Then I returned to the drawing-room, my sherry glass was filled, and I settled down by the fire to listen to Mrs Pumphrey. It couldn’t be called a conversation because she did all the talking, but I always found it rewarding.
Mrs Pumphrey was likeable, gave widely to charities and would help anybody in trouble. She was intelligent and amusing and had a lot of waffling charm; but most people have a blind spot and hers was Tricki Woo. The tales she told about her darling ranged far into the realms of fantasy, and I waited eagerly for the next instalment.
‘Oh Mr Herriot, I have the most exciting news. Tricki has a pen pal! Yes, he wrote a letter to the editor of Doggy World enclosing a donation, and told him that even though he was descended from a long line of Chinese emperors, he had decided to come down and mingle freely with the common dogs. He asked the editor to seek out a pen pal for him among the dogs he knew so that they could correspond to their mutual benefit. And for this purpose, Tricki said he would adopt the name of Mr Utterbunkum. And, do you know, he received the most beautiful letter from the editor’ (I could imagine the sensible man leaping upon this potential gold mine) ‘who said he would like to introduce Bonzo Fotheringham, a lonely Dalmatian who would be delighted to exchange letters with a new friend in Yorkshire.’
I sipped the sherry. Tricki snored on my lap. Mrs Pumphrey went on.
‘But I’m so disappointed about the new summerhouse – you know I got it specially for Tricki so we could sit out together on warm afternoons. It’s such a nice little rustic shelter, but he’s taken a passionate dislike to it. Simply loathes it – absolutely refuses to go inside. You should see the dreadful expression on his face when he looks at it. And do you know what he called it yesterday? Oh, I hardly dare tell you.’ She looked around the room before leaning over and whispering: ‘He called it “the bloody hut”!’
The maid struck fresh life into the fire and refilled my glass. The wind hurled a handful of sleet against the window. This, I thought, was the life. I listened for more.
‘And did I tell you, Mr Herriot, Tricki had another good win yesterday? You know, I’m sure he must study the racing columns, he’s such a tremendous judge of form. Well, he told me to back Canny Lad in the three o’clock at Redcar yesterday and, as usual, it won. He put on a shilling each way and got back nine shillings.’
These bets were always placed in the name of Tricki Woo and I thought with compassion of the reactions of the local bookies. The Darrowby turf accountants were a harassed and fugitive body of men. A board would appear at the end of some alley urging the population to invest with Joe Downs and enjoy perfect security. Joe would live for a few months on a knife edge while he pitted his wits against the knowledgeable citizens, but the end was always the same: a few favourites would win in a row and Joe would be gone in the night, taking his board with him. Once I asked a local inhabitant about the sudden departure of one of these luckless nomads. He replied unemotionally: ‘Oh, we brok ’im.’
Losing a regular flow of shillings to a dog must have been a heavy cross for these unfortunate men to bear.
‘I had such a frightening experience last week,’ Mrs Pumphrey continued. ‘I was sure I would have to call you out. Poor little Tricki – he went completely crackerdog!’
I mentally lined this up with flop-bott among the new canine diseases and asked for more information.
‘It was awful. I was terrified. The gardener was throwing rings for Tricki – you know he does this for half an hour every day.’ I had witnessed this spectacle several times. Hodgkin, a dour, bent old Yorkshireman who looked as though he hated all dogs and Tricki in particular, had to go out on the lawn every day and throw little rubber rings over and over again. Tricki bounded after, them and brought them back, barking madly till the process was repeated. The bitter lines on the old man’s face deepened as the game progressed. His lips moved continually, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying.
Mrs Pumphrey went on: ‘Well, he was playing his game, and he does adore it so, when suddenly, without warning, he went crackerdog. He forgot all about his rings and began to run around in circles, barking and yelping in such a strange way. Then he fell over on his side and lay like a little dead thing. Do you know, Mr Herriot, I really thought he was dead, he lay so perfectly still. And what hurt me most was that Hodgkin began to laugh. He has been with me for twenty-four years and I have never even seen him smile, and yet, when he looked down at that still form, he broke into a queer, high-pitched cackle. It was horrid. I was just going to rush to the telephone when Tricki got up and walked away – he seemed perfectly normal.’
Hysteria, I thought, brought on by wrong feeding and over-excitement. I put down my glass and fixed Mrs Pumphrey with a severe glare. ‘Now look, this is just what I was talking about. If you persist in feeding all that fancy rubbish to Tricki you are going to ruin his health. You really must get him on to a sensible dog diet of one or, at the most, two small meals a day of meat and brown bread or a little biscuit. And nothing in between.’
Mrs Pumphrey shrank into her chair, a picture of abject guilt. ‘Oh, please don’t speak to me like that. I do try to give him the right things, but it is so difficult. When he begs for his little titbits, I can’t refuse him.’ She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
But I was unrelenting. ‘All right, Mrs Pumphrey, it’s up to you, but I warn you that if you go on as you are doing, Tricki will go crackerdog more and more often.’
I left the cosy haven with reluctance, pausing on the gravelled drive to look back at Mrs Pumphrey waving and Tricki, as always, standing against the window, his wide-mouthed face apparently in the middle of a hearty laugh.
Driving home, I mused on the many advantages of being Tricki’s uncle. When he went to the seaside he sent me boxes of oak-smoked kippers; and when the tomatoes ripened in his greenhouse, he sent a pound or two every week. Tins of tobacco arrived regularly, sometimes with a photograph carrying a loving inscription.
But it was when the Christmas hamper arrived from Fortnum and Mason’s that I decided that I was on a really good thing which should be helped along a bit. Hitherto, I had merely rung up and thanked Mrs Pumphrey for the gifts, and she had been rather cool, pointing out that it was Tricki who had sent the things and he was the one who should be thanked.
With the arrival of the hamper it come to me, blindingly, that I had been guilty of a grave error of tactics. I set myself to compose a letter to Tricki. Avoiding Siegfried’s sardonic eye, I thanked my doggy nephew for his Christmas gifts and for all his generosity in the past. I expressed my sincere hopes that the festive fare had not upset his delicate digestion and suggested that if he did experience any discomfort he should have recourse to the black powder his uncle always prescribed. A vague feeling of professional shame was easily swamped by floating visions of kippers, tomatoes and hampers. I addressed the envelope to Master Tricki Pumphrey, Barlby Grange, and slipped it into the post-box with only a slight feeling of guilt.
On my next visit, Mrs Pumphrey drew me to one side. ‘Mr Herriot,’ she whispered, ‘Tricki adored your charming letter and he will keep it always, but he was very put out about one thing – you addressed it to Master Tricki and he does insist upon Mister. He was dreadfully affronted at first, quite beside himself, but when he saw it was from you he soon recovered his good temper. I can’t think why he should have these little prejudices. Perhaps it is because he is an only dog – I do think an only dog develops more prejudices than one from a large family.’
Entering Skeldale House was like returning to a colder world. Siegfried bumped into me in the passage. ‘Ah, who have we here? Why I do believe it’s dear Uncle Herriot. And what have you been doing, Uncle? Slaving away at Barlby Grange, I expect. Poor fellow, you must be tired out. Do you really think it’s worth it, working your fingers to the bone for another hamper?’
Even in the most high-powered small-animal practice with a wide spectrum of clients, Mrs Pumphrey would have been remarkable, but to me, working
daily with earthy farmers in rough conditions, she was almost unreal. Her drawing-room was a warm haven in my hard life and Tricki Woo a lovable patient. The little Peke with his eccentric ailments has captured the affection of people all over the world, and I have received countless letters about him. He lived to a great age, flop-botting but happy right to the end. Mrs Pumphrey was eighty-eight when she died. She was one of the few who recognised herself in my books, and I know she appreciated the fun because when I stopped writing about her she wrote to me, saying, ‘There’s nuffin’ to larf at now.’ I wonder if she had her tongue in her cheek all the time?
2. Tristan’s Vigil
I dropped the suture needle into the tray and stepped back to survey the finished job. ‘Well though I say it myself, that looks rather nice.’
Tristan leaned over the unconscious dog and examined the neat incision with its row of regular stiches. ‘Very pretty indeed, my boy. Couldn’t have done better myself.’
The big black Labrador lay peacefully on the table, his tongue lolling, his eyes glazed and unseeing. He had been brought in with an ugly growth over his ribs and I had decided that it was a simple lipoma, quite benign and very suitable for surgery. And so it had turned out. The tumour had come away with almost ridiculous ease, round, intactand shining, like a hard-boiled egg from its shell. No haemorrhage, no fear of recurrence.
The unsightly swelling had been replaced by this tidy scar which would be invisible in a few weeks. I was pleased.
‘We’d better keep him here till he comes round,’ I said. ‘Give me a hand to get him on to these blankets.’ We made the dog comfortable in front of an electric stove and I left to start my morning round.
It was during lunch that we first heard the strange sound. It was something between a moan and a howl, starting quite softly but rising to a piercing pitch before shuddering back down the scale to silence.
Siegfried looked up, startled, from his soup. ‘What in God’s name is that?’
‘Must be that dog I operated on this morning,’ I replied. ‘The odd one does that coming out of barbiturates. I expect he’ll stop soon.’
Siegfried looked at me doubtfully. ‘Well, I hope so – I could soon get tired of that. Gives me the creeps.’
We went through and looked at the dog. Pulse strong, respirations deep and regular, mucous membranes a good colour. He was still stretched out, immobile, and the only sign of returning consciousness was the howl which seemed to have settled down into a groove of one every ten seconds.
‘Yes, he’s perfectly all right,’ Siegfried said. ‘But what a bloody noise! Let’s get out of here.’
Lunch was finished hastily and in silence except for the ceaseless background wailing. Siegfried had scarcely swallowed his last mouthful before he was on his feet. ‘Well, I must fly. Got a lot on this afternoon. Tristan, I think it would be a good idea to bring that dog through to the sitting-room and put him by the fire. Then you could stay by him and keep an eye on him.’
Tristan was stunned. ‘You mean I have to stay in the same room as that noise all afternoon?’
‘Yes, I mean just that. We can’t send him home as he is and I don’t want anything to happen to him. He needs care and attention.’
‘Maybe you’d like me to hold his paw or perhaps wheel him round the market-place?’
‘Don’t give me any of your bloody cheek. You stay with the dog and that’s an order!’
Tristan and I stretchered the heavy animal along the passage on the blankets, then I had to leave for the afternoon round. I paused and looked back at the big black form by the fire and Tristan crouched miserably in his chair. The noise was overpowering. I closed the door hurriedly.
It was dark when I got back and the old house hung over me, black and silent against the frosty sky. Silent, that is, except for the howling which still echoed along the passage and filtered eerily into the deserted street.
I glanced at my watch as I slammed the car door. It was six o’clock, so Tristan had had four hours of it. I ran up the steps and along the passage and when I opened the sitting-room door the noise jarred in my head. Tristan was standing with his back to me, looking through the french window into the darkness of the garden. His hands were deep in his pockets; tufts of cotton wool drooped from his ears.
‘Well, how is it going?’ I asked.
There was no reply so I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. The effect was spectacular. Tristan leaped into the air and corkscrewed round. His face was ashen and he was trembling violently.
‘God help us, Jim, you nearly killed me there. I can’t hear a damn thing through these ear plugs – except the dog, of course. Nothing keeps that out.’
I knelt by the Labrador and examined him. The dog’s condition was excellent but, except for a faint eye reflex, there was no sign that he was regaining consciousness. And all the time there were the piercing, evenly spaced howls.
‘He’s taking a hell of a time to come out of it,’ I said. ‘Has he been like this all afternoon?’
‘Yes, just like that. Not one bit different. And don’t waste any sympathy on him, the yowling devil. He’s as happy as a sandboy down by the fire – doesn’t know a thing about it. But how about me? My nerves are about shot to bits listening to him hour after hour. Much more of it and you’ll have to give me a shot too.’ He ran a shaking hand through his hair and a twitching started in his cheek.
I took his arm. ‘Well, come through and eat. You’ll feel better after some food.’ I led him unresisting into the dining-room.
Siegfried was in excellent form over the meal. He seemed to be in a mood of exhilaration and monopolised the conversation, but he did not once refer to the shrill obligato from the other room. There was no doubt, however, that it was still getting through to Tristan.
As they were leaving the room, Siegfried put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Remember we’ve got that meeting in Brawton tonight, James. Old Reeves on diseases of sheep – he’s usually very good. Pity you can’t come too, Tristan, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay with the dog till he comes round.’
Tristan flinched as if he had been struck. ‘Oh not another session with that bloody animal! He’s driving me mad!’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. James or I could have taken over tonight but we have to show up at this meeting. It would look bad if we missed it.’
Tristan stumbled back into the room and I put on my coat. As I went out into the street I paused for a moment and listened. The dog was still howling.
The meeting was a success. It was held in one of Brawton’s lush hotels and, as usual, the best part was the get-together of the vets in the bar afterwards. It was infinitely soothing to hear the other man’s problems and mistakes – especially the mistakes.
It amused me to look round the crowded room and try to guess what the little knots of men were talking about. That man over there, bent double and slashing away at the air with one hand – he was castrating a colt in the standing position. And the one with his arm out at full stretch, his fingers working busily at nothing – almost certainly foaling a mare; probably correcting a carpal flexion. And doing it effortlessly too. Veterinary surgery was a childishly simple matter in a warm bar with a few drinks inside you.
It was eleven o’clock before we all got into our cars and headed for our own particular niche in Yorkshire – some to the big industrial towns of the West Riding, others to the seaside places of the east coast and Siegfried and I hurrying thankfully back on the narrow road which twisted between its stone walls into the Northern Pennines.
I thought guiltily that for the last few hours I had completely forgotten about Tristan and his vigil. Still, it must have been better tonight. The dog would surely have quietened down by now. But, jumping from the car in Darrowby, I froze in mid-stride as a thin wail came out faintly from Skeldale House. This was incredible; it was after midnight and the dog was still at it. And what of Tristan? I hated to think what kind of shape he’d be in. Almost fear
fully I turned the knob on the sitting-room door.
Tristan’s chair made a little island in a sea of empty beer bottles. An upturned crate lay against the wall and Tristan was sitting very upright and looking solemn. I picked my way over the debris.
‘Well, has it been rough, Triss? How do you feel now?’
‘Could be worse, old lad, could be worse. Soon as you’d gone I slipped over to the Drovers for a crate of pint Magnets. Made all the difference. After three or four the dog stopped worrying me – matter of fact, I’ve been yowling back at him for hours now. We’ve had quite an interesting evening. Anyway, he’s coming out now. Look at him.’
The big dog had his head up and there was recognition in his eyes. The howling had stopped. I went over and patted him and the long black tail jerked in a fair attempt at a wag.
‘That’s better, old boy,’ I said. ‘But you’d better behave yourself now. You’ve given your uncle Tristan one hell of a day.’
The Labrador responded immediately by struggling to his feet. He took a few swaying steps and collapsed among the bottles.
Siegfried appeared in the doorway and looked distastefully at Tristan, still very upright and wearing a judicial expression, and at the dog scrabbling among the bottles. ‘What an infernal mess! Surely you can do a little job without making an orgy out of it.’
At the sound of his voice the Labrador staggered up and, in a flush of over-confidence, tried to run towards him, wagging his tail unsteadily. He didn’t get very far and went down in a heap, sending a Magnet empty rolling gently up to Siegfried’s feet.
Siegfried bent over and stroked the shining black head. ‘Nice friendly animal that. I should think he’s a grand dog when he’s got his senses about him. He’ll be normal in the morning, but the problem is what to do with him now. We can’t leave him staggering about down here – he could break a leg.’ He glanced at Tristan who had not moved a muscle. He was sitting up straighter than ever, stiff and motionless like a Prussian general. ‘You know, I think the best thing would be for you to take him up to your room tonight. Now we’ve got him so far, we don’t want him to hurt himself. Yes, that’s it, he can spend the night with you.’
James Herriot's Dog Stories Page 4
