James Herriot's Dog Stories

by James Herriot

  ‘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 flicker 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 itself out inside me; the idea of starting on this potent-looking vegetable was unthinkable.

  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 marvellous 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 hammered 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 leaped 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 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 hausfrau.

  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 marvellous, 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 feigned 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.

  A momentous occasion in my life. Not just because it was my first meeting with a gifted man who showed me small animal surgery at its best, but it was also the beginning of a lasting friendship. I am always grateful when I run into a larger-than-life character. There aren’t so many of them about and they throw a splash of brilliant colour into the lives of ordinary mortals like me. Granville Bennett was such a man. He had a devastating effect on me in other ways but my admiration for him remains unimpaired.

  16. Abandoned

  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 sparse 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 h
ad 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-committally. 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.