Lord God Made Them All (43 page)

The feeling of relief seemed to affect Noel immediately because when I looked round he was sound asleep, slumped against the webbing strap. My natural curiosity was too much for me, and I returned to the gap in the fuselage to view the scene passing below.

I sat there, entranced, all day, the cotton-wool plugs dangling from my ears. It wasn’t like flying in a modern jet where you can’t see much else besides clouds. I watched an unfolding, ever-changing panorama of mountains and sea, islands, yellow beaches, arid plains, the tightly clustered houses of large cities and tiny villages. Occasionally I took pictures, leaning precariously against the strip of sacking that was the only thing between me and the dazzling blue water thousands of feet below.

In mid-afternoon I broke off to consume the contents of a white carton the captain had solemnly handed out to each of us in Istanbul. It contained a slab of unidentifiable meat, the inevitable sticky cake and, to my delight, some slices of that delicious bread and a wedge of cheese.

I also went up to the flight cabin for a few minutes to get some pictures of the stricken engine with its four propellor blades, dangling still and useless. It was a sad sight, but I was glad to see that the other three engines were buzzing away with heartening vigour.

When I returned to my post by the open side, the great rampart of the Alps was rising before us. This, I knew, was the crucial time. The Globemaster climbed higher, but when we reached the tumbled mass of peaks we still seemed to be very near to the summits. Beneath me I could see the loose boulders and scarred rock on the mountaintops quite plainly, but, like my friends, I had faith in that bearded man’s ability to take us over, and he did.

It was growing dusk when we circled above Copenhagen, and I had a glimpse of the little mermaid in the bay. Soon Joe was happy at last with a glass of real beer in his hand in the airport bar.

There isn’t much more to tell. We had to wait till 2
A.M.
for a flight to Heathrow, and I was sitting on a luggage barrow trying to read the Sunday
Times
at seven o’clock in the morning at King’s Cross Station. I wasn’t very successful, because the paper kept slipping from my fingers as my eyes closed involuntarily.

My last memory is of a friendly old gentleman in the compartment of the north-bound train trying to engage me in conversation, but to my shame I fell asleep in front of him and didn’t wake up until York.

After I had slipped again into the routine of the practice, I looked back on my Istanbul trip as a memorable experience. A bit too concentrated, perhaps, and by no means the rest cure my friend John had pictured, but fascinating in its way. And, of course, I felt I had greatly exaggerated any possible danger on the flight home. From the comfort of my car as I drove round the familiar roads of the Yorkshire Dales, the whole thing had a touch of fantasy.

It all came back to me in stark truth when I heard, many months later, that, soon after the Istanbul flight, the Globemaster had plunged into the Mediterranean with the loss of all her crew. The news came to me indirectly, and I did my best to find out if it was true, but it was a long time afterwards and I had no success.

Ever since, I have thought often about those men: the captain, the two young Americans and Karl. During those few days I had come to admire them, and even now I still cling to the faint hope that that terrible news was wrong.

W
HAT HORRIBLE LITTLE DOGS!

It was a sentiment that rarely entered my mind because I could find something attractive in nearly all my canine patients.

I had to make an exception in the cases of Ruffles and Muffles Whithorn. Try as I might, I could find no lovable traits, only unpleasant ones—like their unvarying method of welcoming me into their home.

“Down! Down!” I yelped, as I always did. The two little animals—West Highland Whites—were standing on their hind limbs, clawing furiously at my trouser legs with their front paws, and I don’t know whether I have unusually tender shins but the effect was agonising.

As I backed away on tiptoe like a ballet dancer going into reverse, the room resounded to Mr. and Mrs. Whithorn’s delighted laughter. They found this unfailingly amusing.

“Aren’t they little pets!” Mr. Whithorn gasped between paroxysms. “Don’t they give you a lovely greeting, bless them!”

I wasn’t so sure about that. Apart from excoriating my flesh through my grey flannels, the dogs were glaring up at me balefully, their mouths half-open, lips quivering, teeth chattering in a characteristic manner. It wasn’t exactly a snarl, but it wasn’t friendly, either.

“Come, my darlings.” The man gathered the dogs into his arms and kissed them both fondly on the cheeks. He was still giggling. “You know, Mr. Herriot, isn’t it priceless that they welcome you into our house so lovingly and then try to stop you from leaving?”

I didn’t say anything but massaged my trousers in silence. The truth was that these animals invariably clawed me on my entry, then did their best to bite my ankles on the way out. In between, they molested me in whatever ways they could devise. The strange thing was that they were both old—Ruffles fourteen and Muffles twelve—and one might have experienced some mellowness in their characters, but it was not so.

“Well,” I said, after reassuring myself that my wounds were superficial, “I understand Ruffles is lame.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Whithorn took the dog and placed him on the table where she had spread some newspapers. “It’s his left front paw. Just started this morning. He’s in agony, poor dear.”

Gingerly I took hold of the foot, then whipped my hand away as the teeth snapped shut less than an inch from my fingers.

“Oh, my precious!” Mrs. Whithorn exclaimed. “It’s so painful. Do be careful, Mr. Herriot, he’s so nervous and I think you’re hurting him.”

I breathed deeply. This dog should have a tape muzzle applied right at the start, but I had previously caused shock and dismay in the Whithorns by suggesting such a thing, so I had to manage as best I could. Anyway, I wasn’t a novice at the business. It would take a very smart biter to catch me.

I curled my forefinger round the leg and had another look, and I was able to see what I wanted in the fleeting instant before the next snap—a reddish swelling pouting from between the toes.

An interdigital cyst! How ridiculous that a vet should be making a house call for such a trivial ailment. But the Whithorns had always firmly refused to bring their dogs to the surgery. It frightened the darlings, they said.

I stood back from the table. “This is just a harmless cyst, but I agree that it is painful, so I’d advise you to bathe it in hot water until it bursts, and that will relieve the pain. Many dogs burst these things themselves by nibbling at them, but you can hasten the process.”

I drew some antibiotic into a syringe. “Nobody knows exactly what causes an interdigital cyst. No specific causal organisms have been found, but I’ll give him this shot in case of infection.”

I achieved the injection by holding the little animal by the scruff of the neck; then Mrs. Whithorn lifted the other dog onto the table.

“You’d better give him a checkup while you’re here,” she said.

This usually happened, and I palpated the snarling bundle of white hair and went over him with stethoscope and thermometer. He had most of the afflictions that beset old dogs—arthritis, nephritis and other things, including a heart murmur difficult to hear among the bad-tempered rumblings echoing round his thorax.

My examination completed, I replenished his various medicaments and prepared to leave. This was when the exit phase of my visit started, and it was relished by Mr. and Mrs. Whithorn even more than the entry.

The ritual never changed. As their owners tittered gleefully the two little dogs stationed themselves in the doorway, effectively barring my way out. Their lips were drawn back from their teeth. They were the very picture of venom. To draw them away from their posts I feinted to the right, then made a rush for the door, but with my fingers on the handle I had to turn and fend off the hungry jaws snapping at my ankles, and as I skipped around on my heels, my previous dainty ballet steps were superseded by the coarser hoppings of a clog dance.

But I escaped. A final couple of quick pushes with my feet and I was out in the fresh air, crashing the door thankfully behind me.

I was regaining my breath when Doug Watson, the milkman, drew up in his blue van. He kept a few dairy cows on a smallhold-ing on the edge of the town and augmented his income by operating a retail round among the citizens of Darrowby.

“Mornin”, Mr. Herriot.” He gestured towards the house. “You been in to see them dogs?”

“Yes.”

“Proper little sods, aren’t they?”

I laughed. “Not very sweet-tempered.”

“By gaw, that’s the truth. I’ve got to watch meself when I deliver t’milk. If that door happens to be open, they’re straight out at me.”

“I’ll bet they are.”

His eyes widened. “They go for me feet. Sometimes I feel a right bloody Charlie, jumpin’ about like a daft thing in front of everybody.”

I nodded. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“You’ve got to keep movin’ or you’ve ‘ad it,” he said. “Look ’ere.” He pushed his leg out of the van and pointed to the heel of one of the Wellington boots he always wore on his rounds. I could see a neat puncture hole on either side. “One of ’em got me there, just t’other day. Went right through to me skin.”

“Good heavens, which one did that?”

“Don’t rightly know—what’s their names, anyway?”

“Ruffles and Muffles,” I replied.

“Bloody ‘ell!” Doug looked at me wonderingly. His own dog was called Spot. He spent a few moments in thought, then raised a finger. “But ah’ll tell tha summat, and maybe ye won’t believe me. Them dogs used to be real nice little things.”

“What!”

“I’m not jokin’ nor jestin’. When they fust came here, they were as friendly as any dogs I’ve ever seen. It was afore your time, but it’s true.”

“Well, that’s remarkable,” I said. “I wonder what happened.”

Doug shrugged his shoulders. “God knows, but each one of ’em turned nasty after a few months, and they’ve got wuss and wuss ever since.”

Doug’s words stayed with me until I got back to the surgery. I was puzzled. Westies, in my experience, were a particularly amiable breed. Siegfried was in the dispensary, writing directions on a bottle of colic mixture. I mentioned the situation to him.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard the same thing. I’ve been to the Whithorns’ a couple of times, and I know why those dogs are so objectionable.”

“Really? Why is it?”

“Their owners make them that way. They never correct them, and they slobber over them all the time.”

“You could be right,” I said. “I’ve always made a fuss of my own dogs, but all that kissing and cuddling is a bit sickening.”

“Quite. Too much of that is bad for a dog. And another thing, those two animals are the bosses in that home. A dog likes to obey. It gives them security. Believe me, Ruffles and Muffles would be happy and good-tempered if they had been controlled right from the start.”

“There’s no doubt they rule the roost now.”

“Absolutely,” Siegfried said. “And really, they hate it. If only the Whithorns would take off the rose-tinted spectacles and treat them normally. But it’s too late now, I’m afraid.” He pocketed the colic mixture and left.

The months passed, I had a few more visits to the Whithorns’ and went through the usual dancing routine; then, oddly, both the old dogs died within a few weeks of each other. And despite their tempestuous lives, they had peaceful ends. Ruffles was found dead in his basket one morning, and Muffles wandered down the garden for a sleep under the apple tree and never woke up.

That was merciful, anyway. They hadn’t treated me very well, but I was glad they had been spared the things that upset me most in small-animal practice—the road accident, the lingering illness, the euthanasia.

It was like a chapter in my life closing, but shortly afterwards Mr. Whithorn rang me.

“Mr. Herriot,” he said, “we have acquired another pair of Westies, and I wonder if you would call and give them their distemper inoculations.”

It was a delightful change to go into the room and be met by two tail-wagging puppies. They were twelve weeks old, and they looked up at me with benevolent eyes.

“They’re beautiful,” I said. “What have you called them?”

“Ruffles and Muffles,” Mr. Whithorn replied.

“Same again, eh?”

“Yes, we wanted to keep the memory of our other darlings alive.” He seized the puppies and showered kisses on them.

After the inoculations, it was a long time before I saw the little dogs again. They seemed to be singularly healthy. It must have been nearly a year later when I was called to the house to give them a checkup.

When I went into the sitting room, Ruffles and Muffles Mark Two were seated side by side on the sofa. There was an odd immobility in their attitude. As I approached they stared at me coldly, and as if responding to a signal they bared their teeth and growled softly but menacingly.

A chill ran through me. It couldn’t be happening all over again. But as Mr. Whithorn lifted Ruffles onto the table and I took the auroscope from its box, I quickly realised that fate had made history repeat itself. The little animal stood there, regarding me with a bristling mistrust.

“Hold his head, will you, please?” I said. “I want to examine his ears first.” I took the ear between finger and thumb and gently inserted the auroscope. I applied my eye to the instrument and was inspecting the external meatus when the dog exploded into action. I heard a vicious snarl, and as I jerked my head back, the draught of the crunching teeth fanned my face.

Mr. Whithorn leaned back and abandoned himself to mirth. “Oh, isn’t he a little monkey! Ha-ha-ha, he just won’t stand any nonsense.” He rested his hands on the table for some time, shaking with merriment, then he wiped his eyes. “Dear, oh dear, what a character he is.”

I stared at the man. The fact that he might easily have been confronted by a noseless veterinary surgeon did not seem to weigh with him. I looked, too, at his wife standing behind him. She was laughing just as merrily. What was the use of trying to instil reason into these people? They were utterly besotted. All I could do was get on with the job.