Vet in Harness by James Herriot

I don't think I have ever seen anybody leave a room as quickly as that

  man His chair overturned, there was a scurry, a scrapjng of hobnails,

  the clattering of fieeing feet in the passage then the banging of the

  outside door.

  He was gone, never to return .. .

  I don't think there is much doubt that we held an earthy fascination for

  our medical colleagues. They were constantly drifting in to watch us at

  work, particularly my own doctor, Harry Allinson, whose bald head often

  hovered over me as I operated on the small animals.

  "I've got to hand it to you boys,' he used to say. "When we come up

  against a surgical case we write a note to the hospital but you just

  switch on the steriliser.'

  He was interested, too, in our work with the microscope. It intrigued

  him that we should spend so much time peering down at skin scrapings for

  mange, blood films for anthrax milk and sputum smears for tuberculosis.

  "Sometimes I think you are a really scientific chap, Jim,' he would

  laugh. "Then I see you with your instruments.'

  He was referring to the occasions when he met me coming out of the

  surgery in the morning carrying my kit for the round; the grisly docking

  knives, firing tools, tooth forceps and dehorning shears which are now

  mercifully consigned to the museum. He would lift them from my arms and

  examine them wonderingly. ' You put the horse's tail in there, do you?

  And you bring the blade down like this .. . bang .. . just like a

  guillotine .. . my God!'

  I felt the same way myself.

  Harry Allinson's towering, wide-shouldered frame was part of the scenery

  of Darrowby. He was a Scot, like so many of the doctors in Yorkshire, a

  great athlete in his youth, a scratch golfer and an ebullient

  personality. One of his main characteristics was sheer noisiness and it

  was his habit to march into his patients' homes shouting and banging

  about. He was to deliver both my children and years later when one or

  the other was ill I have heard him come hollering into the house .. .

  "Anybody in? Who's there? Come on, let's be having you!' And it was

  wonderful how the little measles-ridden form revived and began to shout

  back at him.

  It was rewarding, too, to discover the gentleness and understanding

  behind the uproar Those qualities were always there when people needed

  them.

  Although he saw so much of my own work I was unable, naturally enough,

  to see him in action apart from when he was attending my own family.

  There was one time, however, when I did have a peep behind the curtain.

  I was called to see a lame cart horse and as I walked on to the farm I

  was surprised to see the vast form of Gobber Newhouse almost obscuring

  the view. The entire twenty stones of him was leaning on a shovel and he

  appeared to be part of a gang of building workers putting up a new barn.

  "Nah then, Herriot,' he said affably, 'what've ye been killin' this

  morning'?' He followed this typical sally with a throaty chuckle and

  looked round at his colleagues for applause.

  I gave him a nod and passed by. Fortunately I didn't often see Gobber

  but 4/4

  Vet In llarness when I did he always addressed me as "Herriot' and he

  invariably got in some little dig. And incidentally this was the first

  time I had ever observed him going through the motions of work; the

  Labour Exchange must have put some pressure on him because normally his

  life consisted of drinking, gambling, fighting and knocking his

  long-suffering little wife about.

  I spent some time with the horse's hind foot resting on my knee as I

  pared away at the sole. But there was no sign of pus and the only

  abnormality was a smelly disintegration of the horn around the frog.

  "He's got thrush,' I said to the farmer. "This doesn't often make them

  lame but he has shed quite a lot of horn and some of the sensitive

  tissues are exposed. I'll leave you some lotion for him.'

  I was walking back to get the bottle from the car when I saw there was

  some kind of commotion among the builder's men. They were standing in a

  group around Gobber who was seated on an upturned milk pail. He had his

  boot off and was anxiously examining his foot.

  The foreman called over to me. "Are you going straight back to Darrowby,

  Mr Herriot?'

  "Yes, I am.'

  "Well maybe you wouldn't mind givin' this feller a lift. He's stood on a

  nail - went clean through his boot. Could you take him to a doctor?'

  "Yes, of course.' I went over and viewed the fat man whose mates seemed

  to be enjoying the situation.

  "Here's the vet come to see ye, Gobber,' one of them cried. "He'll soon

  fix you up. He's been doctorin' t'oss's foot, now he can do yours. Will

  we haud 'im down for ye, Mr Herriot?'

  Another peered gloomily at the punctured wound on the foot. "By Gaw,

  this is a 'elf of a farm for lockjaw, Gobber. Ah'm afraid ye'll die a

  'orrible death.'

  The big man was not amused. His face was a tragic mask and the eflort of

  hauling his foot into view above his enormous belly made him shake

  uncontrollably.

  I opened the car door and, supported by a man on either side, he limped

  with many facial contortions across the farmyard. At first I thought

  we'd never be able to get him into the little vehicle and he groaned

  piteously as we pushed, pulled and finally wedged him into the passenger

  seat.

  As we headed along the road to Darrowby he cl~eared his throat

  nervously.

  "Mr Herriot,' he said. It was the first time he had ever accorded me

  a'mister'. "Is it true that where there's a lot of 'osses there's more

  lockjaw?'

  "Yes, I should say so,' I replied.

  He swallowed. "There's allus been a lot of 'osses at that farm, hasn't

  there?'

  "There has indeed.'

  "And what .. .' He passed a hand across his forehead. "What kind of . ..

  _ .. . cuts gets lockjaw in them?'

  I saw no reason to be merciful. "Oh, deep punctured wounds like you

  have. Especially in the feet.'

  "Oh bloody 'elf!' moaned Gobber. Like many bullies he was a big baby

  when his own hide was in danger.

  Watching him sweating there I relented a little.

  "Don't worry,' I said. "The doctor will give you a little shot and

  you'll have nothing to worry about.'

  The big man squirmed and wrung his hands. "Ah but I don't like

  "'needle.'

  "It's nothing, really,' I said, with only the slightest touch of sadism.

  "Just a quick jab.'

  "Oh bloody 'ell!'

  : 1

  . 1

  1

  . 1

  ~" At the surgery Harry Allinson gave us a cold look as we staggered in.

  He had attended a few of Mrs Newhouse's black eyes and he didn't approve

  of Gobber.

  "Right, Jim,' he grunted. "Leave him to me.'

  I was about to go when Gobber caught at my sleeve.

  "Stay with me, Mr Herriot!' he whimpered. The man was in a pitiable

  state of fright and I looked questioningly at the doctor.

  Harry shrugged. "OK, you can stay and hold his hand if that's what he

  wants.
'

  He produced a phial of tetanus antitoxin and a syringe.

  "Drop your trousers and bend over, Newhouse,' he ordered curtly.

  Gobber complied, exposing flaccid acres of the biggest backside, horses

  included, which I had ever seen.

  "You know, Newhouse,' Harry said conversationally as he filled the

  syringe before the big man's terrified eyes. "Your wife tells me you

  have no feelings.' He laughed gently. "Yes, that's what she says .. .

  you have absolutely no feelings.'

  He stepped quickly to the rear, rammed the needle deep into the

  quivering buttock, then, as a shrill howl shook the windows, he looked

  into Gobber's face with a wolfish grin.

  "But you bloody well felt that, didn't you!'

  Chapter Seventeen.

  You often see dogs running along a road but there was something about

  this one which made me slow down and take a second look.

  It was a small brown animal and it was approaching on the other side;

  and it wasn't just ambling by the grass verge but galloping all out on

  its short legs, head extended forward as though in desperate pursuit of

  something unseen beyond the long empty curve of tarmac ahead. As the dog

  passed I had a brief glimpse of two staring eyes and a lolling tongue,

  then he was gone.

  My car stalled and lurched to a halt but I sat unheeding, still gazing

  into the mirror at the small form receding rapidly until it was almost

  invisible against the browns and greens of the surrounding moor. As I

  switched on the engine I had difficulty in dragging my thoughts back to

  the job in hand; because I had seen something chilling there, a

  momentary but vivid impression of frantic effort, despair, blind terror.

  And driving away, the image stayed with me. Where had that dog come

  from? There were no roadside farms on this high, lonely by-way, not a

  parked car anywhere. And in any case he wasn't just casually going

  somewhere; there was a frenzied urgency in his every movement.

  It was no good I had to find out. I backed off the unfenced road among

  the spare tufts of heather and turned back in the direction I had come.

  I had to drive a surprisingly long way before I saw the little animal,

  still beating his solitary way, and at the sound of the approaching car

  he halted, stared for a moment then trotted on again. But his labouring

  limbs told me he was near exhaustion and I pulled up twenty yards ahead

  of him, got out and waited.

  He made no protest as I knelt on the roadside turf and caught him gently

  as he came up to me. He was a Border terrier and after another quick

  glance at the car his eyes took on their terrified light as he looked

  again at the empty road ahead.

  He wasn't wearing a collar but there was a ring of flattened hair on his

  neck as though one had recently been removed. I opened his mouth and

  looked at his teeth; he wasn't very old - probably around two or three.

  There were rolls of fat along his ribs so he hadn't been starved. I was

  examining his skin when suddenly the wide panting mouth closed and the

  whole body stiffened as another car approached. For a moment he stared

  at it with fierce hope but when the vehicle flashed by he sagged and

  began to pant again.

  So that was it. He had been dumped. Some time ago the humans he had

  loved and trusted had opened their car door, hurled him out into an

  unknown world and driven merrily away. I began to feel sick physically

  sick - and a murderous rage flowed through me. Had they laughed, I

  wondered, these people at the idea of the bewildered little creature

  toiling vainly behind them?

  I passed my hand over the rough hairs of the head. I could forgive

  anybody for robbing a bank but never for this, "Come on, fella,' I said,

  lifting him gently, 'you're coming home with me.'

  Sam was used to strange dogs in the car and he sniffed incuriously at

  the newcomer. The terrier huddled on the passenger seat trembling

  violently and I kept my hand on him as I drove.

  Back in our bed-sitter Helen pushed a bowl of meat and biscuit under his

  nose but the little animal showed no interest.

  "How could anybody do this?' she murmured. "And anyway, why? What reason

  could they have?'

  I stroked the head again. "Oh you'd be surprised at some of the reasons.

  Sometimes they do it because a dog turns savage, but that can't be so in

  this case.' I had seen enough of dogs to interpret the warm friendly

  light behind the fear in those eyes. And the way the terrier had

  submitted unquestioningly as I had prised his mouth open, lifted him,

  handled him, all pointed to one thing; he was a docile little creature.

  "Or sometimes,' I continued, 'they dump dogs just because they're tired

  of them. They got them when they were charming puppies and have no

  interest in them when they grow up. Or maybe the licence is due to be

  paid - that's a good enough reason for some people to take a drive into

  the country and push their pets out into the unknown.' I didn't say any

  more. There was quite a long list and why should I depress Helen with

  tales of the other times when I had seen it happen?

  People moving to another house where they couldn't keep a dog. A baby

  arriving and claiming all the attention and affection. And dogs were

  occasionally abandoned when a more glamorous pet superseded them.

  I looked at the little terrier. This was the sort of thing which could

  have happened to him. A big dashing Alsatian, an eye-catching Saluki

  anything like that would take over effortlessly from a rather roly-poly

  Border terrier with some people. I had seen it in the past. The little

  fellow was definitely running to fat despite his comparative youth; in

  fact when he had been running back there his legs had splayed out from

  his shoulders. That was another clue; it was possible he had spent most

  of his time indoors without exercise.

  Anyway I was only guessing. I rang the police. No reports of a lost dog

  in the district. I hadn't really expected any.

  During the evening we did our best to comfort the terrier but he lay

  trembling, his head on his paws, his eyes closed. The only time he

  showed interest was when a car passed along the street outside, then he

  would raise his head and listen, ears pricked, for a few seconds till

  the sound died away. Helen hoisted him on to her lap and held him there

  for over an hour, but he was too deeply sunk in his misery to respond to

  her caresses and soft words.

  I finally decided it would be the best thing to sedate him and gave him

  a shot of morphine. When we went to bed he was stretched out sound

  asleep in Sam's basket with Sam himself curled up philosophically on the

  rug by his side.

  Next morning he was still unhappy but sufficiently recovered to look

  around him and take stock. When I went up and spoke to him he rolled

  over on his back, not playfully but almost automatically as though it

  was a normal mannerism. I bent and rubbed his chest while he looked up

  at me non-commitally. I liked dogs which rolled over like this; they

  were usually good-natured and it was a gesture of trust.

&n
bsp; "That's better, old lad,' I said. "Come on, cheer up!'

  For a moment his mouth opened wide. He had a comical little monkey face

  and briefly it seemed to be split in two by a huge grin, making him look

  extraordinarily attractive.

  Helen spoke over my shoulder. "He's a lovely little dog, Jim! He's so

  appealing - I could get really fond of him.'

  Yes, that was the trouble. So could I. I could get too fond of all the

  unwanted animals which passed through our hands; not just the abandoned

  ones but the dogs which came in for euthanasia with the traumatic

  addendum 'unless you can find him a home'. That put the pressure on me.

  Putting an animal to sleep when he was incurably ill, in pain, or so old

  that life had lost its savour was something I could tolerate. In fact

  often it seemed as though I were doing the suffering creature a favour.

  But when a young, healthy, charming animal was involved then it was a

  harrowing business.

  What does a vet do in these circumstances. Refuse and send the owner

  away with the lurking knowledge that the man might go round to the

  chemist and buy a dose of posion? That was far worse than our humane,

  painless barbiturate. One thing a vet can't do is take in all those

  animals himself. If I had given way to all my impulses I would have

  accumulated a positive menagerie by now.

  It was a hell of a problem which had always troubled me and now I had a

  soft hearted wife which made the pull twice as strong.

  I turned to her now and voiced my thoughts.

  "Helen, we can't keep him, you know. One dog in a bed-sitter is enough.'

  I didn't add that we ourselves probably would not be in the bed-sitter

  much longer; that was another thing I didn't want to bring up.

  She nodded. "I suppose so. But I have the feeling that this is one of

  the sweetest little dogs I've seen for a long time. When he gets over

  his fear, I mean. What on earth can we do with him?'

  "Well, he's a stray.' I bent again and rubbed the rough hair over the

  chest. "So he should really go to the kennels at the police station. But

  if he isn't claimed in ten days we are back where we started.' I put my

  hand under the terrier's body and lifted him, limp and unresisting, into

  the crook of my arm. He liked people, this one; liked and trusted them.

  "I could ask around the practice, of course, but nobody seems to want a

  dog when there's one going spare.' I thought for a moment or two. "Maybe

  an advert in the local paper.'

  "Wait a minute,' Helen said. "Talking about the paper - didn't I read

  something about an animal shelter last week?'

  I looked at her uncomprehendingly then I remembered.

  "That's right. Sister Rose from the Topley Banks hospital. They were

  interviewing her about the stray animals she had taken in. It would be

  worth a try' I replaced the terrier in Sam's basket. "We'll keep this

  little chap today and I'll ring Sister Rose when I finish work tonight.'

  At teatime I could see that things were getting out of hand. When I came

  in the little dog was on Helen's knee and it looked as though he had

  been there for a long time. She was stroking his head and looking

  definitely broody.

  Not only that, but as I looked down at him I could feel myself

  weakening.

  Little phrases were creeping unbidden into my mind .. . "I wonder if we

  could ~ find room for him ... ' ... "Not much extra trouble ... ' ...

  "Perhaps if .) we .. .'

  I had to act quickly or I was sunk. Reaching for the phone I dialled the

  hospital number. They soon found Sister Rose and I listened to a

  cheerful, businesslike voice. She didn't seem to find anything unusual

  in the situation and the matter-of fact way she asked questions about

  the terrier's age, appearance, temperament etc. gave the impression that