Every Living Thing (30 page)

I watched until they were finished and as they towelled my patient I spoke again. “That’s absolutely terrific. You’ve done him properly, you haven’t missed an inch.”

The old lady smiled. “Aye, well, we heard what you said at t’start. We want to get ’im better.”

“Good…good…you’re going the right way about it.” I looked at Jet, still as bare and scruffy as ever. “You understand that it’s going to be a long time before his coat gets back to normal, if it ever does, but the main question is—is he scratching less?”

“Oh, aye,” replied Mr. Howell. “He still does a bit, but nothing like before. He’s much less itchy now, and he’s eatin’ well again.”

“Fine, fine. So far, so good, but there’s a lot of work still to do. Are you prepared to do this for several weeks? After all, he isn’t your dog.”

“Oh, we’ll do ’im all right,” said the old lady eagerly. “We’ll stick to ’im—you needn’t worry about that.”

I looked at the two Howells in wonder. “You’re real dog lovers, aren’t you? And yet you haven’t got a dog of your own?”

There was a silence. “Oh, we did ’ave,” said the old man. “Had ’im for twelve years, but you never saw him, Mr. Herriot, because he never ailed a thing.” He paused and swallowed. “But he was knocked down and killed just a month ago.”

I gazed for a few moments at the stricken faces. “I’m so sorry, I know what it’s like. It’s awful. But…you didn’t think of getting another dog? It’s the only thing to do, you know.”

Mrs. Howell shrugged. “We understand that and we thought about it, but we’re both in our seventies and if we got a pup now and anythin’ happened to us he’d be left and we’d never know if he was properly looked after.”

I nodded and looked at the old couple with renewed respect. It was the attitude of caring people.

“Anyway,” I said, “you’ve got a good friend in Jet for the time being. I can see that he appreciates all you’re doing for him. I’ll leave you a few more packets of the wash and I know he’ll be in good hands.”

My confidence was such that I didn’t call at the house again and it was three weeks before I saw Jet again. The Howells were shopping in the market-place and Jet was by their side. He was cheerful, but his skin was still wrinkled and hairless with many half-healed sores.

“You’ve got him out, then,” I said.

“Aye, we have.” The old lady clutched my arm. “He’s ours now.”

“Yours?”

“Yes. Mrs. Birse said ’e was still bare and scabby and she didn’t think he’d ever get better and she didn’t want a big vet bill with all them visits and packets of stuff. She said her husband and her wanted Jet put down.”

“Oh…what then?”

“Well, I said we’d tek ’im and we’d pay the bill.”

“You did?”

“Aye. She wasn’t sure at first but I said it would be a whackin’ big bill and you’d charge double for comin’ out that Saturday night.”

I looked at her for a moment and detected the suggestion of a twinkle in her eye.

“We don’t do that. Maybe we should, but we don’t. But…maybe you wanted to persuade her, eh?”

“Well…” It was indisputably a twinkle.

I smiled. “Anyway, Jet has moved next door and I’m sure it’s a good thing for everybody. Even the Birses—they didn’t seem to have any interest in him.”

“Aye, that’s right, and he’s lovely. They never took ’im out for a walk—just let him wander about by himself. I don’t know why some people have dogs at all.”

“And how about what you were saying to me before? About your fears about being too old?”

She squared her shoulders. “Oh, well, we talked that over, and we thought that after all, Jet isn’t a pup—he’s six now, so… the three of us will just potter on together.”

“That’s great. ‘Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be.’”

They both laughed, and Mr. Howell held up a finger. “Yes, that’s just it. That poem’s got it right. It’s so grand havin’ Jet—it was awful being without a dog after we lost ours. We’ve always had one and now we’re happy.”

They did indeed look happy, as did Jet, laughing up at me and lashing his tail.

It was many weeks before I saw them again. I was walking along one of the many bridle tracks that wound among the fields around Darrowby. The sun was blazing from a cloudless sky and even from a distance it was easy to see the rich black gloss of Jet’s coat. When I came abreast of them I bent and stroked the big dog’s head. “Well, what a handsome dog you are!” I said, running my hand over the flawless sheen of the neck and ribs. I turned to the old couple. “There’s not a bare patch anywhere—I can nearly see my face in his coat. You’ve done wonderfully well with him.”

The Howells smiled modestly and Jet, perfectly aware that we were talking about him, wagged his entire rear end and capered around in panting delight.

“Oh, it’s been worth it,” said the old lady. “We’re having a great time with ’im—we can’t believe our luck having such a dog.”

I watched them as they went their way along the green path and under the overhanging branches of an oak tree. Jet was chasing a stick and I could hear the cheerful voices of the Howells as they shouted their encouragement to him.

I thought again of Browning’s lines, and as I watched the trio until a patch of woodland hid them from view I felt a strong conviction that the best was yet to be for those three.

“R
IGHT,
M
R.
B
USBY,”
I said, feeling a rising tension in response to the urgency of the voice at the other side of the phone. “I’ll be out very soon.”

“Well, see that you are! Ah don’t like the look of this cow at all. She’s sunken-eyed and gruntin’ and she won’t look at ’er hay. She could die. Don’t be long!”

As I listened to the aggressive harangue I could almost see the red-haired man shouting, bulging-eyed, into the receiver. He had told me all the symptoms several times over to make sure they penetrated my thick skull. Mr. Busby wasn’t a bad chap, but he had a temper to go with his hair and always seemed to operate on the edge of panic. I’d better hurry.

I looked at my list, then at my watch. It was 9:00
A.M.
and there weren’t any really urgent calls. I could do Mr. Busby first and keep him happy.

I grabbed my bag and trotted to the front door. Young Mrs. Gardiner was standing on the step with her terrier under her arm. She looked upset.

“Oh, Mr. Herriot, I was just going to ring your bell. Something has happened to William. He went out this morning and jumped over the garden gate and now he can’t use one of his front legs.”

I managed a strained smile. “All right, bring him in.”

We went through to the consulting room and I lifted the little dog onto the table. It took only a quick feel to tell me that there was a fracture of radius and ulna.

“He’s broken his leg, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear,” the lady wailed. “How awful!”

I tried to be cheerful. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s a clean break and it’s a lot easier on a foreleg. We’ll soon put him right.”

William, trembling and anxious with his leg dangling, looked up at me with a mute appeal. He was hoping somebody would do something for him, and soon.

“Has he had any breakfast?” I asked as I fished the plaster of Paris bandages out of the cupboard.

“No, nothing today.”

“Good. I can go ahead with the anaesthetic.” As I filled the syringe the old feeling came back that this was the sort of thing that gave vets ulcers. Mr. Busby would have to wait and I could picture him stamping round his farmyard and cursing me.

A few c.c.’s of Nembutal sent William into a peaceful sleep and I began to soak the bandages in tepid water. Mrs. Gardiner held the shaggy leg straight while I carefully applied the bandages. Normally, this was a job I enjoyed; seeing the plaster hardening till it formed a firm supporting sheath and knowing that the little animal would wake up to find his pain gone and his leg usable, but at this moment I was conscious mainly of the passage of time.

I tapped the plaster. It had set like a rock.

“Right,” I said, lifting the sleeping dog from the table. “He’ll have to keep that on for at least a month, then you must bring him back. If you’re worried before that, give me a ring, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

I deposited William on the back seat of the lady’s car and looked at my watch—9:45
A.M.
I picked up my gear again and set off for the second time.

It took me half an hour’s hard driving along the narrow, dry-stone-walled roads to reach the Busby farm, and as I approached I could see the farmer standing, hands on hips, legs splayed on the cobbled yard, a menacing picture against the squat buildings and the bracken-clad fells behind. When I got out of the car the farmer looked exactly as I had imagined him. His eyes were glaring and the ginger fringe thrusting from under his cap seemed to bristle with rage.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” he yelled. “You said you were coming straight out.”

“Yes, I know, but I had to attend to a dog just as I was leaving.”

I thought Mr. Busby would explode. “A dog! A bloody dog! Ma good cow’s a lot more important than any bloody dog!”

“Well, yes, but I had to treat him. He had a broken leg.”

“I don’t give a bugger what he had. This cow’s my livelihood. If she dies it’s a serious loss for me. The other thing’s just a flippin’ pet, a lap-dog.”

“Not a lap-dog, Mr. Busby, a tough little terrier and he was in pain. The lady owner is very fond of him.”

“Fond, fond! What does that matter? It’s not touching her pocket, is it? It isn’t costing her anything?”

I was going to say something about her heart being touched and about the importance of pets in the lives of people, but Mr. Busby’s feet had begun to twitch and then to move up and down on the cobbles. I had never seen a man actually dancing with rage and I didn’t want to start now. I made for the cow house.

I was vastly relieved to find that the cow had only a mild stasis of the rumen and it turned out that she had been in the fold yard earlier in the morning and had stolen a few extra turnips. But as I examined and injected her the farmer kept up a grumbling monologue as he held the tail.

“Ah’ve got to live on a little spot like this and you don’t think one cow is important. Where do you think I’m gettin’ the money to buy another? Ah’ll tell ye, it’s a job makin’ ends meet on a little hill farm, but you don’t seem to ’ave any idea. Dogs…bloody dogs…flippin’ pets…this is my livin’…you don’t care…”

I was fundamentally a cow doctor and I made the greatest part of my own personal living from hill-farmers, whom I regarded as the salt of the earth, but I held my peace.

When I revisited the following day I found the cow completely recovered, but Mr. Busby was still sulky. He hadn’t forgiven me.

It was a few weeks later that Helen stopped me as I was leaving to start the morning round.

“Oh, Jim. I’ve just taken a call. There’s a dog coming in. It’s crying out in pain. I didn’t get the name—the man put the phone down quickly.”

I rubbed my chin. In those days we were a 90 per cent large-animal practice and had no set surgery hours, certainly not in the morning.

“Whoever it is will have to wait,” I said. “Rod Thwaite has a bullock bleeding badly—knocked a horn off. I’ll have to go there first.”

Trying to be in two places at once was a constant problem in our job. I did my best not to think about the dog and sped into the hills at top speed.

It was a typical broken horn with a pretty ornamental fountain of blood climbing several feet into the air and onto anything near. Mr. Thwaite and I were soon liberally spattered as we tried to hold the beast still and I packed the stump with sulphonamide, applied a thick pad of cotton wool and bandaged it in a figure eight to the other horn. It all took quite a time as did the cleaning process afterwards, and more than an hour had gone by before I declined Mrs. Thwaite’s offer of a cup of tea and headed back towards Darrowby.

At Skeldale House I hurried down the passage and pushed open the waiting room door. I halted there in surprise. It was Mr. Busby. He was sitting in the far corner with a little corgi on his knee and his face bore exactly the same expression as when I had paid the first visit to his cow.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” he barked. The words were the same too. “I’ve been sittin’ here for a bloody hour! And I made an appointment!”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Busby. I had a bleeding bullock. I just had to go.”

“A flippin’ bullock! And how about ma poor dog, waitin’ here in agony! That doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Of course it does, but you know as well as I do that beast could have bled to death. It would have been a big loss to the farmer.”

“A big loss? Aye, a big loss o’ money, you mean. But what if me good dog dies? He’s worth more than any money. You couldn’t put a price on him!”

“Oh, I do understand, Mr. Busby. He looks a grand little chap to me.” I hesitated. “I didn’t know you had a pet beside your farm dogs.”

“Of course, I ’ave. This is Dandy. Missus and me think the world of ’im. If anything happens to ’im it ’ud break our hearts! And you neglect ’im for a flippin’ bullock!”

“Oh, come on, now, it’s not a case of neglecting him. You must appreciate that I couldn’t leave that beast to go on bleeding—it’s the farmer’s livelihood.”

“There ye go again! Money! It’s all you can think about!”

I bent down to lift the little dog and almost as soon as I touched him he screamed out.

Mr. Busby’s eyes popped further. “Listen to that! I told you he was in a desperate state, didn’t I?”

I carried the corgi along the passage, feeling his muscles tense and rigid as a board. Already I was sure I knew what was wrong with him. On the table I gently squeezed his neck and the dog yelped again, with Mr. Busby moaning in response.

The temperature was normal, in fact everything was normal except the rigidity and the pain.

“Is he goin’ to die?” The farmer stared into my face.

“No, no, he’s got rheumatism. It’s a terribly painful thing in a dog, but it does respond well to treatment. I’m sure he’ll soon be well again.”

“I hope you’re right,” the farmer grunted. “I just wish you’d seen ’im sooner instead of leaving ’im to suffer while you run off to a bullock. It’s all right you harpin’ on about money, but love and companionship mean a lot more than that, you know.”