“No, no, of course you’re not. And he’s still eating well, you say?”
“Aye, never better, that’s what puzzles me.”
“And is he drinking a lot?”
“He is—allus at it.”
I began to examine Bouncer, but even before I started there wasn’t much doubt in my mind. Loss of weight, voracious appetite, abnormal thirst, extreme lethargy. It could mean only one thing.
“Arnie,” I said, “I think he has diabetes.”
“Oh, ’ell, is that bad?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is when it has got as far as this. It can be fatal.”
The big man stared at me, totally shocked. “Oh, don’t tell me that! Is he goin’ to die?”
“I hope not. There’s a lot we can do.”
“Can you start right away, Jim?” He ruffled his hair distractedly. “I mustn’t lose ’im.”
“I will, Arnie, but first I’ve got to make sure. I must eliminate one or two other things like kidney trouble. First thing tomorrow morning I want you to get a urine sample from him. Stick a nice clean soup-plate under him when he cocks his leg and put it in this bottle, and bring it straight round with Bouncer to the surgery.”
He nodded. “Right…I will…but maybe he’s not as bad as all that.” He lifted a football and rolled it up to the dog. “Now, lad,” he cried eagerly, “let’s see you do your Tom Finney.”
Bouncer did not move. He touched the ball listlessly with his nose, then looked up at us with lack-lustre eyes. His master went over to him and stroked his head. “Oh, Bouncer, Bouncer,” he whispered.
Next morning I tested the sample. Positive for glucose.
“Now we know for sure, Arnie. It is diabetes, so this is what we do. I’m now giving him this injection of a small amount of insulin and you must come in every morning bringing Bouncer with a fresh sample which I will test. If still positive I will slightly increase the dose of insulin until he is stabilised, that is, when the urine is negative for glucose.”
“Aye, ah’ll come in every day, for as long as it takes…that is, if he…if he stays alive.” The old man’s face was a doleful mask.
I nodded. “If he stays alive, Arnie.”
Sometimes in diabetes the first shot of insulin brings a spectacular improvement, but it wasn’t so with Bouncer. He was too far gone for that. For several mornings Arnie brought him round and I looked in vain for even a hint of better things. The big dog was a woebegone, lifeless creature so different from the all-round athlete of former days. Arnie, grim and resolute, was there on the dot of nine o’clock, and after ten days I commiserated with him.
“Arnie, it’s tough on you having to do this day after day.”
He stuck out his chin. “I’ll come round here on me hands and knees till kingdom come if it’ll save me dog.”
It was just around then that I sensed a difference in Bouncer. He was still as skinny as ever, still as apathetic, but there was the suggestion of a gleam in his eyes—they were losing something of their dead look. From then on my hopes grew, as the big dog slowly began to show signs of his old vitality, and after three weeks of the treatment the daily sample was negative and I had a happy, tail-wagging animal looking at me as though he was quite ready for a game.
“Arnie,” I said, “he’s stabilised at last. He’s going to be all right. But it’s over to you, now. You’ll have to give your dog a shot of insulin every morning for the rest of his life.”
“Eh? Me inject ’im?” He didn’t look very happy about it.
“Yes, you can do that, can’t you? After his morning meal. It’ll soon be part of your daily programme.”
He gave me a doubtful look, but didn’t say anything and I supplied him with all he would require.
Once Bouncer had turned the corner his recovery proceeded at a galloping pace, and Arnie after a few days brushed aside my doubts about his ability to carry out the injections. In fact it transpired that for some time he had been a sort of personal assistant to an army surgeon during the Balkans campaign and was very familiar with hypodermics.
My final happy memory of the diabetes episode was when I looked over the hedge into Arnie’s garden and saw him wrestling with Bouncer on the grass.
“What are you up to, Arnie?” I cried.
“Doing a low tackle on Bouncer—teachin’ ’im rugby,” came the reply.
As autumn stretched into winter, there was considerable excitement in Darrowby when it was announced that the important men’s hockey match between the rural counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire was to be played on the local ground. They were two of the top teams and contained several international players. Everybody was looking forward to seeing these famous men in action and on the Saturday afternoon I got to the ground in what I hoped would be good time. However, people were already standing several deep round the touch-lines—I’d never seen such a crowd there—and I was wondering where I could find a vantage spot when I heard a voice calling.
“Hey, Jim, there’s a spare seat over here.”
It was Arnie, comfortably settled in one of the seats in front of the clubhouse.
“Are you sure, Arnie?”
“Aye, ah’ve been keeping it for you. Sit down.”
Well, this was very nice. The game was just about to start and I had a perfect view. I felt something stirring against my trouser leg and saw that it was Bouncer’s nose pushing at me. He was in his usual place under his master’s seat and he seemed to be telling me that he was in top form again.
I tickled his ears while I watched the match. The standard of play was very high with the four internationals shining above the rest.
Arnie kept up a running commentary.
“There’s Pip Chapman, Yorkshire captain and England centre forward—old pal of mine. And Greg Holroyd, captain of Lancashire and England winger—another good old mate, and those two other internationals, Tim Mowbray and Johnnie Hart—I know ’em all well, known ’em for years.”
At half-time as the players gathered in the middle of the pitch, Arnie was in expansive mood. “It’s nice to see the winter games startin’ again, but I keep thinkin’ about that last cricket match of the season at Scarborough cricket festival. I was just sittin’ there enjoying the sunshine when Fred Trueman spotted me. ‘Arnie,’ he said, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ ?
This last remark attributed to another of cricket’s immortals seemed to amuse a group of young men sitting behind us. After a few half-stifled giggles one of them spoke up.
“Fred Trueman, Arnie? The real Fred Trueman? Looking for you everywhere?” Arnie, grim-faced, nodded slightly with the dignity born of long practice, and this evoked another outburst of sniggers with sotto voce repetitions of “looking for you everywhere,” a phrase that seemed to tickle them.
My friend ignored them, rigid in his seat, eyes gazing fixedly ahead, till another of the youths returned to the attack. “I hear you’ve got some old pals out there on the field, too, Arnie? Those four top men—known ’em for years, eh?” Again Arnie nodded briefly and I felt a sharp twinge of apprehension. We were heading into deep water this time with the tangible evidence of his claims running around in front of us. Arnie was sitting on the end seat, right next to the aisle up which the teams would have to pass to get to the clubhouse; those men would be within touching distance of him. They couldn’t fail to see him.
When the final whistle blew and the players began to make their way towards us, my throat tightened. Something awful was surely going to happen and I wished with all my heart that I was somewhere else.
Holroyd, the big, black-moustached Lancastrian, was the first to come clumping up the steps, face sweating, knees mud-spattered. He glanced at Arnie and brushed past him, then, as my stomach began to lurch, he stopped and took a step back. There was a pause as he looked down, then, “It’s Arnie Braithwaite!” he burst out. “Hello! How are you, old chap?” He began to pump my friend’s hand and called out to his team-mates. “Hey, Pip, Johnnie, Tim, look who’s here. It??
?s our old chum!” There was a jam of players in the aisle as the four men gathered round Arnie, thumping his back, laughing and shouting. Bouncer jumped from under the seat, and as dogs like to do, began to add a joyful barking to the general merriment.
Pip Chapman gazed down at Arnie with warm affection. “Do you know, Arnie, we thought you might be here and we’ve been scanning the touch-line all through the match. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Chapter 27
MY CLIENTS’ OPINIONS OF me varied widely, and although there was the odd one or two who thought I was brilliant, a large majority looked on me as a steady, reliable vet, while a few regarded me as of strictly limited ability. But I really think that only one family nourished the private conviction that I was not quite right in the head.
They were the Hardwicks, and it was a pity, because they were some of my favourite people.
This situation was due to a few unfortunate little accidents, and on this sharp and sunny January morning I had no inkling that I was going to sow the seeds of my image disintegration that very day. There had been just enough snow overnight to turn the world white and I could see the road to the Hardwick farm threading its way through a glittering frostiness under a sky of cloudless blue.
It was a long, long road, too, not much more than a rough track, trailing ever upwards for nearly a mile, disappearing from time to time behind bluffs or rocky outcrops until it reached the farm, whose faded red roofs were just visible as I drove up to the first gate.
These farms of many gates were places of dread on busy days, eating up the precious minutes with nothing to show for all the effort. But this morning as I got out of the car, the sun struck warm on my face and the crisp air tingled in my nostrils, and, pushing back gate one, I looked around at the wide landscape, silent and peaceful under its white mantle, and blessed my good fortune. There were six of these gates, and I hopped out happily at each one, the snow crackling under my feet.
Seb and Josh Hardwick were attacking a mountain of turnips in the yard, forking them up onto a cart that stood in the farmyard. Despite the cold, their faces gleamed with sweat as they turned smilingly to me.
“Now then, Mr. Herriot, grand mornin’.” They were typical Dales farmers—quiet, polite, even-natured—and I had always got on well with them.
“How are the calves today?” I asked.
“Lot better,” Seb said. “And thank ’eavens. We were a bit worried.”
I was relieved, too. Salmonella is a nasty thing—highly fatal to young animals and dangerous to humans—and when I had seen the calves a couple of days ago the whole picture had looked ominous.
I went into the fold yard with the brothers and over to the big pen at one end where my patients, twenty in all, were standing, and I felt a glow of satisfaction. Everything was different. Two days ago, there was an air of doom over that pen, with the little creatures, listless and dejected, hanging their heads as the diarrhoea trickled down their tails, but now they were brighter and livelier, looking at me with interest as I leaned over the rails.
Actually I was mentally patting myself on the back, because I felt I had done rather well. I could easily have treated this as an ordinary case of scour, but the high temperatures and a telltale soft cough had alerted me. The rectal swabs I had taken had confirmed my diagnosis. I had given them the usual combination of chloramphenicol injections and furazolidone by the mouth and it was clearly doing the job.
“Well, that’s fine,” I said, climbing into the pen. “So far, so good. I’ll repeat the injections and you must carry on with the powders for another five days and I think all is going to be well. And don’t forget to wash your hands well every time.”
Josh took off his cap and wiped his streaming face. “That’s what we like to hear, Mr. Herriot. It’s a good job we got you in right away or we’d have ’ad some dead ’uns lyin’ about.”
After the injections Seb waved me towards the house. “We’ll all want a wash, and it’s time for our ten o’clocks, any road.”
Later, in the kitchen, as I sipped my tea and bit into a home-made scone, the two attractive young wives, one dark, the other a blazing redhead, chatted to me, and, as I sat in the warmth of the fire with a baby crawling round my feet and two toddlers wrestling happily on the stone flags, I felt that life was pretty good. I could have stayed there all day, but my other work was pressing. The brothers, too, who had joined me for the tea, had begun to fidget, no doubt thinking of all those turnips outside. It was no good—I had to go.
In the yard, we made our farewells, the two men lifted their forks and I put my hand on the car door, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn’t move. I went round, trying the other doors, but the result was the same. I was locked out.
My little beagle, Dinah, was the culprit. While I was treating the calves I had heard her barking at the farm dogs, which was one of her hobbies, and in the process, as she threw herself at each window, her paws had pushed down the knobs that locked the doors.
I called to the brothers. “Look, I’m very sorry, but I can’t get into my car.”
“Oh, aye, what’s happened?” They came over and looked inside and Dinah, tongue lolling, tail lashing delightedly, looked out at them. Behind her, my keys hung in the ignition switch, just an arm’s length away but maddeningly inaccessible.
I explained the situation and Josh looked at me in surprise. “You alius carry that little dog with you, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But you don’t take your keys out when ye leave the car?”
“No…no…I’m afraid not.”
“Funny thing it’s never ’appened before, then.”
“Well, yes, it is, when you think about it. And it’s a great pity it’s happened way out here.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to give me a lift home to get my spare key.”
Seb’s mouth fell open. “Back to Darrowby?”
“Afraid so. Nothing else I can do.” I tried not to think of the ten miles.
The Hardwicks looked at each other in alarm, then at the vast heap of turnips and back at me. I knew what they were thinking. It wasn’t only the turnips; there were always a thousand jobs to be done on a farm and I was about to wreck their chances of getting some of them done this morning.
But, nice fellows that they were, they didn’t tell me what a daft bugger I was. Seb blew his cheeks out. “Aye, well, we’d better get started then.” He turned to his brother. “I’ll ’ave to leave it to ye, Josh. When you’ve shifted them turnips you’d better get on with the muckin’ out. We can move that lot o’ sheep down to t’low garth this afternoon.”
Josh nodded and wordlessly seized his fork again while his brother got the family car out. Like a lot of the hill-farmers’ vehicles it was very large and very old. We rattled down the track and as I opened each gate I was enveloped in a cloud of acrid fumes from the exhaust.
The road to Darrowby seemed very long and longer still on the way back. I tried to pass the time with comments on sport, the weather and farming conditions but for the last half-hour the conversation languished. At the farm Seb opened the car door, gave me a hasty wave and trotted away to find his brother.
Dinah was in transports at my return, jumping all over me, licking at my face, but, driving away, I had the strong feeling that I wasn’t as popular with the humans I had left behind.
However, when I made my final check on the calves a week later, all seemed to be forgiven. I had no doubt been a damn nuisance, but the Hardwick brothers greeted me smilingly, although there was a bad moment when I got out of the car and both men shouted, “Hey, get your keys out! Don’t forget that!” as I was about to close the door.
Sheepishly, I complied, feeling foolish because ever since the previous incident I had made a point of doing just that.
I felt a lot better when I saw that the calves were completely recovered and after washing my hands
and drinking the ritual cup of tea in the kitchen I felt that I could consign the whole silly episode to the past.
A few days afterwards, Helen met me with a strange message on my return home. “I’ve had a funny phone call from a Mrs. Hardwick.”
“How do you mean, funny?”
“She says you’ve pinched her husband’s spectacles.”
“What!”
“That’s what she said.”
“How…how? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, they’ve searched high and low for those spectacles and they’re definitely not in the house and the only visitor they’ve had was you. She’s convinced you’ve got them.”
“I’ve never heard anything so daft in my life. What the devil would I want with them?”
Helen spread her hands. “I’ve no idea, but Mr. Hardwick wants them badly. They’re his reading glasses and he can’t read The Farmer and Stockbreeder. He’s quite upset. You’d better have a search.”
“This is crazy,” I said. But I went over to my working coat and began to go through the pockets. And there, among the little bottles and scissors and other veterinary odds and ends, was the spectacle case, lying next to the wallet in which I kept my thermometer and which it closely resembled.
I looked at it in disbelief. “My God, it’s here, right enough. I must have picked it up by mistake after I’d rinsed my thermometer in the kitchen.”
I rang the farm and apologised to Seb. “Another silly thing I’ve done,” I said laughingly. He didn’t disagree, but was still polite and declined my offer to bring the spectacles to him.
“No, it’s awright, I’ll come down for ’em now.” Clearly, The Farmer and Stockbreeder was waiting.
I was embarrassed at the thought of his long and needless journey on my account, and the feeling hadn’t left me three days later when I looked in the appointment book and saw that I had another call to the Hardwicks’ farm.
When I arrived I found the brothers in the cow byre, forking hay into the racks. They didn’t give me the usual greeting. In fact, they seemed surprised to see me.