which regularly won at the local events and occasionally at the national
trials. And what was troubling me was that Gyp was his main hope.
He had picked out the two best pups from a litter - Gyp and Sweep and
had trained them with the dedication that had made him a winner. I don't
think I have ever seen two dogs enjoy each other quite as much; whenever
I was on the farm I would see them together, sometimes peeping nose by
nose over the half door of the loose box where they slept, occasionally
slinking devotedly round the feet of their master but usually just
playing together. They must have spent hours rolling about in ecstatic
wrestling matches, growling and panting, gnawing gently at each other's
limbs.
A few months ago George Crossley, one of Mr Wilkin's oldest friends and
a keen trial man, had lost his best dog with nephritis and Mr Wilkin had
let him have Sweep. I was surprised at the time because Sweep was
shaping better than Gyp in his training and looked like turning out a
real champion. But it was Gyp who remained. He must have missed his
friend but there were other dogs on the farm and if they didn't quite
make up for Sweep he was never really lonely.
As I watched, I could see the dog recovering rapidly. It was
extraordinary how soon normality was restored after that frightening
convulsion. And I waited with some apprehension to hear what his master
would say.
The cold, logical decision for him to make would be to have Gyp put down
and, looking at the friendly, tail-wagging animal I didn't like the idea
at all. There was something very attractive about him. The big-boned,
well-marked body was handsome but his most distinctive feature was his
head where one ear somehow contrived to stick up while the other lay
flat, giving him a lop-sided, comic appeal. Gyp, in fact, looked a bit
of a clown. But a clown who radiated goodwill and camaraderie.
Mr Wilkin spoke at last. "Will he get any better as he grows older?'
"Almost certainly not,' I replied.
"Then he'll always 'ave these fits?'
"I'm afraid so. You say he has them every two or three weeks - well it
will probably carry on more or less like that with occasional
variations.'
"But he could have one any time?'
"Yes.'
"In the middle of a trial, like.' The farmer sunk his head on his chest
and his voice rumbled deep. "That's it, then.'
In the long silence which followed, the fateful words became more and
more inevitable Sep Wilkin wasn't the man to hesitate in a matter which
concerned his ruling passion. Ruthless culling of any animal which
didn't come up to standard would be his policy. When he finally cleared
his throat I had a sinking premonition of what he was going to say.
: ~
"If I kept him, could you do anything for him?' he asked.
"Well I could give you some pills for him. They might decrease the
frequency of the fits.' I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice.
"Right .. . right .. . I'll come into "'surgery and get some,' he
muttered.
"Fine. But .. . er .. . you won't ever breed from him, will you?' I
said.
"New, new, new,' the farmer grunted with a touch of irritability as
though he didn't want to pursue the matter further.
And I held my peace because I felt intuitively that he did not want to
be detected in a weakness; that he was prepared to keep the dog simply
as a pet. It was funny how events began to slot into place and suddenly
make sense. That was why he had let Sweep, the superior trial dog, go.
He just liked Gyp. In fact Sep Wilkin, hard man though he may be, had
succumbed to that off-beat charm So I shifted to some light chatter
about the weather as I walked back to the car, but when I was about to
drive off: the farmer returned to the main subject.
"There's one thing about Gyp I never mentioned,' he said, bending to the
window. "I don't know whether it has owl to do with the job or not. He
has never barked in his life.' . I looked at him in surprise. "You mean
never, ever?'
"That's right. Not a single bark. T'other dogs make a noise when
strangers come on the farm but I've never heard Gyp utter a sound since
he was born.'
"Well that's very strange,' I said. "But I can't see that it is
connected with his condition in any way.'
And as I switched on the engine I noticed for the first time that while
a bitch and two half grown pups gave tongue to see me on my way Gyp
merely regarded me in his comradely way, mouth open, tongue lolling, but
made no noise. A silent dog.
The thing intrigued me. So much so that whenever I was on the farm over
the next few months I made a point of watching the big sheepdog at
whatever he was doing. But there was never any change. Between the
convulsions which had settled down to around th"- intervals he was a
normal active happy animal. But soundl~r I saw h; ~ m~r~-r ^~ ~ ~`
~A~
master came in to market. Gyp was car, but if I happened to speak to Mr
iubject because, as I said, I had the :~ ~uld hate to be exposed in
keeping a 5 ~ ~ ,C o O ~on that most farm dogs were more of course
indispensable working doubt performed a function in teem on my daily
rounds I often at haytime, chasing rats among ings or roaming the fields
at the they really do?
es - as when I was trying to tried to get into the act by ~oarse yell
of'siddown, dog!'
mind as .5, ~ ;~ accuracy into . , ~, ~, G_ ~~ ~. It was the kino .~~,$
~c ~ ~ . theory; most farm dogs are thoughtful and methoo~., '~ ~s`;' G
~ ~ ~ ~' likes to have them around. the fielders clawed at the u~ ~3` ~
~ ~im to admit it but I think frantic note. ~.,` ~ ~ c ~o nderful time.
They don't And all the time we were creepin ~V .~0 in the company of
their had fallen we had reached a hundred ano . ~ \s dog, knowing the
man .
won't be far away. I try to give my own dogs a good life but it cannot
compare with the life of the average farm dog.
There was a long spell when Sep Wilkin's stock stayed healthy and I
didntt seec either him or Gyp, then I came across them both by accident
at a sheepdog trial It was a local event run in conjunction with the
Mellerton Agricultural Show and since I was in the district I decided to
steal an hour off.
I took Helen with me, too, because these trials have always fascinated
us. The wonderful control of the owners over their animals, the intense
involvement of the dogs themselves, the sheer skill of the whole
operation always held us spellbound.
She put her arm through mine as we went in at the entrance gate to where
a crescent of cars was drawn up at one end of a long field. The field
was on the river's edge and through a fringe of trees the afternoon
sunshine glinted on the tumbling water of the shallows and turned the
long beach of bleached stones to a dazzling white. Groups of men, mainly
competitors, stood around chatting as they watched. They were quiet,
easy, bronzed men and as they seemed to be drawn from all social strata
fr
om prosperous farmers to working men their garb was varied; cloth
caps, trilbies, deerstalkers or no hat at all, tweed jackets, stiff best
suits, open-necked shirts, fancy ties, sometimes neither collar nor tie.
Nearly all of them leaned on long crooks with the handles fashioned from
rams' horns.
Snatches of talk reached us as we walked among them.
"You got 'ere, then, Fred.' "That's a good gather.' "Nay, 'e's missed
one, 'e'll get nowt for that. "Them sheep's a bit flighty.' "Aye they're
buggers.' And above it all the whistles of the man running a dog; every
conceivable level and pitch of whistle with now and then a shout. "Sit!'
"Get by!' Every man had his own way with his dog.
The dogs waiting their turn were tied up to a fence with a hedge growing
over it. There were about seventy of them and it was rather wonderful to
see that long row of waving tails and friendly expressions. They were
mostly strangers to each other but there wasn't even the semblance of
disagreement never mind a fight. It seemed that the natural obedience of
these little creatures was linked to an amicable disposition.
This appeared to be common to their owners, too. There was no animosity
no resentment at defeat, no unseemly display of triumph in victory. If a
man overran his time he ushered his group of sheep quietly in the corner
and returned with a philosophical grin to his colleagues. There was a
little quiet leg-pulling but that was all.
We came across Sep Wilkin leaning against his car at the best vantage
point about thirty yards away from the final pen. Gyp, tied to the
bumper, turned and gave me his crooked grin while Mrs Wilkin on a camp
stool by his side rested a hand on his shoulder. Gyp, it seemed, had got
under her skin too.
Helen went over to speak to her and I turned to her husband. "Are you
running a dog today, Mr Wilkin?'
"No, not this time, just come to watch. I know a lot o' the dogs.'
I stood near him for a while watching the competitors in action,
breathing in the clean smell of trampled grass and plug tobacco. In
front of us next to the pen the judge stood by his post.
I had been there for about ten minutes when Mr Wilkin lifted a pointing
finger. "Look who's there!'
George Crossley with Sweep trotting at his heels was making his way
unhurriedly to the post. Gyp suddenly stiffened and sat up very
straight, his cocked ears accentuating the lop-sided look. It was many
months since he had seen his brother and companion; it seemed unlikely I
thought, that he would remember him. But his interest was clearly
intense, and as the judge waved his white handkerchief and the three
sheep were released from the far corner he rose slowly to his feet.
A gesture from Mr Crossley sent Sweep winging round the perimeter of the
field in a wide, joyous gallop and as he neared the sheep a whistle
dropped him on his belly. From then on it was an object lesson in the
cooperation of man and dog. Sep Wilkin had always said Sweep would be a
champion and he looked the part, darting and falling at his master's
commands. Short piercing whistles, shrill plaintive whistles; he was in
tune with them all.
No dog all day had brought his sheep through the three lots of gates as
effortlessly as Sweep did now and as he approached the pen near us it
was obvious that he would win the cup unless some disaster struck. But
this was the touchy bit; more than once with other dogs the sheep had
broken free and gone bounding away within feet of the wooden rails.
George Crossley held the gate wide and extended his crook. You could see
now why they all carried those long sticks. His commands to Sweep,
huddled flat along the turf, were now almost inaudible but the quiet
words brought the dog inching first one way then the other. The sheep
were in the entrance to the pen now but they still looked around them
irresolutely and the game was not over yet. But as Sweep wriggled
towards them almost imperceptibly they turned and entered and Mr
Crossley crashed the gate behind them.
As he did so he turned to Sweep with a happy cry of "Good lad!' and the
dog responded with a quick jerking wag of his tail.
At that, Gyp, who had been standing very tall, watching every move with
the most intense concentration raised his head and emitted a single
resounding bark.
"Woop' went Gyp as we all stared at him in astonishment.
"Did you hear that?' gasped Mrs Wilkin.
"Well, by gaw!' her husband burst out, looking open-mouthed at his dog.
Gyp didn't seem to be aware that he h~ ~^~ 'ring unusual. He was too
r~r^~ :_ ~ ~ . 1in seconds the two dogs ~s of old.
Chapter Twenty-seven.
A full surgery! But the ripple of satisfaction as I surveyed the packed
rows of heads waned quickly as realisation dawned. It was only the
Dimmocks again.
I first encountered the Dimmocks one evening when I had a call to a dog
which had been knocked down by a car. The address was down in the old
part of the town and I was cruising slowly along the row of decaying
cottages looking for the number when a door burst open and three
shock-headed little children ran into the street and waved me down
frantically.
"He's in 'ere, Mister!' they gasped in unison as I got out, and then
began immediately to put me in the picture.
"It's Bonzo!' "Aye, a car'it 'im!' "We 'ad to carry 'im in, Mister!'
They all got their words in as I opened the garden gate and struggled up
the path with the three of them hanging on to my arms and tugging at my
coat; and en route I gazed in wonder at the window of the house where a
mass of other young faces mouthed at me and a tangle of arms
gesticulated.
Once through the door which opened directly into the living room I was
swamped by a rush of bodies and borne over to the corner where I saw my
patient.
Bonzo was sitting upright on a ragged blanket. He was a large shaggy
animal of indeterminate breed and though at a glance there didn't seem
to be much ailing him he wore a pathetic expression of self pity. Since
everybody was talking at once I decided to ignore them and carry out my
examination. I worked my way over legs, pelvis, ribs and spine; no
fractures. His mucous membranes were a good colour, there was no
evidence of internal injury. In fact the only thing I could find was
slight bruising over the left shoulder. Bonzo had sat like a statue as I
felt over him, but as I finished he toppled over on to his side and lay
looking up at me apologetically, his tail thumping on the blanket.
"You're a big soft dog, that's what you are,' I said and the tail
thumped faster.
I turned and viewed the throng and after a moment or two managed to pick
out the parents. Mum was fighting her way to the front while at the
rear, Dad, a diminutive figure, was beaming at me over the heads. I did
a bit of shushing and when the babel died down I addressed myself to Mrs
Dimmock.
"I think he's been lucky,' I said. "I can't find any serious injury. I
think the car must hav
e bowled him over and knocked the wind out of him
for a minute, or he may have been suffering from shock.'
The uproar broke out again. "Will 'e die, Mister?' "What's the matter
with 'im?' "What are you going to do?'
I gave Bonzo an injection of a mild sedative while he lay rigid, a
picture of canine suffering, with the tousled heads looking down at him
with deep concern and innumerable little hands poking out and caressing
him.
Mrs Dimmock produced a basin of hot water and while I washed my hands I
was able to make a rough assessment of the household. I counted eleven
little Dimmocks from a boy in his early teens down to a grubby faced
infant crawling around the floor; and judging by the significant bulge
in Mum's midriff the number was soon to be augmented. They were clad in
a motley selection of hand-me downs; darned pullovers, patched trousers,
tattered dresses, yet the general atmosphere in the house was of
unconfined joie de vivre.
Bonzo wasn't the only animal and I stared in disbelief as another
biggish dog and a cat with two half grown kittens appeared from among
the crowding legs and feet. I would have thought that the problem of
filling the human mouths would have been difficult enough without
importing several animals.
But the Dimmocks didn't worry about such things; they did what they
wanted to do, and they got by. Dad, I learned later, had never done any
work within living memory. He had a 'bad back' and lived what seemed to
me a reasonably gracious life, roaming interestedly around the town by
day and enjoying a quiet beer and a game of dominoes in a corner of the
Four Horse Shoes by night.
I saw him quite often; he was easy to pick out because he invariably
carried a walking stick which gave him an air of dignity and he always
walked briskly and purposefully as though he were going somewhere
important.
I took a final look at Bonzo, still stretched on the blanket, looking up
at me with soulful eyes then I struggled towards the door.
"I don't think there's anything to worry about,' I shouted above the
chattering which had speedily broken out again, 'but I'll look in
tomorrow and make sure.'
When I drew up outside the house next morning I could see Bonzo
lolloping around the garden with several of the children. They were
passing a ball from one to the other and he was leaping ecstatically
high in the air to try to intercept it.
He was clearly none the worse for his accident but when he saw me
opening the gate his tail went down and he dropped almost to his knees
and slunk into the house. The children received me rapturously.
"You've made 'im better, Mister!' "He's all right now, isn't he?' "He's
'ad a right big breakfast this mornin', Mister!'
I went inside with little hands clutching at my coat. Bonzo was sitting
bolt upright on his blanket in the same attitude as the previous
evening, but as I approached he slowly collapsed on to his side and lay
looking up at me with a martyred expression.
I laughed as I knelt by him. "You're the original old soldier, Bonzo,
but you can't fool me. I saw you out there.'
I gently touched the bruised shoulder and the big dog tremblingly closed
his eyes as he resigned himself to his fate. Then when I stood up and he
realised he wasn't going to have another injection he leapt to his feet
and bounded away into the garden.
There was a chorus of delighted cries from the Dimmocks and they turned
and looked at me with undisguised admiration. Clearly they considered
that I had plucked Bonzo from the jaws of death. Mr Dimmock stepped
forward from the mass.
"You'll send me a bill, won't you,' he said, with the dignity that was
peculiar to him.
Vet in Harness Page 20
