By the time of Every Living Thing, James has a new dog Dinah, based on Alf’s real dog Dinah, who also grew fat. The beagle loved her food and few could resist her liquid brown eyes when she was after a morsel of something tasty. The family never could and the dog grew very large, despite going out with Alf for regular walks. Practice assistant Calum, who has a way with all animals, is not shy in pointing out Dinah’s portliness.

  Everything was going with a bang when Dinah, our second beagle and successor to Sam, ran in from the garden.

  ‘This is Dinah,’ I said.

  ‘Oh-ho, oh-ho, little fat Dinah,’ said Calum in a rumbling bass. It was not a complimentary remark, because my little dog was undoubtedly too fat, and an embarrassment to a vet who was constantly adjuring people to keep their dogs slim, but Dinah didn’t seem to mind. She wagged her whole back end until I thought she would tie herself in a knot. Her response was remarkable and she clearly found this new voice immensely attractive. Calum bent down and she rolled on her back in ecstasy as he rubbed her tummy.

  Helen laughed. ‘Gosh, she really likes you!’

  The real Dinah died in 1963 at the age of eleven, having unwittingly consumed some rat-poison, much to the distress of the family. As a dog-lover, James can empathize with the sadness or heartbreak owners experience when their dogs die or suffer an injury. As Alf Wight put it: ‘I am as soppy over my dogs as any old lady and it is a trait which has always stood me in good stead in my dealing with clients.’ That sensitivity also resulted in some very poignant stories about dogs in his books, including that of Bob the Labrador who features in If Only They Could Talk.

  ‘I’ve come to see your dog,’ I said, and the old man smiled.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you’ve come, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m getting a bit worried about the old chap. Come inside, please.’

  He led me into the tiny living room. ‘I’m alone now, sir. Lost my missus over a year ago. She used to think the world of the old dog.’

  The grim evidence of poverty was everywhere. In the worn-out lino, the fireless hearth, the dank, musty smell of the place. The wallpaper hung away from the damp patches and on the table the old man’s solitary dinner was laid; a fragment of bacon, a few fried potatoes and a cup of tea. This was life on the old-age pension.

  In the corner, on a blanket, lay my patient, a cross-bred Labrador. He must have been a big, powerful dog in his time, but the signs of age showed in the white hairs round his muzzle and the pale opacity in the depth of his eyes. He lay quietly and looked at me without hostility.

  ‘Getting on a bit, isn’t he, Mr Dean?’

  ‘Aye he is that. Nearly fourteen, but he’s been like a pup galloping about until these last few weeks. Wonderful dog for his age is old Bob and he’s never offered to bite anybody in his life. Children can do anything with him. He’s my only friend now – I hope you’ll soon be able to put him right.’

  ‘Is he off his food, Mr Dean?’

  ‘Yes, clean off, and that’s a strange thing because, by gum, he could eat. He always sat by me and put his head on my knee at meal times, but he hasn’t been doing it lately.’

  I looked at the dog with growing uneasiness. The abdomen was grossly distended and I could read the tell-tale symptoms of pain; the catch in the respirations, the retracted commissures of the lips, the anxious, preoccupied expression in the eyes.

  When his master spoke, the tail thumped twice on the blankets and a momentary interest showed in the white old eyes; but it quickly disappeared and the blank, inward look returned.

  I passed my hand carefully over the dog’s abdomen. Ascites was pronounced and the dropsical fluid had gathered till the pressure was intense. ‘Come on, old chap,’ I said, ‘let’s see if we can roll you over.’ The dog made no resistance as I eased him slowly onto his other side, but, just as the movement was completed, he whimpered and looked round. The cause of the trouble was now only too easy to find.

  I palpated gently. Through the thin muscle of the flank I could feel a hard, corrugated mass; certainly a splenic or hepatic carcinoma, enormous and completely inoperable. I stroked the old dog’s head as I tried to collect my thoughts. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  ‘Is he going to be ill for long?’ the old man asked, and again came the thump, thump of the tail at the sound of the loved voice. ‘It’s miserable when Bob isn’t following me round the house when I’m doing my little jobs.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dean, but I’m afraid this is something very serious. You see this large swelling. It is caused by an internal growth.’

  ‘You mean . . . cancer?’ the little man said faintly.

  ‘I’m afraid so, and it has progressed too far for anything to be done. I wish there was something I could do to help him, but there isn’t.’

  The old man looked bewildered and his lips trembled. ‘Then he’s going to die?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘We really can’t just leave him to die, can we? He’s in some distress now, but it will soon be an awful lot worse. Don’t you think it would be kindest to put him to sleep? After all, he’s had a good, long innings.’ I always aimed at a brisk, matter-of-fact approach, but the old clichés had an empty ring.

  The old man was silent, then he said, ‘Just a minute,’ and slowly and painfully knelt down by the side of the dog. He did not speak, but ran his hand again and again over the grey old muzzle and the ears, while the tail thump, thump, thumped on the floor.

  He knelt there a long time while I stood in the cheerless room, my eyes taking in the faded pictures on the walls, the frayed, grimy curtains, the broken-springed armchair.

  At length the old man struggled to his feet and gulped once or twice. Without looking at me, he said huskily, ‘All right, will you do it now?’

  I filled the syringe and said the things I always said. ‘You needn’t worry, this is absolutely painless. Just an overdose of an anaesthetic. It is really an easy way out for the old fellow.’

  The dog did not move as the needle was inserted, and, as the barbiturate began to flow into the vein, the anxious expression left his face and the muscles began to relax. By the time the injection was finished, the breathing had stopped.

  ‘Is that it?’ the old man whispered.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said. ‘He is out of his pain now.’

  The old man stood motionless except for the clasping and unclasping of his hands. When he turned to face me his eyes were bright. ‘That’s right, we couldn’t let him suffer, and I’m grateful for what you’ve done. And now, what do I owe you for your services, sir?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr Dean,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s nothing – nothing at all. I was passing right by here – it was no trouble.’

  The old man was astonished. ‘But you can’t do that for nothing.’

  ‘Now please say no more about it, Mr Dean. As I told you, I was passing right by your door.’ I said goodbye and went out of the house, through the passage and into the street. In the bustle of people and the bright sunshine, I could still see only the stark, little room, the old man and his dead dog.

  As I walked towards my car, I heard a shout behind me. The old man was shuffling excitedly towards me in his slippers. His cheeks were streaked and wet, but he was smiling. In his hand he held a small, brown object.

  ‘You’ve been very kind, sir. I’ve got something for you.’ He held out the object and I looked at it. It was tattered but just recognizable as a precious relic of a bygone celebration.

  ‘Go on, it’s for you,’ said the old man. ‘Have a cigar.’

  Providing services for free or at a much-reduced rate to clients living in poverty was an all-too-common occurrence at the Darrowby practice. While vets’ bills are a stretch for some animal owners, there is one client who can easily meet the cost of calling out a vet – as she does regularly. Mrs Pumphrey, whom we meet in If Only They Could Talk, calls in James to attend to her Pekinese dog Tricki Woo and his reoccurring ‘flop-bott’.

  Mrs Pumphrey was an elderly widow. Her late husband, a beer baron whose breweries and pubs were scattered widely over the broad bosom of Yorkshire, had left her a vast fortune and a beautiful house on the outskirts of Darrowby. Here she lived with a large staff of servants, a gardener, a chauffeur and Tricki Woo. Tricki Woo was a Pekinese and the apple of his mistress’s eye.

  Standing now in the magnificent doorway, I furtively rubbed the toes of my shoes on the backs of my trousers and blew on my cold hands. I could almost see the deep armchair drawn close to the leaping flames, the tray of cocktail biscuits, the bottle of excellent sherry. Because of the sherry, I was always careful to time my visits for half an hour before lunch.

  A maid answered my ring, beaming on me as an honoured guest, and led me to the room, crammed with expensive furniture and littered with glossy magazines and the latest novels. Mrs Pumphrey, in the high-backed chair by the fire, put down her book with a cry of delight. ‘Tricki! Tricki! Here is your Uncle Herriot.’ I had been made an uncle very early and, sensing the advantages of the relationship, had made no objection.

  Tricki, as always, bounded from his cushion, leaped onto the back of a sofa and put his paws on my shoulders. He then licked my face thoroughly before retiring, exhausted. He was soon exhausted because he was given roughly twice the amount of food needed for a dog of his size. And it was the wrong kind of food.

  ‘Oh, Mr Herriot,’ Mrs Pumphrey said, looking at her pet anxiously. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Tricki has gone flop-bott again.’

  This ailment, not to be found in any textbook, was her way of describing the symptoms of Tricki’s impacted anal glands. When the glands filled up, he showed discomfort by sitting down suddenly in mid-walk and his mistress would rush to the phone in great agitation.

  ‘Mr Herriot! Please come, he’s going flop-bott again!’

  I hoisted the little dog on to a table and, by pressure on the anus with a pad of cotton wool, I evacuated the glands.

  It baffled me that the Peke was always so pleased to see me.

  Any dog who could still like a man who grabbed him and squeezed his bottom hard every time they met had to have an incredibly forgiving nature. But Tricki never showed any resentment; in fact he was an outstandingly equable little animal, bursting with intelligence, and I was genuinely attached to him. It was a pleasure to be his personal physician.

  The squeezing over, I lifted my patient from the table, noticing the increased weight, the padding of extra flesh over the ribs. ‘You know, Mrs Pumphrey, you’re overfeeding him again. Didn’t I tell you to cut out all those pieces of cake and give him more protein?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Herriot,’ Mrs Pumphrey wailed. ‘But what can I do? He’s so tired of chicken.’

  I shrugged; it was hopeless. I allowed the maid to lead me to the palatial bathroom where I always performed a ritual handwashing after the operation. It was a huge room with a fully stocked dressing-table, massive green ware and rows of glass shelves laden with toilet preparations. My private guest towel was laid out next to the slab of expensive soap.

  Then I returned to the drawing room, my sherry glass was filled and I settled down by the fire to listen to Mrs Pumphrey. It couldn’t be called a conversation because she did all the talking, but I always found it rewarding.

  Mrs Pumphrey launches into a variety of charming but entirely fanciful stories about the wonders of Tricki Woo, who apparently studies the horse racing columns so he can tell his owner which horse to place a bet on. Mrs Pumphrey also tells James how frightened she was when Tricki Woo went ‘completely crackerdog’ the previous week, suddenly running about in circles, barking and yelping and then falling over on his side ‘like a little dead thing’ before getting up and walking away as if nothing has happened.

  Hysteria, I thought, brought on by wrong feeding and overexcitement. I put down my glass and fixed Mrs Pumphrey with a severe glare. ‘Now look, this is just what I was talking about. If you persist in feeding all that fancy rubbish to Tricki you are going to ruin his health. You really must get him on to a sensible dog diet of one or, at the most, two small meals a day of meat and brown bread or a little biscuit. And nothing in between.’

  Mrs Pumphrey shrank into her chair, a picture of abject guilt. ‘Oh, please don’t speak to me like that. I do try to give him the right things, but it is so difficult. When he begs for his little titbits, I can’t refuse him.’ She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  But I was unrelenting. ‘All right, Mrs Pumphrey, it’s up to you, but I warn you that if you go on as you are doing, Tricki will go crackerdog more and more often.’

  I left the cosy haven with reluctance, pausing on the gravelled drive to look back at Mrs Pumphrey waving and Tricki, as always, standing against the window, his wide-mouthed face apparently in the middle of a hearty laugh.

  Driving home, I mused on the many advantages of being Tricki’s uncle. When he went to the seaside he sent me boxes of oak-smoked kippers; and when the tomatoes ripened in his greenhouse, he sent a pound or two every week. Tins of tobacco arrived regularly, sometimes with a photograph carrying a loving inscription.

  But it was when the Christmas hamper arrived from Fortnum and Mason’s that I decided that I was on a really good thing which should be helped along a bit. Hitherto, I had merely rung up and thanked Mrs Pumphrey for the gifts, and she had been rather cool, pointing out that it was Tricki who had sent the things and he was the one who should be thanked.

  With the arrival of the hamper it came to me, blindingly, that I had been guilty of a grave error of tactics. I set myself to compose a letter to Tricki. Avoiding Siegfried’s sardonic eye, I thanked my doggy nephew for his Christmas gifts and for all his generosity in the past. I expressed my sincere hopes that the festive fare had not upset his delicate digestion and suggested that if he did experience any discomfort he should have recourse to the black powder his uncle always prescribed. A vague feeling of professional shame was easily swamped by floating visions of kippers, tomatoes and hampers. I addressed the envelope to Master Tricki Pumphrey, Barlby Grange and slipped it into the post box with only a slight feeling of guilt.

  On my next visit, Mrs Pumphrey drew me to one side. ‘Mr Herriot,’ she whispered, ‘Tricki adored your charming letter and he will keep it always, but he was very put out about one thing – you addressed it to Master Tricki and he does insist upon Mister. He was dreadfully affronted at first, quite beside himself, but when he saw it was from you he soon recovered his good temper. I can’t think why he should have these little prejudices. Perhaps it is because he is an only dog – I do think an only dog develops more prejudices than one from a large family.’

  Alf Wight and his family were similarly fond of Bambi – another little Pekinese dog and the real ‘Tricki Woo’. Bambi was the much-loved and very indulged pet of Miss Marjorie Warner who lived in a large house in Sowerby. Alf saw a lot of Bambi and developed a genuine liking for the little dog and his owner. As children Rosie and Jim remember the exciting gifts addressed to ‘Uncle Wight’ that would arrive on the doorstep of 23 Kirkgate whenever Bambi went on holiday, from Whitby kippers (a favourite of Alf’s) to hampers filled with caviar, hams and an array of exotic foods. Alf also got himself into trouble when he addressed a thank you letter to Miss Warner and not to Bambi himself, and the correct terminology – ‘Bambi Warner Esq’ and not ‘Master Bambi Warner’ – was a must. Miss Warner didn’t throw parties like her fictional personification, that was another well-to-do client of the Thirsk practice who invited Alf to one of her balls. Miss Warner nonetheless recognized herself in the books and was happy to be featured in what was an affectionate and memorable portrayal.

  Another client who devotes her life to the care of dogs, which, unlike Tricki Woo, are without home or owners, is Sister Rose. She runs a shelter for abandoned dogs and in The Lord God Made Them All asks James to pay her a visit to take a look at one of her dogs, Amber.

  I looked at the pale, almost honey-coloured shading of the hair on the dog’s ears and flanks. ‘I can see why you’ve given her that name. I bet she’d really glow in the sunshine.’

  The nurse laughed. ‘Yes, funnily enough it was sunny when I first saw her and the name just jumped into my mind.’ She gave me a sideways glance. ‘I’m good at names, as you know.’

  ‘Oh yes, without a doubt,’ I said, smiling. It was a little joke between us. Sister Rose had to be good at christening the endless stream of unwanted animals which passed through the little dog sanctuary which lay behind her house and which she ran and maintained by organizing small shows, jumble sales, etc., and by spending her own money.

  And she didn’t only give her money, she also gave her precious time, because as a nursing sister she led a full life of service to the human race. I often asked myself how she found the time to fight for the animals, too. It was a mystery to me, but I admired her.

  ‘Where did this one come from?’ I asked.

  Sister Rose shrugged. ‘Oh, found wandering in the streets of Hebbleton. Nobody knows her and there have been no enquiries to the police. Obviously abandoned.’

  James examines Amber, who has some bare patches around her toes, eyes and cheek. He prescribes some ointment for Sister Rose to rub in morning and night. Two weeks later, however, she phones to say the patches are spreading, and James takes another look at Amber who’s now in a worse state. James is sorry to diagnose a very serious case of demodectic mange, which is often incurable but he tells Sister Rose to try rubbing a lotion in every day just in case that works. A week later, though, Amber’s condition has worsened, she has lost even more hair but is still wagging her tail. Further treatment also fails and the situation starts to look increasingly desperate until James decides to take Amber back to the surgery with him.

  Veterinary surgeons would never last in their profession if they became too involved with their patients. I knew from experience that most of my colleagues were just as sentimental over animals as the owners, but before I knew what was happening I became involved with Amber.