James Herriot's Dog Stories

by James Herriot

  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 poison? 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 flashed 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 afraid 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.

  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 feeding bowls in one of the kennels.r />
  ‘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 books on the subject.’ He produced some shiny volumes from under his arm. Care of the Dog, The Dog in Sickness and Health, and finally The Border Terrier.

  ‘Good idea,’ I replied. Normally I would have shied away from this imposing battery but in this case I liked the way things were going. I had the growing conviction that Pip was on a good wicket here.

  ‘I have already gleaned a considerable amount from my reading,’ Mr Plenderleith went on, ‘and I believe it is desirable that he be inoculated against distemper. As you know, he is a stray, so there is no means of ascertaining whether or not this has been done.’

  I nodded. ‘Quite right. In fact I was going to suggest that.’ I produced a phial of the vaccine and began to fill a syringe.

  Pip was much less concerned than his owners as I gently injected the contents under his skin. Mr Plenderleith, his face rigid with apprehension, kept patting the dog’s head while his wife at the Other end stroked the hind limbs and adjured her pet to be brave.

  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-pad 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.

  I was grateful for the opportunity to write about these two things – the abhorrent practice of ‘dumping’ unwanted dogs and the humanitarian work of Sister Rose and people like her. Those two armies have always been very real to me: the great throng of uncaring humans on the one hand who do these despicable things, and the brave group of compassionate people on the other who devote their lives to the abandoned creatures. Sister Rose is still immersed in her great work and there is now a Sister Rose branch of the Jerry Green Dog Sanctuary just outside our town. Every stray and rejected dog is taken in and cared for until a good home is found for it. The thousands of visitors who come to my surgery give generously to this cause when I sign their books and every penny goes to help the dogs. The good army is winning
in Darrowby.

  17. Penny

  It was lambing time and I was delivering twin lambs in a stable on Mr Kitson’s farm when I heard another ewe panting and moaning in a dark corner. She was in great pain and apparently dying after a ‘rough’ lambing, and in an effort to give her a peaceful end I administered what I thought was a lethal dose of barbiturate. To my amazement she made a miraculous recovery after sleeping deeply for a full two days.

  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?’