Over the years Clancy’s treatment had all been at long range. My young boss, Siegfried Farnon, had told me on the first day I had arrived in Darrowby two years ago that there was nothing wrong with the dog, which he had described as a cross between an Airedale and a donkey, but his penchant for eating every bit of rubbish in his path had the inevitable result. A large bottle of bismuth–mag carb mixture had been dispensed at regular intervals. He had also told me that Clancy, when bored, used occasionally to throw Joe to the ground and worry him like a rat just for a bit of light relief. But his master still adored him.
Prickings of conscience told me I should carry out a full examination. Take his temperature, for instance. All I had to do was to grab hold of that tail, lift it and push a thermometer into his rectum. The dog turned his head and met my eye with a blank stare; again I heard the low booming drum roll and the upper lip lifted a fraction to show a quick gleam of white.
‘Yes, yes, right, Mr Mulligan,’ I said briskly. ‘I’ll get you a bottle of the usual.’
In the dispensary, under the rows of bottles with their Latin names and glass stoppers, I shook up the mixture in a ten-ounce bottle, corked it, stuck on a label and wrote the directions. Joe seemed well satisfied as he pocketed the familiar white medicine but as he turned to go my conscience smote me again. The dog did look perfectly fit but maybe he ought to be seen again.
‘Bring him back again on Thursday afternoon at two o’clock,’ I yelled into the old man’s ear. ‘And please come on time if you can. You were a bit late today.’
I watched Mr Mulligan going down the street, preceded by his pipe from which regular puffs rose upwards as though from a departing railway engine. Behind him ambled Clancy, a picture of massive calm. With his all-over covering of tight brown curls he did indeed look like a gigantic Airedale.
Thursday afternoon, I ruminated. That was my half-day and at two o’clock I’d probably be watching the afternoon cinema show in Brawton.
The following Friday morning Siegfried was sitting behind his desk, working out the morning rounds. He scribbled a list of visits on a pad, tore out the sheet and handed it to me.
‘Here you are, James, I think that’ll just about keep you out of mischief till lunch time.’ Then something in the previous day’s entries caught his eye and he turned to his younger brother who was at his morning task of stoking the fire.
‘Tristan, I see Joe Mulligan was in yesterday afternoon with his dog and you saw it. What did you make of it?’
Tristan put down his bucket. ‘Oh, I gave him some of the bismuth mixture.’
‘Yes, but what did your examination of the patient disclose?’
‘Well now, let’s see.’ Tristan rubbed his chin. ‘He looked pretty lively, really.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes . . . yes . . . I think so.’
Siegfried turned back to me. ‘And how about you, James? You saw the dog the day before. What were your findings?’
‘Well it was a bit difficult,’ I said. ‘That dog’s as big as an elephant and there’s something creepy about him. He seemed to me to be just waiting his chance and there was only old Joe to hold him. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to make a close examination but I must say I thought the same as Tristan – he did look pretty lively.’
Siegfried put down his pen wearily. On the previous night, fate had dealt him one of the shattering blows which it occasionally reserves for vets – a call at each end of his sleeping time. He had been dragged from his bed at 1 a.m. and again at 6 a.m. and the fires of his personality were temporarily damped.
He passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Well God help us. You, James, a veterinary surgeon of two years’ experience and you, Tristan, a final-year student, can’t come up with anything better between you than the phrase “pretty lively”. It’s a bloody poor thing! Hardly a worthy description of clinical findings is it? When an animal comes in here I expect you to record pulse, temperature and respiratory rate. To auscultate the chest and thoroughly palpate the abdomen. To open his mouth and examine teeth, gums and pharynx. To check the condition of the skin. To catheterise him and examine the urine if necessary.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘OK,’ said Tristan.
My employer rose from his seat. ‘Have you fixed another appointment?’
‘I have, yes.’ Tristan drew his packet of Woodbines from his pocket. ‘For Monday. And since Mr Mulligan’s always late for the surgery I said we’d visit the dog at his home in the evening.’
‘I see.’ Siegfried made a note on the pad, then he looked up suddenly. ‘That’s when you and James are going to the young farmers’ meeting, isn’t it?’
The young man drew on his cigarette. ‘That’s right. Good for the practice for us to mix with the young clients.’
‘Very well,’ Siegfried said as he walked to the door. ‘I’ll see the dog myself.’
On the following Tuesday I was fairly confident that Siegfried would have something to say about Mulligan’s dog, if only to point out the benefits of a thorough clinical examination. But he was silent on the subject.
It happened that I came upon old Joe in the market-place sauntering over the cobbles with Clancy inevitably trotting at his heels.
I went up to him and shouted in his ear. ‘How’s your dog?’
Mr Mulligan removed his pipe and smiled with slow benevolence. ‘Oh foine, sorr, foine. Still womitin’ a bit, but not bad.’
‘Mr Farnon fixed him up, then?’
‘Aye, gave him some more of the white medicine. It’s wonderful stuff, sorr, wonderful stuff.’
‘Good, good,’ I said. ‘He didn’t find anything else when he examined him?’
Joe took another suck at his pipe. ‘No he didn’t now, he didn’t. He’s a clever man, Mr Farnon – I’ve niver seen a man work as fast, no I haven’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well now he saw all he wanted in tree seconds, so he did.’
I was mystified. ‘Three seconds?’
‘Yis,’ said Mr Mulligan firmly. ‘Not a moment more.’
‘Amazing. What happened?’
Joe tapped out his pipe on his heel and without haste took out a knife and began to carve a refill from an evil looking coil of black twist. ‘Well now I’ll tell ye. Mr Farnon is a man who moves awful sudden, and that night he banged on our front door and jumped into the room.’ (I knew those cottages. There was no hall or lobby – you walked straight from the street into the living room.) ‘And as he came in he was pullin’ his thermometer out of its case. Well now Clancy was lyin’ by the fire and he rose up in a flash and he gave a bit of a wuff, so he did.’
‘A bit of a wuff, eh?’ I could imagine the hairy monster leaping up and baying into Siegfried’s face. I could see the gaping jaws, the gleaming teeth.
‘Aye, just a bit of a wuff. Well, Mr Farnon just put the thermometer straight back in its case, turned round and went out the door.’
‘Didn’t he say anything?’ I asked.
‘No, divil a word. Just turned about like a soldier and marched out the door, so he did.’
It sounded authentic. Siegfried was a man of instant decision. I put my hand out to pat Clancy but something in his eyes made me change my mind.
‘Well, I’m glad he’s better,’ I shouted.
The old man ignited his pipe with an ancient brass lighter, puffed a cloud of choking blue smoke into my face and tapped a little metal lid on to the bowl. ‘Aye, Mr Farnon sent round a big bottle of the white stuff and it’s done ’im good. Mind yous,’ he gave a beatific smile, ‘Clancy’s allus been one for the womitin’, so he has.’
Nothing more was said about the big dog for over a week, but Siegfried’s professional conscience must have been niggling at him because he came into the dispensary one afternoon when Tristan and I were busy at the tasks which have passed into history – making up fever drinks, stomach powders, boric acid pessaries. He was elaborately casual.
‘Oh by the way,
I dropped a note to Joe Mulligan. I’m not entirely convinced that we have adequately explored the causes of his dog’s symptoms. This womiting . . . er, vomiting is almost certainly due to depraved appetite but I just want to make sure. So I have asked him to bring him round tomorrow afternoon between two and two thirty when we’ll all be here.’
No cries of joy greeted his statement, so he continued. ‘I suppose you could say that this dog is to some degree a difficult animal and I think we should plan accordingly.’ He turned to me. ‘James, when he arrives you get hold of his back end, will you?’
‘Right,’ I replied without enthusiasm.
He faced his brother. ‘And you, Tristan, can deal with the head. OK?’
‘Fine, fine,’ the young man muttered, his face expressionless.
His brother continued. ‘I suggest you get a good grip with your arms round his neck and I’ll be ready to give him a shot of sedative.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Tristan.
‘Ah well, that’s capital.’ My employer rubbed his hands together. ‘Once I get the dope into him the rest will be easy. I do like to satisfy my mind about these things.’
It was a typical Dales practice at Darrowby; mainly large animal and we didn’t have packed waiting-rooms at surgery times. But on the following afternoon we had nobody in at all, and it added to the tension of waiting. The three of us mooched about the office, making aimless conversation, glancing with studied carelessness into the front street, whistling little tunes to ourselves. By two twenty-five we had all fallen silent. Over the next five minutes we consulted our watches about every thirty seconds, then at exactly two thirty Siegfried spoke up.
‘This is no damn good. I told Joe he had to be here before half past but he’s taken not a bit of notice. He’s always late and there doesn’t seem to be any way to get him here on time.’ He took a last look out of the window at the empty street. ‘Right, we’re not waiting any longer. You and I, James, have got that colt to cut and you, Tristan, have to see that beast of Wilson’s. So let’s be off.’
Up till then, Laurel and Hardy were the only people I had ever seen getting jammed together in doorways but there was a moment when the three of us gave a passable imitation of the famous comics as we all fought our way into the passage at the same time. Within seconds we were in the street and Tristan was roaring off in a cloud of exhaust smoke. My employer and I proceeded almost as rapidly in the opposite direction.
At the end of Trengate we turned into the market-place and I looked around in vain for signs of Mr Mulligan. It wasn’t until we had reached the outskirts of the town that we saw him. He had just left his house and was pacing along under a moving pall of blue smoke with Clancy as always bringing up the rear.
‘There he is!’ Siegfried exclaimed. ‘Would you believe it? At the rate he’s going he’ll get to the surgery around three o’clock. Well we won’t be there and it’s his own fault.’ He looked at the great curly-coated animal tripping along, a picture of health and energy. ‘Well, I suppose we’d have been wasting our time examining that dog in any case. There’s nothing really wrong with him.’
For a moment he paused, lost in thought, then he turned to me.
‘He does look pretty lively, doesn’t he?’
Formidable dogs come in many forms, but Clancy with his quiet menace was unique in my experience. And Joe Mulligan was memorable in his own right. His favourite word has stuck in my mind, and to this day when I am examining a dog with stomach trouble, I often only just stop myself asking, ‘Is he womiting?’
10. Mrs Donovan
The silvery-haired old gentleman with the pleasant face didn’t look the type to be easily upset but his eyes glared at me angrily and his lips quivered with indignation.
‘Mr Herriot,’ he said, ‘I have come to make a complaint. I strongly object to your callousness in subjecting my dog to unnecessary suffering.’
‘Suffering? What suffering?’ I was mystified.
‘I think you know, Mr Herriot. I brought my dog in a few days ago. He was very lame and I am referring to your treatment on that occasion.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I remember it well . . . but where does the suffering come in?’
‘Well, the poor animal is going around with his leg dangling and I have it on good authority that the bone is fractured and should have been put in plaster immediately.’ The old gentleman stuck his chin out fiercely.
‘All right, you can stop worrying,’ I said. ‘Your dog has a radial paralysis caused by a blow on the ribs and if you are patient and follow my treatment he’ll gradually improve. In fact I think he’ll recover completely.’
‘But he trails his leg when he walks.’
‘I know – that’s typical, and to the layman it does give the appearance of a broken leg. But he shows no sign of pain, does he?’
‘No, he seems quite happy, but this lady seemed to be absolutely sure of her facts. She was adamant.’
‘Lady?’
‘Yes,’ said the old gentleman. ‘She is clever with animals and she came round to see if she could help in my dog’s convalescence. She brought some excellent condition powders with her.’
‘Ah!’ A blinding shaft pierced the fog in my mind. All was suddenly clear. ‘It was Mrs Donovan, wasn’t it?’
‘Well . . . er, yes. That was her name.’
Old Mrs Donovan was a woman who really got around. No matter what was going on in Darrowby – weddings, funerals, house-sales – you’d find the dumpy little figure and walnut face among the spectators, the darting, black-button eyes taking everything in. And always, on the end of its lead, her terrier dog.
When I say ‘old’, I’m only guessing, because she appeared ageless; she seemed to have been around a long time but she could have been anything between fifty-five and seventy-five. She certainly had the vitality of a young woman because she must have walked vast distances in her dedicated quest to keep abreast of events. Many people took an uncharitable view of her acute curiosity but whatever the motivation, her activities took her into almost every channel of life in the town. One of these channels was our veterinary practice.
Because Mrs Donovan, among her other widely ranging interests, was an animal doctor. In fact I think it would be safe to say that this facet of her life transcended all the others.
She could talk at length on the ailments of small animals and she had a whole armoury of medicines and remedies at her command, her two specialities being her miracle working condition powders and a dog shampoo of unprecedented value for improving the coat. She had an uncanny ability to sniff out a sick animal, and it was not uncommon when I was on my rounds to find Mrs Donovan’s dark gipsy face poised intently over what I had thought was my patient while she administered calf’s foot jelly or one of her own patent nostrums.
I suffered more than Siegfried because I took a more active part in the small animal side of our practice. I was anxious to develop this aspect and to improve my image in this field and Mrs Donovan didn’t help at all. ‘Young Mr Herriot,’ she would confide to my clients, ‘is all right with cattle and such like, but he don’t know nothing about dogs and cats.’
And of course they believed her and had implicit faith in her. She had the irresistible mystic appeal of the amateur and on top of that there was her habit, particularly endearing in Darrowby, of never charging for her advice, her medicines, her long periods of diligent nursing.
Older folk in the town told how her husband, an Irish farmworker, had died many years ago and how he must have had a ‘bit put away’ because Mrs Donovan had apparently been able to indulge all her interests over the years without financial strain. Since she inhabited the streets of Darrowby all day and every day I often encountered her and she always smiled up at me sweetly and told me how she had been sitting up all night with Mrs So-and-so’s dog that I’d been treating. She felt sure she’d be able to pull it through.
There was no smile on her face, however, on the day when she rushed into the surgery whi
le Siegfried and I were having tea.
‘Mr Herriot!’ she gasped. ‘Can you come? My little dog’s been run over!’
I jumped up and ran out to the car with her. She sat in the passenger seat with her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly on her knees.
‘He slipped his collar and ran in front of a car,’ she murmured. ‘He’s lying in front of the school half-way up Cliffend Road. Please hurry.’
I was there within three minutes but as I bent over the dusty little body stretched on the pavement I knew there was nothing I could do. The fast-glazing eyes, the faint, gasping respirations, the ghastly pallor of the mucous membranes all told the same story.
‘I’ll take him back to the surgery and get some saline into him, Mrs Donovan,’ I said. ‘But I’m afraid he’s had a massive internal haemorrhage. Did you see what happened exactly?’
She gulped. ‘Yes, the wheel went right over him.’
Ruptured liver, for sure. I passed my hands under the little animal and began to lift him gently, but as I did so the breathing stopped and the eyes stared fixedly ahead.
Mrs Donovan sank to her knees and for a few moments she gently stroked the rough hair of the head and chest. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she whispered at last.
‘I’m afraid he is,’ I said.
She got slowly to her feet and stood bewilderedly among the little group of bystanders on the pavement. Her lips moved but she seemed unable to say any more.
I took her arm, led her over to the car and opened the door. ‘Get in and sit down,’ I said. ‘I’ll run you home. Leave everything to me.’
I wrapped the dog in my calving overall and laid him in the boot before driving away. It wasn’t until we drew up outside Mrs Donovan’s house that she began to weep silently. I sat there without speaking till she had finished. Then she wiped her eyes and turned to me.
‘Do you think he suffered at all?’
‘I’m certain he didn’t. It was all so quick – he wouldn’t know a thing about it.’
She tried to smile. ‘Poor little Rex, I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. We’ve travelled a few miles together, you know.’
James Herriot's Dog Stories Page 9