James Herriot's Dog Stories

by James Herriot

  ‘Well, that’s a rum ’un.’ The farmer passed a hand over the shaggy head and down the fine white markings of the cheeks. ‘Will he get better?’

  ‘It’s usually a long job,’ I replied. ‘Nervous tissue is slow to regenerate and it could take weeks or months. Treatment doesn’t seem to make much difference.’

  The farmer nodded. ‘Awright, we’ll just have to wait. There’s one thing,’ and again the bright smile flooded his face, ‘he can still get round them cows, lame or not. It ‘ud break ’is heart if he couldn’t work. Loves ’is job, does Rip.’

  On the way back to the car he nudged me and opened the door of a shed. In the corner, in a nest of straw, a cat was sitting with her family of tiny kittens. He lifted two out, holding, one in each of his roughened hands. ‘Look at them little fellers, aren’t they lovely!’ He held them against his cheeks and laughed.

  As I started the engine I felt I ought to say something encouraging. ‘Don’t worry too much about Rip, Jack. These cases usually recover in time.’

  But Rip did not recover. After several months his leg was as useless as ever and the muscles had wasted greatly. The nerve must have been irreparably damaged and it was an unhappy thought that this attractive little animal was going to be three-legged for the rest of his life.

  Jack was undismayed and maintained stoutly that Rip was still a good working dog.

  The real blow fell one Sunday morning as Siegfried and I were arranging the rounds in the office. I answered the door bell and found Jack on the step with his dog in his arms.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Is he worse?’

  ‘No, Mr Herriot.’ The farmer’s voice was husky. ‘It’s summat different. He’s been knocked down.’

  We examined the dog on the surgery table. ‘Fracture of the tibia,’ Siegfried said. ‘But there’s no sign of internal damage. Do you know exactly what happened?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Nay, Mr Farnon. He ran on to the village street and a car caught ’im. He dragged ’imself back into t’yard.’

  ‘Dragged?’ Siegfried was puzzled.

  ‘Aye, the broken leg’s on the same side as t’other thing.’

  My partner blew out his cheeks. ‘Ah yes, the radial paralysis. I remember you told me about it, James.’ He looked at me across the table and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I was. A fracture and a paralysis on the same side was a forbidding combination.

  ‘Right, let’s get on,’ Siegfried murmured.

  We set the leg in plaster and I held open the door of Jack’s old car as he laid Rip on the back seat.

  The farmer smiled out at me through the window. ‘I’m takin’ the family to church this mornin’ and I’ll say a little prayer for Rip while I’m there.’

  I watched until he drove round the corner of the street and when I turned I found Siegfried at my elbow.

  ‘I just hope that job goes right,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Jack would take it hard if it didn’t.’ He turned and carelessly dusted his old brass plate on its new place on the wall. ‘He’s a truly remarkable chap. He says he’s going to say a prayer for his dog and there’s nobody better qualified. Remember what Coleridge said? “He prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small.” ’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. That’s Jack, all right.’

  The farmer brought his dog into the surgery six weeks later for the removal of the plaster.

  ‘Taking a cast off is a much longer job than putting it on,’ I said as I worked away with my little saw.

  Jack laughed. ‘Aye, ah can see that. It’s hard stuff to get through,’

  I have never liked this job and it seemed a long time before I splayed open the white roll with my fingers and eased it away from the hair of the leg.

  I felt at the site of the fracture and my spirits plummeted. Hardly any healing had taken place. There should have been a healthy callus by now but I could feel the loose ends of the broken bones moving against each other, like a hinge. We were no further forward.

  I could hear Siegfried pottering among the botdes in the dispensary and I called to him.

  He palpated the limb. ‘Damn! One of those! And just when we didn’t want it.’ He looked at the farmer. ‘We’ll have to try again, Jack, but I don’t like it.’

  We applied a fresh plaster and the farmer grinned confidently. ‘Just wanted a bit more time, I reckon. He’ll be right next time.’

  But it was not to be. Siegfried and I worked together to strip off the second cast but the situation was practically unchanged. There was little or no healing tissue around the fracture.

  We didn’t know what to say. Even at the present time, after the most sophisticated bone-pinning procedures, we still find these cases where the bones just will not unite. They are as frustrating now as they were that afternoon when Rip lay on the surgery table.

  I broke the silence. ‘It’s just the same, I’m afraid, Jack.’

  ‘You mean it ’asn’t joined up?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The farmer rubbed a finger along his upper lip. ‘Then ’e won’t be able to take any weight on that leg?’

  I don’t see how he possibly can.’

  ‘Aye . . . aye . . . well, we’ll just have to see how he goes on, then.’

  ‘But Jack,’ Siegfried said gently, ‘he can’t go on. There’s no way a dog can get around with two useless legs on the same side.’

  The silence set in again and I could see the familiar curtain coming down over the farmer’s face. He knew what was in our minds and he wasn’t going to have it. In fact I knew what he was going to say next.

  ‘Is he sufferin’?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ Siegfried replied. ‘There’s no pain in the fracture now and the paralysis is painless anyway, but he won’t be able to walk, don’t you see?’

  But Jack was already gathering his dog into his arms. ‘Well, we’ll give him a chance, any road,’ he said, and walked from the room.

  Siegfried leaned against the table and looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Well, what do you make of that, James?’

  ‘Same as you,’ I replied gloomily. ‘Poor old Jack. He always gives everything a chance, but he’s got no hope this time.’

  But I was wrong. Several weeks later I was called to the Scott farm to see a sick calf and the first thing I saw was Rip bringing the cows in for milking. He was darting to and fro around the rear of the herd, guiding them through the gate from the field, and I watched him in amazement.

  He still could not bear any appreciable weight on either of his right limbs, yet he was running happily. Don’t ask me how he was doing it because I’ll never know, but somehow he was supporting his body with his two strong left legs and the paws of the stricken limbs merely brushing the turf. Maybe he had perfected some balancing feat like a one-wheel bicycle rider but, as I say, I just don’t know. The great thing was that he was still the old friendly Rip, his tail swishing when he saw me, his mouth panting with pleasure.

  Jack didn’t say anything about ‘I told you so’, and I wouldn’t have cared, because it thrilled me to see the little animal doing the job he loved.

  I suppose the things I pick out to write about are the unusual ones. Jack Scott is the only farmer I have known who resolutely refused to have any animal put down, and Rip was the only dog in my experience who could run about despite two useless legs on one side. I always think of Jack as the man who had faith, and it was good to see that faith rewarded in the case of Rip.

  49. Ruffles and Muffles

  What horrible little dogs!

  It was a sentiment which rarely entered my mind, because I could find something attractive in nearly all my canine patients.

  I had to make an exception in the cases of Ruffles and Muffles Whithorn. Try as I might I could find no lovable traits, only unpleasant ones – like their unvarying method of welcoming me into their home.

  ‘Down! Down!’ I yelped, as I always did. The two little animals – West Highland Whites – were standin
g on their hind limbs clawing furiously at my trouser legs with their front paws. I don’t know whether I have unusually tender shins but the effect was agonising.

  As I backed away on tiptoe like a ballet dancer going into reverse the room resounded to Mr and Mrs Whithorn’s delighted laughter. They found this unfailingly amusing.

  ‘Aren’t they little pets!’ Mr Whithorn gasped between paroxysms. ‘Don’t they give you a lovely greeting, bless them!’

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Apart from excoriating my flesh through my grey flannels, the dogs were glaring up at me balefully, their mouths half-open, lips quivering, teeth chattering in a characteristic manner. It wasn’t exactly a snarl, but it wasn’t friendly either.

  ‘Come, my darlings.’ The man gathered the dogs into his arms and kissed them both fondly on the cheeks. He was still giggling. ‘You know, Mr Herriot, isn’t it priceless that they welcome you into our house so lovingly, and then try to stop you from leaving?’

  I didn’t say anything, but massaged my trousers in silence. The truth was that these animals invariably clawed me on my entry, then did their best to bite my ankles on the way out. In between, they molested me in whatever ways they could devise. The strange thing was that they were both old – Ruffles fourteen and Muffles twelve – and one might have expected some mellowness in their characters, but it was not so.

  ‘Well,’ I said, after reassuring myself that my wounds were superficial, ‘I understand Ruffles is lame.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Whithorn took the dog and placed him on the table where she had spread some newspapers. ‘It’s his left front paw. Just started this morning. He’s in agony, poor dear.’

  Gingerly I took hold of the foot, then whipped my hand away as the teeth snapped shut less than an inch from my fingers.

  ‘Oh, my precious!’ Mrs Whithorn exclaimed ‘It’s so painful. Do be careful, Mr Herriot, he’s so nervous and I think you’re hurting him.’

  I breathed deeply. This dog should have had a tape muzzle applied right at the start, but I had previously caused shock and dismay in the Whithorns by suggesting such a thing, so I had to manage as best I could. Anyway, I wasn’t a novice at the business. It would take a very smart biter to catch me.

  I curled my forefinger round the leg and had another look, and I was able to see what I wanted in the fleeting instant before the next snap. A reddish swelling pouting from between the toes.

  An interdigital cyst! How ridiculous that a vet should be making a house call for such a trivial ailment. But the Whithorns had always firmly refused to bring their dogs to the surgery. It frightened the darlings, they said.

  I stood back from the table. ‘This is just a harmless cyst, but I agree that it is painful, so I’d advise you to bathe it in hot water until it bursts, and that will relieve the pain. Many dogs burst these things themselves by nibbling at them but you can hasten the process.’

  I drew some antibiotic into a syringe. ‘Nobody knows exactly what causes an interdigital cyst. No specific causal organisms have been found, but I’ll give him this shot in case of infection.’

  I achieved the injection by holding the little animal by the scruff of the neck, then Mrs Whithorn lifted the other dog on to the table.

  ‘You’d better give him a check-up while you’re here,’ she said.

  This usually happened, and I palpated the snarling bundle of white hair and went over him with stethoscope and thermometer. He had most of the afflictions which beset old dogs – arthritis, nephritis and other things, including a heart murmur which was difficult to hear among the bad-tempered rumblings which echoed round his thorax.

  My examination completed, I replenished his various medicaments and prepared to leave. This was when the exit phase of my visit started and it was relished by Mr and Mrs Whithorn even more than the entry.

  The ritual never changed. As their owners tittered gleefully, the two little dogs stationed themselves in the doorway, effectively barring my way out. Their lips were drawn back from their teeth. They were the very picture of venom. To draw them away from their posts I feinted to the right, then made a rush for the door, but with my fingers on the handle I had to turn and fend off the hungry jaws snapping at my ankles, and as I skipped around on my heels my previous dainty ballet steps were superseded by the coarser hoppings of a clog dance.

  But I escaped. A final couple of quick pushes with my feet and I was out in the fresh air, crashing the dopr thankfully behind me.

  I was regaining my breath when Doug Watson the milkman drew up in his blue van. He kept a few dairy cows on a smallholding on the edge of the town and augmented his income by operating a retail round among the citizens of Darrowby.

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Herriot.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘You been in to see them dogs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Proper little sods, aren’t they?’

  I laughed. ‘Not very sweet-tempered.’

  ‘By gaw, that’s the truth. I’ve got to watch meself when I deliver t’milk. If that door happens to be open they’re straight out at me.’

  ‘I’ll bet they are.’

  His eyes widened. ‘They go for me feet. Sometimes I feel a right bloody Charlie, jumpin’ about like a daft thing in front of everybody.’

  I nodded. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’

  ‘You’ve got to keep movin’ or you’ve ’ad it,’ he said, ‘Look ’ere.’ He pushed his leg out of the van and pointed to the heel of one of the Wellington boots he always wore on his rounds. I could see a neat puncture hole on either side. ‘One of ’em got me there, just t’other day. Went right through to me skin.’

  ‘Good heavens, which one did that?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know – what’s their names, anyway?’

  ‘Ruffles and Muffles,’ I replied.

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ Doug looked at me wonderingly. His own dog was called Spot. He spent a few moments in thought, then raised a finger. ‘But ah’ll tell tha summat and maybe ye won’t believe me. Them dogs used to be real nice little things.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I’m not jokin’ or jestin’. When they fust came here they were as friendly as any dogs I’ve ever seen. It was afore your time, but it’s true.’

  ‘Well, that’s remarkable,’ I said. ‘I wonder what happened.’

  Doug shrugged his shoulders. ‘God knows, but each of ’em turned nasty after a few months and they’ve got wuss and wuss ever since.’

  Doug’s words stayed with me until I got back to the surgery. I was puzzled. Westies, in my experience, were a particularly amiable breed. Siegfried was in the dispensary, writing directions on a bottle of colic mixture. I mentioned the situation to him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard the same thing. I’ve been to the Whithorns a couple of times and I know why those dogs are so objectionable.’

  ‘Really? Why is it?’

  ‘Their owners make them that way. They never correct them and they slobber over them all the time.’

  ‘You could be right,’ I said. ‘I’ve always made a fuss of my own dogs, but all that kissing and cuddling is a bit sickening.’

  ‘Quite. Too much of that is bad for a dog. And another thing, those two animals are the bosses in that home. A dog likes to obey. It gives them security. Believe me, Ruffles and Muffles would be happy and good-tempered if they had been controlled right from the start.’

  ‘There’s no doubt they rule the roost now.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Siegfried said. ‘And really, they hate it. If only the Whithorns would take off the rose-tinted spectacles and treat them normally. But it’s too late now, I’m afraid.’ He pocketed the colic mixture and left.

  The months passed, I had a few more visits to the Whithorns and went through the usual dancing routine, then, oddly, both the old dogs died within a few weeks of each other. And despite their tempestuous lives they had peaceful ends. Ruffles was found dead in his basket one morning and Muffles wandered down the garden for a sleep under the apple
tree and never woke up.

  That was merciful, anyway. They hadn’t treated me very well but I was glad they had been spared the things which upset me most in small animal practice. The road accident, the lingering illness, the euthanasia. It was like a chapter in my life closing, but shortly afterwards Mr Whithorn rang me.

  ‘Mr Herriot,’ he said, ‘we have acquired another pair of Westies and I wonder if you would call and give them their distemper inoculations.’

  It was a delightful change to go into the room and be met by two tail-wagging puppies. They were twelve weeks old and they looked up at me with benevolent eyes.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I said. ‘What have you called them?’

  ‘Ruffles and Muffles,’ Mr Whithorn replied.

  ‘Same again, eh?’

  ‘Yes, we wanted to keep the memory of our other darlings alive.’ He seized the puppies and showered kisses on them.

  After the inoculations it was a long time before I saw the little dogs again. They seemed to be singularly healthy. It must have been nearly a year later when I was called to the house to give them a check-up.

  When I went into the sitting-room, Ruffles and Muffles Mark 2 were seated side by side on the sofa. There was an odd immobility in their attitude. As I approached, they stared at me coldly and as if responding to a signal they bared their teeth and growled softly but menacingly.

  A chill ran through me. It couldn’t be happening all over again. But as Mr Whithorn lifted Ruffles on to the table and I took the auroscope from its box I quickly realised that fate had turned the clock back. The little animal stood there, regarding me with a bristling mistrust.

  ‘Hold his head, will you, please,’ I said, ‘I want to examine his ears first.’ I took the ear between finger and thumb and gently inserted the auroscope. I applied my eye to the instrument and was inspecting the external meatus when the dog exploded into action. I heard a vicious snarl and as I jerked my head back, the draught of the crunching teeth fanned my face.

  Mr Whithorn leaned back and abandoned himself to mirth.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he a little monkey! Ha-ha-ha, he just won’t stand any nonsense.’ He rested his hands on the table for some time, shaking with merriment, then he wiped his eyes. ‘Dear, oh dear, what a character he is.’