Mrs Sanders nodded. ‘That’s right. Then you think . . . this could be the end?’
‘It’s possible.’ I knew what she was thinking. A couple of weeks ago two healthy dogs rolling around and playing in this house and now there could soon be none.
‘But isn’t there anything else you can do?’
‘Well I can give him a course of digitalis for his heart. And perhaps you would bring in a sample of his urine. I want to see how his kidneys are functioning.’
I tested the urine. There was a little albumen, but no more than you would expect in a dog of his age. I ruled out nephritis as a cause.
As the days passed I tried other things: vitamins, iron tonics, organo-phosphates, but the little animal declined steadily. It was about a month after Jing’s death that I was called to the house again.
Skipper was in his basket and when I called to him he slowly raised his head. His face was pinched and fleshless and the filmed eyes regarded me without recognition.
‘Come on, lad,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Let’s see you get out of there.’
Jack Sanders shook his head. ‘It’s no good, Mr Herriot. He never leaves his basket now and when we lift him out he’s almost too weak to walk. Another thing . . . he makes a mess down here in the kitchen during the night. That’s something he’s never done.’
It was like the tolling of a sad bell. Everything he said pointed to a dog in the last stages of senility. I tried to pick my words.
‘I’m sorry, Jack, but it all sounds as if the old chap has come to the end of the road. I don’t think fretting could possibly cause all this.’
He didn’t speak for a moment. He looked at his wife then down at the forlorn little creature. ‘Well of course this has been in the back of our minds. But we’ve kept hoping he would start to eat. What . . . what do you suggest?’
I could not bring myself to say the fateful words. ‘It seems to me that we can’t stand by and let him suffer. He’s just a little skeleton and I can’t think he’s getting any pleasure out of his life now.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And I agree. He lies there all day – he has no interest in anything.’ He paused and looked at his wife again. ‘I tell you what, Mr Herriot. Let us think it over till tomorrow. But you do think there’s no hope?’
‘Yes, Jack, I do. Old dogs often go this way at the end. Skipper has just cracked up . . . he’s finished, I’m afraid.’
He drew a long breath. ‘Right, if you don’t hear from me by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, please come and put him to sleep.’
I had small hope of the call coming and it didn’t. In those early days of our marriage Helen worked as a secretary for one of the local millers. We often started our day together by descending the long flights of stairs from our bed-sitter and I would see her out of the front door before getting ready for my round.
This morning she gave me her usual kiss before going out into the street, but then she looked at me searchingly. ‘You’ve been quiet all through breakfast, Jim. What’s the matter?’
‘It’s nothing, really. Just part of the job,’ I said. But when she kept her steady gaze on me I told her quickly about the Sanders.
She touched my arm. ‘It’s such a shame, Jim, but you can’t let your sad cases depress you. You’d never survive.’
‘Aagh, I know that. But I’m a softy, that’s my trouble. Sometimes I think I should never have been a vet.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t imagine you as anything else. You’ll do what you have to do, and you’ll do it the right way.’ She kissed me again, turned and ran down the steps.
It was mid-morning before I drew up outside the Sanders’s home. I opened the car boot and took out the syringe and the bottle of concentrated anaesthetic which would give the old dog a peaceful and painless end.
The first thing I saw when I went into the kitchen was a fat little white puppy waddling across the floor.
I looked down in astonishment. ‘What’s this . . . ?’
Mrs Sanders gave me a strained smile. ‘Jack and I had a talk yesterday. We couldn’t bear the idea of not having a dog at all, so we went round to Mrs Palmer who bred Jing and found she had a litter for sale. It seemed like fate. We’ve called him Jingo, too.’
‘What a splendid idea!’ I lifted the pup which squirmed in my hand, grunted in an obese manner and tried to lick my face. This, I felt, would make my unpleasant task easier. ‘I think you’ve been very sensible.’
I lifted the bottle of anaesthetic unobtrusively from my pocket and went over to the basket in the corner. Skipper was still curled in the unheeding ball of yesterday and the comforting thought came to me that all I was going to do was push him a little further along the journey he had already begun.
I pierced the rubber diaphragm on the bottle with my needle and was about to withdraw the barbiturate when I saw that Skipper had raised his head. Chin resting on the edge of the basket, he seemed to be watching the pup. Wearily his eyes followed the tiny creature as it made its way to a dish of milk and began to lap busily. And there was something in his intent expression which had not been there for a long time.
I stood very still as the Corgi made a couple of attempts then heaved himself to a standing position. He almost fell out of the basket and staggered on shaking legs across the floor. When he came alongside the pup he remained there, swaying, for some time, a gaunt caricature of his former self, but as I watched in disbelief, he reached forward and seized the little white ear in his mouth.
Stoicism is not a characteristic of pups and Jingo the Second yelped shrilly as the teeth squeezed. Skipper, undeterred, continued to gnaw with rapt concentration.
I dropped bottle and syringe back in my pocket. ‘Bring him some food,’ I said quietly.
Mrs Sanders hurried to the pantry and came back with a few pieces of meat on a saucer. Skipper continued his ear-nibbling for a few moments then sniffed the pup unhurriedly from end to end before turning to the saucer. He hardly had the strength to chew but he lifted a portion of meat and his jaws moved slowly.
‘Good heavens!’ Jack Sanders burst out. ‘That’s the first thing he’s eaten for days!’
His wife seized my arm. ‘What’s happened, Mr Herriot? We only got the puppy because we couldn’t have a house without a dog.’
‘Well, it looks to me as though you’ve got two again.’ I went over to the door and smiled back at the two people watching fascinated as the Corgi swallowed, then started determinedly on another piece of meat. ‘Good morning, I’m going now.’
About eight months later, Jack Sanders came into the surgery and put Jingo Two on the table. He was growing into a fine animal with the wide chest and powerful legs of the breed. His good-natured face and whipping tail reminded me strongly of his predecessor.
‘He’s got a bit of eczema between his pads,’ Jack said, then he bent and lifted Skipper up.
At that moment I had no eyes for my patient. All my attention was on the Corgi, plump and bright-eyed, nibbling at the big white dog’s hind limbs with all his old bounce and vigour.
‘Just look at that!’ I murmured. ‘It’s like turning the clock back.’
Jack Sanders laughed. ‘Yes, isn’t it. They’re tremendous friends – just like before.’
‘Come here, Skipper.’ I grabbed the little Corgi and looked him over. When I had finished I held him for a moment as he tried to wriggle his way back to his friend. ‘Do you know, I honestly think he’ll go on for years yet.’
‘Really?’ Jack Sanders looked at me with a mischievous light in his eyes. ‘But I seem to remember you saying quite a long time ago that his days were over – he was finished.’
I held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. But sometimes it’s lovely to be wrong.’
One of my warm memories about the importance of animal relationships. The psychological side of animal doctoring is deeply interesting. If they feel they have nothing to live for they will very often die, and this holds good in all animal
species, as in the case of a ewe who will usually survive a tough lambing if she has a lamb to care for. Skipper’s case was proof of the most satisfying kind. Of course, losing a companion affects different dogs in different ways. Some of them just fret briefly, but others mourn the loss for a very long time
35. Seth Pilling and His Little Knowledge
‘That young Herriot’s a bloody thick-’ead.’
It wasn’t the sort of statement to raise one’s morale and for a moment the good ale turned to vinegar in my mouth. I was having a quiet pint all alone in the ‘snug’ of the Crown and Anchor on my way home from an evening colic case, and the words came clearly through the hatch from the public bar.
I shifted my position slightly so that I could see into the brightly lit room. The speaker was Seth Pilling, a casual labourer and a well-known character in Darrowby. He was designated a labourer, but in truth he didn’t labour unduly and his burly frame and red, meaty face was a common sight around the Labour Exchange where he signed for his unemployment pay.
‘Aye, ’e’s got no idea. Knaws nowt about dogs.’ The big man tipped about half a pint over his throat in one swallow.
‘He’s not a bad hand wi’ cows,’ another voice broke in.
‘Aye, maybe, but I’m not talkin’ about bloody awd cows,’ Seth retorted witheringly. ‘I’m talkin’ about dogs. Ye need skill to doctor dogs.’
A third man spoke up. ‘Well, ’e’s a vitnery, isn’t he?’
‘Aye, a knaw he is, but there’s all kind o’ vitneries and this ’un’s a dead loss. Ah could tell ye some tales about this feller.’
They say an eavesdropper never hears anything good about himself, and I knew the sensible thing would be to get out of there immediately rather than hear this man vilifying me in a crowded bar. But of course I didn’t get out. I stayed, morbidly fascinated, listening with every nerve and fibre.
‘What sort o’ tales, Seth?’ The company was as interested as I was.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘there’s many a time folks ’ave brought dogs to me that he’s made a mess of.’
‘Tha knaws all about dogs, doesn’t tha, Seth?’
It was perhaps wishful thinking that made me imagine a touch of sarcasm in the last remark, but if it were so it was lost on Mr Pilling. His big, stupid face creased into a self-satisfied smirk.
‘Ah’ll tell ye there’s not a lot ah don’t know about ’em. I’ve been among ’em all me life and I’ve studied t’job, too.’ He slurped down more beer. ‘I’ve got a houseful o’ books and read ’em all. Ah ken everythin’ about them diseases and the remedies.’
Another of the men in the bar spoke. ‘Have ye never been beat wi’ a dog job, Seth?’
There was a pause. ‘Well ah’m not goin’ to say I never ’ave,’ he said judicially. ‘It’s very rare I’m beat, but if I am I don’t go to Herriot.’ He shook his head. ‘Nay, nay, ah slip through to Brawton and consult wi’ Dennaby Broome. He’s a big friend o’ mine.’
In the quiet of the snug I sipped at my glass. Dennaby Broome was one of the many ‘quacks’ who flourished in those days. He had started in the building trade – as a plasterer to be exact – and had gravitated mysteriously and without formal training into the field of veterinary science, where he now made a comfortable living.
I had nothing against him for that – we all have to live. In any case he rarely bothered me because Brawton was mainly outside our practice orbit, but my colleagues around there used some unkind words about him. I had a private conviction that a lot of his success was due to his resounding name. To me, the very words ‘Dennaby Broome’ were profoundly imposing.
‘Aye, that’s what ah do,’ Seth continued. ‘Dennaby and me’s big friends and we oft consult about dogs. Matter of fact ah took me own dog to ’im once – he looks well, eh?’
I stood on tiptoe and peered into the bar. I could just see Seth’s Keeshond sitting at his feet. A handsome creature with a luxuriant glossy coat. The big man leaned over and patted the fox-like head. ‘He’s a vallible animal is that. Ah couldn’t trust ’im to a feller like Herriot.’
‘What’s the matter wi’ Herriot, any road?’ somebody asked.
‘Well, ah’ll tell tha.’ Seth tapped his head. ‘He hasn’t got ower much up ’ere.’
I didn’t want to hear any more. I put down my glass and stole out into the night.
After that experience I took more notice of Seth Pilling. He was often to be seen strolling round the town because, despite his vast store of knowledge on many subjects, he was frequently out of work. He wasn’t an expert only on dogs – he pontificated in the Crown and Anchor on politics, gardening, cage birds, agriculture, the state of the economy, cricket, fishing and many other matters. There were few topics which his wide intellect did not effortlessly embrace, so that it was surprising that employers seemed to dispense with his services after a very brief period.
He usually took his dog with him on his strolls, and the attractive animal began to appear to me as a symbol of my shortcomings. Instinctively I kept out of his way but one morning I came right up against him.
It was at the little shelter in the market-place and a group of people were waiting for the Brawton bus. Among them was Seth Pilling and the Keeshond, and as I passed within a few feet of them on my way to the post office I stopped involuntarily and stared. The dog was almost unrecognisable.
The dense, off-standing ash-grey coat I knew so well had become sparse and lustreless. The thick ruff, so characteristic of the breed, had shrunk to nothing.
‘You’re lookin’ at me dog?’ Mr Pilling tightened the lead and pulled the little animal towards him protectively as though he feared I might put my contaminating hand on him.
‘Yes . . . I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing. He has a skin condition . . . ?’
The big man looked down his nose at me. ‘Aye, ’e has, a bit. I’m just takin’ him through to Brawton to see Dennaby Broome.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes, ah thought ah’d better take ’im to somebody as knows summat about dogs.’ He smirked as he looked around at the people in the shelter who were listening with interest. ‘He’s a vallible dog is that.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ I said.
He raised his voice further. ‘Mind you, ah’ve been givin’ him some of me own treatment.’ He didn’t have to tell me. There was a strong smell of tar, and the dog’s hair was streaked with some oily substance. ‘But it’s maybe better to make sure. We’re lucky to ’ave a man like Dennaby Broome to turn to.’
‘Quite.’
He looked around his audience appreciatively. ‘Especially with a vallible dog like this. You can’t ’ave any Tom, Dick or Harry muckin’ around with ’im.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I hope you get him put right.’
‘Oh, ah will.’ The big man was enjoying the interlude, and he laughed. ‘Don’t you worry about that’
This little session did not enliven my day, but it gave me more reason to watch out for Mr Pilling. For the next two weeks I observed his movements with the deepest interest because his dog was losing its hair at an alarming rate. Not only that, but the animal’s whole demeanour had changed, and instead of tripping along in his old sprightly way he dragged one foot after another as though he were on the point of death.
Towards the end of the period I was horrified to see the big man with something like a shorn ewe on the end of the lead. It was all that was left of the beautiful Keeshond, but as I started to walk towards him his master spotted me and hurried off in the opposite direction, dragging the unfortunate animal behind him.
I did, however, succeed in having a look at the dog a few days afterwards. He was in the waiting room at Skeldale House, and this time he was accompanied by his mistress instead of his master.
Mrs Pilling was sitting very upright, and when I asked her to come through to the consulting room she jumped to her feet, marched past me and stumped quickly along the passage in front of me.
She was quite small, but broad hipped and stocky, and she always walked rapidly, her head nodding forward aggressively at each step, her jaw thrust out. She never smiled.
I had heard it said that Seth Pilling was a big talker outside, but under his own roof he was scared to death of his little wife. And as the tight-mouthed fiery-eyed face turned to me I could believe it.
She bent, pushed powerful arms under the Keeshond and hoisted him on to the table.
‘Just look at me good dog, Mr Herriot!’ she rapped out.
I looked. ‘Good heavens!’ I gasped.
The little animal was almost completely bald. His skin was dry, scaly and wrinkled, and his head hung down as though he were under sedation.
‘Aye, you’re surprised, aren’t you?’ she barked. ‘And no wonder. He’s in a terrible state, isn’t he?’
‘I’m afraid so. I wouldn’t have known him.’
‘No, nobody would. Ah think the world ’o this dog and just look at ’im!’ She paused and snorted a few times. ‘And I know who’s responsible, don’t you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Oh, you do. It’s that husband o’ mine.’ She paused and glared at me, breathing rapidly. ‘What d’you think of my husband, Mr Herriot?’
‘I really don’t know him very well. I . . .’
‘Well ah know ’im and he’s a gawp. He’s a great gawp. Knows everything and knows nowt. He’s played around wi’ me good dog till he’s ruined ’im.’
I didn’t say anything. I was studying the Keeshond. It was the first time I had been able to observe him closely and I was certain I knew the cause of his trouble.
Mrs Pilling stuck her jaw out further and continued.
‘First me husband said it was eczema. Is it?’
‘No.’
‘Then ’e said it was mange. Is it?’
‘No.’
‘D’you know what it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, will you tell me please?’
‘It’s myxoedema.’
‘Myx . . . ?’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘I’ll just make absolutely sure.’ I reached for my stethoscope and put it on the dog’s chest. And the bradycardia was there as I expected, the slow, slow heartbeat of hypothyroidism. ‘Yes, that’s it. Not a shadow of a doubt about it.’
James Herriot's Dog Stories Page 34