Every Living Thing (42 page)

I would rather say no more about that unhappy evening except that the pattern did not change. The divine Elgar
Violin Concerto
that, more than any other musical work, has the power to transport me to a perfect world, was only a background noise to my private battle. It was the same with the beloved Brahms’s
First Symphony.
All I wanted was to get home.

At the interval and as we bade them goodnight at the end, there were a lot of fixed smiles and darting glances from the Miss Whitlings, and the old saying about wanting the ground to swallow me was never so true.

And when it was all over and Helen and I were sitting on the edge of our bed going over the night’s events I still felt terrible.

“My God, what a night!” I groaned, and as I dredged through my embarrassments with the sisters yet again, Helen managed to keep a straight face, but I could see that it was costing her dearly. Twitchings of the mouth, fierce frowns and an occasional sinking of her face in her hands betrayed her inner struggle.

At the end of my recital of woe I threw out my hands in despair. “And, do you know, Helen, I am convinced that all that agony I went through tonight was caused by a single flea. Think of that! Just one flea!”

My wife suddenly dropped her chin on her chest, thrust out her lips and made a creditable attempt to sink her voice down a few octaves to basso-profundo pitch.

“A flea!” she intoned in true Chaliapin fashion. “Ha-ha-ha-haaa, a flea!”

“Ah, yes, very funny,” I replied. “But Mussorgsky would never have put all the laughter in that song if he had suffered like me.”

Two days later Mr. Colwell telephoned. “Roopy’s grand!” he cried in delight. “Runnin’ round, good as new, but ’e has a bit of broken nail sort of hangin’ from his paw, and it’s catchin’ on things. I wish you’d come and cut it off.”

I didn’t answer for a few seconds, “You…you couldn’t take it off yourself…just a little snip with scissors?”

“Nay, nay, I’m no good at that sort of thing. I’d be right grateful if you’d drop in if you’re out this way.”

“Right…right, Mr. Colwell. I’ll see you later this morning.”

“Helen,” I cried as I left the house. “There’s another call—the Colwells.”

“What!” She looked round the kitchen door in alarm.

“Yes…afraid so, but I’m calling first to see young Jack Arnold along the road.”

“Farmer Arnold’s son?”

“Yes, that’s right. The lad who does all that bicycle racing.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to borrow his clips.”

S
ISTER
R
OSE GENTLY LIFTED
the trembling dog onto the table. He was a tiny cross-bred terrier and he looked at me with terrified eyes.

“Poor little beggar,” I said. “No wonder he’s frightened. This is the one that was found on the road in Helvington, isn’t it?”

Sister Rose nodded. “Yes, running about aimlessly, looking for his owners. You’ve seen it all before.”

I had indeed. The desperate search for the people he had loved and trusted who had dumped him and driven away. The dashing up, open-mouthed, to somebody who looked familiar, then turning away in bewilderment. To me it was an almost unbearable sight, evoking feelings of rage and pity that almost choked me.

“Never mind, old lad,” I said, stroking the shaggy head. “There are better days ahead.”

There were always better days ahead for the abandoned dogs at Sister Rose’s little animal sanctuary. It was amazing how soon her care and affection reassured and transformed the helpless creatures, and through the open door of the treatment room I could see the wagging tails and hear the joyous barking of the dogs in the row of wire-fronted pens.

I was here to do the usual things. Check up on the health and condition of the new arrivals and give them their shots against distemper, hepatitis and leptospirosis, remove the stitches from the spay incisions (all bitches were spayed on arrival) and generally attend to any illness I might find.

“I see he’s holding up a hind leg,” I said.

“Yes, he doesn’t seem to be able to use that leg at all and I want you to have a look at it. I hope it’s just a temporary thing.”

I examined the foot and claws. Normal. And as I felt my way up the leg, I soon found the cause of the trouble.

I turned to Sister Rose. “He’s had a fractured femur and it’s never been set. The bone has formed a sort of callus but there’s no real healing.”

“So this little thing had a broken leg and his owners just didn’t bother about it?”

“That’s right.” I ran my hand over the little body, feeling the jutting backbone, the almost fleshless ribs. “He’s emaciated too, just about skin and bone. This is a neglected dog if ever I saw one.”

“And I’ll bet he’s never had any affection either,” she said softly. “Look how he trembles when we speak. He seems to be afraid of people.” She gave a long sigh. “Ah, well, we’ll do what we can. How about that leg?”

“I’ll have to X-ray it later today to see what can be done.” I gave him his inoculations and Sister Rose carried him out and placed him in a pen on his own. “By the way,” I said. “What have you called this one?”

She smiled. “I’ve called him Titch. Not a very elegant name, but he’s so little.”

“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 enthusiastic 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.