animal stories by James Herriot Read Free Book Online Page B

old-fashioned black grate, the low, varnished beams, Mrs. Chapman’s sewing box, the row of Bert’s pipes on the wall. I took a firmer grasp of Helen’s hand which I had been holding under the table for the last hour.
    “Not at all, Mrs. Chapman,” I said. “We haven’t missed it in the least.” And I have never been more sincere.
    It must have been about half past two when I finally decided that Susie had finished. She had six fine pups which was a good score for a little thing like her and the noise had abated as the family settled down to feast on her abundant udder.
    I lifted the pups out one by one and examined them. Susie didn’t mind in the least but appeared to be smiling with modest pride as I handled her brood. When I put them back with her she inspected them and sniffed them over busily before rolling onto her side again.
    “Three dogs and three bitches,” I said. “Nice even litter.”
    Before leaving I took Susie from her basket and palpated her abdomen. The degree of deflation was almost unbelievable; a pricked balloon could not have altered its shape more spectacularly and she had made a remarkable metamorphosis to the lean, scruffy little extrovert I knew so well. When I released her she scurried back and curled herself round her new family who were soon sucking away with total absorption.
    Bert laughed. “She’s fair capped wi’ them pups.” He bent over and prodded the first arrival with a horny forefinger. “I like the look o’ this big dog pup. I reckon we’ll keep this ‘un for ourselves, Mother. He’ll be company for t’awd lass.”
    It was time to go. Helen and I moved over to the door and little Mrs. Chapman with her fingers on the handle looked up at me. “Well, Mr. Herriot,” she said, “I can’t thank you enough for comin’ out and putting our minds at rest. I don’t know what I’d’ve done wi’ this man of mine if anything had happened to his little dog.”
    Bert grinned sheepishly. “Nay,” he muttered. “Ah was never really worried.”
    His wife laughed and opened the door and as we stepped out into the silent scented night she gripped my arm and looked up at me roguishly.
    “I suppose this is your young lady,” she said.
    I put my arm round Helen’s shoulders.
    “Yes,” I said firmly, “this is my young lady.”

A Real Happy Harry
    The first time I saw Phin Calvert was in the street outside the surgery when I was talking to Brigadier Julian Coutts-Browne about his shooting dogs. The brigadier was almost a stage version of an English aristocrat; immensely tall with a pronounced stoop, hawk features and high, drawling voice. As he spoke, smoke from a narrow cigar trickled from his lips.
    I turned my head at the clatter of heavy boots on the pavement. A thick-set figure was stumping rapidly toward us, hands tucked behind his braces, ragged jacket pulled wide to display a curving expanse of collarless shirt, wisps of grizzled hair hanging in a fringe beneath a greasy cap. He was smiling widely at nobody in particular and he hummed busily to himself.
    The brigadier glanced at him. “Morning, Calvert,” he grunted coldly.
    Phineas threw up his head in pleased recognition. “Now then, Charlie, ‘ow is ta?” he shouted.
    The brigadier looked as though he had swallowed a swift pint of vinegar. He removed his cigar with a shaking hand and stared after the retreating back. “Impudent devil,” he muttered.
    Looking at Phin, you would never have thought he was a prosperous farmer. I was called to his place a week later and was surprised to find a substantial house and buildings and a fine dairy herd grazing in the fields.
    I could hear him even before I got out of the car. “Hello, ‘ello, ‘ello! Who’s this we’ve got then? New chap eh? Now we’re going to learn summat!” He still had his hands inside his braces and was grinning wider than ever.
    “My name is Herriot,” I said.
    “Is it now?” Phin cocked his head and surveyed me, then he turned to