Mrs. Pumphrey shrank into her chair, a picture of abject guilt. Oh, please dont 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 tidbits, I cant refuse him. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
But I was unrelenting. All right, Mrs. Pumphrey, its 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 cozy haven with reluctance, pausing on the graveled 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 Trickis 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 Masons that I decided that I was on a really good thing which should be helped along a bit. Hitherto, I had merely run 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 my partner Siegfrieds 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 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 cant think why he should have these little prejudices. Perhaps it is because he is an only dogI do think an only dog develops more prejudices than one from a larger family.
Entering Skeldale House was like returning to a colder world. Siegfried bumped into me in the passage. Ah, who have we here? Why I do believe its dear Uncle Herriot. And what have you been doing, Uncle? Slaving away at Barlby Grange, I expect. Poor fellow, you must be tired out. Do you really think its worth it, working your fingers to the bone for another hamper?
Prince and The Card Above the Bed
The card dangled above the old ladys bed. It read GOD IS NEAR but it wasnt like the usual religious text. It didnt have a frame or ornate printing. It was just a strip of cardboard about eight inches long with plain lettering which might have said No smoking or Exit and it was looped carelessly over an old brass gas bracket so that Miss Stubbs from where she lay could look up at it and read GOD IS NEAR in square black capitals.
There wasnt much more Miss Stubbs could see; perhaps a few feet of privet hedge through the frayed curtains but mainly it was just the cluttered little room which had been her world for so many years.
The room was on the ground floor and in the front of the cottage, and as I came up through the wilderness which had once been a garden I could see the dogs watching me from where they had jumped onto the old ladys bed by the window. And when I knocked on the door the place almost erupted with their barking. It was always like this. I had been visiting regularly for over a year and the pattern never changed; the furious barking, then Mrs. Broadwith, who looked after Miss Stubbs, would push all the animals but my patient into the back kitchen and open the door and I would go in and see Miss Stubbs in the corner in her bed with the card hanging over it.
She had been there for a long time and would never get up again. But she never mentioned her illness and pain to me; all her concern was for her three dogs and two cats.
Today it was old Prince and I was worried about him. It was his heartjust about the most spectacular valvular incompetence I had ever heard. He was waiting for me as I came in, pleased to see me, his long fringed tail waving gently.
The sight of that tail used to make me think there must be a lot of Irish setter in Prince but I was inclined to change my mind as I worked my way forward over the bulging black and brown body to the shaggy head and upstanding Alsatian-type ears-well, at least he kept one of them upright but the other tipped over at the top. Miss Stubbs often used to call him Mr. Heinz and though he may not have had 57 varieties in him, his hybrid vigor had stood him in good stead. With his heart he should have been dead long ago.