James Herriot's Dog Stories

by James Herriot

  ‘There’s absolutely no improvement, Mr Herriot.’ The tremble was back in her voice. ‘I . . . I do wish you’d come and see him again.’

  I couldn’t see much point in viewing this perfectly healthy animal again but I promised to call. I had a busy day and it was after six o’clock before I got round to The Laurels. There were several cars in the drive and when I went into the house I saw that Mrs Rumney had a few people in for drinks; people like herself – upper class and of obvious refinement. In fact I felt rather a lout in my working clothes among the elegant gathering.

  Mrs Rumney was about to lead me through to the kitchen when the door burst open and Cedric bounded delightedly into the midst of the company. Within seconds an aesthetic-looking gentleman was frantically beating off the attack as the great feet ripped down his waistcoat. He got away at the cost of a couple of buttons and the Boxer turned his attention to one of the ladies. She was in imminent danger of losing her dress when I pulled the dog off her.

  Pandemonium broke out in the graceful room. The hostess’s plaintive appeals rang out above the cries of alarm as the big dog charged around, but very soon I realised that a more insidious element had crept into the situation. The atmosphere in the room became rapidly charged with an unmistakable effluvium and it was clear that Cedric’s unfortunate malady had reasserted itself.

  I did my best to shepherd the animal out of the room but he didn’t seem to know the meaning of obedience and I chased him in vain. And as the embarrassing minutes ticked away I began to realise for the first time the enormity of the problem which confronted Mrs Rumney. Most dogs break wind occasionally but Cedric was different: he did it all the time. And while his silent emanations were perhaps more treacherous, there was no doubt that the audible ones were painfully distressing in company like this.

  Cedric made it worse, because at each rasping expulsion he would look round enquiringly at his back end, then gambol about the room as though the fugitive zephyr was clearly visible to him and he was determined to corner it.

  It seemed a year before I got him out of there. Mrs Rumney held the door wide as I finally managed to steer him towards it but the big dog wasn’t finished yet. On his way out he cocked a leg swiftly and directed a powerful jet against an immaculate trouser leg.

  After that night I threw myself into the struggle on Mrs Rumney’s behalf. I felt she desperately needed my help, and I made frequent visits and tried innumerable remedies. I consulted my colleague Siegfried on the problem and he suggested a diet of charcoal biscuits. Cedric ate them in vast quantities and with evident enjoyment but they, like everything else, made not the slightest difference to his condition.

  And all the time I pondered upon the enigma of Mrs Rumney. She had lived in Darrowby for several years but the townsfolk knew little about her. It was a matter of debate whether she was a widow or separated from her husband. But I was not interested in such things; the biggest mystery to me was how she ever got involved with a dog like Cedric.

  It was difficult to think of any animal less suited to her personality. Apart from his regrettable affliction he was in every way the opposite to herself; a great thick-headed rumbustious extrovert totally out of place in her gracious ménage. I never did find out how they came together but on my visits I found that Cedric had one admirer at least.

  He was Con Fenton, a retired farm worker who did a bit of jobbing gardening and spent an average of three days a week at The Laurels. The Boxer romped down the drive after me as I was leaving and the old man looked at him with undisguised admiration.

  ‘By gaw,’ he said, ‘he’s a fine dog, is that!’

  ‘Yes, he is, Con, he’s a good chap, really.’ And I meant it. You couldn’t help liking Cedric when you got to know him. He was utterly amiable and without vice and he gave off a constant aura not merely of noxious vapours but of bonhomie. When he tore off people’s buttons or sprinkled their trousers he did it in a spirit of the purest amity.

  ‘Just look at them limbs!’ breathed Con, staring rapturously at the dog’s muscular thighs. ‘By heck, ’e can jump ower that gate as if it weren’t there. He’s what ah call a dog!’

  As he spoke it struck me that Cedric would be likely to appeal to him because he was very like the Boxer himself: not over-burdened with brains, built like an ox with powerful shoulders and a big constantly-grinning face – they were two of a kind.

  ‘Aye, ah allus likes it when t’missus lets him out in t’garden,’ Con went on. He always spoke in a peculiar snuffling manner. ‘He’s grand company.’

  I looked at him narrowly. No, he wouldn’t be likely to notice Cedric’s complaint since he always saw him out of doors.

  On my way back to the surgery I brooded on the fact that I was achieving absolutely nothing with my treatment. And though it seemed ridiculous to worry about a case like this, there was no doubt the thing had begun to prey on my mind. In fact I began to transmit my anxieties to Siegfried. As I got out of the car he was coming down the steps of Skeldale House and he put a hand on my arm.

  ‘You’ve been to The Laurels, James? Tell me,’ he enquired solicitously, ‘how is your farting Boxer today?’

  ‘Still at it, I’m afraid,’ I replied, and my colleague shook his head in commiseration.

  We were both defeated. Maybe if chlorophyll tablets had been available in those days they might have helped, but as it was I had tried everything. It seemed certain that nothing would alter the situation. And it wouldn’t have been so bad if the owner had been anybody else but Mrs Rumney; I found that even discussing the thing with her had become almost unbearable.

  Siegfried’s student brother Tristan didn’t help, either. When seeing practice he was very selective in the cases he wished to observe, but he was immediately attracted to Cedric’s symptoms and insisted on coming with me on one occasion. I never took him again because as we went in the big dog bounded from his mistress’s side and produced a particularly sonorous blast as if in greeting.

  Tristan immediately threw out a hand in a dramatic gesture and declaimed: ‘Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie!’ That was his only visit. I had enough trouble without that.

  I didn’t know it at the time but a greater blow awaited me. A few days later Mrs Rumney was on the phone again.

  ‘Mr Herriot, a friend of mine has such a sweet little Boxer bitch. She wants to bring her along to be mated with Cedric.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She wants to mate her bitch with my dog.’

  ‘With Cedric . . . ?’ I clutched at the edge of the desk. It couldn’t be true! ‘And . . . and are you agreeable?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I shook my head to dispel the feeling of unreality. I found it incomprehensible that anyone should want to reproduce Cedric, and as I gaped into the receiver a frightening vision floated before me of eight little Cedrics all with his complaint. But of course such a thing wasn’t hereditary. I took a grip of myself and cleared my throat.

  ‘Very well, then, Mrs Rumney, you’d better go ahead.’

  There was a pause. ‘But Mr Herriot, I want you to supervise the mating.’

  ‘Oh really, I don’t think that’s necessary.’ I dug my nails into my palm. ‘I think you’ll be all right without me.’

  ‘Oh but I would be much happier if you were there. Please come,’ she said appealingly.

  Instead of emitting a long-drawn groan I took a deep breath.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll be along in the morning.’

  All that evening I was obsessed by a feeling of dread. Another acutely embarrassing session was in store with this exquisite woman. Why was it I always had to share things like this with her? And I really feared the worst. Even the daftest dog, when confronted with a bitch in heat, knows instinctively how to proceed, but with a really ivory-skulled animal like Cedric I wondered . . .

  And next morning all my fears were realised. The bitch, Trudy, was a trim little creature and showed every sign of willingness to cooperate. Cedri
c, on the other hand, though obviously delighted to meet her, gave no hint of doing his part. After sniffing her over, he danced around her a few times, goofy-faced, tongue lolling. Then he had a roll on the lawn before charging at her and coming to a full stop, big feet outsplayed, head down, ready to play. I sighed. It was as I thought. The big chump didn’t know what to do.

  This pantomime went on for some time and, inevitably, the emotional strain brought on a resurgence of his symp­toms. Frequently he paused to inspect his tail as though he had never heard noises like that before.

  He varied his dancing routine with occasional headlong gallops round the lawn and it was after he had done about ten successive laps that he seemed to decide he ought to do something about the bitch. I held my breath as he approached her but unfortunately he chose the wrong end to commence operations. Trudy had put up with his nonsense with great patience but when she found him busily working away in the region of her left ear it was too much. With a shrill yelp she nipped him in the hind leg and he shot away in alarm.

  After that whenever he came near she warned him off with bared teeth. Clearly she was disenchanted with her bridegroom and I couldn’t blame her.

  ‘I think she’s had enough, Mrs Rumney,’ I said.

  I certainly hiad had enough and so had the poor lady, judging by her slight breathlessness, flushed cheeks and waving handkerchief.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose you’re right,’ she replied.

  So Trudy was taken home and that was the end of Cedric’s career as a stud dog.

  This last episode decided me. I had to have a talk with Mrs Rumney and a few days later I called in at The Laurels.

  ‘Maybe you’ll think it’s none of my business,’ I said, ‘but I honestly don’t think Cedric is the dog for you. In fact he’s so wrong for you that he is upsetting your life.’

  Mrs Rumney’s eyes widened. ‘Well . . . he is a problem in some ways . . . but what do you suggest?’

  ‘I think you should get another dog in his place. Maybe a Poodle or a Corgi – something smaller, something you could control.’

  ‘But Mr Herriot, I couldn’t possibly have Cedric put down.’ Her eyes filled quickly with tears. ‘I really am fond of him despite his . . . despite everything.’

  ‘No, no, of course not!’ I said. ‘I like him too. He has no malice in him. But I think I have a good idea. Why not let Con Fenton have him?’

  ‘Con . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, he admires Cedric tremendously and the big fellow would have a good life with the old man. He has a couple of fields behind his cottage and keeps a few beasts. Cedric could run to his heart’s content out there and Con would be able to bring him along when he does the garden. You’d still see him three times a week.’

  Mrs Rumney looked at me in silence for a few moments and I saw in her face the dawning of relief and hope.

  ‘You know, Mr Herriot, I think that could work very well. But are you sure Con would take him?’

  ‘I’d like to bet on it. An old bachelor like him must be lonely. There’s only one thing worries me. Normally they only meet outside and I wonder how it would be when they were indoors and Cedric started to . . . when the old trouble . . .’

  ‘Oh, I think that would be all right,’ Mrs Rumney broke in quickly. ‘When I go on holiday Con always takes him for a week or two and he has never mentioned any . . . anything unusual . . . in that way.’

  I got up to go. ‘Well, that’s fine. I should put it to the old man right away.’

  Mrs Rumney rang within a few days. Con had jumped at the chance of taking on Cedric and the pair had apparently settled in happily together. She had also taken my advice and acquired a Poodle puppy.

  I didn’t see the new dog till it was nearly six months old and its mistress asked me to call to treat it for a slight attack of eczema. As I sat in the graceful room looking at Mrs Rumney, cool, poised, tranquil, with the little white creature resting on her knee, I couldn’t help feeling how right and fitting the whole scene was. The lush carpet, the trailing velvet curtains, the fragile tables with their load of expensive china and framed miniatures. It was no place for Cedric.

  Con Fenton’s cottage was less than half a mile away and on my way back to the surgery, on an impulse, I pulled up at the door. The old man answered my knock and his big face split into a delighted grin when he saw me.

  ‘Come in, young man!’ he cried in his strange snuffly voice. ‘I’m right glad to see tha!’

  I had hardly stepped into the tiny living-room when a hairy form hurled itself upon me. Cedric hadn’t changed a bit and I had to battle my way to the broken armchair by the fireside. Con settled down opposite and when the Boxer leaped to lick his face he clumped him companionably on the head with his fist.

  ‘Siddown, ye great daft bugger,’ he murmured with affection. Cedric sank happily on to the tattered hearthrug at his feet and gazed up adoringly at his new master.

  ‘Well, Mr Herriot,’ Con went on as he cut up some villainous-looking plug tobacco and began to stuff it into his pipe. ‘I’m right grateful to ye for gettin’ me this grand dog. By gaw, he’s a topper and ah wouldn’t sell ’im for any money. No man could ask for a better friend.’

  ‘Well, that’s great, Con,’ I said. ‘And I can see that the big chap is really happy here.’

  The old man ignited his pipe and a cloud of acrid smoke rose to the low, blackened beams. ‘Aye, he’s ’ardly ever inside. A gurt strong dog like ’im wants to work ’is energy off, like.’

  But just at that moment Cedric was obviously working something else off because the familiar pungency rose from him even above the billowings from the pipe. Con seemed oblivious of it but in the enclosed space I found it overpowering.

  ‘Ah well,’ I gasped. ‘I just looked in for a moment to see how you were getting on together. I must be on my way.’ I rose hurriedly and stumbled towards the door but the redolence followed me in a wave. As I passed the table with the remains of the old man’s meal I saw what seemed to be the only form of ornament in the cottage, a cracked vase holding a magnificent bouquet of carnations. It was a way of escape and I buried my nose in their fragrance.

  Con watched me approvingly. ‘Aye, they’re lovely flowers, aren’t they? T’missus at Laurels lets me bring ’ome what I want and I reckon them carnations is me favourite.’

  ‘Yes, they’re a credit to you.’ I still kept my nose among the blooms.

  ‘There’s only one thing,’ the old man said pensively. ‘Ah don’t get t’full benefit of ’em.’

  ‘How’s that, Con?’

  He pulled at his pipe a couple of times. ‘Well, you can hear ah speak a bit funny, like?’

  ‘No . . . no . . . not really.’

  ‘Oh aye, ye know ah do. I’ve been like it since I were a lad. I ’ad a operation for adenoids and summat went wrong.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s nowt serious, but it’s left me lackin’ in one way.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’ A light was beginning to dawn in my mind, an elucidation of how man and dog had found each other, of why their relationship was so perfect, of the certainty of their happy future together. It seemed like fate.

  ‘Aye,’ the old man went on sadly. ‘I ’ave no sense of smell.’

  The acute embarrassment I felt about Cedric’s unfortunate weakness was due mainly to the fact that Mrs Rumney was so exquisite and unworldly. It was agony to try to discuss such an earthy matter with her. But there is another thing. Forty years ago this subject was considered unmentionable in polite society. It is very different now, and this fact was brought home to me forcibly when a charming old lady came up to me in a shop in Harrogate and put her hand on my arm. ‘Oh, Mr Herriot,’ she said, ‘I did so love your story about the farting Boxer.’

  24. Wes

  It was Wesley Binks who put the firework through the surgery letter-box.

  It was what they used to call a ‘banger’ and it exploded at my feet as
I hurried along the dark passage in answer to the door bell’s ring, making me leap into the air in terror.

  I threw open the front door and looked into the street. It was empty, but at the corner where the lamplight was reflected in Robson’s shop window I had a brief impression of a fleeing form and a faint echo of laughter. I couldn’t do anything about it but I knew Wes was out there somewhere.

  Wearily I trailed back into the house. Why did this lad persecute me? What could a ten-year-old boy possibly have against me? I had never done him any harm, yet I seemed to be the object of a deliberate campaign.

  Or maybe it wasn’t personal. It could be that he felt I represented authority or the establishment in some way, or perhaps I was just convenient.

  I was certainly the ideal subject for his little tricks of ringing the door bell and running away, because I dared not ignore the summons in case it might be a client, and also the consulting and operating rooms were such a long way from the front of the house. Sometimes I was dragged down from our bed-sitter under the tiles. Every trip to the door was an expedition and it was acutely exasperating to arrive there and see only a little figure in the distance dancing about and grimacing at me.

  He varied this routine by pushing rubbish through the letter-box, pulling the flowers from the tiny strip of garden we tried to cultivate between the flagstones, and chalking rude messages on my car.

  I knew I wasn’t the only victim because I had heard complaints from others: the fruiterer who saw his apples disappear from the box in front of the shop, the grocer who unwillingly supplied him with free biscuits.

  He was the town naughty boy all right, and it was incongruous that he should have been named Wesley. There was not the slightest sign in his behaviour of any strict Methodist upbringing. In fact I knew nothing of his family life – only that he came from the poorest part of the town, a row of ‘yards’ containing tumbledown cottages, some of them evacuated because of their condition.

  I often saw him wandering about in the fields and lanes or fishing in quiet reaches of the river when he should have been in school. When he spotted me on these occasions he invariably called out some mocking remark and if he happened to be with some of his cronies they all joined in the laughter at my expense. It was annoying but I used to tell myself that there was nothing personal in it. I was an adult and that was enough to make me a target.