dog stories by Herriot James

Author:Herriot, James [Herriot, James]
Language: rus
Format: epub
Published: 2012-02-11T07:24:48+00:00

HERMANN

A Happy Ending

“Was there no peace in a vet’s life?” I wondered fretfully as I hurried my car along the road to Gilthorpe village. Eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and here I was trailing off to visit a dog ten miles away which, according to Helen who had taken the message, had been ailing for more than a week.

After a long and busy day, I had hoped for a quiet evening, yet here I was back on the treadmill, staring through the windscreen at the roads and the walls which I saw day in, day out. When I left Darrowby the streets of the little town were empty in the gathering dusk and the houses had that tight-shut, comfortable look which raised images of armchairs and pipes and firesides, and now as I saw the lights of the farms winking on the fellsides I could picture the stocksmen dozing contentedly with their feet up.

I had not passed a single car on the darkening road. There was nobody out but Herriot.

I was really sloshing around in my trough of self-pity when I drew up outside a row of graystone cottages at the far end of Gilthorpe. Mrs. Cundall, Number 4, Chestnut Row, Helen had written on the slip of paper, and as I opened the gate and stepped through the tiny strip of garden my mind was busy with half-formed ideas of what I was going to say.

My first years’ experience in practice had taught me that it did no good at all to remonstrate with people for calling me out at unreasonable times. I knew perfectly well that my words never seemed to get through to them and that they would continue to do so exactly as they had done before, but for all that I had to say something if only to make me feel better.

No need to be rude or ill-mannered, just a firm statement of the position: that vets liked to relax on Sunday evenings just like other people; that we did not mind at all coming out for emergencies but that we did object to having to visit animals which had been ill for a week.

I had my speech fairly well prepared when a little middle-aged woman opened the door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cundall,” I said, slightly tight-lipped.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Herriot.” She smiled shyly. “We’ve never met but I’ve seen you walkin’ round Darrowby on market days. Come inside.”

The door opened straight into the little low-beamed living room and my first glance took in the shabby furniture and some pictures framed in tarnished gilt when I noticed that the end of the room was partly curtained off.

Mrs. Cundall pulled the curtain aside. In a narrow bed a man was lying, a skeleton-thin man whose eyes looked up at me from hollows in a yellowed face.

“This is my husband, Ron,” she said cheerfully, and the man smiled and raised a bony arm from the quilt in greeting.

“And here is your patient—Hermann,” she went on, pointing to a little dachshund who sat by the side of the bed.

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