Ted got up suddenly. ‘Any road, somebody ought to tell ’im. Ah’ll explain it to ’im.’
He crossed the room. ‘Are ye ready for another, Albert?’
The old shepherd glanced at him absently then indicated his glass, empty again. ‘Aye, ye can put a drop i’ there, Ted.’
The cowman waved to Mr Waters then bent down. ‘Did ye understand what Mr Herriot was tellin’ ye, Albert?’ he shouted.
‘Aye . . . aye . . . Mick’s got a bit o’ caud in ’is eyes.’
‘Nay, ’e hasn’t! It’s nowt of t’soart! It’s a en . . . a en . . . summat different.’
‘Keeps gettin’ caud in ’em,’ Albert mumbled, nose in glass.
Ted yelled in exasperation. ‘Ye daft awd divil! Listen to what ah’m sayin’ – ye’ve got to take care of ’im and . . .’
But the old man was far away. ‘Ever sin ’e were a pup . . . allus been subjeck to it . . .’
Though Mick took my mind off my own troubles at the time, the memory of those eyes haunted me for days. I yearned to get my hands on them. I knew an hour’s work would transport the old dog into a. world he perhaps had not known for years, and every instinct told me to rush back to Cop ton, throw him in the car and bear him back to Darrowby for surgery. I wasn’t worried about the money but you just can’t run a practice that way.
I regularly saw lame dogs on farms, skinny cats on the streets, and it would have been lovely to descend on each and every one and minister to them out of my knowledge. In fact I had tried a bit of it and it didn’t work.
It was Ted Dobson who put me out of my pain. He had come in to the town to see his sister for the evening and he stood leaning on his bicycle in the surgery doorway, his cheerful, scrubbed face gleaming as if it would light up the street.
He came straight to the point. ‘Will ye do that operation on awd Mick, Mr Herriot?’
‘Yes, of course, but . . . how about . . . . ?’
‘Oh that’ll be right. T’lads at Fox and Hounds are seein’ to it. We’re takin’ it out of the club money.’
‘Club money?’
‘Aye, we put in a bit every week for an outin’ in t’summer. Trip to t’seaside or summat like.’
‘Well it’s extremely kind of you, Ted, but are you quite sure? Won’t any of them mind?’
Ted laughed. ‘Nay, it’s nowt, we won’t miss a quid. We drink ower much on them do’s anyway.’ He paused. ‘All t’lads want this job done – it’s been gettin’ on our bloody nerves watchin’ t’awd dog ever since you told us about ’im.
‘Well, that’s great,’ I said. ‘How will you get him down?’
‘Me boss is lendin’ me ’is van. Wednesday night be all right?’
‘Fine.’ I watched him ride away then turned back along the passage. It may seem to modern eyes that a lot of fuss had been made over a pound, but in those days it was a very substantial sum, and some idea may be gained from the fact that four pounds a week was my commencing salary as a veterinary surgeon.
When Wednesday night arrived it was clear that Mick’s operation had become something of a gala occasion. The little van was crammed with regulars from the Fox and Hounds and others rolled up on their bicycles.
The old dog slunk fearfully down the passage to the operating room, nostrils twitching at the unfamiliar odours of ether and antiseptic. Behind him trooped the noisy throng of farm men, their heavy boots clattering on the tiles.
Tristan, who was doing the anaesthesia, hoisted the dog on the table and I looked around at the unusual spectacle of rows of faces regarding me with keen anticipation. Normally I am not in favour of lay people witnessing operations but since these men were sponsoring the whole thing they would have to stay.
Under the lamp I got my first good look at Mick. He was a handsome, well-marked animal except for those dreadful eyes. As he sat there he opened them a fraction and peered at me for a painful moment before closing them against the bright light; that, I felt, was how he spent his life, squinting carefully and briefly at his surroundings. Giving him the intravenous barbiturate was like doing him a favour, ridding him of his torment for a while.
And when he was stretched unconscious on his side I was able to carry out my first examination. I parted the lids, wincing at the matted lashes, awash with tears and discharge; there was a long-standing keratitis and conjunctivitis but with a gush of relief I found that the cornea was not ulcerated.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘this is a mess, but I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.’
The farm men didn’t exactly break into a cheer but they were enormously pleased. The carnival air was heightened as they chattered and laughed, and when I poised my scalpel it struck me that I had never operated in such a noisy environment.
But I felt almost gleeful as I made the first incision; I had been looking forward so much to this moment. Starting with the left eye I cut along the full length parallel to the margin of the lid then made a semicircular sweep of the knife to include half an inch of the tissue above the eye. Seizing the skin with forceps I stripped it away, and as I drew the lips of the bleeding wound together with stitches I noticed with intense gratification how the lashes were pulled high and away from the corneal surface they had irritated, perhaps for years.
I cut away less skin from the lower lid – you never need to take so much there – then started on the right eye. I was slicing away happily when I realised that the noise had subsided; there were a few mutterings, but the chaff and laughter had died. I glanced up and saw big Ken Appleton, the horseman from Laurel Grove; it was natural that he should catch my eye, because he was six feet four and built like the Shires he cared for:
‘By gaw, it’s ’ot in ’ere,’ he whispered, and I could see he meant it because sweat was streaming down his face.
I was engrossed in my work or I would have noticed that he wasn’t only sweating but deadly pale. I was stripping the skin from the eyelid when I heard Tristan’s yell.
‘Catch him!’
The big man’s surrounding friends supported him as he slid gently to the floor and he stayed there, sleeping peacefully, till I had inserted the last stitch. Then as Tristan and I cleaned up and put the instruments away he began to look around him and his companions helped him to his feet. Now that the cutting was over the Life had returned to the party and Ken came in for some leg-pulling; but his was not the only white face.
‘I think you could do with a drop of whisky, Ken,’ Tristan said. He left the room and returned with a bottle which, with typical hospitality, he dispensed to all. Beakers, measuring glasses and test tubes were pressed into service, and soon there was a boisterous throng around the sleeping dog. When the van finally roared off into the night the last thing I heard was the sound of singing from the packed interior.
They brought Mick back in ten days for removal of the stitches. The wounds had healed well but the keratitis had still not cleared and the old dog was still blinking painfully. I didn’t see the final result of my work for another month.
It was when I was again driving home through Copton from an evening call that the lighted doorway of the Fox and Hounds recalled me to the little operation which had been almost forgotten in the rush of new work. I went in and sat down among the familiar faces.
Things were uncannily like before. Old Albert Close in his usual place, Mick stretched under the table, his twitching feet testifying to another vivid dream. I watched him closely until I could stand it no longer. As if drawn by a magnet I crossed the room and crouched by him.
‘Mick!’ I said. ‘Hey, wake up, boy!’
The quivering limbs stilled and there was a long moment when I held my breath as the shaggy head turned towards me. Then with a kind of blissful disbelief I found myself gazing into the wide, clear, bright eyes of a young dog.
Warm wine flowed richly through my veins as he faced me, mouth open in a panting grin, tail swishing along the stone flags. There was no inflammation, no discharge, and the lashes, clean and dry, g
rew in a soft arc well clear of the corneal surface which they had chafed and rasped for so long. I stroked his head and as he began to look around him eagerly I felt a thrill of utter delight at the sight of the old animal exulting in his freedom, savouring the new world which had opened to him. I could see Ted Dobson and the other men smiling conspiratorially as I stood up.
‘Mr Close,’ I shouted. ‘Will you have a drink?’
‘Aye, you can put a drop i’ there, young man.’
‘Mick’s eyes are a lot better.’
The old man raised his glass. ‘Good ’ealth. Aye, it were nobbut a bit o’ caud.’
‘But Mr Close . . . !’
‘Nasty thing, is caud in t’eyes. T’awd feller keeps lyin’ in that door’ole and ah reckon he’ll get it again. Ever since ’e were a pup ’e’s been subjeck . . .’
I do love writing about those surgical procedures which bring an animal quick and blissful relief. The entropion operation does just that and it is one which we perform regularly in our practice, though not under the colourful circumstances of that night with Mick on the table and the kindly farm men crowding round. There is one thing, however – we get more appreciation from our present-day clients than I got from dear old Albert Close.
28. Strychnine
The man was distraught and gasping on the surgery steps. ‘I’s no good, I can’t bring him in. He’s as stiff as a board!’
My stomach lurched. It was another one. ‘Jasper, you mean?’
‘Yes, he’s in the back of my car, right here.’
I ran across the pavement and opened the car door. It was as I feared: a handsome Dalmatian stretched in a dreadful tetanic spasm, spine arched, head craning desperately backward, legs like four wooden rods groping at nothing.
I didn’t wait to talk but dashed back into the house for syringe and drugs.
I leaned into the car, tucked some papers under the dog’s head, injected the apomorphhine and waited.
The man looked at me with anxious eyes. ‘What is it?’
‘Strychnine poisoning, Mr Bartle. I’ve just given an emetic to make him vomit.’ As I spoke, the animal brought up the contents of his stomach on to the paper.
‘Will that put him right?’
‘It depends on how much of the poison has been absorbed.’ I didn’t feel like telling him that it was almost invariably fatal, that in fact I had treated six dogs in the last week with the same condition and they had all died, ‘We’ll just have to hope.’
He watched me as I filled another syringe with barbiturate. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Anaesthetising him.’ I slipped the needle into the radial vein and as I slowly trickled the fluid into the dog’s bloodstream the taut muscles relaxed and he sank into a deep slumber.
‘He looks better already,’ Mr Bartle said.
‘Yes, but the trouble is when the injection wears off he may go back into a spasm. As I say, it all depends on how much of the strychnine has got into his system. Keep him in a quiet place with as little noise as possible. Any sound can bring on a spasm. When he shows signs of coming out of it give me a ring.’
I went back into the house. Seven cases in a week! It was tragic and scarcely believable, but there was no doubt left in my mind now. This was malicious. Some psychopath in our little town was deliberately putting down poison to kill dogs. Strychnine poisoning was something that cropped up occasionally. Gamekeepers and other people used the deady drug to kill vermin, but usually it was handled with great care and placed out of reach of domestic pets. Trouble started when a burrowing dog came across the poison by accident. But this was different.
I had to warn pet owners somehow. I lifted the phone and spoke to one of the reporters on the Darrowby and Houlton Times. He promised to put the story in the next edition, along with advice to keep dogs on their leads and otherwise supervise pets more carefully.
Then I rang the police. The sergeant listened to my account. ‘Right, Mr Herriot, I agree with you that there’s some crackpot going around and we’ll certainly investigate this matter. If you’ll just give me the names of the dog owners involved . . . thank you . . . thank you. We’ll see these people and check round the local chemists to see if anybody has been buying strychnine lately. And of course we’ll keep our eyes open for anybody acting suspiciously.’
I came away from the phone feeling that I might have done something to halt the depressing series of events, but I couldn’t rid myself of a gloomy apprehension that more trouble was round the corner. But my mood lightened when I saw Johnny Clifford in the waiting-room.
Johnny always made me feel better because he was invariably optimistic and wore a cheerful grin which never altered, even though he was blind. He was about my own age, and he sat there in his habitual pose, one hand on the head of his guide dog, Fergus.
‘Is it inspection time again already, Johnny?’ I asked.
‘Aye, it is that, Mr Herriot, it’s come round again. It’s been a quick six months.’ He laughed and held out his card.
I squatted and looked into the face of the big Alsatian sitting motionless and dignified by his master’s side. ‘Well, and how’s Fergus these days?’
‘Oh he’s in grand fettle. Eatin’ well and full of life.’ The hand on the head moved round to the ears and at the other end the tail did a bit of sweeping along the waiting-room floor.
As I looked at the young man, his face alight with pride and affection, I realised afresh what this dog meant to him. He had told me that when his failing sight progressed to total blindness in his early twenties he was filled with a despair which did not lessen until he was sent to train with a guide dog and met Fergus; because he found something more than another living creature to act as his eyes, he found a friend and companion to share every moment of his days.
‘Well, we’d better get started,’ I said. ‘Stand up a minute, old lad, while I take your temperature.’ That was normal and I went over the big animal’s chest with a stethoscope, listening to the reassuringly steady thud of the heart. As I parted the hair along the neck and back to examine the skin, I laughed.
‘I’m wasting my time here, Johnny. You’ve got his coat in perfect condition.’
‘Aye, never a day goes by but he gets a good groomin’.’
I had seen him at it, brushing and combing tirelessly to bring extra lustre to the sleek swathes of hair. The nicest thing anybody could say to Johnny was, ‘That’s a beautiful dog you’ve got.’ His pride in that beauty was boundless, even though he had never seen it himself.
Treating guide dogs for the blind has always seemed to me to be one of a veterinary surgeon’s most rewarding tasks. To be in a position to help and care for these magnificent animals is a privilege, not just because they are highly trained and valuable but because they represent in the ultimate way something which has always lain near the core and centre of my life: the mutually depending, trusting and loving association between man and animal.
Meeting these blind people was a humbling experience which sent me about my work with a new appreciation of my blessings.
I opened the dog’s mouth and peered at the huge gleaming teeth. It was dicing with danger to do this with some Alsatians, but with Fergus you could haul the great jaws apart and nearly put your head in and he would only lick your ear. In fact he was at it now. My cheek was nicely within range and he gave it a quick wipe with his large wet tongue.
‘Hey, just a minute, Fergus!’ I withdrew and plied my handkerchief. ‘I’ve had a wash this morning. And anyway, only little dogs lick – not big tough Alsatians.’
Johnny threw back his head and gave a great peal of laughter. ‘There’s nowt tough about him, he’s the softest dog you could ever meet.’
‘Well, that’s the way I like them,’ I said. I reached for a tooth scaler. ‘There’s just a bit of tartar on one of his back teeth. I’ll scrape it off right now.’
When I had finished I looked in the ears with an auroscope. There was no canker but I cleaned out
a little wax.
Then I went round the feet, examining paws and claws. They always fascinated me, these feet: wide, enormous, with great spreading toes. They had to be that size to support the big body and the massive bones of the limbs.
‘All correct except that one funny claw, Johnny.’
‘Aye, you allus have to trim that ’un don’t you? I could feel it was growin’ long again.’
‘Yes, that toe seems to be slightly crooked or it would wear down like the others with all the walking he does. You have a great time going walks all day, don’t you, Fergus?’
I dodged another attempted lick and closed my clippers around the claw. I had to squeeze till my eyes popped before the overgrown piece shot away with a loud crack.
‘By gosh, we’d go through some clippers if all dogs had claws like that,’ I gasped. ‘It just about does them in every time he calls.’
Johnny laughed again and dropped his hand on the great head with that gesture which said so much.
I took the card and entered my report on the dog’s health along with the things I had done. Then I dated it and handed it back. ‘That’s it for this time, Johnny. He’s in excellent order and there’s nothing more I need do to him.’
‘Thank you, Mr Herriot. See you next time round, then.’ The young man took hold of the harness and I followed the two of them along the passage and out of the front door. I watched as Fergus halted by the kerb and waited till a car had passed before crossing the road.
They hadn’t gone very far along the road when a woman with a shopping bag stopped them. She began to chatter animatedly, looking down repeatedly at the big dog. She was talking about Fergus and Johnny rested his hand on the noble head and nodded and smiled. Fergus was his favourite topic.
Shortly after midday Mr Bartle rang to say Jasper showed signs of returning spasms and before sitting down to lunch I rushed round to his house and repeated the barbiturate injection. Mr Bartle owned one of the local mills, producing cattle food for the district. He was a very bright man indeed.
‘Mr Herriot,’ he said, ‘please don’t misunderstand me. I have every faith in you, but isn’t there anything else you can do? I am so very fond of this dog.’
James Herriot's Dog Stories Page 28
