Every Living Thing

by James Herriot

  “Yes, I agree. Very suitable.” As I spoke, the thought recurred that finding names for her constant flow of rescued animals was only one of Sister Rose’s problems. She was the radiologist at a big hospital but still found time to care for her ever-changing doggy family, still was able to find the money by running efforts for her “biscuit fund” and by dipping into her own pocket.

  I was bandaging another dog’s infected foot when I saw a man walking up and down the row of pens. He had his hands behind his back as he looked intently at the eager faces behind the wire.

  “I see you’ve got a customer,” I said.

  “I hope so. I like the look of him. He arrived just before you and he’s making a very thorough search.”

  As she spoke the man half turned to have a closer look. There was something familiar about that stocky frame.

  “That’s Rupe Nellist,” I exclaimed. “I know him.”

  A few years ago he had run a large grocery shop in Darrowby but he had expanded and opened another bigger business in the bustling town of Hargrove, thirty miles away, and had moved away to live there, but he was still a faithful client and had brought his dog to me regularly until it died at the age of fifteen only a week ago.

  I finished my bandaging and went out to him with Sister Rose.

  “Hello, Rupe,” I said.

  He turned in surprise. “Now then, Mr. Herriot. I didn’t expect to see you.” His blunt-featured face, slightly pugnacious in repose, was attractive when he smiled. “I’ve been miserable since I lost t’awd dog and I’m takin’ your advice. I’m looking for another.”

  “It’s the only way, Rupe, and you’ve come to the right place. There are some lovely dogs here.”

  “Aye, you’re right.” He took off his trilby hat and smoothed back his hair. “But I’ve had a heck of a job makin’ up my mind. It sounds daft, but if I pick one out I’m goin’ to feel sorry for all the other poor little blighters I’m leaving behind.”

  Sister Rose laughed. “A lot of people feel like that, Mr. Nellist, but you needn’t worry. I find good homes for all my dogs. I don’t care how long I have to keep them—none is ever put to sleep. The only exceptions are in cases of extreme old age or incurable disease.”

  “Aye, well, that’s wonderful. I’ll just have another stroll along here.” He recommenced his inspection of the pens, walking with a pronounced limp in his right leg, a relic of childhood polio.

  Sister Rose hadn’t been exaggerating when she said he was thorough. Up and down he went, talking to the animals, pushing a finger through the wire to tickle their noses. Many of the dogs were handsome specimens with a pedigree look about them—noble Labradors, majestic golden retrievers, and a German shepherd that could have been a Crufts winner, and as I watched them all, tails wagging, leaping up at Rupe, I wondered as I often did how they could possibly have been abandoned. Each time he passed Titch’s pen the little dog hopped along the other side of the wire on his three legs, keeping pace with him, looking up into his face.

  Finally he stopped and gazed for a long time at the little creature. “You know, I fancy that ’un,” he murmured.

  “Really?” Sister Rose was surprised. “He’s only just arrived. We haven’t had a chance to do anything for him. He’s in a shocking state. Very lame, too.”

  “Aye, I can see that. But let’s have a look at ’im, will you?”

  Sister Rose opened the door of the pen and Rupe Nellist reached in and lifted the little animal up till he was head high, gazing at him, eyeball to eyeball. “Now, little feller,” he said softly. “How would you like to come home wi’ me?” The frightened eyes in the shaggy face regarded him for a few moments, then the tail twitched and a pink tongue reached for his face.

  The man smiled. “I reckon this is a right good-natured little dog. We’ll get on fine together.”

  “You want him, then?” asked Sister Rose, wide-eyed.

  “I do that. Right now.”

  “Oh, I do wish we’d been able to get him straightened up for you first.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do all that.” He put the dog down and pushed a note into the donation box. “Thank ye, Sister, for letting me look round. What have you called this little bloke?”

  “Titch, I’m afraid. Probably you’ll want to change that.”

  He laughed. “Not at all. Come on, Titch.” He limped away towards his car with his new pet limping beside him. After a few steps he looked back with a grin. “Walks like me, doesn’t he? Same leg, too.”

  I saw man and dog a fortnight later at my surgery when they came in for the booster inoculation. The difference in Titch was dramatic. He had filled out and, more striking still, the trembling and fear had gone.

  “He’s a different dog, Rupe,” I said. “He looks as though he’s had some good food at last, and he’s happy, too.”

  “Aye, by gum he did eat for the first few days and he’s settled down grand at home, too. My missus thinks the world of ’im.”

  I noticed that as he spoke the tiny animal’s gaze was fixed unwaveringly on his new master. He was a shaggy little thing of baffling breeding, but his face had a scruffy appeal that was undeniably attractive and his eyes shone with devotion. Titch had found somebody else to love and this time I knew he wasn’t going to be let down. Rupe Nellist was not a demonstrative man, but the way he looked at his new pet and gently stroked his head made it very clear that there was something in the little creature to which he responded deeply.

  I took the opportunity to X-ray the lame leg and the picture was as I expected.

  “It’s too late to set the broken bone in plaster, Rupe,” I said. “The only hope would be to plate the leg—bring the ends of the bone together and hold them there for a few weeks with a metal plate, and even then I couldn’t guarantee he’d ever be sound. These things are best done at the time of the injury.”

  “Yes, I understand that, but, you know, I’d give a lot to see me little feller goin’ around on all four legs. He never puts that bad leg to the ground, and it upsets me. Think about it, and I’ll do whatever you advise.”

  Plating fractures was going deeper into orthopaedic surgery than I had ever done, but two things motivated me to have a go. Firstly, Rupe Nellist had a steadfast faith in my ability and secondly, Calum Buchanan was determined to drag me into the modern world of small-animal practice.

  There was another thing, too. I kept hearing from people who lived in Hargrove about Rupe’s extraordinary affection for his new dog. It seemed that he took him everywhere with him, socially and in his work, showing him off proudly as if he was of the highest pedigree instead of, as most people would say, just a little mongrel. Rupe’s business had continued to prosper with the opening of another large shop and he was active, too, on the town council and in local government. It caused some surprised comment that he actually took Titch into the council meetings with him, and had he not been a formidable personality, growing in power, he’d never have got away with it. There was no doubt about it, I’d have to try to fix that leg.

  I found myself in a very familiar situation—having to perform an operation that I had never done, never even seen. I had received a good scientific education at the veterinary college, but I had qualified at a time when a great wave of new drugs and procedures was sweeping over the profession and I was breathlessly trying to keep up with it all. All I could do was read up on the new things in our professional journals, and this had enabled me to do a lot of bovine surgery such as Caesarean operations and rumenotomies, which had never been performed in our district before. In my modest way, I was a pioneer in that field.

  However, these things had been forced upon me, an unavoidable part of my life as a large-animal practitioner. It had been only too easy to side-step the small-animal surgery by sending our problem cases to the brilliant Granville Bennett, but it was time to face up to the fact that dog and cat work was going to occupy more and more of our lives. This was another revolution.

  Calum was an enthusias
tic advocate of the new ideas. He would tackle any kind of surgery with courage and determination, and he was enchanted at the opportunity to repair Titch’s leg. And, unlike me, he had seen many of these orthopaedic operations done. The modern veterinary colleges had fine clinics where all the latest procedures were carried out—something undreamed of in my time.

  We had to get in some new instruments and equipment but we were ready to start by the following Sunday morning. We picked that day because the practice would be quiet and we’d have more time.

  I found, as with all new operations, that the actuality was ten times more difficult and frightening than I had expected from my reading. I seemed to spend a year, head to head with Calum, bending over Titch’s sleeping form. Digging our way through the muscles down to the damaged bone, removing the partial callus and a seemingly endless mass of fibrous tissue, tying off the spurting blood vessels, freshening the ends of the bone, drilling, screwing in the plates that would hold the broken ends together. I was sweating and exhausted by the time the last skin suture was inserted and all that could be seen was the line of stitches. Thinking of what lay underneath, I breathed a silent prayer.

  Over the next few weeks, Rupe Nellist kept bringing Titch in for examination. The wound had healed well with no reaction, but there was no attempt by the little dog to put the leg to the ground.

  After two months we removed the plate. The bone had united beautifully, but Titch was still a three-legged dog.

  “Doesn’t he ever try to touch the ground with it?” I asked.

  Rupe shook his head. “Nay, he’s as you see ’im. Never any different. Maybe he’s been lame so long that he just holds the leg up out of habit?”

  “Could be, but it’s disappointing.”

  “Never mind, Mr. Herriot. You chaps have done your best and I’m grateful. And the little feller’s grand in every other way.”

  As he took his leave with his pet limping by his side, Calum turned to me with a wry smile. “Ah, well, some you lose.”

  It was several months later when Calum read out a piece in the Darrowby and Houlton Times.

  “Listen to this. ‘On Saturday there will be a civic reception for Rupert Nellist, newly elected Mayor of Hargrove, followed by an appearance outside the Town Hall.’ ”

  “Well, good old Rupe,” I said. “He deserves it after all he’s done for the town. I like that man.”

  Calum nodded. “So do I. And I wouldn’t mind seeing him in his moment of glory. Do you think we could sneak through to Hargrove for half an hour?”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? And there’s nothing much fixed for Saturday. I’ll speak to Siegfried—I’m sure he’ll hold the fort for us.”

  Saturday morning found Calum and me among the crowd standing in bright sunshine outside Hargrove Town Hall. At the top of the steps, several large pots of flowers had been arranged on either side of the big doors and the multicoloured blooms added to the festive air and the feeling of expectancy. A group of BBC men stood with their television cameras at the ready.

  We hadn’t long to wait. The doors swung open, and as Rupe emerged wearing his chain of office with the Lady Mayoress by his side, a swelling cheer arose from the crowd. His popularity was reflected in the smiling faces and waving arms around us, then the sound increased suddenly in volume as Titch trotted out from behind the master. Everybody knew about Rupe’s relationship with his dog.

  However, the sound was as nothing compared to the great roar of laughter when Titch strolled to the front, cocked his leg, and relieved himself against one of the flowerpots, a gesture which would make him famous among TV audiences throughout the country.

  Everybody was still laughing as the little procession came down the steps and began to pass through the crowd, who opened up to make an avenue down which the Mayor and Mayoress walked with Titch in the rear.

  It was a happy sight but Calum and I had eyes for only one thing.

  Calum nudged me in the ribs. “Do you see what I see?”

  “I do,” I breathed. “I certainly do.”

  “He’s sound. On four legs. Absolutely no signs of a limp.”

  “Yes…great…marvellous!” The feeling of triumph made the sun shine more brightly.

  We couldn’t wait any longer, and as we got into the car Calum turned to me. “There was something else. When Titch was watering those flowers did you notice anything?”

  “Yes. He was cocking his good leg. All his weight was on the bad one.”

  “Which means…” said Calum, grinning.

  “That he’ll never be lame again.”

  “That’s right.” Calum settled behind the wheel and as he started the engine, he sighed contentedly. “Ah, well, some you win.”

  Chapter 50

  BOB STOCKDALE WAS THE sole survivor of the cataclysm that had struck the Lord Nelson Inn. In dirty wellington boots and flat cap he sat there on a high stool at the end of the bar counter, seemingly oblivious of the endless torrent of piped music and the babel of voices from the jostling pack of smart young people.

  I fought my way to the bar, collected a pint of bitter, and as I stood surveying the scene from a space against the wall my thoughts drifted sadly back to the old days. A year ago the Lord Nelson had been a typical Yorkshire country pub. I remembered an evening when I dropped in there with a friend from Glasgow, the city of my youth. There was just one big room then, rather like a large kitchen, with a log fire burning in a black cooking range at one end and a dozen farm men sitting on high-backed oak settles, their pints resting on tables of pitted wood. Those settles were a draught-proof refuge from the cold winds that whistled along the streets of the village outside and over the high pastures where those men spent their days.

  The conversation never rose above a gentle murmur, over which the ticking of a wall clock and the click of dominoes added to the atmosphere of rest and quiet.

  “Gosh, it’s peaceful in here,” my friend said. Wonderingly he watched the proprietor, in shirt and braces, proceed unhurriedly down to the cellar and emerge with a long enamel jug from which he replenished the glasses, regulating the flow expertly to achieve the required head of froth.

  “A bit different from West Nile Street,” I said.

  He grinned. “It certainly is. In fact it’s unbelievable. How does a place like this pay? Only a few chaps here, and they aren’t drinking much.”

  “I think it hardly pays at all. Maybe a few pounds a week, but the owner has a smallholding—there are cows, calves and pigs just through that wall—and he looks on this as a pleasant sideline.”

  My friend took a pull at his glass, stretched out his legs and half closed his eyes. “Anyway, I like it. You can relax here. It’s lovely.”

  It was indeed lovely and most of the pubs around Darrowby were still lovely, but as I looked at the modernised Lord Nelson I wondered how long they would stay that way.

  When the new owner took over he didn’t waste any time in starting his revolution. He wasn’t a farmer, he was an experienced landlord and he could see rich possibilities in the old inn in the pretty village of Welsby tucked among the fells. The kitchen range disappeared and was replaced by a smart bar counter with a background of mirrors and gleaming bottles; horse brasses, hunting horns and sporting prints appeared on the walls and the antique settles and tables were swept away. The end wall was knocked down and people ate in an elegant dining room where once I calved the cows and tended the pigs.

  Two things happened almost at once; droves of young people swarmed out in their cars from the big Yorkshire towns and the old clientele melted away. I never knew where those farm men went—probably to pubs in the neighbouring villages—but Bob Stockdale stayed. I couldn’t understand why, but he was a quiet man, a bit of a loner, and maybe he felt that he had sat in that room several nights a week for years and, despite all the changes, he didn’t want to leave it. Anyway, whenever I called in he was there, perched on the same stool, with his old bitch, Meg, tucke
d underneath. Welsby was part of the long, long road up the dale, which I had travelled a thousand times, and when I had a night call up there I sometimes dropped in for a beer. Tonight I had replaced a prolapsed uterus in a cow, and as I sipped at my glass I had the warm feeling of satisfaction after a successful operation.

  I spotted a gap in the crush round the bar and pushed my way to Bob’s side. “Hello, Bob,” I said. “Can I top up your glass? It’s getting a bit low.”

  “Aye, thank ye, Mr. Herriot. It’s gettin’ far down, right enough.” He drained the last few inches and pushed the glass across the counter.

  He spoke slowly, articulating with care. It was nearing closing time and he would have been there a long time, quietly lowering the pints. He had reached a state of detachment from the world that I had seen before.

  I looked down at Meg’s nose protruding from between the legs of the stool and bent down to stroke the greying muzzle of the old bitch who was Bob’s helper and friend. By day she brought the cows in for him, skirting eagerly around them, nipping at their heels if they strayed, and in the evenings they relaxed together.

  I looked at the growing opacity in the friendly eyes. “She’s getting on a bit now, Bob.”

  “Aye, she’ll be ten come Easter, but she’s still right active.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen her at work. She’ll go on for a long time yet.”

  He nodded solemnly.

  We talked for a few minutes. I had a great fellow feeling for men like Bob, the hardy farm workers who were part of my life—catching and holding the big beasts for me, sweating side by side with me at tough calvings and lambings. It was a pleasure to be able to meet them off the job, and I could see that Bob was enjoying our reminiscing together. He smiled gently at the memories, even though his speech was slurring and his eyes half closed.

  I finished my drink and looked at my watch. “Got to go now, Bob. Take care of yourself till I see you again.”

  In reply he slid off the stool. “Ah’m off ’ome, too.” He tacked his way carefully to the door.