All Things Wise and Wonderful

by James Herriot

  I was standing there when a young policeman came up to me.

  “I’ve been watching that little dog begging among the stalls all morning,” he said. “But like you, I haven’t been able to get near him.”

  “Yes, it’s strange. He’s obviously friendly, yet he’s afraid. I wonder who owns him.”

  “I reckon he’s a stray, Mr. Herriot. I’m interested in dogs myself and I fancy I know just about all of them around here. But this ’un’s a stranger to me.”

  I nodded. “I bet you’re right. So anything could have happened to him. He could have been ill-treated by somebody and run away, or he could have been dumped from a car.”

  “Yes,” he replied. There’s some lovely people around. It beats me how anybody can leave a helpless animal to fend for itself like that. I’ve had a few goes at catching him myself but it’s no good.”

  The memory stayed with me for the rest of the day and even when I lay in bed that night I was unable to dispel the disturbing image of the little brown creature wandering in a strange world, sitting up asking for help in the only way he knew.

  I was still a bachelor at that time and on the Friday night of the same week Siegfried and I were arraying ourselves in evening dress in preparation for the Hunt Ball at East Hirdsley, about ten miles away.

  It was a tortuous business because those were the days of starched shirt fronts and stiff high collars and I kept hearing explosions of colourful language from Siegfried’s room as he wrestled with his studs.

  I was in an even worse plight because I had outgrown my suit and even when I had managed to secure the strangling collar I had to fight my way into the dinner jacket which nipped me cruelly under the arms. I had just managed to don the complete outfit and was trying out a few careful breaths when the ’phone rang.

  It was the same young policeman I had been speaking to earlier in the week.

  “We’ve got that dog round here, Mr. Herriot. You know—the one that was begging in the market place.”

  “Oh yes? Somebody’s managed to catch him, then?’

  There was a pause. “No, not really. One of our men found him lying by the roadside about a mile out of town and brought him in. He’s been in an accident.”

  I told Siegfried. He looked at his watch. “Always happens, doesn’t it, James. Just when we’re ready to go out. It’s nine o’clock now and we should be on our way.” He thought for a moment. “Anyway, slip round there and have a look and I’ll wait for you. It would be better if we could go to this affair together.”

  As I drove round to the Police Station I hoped fervently that there wouldn’t be much to do. This Hunt Ball meant a lot to my boss because it would be a gathering of the horse-loving fraternity of the district and he would have a wonderful time just chatting and drinking with so many kindred spirits even though he hardly danced at all. Also, he maintained, it was good for business to meet the clients socially.

  The kennels were at the bottom of a yard behind the Station and the policeman led me down and opened one of the doors. The little dog was lying very still under the single electric bulb and when I bent and stroked the brown coat his tail stirred briefly among the straw of his bed.

  “He can still manage a wag, anyway,” I said.

  The policeman nodded. “Aye, there’s no doubt he’s a good-natured little thing.”

  I tried to examine him as much as possible without touching. I didn’t want to hurt him and there was no saying what the extent of his injuries might be. But even at a glance certain things were obvious; he had multiple lacerations, one hind leg was crooked in the unmistakable posture of a fracture and there was blood on his lips.

  This could be from damaged teeth and I gently raised the head with a view to looking into his mouth. He was lying on his right side and as the head came round it was as though somebody had struck me in the face.

  The right eye had been violently dislodged from its socket and it sprouted like some hideous growth from above the cheek bone, a great glistening orb with the eyelids tucked behind the white expanse of sclera.

  I seemed to squat there for a long time, stunned by the obscenity, and as the seconds dragged by I looked into the little dog’s face and he looked back at me—trustingly from one soft brown eye, glaring meaninglessly from the grotesque ball on the other side.

  The policeman’s voice broke my thoughts. “He’s a mess, isn’t he?”

  “Yes … yes … must have been struck by some vehicle—maybe dragged along by the look of all those wounds.”

  “What d’you think, Mr. Herriot?”

  I knew what he meant. It was the sensible thing to ease this lost unwanted creature from the world. He was grievously hurt and he didn’t seem to belong to anybody. A quick overdose of anaesthetic—his troubles would be over and I’d be on my way to the dance.

  But the policeman didn’t say anything of the sort. Maybe, like me, he was looking into the soft depths of that one trusting eye.

  I stood up quickly. “Can I use your ’phone?”

  At the other end of the line Siegfried’s voice crackled with impatience. “Hell, James, it’s half past nine! If we’re going to this thing we’ve got to go now or we might as well not bother. A stray dog, badly injured. It doesn’t sound such a great problem.”

  “I know, Siegfried. I’m sorry to hold you up but I can’t make up my mind. I wish you’d come round and tell me what you think.”

  There was a silence then a long sigh. “All right, James. See you in five minutes.”

  He created a slight stir as he entered the Station. Even in his casual working clothes Siegfried aways managed to look distinguished, but as he swept into the Station newly bathed and shaved, a camel coat thrown over the sparkling white shirt and black tie, there was something ducal about him.

  He drew respectful glances from the men sitting around, then my young policeman stepped forward.

  “This way, sir,” he said, and we went back to the kennels.

  Siegfried was silent as he crouched over the dog, looking him over as I had done without touching him. Then he carefully raised the head and the monstrous eye glared.

  “My God!” he said softly, and at the sound of his voice the long fringed tail moved along the ground.

  For a few seconds he stayed very still looking fixedly at the dog’s face while in the silence, the whisking tail rustled the straw.

  Then he straightened up. “Let’s get him round there,” he murmured.

  In the surgery we anaesthetised the little animal and as he lay unconscious on the table we were able to examine him thoroughly. After a few minutes Siegfried stuffed his stethoscope into the pocket of his white coat and leaned both hands on the table.

  “Luxated eyeball, fractured femur, umpteen deep lacerations, broken claws. There’s enough here to keep us going till midnight, James.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  My boss pulled the knot from his black tie and undid the front stud. He peeled off the stiff collar and hung it on the cross bar of the surgery lamp.

  “By God, that’s better,” he muttered, and began to lay out suture materials.

  I looked at him across the table. “How about the Hunt Ball?”

  “Oh bugger the Hunt Ball,” Siegfried said. “Let’s get busy.”

  We were busy, too, for a long time. I hung up my collar next to my colleague’s and we began on the eye. I know we both felt the same—we wanted to get rid of that horror before we did anything else.

  I lubricated the great ball and pulled the eyelids apart while Siegfried gently maneuvered it back into the orbital cavity. I sighed as everything slid out of sight, leaving only the cornea visible.

  Siegfried chuckled with satisfaction. “Looks like an eye again, doesn’t it” He seized an ophthalmoscope and peered into the depths.

  “And there’s no major damage—could be as good as new again. But we’ll just stitch the lids together to protect it for a few days.”

  The broken ends of the fractured tib
ia were badly displaced and we had a struggle to bring them into apposition before applying the plaster of paris. But at last we finished and started on the long job of stitching the many cuts and lacerations.

  We worked separately for this, and for a long time it was quiet in the operating room except for the snip of scissors as we clipped the brown hair away from the wounds. I knew and Siegfried knew that we were almost certainly working without payment, but the most disturbing thought was that after all our efforts we may still have to put him down. He was still in the care of the police and if nobody claimed him within ten days it meant euthanasia. And if his late owners were really interested in his fate, why hadn’t they tried to contact the police before now …?

  By the time we had completed our work and washed the instruments it was after midnight. Siegfried dropped the last suture needle into its tray and looked at the sleeping animal.

  “I think he’s beginning to come round,” he said. “Let’s take him through to the fire and we can have a drink while he recovers.”

  We stretchered the dog through to the sitting room on a blanket and laid him on the rug before the brightly burning coals. My colleague reached a long arm up to the glass-fronted cabinet above the mantelpiece and pulled down the whisky bottle and two glasses. Drinks in hand, collarless, still in shirt sleeves, with our starched white fronts and braided evening trousers to remind us of the lost dance we lay back in our chairs on either side of the fireplace and between us our patient stretched peacefully.

  He was a happier sight now. One eye was closed by the protecting stitches and his hind leg projected stiffly in its white cast, but he was tidy, cleaned up, cared for. He looked as though he belonged to somebody—but then there was a great big doubt about that.

  It was nearly one o’clock in the morning and we were getting well down the bottle when the shaggy brown head began to move.

  Siegfried leaned forward and touched one of the ears and immediately the tail flapped against the rug and a pink tongue lazily licked his fingers.

  “What an absolutely grand little dog,” he murmured, but his voice had a distant quality. I knew he was worried too.

  I took the stitches out of the eyelids in two days and was delighted to find a normal eye underneath.

  The young policeman was as pleased as I was. “Look at that!” he exclaimed. “You’d never know anything had happened there.”

  “Yes, it’s done wonderfully well. All the swelling and inflammation has gone.” I hesitated for a moment. “Has anybody enquired about him?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing yet But there’s another eight days to go and we’re taking good care of him here.”

  I visited the Police Station several times and the little animal greeted me with undisguised joy, all his fear gone, standing upright against my legs on his plastered limb, his tail swishing.

  But all the time my sense of foreboding increased, and on the tenth day I made my way almost with dread to the police kennels. I had heard nothing. My course of action seemed inevitable. Putting down old or hopelessly ill dogs was often an act of mercy but when it was a young healthy dog it was terrible. I hated it, but it was one of the things veterinary surgeons had to do.

  The young policeman was standing in the doorway.

  “Still no news?” I asked, and he shook his head.

  I went past him into the kennel and the shaggy little creature stood up against my legs as before, laughing into my face, mouth open, eyes shining.

  I turned away quickly. I’d have to do this right now or I’d never do it.

  “Mr. Herriot.” The policeman put his hand on my arm. “I think I’ll take him.”

  “You?” I stared at him.

  “Aye, that’s right. We get a lot o’ stray dogs in here and though I feel sorry for them you can’t give them all a home, can you?”

  “No, you can’t,” I said. “I have the same problem.”

  He nodded slowly. “But somehow this ’un’s different and it seems to me he’s just come at the right time. I have two little girls and they’ve been at me for a bit to get ’em a dog. This little bloke looks just right for the job.”

  Warm relief began to ebb through me. “I couldn’t agree more. He’s the soul of good nature. I bet he’d be wonderful with children.”

  “Good. That’s settled then. I thought I’d ask your advice first.” He smiled happily.

  I looked at him as though I had never seen him before. “What’s your name?”

  “Phelps,” he replied. “P. C. Phelps.”

  He was a good-looking young fellow, clear-skinned, with cheerful blue eyes and a solid dependable look about him. I had to fight against an impulse to wring his hand and thump him on the back. But I managed to preserve the professional exterior.

  “Well, that’s fine.” I bent and stroked the little dog. “Don’t forget to bring him along to the surgery in ten days for removal of the stiches, and we’ll have to get that plaster off in about a month.”

  It was Siegfried who took out the stitches, and I didn’t see our patient again until four weeks later.

  P. C. Phelps had his little girls, aged four and six, with him as well as the dog.

  “You said the plaster ought to come off about now,” he said, and I nodded.

  He looked down at the children. “Well, come on, you two, lift him on the table.”

  Eagerly the little girls put their arms around their new pet and as they hoisted him the tail wagged furiously and the wide mouth panted in delight.

  “Looks as though he’s been a success,” I said.

  He smiled. “That’s an understatement. He’s perfect with these two. I can’t tell you what pleasure he’s given us. He’s one of the family.”

  I got out my little saw and began to hack at the plaster.

  “It’s worked both ways, I should say. A dog loves a secure home.”

  “Well, he couldn’t be more secure.” He ran his hand along the brown coat and laughed as he addressed the little dog. “That’s what you get for begging among the stalls on market day, my lad. You’re in the hands of the law now.”

  CHAPTER 34

  WHEN I ENTERED THE RAF I had a secret fear. All my life I have suffered from vertigo and even now I have only to look down from the smallest height to be engulfed by that dreadful dizziness and panic. What would I feel, then, when I started to fly?

  As it turned out, I felt nothing. I could gaze downwards from the open cockpit through thousands of feet of space without a qualm, so my fear was groundless.

  I had my fears in veterinary practice, too, and in the early days the thing which raised the greatest terror in my breast was the Ministry of Agriculture.

  An extraordinary statement, perhaps, but true. It was the clerical side that scared me—all those forms. As to the practical Ministry work itself, I felt in all modesty that I was quite good at it. My thoughts often turned back to all the tuberculin testing I used to do—clipping a clean little area from just the right place in the cow’s neck, inserting the needle into the thickness of the skin and injecting one tenth of a cc of tuberculin.

  It was on Mr. Hill’s farm, and I watched the satisfactory intradermal “pea” rise up under my needle. That was the way it should be, and when it came up like that you knew you were really doing your job and testing the animal for tuberculosis.

  “That ’un’s number 65,” the farmer said, then a slightly injured look spread over his face as I checked the number in the ear.

  “You’re wastin’ your time, Mr. Herriot I ’ave the whole list, all in t’correct order. Wrote it out special for you so you could take it away with you.”

  I had my doubts. All farmers were convinced that their herd records were flawless but I had been caught out before. I seemed to have the gift of making every possible clerical mistake and I didn’t need any help from the farmers.

  But still … it was tempting. I looked at the long list of figures dangling from the horny fingers. If I accepted it I would save a lot of ti
me. There were still more than fifty animals to test here and I had to get through two more herds before lunch time.

  I looked at my watch. Damn! I was well behind my programme and I felt the old stab of frustration.

  “Right, Mr. Hill, I’ll take it and thank you very much.” I stuffed the sheet of paper into my pocket and began to move along the byre, clipping and injecting at top speed.

  A week later the dread words leaped out at me from the open day book. “Ring Min.” The cryptic phrase in Miss Harbottle’s writing had the power to freeze my blood quicker than anything else. It meant simply that I had to telephone the Ministry of Agriculture office, and whenever our secretary wrote those words in the book it meant that I was in trouble again. I extended a trembling hand towards the receiver.

  As always, Kitty Pattison answered my call and I could detect the note of pity in her voice. She was the attractive girl in charge of the office staff and she knew all about my misdemeanours. In fact when it was something very trivial she sometimes brought it to my attention herself, but when I had really dropped a large brick I was dealt with by the boss, Charles Harcourt the Divisional Inspector.

  “Ah, Mr. Herriot,” Kitty said lightly. I knew she sympathised with me but she couldn’t do a thing about it. “Mr. Harcourt wants a word with you.”

  There it was. The terrible sentence that always set my heart thumping.

  “Thank you,” I said huskily, and waited an eternity as the ’phone was switched through.

  “Herriot!” The booming voice made me jump.

  I swallowed. “Good morning, Mr. Harcourt. How are you?”

  “I’ll tell you how I am, I’m bloody annoyed!” I could imagine vividly the handsome, high-coloured, choleric face flushing deeper, the greenish eyes glaring. “In fact I’m hopping bloody mad!”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s no use saying ‘oh.’ That’s what you said the last time when you tested that cow of Frankland’s that had been dead for two years! That was very clever—I don’t know how you managed it. Now I’ve been going over your test at Hill’s of High View and there are two cows here that you’ve tested—numbers 74 and 103. Now our records show that he sold both of them at Brawton Auction Mart six months ago, so you’ve performed another miracle.”