“Yes … yes …” As I inserted the thermometer I watched the rapid rise and fall of the rib cage and noted the gaping mouth and anxious eyes. “He does look very sorry for himself.”
Temperature was 104. I took out my stethoscope and ausculated his lungs. I have heard of an old Scottish doctor describing a seriously ill patient’s chest as sounding like a “kist o’ whustles,” and that just about described Brandy’s. Rales, wheezes, squeaks and bubblings—they were all there against a background of laboured respiration.
I put the stethoscope back in my pocket. “He’s got pneumonia.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Westby reached out and touched the heaving chest. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“But …” She gave me an appealing glance. “I understand it isn’t so fatal since the new drugs came out.”
I hesitated. “Yes, that’s quite right. In humans and most animals the sulpha drugs, and now penicillin, have changed the picture completely, but dogs are still very difficult to cure.”
Thirty years later it is still the same. Even with all the armoury of antibiotics that followed penicillin—streptomycin, the tetracyclines, the synthetics and the new non-antibiotic drugs and steroids—I still hate to see pneumonia in a dog.
“But you don’t think it’s hopeless?” Mrs. Westby asked.
“No, no, not at all. I’m just warning you that so many dogs don’t respond to treatment when they should. But Brandy is young and strong. He must stand a fair chance. I wonder what started this off, anyway.”
“Oh, I think I know, Mr. Herriot. He had a swim in the river about a week ago. I try to keep him out of the water in this cold weather, but if he sees a stick floating, he just takes a dive into the middle. You’ve seen him—it’s one of the funny little things he does.”
“Yes, I know. And was he shivery afterwards?”
“He was. I walked him straight home, but it was such a freezing-cold day. I could feel him trembling as I dried him down.”
I nodded. “That would be the cause, all right. Anyway, let’s start his treatment. I’m going to give him this injection of penicillin, and I’ll call at your house tomorrow to repeat it. He’s not well enough to come to the surgery.”
“Very well, Mr. Herriot. And is there anything else?”
“Yes, there is. I want you to make him what we call a pneumonia jacket. Cut two holes in an old blanket for his forelegs and stitch him into it along his back. You can use an old sweater if you like, but he must have his chest warmly covered. Only let him out in the garden for necessities.”
I called and repeated the injection on the following day. There wasn’t much change. I injected him for four more days, and the realisation came to me sadly that Brandy was like so many of the others—he wasn’t responding. The temperature did drop a little, but he ate hardly anything and grew gradually thinner. I put him on sulphapyridine tablets, but they didn’t seem to make any difference.
As the days passed and he continued to cough and pant and to sink deeper into a blank-eyed lethargy, I was forced more and more to a conclusion which, a few weeks ago, would have seemed impossible—that this happy, bounding animal was going to die.
But Brandy didn’t die. He survived. You couldn’t put it any higher than that. His temperature came down and his appetite improved, and he climbed onto a plateau of twilight existence where he seemed content to stay.
“He isn’t Brandy anymore,” Mrs. Westby said one morning a few weeks later when I called in. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid he isn’t. Are you giving him the halibut liver oil?”
“Yes, every day. But nothing seems to do him any good. Why is he like this, Mr. Herriot?”
“Well, he has recovered from a really virulent pneumonia, but it’s left him with a chronic pleurisy, adhesions and probably other kinds of lung damage. It looks as though he’s just stuck there.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It breaks my heart to see him like this. He’s only five, but he’s like an old, old dog. He was so full of life, too.” She sniffed and blew her nose. “When I think of how I used to scold him for getting into the dustbins and muddying up my jeans. How I wish he would do some of his funny old tricks now.”
I thrust my hands deep into my pockets. “Never does anything like that now, eh?”
“No, no, just hangs about the house. Doesn’t even want to go for a walk.”
As I watched, Brandy rose from his place in the corner and pottered slowly over to the fire. He stood there for a moment, gaunt and dead-eyed, and he seemed to notice me for the first time because the end of his tail gave a brief twitch before he coughed, groaned and flopped down on the hearth rug.
Mrs. Westby was right. He was like a very old dog.
“Do you think he’ll always be like this?” she asked.
I shrugged. “We can only hope.”
But as I got into my car and drove away, I really didn’t have much hope. I had seen calves with lung damage after bad pneumonias. They recovered but were called “bad doers” because they remained thin and listless for the rest of their lives. Doctors, too, had plenty of “chesty” people on their books; they were, more or less, in the same predicament.
Weeks and then months went by, and the only time I saw the Labrador was when Mrs. Westby was walking him on his lead. I always had the impression that he was reluctant to move, and his mistress had to stroll along very slowly so that he could keep up with her. The sight of him saddened me when I thought of the lolloping Brandy of old, but I told myself that at least I had saved his life. I could do no more for him now, and I made a determined effort to push him out of my mind.
In fact, I tried to forget Brandy and managed to do so fairly well until one afternoon in February. On the previous night I felt I had been through the fire. I had treated a colicky horse until 4 A.M. and was crawling into bed, comforted by the knowledge that the animal was settled down and free from pain, when I was called to a calving. I had managed to produce a large live calf from a small heifer, but the effort had drained the last of my strength, and when I got home, it was too late to return to bed.
Ploughing through the morning round, I was so tired that I felt disembodied, and at lunch Helen watched me anxiously as my head nodded over my food.
There were a few dogs in the waiting room at two o’clock, and I dealt with them mechanically, peering through half-closed eyelids.
By the time I reached my last patient, I was almost asleep on my feet. In fact, I had the feeling that I wasn’t there at all.
“Next, please,” I mumbled as I pushed open the waiting-room door and stood back, expecting the usual sight of a dog being led out to the passage.
But this time there was a big difference. There was a man in the doorway all right, and he had a little poodle with him, but the thing that made my eyes snap wide open was that the dog was walking upright on his hind limbs.
I knew I was half-asleep, but surely I wasn’t seeing things. I stared down at the dog, but the picture hadn’t changed. The little creature strutted through the doorway, chest out, head up, as erect as a soldier.
“Follow me, please,” I said hoarsely and set off over the tiles to the consulting room. Halfway along, I just had to turn round to check the evidence of my eyes, and it was just the same—the poodle, still on his hind legs, marching along unconcernedly at his master’s side.
The man must have seen the bewilderment in my face because he burst suddenly into a roar of laughter.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “This little dog was cir-cus-trained before I got him as a pet. I like to show off his little tricks. This one really startles people.”
“You can say that again,” I said breathlessly. “It nearly gave me heart failure.”
The poodle wasn’t ill; he just wanted his nails clipped. I smiled as I hoisted him onto the table and began to ply the clippers.
“I suppose he won’t want his hind claws
doing,” I said. “He’ll have worn them down himself.” I was glad to find I had recovered sufficiently to attempt a little joke.
However, by the time I had finished, the old lassitude had taken over again, and I felt ready to fall down as I showed man and dog to the front door.
I watched the little animal trotting away down the street— in the orthodox manner this time—and it came to me suddenly that it had been a long time since I had seen a dog doing something unusual and amusing. Like the things Brandy used to do.
A wave of gentle memories flowed through me as I leaned wearily against the doorpost and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw Brandy coming round the corner of the street with Mrs. Westby. His nose was entirely obscured by a large, red tomato-soup can, and he strained madly at the leash and whipped his tail when he saw me.
It was certainly a hallucination this time. I was looking into the past. I really ought to go to bed immediately. But I was still rooted to the doorpost when the Labrador bounded up the steps, made an attempt, aborted by the soup can, to lick my face and contented himself with cocking a convivial leg against the bottom step.
I stared into Mrs. Westby’s radiant face. “What … what… ?”
With her sparkling eyes and wide smile, she looked more attractive than ever. “Look, Mr. Herriot, look! He’s better, he’s better!”
In an instant I was wide awake. “And I … I suppose you’ll want me to get that can off him?”
“Oh, yes, yes, please!”
It took all my strength to lift him onto the table. He was heavier now than before his illness. I reached for the familiar forceps and began to turn the jagged edges of the can outwards from the nose and mouth. Tomato soup must have been one of his favourites because he was really deeply embedded, and it took some time before I was able to slide the can from his face.
I fought off his slobbering attack. “He’s back in the dustbins, I see.”
“Yes, he is, quite regularly. I’ve pulled several cans off him myself. And he goes sliding with the children, too.” She smiled happily.
Thoughtfully I took my stethoscope from the pocket of my white coat and listened to his lungs. They were wonderfully clear. A slight roughness here and there, but the old cacophony had gone.
I leaned on the table and looked at the great dog with a mixture of thankfulness and incredulity. He was as before, boisterous and full of the joy of living. His tongue lolled in a happy grin, and the sun glinted through the surgery window on his sleek golden coat.
“But Mr. Herriot,” Mrs. Westby’s eyes were wide, “how on earth has this happened? How has he got better?”
“Vis medicative naturae,” I replied in tones of deep respect.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The healing power of nature. Something no veterinary surgeon can compete with when it decides to act.”
“I see. And you can never tell when this is going to happen?”
“No.”
For a few seconds we were silent as we stroked the dog’s head and ears and flanks.
“Oh, by the way,” I said, “has he shown any renewed interest in the blue jeans?”
“Oh, my word, yes! They’re in the washing machine at this very moment. Absolutely covered in mud. Isn’t it marvellous!”
Chapter
35
August 10, 1963
MY SLEEP IN THAT Bosporus hotel seemed to last only a short time, because apparently within minutes I was roused by one of the hotel staff and looked up to see the sunshine flooding into my room from the street above.
I washed and shaved and hurried to the dining room. Noel and Joe had suffered from the noisy party and were looking heavy-eyed, but the captain and the rest of the crew had been sleeping at the back of the hotel and had heard practically nothing. This was a good thing, because they were the ones who had a tough day ahead of them.
After breakfast the minibus whisked us along the glittering Bosporus and through the city, where I had my second fleeting glimpse of its wonders. It was frustrating. I had hoped to explore the treasures of Istanbul at my leisure—the Blue Mosque, Saint Sophia and so many others, but maybe another day …
At the airport there was the bustle of early-morning departures with aircraft taking off and climbing into the sunny sky, but I found something ominous in the sight of our Clobemaster standing on its own, vast, shabby, with the scorch marks on its useless engine. Dave, Ed and Karl didn’t seem to be worried as they went over to it, the little Dane whistling, the young Americans slouching, relaxed, hands as ever buried in the pockets of their white trousers.
I made straight for the B.E.A. desk, and it was a relief to see the fresh-faced Englishman in the familiar uniform.
“And what can I do for you, sir?” he asked, smiling.
I brandished my cheque book. “I want three tickets to London on the first flight, if possible.”
“You want to pay by cheque?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m sorry, but we cannot accept personal cheques.”
“What!”
“I’m afraid that is the rule, sir.” He was still smiling.
“But … we’re stuck here.” I gave him a brief outline of our plight.
He shook his head sadly. “I do wish I could help, but I have to abide by the rules.”
I kept at him for a few minutes longer, but it was no good. Then, when he wasn’t looking, I tried one of the other B.E.A. officials further along, but I got the same answer.
My heart was beating fast as I returned to my friends who were waiting for me in the airport lounge. They were speaking to the captain. I was beginning to feel like an expert in the bringing of evil tidings, and I hardly knew what to say to them. In fact, they took the news surprisingly well, and if they thought I was a hopeless organiser they disguised their feelings.
We all looked at the captain.
“If I were you,” he said, “I should go to the British Consul.”
I turned to the farmers. “Have you ever had anything to do with consuls?”
They shook their heads dumbly.
“Neither have I. I don’t know how they’d react in a situation like this. Would they be sure to fly us home?”
“Oh, yes.” The captain gave me a faint, reassuring smile. “I’m pretty certain you’d have no trouble.”
“Pretty certain, you say, but not absolutely?”
The big man stroked his beard. “Well, Mr. Herriot, like yourself, I have never had the need to approach them.”
“When do you take off?”
“In about half an hour.”
I had a nasty vision of the three of us trailing back into the city, being turned down by the Consul and coming back with hardly any money in our pockets to find the Globemaster gone.
“Look, Captain,” I said. “The way I see it, your aircraft is our only link with home. If you got us to Copenhagen, would you be able to arrange a flight to London from there?”
He gave me a long, appraising stare. “Oh, of course. Copenhagen is our headquarters. But you would be very silly to take the chance.”
“Well, I’m willing to take it. How about you chaps?”
The farmers both nodded immediately.
“Oi’m game,” Joe said. “Oi want to get Ome.”
The captain looked down at him. “But you do realise there is a very real danger.”
Joe grinned back. “Ah, you’ll get us there, Caap’n. I ain’t worried about that.”
He was voicing my own thoughts. Captain Birch inspired confidence.
“All right, then, if you’ve made up your minds,” the big man said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to sign a document which I must leave here in Istanbul. I’ll go and draw it up now.” He paused. “As I explained earlier, since the aircraft is in an unsafe condition you are, in effect, unauthorised personnel. Signing this document verifies that you are aware of this and that you relinquish all rights to compensation if the worst should happen.” He swept us again with his
serious gaze. “I must point out that if you lose your lives today, your dependents will receive nothing, no insurance, nothing”
I think we all gulped a bit at this, and there was a longish silence. For once it was Noel who broke it, and he echoed his friend. “You’ll get us there, Caap’n.”
The document was drawn up and we signed it, and with hindsight I know without any doubt that we behaved like complete idiots, because the danger was not imaginary. We could have been killed that day.
The captain’s advice was right, of course. We should have gone to the British Consul. Over the years I have read frequently of football fans being flown home by the Consul after getting drunk and missing their charter planes, and when I think that we three were on legitimate business, it makes our decision all the more crazy. I, in particular, should have known better.
I suppose part of the reason was that we were not thinking straight. The three of us were tired out with lack of sleep and the series of niggling mishaps in strange surroundings. We were in the mood to clutch at straws.
In any case the thing was done now, and we walked over the hot concrete to the Globemaster. It seemed that a fair proportion of the population of Istanbul had heard about our aircraft and had turned out to spectate, because a large crowd of people watched us as we went. I had an uncomfortable feeling that they didn’t expect us to get off the ground.
When we climbed into the aircraft, I saw that the interior had been swept clean and that a large door had been removed from one side of the fuselage to allow aeration after the cattle had gone.
Joe elected to sit up front in the flight cabin, while Noel and I strapped ourselves into two drop-down seats at the very back. We felt very insignificant sitting there in the tail, looking at the yawning emptiness in front of us.
We couldn’t see what was happening, and it was a shock when the engines roared into life. With that big opening in the side the noise was intolerable, and we both instinctively pushed our fingers into our ears. Noel’s face worked, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he tried to talk to me. I knew we couldn’t stand this for long, and I reached for my bag. I pulled out some cotton wool and stuffed it into the farmer’s ears. I did the same for myself and there was no doubt it relieved the noise problem, but at the same time it gave me a strange, unreal feeling, as if I were in limbo.