His passion was sheepdogs. A lot of farmers liked to run dogs at the trials but Mr. Wilkin was one of the top men. He bred and trained dogs which regularly won at the local events and occasionally at the national trials. And what was troubling me was that Gyp was his main hope.
He had picked out the two best pups from a litterGyp and Sweepand had trained them with the dedication that had made him a winner. I dont think I have ever seen two dogs enjoy each other quite as much; whenever I was on the farm I would see them together, sometimes peeping nose by nose over the half door of the loose box where they slept, occasionally slinking devotedly round the feet of their master but usually just playing together. They must have spent hours rolling about in ecstatic wrestling matches, growling and panting, gnawing gently at each others limbs.
A few months ago George Crossley, one of Mr. Wilkins oldest friends and a keen trial man, had lost his best dog with nephritis and Mr. Wilkin had let him have Sweep. I was surprised at the time because Sweep was shaping better than Gyp in his training and looked as if he would turn out a real champion. But it was Gyp who remained. He must have missed his friend but there were other dogs on the farm, and if they didnt quite make up for Sweep he was never really lonely.
As I watched, I could see the dog recovering rapidly. It was extraordinary how soon normality was restored after that frightening convulsion. And I waited with some apprehension to hear what his master would say.
The cold, logical decision for him to make would be to have Gyp put down and, looking at the friendly, tail-wagging animal, I didnt like the idea at all. There was something very attractive about him. The big-boned, well-marked body was handsome, but his most distinctive feature was his head where one ear somehow contrived to stick up while the other lay flat, giving him a lopsided, comic appeal. Gyp, in fact, looked a bit of a clown. But a clown who radiated goodwill and camaraderie.
Mr. Wilkin spoke at last. Will he get any better as he grows older?
Almost certainly not, I replied.
Then hell always ave these fits?
Im afraid so. You say he has them every two or three weekswell,
then the other. The sheep were in the entrance to the pen now but they still looked around them irresolutely and the game was not over yet. But as Sweep wriggled toward them almost imperceptibly they turned and entered and Mr. Crossley crashed the gate behind them.
As he did so he turned to Sweep with a happy cry of Good lad! and the dog responded with a quick jerking wag of his tail.
At that, Gyp, who had been standing very tall, watching every move with the most intense concentration, raised his head and emitted a single resounding bark.
Woof! went Gypand we all stared at him in astonishment.
Did you hear that? gasped Mrs. Wilkin.
Well, by gaw! her husband burst out, looking openmouthed at his dog.
Gyp didnt seem to be aware that he had done anything unusual. He was too preoccupied by the reunion with his brother and within seconds the two dogs were rolling around, chewing playfully at each other as of old.
I suppose the Wilkins as well as myself had the feeling that this event might start Gyp barking like any other dog, but it was not to be.
Six years later I was on the farm and went to the house to get some hot water. As Mrs. Wilkin handed me the bucket she looked down at Gyp, who was basking in the sunshine outside the kitchen window.
There you are, then, funny fellow, she said to the dog.
I laughed. Has he ever barked since that day?
Mrs. Wilkin shook her head. No, he hasnt, not a sound. I waited a long time but I know hes not going to do it now.
Ah well, its not important. But still, Ill never forget that afternoon at the trial, I said.
Nor will I! She looked at Gyp again and her eyes softened in reminiscence. Poor old lad, eight years old and only one woof!
Roy: From Rags to Riches
The silver-haired old gentleman with the pleasant face didnt look the type to be easily upset, but his eyes glared at me angrily and his lips quivered with indignation.
Mr. Herriot, he said, I have come to make a complaint. I strongly object to your allowing my dog to suffer unnecessarily.
Suffer? What suffering?
I think you know, Mr. Herriot. I brought my dog in a few days ago. He was very lame and I am referring to your treatment on that occasion.
I nodded. Yes, I remember it well but where does the suffering come in?
Well, the poor animal is going around with his leg dangling and I have it on good authority that the bone is fractured and should have been put in plaster immediately. The old gentleman stuck his chin out fiercely.
All right, you can stop worrying, I said. Your dog has a radial paralysis caused by a blow on the ribs and if you are patient and follow my treatment hell gradually improve. In fact, I think hell recover completely.
I took her arm, led her over to the car, and opened the door. Get in and Ill run you home. Leave everything to me.