I sniffed and the Cundalls looked at each other guiltily. There was a silence and then Ron spoke.
Its some medicine ahve been givin Hermann. Stinks like ell but its supposed to be good for dogs.
Oh yes?
Aye, well His fingers twitched uncomfortably on the bedclothes. It was Bill Noakes put me on to it. Hes an old mate o minewe used to work down tpit together-and he came to visit me last weekend. Keeps a few whippets, does Bill. Knows a lot about dogs and e sent me this stuff along for Hermann.
Mrs. Cundall went to the cupboard and sheepishly presented me with a plain bottle. I removed the cork and as the horrid stench rose up to me my memory became suddenly clear. Asafetida, a common constituent of quack medicines before the war and still lingering on the shelves of occasional chemist shops and in the medicine chests of people who liked to doctor their own animals.
I had never prescribed the stuff myself but it was supposed to be beneficial in horses with colic and dogs with digestive troubles. My own feeling had always been that its popularity had been due solely to the assumption that anything which stank as badly as that must have some magical properties, but one thing I knew for sure was that it could not possibly do anything for Hermann.
I replaced the cork. So youre giving him this, eh?
Ron nodded. Aye, three times a day. He doesnt like it much, but Bill Noakes has great faith in it. Cured hundreds o dogs with it, e says. The deep-sunk eyes looked at me with a silent appeal.
Well, fine, Ron, I said. You carry on. Lets hope it does the trick.
I knew the asafetida couldnt do any harm and since my treatment had proved useless I was in no position to turn haughty. But my main concern was that these two nice people had been given a glimmer of hope, and I wasnt going to blot it out.
Mrs. Cundall smiled and Rons expression relaxed. Thats grand, Mr. Herriot, he said. Ahm glad ye dont mind. I can dose the little feller myself. Its summat for me to do.
It was about a week after the commencement of the new treatment that I called in at the Cundalls as I was passing through Gilthorpe.
How are you today, Ron? I asked.
Champion, Mr. Herriot, champion. He always said that, but today there was a new eagerness in his face. He reached down and lifted his dog onto the bed. Look ere.
I pinched the little paw between his fingers and there was a faint but definite retraction of the leg. I almost fell over in my haste to grab at the other foot. The result was the same.
My God, Ron, I gasped, the reflexes are coming back.
He laughed his soft, husky laugh. Bill Noakess stuffs working, isnt it?
A gush of emotions, mainly professional shame and wounded pride, welled in me, but it was only for a moment. Yes, Ron, I replied, its working. No doubt about it.
He stared up at me. Then Hermanns going to be all right.
Well, its early days yet, but thats the way it looks to me.
It was several weeks more before the little dachshund was back to normal and of course it was a fairly typical case of spontaneous recovery with nothing whatever to do with the asafetida or indeed with my own efforts. Even now, thirty years later, when I treat these puzzling back conditions with steroids, I wonder how many of them would have recovered without my aid. Quite a number, I imagine.
Sadly, despite the modern drugs, we still have our failures, and I always regard a successful termination with profound relief.
But that feeling of relief has never been stronger than it was with Hermann, and I can recall vividly my final call at the cottage in Gilthorpe. As it happened it was around the same time as my first visiteight oclock in the evening, and when Mrs. Cundall ushered me in, the little dog bounded joyously up to me before returning to his post by the bed.
Well, thats a lovely sight, I said. He can gallop like a racehorse now.
Ron dropped his hand down and stroked the sleek head. Aye, isnt it grand. By heck, its been a worryin time.
Well, Ill be going. I gave Hermann a farewell pat. I just looked in on my way home to make sure all was well. I dont need to come anymore now.
Nay, nay, Ron said. Dont rush off. Youve time to have a bottle o beer with me before ye go.
I sat down by the bed and Mrs. Cundall gave us our glasses before pulling up a chair for herself. It was exactly like that first night. I poured my beer and looked at the two of them. Their faces glowed with friendliness and I marveled because
Mrs. Westby was absorbed in an intricate part of her knitting and didnt seem to notice that Brandys bottom was now firmly parked on her shapely knees, which were clad in blue jeans. The dog paused as though acknowledging that phase one had been successfully completed, then ever so gently he began to consolidate his position, pushing his way up the front of the chair with his forelimbs until at one time he was almost standing on his head.
It was at that moment, just when one final backward heave would have seen the great dog ensconced on her lap, that Mrs. Westby finished the tricky bit of knitting and looked up.