James Herriot's Dog Stories

by James Herriot

  Mrs Holroyd also took telephone messages when I wasn’t around. There weren’t many outside visits but two have stuck in my memory.

  The first was when I looked on the pad and read, ‘Go to Mr Pimmarov to see Bulldog,’ in Mrs Holroyd’s careful back-sloped script.

  ‘Pimmarov?’ I asked her. ‘Was he a Russian gentleman?’

  ‘Dunno, luv, never asked ’im.’

  ‘Well – did he sound foreign? I mean did he speak broken English?’

  ‘Nay, luv, Yorkshire as me, ’e were.’

  ‘Ah well, never mind, Mrs Holroyd. What’s his address?’

  She gave me a surprised look. ‘How should ah know? He never said.’

  ‘But . . . but, Mrs Holroyd. How can I visit him when I don’t know where he lives?’

  ‘Well you’ll know best about that, luv.’

  I was baffled. ‘But he must have told you.’

  ‘Now then, young man, Pimmarov was all ’e told me. Said you would know.’ She stuck out her chin, her cigarette quivered and she regarded me stonily. Maybe she had had similar sessions with Stewie, but she left me in no doubt that the interview was over.

  During the day I tried not to think about it, but the knowledge that somewhere in the neighbourhood there was an ailing Bulldog that I could not succour was worrying. I just hoped it was nothing fatal.

  A phone call at seven p.m. resolved my fears.

  ‘Is that t’vet?’ The voice was gruff and grumpy.

  ‘Yes . . . speaking.’

  ‘Well, ah’ve been waitin’ all day for tha. When are you comin’ to see ma flippin’ Bulldog?’

  A light glimmered. But still . . . that accent . . . no suggestion of the Kremlin . . . not a hint of the Steppes.

  ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ I gabbled. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a little misunderstanding. I’m doing Mr Brannan’s work and I don’t know the district. I do hope your dog isn’t seriously ill.’

  ‘Nay, nay, nobbut a bit o’ cough, but ah want ’im seein’ to.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly, I’ll be right out, Mr . . . er . . .’

  ‘Pym’s ma name and ah live next to t’post office in Roff village.’

  ‘Roff?’

  ‘Aye, two miles outside Hensfield.’

  I sighed with relief. ‘Very good, Mr Pym, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Thank ye.’ The voice sounded mollified. ‘Well, tha knows me now, don’t tha – Pym o’ Roff.’

  The light was blinding. ‘Pym o’ Roff!’ Such a simple explanation.

  A lot of Mrs Holroyd’s messages were eccentric, but I could usually interpret them after some thought. However, one bizarre entry jolted me later in the week. It read simply: ‘Johnson, 12, Back Lane, Smiling Harry Syphilis.’

  I wrestled with this for a long time before making a diffident approach to Mrs Holroyd.

  She was kneading dough for scones and didn’t look up as I entered the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Holroyd,’ I rubbed my hands nervously, ‘I see you have written down that I have to go to Mr Johnson’s.’

  ‘That’s right, luv.’

  ‘Well, er . . . fine, but I don’t quite understand the other part – the Smiling Harry Syphilis.’

  She shot a sidelong glance at me. ‘Well that’s ’ow you spell that word, isn’t it? Ah looked it up once in a doctor’s book in our ’ouse,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Oh yes, of course, yes, you’ve spelled it correctly. It’s just the Smiling . . . and the Harry.’

  Her eyes glinted dangerously and she blew a puff of smoke at me. ‘Well, that’s what t’feller said. Repeated it three times. Couldn’t make no mistake.’

  ‘I see. But did he mention any particular animal?’

  ‘Naw, ’e didn’t. That was what ’e said. That and no more.’ A grey spicule of ash toppled into the basin and was immediately incorporated in the scones. ‘Ah do ma best, tha knows!’

  ‘Of course you do, Mrs Holroyd,’ I said hastily. ‘I’ll just pop round to Back Lane now.’

  And Mr Johnson put everything right within seconds as he led me to a shed on his allotment.

  ‘It’s me pig, guvnor. Covered wi’ big red spots. Reckon it’s Swine Erysipelas.’

  Only he pronounced it arrysipelas and he did have a slurring mode of speech. I really couldn’t blame Mrs Holroyd.

  Little things like that enlivened the week, but the tension still mounted as I awaited the return of Kim. And even when the seventh day came round I was still in suspense because the Gillards did not appear at the morning surgery. When they failed to show up at the afternoon session I began to conclude that they had had the good sense to return south to a more sophisticated establishment. But at five thirty they were there.

  I knew it even before I pulled the curtains apart. The smell of doom was everywhere, filling the premises, and when I went through the curtains it hit me: the sickening stink of putrefaction.

  Gangrene. It was the fear which had haunted me all week and now it was realised.

  There were about half a dozen other people in the waiting-room, all keeping as far away as possible from the young couple, who looked up at me with strained smiles. Kim tried to rise when he saw me, but I had eyes only for the dangling useless hind limb where my once stone-hard plaster hung in sodden folds.

  Of course it had to happen that the Gillards were last in and I was forced to see all the other animals first. I examined them and prescribed treatment in a stupor of misery and shame. What had I done to that beautiful dog out there? I had been crazy to try that experiment. A gangrenous leg meant that even amputation might be too late to save his life. Death from septicaemia was likely now and what the hell could I do for him in this ramshackle surgery?

  When at last it was their turn, the Gillards came in with Kim limping between them, and it was an extra stab to realise afresh what a handsome animal he was. I bent over the great golden head and for a moment the friendly eyes looked into mine and the tail waved.

  ‘Right,’ I said to Peter Gillard, putting my arms under the chest. ‘You take the back end and we’ll lift him up.’

  As we hoisted the heavy dog on to the table the flimsy structure disintegrated immediately, but this time the young people were ready for it and thrust their legs under the struts like a well-trained team till the surface was level again.

  With Kim stretched on his side I fingered the bandage. It usually took time and patience with a special saw to remove a plaster, but this was just a stinking pulp. My hand shook as I cut the bandage lengthways with scissors and removed it.

  I had steeled myself against the sight of the cold dead limb with its green flesh, but though there was pus and serous fluid everywhere the exposed flesh was a surprising, healthy pink. I took the foot in my hand and my heart gave a great bound. It was warm and so was the leg, right up to the hock. There was no gangrene.

  Feeling suddenly weak I leaned against the table. ‘I’m sorry about the terrible smell. All the pus and discharge have been decomposing under the bandage for a week, but despite the mess it’s not as bad as I feared.’

  ‘Do you . . . do you think you can save his leg?’ Marjorie Gillard’s voice trembled.

  ‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. So much has to happen. But I’d say it was a case of so far so good.’

  I cleaned the area thoroughly with spirit, gave a dusting of iodoform, and applied fresh lint and two more plaster bandages.

  ‘You’ll feel a lot more comfortable now, Kim,’ I said, and the big dog flapped his tail against the wood at the sound of his name.

  I turned to his owners. ‘I want him to have another week in plaster, so what would you like to do?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll stay around Hensfield,’ Peter Gillard replied. ‘We’ve found a place for our caravan by the river – it’s not too bad.’

  ‘Very well, till next Saturday, then.’ I watched Kim hobble out, holding his new white cast high, and as I went back into the house relief flowed over me in a warm wave.


  But at the back of my mind the voice of caution sounded. There was still a long way to go . . .

  How lucky I was that in those days the Spanish Civil War was still fresh in my memory. I would never have dared to encase Kim’s leg in plaster if I had not read of the miraculous recoveries of the soldiers whose terrible wounds had no other means of treatment.

  31. The Flapping Track and Success Against the Odds

  The second week went by without incident. I had a mildly indecent postcard from Stewie and a view of Blackpool Tower from his wife. The weather was scorching and they were having the best holiday of their lives. I tried to picture them enjoying themselves but I had to wait a few weeks for the evidence – a snap taken by a beach photographer. The whole family were standing in the sea, grinning delightedly into the camera as the wavelets lapped round their ankles. The children brandished buckets and spades, the baby dangled bandy legs towards the water, but it was Stewie who fascinated me. A smile of blissful contentment beamed from beneath a knotted handkerchief, sturdy braces supported baggy flannel trousers rolled decorously calf-high. He was the archetype of the British father on holiday.

  The last event of my stay in Hensfield was a visit to the local greyhound track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to inspect the dogs.

  The Hensfield stadium was not prepossessing from the outside. It had been built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and was surrounded by ramshackle hoardings.

  It was a cool night, and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear the tinny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Formby singing ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ and strumming on his famous ukelele.

  There are all kinds of greyhound tracks. My own experience had been as a student, accompanying vets who officiated under the auspices of the National Greyhound Racing Club, but this was an unlicensed or ‘flapping’ track, and vastly different. I know there are many highly reputable flapping tracks but this one had a seedy air. It was, I thought wryly, just the sort of place that would be under the care of Stewie.

  First I had to go to the manager’s office. Mr Coker was a hard-eyed man in a shiny pin-striped suit, and he nodded briefly before giving me a calculating stare.

  ‘Your duties here are just a formality,’ he said, twisting his features into a smile. ‘There’ll be nothing to trouble you.’

  I had the impression that he was assessing me with quiet satisfaction, looking me up and down, taking in my rumpled jacket and slacks, savouring my obvious youth and inexperience. He kept the smile going as he stubbed out his cigar. ‘Well, I hope you’ll have a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, and left.

  I met the judge, timekeeper and other officials, then went down to a long glass-fronted bar overlooking the track. Quite suddenly I felt I was in an alien environment. The place was rapidly filling up and the faces around me were out of a different mould from the wholesome rural countenances of Darrowby. There seemed to be a large proportion of fat men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-looking characters studied race cards and glared intently at the flickering numbers on the tote board.

  I looked at my watch. It was time to inspect the dogs for the first race. ‘When I’m cleanin’ winders!’ bawled George Formby as I made my way round the edge of the track to the paddock, a paved enclosure with a wire-netting surround. Five dogs were being led round the perimeter and I stood in the centre and watched them for a minute or two. Then I halted them and went from one to the other, looking at their eyes, examining their mouths for salivation and finally palpating their abdomens.

  They all appeared bright and normal except number four, which seemed rather full in the stomach region. A greyhound should only have a light meal on the morning of a race and nothing thereafter, and I turned to the man who was holding the animal.

  ‘Has this dog been fed within the last hour or two?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘He’s had nothing since breakfast.’

  As I passed my fingers over the abdomen again I had the feeling that several of the onlookers were watching me with unusual intentness. But I dismissed it as imagination and passed on to the next animal.

  Number four was second favourite, but from the moment it left its trap it was flagging. It finished last and from the darkness on the far side of the track a storm of booing broke out. I was able to make out some of the remarks which came across on the night air. ‘Open your bloody eyes, vet!’ was one of them. And here, in the long, brightly lit bar, I could see people nudging each other and looking at me.

  I felt a thrill of anger. Maybe some of those gentlemen down there thought they could cash in on Stewie’s absence. I probably looked a soft touch to them.

  My next visit to the paddock was greeted with friendly nods and grins from all sides. In fact there was a strong atmosphere of joviality. When I went round the dogs all was well until I came to number five, and this time I couldn’t be mistaken. Under my probing fingers the stomach bulged tensely and the animal gave a soft grunt as I squeezed.

  ‘You’ll have to take this dog out of the race,’ I said. ‘He’s got a full stomach.’

  The owner was standing by the kennel lad.

  ‘Can’t ’ave!’ he burst out. ‘He’s had nowt!’

  I straightened up and looked him full in the face, but his eyes were reluctant to meet mine. I knew some of the tricks: a couple of pounds of steak before the race; a bowlful of bread crumbs and two pints of milk – the crumbs swelled beautifully within a short time.

  ‘Would you like me to vomit him?’ I began to move away. ‘I’ve got some washing soda in my car – we’ll soon find out.’

  The man held up a hand. ‘Naw, naw, I don’t want you messin’ about with me dog.’ He gave me a malevolent glare and trailed sulkily away.

  I had only just got back to the bar when I heard the announcement over the loudspeakers. ‘Will the vet please report to the manager’s office.’

  Mr Coker looked up from his desk and glared at me through a haze of cigar smoke. ‘You’ve taken a dog out of the race!’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sorry, but his stomach was full.’

  ‘But damn it . . . !’ He stabbed a finger at me, then subsided and forced a tortured smile across his face. ‘Now, Mr Herriot, we have to be reasonable in these matters. I’ve no doubt you know your job, but don’t you think there’s just a chance you could be wrong?’ He waved his cigar expansively. ‘After all, anybody can make a mistake, so perhaps you would be kind enough to reconsider.’ He stretched his smile wider.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Coker, but that would be impossible.’

  There was a long pause. ‘That’s your last word, then?’

  ‘It is.’

  The smile vanished and he gave me a threatening stare.

  ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘you’ve mucked up that race and it’s a serious matter. I don’t want any repetition, do you understand?’ He ground his cigar out savagely and his jaw jutted. ‘So I hope we won’t have any more trouble like this.’

  ‘I hope so, too, Mr Coker,’ I said as I went out.

  It seemed a long way down to the paddock on my next visit. It was very dark now and I was conscious of the hum of the crowd, the shouts of the bookies, and George and his ukelele still going full blast.‘Oh, don’t the wind blow cold!’ he roared.

  This time it was dog number two. I could feel the tension as I examined him and found the same turgid belly.

  ‘This one’s out,’ I said, and apart from a few black looks there was no argument.

  They say bad news travels fast, and I had hardly started my return journey when George was switched off and the loudspeaker asked me to report to the manager’s office.

  Mr Coker was no longer at his desk. He was pacing up and down agitatedly, and when he saw me he did another length of the room before coming to a halt. His expression was venomous and it was clear he had decided that the tough approach was best.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you
think you’re playing at?’ he barked. ‘Are you trying to ruin this meeting?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ve just taken out another dog which was unfit to run. That’s my job. That’s what I’m here for.’

  His face flushed deep red. ‘I don’t think you know what you’re here for. Mr Brannan goes off on holiday and leaves us at the mercy of a young clever clogs like you, throwing your weight about and spoiling people’s pleasure. Wait till I see him!’

  ‘Mr Brannan would have done just the same as I have. Any veterinary surgeon would.’

  ‘Rubbish! Don’t tell me what it’s all about – you’re still wet behind the ears.’ He advanced slowly towards me. ‘But I’ll tell you this, I’ve had enough! So get it straight, once and for all – no more of this nonsense. Cut it out!’

  I felt my heart thudding as I went down to see the dogs for the next race. As I examined the five animals the owners and kennel lads fixed me with a hypnotic stare as though I were some strange freak. My pulse began to slow down when I found there were no full stomachs this time, and I glanced back in relief along the line. I was about to walk away when I noticed that number one looked a little unusual. I went back and bent over him, trying to decide what it was about him that had caught my attention. Then I realised what it was – he looked sleepy. The head was hanging slightly and he had an air of apathy.

  I lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. The pupils were dilated and every now and then there was a faint twitch of nystagmus. There was absolutely no doubt about it – he had received some kind of sedative. He had been doped.

  The men in the paddock were very still as I stood upright. For a few moments I gazed through the wire netting at the brightly lit green oval, feeling the night air cold on my cheeks. George was still at it on the loudspeakers.

  ‘Oh Mr Wu,’ he trilled. ‘What can I do?’

  Well I knew what I had to do, anyway. I tapped the dog on the back.