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The expected call came within a few days. Mrs Pumphrey was distraught. Tricki would eat nothing. Refused even his favourite dishes; and besides, he had bouts of vomiting. He spent all his time lying on a rug, panting. Didn’t want to go for walks, didn’t want to do anything.
I had made my plans in advance. The only way was to get Tricki out of the house for a period. I suggested that he be hospitalised for about a fortnight to be kept under observation. The poor lady almost swooned. She was sure he would pine and die if he did not see her every day.
But I took a firm line. Tricki was very ill and this was the only way to save him; in fact, I thought it best to take him without delay and, ollowed by Mrs Pumphrey’s wailings, I marched out to the car carrying the little dog wrapped in a blanket.