well out of range and there remained only
myself dancing in front of the door and gesticulating frantically at the
bull in the vain hope that I might frighten him back whence he came; and
the only thing that kept me there was the knowledge that every inch he
scrambled out was taking me further from Mr$ Hodgson's glorious supper.

I stood my ground until the snorting, bellowing creature was two thirds
over, hanging grotesquely with the top of the door digging deep into his
abdomen, then with a final plunge he was into the yard and I ran for
cover. But the bull was not bent on mischief; he took one look at the
open gate into the field and thundered through it like an express train.

From behind a stack of milk churns I watched sadly as he curveted
joyously over the grass, revelling in his new found freedom. Bucking and
kicking, tail in the air he headed for the far horizon where the wide
pasture dipped to a beck which wandered along the floor of a shallow
depression. And as he disappeared over the brow of the hill the last
hope of my spareribs went with him.

"It'll tek us an hour to catch that bugger,' grunted Ernest gloomily.

I looked at my watch. Half past six. The bitter injustice of the whole
thing overwhelmed me and I set up a wail of lamentation.

"Yes, dammit, and I've got an appointment in Darrowby at seven o'clock!'
I stamped over the cobbles for a moment or two then swung round on old
Ted. "I'll never make it now ... I'll have to ring my wife .. . have you
got a phone?'

Ted's drawl was lazier than ever. "Nay, we 'aven't got no phone. Ah
don't believe in them things.' He fished out a tobacco tin from his
pocket, unscrewed the lid and produced a battered timepiece which he
scrutinised without haste. "Any road, there's nowt to stop ye bein' back
i' Darrowby by seven.'

"But .. . but .. . that's impossible .. . and I can't keep these people
waiting .. . I must get to a phone.'

"Doan't get s'flustered, young man.' The old man's long face creased
into a soothing smile. "Ah tell ye you won't be late.'

I waved my arms around. "But he's just said it'll take an hour to catch
that bull!'

"Fiddlesticks! Ernest allus talks like that ... miserable Ah'll get bull
in i' five minutes.'

"Five minutes! That's ridiculous! I'll .. . I'll drive down the road to
the nearest phone box while you're catching him.'

"You'll do nowt of t'sort, lad.' Ted pointed to a stone water trough
against the wall. "Go and sit thissen down and think of summat else .

.. ah'll only be five minutes.'

Wearily I sank on to the rough surface and buried my face in my hands.
When I looked up the old man was coming out of the byre and in front of
him ambled a venerable cow. By the number of rings on the long curving
horns she must have been well into her teens; the gaunt pelvic bones
stood out like a hatstand and underneath her a pendulous udder almost
touched the ground.

"Get out there awd lass,' Ted said and the old cow trotted into the
field, her udder swinging gently at each step. I watched her until she
had disappeared over the hill, then turned to see Ted throwing cattle
cake into a bucket.

He strolled through the gate and as I gazed uncomprehendingly he began
to beat the bucket with a stick. At the same time he raised his voice in
a reedy tenor and called out across the long stretch of green.

"Cush, cush!' he cried. "Cush, pet, cush!'

Almost immediately the cow reappeared over the brow and just behind her
the bull. I looked with wonder as Ted banged on his bucket and the cow
broke into a stiff gallop with my patient close by her side. When she
reached the old man she plunged her head in among the cake while the
bull, though he was as big as she, pushed his nose underneath her and
seized one of her teats in his great mouth. It was an absurd sight but
she didn't seem to mind as the big animal, almost on his knees, sucked
away placidly.

In fact it was like a soothing potion because when the cow was led
inside he followed; and he made no complaint as I slipped the ring in
his nose and fastened it with the screw which mercifully had survived
inside Herbert's cap.

"Quarter to seven!' I panted happily as I jumped into the driving seat.
"I'll get there in time now.' I could see Helen and me standing on the
Hodgson's step and the door opening and the heavenly scent of the
spareribs and onions drifting out from the kitchen.

I looked again at the scarecrow figure with that hat brim drooping over
the calm eyes. "You did a wonderful job there, Mr Buckle. I wouldn't
have believed it if I hadn't seen it. It was amazing how that bull
followed the cow in like that.'

The old man smiled and I had a sudden surging impression of the wisdom
in that quiet mind.

"There's nowt amazint about it, lad, it's most nat'ral thing in "'world.
That's is mother ~

Chapter Thirty-two.

I slowed down and gazed along the farm lane. That was Tristan's car
parked against the byre and inside, behind that green door, he was
calving a cow. Because Tristan's student days were over. He was a fully
fledged veterinary surgeon now and the great world of animal doctoring
with all its realities stretched ahead.

Not for long, though, because like many others he was bound for the army
and would leave soon after myself. But it wouldn't be so bad for Tristan
because at least he would be doing his own job. When Siegfried and I had
volunteered for service there had been no need for our profession in the
army so we had gone into RAF aircrew which was the only branch open to
our 'reserved occupation'. But when it came to Tristan's turn the
fighting had escalated in the far east and they were crying out for vets
to doctor the horses, mules, cattle, camels.

The timing suggested that the Gods were looking after him as usual. In
fact I think the Gods love people like Tristan who sway effortlessly
before the winds of fate and spring back with a smile, looking on life
always with blithe optimism. Anyway it seemed natural and inevitable
that whereas Siegfried and I as second class aircraftmen pounded the
parade ground for weary hours Captain Tristan Farnon sailed off to the
war in style.

But in the meantime I was glad of his help. After my departure he would
run things with the aid of an assistant, then, when he left, the
practice would be in the hands of two strangers till we returned. It
seemed strange but everything was impermanent at that time.

I drew up and looked thoughtfully at the car. This was Mark Dowson's
place and when I had rung the surgery from out in the country Helen told
me about this calving. I didn't want to butt in and fuss but I couldn't
help wondering how Tristan was getting on, because Mr Dowson was a dour,
taciturn character who wouldn't hesitate to come down on a young man if
things went wrong.

Still, I hadn't anything to worry about because since he qualified
Tristan was doing fine. The farmers had always liked him during his
sporadic visits as a student but now that he was on the job regularly
the good reports were coming in thick and fast.

"I'll tell the, that young feller does work! Doesn't spare 'himself,' or
"Ah've never seen a lad put his 'eart and soul into his job like this
'un.' And one man drew me to one side and muttered, "He meks some queer
noises but he does try. I think he'd kill 'isself afore he'd give up.'

That last remark made me think. Tristan's forte was certainly not brute
effort and I had been a bit bewildered at some of the comments till I
began to remember some of my experiences with him in his student days.
He had always applied his acute intelligence to any situation in his own
particular way and the way he reacted to the little accidents of country
practice led me to believe he was operating a system.

the first time I saw this in action was when he was standing by the side
of ;~watching me pulling milk from a teat. Without warning the animal
swung so~ ~brought an unyielding cloven hoof down on his foot. This is a
common and fairly agonising experience and before the days of
steel-tipped wellingtons I have frequently had the skin removed from my
toes in neat parchment-like rolls. When it happened to me I was inclined
to hop around and swear a bit and my performance was usually greeted
with appreciative laughter from the farmers. Tristan, however, handled
it differently.

He gasped, leaned with bowed head against the cow's pelvic bone for a
moment then opened his mouth wide and emitted a long groan. Then, as the
cowman and I stared at him, he reeled over the cobbles dragging a
damaged limb uselessly behind him. Arrived at the far wall he collapsed
against it, face on the stone, still moaning pitifully.

Thoroughly alarmed, I rushed to his aid. This must be a fracture and
already my mind was busy with plans to get him to hospital with all
possible speed. But he revived rapidly and when we left the byre ten
minutes later he was tripping along with no trace of a limp. And I did
notice one thing; nobody had laughed at him, he had received only
sympathy and commiseration.

This sort of thing happened on other places. He sustained a few mild
kicks, he was crushed between cows, he met with many of the discomforts
which are part of our life and he reacted in the same histrionic way.
And how it paid off! To a man, the farmers exhibited the deepest concern
when he went into his act and there was something more; it actually
improved his image. I was pleased about that because impressing
Yorkshire farmers isn't the easiest task and if Tristan's method worked
it was all right with me.

But I smiled to myself as I sat outside the farm. I couldn't see Mr
Dowson being affected by any sign of suffering. I had had my knocks
there in the past and he obviously hadn't cared a damn.

On an impulse I drove down the lane and walked into the byre. Tristan
stripped off and soaped, was just inserting an arm into a large red cow
while the farmer, pipe in hand, was holding the tail. My colleague
greeted me with a pleasant smile but Mr Dowson just nodded curtly.

"What have you got, Triss?' I asked.

"Both legs back,' he replied. "And they're a long way in. Look at the
length of her pelvis.'

I knew what he meant. It wasn't a difficult presentation but it could be
uncomfortable in these long cows. I leaned back against the wall; I
might as well see how he fared.

He braced himself and reached as far forward as he could, and just then
the cow's flanks bulged as she strained hard against him. This is never
very nice; the powerful contractions of the uterus squeeze the arm
relentlessly between calf and pelvis and you have to grit your teeth
till it passes off.

Tristan, however, went a little further.

"Ooh! Aah! Ouch!' he cried. Then as the animal still kept up the
pressure he went into a gasping groan. When she finally relaxed he stood
there quite motionless for a few seconds, his head hanging down as
though the experience had drained him of all his strength.

The farmer drew on his pipe and regarded him impassively. Throughout the
years I had known Mr Dowson I had never seen any particular emotion
portrayed in those hard eyes and craggy features. In fact it had always
seemed to me that I could have dropped down dead in front of him and he
wouldn't even blink.

My colleague continued his struggle and the cow, entering into the
spirit of the game, fought back with a will. Some animals will stand
quietly and submit to all kinds of internal interference but this was a
strainer; every movement of the arm within her was answered by a violent
expulsive effort. I had been through it a hundred times and I could
almost feel the grinding pressure on the wrist, the helpless numbing of
the fingers.

Tristan showed what he thought about it all by a series of heartrending
sounds. His repertoire was truly astounding and he ranged from long
harrowing moans through shrill squeals to an almost tearful whimpering.

At first Mr Dowson appeared oblivious to the whole business, puffing
smoke, glancing occasionally through the byre door, scratching at the
bristle on his chin. But as the minutes passed his eyes were dragged
more and more to the suffering creature before him until his whole
attention was riveted on the young man.

And in truth he was worth watching because Tristan added to his vocal
performance an extraordinary display of facial contortions. He sucked in
his cheeks, rolled his eyes, twisted his lips, did everything in fact
but wiggle his ears. And there was no doubt he was getting through to Mr
Dowson. As the noises and grimaces became more extravagant the farmer
showed signs of growing uneasiness; he darted anxious glances at my
colleague and occasionally his pipe trembled violently. Like me, he
clearly thought some dreadful climax was at hand.

As if trying to bring matters to a head the cow started to build up to a
supreme effort. She straddled her legs wide, grunted deeply and went
into a prolonged heave. As her back arched Tristan opened his mouth wide
in a soundless protest then little panting cries began to escape him.
This, I thought, was his most effective ploy yet; a long drawn "Aah .. .
aah .. . aah .. .' creeping gradually up the scale and building
increasing tension in his audience. My toes were curling with
apprehension when, with superb timing, he released a sudden piercing
scream.

That was when Mr Dowson cracked. His pipe had almost wobbled from his
mouth but now he stuffed it into his pocket and rushed to Tristan's
side.

"Ista all right, young man?'he enquired hoarsely.

My colleague, his face a mask of anguish did not reply.

The farmer tried again. "Wil~ -' ~ cup o' tea?' For a moment Tristan,
eyes closed, he nodded dumbly. Mr D^-vre and within minutes returned 'ce
my head to dispel the feeling e hard-bitten farmer feeding the ~ ~ ~ ~
c:~ head in a horny hand. Tristan s ~ ~c~ ~, -~ ~ ~;\cious with pain but
submitting j: ~, cr ~ ~ ~ ~j 0~ -\calf's legs and as he tdopped doing .~
~ ~$ ~ ~ ~ ~ '. `-~other long gulp of tea. After student bu t; ti ~OS2,
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ leg and the calf itself soon in thick and e -o ~i ~ ,- ~ ~od ~
~ `;

Chapter Thirty-three.

r Tristan collapsed on his rds a pile of hay, prepared "Get in 'ere and
wisp this to "'house, lad, and have xed disbelievingly as my the aid of
several stiff nt like this and a wave th adopting Tristan's ~ .

It was strange, but somehow the labels on the calves' backs made them
look even more pathetic, the auction mart labels stuck roughly with
paste on the hairy rumps, stressing the little creatures' role as
helpless merchandise.

As I lifted one sodden tail and inserted the thermometer a thin whitish
diarrhoea trickled from the rectum and streamed down the thighs and
hocks.

"It's the old story, I'm afraid Mr Clark,' I said.

The farmer shrugged and dug his thumbs under his braces. In the blue
overalls and peaked porter's cap he always wore he didn't look much like
a farmer and for that matter this place did not greatly resemble a farm;
the calves were in a converted railway wagon and all around lay a weird
conglomeration of rusting agricultural implements, pieces of derelict
cars, broken chairs. "Aye, it's a beggar isn't it? I wish I didn't have
to buy calves in markets but you can't always find 'em on t'farms when
you want them. This lot looked all right when I got them two days
since.'

"I'm sure they did.' I looked at the five calves, arch-backed,
trembling, miserable. "But they've had a tough time and it's showing
now. Taken from their mothers at a week old, carted for miles in a
draughty wagon, standing for most of the day at the mart then the final
journey here on a cold afternoon. They didn't have a chance.'

"Well ah gave them a good bellyful of milk as soon as they came. They
looked a bit starved and ah thought it would warm them up.'

"Yes, you'd think it would, Mr Clark, but really their stomachs weren't
in a fit state to accept rich food like that when they were cold and
tired. Next time if I were you I'd just give them a drink of warm water
with maybe a little glucose and make them comfortable till next day.'

"White scour' they called it. It killed countless thousands of calves
every year and the name always sent a chill through me because the
mortality rate was depressingly high.

I gave each of them a shot of E cold antiserum. Most authorities said it
did no good and I was inclined to agree with them. Then I rummaged in my
car boot and produced a packet of our astringent powders of chalk, opium
and catechu.

"Here, give them one of these three times a day, Mr Clark,' I said. I
tried to sound cheerful but I'm sure my tone lacked conviction.
Whiskered veterinary surgeons in top hats and tail coats had been
prescribing chalk, opium and catechu a hundred years ago and though it
might have been helpful in mild diarrhoea it was almost useless against
the lethal bacterial enteritis of white scour. It was a waste of time
just trying to dry up the diarrhoea; what was wanted was a drug which
would knock out the vicious bugs which caused it, but there wasn't such
a thing around.

However there was one thing which we vets of those days used to do which
is sometimes neglected since the arrival of the modern drugs; we
attended to the comfort and nursing of the animals. The farmer and I
wrapped each calf in a big sack which went right round its body and was
fastened with binder twine round the ribs, in front of the brisket and
under the tail. Then I fussed round the shed, plugging up draught holes,
putting up a screen of straw bales between the calves and the door.

Before I left I took a last look at them; there was no doubt they were
warm and sheltered now. They would need every bit of help with only my
astringent powders fighting for them.

I didn't see them again until the following afternoon. Mr Clark was
nowhere around so I went over to the railway wagon and opened the half
door.

This, to me, is the thing that lies at the very heart of veterinary
practice; the wondering and worrying about how your patient is
progressing then the long moment when you open that door and find out. I
rested my elbows on the timbers and looked inside. The calves were lying
quite motionless on their sides, in fact I had to look closely to make
sure they were not dead. I banged the door behind me with deliberate
force but not a head was raised.

Walking through the deep straw and looking down at the outstretched
animals, each in his rough sacking jacket, I swore to myself. It looked
as though the whole lot was going to perish. Great, great, I thought as
I kicked among the straw - not just one or two but a hundred per cent
death rate this time.

"Well you don't look very 'opeful, young man.' Mr Clark's head and
shoulders loomed over the half door.

I dug my hands into my pockets. "No, damn it, I'm not. They've gone down
really fast, haven't they?'

"Aye, it's ower wi' them all right. I've just been in t'house ringing
Mallock.'

The knacker man's name was like the pealing of a mournful bell.-"But
they're not dead yet,' I said.

"No, but it won't be long. Mallock allus gives a bob or two more if he
can get a beast alive. Makes fresher dog meat, he says.'

I didn't say anything and I must hav~ '~-' gave a wry smile and r~~
~spondent because the farmer g white scour. If you get the ~d you can't
blame me for a bad job.' t~ave a go at them with this tit's called M and
B 693, it came in the post this \l~gs - they're called the before.
They're supposed ~which cause scour.' id. "A lot of little blue ~is
ailment but none of about these sulphonremedies, they're a your calves.'
the five still bodies. :. seen calves like that, 0 ~ c, ~

~~ / ~ ~\

the first time I saw this in action was when ~3

N,watching me pulling milk from a teat. Witho'& :, s',` "brought an
unyielding cloven hoof down on t.

\ rightly, stocky man ;~ "New, they got me on t'phone at Jenkinson's,
just down "'road.' He gave me a smile of peculiar sweetness I studied
Jeff Mallock as I always did with a kind of wonder. He had spent the
greater part of his forty odd years delving in decomposing carcases,
slashing nonchalantly with his knife at tuberculous abscesses, wallowing
in infected blood and filthy uterine exudates yet he remained a model of
health and fitness. He had the clear eyes and the smooth pink skin of a
twenty-year-old and the effect was heightened by the untroubled serenity
of his expression. To the best of my knowledge Jeff never took any
hygienic precautions such as washing his hands and I have seen him
enjoying a snack on his premises, seated on a heap of bones and gripping
a cheese and onion sandwich with greasy fingers.

He peered over the door at the calves. "Yes, yes, a clear case of
stagnation of "'lungs. There's a lot of it about right now.'

Mr Clark looked at me narrowly. "Lungs? You never said owl about lungs,
young man.' Like all farmers he had complete faith in Jeff's instant
diagnosis.

I mumbled something. I had found it useless to argue this point. The
knacker man's amazing ability to tell at a glance the cause of an
animal's illness or death was a frequent source of embarrassment to me.
No examination was necessary - he just knew, and of all his weird
catalogue of diseases stagnation of t'lungs was the favourite.

He turned to the farmer. "Well, ah'd better shift 'em now, Willie.
Reckon they won't last much longer.'

I bent down and lifted the head of the nearest calf. They were all
shorthorns, three roans, a red and this one which was pure white. I
passed my fingers over the hard little skull, feeling the tiny horn buds
under the rough hair. When I withdrew my hand the head dropped limply on
to the straw and it seemed to me that there was something of finality
and resignation in the movement.

My thoughts were interrupted by the roar of Jeff's engine. He was
backing his wagon round to the door of the calf house and as the high
unpainted boards darkened the entrance the atmosphere of gloom deepened.
These little animals had suffered two traumatic journeys in their short
lives. This was to be the last, the most fateful and the most sordid.

When the knacker man came in he stood by the farmer, looking at me as I
squatted in the straw among the prostrate creatures. They were both
waiting for me to quit the place, leaving my failure behind me.

"You know, Mr Clark,' I said, 'even if we could save one of them it
would help to reduce your loss.'

The farmer regarded me expressionlessly. "But they're all dyin', lad.
You said so yourself.'

"Yes, I did, I know, but the circumstances could be a bit different
today.'

"Ah know what it is.' He laughed suddenly. "You've got your heart set on
havin'a go with them little tablets, haven't you?'

I didn't answer but looked up at him with a mute appeal.

He was silent for a few moments then he put a hand on Mallock's
shoulder. "Jeff, if this young feller is that concerned about ma stock
I'll 'ave to humour 'im. You're not bothered, are you?'

"Nay, Willie, nay,' replied Jeff, completely unruffled, "I can pick 'em
up tomorrow, just as easy.'

"Right,' I said. "Let's have a look at the instructions.' I fished out
the pamphlet from the tin and read rapidly, working out the dose for the
weight of the calves. We'll have to give them a loading dose first. I
think twelve tablets per calf then six every eight hours after that.'

"How do you get 'em down their necks?' the farmer asked. "We'll have to
crush them and shake them up in water. Can we go into the house to do
that?'

In the farm kitchen we borrowed Mrs Clark's potato masher and pounded
the tablets until we had five initial doses measured out. Then we
returned to the shed and began to administer them to the calves. We had
to go carefully as the little creatures were so weak they had difficulty
in swallowing, but the farmer held each head while I trickled the
medicine into the side of the mouth.

Jeff enjoyed every minute of it. He showed no desire to leave but
produced a pipe richly decorated with nameless tissues, leaned on the
top of the half door and, puffing happily, watched us with tranquil
eyes. He was quite unperturbed by his wasted journey and when we had
finished he climbed into his wagon and waved to us cordially.

"I'll be back to pick 'em up in t'mornin', Willie,' he cried, quite
without malice I'm sure. "There's no cure for stagnation of "'lungs.'

I thought of his words next day as I drove back to the farm. He was just
stating the fact; his supply of dog meat was merely being postponed for
another twenty-four hours. But at least, I told myself, I had the
satisfaction of having tried, and since I expected nothing I wasn't
going to be disappointed.

As I pulled up in the yard Mr Clark walked over and spoke through the
window. "There's no need for you to get out of the car.' His face was a
grim mask.

"Oh,' I said, the sudden lurch in my stomach belying my calm facade.
"Like that, is it?'

"Aye, come and look 'ere.' He turned and I followed him over to the
shed. By the time the door creaked open a slow misery had begun to seep
into me.

Unwillingly I gazed into the interior.

Four of the calves were standing in a row looking up at us with
interest. Four shaggy, roughjacketed figures, bright-eyed and alert. The
fifth was resting on the straw, chewing absently at one of the strings
which held his sack.

The farmer's weathered face split into a delighted grin. "Well ah told
you there was no need to get out of your car, didn't I? They don't need
no vitnery, they're back to normal.'

I didn't say anything. This was something which my mind, as yet, could
not comprehend. As I stared unbelievingly the fifth calf rose from the
straw and stretched luxuriously.

"He's wraxin', d'you see?' cried Mr Clark. "There's nowt much wrong wi'
them when they do that.'

We went inside and I begun to examine the little animals. Temperatures
were normal, the diarrhoea had dried up, it was uncanny. As if in
celebration the white calf which had been all but dead yesterday began
to caper about the shed, kicking up his legs like a mustang.

"Look at that little bugger!' burst out the farmer. "By gaw I wish I was
as fit meself!'

I put the thermometer back in its tube and dropped it into my side
pocket. "Well, Mr Clark,' I said slowly, "I've never seen anything like
this. I still feel stunned.'

"Beats hen-racin', doesn't it,' the farmer said, wide-eyed, then he
turned towards the gate as a wagon appeared from the lane. It was the
familiar doom-burdened vehicle of Jeff Mallock.

The knacker man showed no emotion as he looked into the shed. In fact it
was difficult to imagine anything disturbing those pink cheeks and
placid eyes, but I fancied the puffs of blue smoke from his pipe came a
little faster as he took in the scene. The pipe itself showed some fresh
deposits on its bowl some fragments of liver, I fancied, since
yesterday.

When he had looked his fill he turned and strolled towards his wagon. On
the way he gazed expansively around him and then at the dark clouds
piling in the western sky.

"Ah think it'll turn to rain afore t'day's out, Willie,' he murmured.

I didn't know it at the time but I had witnessed the beginning of the
revolution. It was my first glimpse of the tremendous therapeutic
breakthrough which was to sweep the old remedies into oblivion. The long
rows of ornate glass bottles with their carved stoppers and Latin
inscriptions would not stand on the dispensary shelves much longer and
their names, dearly familiar for many generations - Sweet Spirits of
Nitre, Sal ammoniac, Tincture of Camphor would be lost and vanish for
ever.

This was the beginning and just around the corner a new wonder was
waiting - Penicillin and the other antibiotics. At last we had something
to work with at last we could use drugs which we knew were going to do
something.

All over the country, probably all over the world at that time, vets
were having these first spectacular results, going through the same
experience as myself; some with cows, some with dogs and cats, others
with valuable racehorses, sheep, pigs in all kinds of environments.

But for me it happened in that old converted railway wagon among the
jumble of rusting junk on Willie Clark's farm.

Of course it didn't last - not the miraculous part of it anyway. What I
had seen at Willie Clark's was the impact of something new on an
entirely unsophisticated bacterial population, but it didn't go on like
that. In time the organisms developed a certain amount of resistance and
new and stronger sulphonamides and antibiotics had to be produced. And
so the battle has continued. We have good results now but no miracles,
and I feel I was lucky to be one of the generation which was in at the
beginning when the wonderful things did happen.

Those five calves never looked behind them and the memory of them gives
me a warm glow even now. Willie, of course, was overjoyed and even Jeff
Mallock gave the occasion his particular accolade. As he drove away he
called back at us:

"Them little blue tablets must have good stuff in 'em. They're just
things I've ever seen could cure stagnation of "'lungs.'

Chapter Thirty-four.

There was one marvelous thing about the set-up in Darrowby. I had the
inestimable advantage of being a large animal practitioner with a
passion for dogs and cats. So that although I spent most of my time in
the wide outdoors of Yorkshire there was always the captivating
background of the household pets to make a contrast.

I treated some of them every day and it made an extra interest in my
life interest of a different kind, based on sentiment instead of
commerce and because of the way things were it was something I could
linger over and enjoy. I suppose with a very intensive small animal
practice it would be easy to regard the thing as a huge sausage machine,
an endless procession of hairy forms to prod with hypodermic needles.
But in Darrowby we got to know them all as individual entities.

Driving through the town I was able to identify my ex-patients without
difficulty; Rover Johnson, recovered from his ear canker, coming out of
the ironmongers with his mistress, Patch Walker, whose broken leg had
healed beautifully, balanced happily on the back of his owner's coal
wagon, or Spot Briggs who was a bit of a rake anyway and would soon be
tearing himself again on barbed wire, ambling all alone across the
market place cobbles in search of adventure. I got quite a kick out of
recalling their ailments and mulling over their characteristics. Because
they all had their own personalities and they were manifested in
different ways.

One of these was their personal reaction to me and my treatment. Most
dogs and cats appeared to bear me not the slightest ill will despite the
fact that I usually had to do something disagreeable to them.

But there were exceptions and one of these was Magnus, the Miniature
Dachshund from the Drovers' Arms.

He was in my mind now as I leaned across the bar counter.

"A pint of Smiths, please, Danny,' I whispered.

The barman grinned. "Coming up, Mr Herriot.' He pulled at the lever and
the beer hissed gently into the glass and as he passed it over the froth
stood high and firm on the surface.

"That ale looks really fit tonight,' I breathed almost inaudibly.

"Fit? It's beautiful!' Danny looked fondly at the brimming glass. "In
fact it's a shame to sell it.'

I laughed, but pianissimo. "Well it's nice of you to spare me a drop.' I
took a deep pull and turned to old Mr Fairburn who was as always sitting
at the far corner of the bar with his own fancy flower-painted glass in
his hand.

"It's been a grand day, Mr Fairburn,' I murmured sotto voce.

The old man put his hand to his ear. "What's that you say?'

"Nice warm day it's been.' My voice was like a soft breeze sighing over
the marshes.

I felt a violent dig at my back. "What the heck's the matter with you,
Jim? Have you got laryngitis?'

I turned and saw the tall bald-headed figure of Dr Allinson, my medical
adviser and friend. "Hello, Harry,' I cried. "Nice~ to see you.' Then I
put my hand to my mouth.

But it was too late. A furious yapping issued from the manager's office.
It was loud and penetrating and it went on and on.

"Damn, I forgot,' I said wearily. "There goes Magnus again.' ! "Magnus?
What are you talking about?' "Well, it's a long story.' I took another
sip at my beer as the din continued from t, ffice. It really shattered
the peace of the comfortable bar and I could sp-lars fidgeting and
looking out into the hallway. t little dog ever forget? It seemed a long
time now since Mr aew young manager at the Drovers, had brought Magnus
in to had looked a little apprehensive. ~ ~; watch him, Mr Herriot.'
towel ~' ~9 ~ >;~, He's very vicious.' doom-bu~r~t>' -~O 'c little form,
a mere brown dot on the table. He would The knacke;;\ ~ at around six
pounds. And I couldn't help laughing. was difficult to im" ~ enough,
surely.' but I fancied the puffs~,. 3<eckwith raised a warning finger.
"I took him to the . ~

.

t . 1 . ~

:~:

:~: ~ ": l .~

:i!:

~P i

V ~` Lr! llcl/Ti~3

J~l vet in Bradford where I used to manage the White Swan and he sank
his teeth into the poor chap's finger.'

"He did?'

"He certainly did! Right down to the bone! By God I've never heard such
language but I couldn't blame the man. There was blood all over the
place. I had to help him to put a bandage on.'

"Mm, I see.' It was nice to be told before you had been bitten and not
after. "And what was he trying to do to the dog? Must have been
something pretty mayor.'

"It wasn't you know. All I wanted was his nails clipping.'

"Is that all? And why have you brought him today?'

"Same thing.'

"Well honestly, Mr Beckwith,' I said, "I think we can manage to cut his
nails without bloodshed. If he'd been a Bull Mastiff or an Alsatian we
might have had a problem, but I think that you and I between us can
control a Miniature Dachshund.'

The manager shook his head. "Don't bring me into it. I'm sorry, but I'd
rather not hold him, if you don't mind.'

"Why not?'

"Well, he'd never forgive me. He's a funny little dog.'

I rubbed my chin. "But if he's as difficult as you say and you can't
hold him, what do you expect me to do?'

"I don't know, really ... maybe you could sort of dope him .. . knock
him out?'

"You mean a general anaesthetic? To cut his claws .. .?'

"It'll be the only way, I'm afraid.' Mr Beckwith stared gloomily at the
tiny animal. "You don't know him.'

It was difficult to believe but it seemed pretty obvious that this
canine morsel was the boss in the Beckwith home. In my experience many
dogs had occupied this position but none as small as this one.

Anyway, I had no more time to waste on this nonsense.

"Look,' I said, "I'll put a tape muzzle on his nose and I'll have this
job done in a couple of minutes.' I reached behind me for the nail
clippers and laid them on the table, then I unrolled a length of bandage
and tied it in a loop.

"Good boy, Magnus,' I said ingratiatingly as I advanced towards him.

The little dog eyed the bandage unwinkingly until it was almost touching
his nose then, with a surprising outburst of ferocity, he made a
snarling leap at my hand. I felt the draught on my fingers as a row of
sparkling teeth snapped shut half an inch away, but as he turned to have
another go my free hand clamped on the scruff of his neck.

"Right, Mr Beckwith,' I said calmly, "I have him now. Just pass me that
bandage again and I won't be long.'

But the young man had had enough. "Not me!' he gasped. "I'm off!' He
turned the door handle and I heard his feet scurrying along the passage.

Ah well, I thought, it was probably best. With boss dogs my primary move
was usually to get the owner out of the way. It was surprising how
quickly these tough guys calmed down when they found themselves alone
with a no-nonsense stranger who knew how to handle them. I could recite
a list who were raving tearaways in their own homes but apologetic
tail-waggers once they crossed the surgery threshold. And they were all
bigger than Magnus.

Retaining my firm grip on his neck I unwound another foot of bandage and
as he fought furiously, mouth gaping, lips retracted like a scaled-down
Siberian wolf, I slipped the loop over his nose, tightened it and tied
the knot behind his 34z vel zn rlarness ears. His mouth was' now clamped
shut and just to make sure, I applied a second bandage so that he was
well and truly trussed.

This was when they usually packed in and I looked confidently at the dog
for signs of submission. But above the encircling white coils the eyes
glared furiously and from within the little frame an enraged growling
issued, rising and falling like the distant droning of a thousand bees.

Sometimes a stern word or two had the effect of showing them who was
boss.

"Magnus!' I barked at him. "That's enough! Behave yourself.' I gave his
neck a shake to make it clear that I wasn't kidding but the only
response was a sidelong squint of pure defiance from the slightly
bulging eyes.

I lifted the clippers. "All right,' I said wearily, 'if you won't have
it one way you'll have it the other.' And I tucked him under one arm,
seized a paw and began to clip.

He couldn't do a thing about it. He fought and wriggled but I had him as
in a vice. And as I methodically trimmed the overgrown nails, wrathful
bubbles escaped on either side of the bandage along with his
splutterings. If dogs could swear I was getting the biggest cursing in
history.

I did my job with particular care, taking pains to keep well away from
the sensitive core of the claw so that he felt nothing, but it made no
difference. The indignity of being mastered for once in his life was
insupportable.

Towards the conclusion of the operation I began to change my tone. I had
found in the past that once dominance has been established it is quite
easy to work up a friendly relationship, so I started to introduce a
wheedling note.

"Good little chap,' I cooed. "That wasn't so bad, was it?'

I laid down the clippers and stroked his head as a few more resentful
bubbles forced their way round the bandage. "All right, Magnus, we'll
take your muzzle off now.' I began to loosen the knot. "You'll feel a
lot better then, won't you?'

So often it happened that when I finally removed the restraint the dog
would apparently decide to let bygones be bygones and in some cases
would even lick my hand. But not so with Magnus. As the last turn of
bandage fell from his nose he made another very creditable attempt to
bite me.

"All right, Mr Beckwith,' I called along the passage, 'you can come and
get him now.'

My final memory Of the visit was of the little dog turning at the top of
the surgery steps and - ne a last dirty look befor, his master led him
down the street.

It sai~

/

.

~.

~t, mate, I won't forget you.'

~ver since that day the very sound of my voice was his disapproval. At
first the regulars treated it started to look at me strangely. Maybe
they nal or something. It was all very embarrassing ~e Drovers; the bar
was always cosy even on onsistent. b I would probably have started to do
my h~ve Inok~rl ~t me even more strangely s~ ~ "~.

~es ~c~ ~ ~ "s Irish Setter. This started with an towal~'o>9~ ~O ~e s ~}
- ~ the bath. Helen knocked on the d b~ ~o~ -~ ~little t(sk ~O ~, -~,~
~rew on my dressing gown I ran The knacke. ~j~6~,t around s~ v ,~
\~anxious voice burst in my ear.

was difficult to im~5 ~enough, shuret~d~, >~ two days and a man has just
but I fancied the puffsi ~kw~t ra~se ~ith hic fn~t in ~ ~rin tr~n H~

 ... N -  ... ~ ~. ~ _

must .. .' I heard a half sob at the end of the line. "He must have been
caught there all this time.'

"Oh, I'm sorry! Is it very bad?'

"Yes it is.' Mrs Hammond was the wife of one of the local bank managers
and a capable, sensible woman. There was a pause and I imagined her
determinedly gaining control of herself. When she spoke her voice was
calm.

"Yes, I'm afraid it looks as though he'll have to have his foot
amputated.'

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that.' But I wasn't really surprised. A
limb compressed in one of those barbarous instruments for forty-eight
hours would be in a critical state. These traps are now mercifully
illegal but in those days they often provided me with the kind of jobs I
didn't want and the kind of decisions I hated to make. Did you take a
limb from an uncomprehending animal to keep it alive or did you bring
down the merciful but final curtain of euthanasia? I was responsible for
the fact that there were several three-legged dogs and cats running
around Darrowby and though they seemed happy enough and their owners
still had the pleasure of their pets, the thing, for me, was clouded
with sorrow.

Anyway, I would do what had to be done.

"Bring him straight round, Mrs Hammond,' I said.

Rock was a big dog but he was the lean type of Setter and seemed very
light as I lifted him on to the surgery table. As my arms encircled the
unresisting body I could feel the rib cage sharply ridged under the
skin.

"He's lost a lot of weight,' I said.

His mistress nodded. "It's a long time to go without food. He ate
ravenously when he came in, despite his pain.'

I put a hand beneath the dog's elbow and gently lifted the leg. The
vicious teeth of the trap had been clamped on the radius and ulna but
what worried me was the grossly swollen state of the foot. It was at
least twice its normal size.

"What do you think, Mr Herriot?' Mrs Hammond's hands twisted anxiously
at the handbag which every woman seemed to bring to the surgery
irrespective of the circumstances.

I stroked the dog's head. Under the light, the rich sheen of the coat
glowed red and gold. "This terrific swelling of the foot. It's partly
due to inflammation but also to the fact that the circulation was pretty
well cut off for the time he was in the trap. The danger is gangrene -
that's when the tissue dies and decomposes.'

"I know,' she replied. "I did a bit of nursing before I married.'

Carefully I lifted the enormous foot. Rock gazed calmly in front of him
as I felt around the metacarpals and phalanges, working my way up to the
dreadful wound.

"Well, it's a mess,' I said, 'but there are two good things. First, the
leg isn't broken. The trap has gone right down to the bone but there is
no fracture. And second and more important, the foot is still warm.'

"That's a good sign?'

"Oh yes. It mea.ls there's still some circulation. If the foot had been
cold and clammy the thing would have been hopeless. I would have had to
amputate.'

"You think you can save his foot, then?'

I held up my hand. "I don't know, Mrs Hammond. As I say, he still has
some circulation but the question is how much. Some of this tissue is
bound to slough off and things could look very nasty in a few days. But
I'd like to try.'

I fiushed out the wound with a mild antiseptic in warm water and
gingerly explored the grisly depths. As I snipped away the pieces of
damaged muscle and cut off the shreds and fiaps of dead skin the thought
was uppermost that it must be extremely unpleasant for the dog; but Rock
held his head high and scarcely .

~ _

V G'; I rl l l "r rl G-~a fiinched. Once or twice he turned his head
towards me enquiringly as I probed deeply and at times I felt his moist
nose softly brushing my face as I bent over the foot, but that was all.

The injury seemed a desecration. There are few more beautiful dogs than
an Irish Setter and Rock was a picture; sleek coated and graceful with
silky feathers on legs and tail and a noble, gentle-eyed head. As the
thought of how he would look without a foot drove into my mind I shook
my head and turned quickly to lift the sulphanilamide powder from the
trolley behind me. Thank heavens this was now available, one of the new
revolutionary drugs, and I packed it deep into the wound with the
confidence that it would really do something to keep down the infection.
I applied a layer of ganze then a light bandage with a feeling of
fatalism. There was nothing else I could do.

Rock was brought in to me every day. And every day he endured the same
procedure; the removal of the dressing which was usually adhering to the
wound to some degree, then the inevitable trimming of the dying tissues
and the rebandaging. Yet, incredibly, he never showed any reluctance to
come. Most of my patients came in very slowly and left at top speed,
dragging their owners on the end of the leads; in fact some turned tail
at the door, slipping their collar and sped down Trengate with their
owners in hot pursuit. Dogs aren't so daft and there is doubtless a
dentist's chair type of association about a vet's surgery.

Rock, however, always marched in happily with a gentle waving of his
tail. In fact when I went into the waiting room and saw him sitting
there he usually d me his paw. This had always been a characteristic
gesture of his but ' comething uncanny about it when I bent over him and
saw the ~ctretched towards me.

3

~ GL 6~. ~ 10, ,BG~J ;

nose he ~ c~ cc cq "All rig`. ~c him now.' ~ ~S :, My final n. surgery
steps ai-. street.

It sai~

s$

~.~:

~, ~"} ~C, ~ ~) ~o ~ V~ ~o Brim. All the time the dead tissue had been I
the dressing Mrs Hammond gasped '-~1 been very helpful, holding ~ht she
didn't want <~3. ~

NSC6~3 ~n~ ~,~ Wo ~, c 7 towa~: ~little~0; ~, ;~o~

The knack~e.~ ~ it around s~ was difficult to im"~% ~enough, suret~ ', >
~ ~

~ ~eckwlth raised ~ ~"j ~/

but I tancled the punst. \ ~/

uld be overing .. "It does : road and fectly intact. e IS no more
anulating.' covered over?'

. be exactly the "T'!

ew healthy tissue right and when, .ck of conjunctivitis e civility and
as we /as hairless, smooth jid. ~h. And he walked in:

., ~., Mrs Hammond laughed. "Oh, he's quite sound on that leg now. And
do you know. I really think he's grateful to you - look at him.'

I suppose the animal psychologists would say it was ridiculous even to
think that the big dog realised I had done him a bit of good; that
lolling-tongued open mouth, warm eyes and outstretched paw didn't mean
anything like that.

Maybe they are right, but what I do know and cherish is the certainty
that after all the discomforts I had put him through Rock didn't hold a
thing against me.

I have to turn back to the other side of the coin to discuss Timmy
Butterworth. He was a wire-haired Fox Terrier who resided in Gimber's
yard, one of the little cobbled alleys off Trengate, and the only time I
had to treat him was one lunch time.

I had just got out of the car and was climbing the surgery steps when I
saw a little girl running along the street, waving frantically as she
approached. I waited for her and when she panted up to me her eyes were
wide with fright.

"Ah'm Wendy Butterworth,' she gasped. "Me mam sent me. Will you come to
our dog?'

"What's wrong with him?'

"Me mam says he's et summa"!'

"Poison?'

"Ah think so?'

It was less than a hundred yards away, not worth taking the car. I broke
into a trot with Wendy by my side and within seconds we were turning
into the narrow archway of the 'yard'. Our feet clattered along the
tunnel-like passage then we emerged into one of the unlikely scenes
which had surprised me so much when I first came to Darrowby; the
miniature street with its tiny crowded houses, strips of garden, bow
windows looking into each other across a few feet of cobbles. But I had
no time to gaze around me today because Mrs Butterworth, stout,
red-faced and very flustered was waiting for me.

"He's in 'ere, Mr Herriot!' she cried and threw wide the door of one of
the cottages. It opened straight into the living room and I saw my
patient sitting on the hearth rug looking somewhat thoughtful.

"What's happened, then?' I asked.

The lady clasped and unclasped her hands. "I saw a big rat run down
across t'yard yesterday and I got some poison to put down for 'im.' She
gulped agitatedly. "I mixed it in a saucer full o' porridge then
somebody came to t'door and when ah came back, Timmy was just finishin'
it off.'

The terrier's thoughtful expression had deepened and he ran his tongue
slowly round his lips with the obvious reflection that that was the
strangest porridge he had ever tasted.

I turned to Mrs Butterworth. "Have you got the poison tin there?'

"Yes, here it is.' With a violently trembling hand she passed it to me.

I read the label. It was a well known name and the very look of it
sounded a knell in my mind recalling the many dead and dying animals
with which it was associated Its active ingredient was zinc phosphide
and even today with our modern drugs we are usually helpless once a dog
has absorbed it.

I thumped the tin down on the table. "We've got to make him vomit
immediately! I don't want to waste time going back to the surgery have
you got any washing soda? If I push a few crystals down it'll do the
trick.'

"Oh dear!' Mrs Butterworth bit her lip. "We 'aven't such a thing in the
house .. . is there anything else we could .. .'

"Wait a minute!' I looked across the table, past the piece of cold
mutton, the tureen of potatoes and a jar of pickles. "Is there any
mustard in that pot?'

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~o )4d vel In rlarness just after I had washed it, smearing clay
lavishly over windows and bodywork while exchanging pleasantries with
Sam inside. When Benjamin made a mess of anything he did it right.

But I had to interrupt my musings when I reached the last stage of my
journey. And as I hung on to the kicking, jerking wheel and listened to
the creaking and groaning of springs and shock absorbers, the thought
forced its way into my mind as it always did around here that it cost us
money to come to Mr Summergill's farm. There could be no profit from the
visit because this vicious track must knock at least five pounds off the
value of the car on every trip. Since Arnold did not have a car himself
he saw no reason why he should interfere with the primeval state of his
road.

It was simply a six foot strip of earth and rock and it wound and
twisted for an awful long way. The trouble was that to get to the farm
you had to descend into a deep valley before climbing through a wood
towards the house. I think going down was worse because the vehicle
hovered agonisingly on the top of each ridge before plunging into the
yawning ruts beyond; and each time, listening to the unyielding stone
grating on sump and exhaust I tried to stop myself working out the
damage in pounds, shillings and pence.

And when at last, mouth gaping, eyes popping, tyres sending the sharp
pebbles flying, I ground my way upwards in bottom gear over the last few
yards leading to the house I was surprised to see Arnold waiting for me
there alone. It was unusual to see him without Benjamin.

He must have read my questioning look because he jerked his thumb over
his shoulder.

"He's in "'house,' he grunted, and his eyes were anxious.

I got out of the car and looked at him for a moment as he stood there in
a typical attitude, wide shoulders back, head high. I have called him
'old' and indeed he was over seventy, but the features beneath the
woollen tammy which he always wore pulled down over his ears were clean
and regular and the tall figure lean and straight. He was a fine looking
man and must have been handsome in his youth, yet he had never married.
I often felt there was a story there but he seemed content to live here
alone, a 'bit of a 'ermit' as they said in the village. Alone, that is,
except for Benjamin.

As I followed him into the kitchen he casually shooed out a couple of
hens who had been perching on a dusty dresser. Ther) I saw Benjamin and
pulled up with a jerk.

The big dog was sitting quite motionless by the side of the table and
this time the eyes behind the overhanging hair were big and liquid with
fright. He appeared to be too terrified to move and when I saw his left
fore leg I couldn't blame him. Arnold had been right after all; it was
indeed sticking out with a vengeance, at an angle which made my heart
give a quick double thud; a complete lateral dislocation of the elbow,
the radius projecting away out from the humerus at an almost impossible
obliquity.

I swallowed carefully. "When did this happen, Mr Summergill?'

"Just an hour since.' He tugged worriedly at his strange headgear. "I
was changing the cows into another field and awd Benjamin likes to have
a nip at; their heels when he's behind 'em. Well he did it once ower
often and one of them lashed lashed out and got 'im on the leg.'

"I see.' My mind was racing. This thing was grotesque. I had never seen
anything like it, in fact thirty years later I still haven't seen
anything like it. How on earth was I going to reduce the thing away up
here in the hills? By the look of it I would need general anaesthesia
and a skilled assistant.

"Poor old lad,' I said, resting my hand on the shaggy head as I tried to
think. "What are we going to do with you?'

~ _

The tail whisked along the flags in reply and the mouth opened in a
nervous parting' giving a glimpse of flawlessly white teeth.

Arnold cleared his throat. "Can you put 'im right?'

Well it was a good question. An airy answer might give the wrong
impression yet I didn't want to worry him with my doubts. It would be a
mammoth task to get the enormous dog down to Darrowby; he nearly filled
the kitchen, never mind my little car. And with that leg sticking out
and with Sam already in residence. And would I be able to get the joint
back in place when I got him there? And even if I did manage it I would
still have to bring him all the way back up here. It would just about
take care of the rest of the day.

Gently I passed my fingers over the dislocated joint and searched my
memory for details of the anatomy of the elbow. For the leg to be in
this position the processus anconeus must have been completely
disengaged from the supracondyloid fossa where it normally Iay; and to
get it back the joint would have to be fiexed until the anconeus was
clear of the epicondyles.

"Now let's see,' I murmured to myself. "If I had this dog anaesthetised
and on the table I would have to get hold of him like this.' I grasped
the leg just above the elbow and began to move the radius slowly
upwards. Benjamin gave me a quick glance then turned his head away, a
gesture typical of good-natured dogs, conveying the message that he was
going to put up with whatever I thought it necessary to do.

I flexed the joint still further until I was sure the anconeus was
clear, then carefully rotated the radius and ulna inwards.

"Yes ... yes ... ' I muttered again. "This must be about the right
position .. .' But my soliloquy was interrupted by a sudden movement of
the bones under my hand; a springing, flicking sensation.

I looked incredulously at the leg. It was perfectly straight.

Benjamin, too, seemed unable to take it in right away, because he peered
cautiously round through his shaggy curtain before lowering his nose and
sniffing around the elbow. Then he seemed to realise all was well and
ambled over to his master.

And he was perfectly sound. Not a trace of a limp.

A slow smile spread over Arnold's face. "You've mended him, then.'

"Looks like it, Mr Summergill.' I tried to keep my voice casual, but I
felt like cheering or bursting into hysterical laughter. I had only been
making an examination, feeling things out a little, and the joint had
popped back into place. A glorious accident.

"Aye well, that's grand,' the farmer said. "Isn't it, awd lad?' He bent
and tickled Benjamin's ear.

I could have been disappointed by this laconic reception of my
performance, but I realised it was a compliment to me that he wasn't
surprised that I, James Herriot, his vet, should effortlessly produce a
miracle when it was required.

A theatre-full of cheering students would have rounded off the incident
or it would be nice to do this kind of thing to some millionaire's
animal in a crowded drawing room, but it never happened that way. I
looked around the kitchen, at the cluttered table, the pile of unwashed
crockery in the sink, a couple of Arnold's ragged shirts drying before
the fire, and I smiled to myself. This was the sort of setting in which
I usually pulled off my spectacular cures. The only spectators here,
apart from Arnold, were the two hens who had made their way back on to
the dresser and they didn't seem particularly impressed.

"Well, I'll be getting back down the hill,' I said. And Arnold walked
with me across the yard to the car.

"I hear you're off to join up,' he said as I put my hand on the door.

"Yes, I'm away tomorrow, Mr Summergill.'

"Tomorrow, eh?' he raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, to London. Ever been there?'

"Nay, nay, be damned!' The woollen cap quivered as he shook his head.
"That'd be no good to me.'

I laughed. "Why do you say that?'

"Well now, I'll tell ye.' He scratched his chin ruminatively. "Ah nobbut
went once to Brawton and that was enough. Ah couldn't walk on "'street!'

"Couldn't walk?'

"Nay. There were that many people about. I 'ad to take big steps and
little 'uns, then big steps and little 'uns again. Couldn't get going'.'

I had often seen Arnold stalking over his fields with the long, even
stride of the hillman with nothing in his way and I knew exactly what he
meant. "Big steps and little 'tins.' that put it perfectly.

I started the engine and waved and as I moved away the old man raised a
hand.

"Tek care, lad,' he murmured.

I spotted Benjamin's nose just peeping round the kitchen door. Any other
time he would have been out with his master to see me off the premises
but it had been a strange day for him culminating with my descending on
him and mauling his leg about. He wasn't taking any more chances.

I drove gingerly down through the wood and before starting up the track
on the other side I stopped the car and got out with Sam leaping eagerly
after me.

This was a little lost valley in the hills, a green cleft cut off from
the wild country above. One of the bonuses in a country vet's life is
that he sees these hidden places. Apart from old Arnold nobody ever came
down here, not even the postman who left the infrequent mail in a box at
the top of the track and nobody saw the blazing scarlets and golds of
the autumn trees nor heard the busy clucking and murmuring of the beck
among its clean-washed stones.

I walked along the water's edge watching the little fish darting and
Ritting in the cool depths. In the spring these banks were bright with
primroses and in May a great sea of bluebells Rowed among the trees but
today, though the sky: was an untroubled blue, the clean air was touched
with the sweetness of the dying year.

I climbed a little way up the hillside and sat down among the bracken
now fast turning to bronze. Sam, as was his way, Ropped by my side and I
ran a hand over the silky hair of his ears. The far st~de of the valley
rose steeply to where, above the gleaming ridge of limestone cliffs, I
could just see the sunlit rim of the moor.

I looked back to where the farm chimney sent a thin tendril of smoke
from behind the brow of the hill, and it seemed that the episode with
Benjamin, mylast job in veterinary practice before I left Darrowby, was
a fitting epilogue. A little triumph, intensely satisfying but by no
means world shaking; like all the other little triumphs and disasters
which make up a veterinary surgeon's life but go unnoticed by the world.

Last night, after Helen had packed my bag I had pushed Black's
Veterinary Dictionary in among the shirts and socks. It was a bulky
volume but I had been gripped momentarily by a fear that I might forget
the things I had learned, and conceived on an impulse the scheme of
reading a page or two each day to keep my memory fresh. And here among
the bracken the thought came back to me; that it was the greatest good
fortune not only to be fascinated by animals but to know about them.
Suddenly the knowing became a precious thing.

I went back and opened the car door. Sam jumped on to the seat and
before I got in I looked away down in the other direction from the house
to the valley's mouth where the hills parted to give a glimpse of the
plain below. And the endless wash of pale tints, the gold of the
stubble, the dark smudges of wood, the mottled greens of the pasture
land were like a perfect water colour. I found myself staring greedily
as if for the first time at the scene which had so often lifted my
heart, the great wide clean-blown face of Yorkshire.

I would come back to it all, I thought as I drove away; back to my work
.. . how was it that book had described it .. . my hard, honest and fine
profession.

Chapter Thirty-six.

I had to catch the early train and Bob Cooper was at the door with his
ancient taxi before eight o'clock next morning.

Sam followed me across the room expectantly as he always did but I
closed the door gently against his puzzled face. Clattering down the
long flight of stairs I caught a glimpse through the landing window of
the garden with the sunshine beginning to pierce the autumn mist,
turning the dewy grass into a glittering coverlet, glinting on the
bright colours of the apples and the last roses.

In the passage I paused at the side door where I had started my day's
work so many times since coming to Darrowby, but then I hurried past.
This was one time I went out the front.

Bob pushed open the taxi door and I threw my bag in before looking up
over the ivy-covered brick of the old house to our little room under the
tiles. Helen was in the window. She was crying. When she saw me she
waved gaily and smiled, but it was a twisted smile as the tears flowed.
And as we drove round the corner and I swallowed the biggest ever lump
in my throat a fierce resolve welled in me; men all over the country
were leaving their wives and I had to leave Helen now, but nothing,
nothing, nothing would ever get me away from her again.

The shops were still closed and nothing stirred in the market place. As
we left I turned and looked back at the cobbled square with the old
clock tower and the row of irregular roofs with the green fells quiet
and peaceful behind, and it seemed that I was losing something for ever.

I wish I had known then that it was not the end of everything. I wish I
had known it was only the beginning. But at that moment I knew only that
soon I would be far from here; in London, pushing my way through the
crowds. Taking big steps and little 'uns.

Localwords: Ower Ingledew's Darrowby tuberculin Corner's Rolie barrister
ye Localwords: ye ye Stilboestrol Trengate mongrels Granville's