coat. She had an uncanny ability to sniff out a sick animal and it was not uncommon when I was on my rounds to find Mrs. Donovan’s dark gipsy face poised intently over what I had thought was my patient while she administered calf’s foot jelly or one of her own patent nostrums.
I suffered more than Siegfried because I took a more active part in the small animal side of our practice. I was anxious to develop this aspect and to improve my image in this field and Mrs. Donovan didn’t help at all. “Young Mr. Herriot,” she would confide to my clients, “is all right with cattle and such like, but he don’t know nothing about dogs and cats.”
And of course they believed her and had implicit faith in her. She had the irresistible mystic appeal of the amateur and on top of that there was her habit, particularly endearing in Darrowby, of never charging for her advice, her medicines, her long periods of diligent nursing.
Older folk in the town told how her husband, an Irish farm worker, had died many years ago and how he must have had a “bit put away” because Mrs. Donovan had apparently been able to indulge all her interests over the years without financial strain. Since she inhabited the streets of Darrowby all day and every day I often encountered her and she always smiled up at me sweetly and told me how she had been sitting up all night with Mrs. So-and-so’s dog that I’d been treating. She felt sure she’d be able to pull it through.
There was no smile on her face, however, on the day when she rushed into the surgery while Siegfried and I were having tea.
“Mr. Herriot!” she gasped. “Can you come? My little dog’s been run over!”
I jumped up and ran out to the car with her. She sat in the passenger seat with her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly on her knees.
“He slipped his collar and ran in front of a car,” she murmured. “He’s lying in front of the school half way up Cliffend Road. Please hurry.”
I was there within three minutes but as I bent over the dusty little body stretched on the pavement I knew there was nothing I could do. The fast-glazing eyes, the faint, gasping respirations, the ghastly pallor of the mucous membranes all told the same story.
“I’ll take him back to the surgery and get some saline into him, Mrs. Donovan,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s had a massive internal haemorrhage. Did you see what happened exactly?”
She gulped. “Yes, the wheel went right over him.”
Ruptured liver, for sure. I passed my hands under the little animal and began to lift him gently, but as I did so the breathing stopped and the eyes stared fixedly ahead.
Mrs. Donovan sank to her knees and for a few moments she gently stroked the rough hair of the head and chest “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispered at last.
“I’m afraid he is,” I said.
She got slowly to her feet and stood bewilderedly among the little group of bystanders on the pavement. Her lips moved but she seemed unable to say any more.
I took her arm, led her over to the car and opened the door. “Get in and sit down,” I said. “I’ll run you home. Leave everything to me.”
I wrapped the dog in my calving overall and laid him in the boot before driving away. It wasn’t until we drew up outside Mrs. Donovan’s house that she began to weep silently. I sat there without speaking till she had finished. Then she wiped her eyes and turned to me.
“Do you think he suffered at all?”
“I’m certain he didn’t. It was all so quick—he wouldn’t know a thing about it.”
She tried to smile. “Poor little Rex, I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. We’ve travelled a few miles together, you know.”
“Yes, you have. He had a wonderful life, Mrs. Donovan. And let me give you a bit of advice—you must get another dog. You’d be lost without one.”
She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. That little dog meant too much to me. I couldn’t let another take his
I suffered more than Siegfried because I took a more active part in the small animal side of our practice. I was anxious to develop this aspect and to improve my image in this field and Mrs. Donovan didn’t help at all. “Young Mr. Herriot,” she would confide to my clients, “is all right with cattle and such like, but he don’t know nothing about dogs and cats.”
And of course they believed her and had implicit faith in her. She had the irresistible mystic appeal of the amateur and on top of that there was her habit, particularly endearing in Darrowby, of never charging for her advice, her medicines, her long periods of diligent nursing.
Older folk in the town told how her husband, an Irish farm worker, had died many years ago and how he must have had a “bit put away” because Mrs. Donovan had apparently been able to indulge all her interests over the years without financial strain. Since she inhabited the streets of Darrowby all day and every day I often encountered her and she always smiled up at me sweetly and told me how she had been sitting up all night with Mrs. So-and-so’s dog that I’d been treating. She felt sure she’d be able to pull it through.
There was no smile on her face, however, on the day when she rushed into the surgery while Siegfried and I were having tea.
“Mr. Herriot!” she gasped. “Can you come? My little dog’s been run over!”
I jumped up and ran out to the car with her. She sat in the passenger seat with her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly on her knees.
“He slipped his collar and ran in front of a car,” she murmured. “He’s lying in front of the school half way up Cliffend Road. Please hurry.”
I was there within three minutes but as I bent over the dusty little body stretched on the pavement I knew there was nothing I could do. The fast-glazing eyes, the faint, gasping respirations, the ghastly pallor of the mucous membranes all told the same story.
“I’ll take him back to the surgery and get some saline into him, Mrs. Donovan,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s had a massive internal haemorrhage. Did you see what happened exactly?”
She gulped. “Yes, the wheel went right over him.”
Ruptured liver, for sure. I passed my hands under the little animal and began to lift him gently, but as I did so the breathing stopped and the eyes stared fixedly ahead.
Mrs. Donovan sank to her knees and for a few moments she gently stroked the rough hair of the head and chest “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispered at last.
“I’m afraid he is,” I said.
She got slowly to her feet and stood bewilderedly among the little group of bystanders on the pavement. Her lips moved but she seemed unable to say any more.
I took her arm, led her over to the car and opened the door. “Get in and sit down,” I said. “I’ll run you home. Leave everything to me.”
I wrapped the dog in my calving overall and laid him in the boot before driving away. It wasn’t until we drew up outside Mrs. Donovan’s house that she began to weep silently. I sat there without speaking till she had finished. Then she wiped her eyes and turned to me.
“Do you think he suffered at all?”
“I’m certain he didn’t. It was all so quick—he wouldn’t know a thing about it.”
She tried to smile. “Poor little Rex, I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. We’ve travelled a few miles together, you know.”
“Yes, you have. He had a wonderful life, Mrs. Donovan. And let me give you a bit of advice—you must get another dog. You’d be lost without one.”
She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. That little dog meant too much to me. I couldn’t let another take his
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