When they had finished, Tricki took a walk round the shining bowls,
licking casually inside one or two of them. Next day, an extra bowl was
put out for him and I was pleased to see him jostling his way towards it.
From then on, his progress was rapid. He had no medicinal treatment
of any kind but all day he ran about with the dogs, joining in their
friendly scrimmages. He discovered the joys of being bowled over, tramped
on and squashed every few minutes. He became an accepted member of
the gang, an unlikely, silky little object among the shaggy crew, fighting
like a tiger for his share at mealtimes and hunting rats in the old henhouse at night. He had never had such a time in his life.
All the while, Mrs Pumphrey hovered anxiously in the background,
ringing a dozen times a day for the latest bulletins. I dodged the
questions about whether his cushions were being turned regularly or his correct coat worn according to the weather; but I was able to tell her that the little fellow was out of danger and convalescing rapidly.
The word ‘convalescing’ seemed to do something to Mrs Pumphrey.
She started to bring round fresh eggs, two dozen at a time, to build up Tricki’s strength. For a happy period my partners and I had two eggs each for breakfast, but when the bottles of wine began to arrive, the real possibilities of the situation began to dawn on the household.
It was to enrich Tricki’s blood. Lunch became a ceremonial occasion with two glasses of wine before and several during the meal.
We could hardly believe it when the brandy came to put a final edge on Tricki’s constitution. For a few nights the fine spirit was rolled around, inhaled and reverently drunk.
They were days of deep content, starting well with the extra egg in the morning, improved and sustained by the midday wine and finishing luxuriously round the fire with the brandy. It was a temptation to keep Tricki on as a permanent guest, but I knew Mrs Pumphrey was suffering and after a fortnight, felt compelled to phone and tell her that the little dog had recovered and was awaiting collection.
Within minutes, about thirty feet of gleaming black metal drew up outside the surgery. The chauffeur opened the door and I could just make out the figure of Mrs Pumphrey almost lost in the interior. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her; her lips trembled. “Oh, Mr Herriot, do tell me the truth. Is he really better?”
“Yes, he’s fine. There’s no need for you to get out of the car — I’ll go and fetch him.” I walked through the house into the garden. A mass of dogs was hurtling round and round the lawn and in their midst, ears flapping, tail waving, was the little golden figure of Tricki. In two weeks he had been transformed into a lithe, hard-muscled animal; he was keeping up well with the pack, stretching out in great bounds, his chest almost brushing the ground.
I carried him back along the passage to the front of the house. The chauffeur was still holding the car door open and when Tricki saw his mistress he took off from my arms in a tremendous leap and sailed into Mrs Pumphrey’s lap. She gave a startled “Ooh!” And then had to defend herself as he swarmed over her, licking her face and barking. During the excitement, I helped the chauffeur to bring out the beds, toys, cushions, coats and bowls, none of which had been used. As the car moved away, Mrs Pumphrey leaned out of the window. Tears shone in her eyes. Her lips trembled.
“Oh, Mr Herriot,” she cried, “how can I ever thank you? This is a triumph of surgery!”