animal stories (9 page)

I laughed. “You’re right, Mr. Dakin. She’d be safe in the stable and she’d suckle three calves easily. She could pay her way.”

“Well, as ah said, it’s matterless. After all them years she doesn’t owe me a thing.” A gentle smile spread over the seamed face. “Main thing is, she’s come ‘ome.”

There’s Nothing Wrong with Myrtle

“Oooh … ooh-hoo-hooo!” The broken-hearted sobbing jerked me into full wakefulness. It was 1:00 A.m. and after the familiar jangling of the bedside phone I expected the gruff voice of a farmer with a calving cow. Instead, there was this terrible sound.

“Who is this?” I asked, a little breathlessly. “What on earth is the trouble?”

I heard a gulping at the other end and then a man’s voice pleading between sobs. “It’s Humphrey Cobb. For God’s sake come out and see Myrtle. I think she’s dyin’.”

“Myrtle?”

“Aye, me poor little dog. She’s in a ‘ell of a state! Oooh-hooo!”

The receiver trembled in my grasp. “What is she doing?”

“Oh, pantin’ and gaspin’. I think it’s nearly all over with ‘er. Come quick!”

“Where do you live?”

“Cedar House. End of Hill Street.”

“I know it. I’ll be there very soon.”

“Oh, thank ye, thank ye. Myrtle hasn’t got long. Hurry, hurry!”

I leaped from the bed and rushed at my clothes, draped over a chair against the wall. In my haste, in the darkness, I got both feet down one leg of my working corduroys and crashed full length on the floor.

Helen was used to nocturnal calls and often she only half woke. For my part I always tried to avoid disturbing her by dressing without switching on the light; there was always a glow from the nightlight we kept burning on the landing for young Jimmy.

However, the system broke down this time. The thud of my falling body brought her into a sitting position.

“What is it, Jim? What’s happening?”

I struggled to my feet. “It’s all right, Helen, I just tripped over.” I snatched my shirt from the chair back.

“But what are you dashing about for?”

“Desperately urgent case. I have to hurry.”

“All right, Jim, but you won’t get there any sooner by going on like this. Just calm down.”

My wife was right, of course. I have always envied those vets who can stay relaxed under pressure. But I wasn’t made that way.

I galloped down the stairs and through the long back garden to the garage. Cedar House was only a mile away and I didn’t have much time to think about the case, but by the time I arrived I had pretty well decided that acute breathlessness like this would probably be caused by a heart attack or some sudden allergy.

In answer to my ring the porch light flashed on and Humphrey Cobb stood before me. He was a little round man in his sixties and his humpty-dumpty appearance was accentuated by his gleaming bald head.

“Oh, Mr. Herriot, come in, come in,” he cried brokenly as the tears streamed down his cheeks. “Thank ye for gettin’ out of your bed to help me poor little Myrtle.”

As he spoke, the blast of whiskey fumes almost made my head spin and I noticed that as he preceded me across the hall he staggered slightly.

My patient was lying in a basket by the side of an Aga stove in a large, well-appointed kitchen. I felt a warm surge when I saw that she was a beagle like my own dog, Sam. I knelt down and looked at her closely. Her mouth was open and her tongue lolled, but she did not seem to be in acute distress. In fact, as I patted her head her tail flapped against the blanket.

A heart-rending wail sounded in my ear. “What d’ye make of her, Mr. Herriot? It’s her heart, isn’t it? Oh, Myrtle, Myrtle!”

The little man crouched over his pet and the tears flowed unchecked.

“You know, Mr. Cobb,” I said, “she doesn’t seem all that bad to me, so don’t upset yourself too much. Just give me a chance to examine her.”

I placed my stethoscope over the ribs and listened to the steady thudding of a superbly strong heart. The temperature was normal and I was palpating the abdomen when Mr. Cobb broke in again.

“The trouble is,” he gasped, “I neglect this poor little animal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ah’ve been all day at Catterick at the races, gamblin’ and drinkin’ with never a thought for me dog.”

“You left her alone all that time in the house?”

“Nay, nay, t’missus has been with her.”

“Well, then”—I felt I was getting out of my depth—”she would feed Myrtle and let her out in the garden?”

“Oh aye,” he said, wringing his hands, “but I shouldn’t leave ‘er. She thinks such a lot about me.”

As he spoke, I could feel one side of my face tingling with heat. My problem was suddenly solved.

“You’ve got her too near the Aga,” I said. “She’s panting because she’s uncomfortably hot.”

He looked at me doubtfully. “We just shifted ‘er basket today. We’ve been gettin’ some new tiles put down on the floor.”

“Right,” I said. “Shift it back again and she’ll be fine.”

“But, Mr. Herriot,” his lips began to tremble again, “it’s more than that. She’s sufferin’. Look at her eyes.”

Myrtle had the lovely big liquid eyes of her breed and she knew how to use them. Many people think the spaniel is number one when it comes to looking soulful but I personally plump for the beagle. And Myrtle was an expert.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Cobb,” I said. “Believe me, she’ll be all right.”

He still seemed unhappy. “But aren’t ye going to do something?”

It was one of the great questions in veterinary practice. If you didn’t “do something” they were not satisfied. And in this case Mr. Cobb was in greater need of treatment than his pet. Still, I wasn’t going to stick a needle into Myrtle just to please him, so I produced a vitamin tablet from my bag and pushed it over the back of the little animal’s tongue.

“There you are,” I said. “I’m sure that will do her good.” And after all, I thought, I wasn’t a complete charlatan—it wouldn’t do her any harm.

Mr. Cobb relaxed visibly. “Eee, that’s champion. You’ve set me mind at rest.” He led the way into a luxurious drawing room and tacked unsteadily toward a cocktail cabinet. “You’ll ‘ave a drink before you go?”

“No, really, thanks,” I said. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ll ‘ave a drop. Just to steady me nerves. I was that upset.” He tipped a lavish measure of whiskey into a glass and waved me to a chair.

My bed was calling me, but I sat down and watched as he drank. He told me that he was a retired bookmaker from the West Riding and that he had come to Darrowby only a month ago. Although no longer directly connected with horse racing he still loved the sport and never missed a meeting in the north of England.

“I allus get a taxi to take me and I have a right good day.” His face was radiant as he recalled the happy times, then for a moment his cheeks quivered and his woebegone expression returned.

“But I neglect me dog. I leave her at home.”

“Oh nonsense,” I said. “I’ve seen you out in the fields with Myrtle. You give her plenty of exercise, don’t you?”

“Oh aye, lots of walks every day.”

“Well, then, she really has a good life. This is just a silly little notion you’ve got.”

He beamed at me and sloshed out another few fingers of whiskey.

“Eee, you’re a good lad. Come on, you’ll just have one before you go.”

“Oh, all right, just a small one, then.”

As we drank he became more and more benign until he was gazing at me with something like devotion.

“James Herriot,” he slurred. “I suppose it’ll be Jim, eh?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’ll call you Jim, then, and you can call me Humphrey.”

“Okay, Humphrey,” I said, and swallowed the last of my whiskey. “But I really must go now.”

Out in the street again he put a hand on my arm and his face became serious again. “Thank ye, Jim. Myrtle was right bad tonight and I’m grateful.”

Driving away, I realized that I had failed to convince him that there was nothing wrong with his dog. He was sure I had saved her life. It had been an unusual visit and as my 2:00 A.m. whiskey burned in my stomach I decided that Humphrey Cobb was a very funny little man. But I liked him.

After that night I saw him quite frequently exercising Myrtle in the fields. With his almost spherical build he seemed to bounce over the grass, but his manner was always self-contained and rational except that he kept thanking me for pulling his dog back from the jaws of death.

Then quite suddenly I was back at the beginning again. It was shortly after midnight and as I lifted the bedside phone I could hear the distraught weeping before the receiver touched my ear.

“Oooh … oooh … Jim, Jim. Myrtle’s in a terrible bad way. Will ye come?”

“What … what is it this time?”

“She’s twitchin’.”

“Twitching?”

“Aye, twitchin’ summat terrible. Oh, come on, Jim, lad, don’t keep me waiting. I’m worried to death. I’m sure she’s got distemper.” He broke down again.

My head began to reel. “She can’t have distemper, Humphrey. Not in a flash, like that.”

“I’m beggin’ you Jim,” he went on as though he hadn’t heard. “Be a pal. Come and see Myrtle.”

“All right,” I said wearily. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Oh, you’re a good lad, Jim, you’re a good lad …” The voice trailed away as I replaced the phone. I dressed at normal speed with none of the panic of the first time. It sounded like a repetition, but why after midnight again? On my way to Cedar House I decided it must be another false alarm but you never knew.

The same dizzying wave of whiskey fumes enveloped me in the porch. Humphrey, sniffling and moaning, fell against me once or twice as he ushered me into the kitchen. He pointed to the basket in the corner.

“There she is,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve just got back from Ripon and found ‘er like this.”

“Racing again, eh?”

“Aye, gamblin’ on them ‘osses and drinkin’ and leavin’ me poor dog pining at home. I’m a rotter, Jim, that’s what I am.”

“Rubbish, Humphrey! I’ve told you before. You’re not doing her any harm by having a day out. Anyway, how about this twitching? She looks all right now.”

“Yes, she’s stopped doing it, but when I came in her back leg was goin’ like this.” He made a jerking movement with his hand.

I groaned inwardly. “But she could have been scratching or flicking away a fly.”

“Nay, there’s summat more than that. I can tell she’s sufferin’. Just look at them eyes.”

I could see what he meant. Myrtle’s beagle eyes were pools of emotion and it was easy to read a melting reproach in their depths.

With a feeling of futility I examined her. I knew what I would find—nothing. But when I tried to explain to the little man that his pet was normal he wouldn’t have it.

“Oh, you’ll give her one of them wonderful tablets,” he pleaded. “It cured her last time.”

I felt I had to pacify him, so Myrtle received another installment of vitamins.

Humphrey was immensely relieved and weaved his way to the drawing room and the whiskey bottle.

“I need a little pick-me-up after that shock,” he said. “You’ll ‘ave one too, won’t you, Jim lad?”

This pantomime was enacted frequently over the next few months, always after race meetings and always between midnight and 1:00 A.m. I had ample opportunity to analyze the situation and I came to a fairly obvious conclusion.

Most of the time Humphrey was a normal conscientious pet owner, but after a large intake of alcohol his affectionate feelings degenerated into a glutinous sentimentality and guilt. I invariably went out when he called me because I knew that he would be deeply distressed if I refused. I was treating Humphrey, not Myrtle.

It amused me that not once did he accept my protestations that my visit was unnecessary. Each time he was sure that my magic tablets had saved his dog’s life.

Mind you, I did not discount the possibility that Myrtle was deliberately working on him with those eyes. The canine mind is quite capable of disapproval. I took my own dog almost everywhere with me but if I left him at home to take Helen to the cinema he would lie under our bed, sulking, and when he emerged, would studiously ignore us for an hour or two.

I quailed when Humphrey told me he had decided to have Myrtle mated because I knew that the ensuing pregnancy would be laden with harassment for me. That was how it turned out. The little man flew into a series of alcoholic panics, all of them unfounded, and he discovered imaginary symptoms in Myrtle at regular intervals throughout the nine weeks.

I was vastly relieved when she gave birth to five healthy pups. Now, I thought, I would get some peace. The fact was that I was just about tired of Humphrey’s nocturnal nonsense. I have always made a point of never refusing to turn out at night but Humphrey had stretched this principle to breaking point. One of these times he would have to be told.

The crunch came when the pups were a few weeks old. I had had a terrible day, starting with a complicated calving at 5:00 A.m. and progressing through hours of road-slogging, missed meals and a late-night wrestle with government forms, some of which I suspected I had filled out wrongly.

My clerical incompetence has always infuriated me and when I crawled, dog tired, into bed my mind was still buzzing with frustration. I lay for a long time trying to put those forms away from me, and it was well after midnight when I fell asleep.

I have always had a silly fancy that our practice knows when I desperately want a full night’s sleep. It knows and gleefully steps in. When the phone exploded in my ear I wasn’t really surprised.

As I stretched a weary hand to the receiver the luminous dial of the alarm clock read 1:15 A.m.

“Hello,” I grunted.

“Oooh … oooh … oooh!” The reply was only too familiar.

I clenched my teeth. This was just what I needed. “Humphrey! What is it this time?”

“Oh Jim, Myrtle’s really dyin’, I know she is. Come quick, lad, come quick!”

“Dying?” I took a couple of rasping breaths. “How do you make that out?”

“Well … she’s stretched out on ‘er side, tremblin’.”

“Anything else?”

“Aye, t’missus said Myrtle’s been looking worried and walkin’ stiff when she let her out in the garden this afternoon. I’m not long back from Redcar, ye see?”