James Herriot (37 page)

“Hey, that’s enough, Skipper,” I said. “Jing isn’t in the mood for rough stuff today.” I lifted him gently to the floor where he paced indignantly around the table legs.

I examined the bull terrier thoroughly and the only significant finding was an elevated temperature.

“It’s a hundred and five, Jack. He’s very ill, there’s no doubt about that.”

“But what’s the matter with him?”

“With a high fever like that he must have some acute infection. But at the moment it’s difficult to pinpoint.” I reached out and stroked the broad skull, running my fingers over the curving white face as my thoughts raced.

For an instant the tail twitched between his hocks and the friendly eyes rolled round to me and then to his master. It was that movement of the eyes which seized my whole attention. I quickly raised the upper lid. The conjunctiva appeared to be a normal pink, but in the smooth white sclera I could discern the faintest tinge of yellow.

“He’s got jaundice,” I said. “Have you noticed anything peculiar about his urine?”

Jack Sanders nodded. “Yes, now you mention it. I saw him cock his leg in the garden and his water looked a bit dark.”

“Those are bile pigments.” I gently squeezed the abdomen and the dog winced slightly. “Yes, he’s definitely tender in there.”

“Jaundice?” His master stared at me across the table. “Where would he get that?”

I rubbed my chin. “Well, when I see a dog like this I think firstly of two things—phosphorus poisoning and leptospirosis. In view of the high temperature I go for the leptospirosis.”

“Would he catch it from another dog?”

“Possibly, but more likely from rats. Does he come into contact with any rats?”

“Yes, now and then. There’s a lot of them in an old hen house at the foot of the lane and Jing sometimes gets in there after them.”

“Well that’s it” I shrugged. “I don’t think we need to look any further for the cause.”

He nodded slowly. “Anyway, it’s something to know what’s wrong with him. Now you can set about putting him right.”

I looked at him for a moment in silence. It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t want to upset him, but on the other hand he was a highly intelligent and sensible man in his forties, a teacher at the local school. I felt I had to tell him the whole truth.

“Jack,” I said. “This is a terrible condition to treat. If there’s one thing I hate to see it’s a jaundiced dog.”

“You mean it’s serious?”

“I’m afraid so. In fact the mortality rate is very high.”

I felt for him when I saw the sudden pain and concern in his face, but a warning now was better than a shock later, because I knew that Jingo could be dead within a few days. Even now, thirty years later, I quail when I see that yellowish discolouration in a dog’s eyes. Penicillin and other antibiotics have some effect against the causal organism of leptospirosis but the disease is still very often fatal.

“I see … I see …” He was collecting his thoughts. “But surely you can do something?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said briskly. “I’m going to give him a big shot of antileptospiral serum and some medicine to administer by the mouth. It isn’t completely hopeless.”

I injected the serum in the knowledge that it didn’t have much effect at this stage, but I had nothing else to offer. I gave Skipper a shot, too, with the happier feeling that it would protect him against the infection.

“One thing more, Jack,” I added. “This disease also affects humans, so please take all hygienic precautions when handling Jingo. All right?”

He nodded and lifted the bull terrier from the table. The big dog, as most of my patients do, tried to hurry away from the disturbing white-coat-and-antiseptic atmosphere of the surgery. As he trotted along the passage his master turned to me eagerly.

“Look at that! He doesn’t seem too bad, does he?”

I didn’t say anything. I hoped with all my heart that he was right, but I was fighting off the conviction that this nice animal was doomed. At any rate I would soon know.

I knew, in fact, next day. Jack Sanders was on the ’phone before nine o’clock in the morning.

“Jing’s not so good,” he said, but the tremor in his voice belied the lightness of his words.

“Oh.” I experienced the familiar drooping of the spirits. “What is he doing?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Won’t eat a thing … lying around … just lifeless. And every now and then he vomits.”

It was what I expected, but I still felt like kicking the desk by my side. “Very well, I’ll be right round.”

There were no tail wags from Jing today. He was crouched before the fire, gazing listlessly into the coals. The yellow in his eyes had deepened to a rich orange and his temperature still soared. I repeated the serum injection, but the big dog did not heed the entry of the needle. Before I left I ran my hand over the smooth white body and Skipper as ever kept burrowing in on his friend, but Jingo’s thoughts were elsewhere, sunk in his inner misery.

I visited him daily and on the fourth day I found him stretched almost comatose on his side. The conjunctiva, sclera, and the mucous membranes of the mouth were a dirty chocolate colour.

“Is he suffering?” Jack Sanders asked.

I hesitated for a moment. “I honestly don’t think he’s in pain. Sickness, nausea, yes, but I’d say that’s all.”

“Well I’d like to keep on trying,” he said. “I don’t want to put him down even though you think it’s hopeless. You do … don’t you?”

I made a non-committal gesture. I was watching Skipper who seemed bewildered. He had given up his worrying tactics and was sniffing round his friend in a puzzled manner. Only once did he pull very gently at the unresponsive ear.

I went through the motions with a feeling of helplessness and left with the unpleasant intuition that I would never see Jingo alive again.

And even though I was waiting for it, Jack Sanders’ ’phone call next morning was a bad start to the day.

“Jing died during the night, Mr. Herriot. I thought I’d better let you know. You said you were coming back this morning.” He was trying to be matter-of-fact

“I’m sorry, Jack,” I said. “I did rather expect …”

‘‘Yes, I know. And thank you for what you did.”

It made it worse when people were nice at these times. The Sanderses were a childless couple and devoted to their animals. I knew how he was feeling.

I stood there with the receiver in my hand. “Anyway, Jack, you’ve still got Skipper.” It sounded a bit lame, but it did help to have the comfort of one remaining dog, even though he was old.

“That’s right,” he replied. “We’re very thankful for Skipper.”

I went on with my work. Patients died sometimes and once it was over it was almost a relief, especially when I knew in Jingo’s case that the end was inevitable.

But this thing wasn’t over. Less than a week later Jack Sanders was on the ’phone again.

“It’s Skipper,” he said. “He seems to be going the same way as Jing.”

A cold hand took hold of my stomach and twisted it.

“But … but … he can’t be! I gave him the protective injection!”

“Well, I don’t know, but he’s hanging around miserably and hardly eats a thing. He seems to be going down fast.”

I ran out and jumped into my car. And as I drove to the edge of the town where the Sanderses lived my heart thudded and panicky thoughts jostled around in my mind. How could he have got the infection? I had little faith in the serum as a cure but as a prevention I felt it was safe. I had even given him a second shot to make sure. The idea of these people losing both their dogs was bad enough but I couldn’t bear the thought that the second one might be my fault.

The little corgi trailed unhappily across the carpet when he saw me and I lifted him quickly on to the kitchen table. I almost snatched at his eyelids in my anxiety but there was no sign of jaundice in the sclera nor in the mucous membranes of the mouth. The temperature was dead normal and I felt a wave of relief.

“He hasn’t got leptospirosis, anyway,” I said. Mrs. Sanders clasped her hands. “Oh thank God for that. We were sure it was the same thing. He looks so awful.”

I examined the little animal meticulously and when I finished I put my stethoscope in my pocket. “Well, I can’t find much wrong here. He’s got a bit of a heart murmur but you’ve known about that for some time. He’s old, after all.”

“Do you think he could be fretting for Jing?” Jack Sanders asked.

“Yes, I do. They were such friends. He must feel lost.”

“But he’ll get over that won’t he?”

“Oh of course he will. I’ll leave some mild sedative tablets for him and I’m sure they’ll help.” I met Jack a few days later in the market place. “How is Skipper?” I asked.

He blew out his cheeks. “About the same. Maybe a bit worse. The trouble is he eats practically nothing—he’s getting very thin.”

I didn’t see what else I could do but on the following day I looked in at the Sanderses’ as I was passing.

I was shocked at the little corgi’s appearance. Despite his age he had been so cocky and full of bounce, and when Jing was alive he had been indisputably the boss dog. But now he was utterly deflated. He looked at me with lack-lustre eyes as I came in, then crept stiffly to his basket where he curled himself as though wishing to shut out the world.

I examined him again. The heart murmur seemed a little more pronounced but there was nothing else except that he looked old and decrepit and done.

“You know, I’m beginning to wonder if he really is fretting,” I said. “It could be just his age catching up on him. After all, he’ll be twelve in the spring, won’t he?”

Mrs. Sanders nodded. “That’s right. Then you think … this could be the end?”

“It’s possible.” I knew what she was thinking. A couple of weeks ago two healthy dogs rolling around and playing in this house and now there could soon be none.

“But isn’t there anything else you can do?”

“Well I can give him a course of digitalis for his heart. And perhaps you would bring in a sample of his urine. I want to see how his kidneys are functioning.”

I tested the urine. There was a little albumen, but no more than you would expect in a dog of his age. I ruled out nephritis as a cause.

As the days passed I tried other things; vitamins, iron tonics, organo-phosphates, but the little animal declined steadily. It was about a month after Jing’s death that I was called to the house again.

Skipper was in his basket and when I called to him he slowly raised his head. His face was pinched and fleshless and the filmed eyes regarded me without recognition.

“Come on, lad,” I said encouragingly. “Let’s see you get out of there.”

Jack Sanders shook his head. “It’s no good, Mr. Herriot. He never leaves his basket now and when we lift him out he’s almost too weak to walk. Another thing … he makes a mess down here in the kitchen during the night. That’s something he’s never done.”

It was like the tolling of a sad bell. Everything he said pointed to a dog in the last stages of senility. I tried to pick my words.

“I’m sorry, Jack, but it all sounds as if the old chap has come to the end of the road. I don’t think fretting could possibly cause all this.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. He looked at his wife then down at the forlorn little creature. “Well of course this has been in the back of our minds. But we’ve kept hoping he would start to eat What … what do you suggest?”

I could not bring myself to say the fateful words. “It seems to me that we can’t stand by and let him suffer. He’s just a little skeleton and I can’t think he’s getting any pleasure out of his life now.”

“I see,” he said. “And I agree. He lies there all day—he has no interest in anything.” He paused and looked at his wife again. “I tell you what Mr. Herriot. Let us think it over till tomorrow. But you do think there’s no hope?”

“Yes, Jack, I do. Old dogs often go this way at the end. Skipper has just cracked up … he’s finished, I’m afraid.”

He drew a long breath. “Right, if you don’t hear from me by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, please come and put him to sleep.”

I had small hope of the call coming and it didn’t. In those early days of our marriage Helen worked as a secretary for one of the local millers. We often started our day together by descending the long flights of stairs from our bed-sitter and I would see her out of the front door before getting ready for my round.

This morning she gave me her usual kiss before going out into the street but then she looked at me searchingly. “You’ve been quiet all through breakfast, Jim. What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, really. Just part of the job,” I said. But when she kept her steady gaze on me I told her quickly about the Sanderses.

She touched my arm. “It’s such a shame, Jim, but you can’t let your sad cases depress you. You’d never survive.”

“Aagh, I know that. But I’m a softy, that’s my trouble. Sometimes I think I should never have been a vet.”

“You’re wrong there,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine you as anything else. You’ll do what you have to do, and you’ll do it the right way.” She kissed me again, turned . and ran down the steps.

It was mid morning before I drew up outside the Sanderses’ home. I opened the car boot and took out the syringe and the bottle of concentrated anaesthetic which would give the old dog a peaceful and painless end.

The first thing I saw when I went into the kitchen was a fat little white puppy waddling across the floor.

I looked down in astonishment “What’s this …?”

Mrs. Sanders gave me a strained smile. “Jack and I had a talk yesterday. We couldn’t bear the idea of not having a dog at all, so we went round to Mrs. Palmer who bred Jing and found she had a litter for sale. It seemed like fate. We’ve called him Jingo, too.”

“What a splendid idea!” I lifted the pup which squirmed in my hand, grunted in an obese manner and tried to lick my face. This, I felt would make my unpleasant task easier. “I think you’ve been very sensible.”

I lifted the bottle of anaesthetic unobtrusively from my pocket and went over to the basket in the corner. Skipper was still curled in the unheeding ball of yesterday and the comforting thought came to me that all I was going to do was push him a little further along the journey he had already begun.