Джеймс Хэрриот - Every Living Thing

“What!” She looked round the kitchen door in alarm.

“Yes…afraid so, but I’m calling first to see young Jack Arnold along the road.”

“Farmer Arnold’s son?”

“Yes, that’s right. The lad who does all that bicycle racing.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to borrow his clips.”

Chapter 49

SISTER ROSE GENTLY LIFTED the trembling dog onto the table. He was a tiny cross-bred terrier and he looked at me with terrified eyes.

“Poor little beggar,” I said. “No wonder he’s frightened. This is the one that was found on the road in Helvington, isn’t it?”

Sister Rose nodded. “Yes, running about aimlessly, looking for his owners. You’ve seen it all before.”

I had indeed. The desperate search for the people he had loved and trusted who had dumped him and driven away. The dashing up, open-mouthed, to somebody who looked familiar, then turning away in bewilderment. To me it was an almost unbearable sight, evoking feelings of rage and pity that almost choked me.

“Never mind, old lad,” I said, stroking the shaggy head. “There are better days ahead.”

There were always better days ahead for the abandoned dogs at Sister Rose’s little animal sanctuary. It was amazing how soon her care and affection reassured and transformed the helpless creatures, and through the open door of the treatment room I could see the wagging tails and hear the joyous barking of the dogs in the row of wire-fronted pens.

I was here to do the usual things. Check up on the health and condition of the new arrivals and give them their shots against distemper, hepatitis and leptospirosis, remove the stitches from the spay incisions (all bitches were spayed on arrival) and generally attend to any illness I might find.

“I see he’s holding up a hind leg,” I said.

“Yes, he doesn’t seem to be able to use that leg at all and I want you to have a look at it. I hope it’s just a temporary thing.”

I examined the foot and claws. Normal. And as I felt my way up the leg, I soon found the cause of the trouble.

I turned to Sister Rose. “He’s had a fractured femur and it’s never been set. The bone has formed a sort of callus but there’s no real healing.”

“So this little thing had a broken leg and his owners just didn’t bother about it?”

“That’s right.” I ran my hand over the little body, feeling the jutting backbone, the almost fleshless ribs. “He’s emaciated too, just about skin and bone. This is a neglected dog if ever I saw one.”

“And I’ll bet he’s never had any affection either,” she said softly. “Look how he trembles when we speak. He seems to be afraid of people.” She gave a long sigh. “Ah, well, we’ll do what we can. How about that leg?”

“I’ll have to X-ray it later today to see what can be done.” I gave him his inoculations and Sister Rose carried him out and placed him in a pen on his own. “By the way,” I said. “What have you called this one?”

She smiled. “I’ve called him Titch. Not a very elegant name, but he’s so little.”

“Yes, I agree. Very suitable.” As I spoke, the thought recurred that finding names for her constant flow of rescued animals was only one of Sister Rose’s problems. She was the radiologist at a big hospital but still found time to care for her ever-changing doggy family, still was able to find the money by running efforts for her “biscuit fund” and by dipping into her own pocket.

I was bandaging another dog’s infected foot when I saw a man walking up and down the row of pens. He had his hands behind his back as he looked intently at the eager faces behind the wire.

“I see you’ve got a customer,” I said.

“I hope so. I like the look of him. He arrived just before you and he’s making a very thorough search.”

As she spoke the man half turned to have a closer look. There was something familiar about that stocky frame.

“That’s Rupe Nellist,” I exclaimed. “I know him.”

A few years ago he had run a large grocery shop in Darrowby but he had expanded and opened another bigger business in the bustling town of Hargrove, thirty miles away, and had moved away to live there, but he was still a faithful client and had brought his dog to me regularly until it died at the age of fifteen only a week ago.

I finished my bandaging and went out to him with Sister Rose.

“Hello, Rupe,” I said.

He turned in surprise. “Now then, Mr. Herriot. I didn’t expect to see you.” His blunt-featured face, slightly pugnacious in repose, was attractive when he smiled. “I’ve been miserable since I lost t’awd dog and I’m takin’ your advice. I’m looking for another.”

“It’s the only way, Rupe, and you’ve come to the right place. There are some lovely dogs here.”

“Aye, you’re right.” He took off his trilby hat and smoothed back his hair. “But I’ve had a heck of a job makin’ up my mind. It sounds daft, but if I pick one out I’m goin’ to feel sorry for all the other poor little blighters I’m leaving behind.”

Sister Rose laughed. “A lot of people feel like that, Mr. Nellist, but you needn’t worry. I find good homes for all my dogs. I don’t care how long I have to keep them—none is ever put to sleep. The only exceptions are in cases of extreme old age or incurable disease.”

“Aye, well, that’s wonderful. I’ll just have another stroll along here.” He recommenced his inspection of the pens, walking with a pronounced limp in his right leg, a relic of childhood polio.

Sister Rose hadn’t been exaggerating when she said he was thorough. Up and down he went, talking to the animals, pushing a finger through the wire to tickle their noses. Many of the dogs were handsome specimens with a pedigree look about them—noble Labradors, majestic golden retrievers, and a German shepherd that could have been a Crufts winner, and as I watched them all, tails wagging, leaping up at Rupe, I wondered as I often did how they could possibly have been abandoned. Each time he passed Titch’s pen the little dog hopped along the other side of the wire on his three legs, keeping pace with him, looking up into his face.

Finally he stopped and gazed for a long time at the little creature. “You know, I fancy that ’un,” he murmured.

“Really?” Sister Rose was surprised. “He’s only just arrived. We haven’t had a chance to do anything for him. He’s in a shocking state. Very lame, too.”

“Aye, I can see that. But let’s have a look at ’im, will you?”

Sister Rose opened the door of the pen and Rupe Nellist reached in and lifted the little animal up till he was head high, gazing at him, eyeball to eyeball. “Now, little feller,” he said softly. “How would you like to come home wi’ me?” The frightened eyes in the shaggy face regarded him for a few moments, then the tail twitched and a pink tongue reached for his face.

The man smiled. “I reckon this is a right good-natured little dog. We’ll get on fine together.”

“You want him, then?” asked Sister Rose, wide-eyed.

“I do that. Right now.”

“Oh, I do wish we’d been able to get him straightened up for you first.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do all that.” He put the dog down and pushed a note into the donation box. “Thank ye, Sister, for letting me look round. What have you called this little bloke?”

“Titch, I’m afraid. Probably you’ll want to change that.”

He laughed. “Not at all. Come on, Titch.” He limped away towards his car with his new pet limping beside him. After a few steps he looked back with a grin. “Walks like me, doesn’t he? Same leg, too.”

I saw man and dog a fortnight later at my surgery when they came in for the booster inoculation. The difference in Titch was dramatic. He had filled out and, more striking still, the trembling and fear had gone.