James Herriot's Dog Stories

by James Herriot

  ‘There you are,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that will do her good.’ And after all, I thought, I wasn’t a complete charlatan – it wouldn’t do her any harm.

  Mr Cobb relaxed visibly. ‘Eee, that’s champion. You’ve set me mind at rest.’ He led the way into a luxurious drawing-room and tacked unsteadily towards a cocktail cabinet. ‘You’ll ’ave a drink before you go?’

  ‘No really, thanks,’ I said. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, I’ll ’ave a drop. Just to steady me nerves. I was that upset.’ He tipped a lavish measure of whisky into a glass and waved me to a chair.

  My bed was calling me, but I sat down and watched as he drank. He told me that he was a retired bookmaker from the West Riding and that he had come to Darrowby only a month ago. Although no longer directly connected with horse racing, he still loved the sport and never missed a meeting in the north of England.

  ‘I allus get a taxi to take me and I have a right good day.’ His face was radiant as he recalled the happy times, then for a moment his cheeks quivered and his woebegone expression returned.

  ‘But I neglect me dog. I leave her at home.’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen you out in the fields with Myrtle. You give her plenty of exercise, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh aye, lots of walks every day.’

  ‘Well, then she really has a good life. This is just a silly little notion you’ve got.’

  He beamed at me and sloshed out another few fingers of whisky.

  ‘Eee, you’re a good lad. Come on, you’ll just have one before you go.’

  ‘Oh, all right, just a small one, then.’

  As we drank he became more and more benign until he was gazing at me with something like devotion.

  ‘James Herriot,’ he slurred. ‘I suppose it’ll be Jim, eh?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I’ll call you Jim, then, and you can call me Humphrey.’

  ‘Okay, Humphrey,’ I said, and swallowed the last of my whisky. ‘But I really must go now.’

  Out in the street again he put a hand on my arm and his face became serious again. ‘Thank ye, Jim. Myrtle was right bad tonight and I’m grateful.’

  Driving away, I realised that I had failed to convince him that there was nothing wrong with his dog. He was sure I had saved her life. It had been an unusual visit and as my 2 a.m. whisky burned in my stomach I decided that Humphrey Cobb was a very funny little man. But I liked him.

  After that night I saw him quite frequently exercising Myrtle in the fields. With his almost spherical build he seemed to bounce over the grass, but his manner was always self-contained and rational except that he kept thanking me for pulling his dog back from the jaws of death.

  Then quite suddenly I was back at the beginning again. It was shortly after midnight and as I lifted the bedside phone I could hear the distraught weeping before the receiver touched my ear.

  ‘Oooh . . . oooh . . . Jim, Jim. Myrtle’s in a terrible bad way. Will ye come?’

  ‘What . . . what is it this time?’

  ‘She’s twitchin’.’

  ‘Twitching?’

  ‘Aye, twitchin’ summat terrible. Oh, come on, Jim, lad, don’t keep me waiting. I’m worried to death. I’m sure she’s got distemper.’ He broke down again.

  My head began to reel. ‘She can’t have distemper, Humphrey. Not in a flash, like that.’

  ‘I’m beggin’ you Jim,’ he went on as though he hadn’t heard. ‘Be a pal. Come and see Myrtle.’

  ‘All right,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a good lad, Jim, you’re a good lad . . .’ The voice trailed away as I replaced the phone.

  I dressed at normal speed with none of the panic of the first time. It sounded like a repetition, but why after midnight again? On my way to Cedar House I decided it must be another false alarm – but you never knew.

  The same dizzying wave of whisky fumes enveloped me in the porch. Humphrey, sniffling and moaning, fell against me once or twice as he ushered me into the kitchen. He pointed to the basket in the corner.

  ‘There she is,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I’ve just got back from Ripon and found ’er like this.’

  ‘Racing again, eh?’

  ‘Aye, gamblin’ on them ’osses and drinkin’ and leavin’ me poor dog pining at home. I’m a rotter, Jim, that’s what I am.’

  ‘Rubbish, Humphrey! I’ve told you before. You’re not doing her any harm by having a day out. Anyway, how about this twitching? She looks all right now.’

  ‘Yes, she’s stopped doing it, but when I came in her back leg was goin’ like this.’ He made a jerking movement with his hand.

  I groaned inwardly. ‘But she could have been scratching or flicking away a fly.’

  ‘Nay, there’s summat more than that. I can tell she’s sufferin’. Just look at them eyes.’

  I could see what he meant. Myrtle’s Beagle eyes were pools of emotion and it was easy to read a melting reproach in their depths.

  With a feeling of futility I examined her. I knew what I would find – nothing. But when I tried to explain to the little man that his pet was normal he wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Oh, you’ll give her one of them wonderful tablets,’ he pleaded. ‘It cured her last time.’

  I felt I had to pacify him, so Myrtle received another instalment of vitamins.

  Humphrey was immensely relieved and weaved his way to the drawing-room and the whisky bottle.

  ‘I need a little pick-me-up after that shock,’ he said. ‘You’ll ’ave one too, won’t you, Jim lad?’

  This pantomime was enacted frequently over the next few months, always after race meetings and always between midnight and 1 a.m. I had ample opportunity to analyse the situation and I came to a fairly obvious conclusion.

  Most of the time Humphrey was a normal conscientious pet owner, but after a large intake of alcohol his affectionate feelings degenerated into a glutinous sentimentality and guilt. I invariably went out when he called me because I knew that he would be deeply distressed if I refused. I was treating Humphrey, not Myrtle.

  It amused me that not once did he accept my protestations that my visit was unnecessary. Each time he was sure that my magic tablets had saved his dog’s life.

  Mind you, I did not discount the possibility that Myrtle was deliberately working on him with those eyes. The canine mind is quite capable of disapproval. I took my own dog almost everywhere with me but if I left him at home to take Helen to the cinema he would lie under our bed, sulking, and when he emerged, would studiously ignore us for an hour or two.

  I quailed when Humphrey told me he had decided to have Myrtle mated because I knew that the ensuing pregnancy would be laden with harassment for me.

  That was how it turned out. The little man flew into a series of alcoholic panics, all of them unfounded, and he discovered imaginary symptoms in Myrtle at regular intervals throughout the nine weeks.

  I was vastly relieved when she gave birth to five healthy pups. Now, I thought, I would get some peace. The fact was that I was just about tired of Humphrey’s nocturnal nonsense. I have always made a point of never refusing to turn out at night but Humphrey had stretched this principle to breaking point. One of these times he would have to be told.

  The crunch came when the pups were a few weeks old. I had had a terrible day, starting with a prolapsed uterus in a cow at 5 a.m. and progressing through hours of road-slogging, missed meals and a late-night wrestle with Ministry forms, some of which I suspected I had filled up wrongly.

  My clerical incompetence has always infuriated me and when I crawled, dog tired, into bed, my mind was still buzzing with frustration. I lay for a long time trying to put those forms away from me, and it was well after midnight when I fell asleep.

  I have always had a silly fancy that our practice knows when I desperately want a full night’s sleep. It knows and gleefully steps in. When the phone exploded in my ea
r I wasn’t really surprised.

  As I stretched a weary hand to the receiver the luminous dial of the alarm clock read 1.15 a.m.

  ‘Hello,’ I grunted.

  ‘Oooh . . . oooh . . . oooh!’ The reply was only too familiar.

  I clenched my teeth. This was just what I needed. ‘Humphrey! What is it this time?’

  ‘Oh Jim, Myrtle’s really dyin’, I know she is. Come quick, lad, come quick!’

  ‘Dying?’ I took a couple of rasping breaths. ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Well . . . she’s stretched out on ’er side, tremblin’.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Aye, t’missus said Myrtle’s been looking worried and walkin’ stiff when she let her out in the garden this afternoon. I’m not long back from Redcar, ye see?’

  ‘So you’ve been to the races, eh?’

  ‘That’s right . . . neglectin’ me dog. I’m a scamp, nothing but a scamp.’

  I closed my eyes in the darkness. There was no end to Humphrey’s imaginary symptoms. Trembling, this time, looking worried, walking stiff. We’d had panting and twitching and head-nodding and ear-shaking – what would it be next?

  But enough was enough. ‘Look, Humphrey,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing wrong with your dog. I’ve told you again and again . . .’

  ‘Oh, Jim, lad, don’t be long. Oooh-hooo!’

  ‘I’m not coming, Humphrey.’

  ‘Nay, nay, don’t say that! She’s goin’ fast, I tell ye!’

  ‘I really mean it. It’s just wasting my time and your money, so go to bed. Myrtle will be fine.’

  As I lay quivering between the sheets I realised that refusing to go out was an exhausting business. There was no doubt in my mind that it would have taken less out of me to get up and attend another charade at Cedar House than to say ‘no’ for the first time in my life. But this couldn’t go on. I had to make a stand.

  I was still tormented by remorse when I fell into an uneasy slumber and it is a good thing that the subconscious mind works on during sleep, because with the alarm clock reading 2.30 a.m. I came suddenly wide awake.

  ‘My God! I cried, staring at the dark ceiling. ‘Myrtle’s got eclampsia!’

  I scrambled from the bed and began to throw on my clothes. I must have made some commotion because I heard Helen’s sleepy voice.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Humphrey Cobb!’ I gasped, tying a shoe lace.

  ‘Humphrey . . . but you said there was never any hurry . . .’

  ‘There is this time. His dog’s dying.’ I glared again at the clock. ‘In fact she could be dead now.’ I lifted my tie, then hurled it back on the chair. ‘Damn it! I don’t need that!’ I fled from the room.

  Down the long garden and into the car with my brain spelling out the concise case history which Humphrey had given me. Small bitch nursing five puppies, signs of anxiety and stiff gait this afternoon and now prostrate and trembling. Classical puerperal eclampsia. Rapidly fatal without treatment. And it was nearly an hour and a half since he had phoned. I couldn’t bear to think about it.

  Humphrey was still up. He had obviously been consoling himself with the bottle because he could barely stand.

  ‘You’ve come, Jim lad,’ he mumbled, blinking at me.

  ‘Yes, how is she?’

  ‘Just t’same . . .’

  Clutching my calcium and my intravenous syringe I rushed past him into the kitchen.

  Myrtle’s sleek body was extended in a tetanic spasm. She was gasping for breath, quivering violently, and bubbles of saliva dripped from her mouth. Those eyes had lost their softness and were fixed in a frantic stare. She looked terrible, but she was alive . . . she was alive.

  I lifted the squealing pups on to a rug nearby and quickly clipped and swabbed the area over the radial vein. I inserted the needle into the blood vessel and began to depress the plunger with infinite care and very slowly. Calcium was the cure for this condition but a quick blast would surely kill the patient.

  I took several minutes to empty the syringe then sat back on my heels and watched. Some of these cases needed narcotics as well as calcium and I had nembutal and morphine ready to hand. But as the time passed Myrtle’s breathing slowed down and the rigid muscles began to relax. When she started to swallow her saliva and look round at me I knew she would live.

  I was waiting for the last tremors to disappear from her limbs when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Humphrey was standing there with the whisky bottle in his hand.

  ‘You’ll ’ave one, won’t you, Jim?’

  I didn’t need much persuading. The knowledge that I had almost been responsible for Myrtle’s death had thrown me into a mild degree of shock.

  My hand was still shaking as I raised the glass and I had barely taken the first sip when the little animal got up from the basket and walked over to inspect her pups. Some eclampsias were slow to respond but others were spectacularly quick and I was grateful for the sake of my nervous system that this was one of the quick ones.

  In fact the recovery was almost uncanny because, after sniffing her family over, Myrtle walked across to the table to greet me. Her eyes brimmed with friendliness and her tail waved high in the true Beagle fashion.

  I was stroking her ears when Humphrey broke into a throaty giggle.

  ‘You know, Jim, I’ve learned summat tonight.’ His voice was a slow drawl but he was still in possession of his wits.

  ‘What’s that, Humphrey?’

  ‘I’ve learned . . . hee-hee-hee . . . I’ve learned what a silly feller I’ve been all these months.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He raised a forefinger and wagged it sagely. ‘Well, you’ve allus been tellin’ me that I got you out of your bed for nothing and I was imagining things when I thought me dog was ill.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And I never believed you, did I? I wouldn’t be told. Well, now I know you were right all the time. I’ve been nobbut a fool and I’m right sorry for botherin’ you all those nights.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, Humphrey.’

  ‘Aye, but it’s not right.’ He waved a hand towards his bright-faced, tail-wagging little dog. ‘Just look at her. Anybody can see there was never anythin’ wrong with Myrtle tonight.’

  Thank heaven for people like Humphrey Cobb. He drove me to distraction all those years ago, but just to think about him now makes me smile. Nice to write about eclampsia, too. Another rapidly fatal condition which can be just as quickly and easily cured. Calcium still does the trick – we have never found anything better. It is interesting, too, that despite Humphrey’s apparent flash of insight into his irrational behaviour he still continued his tearful nocturnal phone calls for many years thereafter.

  45. Venus

  The farm man moved between the cows and took hold of my patient’s tail, and when I saw his haircut I knew immediately that Josh Anderson had been on the job again. It was a Sunday morning and everything fitted into place. I really didn’t have to ask.

  ‘Were you in the Hare and Pheasant last night?’ I enquired carelessly as I inserted my thermometer.

  He ran a hand ruefully over his head. ‘Aye, bugger it, ah was. Ye can see straight off, can’t ye? T’missus has been playin’ ’ell with me ever since.’

  ‘I suppose Josh had had one too many, eh?’

  ‘Aye he had. I should’ve known better, pickin’ a Saturday night. It’s me own fault.’

  Josh Anderson was one of the local barbers. He liked his job, but he also liked his beer. In fact he was devoted to it, even to the extent of taking his scissors and clippers to the pub with him every night. For the price of a pint he would give anybody a quick trim in the gents’ lavatory.

  Habitués of the Hare and Pheasant were never surprised to find one of the customers sitting impassively on the toilet seat with Josh snip-snipping round his head. With beer at sixpence a pint it was good value, but Josh’s clients knew they w
ere taking a chance. If the barber’s intake had been moderate they would escape relatively unscathed because the standard of hair-styling in the Darrowby district was not very fastidious, but if he had imbibed beyond a certain point terrible things could happen.

  Josh had not as yet been known to cut off anybody’s ear, but if you strolled around the town on Sundays and Mondays you were liable to come across some very strange coiffures.

  I looked again at the farm man’s head. From my experience I judged that Josh would be around the ten-pint mark when he did that one. The right sideburn had been trimmed off meticulously just below eye-level while the left was nonexistent. The upper hair seemed to have been delved into at random, leaving bare patches in some parts and long dangling wisps in others. I couldn’t see the back but I had no doubt it would be interesting, too. There could be a pigtail or anything lurking behind there.

  Yes, I decided, definitely a ten-pinter. After twelve to fourteen pints Josh was inclined to cast away all caution and simply run over his victim’s head with the clippers, leaving a tuft in front. The classical convict’s crop, which necessitated wearing a cap well pulled down at all times for several weeks thereafter.

  I always played safe, and when my hair needed cutting I went to Josh’s shop, where he operated in a state of strict sobriety.

  I was sitting there a few days later waiting my turn, with my dog Sam under my seat, and as I watched the barber at work the wonder of human nature seemed to glow with a particular radiance. There was a burly man in the chair and his red face, reflected in the mirror above the enveloping white sheet, was contorted every few seconds with spasms of pain. Because the simple fact was that Josh didn’t cut hair, he pulled it out.

  He did this not only because his equipment was antiquated and needed sharpening but because he had perfected a certain flick of the wrist with his hand clippers which wrenched the hairs from their follicles at the end of each stroke. He had never got round to buying electric clippers, but with his distinctive technique I doubt whether it would have made any difference.

  One wonder was that anybody went to Josh for a haircut, because there was another barber in the town. My own opinion was that it was because everybody liked him.