Every Living Thing

by James Herriot

  Weak-mindedly I invariably submitted and fobbed her off with some form of placebo that would do the little animal no harm, but the sense of shame was deep. I had to admit that I was overawed by the woman, a jellyfish and a wimp in her presence, allowing her to dismiss my wafflings with a wave of her hand. Why couldn’t I assert myself?

  However, at this moment, knotting my tie, humming a happy tune as the glittering eyes in the vermilion face glared back at me from the mirror, my past diffidence seemed totally incomprehensible. I was really looking forward to seeing the lady again.

  I ran downstairs, snatched a white coat from its hook, trotted along the passage and found Mrs. Featherstone standing by the consulting room table.

  Damn, she wasn’t a bad-looking woman! Very, very nice, in fact. Funny I had never noticed that before. Anyway, there was not the slightest doubt in my mind as to what I had to do. I would grab her, give her a big, smacking kiss and a good long squeeze and all our past misunderstandings would melt away like the morning mist in the sun.

  I was advancing on her when I noticed something strange. She had vanished. I was quite sure she had been standing there a second ago. I was blinking around me in bewilderment when I saw that she had ducked behind the table. How wonderful that she, too, was feeling skittish and ready for a game of peekaboo.

  In a moment her head bobbed up and I greeted it with a merry cry. “Yoo-hoo, I see you!” I trilled, but it seemed she had merely been stopping to lift her dog, which she deposited on the table.

  She gave me an odd look. “Have you been on holiday, Mr. Herriot? You have such a high colour.”

  “No, no, no, no. I feel extraordinarily well. In fact, I…”

  The lady pursed her lips and brushed off the rest of my sentence impatiently. “I really am most frightfully worried about poor Rollo.”

  At the sound of his name, the poodle, aggressively fit, began to caper around on the table and jump up at my face.

  “You are? Oh, what a shame. Tell me all about it.” I suppressed a chuckle.

  “Well, we had just started on our evening walk when he coughed quite suddenly.”

  “Just one cough?”

  “No, two, like this. Hock-hock.”

  “Hock-hock, eh?” I was having terrible trouble keeping a serious face. “And then what happened?”

  “Nothing else happened! Isn’t that enough? A nasty cough?”

  “Well, tell me, do you mean two hocks or one hock-hock?” I could not suppress a giggle, captivated as I was by my wit.

  “I mean, Mr. Herriot, one very unpleasant and alarming cough.” A dangerous light glinted in the lady’s eye.

  “Ah, yes.” I took out stethoscope and thermometer and began a thorough examination of the patient. Everything, of course, was normal, and I could swear I detected an apologetic glance from Rollo.

  And all the time the giggle was struggling steadily to the surface and finally it burst out into a loud “Ha-ha!”

  Mrs. Featherstone’s eyebrows shot up and she stared at me. “Why are you laughing?” she enquired in glacial tones. She made the word seem more portentous by drawing it out into a long “laawfing.”

  “Well, really, you see, it’s so funny.” I leaned on the table and laughed some more.

  “Funny!” Mrs. Featherstone’s expression was a mixture of horror and disbelief. Her mouth opened soundlessly a few times. “I fail to see anything funny in an animal’s suffering.”

  Wrapped in my cloak of heat and euphoria, I wagged a finger at her. “But he’s not suffering, that’s what’s so funny. He never is suffering when you bring him in to me.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Featherstone. All Rollo’s ailments are imagined by you.” The table shook as another paroxysm seized me.

  “How dare you say such a thing!” The lady glared at me down her nose. “You are being insulting and I really cannot—”

  “Hey, just wait a minute. Let me explain.” I wiped a few tears away and took a few gasping breaths. “Do you remember being worried to death by that habit of Rollo’s where he lifts up a hind leg for a few steps, then puts it down again? I told you it was nothing, just a mannerism, but you insisted on my treating him for arthritis?”

  “Well, yes, but I was worried.”

  “I know, but you wouldn’t believe me and he’s still doing it. There’s nothing wrong with him. Lots of little dogs do it.”

  “Well, possibly, but…”

  “And another thing,” I said between my chuckles. “There was the time you made me give him sleeping pills because of his terrible nightmares.”

  “Yes, and rightly so. He made the most pathetic whimpering sound while he was sleeping and his paws kept working as though he was running away from something terrible.”

  “He was dreaming, Mrs. Featherstone! Probably a nice dream about chasing his ball. All dogs have these dreams.”

  I took hold of Rollo’s head. “And look here, ha-ha! You must recall your insistence that there were things growing over his eyes. You would never believe me that they were his normal third eyelids, ha-ha-ha! And see, they’re still there, aren’t they? You can see them now and he’s quite happy with them, ha-ha-ha-ha!” I abandoned myself completely and bent over to dig her in the ribs, but she drew back and evaded my finger.

  She put her hand over her mouth and continued to stare at me. Her eyebrows had taken up permanent residence high on her forehead. “You…you cannot really mean all this!”

  Oh, but I do, I do. I could go on and on.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to say. And about his cough tonight?”

  “You can take him away,” I said, “and if there are any more hock-hocks bring him back tomorrow, but there won’t be.” I wiped my streaming face and lifted Rollo from the table.

  The lady seemed in a daze as I steered her along the passage to the front door. She kept putting a hand over her mouth and giving me an incredulous sidelong glance, but she remained silent as though stunned.

  After I had shown her out I retired to bed and drifted to sleep with the satisfied feeling of having cleared up a problem happily and effortlessly. I had handled the whole thing beautifully.

  I didn’t feel like that next morning. My latest funny turn was following its usual course. After the elation of the night before, a devastating deflation, lethargy, gloom, despondency and, in this case, the horrid spectre of remorse. As I lay in bed, pulling the sheets round my chin, my recollection of the previous evening was a frightening jumble. I couldn’t get it all sorted out in my mind.

  I had been awake only a few moments before the memory hit me. Mrs. Featherstone! Oh, my God! What had I said to her? What had I done? Desperately I tried to bring back the details without success, but the main indisputable fact was that I had laughed, even jeered at her, possibly even pawed at her person. Had I really attempted to embrace her? Had I given her a little cuddle as I walked her down the passage? My mouth opened in a series of soft moans.

  Of one thing I could be sure—I had been guilty of the most ghastly impropriety and I had a searing conviction that I would have to pay dearly for it. Certainly she would never set foot in my surgery again. The whole shameful story would get around. She might even report me to the Royal College. I could see the headlines in the Darrowby and Houlton Times. Veterinary Surgeon on Serious Charge, Herriot to Appear Before Disciplinary Body.

  Groaning, I huddled deeper, gazing sightlessly at the cup of tea Helen had placed by my bedside. After my funny turns I always had a day’s rest and after that I had always made a remarkably quick recovery. But this time the mental scars would take a long time to heal. And how about the dire consequences?

  I couldn’t stand the self-torture any longer. I swallowed my tea, pulled on my clothes and trailed downstairs.

  “Feeling better, Jim?” my wife asked brightly as she washed the dishes. “You’ll soon be okay again, you always are. What a strange business it is, but anyway, the kids enjoyed it. I understand you we
re in excellent voice last night.” She giggled as she reached for the towel.

  I thought a gentle stroll in the fresh air would make me feel better, so I set off to walk around the town. I could hardly believe it when I saw Mrs. Featherstone approaching a mere hundred yards away. Panic-stricken, I scuttled over to the other side of the street, but the lady had spotted me and she crossed over, too. And as the expensively tweeded figure bore down on me with purposeful strides I knew there was no escape.

  Ah, well, I told myself, here it comes: Mr. Herriot, I thought you might be interested to know that I have placed the matter of Saturday night in the hands of my solicitors. Your behaviour was quite outrageous and I feel it my duty to ensure that defenceless women are protected from you in future. I can scarcely believe that a professional man would act as you did—taking advantage of your situation, betraying the trust placed in you. And as for your incredible callousness in the face of my poor dog’s suffering—I cannot bear to think of it.

  But it wasn’t like that at all. When Mrs. Featherstone came up to me she put a hand on my arm. “Really, Mr. Herriot, you did me a service last night.”

  “Eh?”

  “Yes, you were so understanding. I realise now that I have been foolish about Rollo. I must have been such a nuisance to you.”

  “Oh, no, no, no…”

  “You are kind, but I know I have been unreasonable, troubling you over nothing at inconvenient times and here again I was at your door on a Saturday night.”

  “I assure you…”

  “But instead of being upset, you laughed, and it was so wonderful how you made me see the funny side of my silliness. I feel so ashamed that I refused to listen to you when you so rightly tried to explain that I was worrying needlessly, and I do hope you can forgive me. From now on, I intend to be a sensible dog owner. And Rollo really is quite healthy, isn’t he?”

  Waves of relief rolled over me as I looked at the little dog, bright-eyed, laughing-faced, leaping almost head high at the sound of his name. “Well, I’m not quite sure. He doesn’t look very lively to me.”

  “Oh, now you are trying to make me laugh again.” She put her hand over her mouth with the same embarrassed gesture I remembered, then gave me a quizzical look. “I feel I’m going to laugh a lot more in future.”

  I haven’t had a funny turn for thirty years. They just gradually disappeared from my life. But when I think of that Saturday night with Mrs. Featherstone I still get an attack of the shivers.

  Chapter 10

  I COULDN’T BELIEVE I was going to launch this boy on his own into the jungle of veterinary practice. Young John Crooks, so familiar a face after the months he had spent seeing practice with us during his university vacations, watching us work, picking up the practical hints and knowledge, doing the odd job himself, but always under our wings, was standing there by my desk, cheerful and smiling as always, but oh, so youthful. He looked about seventeen. It didn’t seem fair to send him out there unprotected.

  However, there was no doubt that it was J. L. Crooks Esq, MRCVS standing there, suitcase by his side, bright-eyed and eager to go, and I had to adjust to the fact.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, John,” I said, smiling up at him, “congratulations on qualifying. You’re a fully fledged veterinary surgeon now, all your examinations behind you, and it’s good to see you here. And, you know, this is quite an occasion. You are the very first assistant to be employed in the practice of Farnon and Herriot.”

  He laughed. “Really? That makes me sound very important. But when I was here as a student you had people working for you?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Tristan, of course, but he’s one of the family and we never thought of him as an assistant. And there were one or two temporary people, but you are the first official man.”

  “Well, that’s nice. And now I’m here I’d better start earning my keep.”

  “Okay, we’ll get your car kitted out and then you’d better report to your digs. You’re lodging with Mrs. Barrier aren’t you?”

  As the young man filled the car boot with the drugs and instruments he was going to need I could see that he was keen to pitch into the unpredictable world of practice, but I wondered just how nervous he was at the prospect of confronting the tough Yorkshire farmers on his own. Would he make the grade? Some new graduates just couldn’t do it, and as he drove away in his Ford 8 with his bag of tricks rattling behind him I found myself crossing my fingers.

  I have a big streak of old hen in me, as my family will testify, and throughout the day I was almost wringing my hands. How was the poor lad getting on? We were so busy that I didn’t see him to talk to, and I kept hoping he hadn’t come up against any awkward situations. Our farmers were nearly all no-nonsense but kindly men, but there was the odd very difficult client.

  I recalled my session with Major Sykes a few days ago. The fierce little man barked at me as I treated his horse. “Herriot, good God, man! Can’t you do better than this? You don’t seem to have much idea how to treat this blasted animal!” Then he shouted at his groom, “No, don’t put the bucket down there, you bloody fool!” He was impossible to please and verbally steamrollered people into the ground, treating everybody, especially, it seemed, vets, like the more dim-witted private soldiers of his army days. In fact, despite myself I often found my thumbs edging into line with the seams of my trousers, taking me back to the RAF.

  It was late afternoon when I came into the surgery and looked at the day-book, and the words seemed to jump out at me. “Major Sykes, Hunting horse, laminitis.” John had ticked it—he’d be there now.

  My eyes popped. One of those adored and valuable hunters—and laminitis, a condition with so many nasty possibilities. No job for a newly qualified young chap. The Major would eat him alive. I had to check up and I hurried out to Roova Grange.

  As I got out of the car I could hear the Major’s aggressive tones coming from a loose box and I feared John was already going through it.

  I peeped over the half-door of the box. A fine bay mare was standing there in the painful, crouching position of laminitis, her hind feet drawn under her body. A foal, obviously only a few days old, was close by her side. The Major, hands on hips, was almost shouting up into John’s face.

  “Now look here, er…er…what d’ye say your name is? Crooks, yes, now look here, dammit, Crooks, you say this mare has a bad laminitis. Bloody great temperature, all crippled up, and you’re trying to tell me that she’ll be all right. Well, I bought her in foal and I bought her in good faith, is she always going to be subject to this, eh, eh? I’ve heard about horses that are always getting it. Have I been sold a pup, d’ye think? D’you know enough about the job to tell me that, eh, eh?”

  The young man, however, did not seem at all put out. He spoke soothingly. “Now, Major Sykes, I’ve told you the cause of the trouble. Your mare retained her afterbirth when she foaled and she developed metritis. Laminitis is a common complication of this, and what you have here is an isolated case. I’ve given her a shot of antibiotic and I’ll repeat it over the next day or two. That will clear the metritis.”

  Still bristling, the little man stuck out his chin. “And how about the bloody laminitis, what’re you going to do about that, eh, eh?”

  “Well, as you saw, she’s had an injection for that, too.” John gave him a serene smile. “And if you’ll keep her on bran for a few days and stand her in your pond to cool the feet as I directed, I’m sure she’ll soon be back to normal.”

  “And d’you think she’s had it before?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “How the hell d’ye know that?”

  “Well, now, she’s got no lines round her hooves, and look here.” He lifted one of the mare’s forefeet. “A lovely concave sole. She’s never had laminitis before.”

  “And it won’t come back, eh?”

  “No likelihood of a recurrence.”

  “Just hope you’re right,” the Major grunted.

  “I’m sure I am. Y
ou’ll see. You worry too much, you know.” I shuddered and closed my eyes as John reached out and gave the little man a comforting pat on the shoulder. For a moment I thought the Major would erupt, then, to my amazement, his face broke into something like a shy smile. “You think so, eh?”

  “I do indeed. You really oughtn’t to let things upset you so much.”

  This was something new in the little man’s experience and for a few seconds he looked up into John’s face, then he took off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re right, young man. Heh-heh-heh!”

  I couldn’t believe it. He was laughing. John threw back his head and laughed, too. It was like a reunion between two old college chums. And suddenly I realised that that wasn’t little John Crooks, our student, in there, it was a tall, good-looking, self-assured veterinary surgeon with a fine big voice that lent authority to everything he said. I slunk away to my car and drove off with a resolution already formed in my mind. I wasn’t going to worry about John any more.

  He had been with us for a few weeks when I answered the phone one morning. “Hello, is that Mr. Herriot?” a cheerful voice enquired. I recognised one of our farmer clients.

  “Yes, Mr. Gates,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nay, it’s awright. Ah want to speak to t’yoong man.”

  A pang, unexpectedly deep and piercing, shot through me. What was this? I was the “yoong man,” always had been. That was how the clients had invariably referred to me even though I was only six years younger than Siegfried. There was some mistake here.

  “Whom did you say you wanted?” I asked.

  “T’yoong man—Mr. Crooks.”

  Ah, well, there it was. I hadn’t realised that I had become attached to my title and, walking along the passage to fetch John, I felt strangely wistful as I faced the fact that, although I was still in my early thirties, I wasn’t the young man any more.

  From then on, I had to live with an ever-increasing flood of requests for the services of a young man who wasn’t me. However, it was only depressing for a short time, because the compensations were enormous. As John settled in to the practice I found a miraculous easing of my life. It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o’clock in the morning and was able to pass it on to him and turn over and go to sleep, I could feel the liking deepening into a warm affection.