Джеймс Хэрриот - The Lord God Made Them All

“There’s no doubt they rule the roost now.”

“Absolutely,” Siegfried said. “And really, they hate it. If only the Whithorns would take off the rose-tinted spectacles and treat them normally. But it’s too late now, I’m afraid.” He pocketed the colic mixture and left.

The months passed, I had a few more visits to the Whithorns’ and went through the usual dancing routine; then, oddly, both the old dogs died within a few weeks of each other. And despite their tempestuous lives, they had peaceful ends. Ruffles was found dead in his basket one morning, and Muffles wandered down the garden for a sleep under the apple tree and never woke up.

That was merciful, anyway. They hadn’t treated me very well, but I was glad they had been spared the things that upset me most in small-animal practice—the road accident, the lingering illness, the euthanasia.

It was like a chapter in my life closing, but shortly afterwards Mr. Whithorn rang me.

“Mr. Herriot,” he said, “we have acquired another pair of Westies, and I wonder if you would call and give them their distemper inoculations.”

It was a delightful change to go into the room and be met by two tail-wagging puppies. They were twelve weeks old, and they looked up at me with benevolent eyes.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “What have you called them?”

“Ruffles and Muffles,” Mr. Whithorn replied.

“Same again, eh?”

“Yes, we wanted to keep the memory of our other darlings alive.” He seized the puppies and showered kisses on them.

After the inoculations, it was a long time before I saw the little dogs again. They seemed to be singularly healthy. It must have been nearly a year later when I was called to the house to give them a checkup.

When I went into the sitting room, Ruffles and Muffles Mark Two were seated side by side on the sofa. There was an odd immobility in their attitude. As I approached they stared at me coldly, and as if responding to a signal they bared their teeth and growled softly but menacingly.

A chill ran through me. It couldn’t be happening all over again. But as Mr. Whithorn lifted Ruffles onto the table and I took the auroscope from its box, I quickly realised that fate had made history repeat itself. The little animal stood there, regarding me with a bristling mistrust.

“Hold his head, will you, please?” I said. “I want to examine his ears first.” I took the ear between finger and thumb and gently inserted the auroscope. I applied my eye to the instrument and was inspecting the external meatus when the dog exploded into action. I heard a vicious snarl, and as I jerked my head back, the draught of the crunching teeth fanned my face.

Mr. Whithorn leaned back and abandoned himself to mirth. “Oh, isn’t he a little monkey! Ha-ha-ha, he just won’t stand any nonsense.” He rested his hands on the table for some time, shaking with merriment, then he wiped his eyes. “Dear, oh dear, what a character he is.”

I stared at the man. The fact that he might easily have been confronted by a noseless veterinary surgeon did not seem to weigh with him. I looked, too, at his wife standing behind him. She was laughing just as merrily. What was the use of trying to instil reason into these people? They were utterly besotted. All I could do was get on with the job.

“Mr. Whithorn,” I said tautly, “will you please hold him again, and this time take a tight grip with your hands on either side of his neck?”

He looked at me anxiously. “But I won’t hurt the little pet?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“All right.” He placed his cheek against the dog’s face and whispered lovingly, “Daddy promises to be gentle, my angel. Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

He grasped the loose skin of the neck as I directed, and I warily recommenced operations. Peering at the interior of the ear, listening to Mr. Whithorn’s murmured endearments, I was tensed in readiness for another explosion. But when it came with a ferocious yap, I found I was in no danger because Ruffles had turned his attention elsewhere.

As I dropped the auroscope and jumped back, I saw that the dog had sunk his teeth into the ball of his master’s thumb. And it wasn’t an ordinary bite. He was hanging on, grinding deeply into the flesh.

Mr. Whithorn emitted a piercing yell of agony before shaking himself free.

“You rotten little bugger!” he screamed, dancing around the room, holding the stricken hand. He looked at the blood pouring from the two deep holes, then glared at Ruffles. “Oh, you bloody little swine!”

Siegfried’s words came back to me as Mr. Whithorn recommenced bending and jumping like an Apache summoning rain, all the while looking in a new way at the dog. Maybe, I said silently to Siegfried, we have a start here.

Chapter

37

“ARE YE ALL RIGHT, Mr. Herriot?”

Lionel Brough looked down at me solicitously as I crawled on hands and knees through the gap in the wire netting.

“Yes,” I gasped. Lionel was very thin and he had slipped through the aperture like a snake, but I was having a little difficulty.

There were some unusual farms and smallholdings in our practice—converted railway wagons, henhouses and other artifices— but this one, I always thought, took the prize.

Lionel was one of a plentiful breed in those days, a roadman who kept livestock as a sideline and hobby. Some of them had four cows, others a few pigs, but Lionel had the lot.

He had housed his motley collection in a large hut by the side of his cottage. He appeared to have divided the hut into sections by using the first thing that came to hand. It was a labyrinth, a monumental piece of improvisation, with up-ended bed frames, sheets of plywood and corrugated iron, and stretches of wire netting separating the animals. There were no doors or passages anywhere.

I got to my feet, puffing slightly. “Where is this calf?”

“Not far to go now, Mr. Herriot.” We passed his solitary cow, then little pigs nibbled at my heels as Lionel laboriously undid a series of knots tied with coarse string so that we could enter the next compartment.

Here, a couple of nanny goats regarded us impassively.

“Grand milkers, them two,” the roadman grunted. “T’missus makes some smashin’ cheese from ’em, and it’s healthy milk, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, it is.” At that time, when T.B. infection was still a constant threat, the milk from the comparatively immune goat was highly regarded. The far wall of their pen consisted of a mahogany dining table lying on its side, its legs projecting into the interior. I skirted it warily before climbing over. I had suffered some nasty blows from those castored knobs.

We were among the calves now, three of them, and it was easy to pick out my patient, a small black animal with a purulent discharge crusting his nostrils.

As I bent to take his temperature I had to push aside a couple of squawking hens, and a fat Muscovy duck waddled out of my way. These feathered creatures seemed to have the run of the place, jumping and fluttering from pen to pen and in and out of the building. From my position by the calf I could see an assortment of cats perched on window sills or on the tops of partitions. A sudden snarling from the end of the hut marked the beginning of a friendly fight among Lionel’s three dogs. Beyond the doorway two sheep were visible, grazing contentedly in the field by the cottage.

I looked at the thermometer—103°, then I ausculated the chest with my stethoscope. “Just a touch of bronchitis, Lionel, but I’m glad you called me. He’s quite rough in his lungs, and pneumonia could be just round the corner. As it is, a couple of injections will probably clear him up.”