So that when Mr. Partridge brought him round to the surgery I thought it was for something else and when his master lifted him on to the table and turned him round to show his rear end I stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. But I leaned forward anxiously when I spotted the ugly swelling on the left side of the scrotum. I palpated quickly, with Percy’s growls and grousings providing an irritable obligate, and there was no doubt about it, the tumour was growing again. It meant business, too, because it was red, angry-looking, painful; a dangerously active growth if ever I had seen one.
“It’s come up quite quickly, has it?” I asked.
Mr. Partridge nodded. “Yes, indeed. I can almost see it getting bigger every day.”
We were in trouble. There was no hope of trying to cut this lot away; it was a great diffuse mass without clear boundaries and I wouldn’t have known where to start. Anyway, if I began any more poking about it would be just what was needed to start a spread into the internal organs, and that would be the end of Percy.
“It’s worse this time, isn’t it?” The little man looked at me and gulped.
“Yes…yes…I’m afraid so.”
“Is there anything at all you can do about it?” he asked.
I was trying to think of a painless way of telling him that there wasn’t when I remembered something I had read in the Veterinary Record a week ago. It was about a new drug, Stilboestrol, which had just come out and was supposed to be useful for hormonal therapy in animals; but the bit I was thinking about was a small print extract which said it had been useful in cancer of the prostate in men. I wondered…
“There’s one thing I’d like to try,” I said, suddenly brisk. “I can’t guarantee anything, of course, because it’s something new. But we’ll see what a week or two’s course does.”
“Oh good, good,” Mr. Partridge breathed, snatching gratefully at the straw.
I rang May and Baker’s and they sent the Stilboestrol to me immediately.
I injected Percy with 10 mg of the oily suspension and put him on to 10 mg tablets daily. They were big doses for a little dog but in a desperate situation I felt they were justified. Then I sat back and waited.
For about a week the tumour continued to grow and I nearly stopped the treatment, then there was a spell lasting several days during which I couldn’t be sure; but then with a surge of relief I realised there could be no further doubt—the thing wasn’t getting any bigger. I wasn’t going to throw my hat in the air and I knew anything could still happen but I had done something with my treatment; I had halted that fateful progress.
The artist’s step acquired a fresh spring as he passed on his daily walk and then as the ugly mass actually began to diminish he would wave towards the surgery window and point happily at the little white animal trotting by his side.
Poor Mr. Partridge. He was on the crest of the wave but just ahead of him was the second and more bizarre phase of his martyrdom.
At first neither I nor anybody else realised what was going on. All we knew was there suddenly seemed to be a lot of dogs in Trengate—dogs we didn’t usually see, from other parts of the town; big ones, small ones, shaggy mongrels and sleek aristocrats all hanging around apparently aimlessly, but then it was noticed that there was a focal point of attraction. It was Mr. Partridge’s house.
And it hit me blindingly one morning as I looked out of our bedroom window. They were after Percy. For some reason he had taken on the attributes of a bitch in heat. I hurried downstairs and got out my pathology book. Yes, there it was. The Sertoli Cell tumour occasionally made dogs attractive to other male dogs. But why should it be happening now when the thing was reducing and not when it was at its height? Or could it be the Stilboestrol? The new drug was said to have a feminising effect, but surely not to that extent.
Anyway, whatever the cause, the undeniable fact remained that Percy was under siege, and as the word got around the pack increased, being augmented by several of the nearby farm dogs, a Great Dane who had made the journey from Houlton, and Magnus, the little dachschund from the Drovers’ Arms. The queue started forming almost at first fight and by ten o’clock there would be a milling throng almost blocking the street. Apart from the regulars the odd canine visitor passing through would join the company, and no matter what his breed or size he was readily accepted into the club, adding one more to the assortment of stupid expressions, lolling tongues and waving tails; because, motley crew though they were, they were all happily united in the roisterous, bawdy camaraderie of lust.
The strain on Mr. Partridge must have been almost intolerable. At times I noticed the thick spectacles glinting balefully at the mob through his window but most of the time he kept himself in hand, working calmly at his easel as though he were oblivious that every one of the creatures outside had evil designs on his treasure.
Only rarely did his control snap. I witnessed one of these occasions when he rushed screaming from his doorway, laying about him with a walking stick; and I noticed that the polished veneer slipped from him and his cries rang out in broadest Yorkshire.
“Gerrout, ye bloody rotten buggers! Gerrout of it!”
He might as well have saved his energy because the pack scattered only for a few seconds before taking up their stations again.
I felt for the little man but there was nothing I could do about it. My main feeling was of relief that the tumour was going down but I had to admit to a certain morbid fascination at the train of events across the street.
Percy’s walks were fraught with peril. Mr. Partridge always armed himself with his stick before venturing from the house and kept Percy on a short lead, but his precautions were unavailing as the wave of dogs swept down on him. The besotted creatures, mad with passion, leaped on top of the little animal as the artist beat vainly on the shaggy backs and yelled at them; and the humiliating procession usually continued right across the market place to the great amusement of the inhabitants.
At lunch time most of the dogs took a break and at nightfall they all went home to bed, but there was one little brown spaniel type who, with the greatest dedication, never left his post. I think he must have gone almost without food for about two weeks because he dwindled practically to a skeleton and I think he might have died if Helen hadn’t taken pieces of meat over to him when she saw him huddled trembling in the doorway in the cold darkness of the evening. I know he stayed there all night because every now and then a shrill yelping wakened me in the small hours and I deduced that Mr. Partridge had got home on him with some missile from his bedroom window. But it made no difference; he continued his vigil undaunted.
I don’t quite know how Mr. Partridge would have survived if this state of affairs had continued indefinitely; I think his reason might have given way. But mercifully signs began to appear that the nightmare was on the wane. The mob began to thin as Percy’s condition improved and one day even the little brown dog reluctantly left his beat and slunk away to his unknown home.
That was the very day I had Percy on the table for the last time. I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I ran a fold of the scrotal skin between my fingers.
“There’s nothing there now, Mr. Partridge. No thickening, even. Not a thing.”
The little man nodded. “Yes, it’s a miracle, isn’t it! I’m very grateful to you for all you’ve done. I’ve been so terribly worried.”
“Oh, I can imagine. You’ve been through a bad time. But I’m really as pleased as you are yourself—it’s one of the most satisfying things in practice when an experiment like this comes off.”
But often over the subsequent years, as I watched dog and master pass our window, Mr. Partridge with all his dignity restored, Percy as trim and proud as ever, I wondered about that strange interlude.
Did the Stilboestrol really reduce that tumour or did it regress naturally? And were the extraordinary events caused by the treatment or the condition or both?
I could never be quite sure of the answer, but of the outcome I could be happily certain.
That unpleasant growth never came back…and neither did all those dogs.
27
EVERY PROFESSIONAL VISIT HAS its beginning in a call, a summons from the client which can take varying forms…
“This is Joe Bentley speaking,” said the figure on the surgery doorstep. It was an odd manner of address, made stranger by the fact that Joe was holding his clenched fist up by his jaw and staring vacantly past me.
“’ello, ’ello,” Joe continued as though into space, and suddenly everything became clear. That was an imaginary telephone he was holding and he was doing his best to communicate with the vet; and not doing so badly considering the innumerable pints of beer that were washing around inside him.
On market days the pubs stayed open from ten o’clock till five and Joe was one of the now extinct breed who took their chance to drink themselves almost insensible. The modern farmer may have a few drinks on market day but the old reckless intake is rare now.
In Darrowby it was confined to a group of hardbitten characters, all of them elderly, so even then the custom was on the wane. But it wasn’t uncommon to see them when they came to pay their bills, leaning helplessly against the surgery wall and pushing their cheque books wordlessly at us. Some of them still used a pony and trap and the old joke about the horse taking them home was illustrated regularly. One old chap kept an enormously powerful ancient car simply for the purpose of getting him home; even if he engaged top gear by mistake when he collapsed into the driver’s seat the vehicle would still take off. Some didn’t go home at all on market day but spent the night carousing and playing cards till dawn.
As I looked at Joe Bentley swaying on the step I wondered what his programme might be for the rest of the evening. He closed his eyes, held his fist close to his face and spoke again.
“Hellow, who’s there?” he asked in an affected telephone voice.
“Herriot speaking,” I replied. Clearly Joe wasn’t trying to be funny. He was just a little confused. It was only right to cooperate with him. “How are you, Mr. Bentley?”
“Nicely, thank ye,” Joe answered solemnly, eyes still tightly closed. “Are you very well?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Now what can I do for you?”
This seemed to floor him temporarily because he remained silent for several seconds, opening his eyes occasionally and squinting somewhere over my left shoulder with intense concentration. Then something seemed to click; he closed his eyes again, cleared his throat and recommenced.
“Will you come up to ma place? I’ve a cow wants cleansin’.”
“Do you want me to come tonight?”
Joe gave this serious thought, pursing his lips and scratching his ear with his free hand before answering.
“Nay, morning’ll do. Goodbye and thank ye.” He placed the phantom telephone carefully in its rest, swung round and made his way down the street with great dignity. He hardly staggered at all and there was something purposeful in his bearing which convinced me that he was heading back to the Red Bear. For a moment I thought he would fall outside Johnson’s the ironmongers but by the time he rounded the corner into the market place he was going so well that I felt sure he’d make it.
And I can remember Mr. Biggins standing by the desk in our office, hands deep in his pockets, chin thrust forward stubbornly.
“I ’ave a cow gruntin’ a bit.”
“Oh, right, we’ll have a look at her.” I reached for a pen to write the visit in the book.
He shuffled his feet. “Well ah don’t know. She’s maybe not as bad as all that.”
“Well, whatever you say…”
“No,” he said. “It’s what you say—you’re t’vet.”
“It’s a bit difficult,” I replied. “After all, I haven’t seen her. Maybe I’d better pay you a visit.”
“Aye, that’s all very fine, but it’s a big expense. It’s ten bob every time you fellers walk on to ma place and that’s before you start. There’s all t’medicines and everything on top.”
“Yes, I understand, Mr. Biggins. Well, would you like to take something away with you? A tin of stomach powder, perhaps?”
“How do you know it’s t’stomach?”
“Well I don’t actually…”
“It might be summat else.”
“That’s very true, but…”
“She’s a right good cow, this,” he said with a touch of aggression. “Paid fifty pun for her at Scarburn Market.”
“Yes, I’m sure she is. And consequently I really think she’d be worth a visit I could come out this afternoon.”
There was a long silence. “Aye, but it wouldn’t be just one visit would it? You’d be comin’ again next day and maybe the one after that and before we knew we’d ’ave a clonkin’ great bill.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Biggins, everything is so expensive these days.”
“Yes, by gaw!” He nodded, vigorously. “Sometimes it ud be cheaper to give you t’cow at t’end of it.”
“Well now, hardly that…but I do see your point.”
I spent a few moments in thought. “How about taking a fever drink as well as the stomach powder? That would be safer.”
He gave me a long blank stare. “But you still wouldn’t be sure, would you?”
“No, not quite sure, not absolutely…”
“She could even ’ave a wire in ’er.”
“True, very true.”
“Well then, shoving medicines down her neck isn’t goin’ to do no good is it?”
“It isn’t, you’re right.”
“Ah don’t want to lose this cow, tha knows!” he burst out truculently. “Ah can’t afford to lose ’er!”
“I realise that, Mr. Biggins. That’s why I feel I should see her—I did suggest that if you remember.”
He did not reply immediately and only the strain in his eyes and a faint twitching of a cheek muscle betrayed the inner struggle which was raging. When he finally spoke it was in a hoarse croak.
“Aye, well, it might be best…but…er…we could mebbes leave ’er till mornin’ and see how she is then.”
“That’s a good idea.” I smiled in relief. “You have a look at her first thing in the morning and give me a ring before nine if she’s no better.”
My words seemed to deepen his gloom. “But what if she doesn’t last till mornin’?”
“Well of course there is that risk.”
“Not much good ringin’ you if she’s dead, is it?”
“That’s true, of course.”
“Ah’d be ringin’ Mallock the knacker man, wouldn’t I?”
“Afraid so, yes…”
“Well that’s no bloody use to me, gettin’ five quid from Mallock for a good cow!”
“Mm, no…I can see how you feel.”
“Ah think a lot about this cow!”
“I’m sure you do.”
“It ud be a big loss for me.”
“Quite.”
Mr. Biggins hunched his shoulders and glared at me belligerently. “Well then what are you goin’ to do about ’er?”
“Let’s see,” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Perhaps you could wait till tonight and see if she recovers and if she isn’t right by say, eight o’clock you could let me know and I’d come out.”
“You’d come out then, would you?” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes.
I gave him a bright smile. “That’s right.”
“Aye, but last time you came out at night you charged extra, ah’m sure you did.”
“Well, probably,” I said, spreading my hands. “That’s usual in veterinary practices.”
“So we’re worse off than afore, aren’t we?”
“When you look at it like that…I suppose so…”
“Ah’m not a rich man, tha knows.”
“I realise that.”
“Takes me all ma time to pay t’ordinary bill without extras.”
“Oh I’m sure…”
“So that idea’s a bad egg, ain’t it?”
&nb
sp; “Seems like it…yes…” I lay back in my chair, feeling suddenly tired.
Mr. Biggins glowered at me morosely but I wasn’t going to be tempted into any further gambits. I gave him what I fancied was a neutral stare and I hoped it conveyed the message that I was open to suggestions but wasn’t going to make any myself.
The silence which now blanketed the room seemed to be of a durable nature. Down at the end of the street the church clock tolled the quarter hour, far off in the market place a dog barked, Miss Dobson the grocer’s daughter glided past the window on her bicycle but no word was uttered.
Mr. Biggins, biting his lower lip, darting his eyes desperately from his feet to me and back again, was clearly at the end of his resources, and it came to me at last that I had to take a firm initiative.
“Mr. Biggins,” I said. “I’ve got to be on my way. I have a lot of calls and one of them is within a mile of your farm, so I shall see your cow around three o’clock.” I stood up to indicate that the interview was over.
The farmer gave me a hunted look. I had the feeling that he had been resigned to a long period of stalemate and this sudden attack had taken him out of his stride. He opened his mouth as though to speak then appeared to change his mind and turned to go. At the door he paused, raised his hand and looked at me beseechingly for a moment, then he sank his chin on his chest and left the room.
I watched him through the window and as he crossed the road he stopped half way in the same indeterminate way, muttering to himself and glancing back at the surgery; and as he lingered there I grew anxious that he might be struck by a passing car, but at length he squared his shoulders and trailed slowly out of sight.
And sometimes it isn’t easy to get a clear picture over the telephone…
“This is Bob Fryer.”
“Good morning, Herriot here.”