All Things Bright and Beautiful (31 page)

“You know, Mr. Herriot,” the artist gasped. “Some boys chalked on my window. Roll up and see the famous Chinese dog, Wun Hung Lo. I’ve just been wiping it off.”

I rubbed my chin. “Well that’s an ancient joke Mr. Partridge. I shouldn’t worry about that.”

“But I do worry! I can’t sleep because of the thing!”

“For heaven’s sake, then, why don’t you let me operate? I could put the whole business right for you.”

“No! No! I can’t do that!” His head rolled on his shoulders; he was the very picture of misery as he stared at me. “I’m frightened, that’s what it is. I’m frightened he’ll die under the anaesthetic.”

“Oh come now! He’s a strong little animal. There’s no reason at all for such fears.”

“But there is a risk isn’t there?”

I looked at him helplessly. “Well there’s a slight risk in all operations if you come right down to it, but honestly in this case…”

“No! That’s enough. I won’t hear of it,” he burst out and seizing Percy’s lead he strode away.

Things went from bad to worse after that. The tumour grew steadily, easily visible now from my vantage point in the surgery window as the dog went by on the other side of the street, and I could see too that the stares and occasional ridicule were beginning to tell on Mr. Partridge. His cheeks had hollowed and he had lost some of his high colour.

But I didn’t have words with him till one market day several weeks later. It was early afternoon—the time the farmers often came in to pay their bills. I was showing one of them out when I saw Percy and his master coming out of the house. And I noticed immediately that the little animal now had to swing one hind leg slightly to clear the massive obstruction.

On an impulse I called out and beckoned to Mr. Partridge.

“Look,” I said as he came across to me. “You’ve just got to let me take that thing off. It’s interfering with his walking—making him lame. He can’t go on like this.”

The artist didn’t say anything but stared back at me with hunted eyes. We were standing there in silence when Bill Dalton came round the corner and marched up to the surgery steps, cheque book in hand. Bill was a large beefy farmer who spent most of market day in the bar of the Black Swan and he was preceded by an almost palpable wave of beer fumes.

“Nah then, Rolie lad, how ista?” he roared, slapping the little man violently on the back.

“I am quite well, William, thank you, and how are you?”

But Bill didn’t answer. His attention was all on Percy who had strolled a few paces along the pavement He watched him intently for a few moments then, repressing a giggle, he turned back to Mr. Partridge with a mock-serious expression.

“Tha knows, Rolie,” he said, “That blood ’ound of yours reminds me of the young man of Devizes, whose balls were of different sizes. The one was so small it was no ball at all, but the other one won several prizes.” He finished with a shout of laughter which went on and on till he collapsed weakly against the iron railings.

For a moment I thought Mr. Partridge was going to strike him. He glared up at the big man and his chin and mouth trembled with rage, then he seemed to gain control of himself and turned to me.

“Can I have a word with you, Mr. Herriot?”

“Certainly.” I walked a few yards with him down the street.

“You’re right,” he said. “Percy will have to have that operation. When can you do him?”

Tomorrow,” I replied. “Don’t give him any more food and bring him in at two in the afternoon.”

It was with a feeling of intense relief that I saw the little dog stretched on the table the next day. With Tristan as anaesthetist I quickly removed the huge testicle, going well up the spermatic cord to ensure the complete excision of all tumour tissue. The only thing which troubled me was that the scrotum itself had become involved due to the long delay in operating. This is the sort of thing that can lead to a recurrence and as I carefully cut away the affected parts of the scrotal wall I cursed Mr. Partridge’s procrastination. I put in the last stitch with my fingers crossed.

The little man was in such transports of joy at seeing his pet alive after my efforts and rid of that horrid excrescence that I didn’t want to spoil everything by voicing my doubts; but I wasn’t entirely happy. If the tumour did recur I wasn’t sure just what I could do about it.

But in the meantime I enjoyed my own share of pleasure at my patient’s return to normality. I felt a warm rush of satisfaction whenever I saw him tripping along, perky as ever and free from the disfigurement which had bulked so large in his master’s life. Occasionally I used to stroll casually behind him on the way down Trengate into the market place, saying nothing to Mr. Partridge but shooting some sharp glances at the region beneath Percy’s tail.

In the meantime I had sent the removed organ off to the pathology department at Glasgow Veterinary College and their report told me that it was a Sertoli Cell Tumour. They also added the comforting information that this type was usually benign and that metastasis into the internal organs occurred in only a very small proportion of cases. Maybe this lulled me into a deeper security than was warranted because I stopped following Percy around and in fact, in the nonstop rush of new cases, forgot all about his spell of trouble.

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.

E
VERY 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.