Джеймс Хэрриот - All Things Wise and Wonderful

“It’s awright, Duke,” he said.

“That’s what you call him, is it—Duke?”

“Aye.” He fondled the ears and the dog turned, whipped his strange long tail about and licked the hand quickly. Wes smiled and looked up at me and for a moment the tough mask dropped from the grubby features and in the dark wild eyes I read sheer delight. I swore under my breath. This made it worse.

I tipped some boracic crystals into a box and handed it over. “Use this dissolved in water to keep his eyes and nose clean. See how his nostrils are all caked and blocked up—you can make him a lot more comfortable.”

He took the box without speaking and almost with the same movement dropped three and sixpence on the table. It was about our average charge and resolved my doubts on that score.

“When’ll ah bring ’im back?” he asked.

I looked at him doubtfully for a moment. All I could do was repeat the injections, but was it going to make the slightest difference?

The boy misread my hesitation.

“Ah can pay!” he burst out “Ah can get t’money!”

“Oh I didn’t mean that Wes. I was just wondering when it would be suitable. How about bringing him in on Thursday?”

He nodded eagerly and left with his dog.

As I swabbed the table with disinfectant I had the old feeling of helplessness. The modern veterinary surgeon does not see nearly as many cases of distemper as we used to, simply because most people immunise their puppies at the earliest possible moment. But back in the thirties it was only the few fortunate dogs who were inoculated. The disease is so easy to prevent but almost impossible to cure.

The next three weeks saw an incredible change in Wesley Binks’s character. He had built up a reputation as an idle scamp but now he was transformed into a model of industry, delivering papers in the mornings, digging people’s gardens, helping to drive the beasts at the auction mart. I was perhaps the only one who knew he was doing it for Duke.

He brought the dog in every two or three days and paid on the nail. I naturally charged him as little as possible but the money he earned went on other things—fresh meat from the butcher, extra milk and biscuits.

“Duke’s looking very smart today,” I said on one of the visits. “I see you’ve been getting him a new collar and lead.”

The boy nodded shyly then looked up at me, dark eyes intent “Is ’e any better?”

“Well, he’s about the same, Wes. That’s how it goes—dragging on without much change.”

“When … will ye know?”

I thought for a moment. Maybe he would worry less if he understood the situation. “The thing is this. Duke will get better if he can avoid the nervous complications of distemper.”

“Wot’s them?”

“Fits, paralysis and a thing called chorea which makes the muscles twitch.”

“Wot if he gets them?”

“It’s a bad lookout in that case. But not all dogs develop them.” I tried to smile reassuringly. “And there’s one thing in Duke’s favour—he’s not a pure bred. Cross bred dogs have a thing called hybrid vigour which helps them to fight disease. After all, he’s eating fairly well and he’s quite lively, isn’t he?”

“Aye, not bad.”

“Well then, we’ll carry on. I’ll give him another shot now.”

The boy was back in three days and I knew by his face he had momentous news.

“Duke’s a lot better—’is eyes and nose ’ave dried up and he’s eatin’ like a ’oss!” He was panting with excitement.

I lifted the dog on to the table. There was no doubt he was enormously improved and I did my best to join in the rejoicing.

“That’s great, Wes,” I said, but a warning bell was tinkling in my mind. If nervous symptoms were going to supervene, this was the time—just when the dog was apparently recovering.

I forced myself to be optimistic. “Well now, there’s no need to come back any more but watch him carefully and if you see anything unusual bring him in.”

The ragged little figure was overjoyed. He almost pranced along the passage with his pet and I hoped fervently that I would not see them in there again.

That was on the Friday evening and by Monday I had put the whole thing out of my head and into the category of satisfying memories when the boy came in with Duke on the lead.

I looked up from the desk where I was writing in the day book. “What is it, Wes?”

“He’s dotherin’.”

I didn’t bother going through to the consulting room but hastened from behind the desk and crouched on the floor, studying the dog intently. At first I saw nothing, then as I watched I could just discern a faint nodding of the head. I placed my hand on the top of the skull and waited. And it was there; the slight but regular twitching of the temporal muscles which I had dreaded.

“I’m afraid he’s got chorea, Wes,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s one of the things I was telling you about. Sometimes they call it St. Vitus’ Dance. I was hoping it wouldn’t happen.”

The boy looked suddenly small and forlorn and he stood there silent, twisting the new leather lead between his fingers. It was such an effort for him to speak that he almost closed his eyes.

“Will ’e die?”

“Some dogs do get over it, Wes.” I didn’t tell him that I had seen it happen only once. “I’ve got some tablets which might help him. I’ll get you some.”

I gave him a few of the arsenical tablets I had used in my only cure. I didn’t even know if they had been responsible but I had nothing more to offer.

Duke’s chorea pursued a text book course over the next two weeks. All the things which I had feared turned up in a relentless progression. The twitching spread from his head to his limbs, then his hindquarters began to sway as he walked.

His young master brought him in repeatedly and I went through the motions, trying at the same time to make it clear that it was all hopeless. The boy persisted doggedly, rushing about meanwhile with his paper deliveries and other jobs, insisting on paying though I didn’t want his money. Then one afternoon he called in.

“Ah couldn’t bring Duke,” he muttered. “Can’t walk now. Will you come and see ’im?”

We got into my car. It was a Sunday, about three o’clock and the streets were quiet. He led me up the cobbled yard and opened the door of one of the houses.

The stink of the place hit me as I went in. Country vets aren’t easily sickened but I felt my stomach turning. Mrs. Binks was very fat and a filthy dress hung shapelessly on her as she slumped, cigarette in mouth, over the kitchen table. She was absorbed in a magazine which lay in a clearing among mounds of dirty dishes and her curlers nodded as she looked up briefly at us.

On a couch under the window her husband sprawled asleep, open-mouthed, snoring out the reek of beer. The sink, which held a further supply of greasy dishes, was covered in a revolting green scum. Clothes, newspapers and nameless rubbish littered the floor and over everything a radio blasted away at full strength.

The only clean new thing was the dog basket in the corner. I went across and bent over the little animal. Duke was now prostrate and helpless, his body emaciated and jerking uncontrollably. The sunken eyes had filled up again with pus and gazed apathetically ahead.

“Wes,” I said. “You’ve got to let me put him to sleep.”

He didn’t answer, and as I tried to explain, the blaring radio drowned my words. I looked over at his mother.

“Do you mind turning the radio down?” I asked.

She jerked her head at the boy and he went over and turned the knob. In the ensuing silence I spoke to him again.

“It’s the only thing, believe me. You can’t let him die by inches like this.”