Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

As he spoke, the blast of whisky fumes almost made my head spin and I noticed that as he preceded me across the hall he staggered slightly.

My patient was lying in a basket by the side of an Aga cooker in a large, well-appointed kitchen. I felt a warm surge when I saw that she was a beagle like my own dog, Sam. I knelt down and looked at her closely. Her mouth was open and her tongue lolled, but she did not seem to be in acute distress. In fact, as I patted her head her tail flapped against the blanket.

A heart-rending wail sounded in my ear. “What d’ye make of her, Mr. Herriot? It’s her heart, isn’t it? Oh, Myrtle, Myrtle!” The little man crouched over his pet, and the tears flowed unchecked.

“You know, Mr. Cobb,” I said. “She doesn’t seem all that bad to me, so don’t upset yourself too much. Just give me a chance to examine her.”

I placed my stethoscope over the ribs and listened to the steady thudding of a superbly strong heart. The temperature was normal, and I was palpating the abdomen when Mr. Cobb broke in again.

“The trouble is,” he gasped, “I neglect this poor little animal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, ah’ve been all day at Catterick at the races, gamblin’ and drinkin’, with never a thought for me dog.”

“You left her alone all that time in the house?”

“Nay, nay, t’missus has been with her.”

“Well, then.” I felt I was getting out of my depth. “She would feed Myrtle and let her out in the garden?”

“Oh aye,” he said, wringing his hands. “But I shouldn’t leave ’er. She thinks such a lot about me.”

As he spoke, I could feel one side of my face tingling with heat. My problem was suddenly solved.

“You’ve got her too near the Aga,” I said. “She’s panting because she’s uncomfortably hot.”

He looked at me doubtfully. “We just shifted ’er basket today. We’ve been gettin’ some new tiles put down on the floor.”

“Right,” I said. “Shift it back again and she’ll be fine.”

“But Mr. Herriot.” His lips began to tremble again. “It’s more than that. She’s sufferin’. Look at her eyes.”

Myrtle had the lovely big liquid eyes of her breed and she knew how to use them. Many people think the spaniel is number one when it comes to looking soulful, but I personally plump for the beagle. And Myrtle was an expert.

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Cobb,” I said. “Believe me, she’ll be all right.”

He still seemed unhappy. “But aren’t ye going to do something?”

It was one of the great questions in veterinary practice. If you didn’t “do something,” they were not satisfied. And in this case, Mr. Cobb was in greater need of treatment than his pet. Still, I wasn’t going to stick a needle into Myrtle just to please him so I produced a vitamin tablet from my bag and pushed it over the back of the little animal’s tongue.

“There you are,” I said. “I’m sure that will do her good.” And after all, I thought, I wasn’t a complete charlatan—it wouldn’t do her any harm.

Mr. Cobb relaxed visibly. “Eee, that’s champion. You’ve set me mind at rest.” He led the way into a luxurious drawing room and tacked unsteadily towards a cocktail cabinet. “You’ll ’ave a drink before you go?”

“No, really, thanks,” I said. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ll ’ave a drop. Just to steady me nerves. I was that upset.” He tipped a lavish measure of whisky into a glass and waved me to a chair.

My bed was calling me, but I sat down and watched as he drank. He told me that he was a retired bookmaker from the West Riding and that he had come to Darrowby only a month ago. Although no longer directly connected with horse racing, he still loved the sport and never missed a meeting in the north of England.

“I allus get a taxi to take me and I have a right good day.” His face was radiant as he recalled the happy times, then for a moment his cheeks quivered and his woebegone expression returned. “But I neglect me dog. I leave her at home.”

“Oh nonsense,” I said. “I’ve seen you out in the fields with Myrtle. You give her plenty of exercise, don’t you?”

“Oh aye, lots of walks every day.”

“Well, then she really has a good life. This is just a silly little notion you’ve got.”

He beamed at me and sloshed out another few fingers of whisky. “Eee, you’re a good lad. Come on, you’ll just have one before you go.”

“Oh, all right, just a small one, then.”

As we drank he became more and more benign until he was gazing at me with something like devotion.

“James Herriot,” he slurred. “I suppose it’ll be Jim, eh?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’ll call you Jim, then, and you can call me Humphrey.”

“Okay, Humphrey,” I said, and swallowed the last of my whisky. “But I really must go now.”

Out in the street he put a hand on my arm and his face became serious again. “Thank ye, Jim. Myrtle was right bad tonight and I’m grateful.”

Driving away, I realised that I had failed to convince him that there was nothing wrong with his dog. He was sure I had saved her life. It had been an unusual visit and as my 2 A.M. whisky burned in my stomach I decided that Humphrey Cobb was a very funny little man. But I liked him.

After that night I saw him quite frequently, exercising Myrtle in the fields. With his almost spherical build he seemed to bounce over the grass, but his manner was always self-contained and rational, except that he kept thanking me for pulling his dog back from the jaws of death.

Then quite suddenly I was back at the beginning again. It was shortly after midnight and as I lifted the bedside phone, I could hear the distraught weeping before the receiver touched my ear.

“Oooh … oooh … Jim, Jim. Myrtle’s in a terrible bad way. Will ye come?”

“What … what is it this time?”

“She’s twitchin’.”

“Twitching?”

“Aye, twitchin’ summat terrible. Oh, come on, Jim, lad, don’t keep me waiting. I’m worried to death. I’m sure she’s got distemper.” He broke down again.

My head began to reel. “She can’t have distemper, Humphrey. Not in a flash, like that.”

“I’m beggin’ you, Jim,” he went on as though he hadn’t heard. “Be a pal. Come and see Myrtle.”

“All right,” I said wearily. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Oh, you’re a good lad, Jim, you’re a good lad. …” The voice trailed away as I replaced the phone.

I dressed at normal speed with none of the panic of the first time. It sounded like a repetition, but why after midnight again? On my way to Cedar House I decided it must be another false alarm—but you never knew.

The same dizzying wave of whisky fumes enveloped me in the porch. Humphrey, sniffling and moaning, fell against me once or twice as he ushered me into the kitchen. He pointed to the basket in the corner.

“There she is,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve just got back from Ripon and found ’er like this.”

“Racing again, eh?”

“Aye, gamblin’ on them ’osses and drinkin’ and leavin’ me poor dog pinin’ at home. I’m a rotter, Jim, that’s what I am.”

“Rubbish, Humphrey! I’ve told you before. You’re not doing her any harm by having a day out. Anyway, how about this twitching? She looks all right now.”

“Yes, she’s stopped doing it, but when I came in her back leg was goin’ like this.” He made a jerking movement with his hand.

I groaned inwardly. “But she could have been scratching or flicking away a fly.”

“Nay, there’s summat more than that. I can tell she’s sufferin’. Just look at them eyes.”