All Things Wise and Wonderful

by James Herriot

  That was when Tristan’s victory went flat. It was Mr. Mount.

  The huge farmer loomed over him for a few seconds and the deep bass rumble came from between clenched teeth.

  “It’s you, is it?” He glanced quickly from the young man to the embarrassing magazine and back again and the eyes in the craggy face narrowed dangerously.

  “Yes … yes .. . yes, Mr. Mount,” Tristan replied unsteadily. “And how are you, Mr. Mount?”

  “Ah’m awright.”

  “Good … good … splendid.” Tristan backed away a few steps. “And how is Deborah?”

  The eyes beneath the sprouting bristles drew in further. “She’s awright.”

  There was a silence which lingered interminably and I felt for my young friend. It was not a merry meeting.

  At last he managed to work up a sickly smile. “Ah well, yes, er … and what can we do for you, Mr. Mount?”

  “Ah’ve come to see me ’oss.”

  “Yes, indeed, of course, certainly. I believe Mr. Herriot is just outside the room.”

  I led the big man down the long garden into the yard. His encounter with Tristan had clearly failed to improve his opinion of the young man and he glowered as I opened the loose box.

  But his expression softened when he saw Bobby eating hay contentedly. He went in and patted the arching neck. “How’s he goin’ on, then?”

  “Oh, very well.” I lifted a hind foot and showed him the metal plate. “I can take this off for you if you like.”

  “Nay, nay, ah don’t want to disturb the job. As long as all’s well, that’s all ah want to know.”

  The dressings went on for a few more weeks till finally Siegfried was satisfied that the last remnants of the disease had been extirpated. Then he telephoned for Mr. Mount to collect his horse the following morning.

  It is always nice to be in on a little triumph, and I looked over my boss’s shoulder as he lifted Bobby’s feet and displayed the finished job to the owner. The necrotic jumble on the soles had been replaced by a clean, smooth surface with no sign of moisture anywhere.

  Mr. Mount was not enthusiastic by nature but he was obviously impressed. He nodded his head rapidly several times. “Well now, that’s champion. I’m right capped wi’ that.”

  Siegfried lowered the foot to the ground and straightened with a pleased smile. There was a general air of bonhomie in the yard, and then I heard my car in the back lane.

  I felt a sudden tingle of apprehension. Oh no, Tristan, not this time, please. You don’t know …. My toes curled as I waited but I realised all was lost when the car turned in through the double doors. It had no driver.

  With a dreadful feeling of imminent catastrophe I watched as it stopped within a few feet of Siegfried and Mr. Mount who were staring at it in disbelief.

  Nothing happened for a few seconds, then without warning Tristan catapulted like a jack-in-the-box into the open window.

  “Yippeeee!” he screeched, but his happy grin froze as he found himself gazing into the faces of his brother and Mr. Mount. Siegfried’s expression of exasperation was familiar to me, but the farmer’s was infinitely more menacing. The eyes in the stony visage were mere slits, the jaw jutted, the great tangle of eyebrows bristled fiercely. There was no doubt he had finally made up his mind about Tristan.

  I felt the young man had suffered enough, and I kept off the subject for a week or two afterwards, but we were sitting in the big room at Skeldale House when he mentioned casually that he wouldn’t be taking Deborah out any more.

  “Seems her father has forbidden it,” he said.

  I shrugged in sympathy, but said nothing. After all, it had been an ill-starred romance from the beginning.

  CHAPTER 31

  “CIRCUITS AND BUMPS” THEY called it. Taking off, circling the field and landing, over and over and over. After an hour of it with F. O. Woodham in full voice I had had enough and it was a blessed relief when we climbed out at the end.

  As my instructor walked away, one of his fellow officers strolled by his side. “How are you getting on with that chap, Woody?” he asked, smiling.

  F. O. Woodham did not pause in his stride or turn his head. “Oh God!” he said with a hollow groan, and that was all.

  I knew I wasn’t meant to hear the words but they bit deep. My spirits did not rise till I entered the barrack hut and was greeted by the cheerful voices of my fellow airmen.

  “Hello, Jim!” “How’s it going, Jim?” The words were like balm.

  I looked around at the young men sprawled on their beds, reading or smoking and I realised that I needed them and their friendship.

  Animals are the same. They need friends. Have you ever watched two animals in a field? They may be of different species—a pony and a sheep—but they hang together. This comradeship between animals has always fascinated me, and I often think of Jack Sanders’ two dogs as a perfect example of mutual devotion.

  One of them was called Jingo and as I injected the local anaesthetic alongside the barbed wire tear in his skin the powerful white bull terrier whimpered just once. Then he decided to resign himself to his fate and looked stolidly to the front as I depressed the plunger.

  Meanwhile his inseparable friend, Skipper the corgi, gnawed gently at Jingo’s hind leg. It was odd to see two dogs on the table at once, but I knew the relationship between them and made no comment as their master hoisted them both up.

  After I had infiltrated the area around the wound I began to stitch and Jingo relaxed noticeably when he found that he could feel nothing.

  “Maybe this’ll teach you to avoid barbed wire fences in future, Jing,” I said.

  Jack Sanders laughed. “I doubt if it will, Mr. Herriot I thought the coast was clear when I took him down the lane this morning, but he spotted a dog on the other side of the fence and he was through like a bullet. Fortunately it was a greyhound and he couldn’t catch it.”

  “You’re a regular terror, Jing.” I patted my patient, and the big Roman-nosed face turned to me with an ear-to-ear grin and at the other end the tail whipped delightedly.

  “Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it?” his master said. “He’s always looking for a fight yet people and children can do anything with him. He’s the best natured dog in the world.”

  I finished stitching and dropped the suture needle into a kidney dish on the trolley. “Well, you’ve got to remember that the bull terrier is the original English fighting dog and Jing is only obeying an age-old instinct.”

  “Oh I realise that I’ll just have to go on scanning the horizon every time I let him off the lead. No dog is safe from him.”

  “Except this one, Jack.” I laughed and pointed to the little corgi who had tired of his companion’s leg and was now chewing his ear.

  “Yes, isn’t it marvellous. I think he could bite Jing’s ear off without reprisal,”

  It was indeed rather wonderful. The corgi was eleven years old and beginning to show his age in stiffness of movement and impairment of sight while the bull terrier was only three, at the height of his strength and power. A squat barrel-chested bundle of bone and muscle, he was a formidable animal. But when the ear-chewing became too violent all he did was turn and gently engulf Skipper’s head in his huge jaws till the little animal desisted. Those jaws could be as merciless as a steel trap but they held the tiny head in a loving embrace.

  Ten days later their master brought both dogs back to the surgery for the removal of the stitches. He looked worried as he lifted the animals on to the table.

  “Jingo isn’t at all well, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “He’s been off his food for a couple of days and he looks miserable. Could that wound make him ill if it turned septic?”

  “Yes it could, of course.” I looked down anxiously at the area of the flank where I had stitched, and my fingers explored the long scar. “But there’s not the slightest sign of infection here. No swelling, no pain. He’s healed beautifully.”

  I stepped back and looked at the bull terrier. He was s
trangely disconsolate, tail tucked down, eyes gazing ahead with total lack of interest. Not even the busy nibbling of his friend at one of his paws relieved his apathy.

  Clearly Skipper didn’t like being ignored in this fashion. He transferred his operations to the front end and started on the big dog’s ear. As his efforts still went unnoticed he began to chew and tug harder, dragging the massive head down to one side, but as far as Jingo was concerned he might as well not have been there.

  “Hey, that’s enough, Skipper,” I said. “Jing isn’t in the mood for rough stuff today.” I lifted him gently to the floor where he paced indignantly around the table legs.

  I examined the bull terrier thoroughly and the only significant finding was an elevated temperature.

  “It’s a hundred and five, Jack. He’s very ill, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “But what’s the matter with him?”

  “With a high fever like that he must have some acute infection. But at the moment it’s difficult to pinpoint.” I reached out and stroked the broad skull, running my fingers over the curving white face as my thoughts raced.

  For an instant the tail twitched between his hocks and the friendly eyes rolled round to me and then to his master. It was that movement of the eyes which seized my whole attention. I quickly raised the upper lid. The conjunctiva appeared to be a normal pink, but in the smooth white sclera I could discern the faintest tinge of yellow.

  “He’s got jaundice,” I said. “Have you noticed anything peculiar about his urine?”

  Jack Sanders nodded. “Yes, now you mention it. I saw him cock his leg in the garden and his water looked a bit dark.”

  “Those are bile pigments.” I gently squeezed the abdomen and the dog winced slightly. “Yes, he’s definitely tender in there.”

  “Jaundice?” His master stared at me across the table. “Where would he get that?”

  I rubbed my chin. “Well, when I see a dog like this I think firstly of two things—phosphorus poisoning and leptospirosis. In view of the high temperature I go for the leptospirosis.”

  “Would he catch it from another dog?”

  “Possibly, but more likely from rats. Does he come into contact with any rats?”

  “Yes, now and then. There’s a lot of them in an old hen house at the foot of the lane and Jing sometimes gets in there after them.”

  “Well that’s it” I shrugged. “I don’t think we need to look any further for the cause.”

  He nodded slowly. “Anyway, it’s something to know what’s wrong with him. Now you can set about putting him right.”

  I looked at him for a moment in silence. It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t want to upset him, but on the other hand he was a highly intelligent and sensible man in his forties, a teacher at the local school. I felt I had to tell him the whole truth.

  “Jack,” I said. “This is a terrible condition to treat. If there’s one thing I hate to see it’s a jaundiced dog.”

  “You mean it’s serious?”

  “I’m afraid so. In fact the mortality rate is very high.”

  I felt for him when I saw the sudden pain and concern in his face, but a warning now was better than a shock later, because I knew that Jingo could be dead within a few days. Even now, thirty years later, I quail when I see that yellowish discolouration in a dog’s eyes. Penicillin and other antibiotics have some effect against the causal organism of leptospirosis but the disease is still very often fatal.

  “I see … I see …” He was collecting his thoughts. “But surely you can do something?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I said briskly. “I’m going to give him a big shot of antileptospiral serum and some medicine to administer by the mouth. It isn’t completely hopeless.”

  I injected the serum in the knowledge that it didn’t have much effect at this stage, but I had nothing else to offer. I gave Skipper a shot, too, with the happier feeling that it would protect him against the infection.

  “One thing more, Jack,” I added. “This disease also affects humans, so please take all hygienic precautions when handling Jingo. All right?”

  He nodded and lifted the bull terrier from the table. The big dog, as most of my patients do, tried to hurry away from the disturbing white-coat-and-antiseptic atmosphere of the surgery. As he trotted along the passage his master turned to me eagerly.

  “Look at that! He doesn’t seem too bad, does he?”

  I didn’t say anything. I hoped with all my heart that he was right, but I was fighting off the conviction that this nice animal was doomed. At any rate I would soon know.

  I knew, in fact, next day. Jack Sanders was on the ’phone before nine o’clock in the morning.

  “Jing’s not so good,” he said, but the tremor in his voice belied the lightness of his words.

  “Oh.” I experienced the familiar drooping of the spirits. “What is he doing?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. Won’t eat a thing … lying around … just lifeless. And every now and then he vomits.”

  It was what I expected, but I still felt like kicking the desk by my side. “Very well, I’ll be right round.”

  There were no tail wags from Jing today. He was crouched before the fire, gazing listlessly into the coals. The yellow in his eyes had deepened to a rich orange and his temperature still soared. I repeated the serum injection, but the big dog did not heed the entry of the needle. Before I left I ran my hand over the smooth white body and Skipper as ever kept burrowing in on his friend, but Jingo’s thoughts were elsewhere, sunk in his inner misery.

  I visited him daily and on the fourth day I found him stretched almost comatose on his side. The conjunctiva, sclera, and the mucous membranes of the mouth were a dirty chocolate colour.

  “Is he suffering?” Jack Sanders asked.

  I hesitated for a moment. “I honestly don’t think he’s in pain. Sickness, nausea, yes, but I’d say that’s all.”

  “Well I’d like to keep on trying,” he said. “I don’t want to put him down even though you think it’s hopeless. You do … don’t you?”

  I made a non-committal gesture. I was watching Skipper who seemed bewildered. He had given up his worrying tactics and was sniffing round his friend in a puzzled manner. Only once did he pull very gently at the unresponsive ear.

  I went through the motions with a feeling of helplessness and left with the unpleasant intuition that I would never see Jingo alive again.

  And even though I was waiting for it, Jack Sanders’ ’phone call next morning was a bad start to the day.

  “Jing died during the night, Mr. Herriot. I thought I’d better let you know. You said you were coming back this morning.” He was trying to be matter-of-fact

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” I said. “I did rather expect …”

  ‘‘Yes, I know. And thank you for what you did.”

  It made it worse when people were nice at these times. The Sanderses were a childless couple and devoted to their animals. I knew how he was feeling.

  I stood there with the receiver in my hand. “Anyway, Jack, you’ve still got Skipper.” It sounded a bit lame, but it did help to have the comfort of one remaining dog, even though he was old.

  “That’s right,” he replied. “We’re very thankful for Skipper.”

  I went on with my work. Patients died sometimes and once it was over it was almost a relief, especially when I knew in Jingo’s case that the end was inevitable.

  But this thing wasn’t over. Less than a week later Jack Sanders was on the ’phone again.

  “It’s Skipper,” he said. “He seems to be going the same way as Jing.”

  A cold hand took hold of my stomach and twisted it.

  “But … but … he can’t be! I gave him the protective injection!”

  “Well, I don’t know, but he’s hanging around miserably and hardly eats a thing. He seems to be going down fast.”

  I ran out and jumped into my car. And as I drove to the edge of the town where the Sanderses lived my
heart thudded and panicky thoughts jostled around in my mind. How could he have got the infection? I had little faith in the serum as a cure but as a prevention I felt it was safe. I had even given him a second shot to make sure. The idea of these people losing both their dogs was bad enough but I couldn’t bear the thought that the second one might be my fault.

  The little corgi trailed unhappily across the carpet when he saw me and I lifted him quickly on to the kitchen table. I almost snatched at his eyelids in my anxiety but there was no sign of jaundice in the sclera nor in the mucous membranes of the mouth. The temperature was dead normal and I felt a wave of relief.

  “He hasn’t got leptospirosis, anyway,” I said. Mrs. Sanders clasped her hands. “Oh thank God for that. We were sure it was the same thing. He looks so awful.”

  I examined the little animal meticulously and when I finished I put my stethoscope in my pocket. “Well, I can’t find much wrong here. He’s got a bit of a heart murmur but you’ve known about that for some time. He’s old, after all.”

  “Do you think he could be fretting for Jing?” Jack Sanders asked.

  “Yes, I do. They were such friends. He must feel lost.”

  “But he’ll get over that won’t he?”

  “Oh of course he will. I’ll leave some mild sedative tablets for him and I’m sure they’ll help.” I met Jack a few days later in the market place. “How is Skipper?” I asked.

  He blew out his cheeks. “About the same. Maybe a bit worse. The trouble is he eats practically nothing—he’s getting very thin.”

  I didn’t see what else I could do but on the following day I looked in at the Sanderses’ as I was passing.

  I was shocked at the little corgi’s appearance. Despite his age he had been so cocky and full of bounce, and when Jing was alive he had been indisputably the boss dog. But now he was utterly deflated. He looked at me with lack-lustre eyes as I came in, then crept stiffly to his basket where he curled himself as though wishing to shut out the world.