‘Ah, good morning to you, Mr Bailes,’ I said expansively. ‘Rose looks fine today, doesn’t she?’
The farmer took off his cap and wiped his brow. ‘Aye, she’s a different cow, all right.’
‘I don’t think she needs any more treatment,’ I said. I hesitated. Perhaps one little dig would do no harm. ‘But it’s a good thing I gave her that extra lavage yesterday.’
‘Yon pumpin’ job?’ Mr Bailes raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh that had nowt to do with it.’
‘What . . . what do you mean? It cured her, surely.’
‘Nay, lad, nay, Jim Oakley cured her.’
‘Jim . . . what on earth . . . ?’
‘Aye, Jim was round ’ere last night. He often comes in of an evenin’ and he took one look at the cow and told me what to do. Ah’ll tell you she was like dyin’ – that pumpin’ job hadn’t done no good at all. He told me to give her a bloody good gallop round t’field.’
‘What!’
‘Aye, that’s what he said. He’d seen ’em like that afore and a good gallop put ’em right. So we got Rose out here and did as he said and by gaw it did the trick. She looked better right away.’
I drew myself up. ‘And who,’ I asked frigidly, ’is Jim Oakley?’
‘He’s t’postman, of course.’
‘The postman!’
‘Aye, but he used to keep a few beasts years ago. He’s a very clever man wi’ stock, is Jim.’
‘No doubt, but I assure you, Mr Bailes . . .’
The farmer raised a hand. ‘Say no more, lad. Jim put ’er right and there’s no denyin’ it. I wish you’d seen ’im chasin’ ’er round. He’s as awd as me, but by gaw ’e did go. He can run like ’ell, can Jim.’ He chuckled reminiscently.
I had had about enough. During the farmer’s eulogy I had been distractedly scratching the cow’s tail and had soiled my hand in the process. Mustering the remains of my dignity I nodded to Mr Bailes.
‘Well, I must be on my way. Do you mind if I go into the house to wash my hands?’
‘You go right in,’ he replied. ‘T’missus will get you some hot water.’
It seemed to take a long time to reach the end of the wall and I was about to turn right towards the door of the farm kitchen when from my left I heard the sudden rattle of a chain, then a roaring creature launched itself at me, bayed once, mightily, into my face and was gone.
This time I thought my heart would stop. With my defences at their lowest I was in no state to withstand Shep. I had quite forgotten that Mrs Bailes occasionally tethered him in the kennel at the entrance to discourage unwelcome visitors, and as I half lay against the wall, the blood thundering in my ears, I looked dully at the long coil of chain on the cobbles.
I have no time for people who lose their temper with animals but something snapped in my mind then. All my frustration burst from me in a torrent of incoherent shouts and I grabbed the chain and began to pull on it frenziedly. That dog which had tortured me was there in that kennel. For once I knew where to get at him and this time I was going to have the matter out with him. The kennel would be about ten feet away and at first I saw nothing. There was only the dead weight on the end of the chain. Then as I hauled inexorably a nose appeared, then a head, then all of the big animal hanging limply by his collar. He showed no desire to get up and greet me but I was merciless and dragged him inch by inch over the cobbles till he was lying at my feet.
Beside myself with rage, I crouched, shook my fist under his nose and yelled at him from a few inches’ range.
‘You big bugger! If you do that to me again I’ll knock your bloody head off! Do you hear me, I’ll knock your bloody head clean off!’
Shep rolled frightened eyes at me and his tail flickered apologetically between his legs. When I continued to scream at him he bared his upper teeth in an ingratiating grin and finally rolled on his back where he lay inert with half-closed eyes.
So now I knew. He was a softie. All his ferocious attacks were just a game. I began to calm down but for all that I wanted him to get the message.
‘Right, mate,’ I said in a menacing whisper. ‘Remember what I’ve said!’ I let go the chain and gave a final shout. ‘Now get back in there!’
Shep, almost on his knees, tail tucked well in, shot back into his kennel and I turned toward the farmhouse to wash my hands.
I was surprised when, about a month later, I received another call to one of Mr Bailes’s cows. I felt that after my performance with Rose he would have called on the services of Jim Oakley for any further trouble. But no, his voice on the phone was as polite and friendly as ever, with not a hint that he had lost faith. It was strange . . .
Leaving my car outside the farm I looked warily into the front garden before venturing between the walls. A faint tinkle of metal told me that Shep was lurking there in his kennel and I slowed my steps; I wasn’t going to be caught again. At the end of the alley I paused, waiting, but all I saw was the end of a nose which quietly withdrew as I stood there. So my outburst had got through to the big dog – he knew I wasn’t going to stand any more nonsense from him.
And yet, as I drove away after the visit, I didn’t feel good about it. A victory over an animal is a hollow one and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had deprived, him of his chief pleasure. After all, every creature is entitled to some form of recreation and though Shep’s hobby could result in the occasional heart failure it was, after all, his thing and part of him. The thought that I had crushed something out of his life was a disquieting one. I wasn’t proud.
So that when, later that summer, I was driving through Highburn, I paused in anticipation outside the Bailes’s farm. The village street, white and dusty, slumbered under the afternoon sun. In the blanketing silence nothing moved – except for one small man strolling towards the opening between the walls. He was fat and very dark – one of the tinkers from a camp outside the village – and he carried an armful of pots and pans.
From my vantage point I could see through the railings into the front garden where Shep was slinking noiselessly into position beneath the stones. Fascinated, I watched as the man turned unhurriedly into the opening and the dog followed the course of the disembodied head along the top of the wall.
As I expected it all happened half-way along. The perfectly timed leap, the momentary pause at the summit, then the tremendous ‘WOOF!’ into the unsuspecting ear.
It had its usual effect. I had a brief view of flailing arms and flying pans followed by a prolonged metallic clatter, then the little man reappeared like a projectile, turned right and sped away from me up the street. Considering his almost round physique he showed an astonishing turn of speed, his little legs pistoning, and he did not pause till he disappeared into the shop at the far end of the village.
I don’t know why he went in there because he wouldn’t find any stronger restorative than ginger pop.
Shep, apparently well satisfied, wandered back over the grass and collapsed in a cool patch where an apple tree threw its shade over the grass; head on paws, he waited in comfort for his next victim.
I smiled to myself as I let in the clutch and moved off. I would stop at the shop and tell the little man that he could collect his pans without the slightest fear of being torn limb from limb, but my overriding emotion was one of relief that I had not cut the sparkle out of the big dog’s life.
Shep was still having his fun.
The fact that dogs clearly love to play or have some source of amusement makes me feel that people should really keep two dogs so that they would never be lonely. However, this is often inconvenient or impossible, so the more often an owner can play with his pet the better. It is surprising what can be done in this way – tug-of-war, retrieving, even hide-and-seek! Sometimes, of course, the dog will find his own entertainment – as Shep did.
27. Mick
It was nine o’clock on a filthy wet night and I was still at work. I gripped the steering wheel more tightly and shifted in my seat, groaning softly as m
y tired muscles complained.
Why had I entered this profession? I could have gone in for something easier and gentler – like coalmining or lumberjacking. I had started feeling sorry for myself three hours ago, driving across Darrowby market-place on the way to a calving. The shops were shut and even through the wintry drizzle there was a suggestion of repose, of work done, of firesides and books and drifting tobacco smoke. I had all those things, plus Helen, back there in our bedsitter.
I think the iron really entered when I saw the carload of young people setting off from the front of the Drovers’: three girls and three young fellows, all dressed up and laughing and obviously on their way to a dance or party. Everybody was set for comfort and a good time; everybody except Herriot, rattling towards the cold wet hills and the certain prospect of toil.
And the case did nothing to raise my spirits. A skinny little heifer stretched on her side in a ramshackle open-fronted shed littered with old tin cans, half bricks and other junk; it was difficult to see what I was stumbling over since the only light came from a rusty oil lamp whose flame flickered and dipped in the wind.
I was two hours in that shed, easing out the calf inch by inch. It wasn’t a malpresentation, just a tight fit, but the heifer never rose to her feet and I spent the whole time on the floor, rolling among the bricks and tins, getting up only to shiver my way to the water bucket while the rain hurled itself icily against the shrinking flesh of my chest and back.
And now here I was, driving home frozen-faced with my skin chafing under my clothes and feeling as though a group of strong men had been kicking me enthusiastically from head to foot for most of the evening. I was almost drowning in self-pity when I turned into the tiny village of Copton. In the warm days of summer it was idyllic, reminding me always of a corner of Perthshire, with its single street hugging the lower slopes of a green hillside and a dark drift of trees spreading to the heathery uplands high above.
But tonight it was a dead black place with the rain sweeping across the headlights against the tight-shut houses; except for a faint glow right in the middle where the light from the village pub fell softly on the streaming roadway. I stopped the car under the swinging sign of the Fox and Hounds and on an impulse opened the door. A beer would do me good.
A pleasant warmth met me as I went into the pub. There was no bar counter, only high-backed settles and oak tables arranged under the whitewashed walls of what was simply a converted farm kitchen. At one end a wood fire crackled in an old black cooking range and above it the tick of a wall clock sounded above the murmur of voices. It wasn’t as lively as the modern places but it was peaceful.
‘Now then, Mr Herriot, you’ve been workin’,’ my neighbour said as I sank into the settle.
‘Yes, Ted, how did you know?’
The man glanced over my soiled mackintosh and the wellingtons which I hadn’t bothered to change on the farm. ‘Well, that’s not your Sunday suit, there’s blood on your nose end and cow shit on your ear.’ Ted Dobson was a burly cowman in his thirties and his white teeth showed suddenly in a wide grin.
I smiled too and plied my handkerchief. ‘It’s funny how you always want to scratch your nose at times like that.’
I looked around the room. There were about a dozen men drinking from pint glasses, some of them playing dominoes. They were all farm workers, the people I saw when I was called from my bed in the darkness before dawn; hunched figures they were then, shapeless in old greatcoats, cycling out to the farms, heads down against the wind and rain, accepting the facts of their hard existence. I often thought at those times that this happened to me only occasionally, but they did it every morning.
And they did it for thirty shillings a week; just seeing them here made me feel a little ashamed.
Mr Waters, the landlord, whose name let him in for a certain amount of ribbing, filled my glass, holding his tall jug high to produce the professional froth.
‘There y’are, Mr Herriot, that’ll be sixpence. Cheap at ’alf the price.’
Every drop of beer was brought up in that jug from the wooden barrels in the cellar. It would have been totally impracticable in a busy establishment, but the Fox and Hounds was seldom bustling and Mr Waters would never get rich as a publican. But he had four cows in the little byre adjoining this room, fifty hens pecked around in his long back garden, and he reared a few litters of pigs every year from his two sows.
‘Thank you, Mr Waters.’ I took a deep pull at the glass. I had lost some sweat despite the cold and my thirst welcomed the flow of rich nutty ale. I had been in here a few times before and the faces were all familiar. Especially old Albert Close, a retired shepherd who sat in the same place every night at the end of the settle hard against the fire.
He sat as always, his hands and chin resting on the tall crook which he had carried through his working days, his eyes blank. Stretched half under the seat, half under the table lay his dog, Mick, old and retired like his master. The animal was clearly in the middle of a vivid dream; his paws pedalled the air spasmodically, his lips and ears twitched, and now and then he emitted a stifled bark.
Ted Dobson nudged me and laughed. ‘Ah reckon awd Mick’s still rounding up them sheep.’
I nodded. There was little doubt the dog was reliving the great days, crouching and darting, speeding in a wide arc round the perimeter of the field at his master’s whistle. And Albert himself. What lay behind those empty eyes? I could imagine him in his youth, striding the windy uplands, covering endless miles over moor and rock and beck, digging that same crook into the turf at every step. There were no fitter men than the Dales shepherds, living in the open in all weathers, throwing a sack over their shoulders in snow and rain.
And there was Albert now, a broken, arthritic old man gazing apathetically from beneath the ragged peak of an ancient tweed cap. I noticed he had just drained his glass and I walked across the room.
‘Good evening, Mr Close,’ I said.
He cupped an ear with his hand and blinked up at me. ‘Eh?’
I raised my voice to a shout. ‘How are you, Mr Close?’
‘Can’t complain, young man,’ he murmured. ‘Can’t complain.’
‘Will you have a drink?’
‘Aye, thank ye.’ He directed a trembling finger at his glass. ‘You can put a drop í’ there, young man.’
I knew a drop meant a pint and beckoned to the landlord who plied his jug expertly. The old shepherd lifted the recharged glass and looked up at me.
‘Good ’ealth,’ he grunted.
‘All the best,’ I said and was about to return to my seat when the old dog sat up. My shouts at his master must have wakened him from his dream because he stretched sleepily, shook his head a couple of times and looked around him. And as he turned and faced me I felt a sudden sense of shock.
His eyes were terrible. In fact I could hardly see them as they winked painfully at me through a sodden fringe of pus-caked lashes. Rivulets of discharge showed dark and ugly against the white hair on either side of the nose.
I stretched my hand out to him and the dog wagged his tail briefly before closing his eyes and keeping them closed. It seemed he felt better that way.
I put my hand on Albert’s shoulder. ‘Mr Close, how long has he been like this?’
‘Eh?’
I increased my volume. ‘Mick’s eyes. They’re in a bad state.’
‘Oh aye.’ The old man nodded in comprehension. ‘He’s got a bit o’ caud in ’em. He’s allus been subjeck to it ever since ’e were a pup.’
‘No, it’s more than cold, it’s his eyelids.’
‘Eh?’
I took a deep breath and let go at the top of my voice.
‘He’s got turned-in eyelids. It’s rather a serious thing.’
The old man nodded again. ‘Aye, ’e lies a lot wi’ his head at foot of t’door. It’s draughty there.’
‘No, Mr Close!’ I bawled. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that. It’s a thing called entropion and it needs an ope
ration to put it right.’
‘That’s right, young man.’ He took a sip at his beer. ‘Just a bit o’ caud. Ever since he were a pup he’s been subjeck . . .’
I turned away wearily and returned to my seat. Ted Dobson looked at me enquiringly.
‘What was that about?’
‘Well, it’s a nasty thing, Ted. Entropion is when the eyelids are turned in and the lashes rub against the eyeball. Causes a lot of pain, sometimes ulceration or even blindness. Even a mild case is damned uncomfortable for a dog.’
‘I see,’ Ted said ruminatively ‘Ah’ve noticed awd Mick’s had mucky eyes for a long time but they’ve got worse lately.’
‘Yes, sometimes it happens like that, but often it’s congenital. I should think Mick has had a touch of it all his life but for some reason it’s suddenly developed to this horrible state.’ I turned again towards the old dog, sitting patiently under the table, eyes still tight shut.
‘He’s sufferin’ then?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Well, you, know what it’s like if you have a speck of dust in your eyes or even one lash turned in. I should say he feels pretty miserable.’
‘Poor awd beggar. Ah never knew it was owt like that.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘And could an operation cure it?’
‘Yes, Ted, it’s one of the most satisfying jobs a vet can do. I always feel I’ve done a dog a good turn when I’ve finished ’
‘Aye, ah bet you do. It must be a nice feelin’. But it’ll be a costly job, ah reckon?’
I smiled wryly. ‘It depends how you look at it. It’s a fiddly business and takes time. We usually charge about a pound for it.’ A human surgeon would laugh at a sum like that, but it would still be too much for old Albert.
For a few moments we were both silent, looking across the room at the old man, at the threadbare coat, the long tatter of trouser bottoms falling over the broken boots. A pound was two weeks of the old-age pension. It was a fortune.
James Herriot's Dog Stories Page 27
