James Herriot

by All Things Wise;Wonderful

  I examined him again. The heart murmur seemed a little more pronounced but there was nothing else except that he looked old and decrepit and done.

  “You know, I’m beginning to wonder if he really is fretting,” I said. “It could be just his age catching up on him. After all, he’ll be twelve in the spring, won’t he?”

  Mrs. Sanders nodded. “That’s right. Then you think … this could be the end?”

  “It’s possible.” I knew what she was thinking. A couple of weeks ago two healthy dogs rolling around and playing in this house and now there could soon be none.

  “But isn’t there anything else you can do?”

  “Well I can give him a course of digitalis for his heart. And perhaps you would bring in a sample of his urine. I want to see how his kidneys are functioning.”

  I tested the urine. There was a little albumen, but no more than you would expect in a dog of his age. I ruled out nephritis as a cause.

  As the days passed I tried other things; vitamins, iron tonics, organo-phosphates, but the little animal declined steadily. It was about a month after Jing’s death that I was called to the house again.

  Skipper was in his basket and when I called to him he slowly raised his head. His face was pinched and fleshless and the filmed eyes regarded me without recognition.

  “Come on, lad,” I said encouragingly. “Let’s see you get out of there.”

  Jack Sanders shook his head. “It’s no good, Mr. Herriot. He never leaves his basket now and when we lift him out he’s almost too weak to walk. Another thing … he makes a mess down here in the kitchen during the night. That’s something he’s never done.”

  It was like the tolling of a sad bell. Everything he said pointed to a dog in the last stages of senility. I tried to pick my words.

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but it all sounds as if the old chap has come to the end of the road. I don’t think fretting could possibly cause all this.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment. He looked at his wife then down at the forlorn little creature. “Well of course this has been in the back of our minds. But we’ve kept hoping he would start to eat What … what do you suggest?”

  I could not bring myself to say the fateful words. “It seems to me that we can’t stand by and let him suffer. He’s just a little skeleton and I can’t think he’s getting any pleasure out of his life now.”

  “I see,” he said. “And I agree. He lies there all day—he has no interest in anything.” He paused and looked at his wife again. “I tell you what Mr. Herriot. Let us think it over till tomorrow. But you do think there’s no hope?”

  “Yes, Jack, I do. Old dogs often go this way at the end. Skipper has just cracked up … he’s finished, I’m afraid.”

  He drew a long breath. “Right, if you don’t hear from me by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, please come and put him to sleep.”

  I had small hope of the call coming and it didn’t. In those early days of our marriage Helen worked as a secretary for one of the local millers. We often started our day together by descending the long flights of stairs from our bed-sitter and I would see her out of the front door before getting ready for my round.

  This morning she gave me her usual kiss before going out into the street but then she looked at me searchingly. “You’ve been quiet all through breakfast, Jim. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing, really. Just part of the job,” I said. But when she kept her steady gaze on me I told her quickly about the Sanderses.

  She touched my arm. “It’s such a shame, Jim, but you can’t let your sad cases depress you. You’d never survive.”

  “Aagh, I know that. But I’m a softy, that’s my trouble. Sometimes I think I should never have been a vet.”

  “You’re wrong there,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine you as anything else. You’ll do what you have to do, and you’ll do it the right way.” She kissed me again, turned . and ran down the steps.

  It was mid morning before I drew up outside the Sanderses’ home. I opened the car boot and took out the syringe and the bottle of concentrated anaesthetic which would give the old dog a peaceful and painless end.

  The first thing I saw when I went into the kitchen was a fat little white puppy waddling across the floor.

  I looked down in astonishment “What’s this …?”

  Mrs. Sanders gave me a strained smile. “Jack and I had a talk yesterday. We couldn’t bear the idea of not having a dog at all, so we went round to Mrs. Palmer who bred Jing and found she had a litter for sale. It seemed like fate. We’ve called him Jingo, too.”

  “What a splendid idea!” I lifted the pup which squirmed in my hand, grunted in an obese manner and tried to lick my face. This, I felt would make my unpleasant task easier. “I think you’ve been very sensible.”

  I lifted the bottle of anaesthetic unobtrusively from my pocket and went over to the basket in the corner. Skipper was still curled in the unheeding ball of yesterday and the comforting thought came to me that all I was going to do was push him a little further along the journey he had already begun.

  I pierced the rubber diaphragm on the bottle with my needle and was about to withdraw the barbiturate when I saw that Skipper had raised his head. Chin resting on the edge of the basket; he seemed to be watching the pup. Wearily his eyes followed the tiny creature as it made its way to a dish of milk and began to lap busily. And there was something in his intent expression which had not been there for a long time.

  I stood very still as the corgi made a couple of attempts then heaved himself to a standing position. He almost fell out of the basket and staggered on shaking legs across the floor. When he came alongside the pup he remained there, swaying, for some time, a gaunt caricature of his former self; but as I watched in disbelief, he reached forward and seized the little white ear in his mouth.

  Stoicism is not a characteristic of pups and Jingo the Second yelped shrilly as the teeth squeezed. Skipper, undeterred, continued to gnaw with rapt concentration.

  I dropped bottle and syringe back in my pocket. “Bring him some food,” I said quietly.

  Mrs. Sanders hurried to the pantry and came back with a few pieces of meat on a saucer. Skipper continued his ear-nibbling for a few moments then sniffed the pup unhurriedly from end to end before turning to the saucer. He hardly had the strength to chew but he lifted a portion of meat and his jaws moved slowly.

  “Good heavens!” Jack Sanders burst out. “That’s the first thing he’s eaten for days!”

  His wife seized my arm. “What’s happened, Mr. Herriot? We only got the puppy because we couldn’t have a house without a dog.”

  “Well it looks to me as though you’ve got two again.” I went over to the door and smiled back at the two people watching fascinated as the corgi swallowed then started determinedly on another piece of meat.

  About eight months later, Jack Sanders came into the surgery and put Jingo Two on the table. He was growing into a fine animal with the wide chest and powerful legs of the breed. His good-natured face and whipping tail reminded me strongly of his predecessor.

  “He’s got a bit of eczema between his pads,” Jack said, then he bent and lifted Skipper up.

  At that moment I had no eyes for my patient. All my attention was on the corgi, plump and bright-eyed, nibbling at the big white dog’s hind limbs with all his old bounce and vigour.

  “Just look at that!” I murmured. “It’s like turning the clock back.”

  Jack Sanders laughed. “Yes, isn’t it. They’re tremendous friends—just like before.”

  “Come here, Skipper.” I grabbed the little corgi and looked him over. When I had finished I held him for a moment as he tried to wriggle his way back to his friend. “Do you know, I honestly think he’ll go on for years yet.”

  “Really?” Jack Sanders looked at me with a mischievous light in his eyes. “But I seem to remember you saying quite a long time ago that his days were over—he was finished.”

  I held up a hand. �
�I know, I know. But sometimes it’s lovely to be wrong.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “TO-DAY,” SAID F. O. Woodham, “we’re going to try a few new things. Spinning, side-slipping and how to come out of a stall.” His voice was gentle, and before he pulled on his helmet he turned his dark, fine-featured face towards me and smiled. Walking over the grass I thought what a likeable chap he was. I could have made a friend of him.

  But he was always like that on the ground. He was altogether different in the air.

  Yet I could never understand it. Flying was no trouble at all, and as we spun and dropped and soared about the summer sky his instructions appeared simple and easy to carry out. But the rot, as always, began to set in very soon.

  “Didn’t I tell you opposite rudder and stick to sideslip?” he bawled over the intercom.

  “Yes sir,” was all I replied, instead of the more appropriate “That’s just what I’m doing, you stupid bugger!” which I might have used in civil life.

  The goggled eyes bulged in the mirror. “Well, why the bloody hell aren’t you doing it?” His voice rose to a wild shriek.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Well take her up. We’ll try again. And for God’s sake keep your wits about you!”

  It was the same with the spins and stalls. I hadn’t the slightest difficulty in pulling out of them but at times I thought my instructor was going out of his mind.

  Berserk cries rang in my ears. “Full opposite rudder and centralise the stick! Centralise it! Can’t you hear me? Oh God, God!”

  And of course the panic gradually crept in and I began to crack. One moment I could see a railway station in front of me whirling around in crazy circles, then there was nothing but the empty heavens and within seconds fields and trees would start to rush at me. Everything kept changing bewilderingly except the enraged eyes in the mirror and the exasperated yells.

  “Centralise it, you bloody fool! Keep your eyes on that cloud! Watch your artificial horizon! Don’t you know what the altimeter’s for? I told you to keep at 1,000 feet but it’s like talking to a bloody wall!”

  After a while a kind of numbness took over and the words rang meaninglessly in my head, one sentence seeming to contradict another. Desperately I tried to sort out the volleys of advice, but the whole thing began to slip from my grasp.

  Back on the ground and still dizzy, not from the flight but from the bewildering cataract of words, it occurred to me that I had felt like this somewhere before. There was a familiar ring about this jumble in my brain. Then it came back to me. It was like being back at the Birtwhistles’.

  The trouble with the Birtwhistles was that they all spoke at once. Mr. Birtwhistle invariably discussed his livestock, his wife concentrated on family matters and Len, their massive eighteen year old son, talked of nothing but football.

  I was examining Nellie, the big white cow that always stood opposite the doorway in the grey stone byre. She had been lame for over a week and I didn’t like the look of her.

  “Lift her foot, will you, Len,” I said. It was wonderful to have a muscular giant to hoist the hind limb instead of going through the tedious business of hauling it up with a rope over a beam.

  With the cloven hoof cradled in the great hands I could see that my fears were realised. The space between the cleats was clear but there was a significant swelling around the interphalangeal joint.

  I looked up from my stooping position. “Can you see that, Mr. Birtwhistle? The infection is spreading upwards.”

  “Aye … aye …” The farmer thrust a finger against the tumefied area and Nellie flinched. “It’s goin’ up her leg on that side right enough. Ah thought it was nowt but a bit o’ foul and I’ve been puttin’ … .”

  “By gaw,” Len interjected. “The lads ’ad a good win against Hellerby on Saturday. Johnnie Nudd got another couple o’ goals and …”

  “… puttin’ that caustic lotion between ’er cleats.” Mr. Birtwhistle didn’t appear to have heard his son, but it was always like that. “Done it regular night and mornin’. And ah’ll tell ye the best way to do it. Get a hen feather an’ …”

  “… ah wouldn’t be surprised if ’e scores a few more this Saturday,” continued Len unheedingly. “He’s a right bobby dazzler when ’e …”

  “… ye just dip it in t’lotion and push the feather in between t’cleats. It works like a …”

  “… gets that ball on ’is right foot. He just whacks ’em in …”

  I raised a hand. “Wait a minute. You must realise this cow hasn’t got foul. She has suppurative arthritis in this little joint just at the coronet here. I don’t want to use a lot of big words but she has pus—matter—right inside the joint cavity, and it’s a very nasty thing.”

  Mr. Birtwhistle nodded slowly. “Sort of a abscess, you mean? Well, maybe it ’ud be best to lance it. Once you let t’matter out it would …”

  “… just like a rocket,” went on Len. “Ah’ll tell ye, Johnnie could get a trial for Darlington one o’ these days and then …”

  I always think it is polite to look at a person when they are talking to you, but it is difficult when they are both talking at once, especially when one of them is bent double and the other standing behind you.

  “Thank you, Len,” I said. “You can put her foot down now.” I straightened up and directed my gaze somewhere between them. “The trouble with this condition is that you can’t just stick a knife into it and relieve it. Very often the smooth surfaces of the joint are eaten away and it’s terribly painful.”

  Nellie would agree with me. It was the outside cleat which was affected and she was standing with her leg splayed sideways in an attempt to take the weight on the healthy inner digit.

  The farmer asked the inevitable question. “Well, what are we goin’ to do?”

  I had an uncomfortable conviction that it wasn’t going to make much difference what we did, but I had to make an effort.

  “We’ll give her a course of sulphanilamide powders and I also want you to put a poultice on that foot three times daily.”

  “Poultice?” The farmer brightened. “Ah’ve been doin’ that. Ah’ve been …”

  “If Darlington signed Johnnie Nudd I reckon … .”

  “Hold on, Len,” I said. “What poultice have you been using, Mr. Birtwhistle?”

  “Cow shit,” the farmer replied confidently. “Ye can’t beat a good cow shit poultice to bring t’bad out. Ah’ve used it for them bad cases o’…”

  “… ah’d have to go through to Darlington now and then instead of watchin’ the Kestrels,” Len broke in. “Ah’d have to see how Johnnie was gettin’ on wi’ them professionals because …”

  I managed a twisted smile. I like football myself and I found it touching that Len ignored the great panorama of league football to concentrate on a village team who played in front of about twenty spectators. “Yes, yes, Len, I quite understand how you feel.” Then I turned to his father. “I was thinking of a rather different type of poultice, Mr. Birtwhistle.”

  The farmer’s face lengthened and the corners of his mouth drooped. “Well, ah’ve never found owt better than cow shit and ah’ve been among stock all me life.”

  I clenched my teeth. This earthy medicament was highly regarded among the Dales farmers of the thirties and the damnable thing was that it often achieved its objective. There was no doubt that a sackful of bovine faeces applied to an inflamed area set up a tremendous heat and counter-irritation. In those days I had to go along with many of the ancient cures and keep my tongue between my teeth but I had never prescribed cow shit and I wasn’t going to start now.

  “Maybe so,” I said firmly, “but what I was thinking of was kaolin. You could call down at the surgery for some. You just heat the tin in a pan of hot water and apply the poultice to the foot. It keeps its heat for several hours.”

  Mr. Birtwhistle showed no great enthusiasm so I tried again. “Or you could use bran. I see you’ve got a sack over there.”

  He che
ered up a little. “Aye … that’s right.”

  “Okay, put on some hot bran three times a day and give her the powders and I’ll see her again in a few days.” I knew the farmer would do as I said, because he was a conscientious stockman, but I had seen cases like this before and I wasn’t happy. Nothing seems to pull a good cow down quicker than a painful foot. Big fat animals could be reduced to skeletons within weeks because of the agony of septic arthritis. I could only hope.

  “Very good, Mr. Herriot” Mr. Birtwhistle said. “And now come into the house. T’missus has a cup o’ tea ready for you.”

  I seldom refuse such an invitation but as I entered the kitchen I knew this was where the going got really tough.

  “Now then, Mr. Herriot” the farmer’s wife said, beaming as she handed me a steaming mug. “I was talkin’ to your good lady in the market place yesterday, and she said …”

  “And ye think them powders o’ yours might do the trick?” Her husband looked at me seriously. “I ’ope so, because Nellie’s a right good milker. Ah reckon last lactation she gave …”

  “Kestrels is drawn agin Dibham in t’Hulton cup,” Len chimed in. “It’ll be some game. Last time …”

  Mrs. Birtwhistle continued without drawing breath, “… you were nicely settled in at top of Skeldale House. It must be right pleasant up there with the lovely view and …”

  “… five gallons when she fust calved and she kept it up for …”

  “… they nearly kicked us off t’pitch, but by gaw ah’ll tell ye, we’ll …”

  “… you can see right over Darrowby. But it wouldn’t do for a fat body like me. I was sayin’ to your missus that you ’ave to be young and slim to live up there. All them stairs and …”

  I took a long draught from my cup. It gave me a chance to focus my eyes and attention on just one thing as the conversation crackled unceasingly around me. I invariably found it wearing trying to listen to all three Birtwhistles in full cry and of course it was impossible to look at them all simultaneously and adjust my expression to their different remarks.