One of the lowest points of his career occurred one New Year’s morning. He had crawled delicately into bed at 2 a.m., his Scottish connections having ensured that he had celebrated Hogmanay to the full. At six o’clock sharp, the bedside telephone blasted into his ear. He groped for the receiver, to be greeted by the flat voice of a Yorkshire farmer. New Year meant little to these men and there was no need to waste time with season’s greetings.

‘This is Stanley Duffield, Kilburn Parks. I ’ave an ’eifer calvin’. Don’t be ower long!’

Stan Duffield was a faithful client of the practice, one who typified the honest and hard-working Yorkshireman Alf liked and respected, but he felt an intense desire not to see him that morning.

As well as the physical strain on the system, one of the greatest problems for the vet, years ago, was the limited availability of drugs to combat infections. May and Baker’s Sulphonilamide, which appeared around the early 1940s, was the only standby, and the old ledgers of Sinclair and Wight were full of references to the widespread use of ‘M & B’. This came in powder form which, when mixed with water and poured down the throat, saved many lives.

A great advance, in the mid 1940s was the appearance of sulpha drugs in injection form. One, known as ‘Prontosil’, was much more effective than the drenches down the throat, but the greatest leap forward in the treatment of infection was the emergence, a year or two later, of antibiotics. In the early years of their use, results were often spectacular – animals with huge temperatures appeared to be miraculously improved the next morning, following one simple injection in the rump. This period of his professional life, during the late 1940s and early 1950s, not only gave Alf enormous satisfaction but his customers were hugely impressed. The vet, armed with a needle and a syringe, attained the status of a magician in the eyes of some of the older farmers.

Modern intensive farming has resulted in the emergence of diseases that were unheard of years ago – ones that often respond poorly to antibiotic injections. The vet is no longer the ‘magic man wi’t needle’, but Alf was one of those lucky enough to experience the golden years of antibiotics, savouring the wonderful results following the simple ‘jab in t’ arse’.

Donald Sinclair was not slow to exploit this situation. One day he visited a pig with Erysipelas, an acute infectious disease that responds dramatically to an injection of penicillin. The pig belonged to a smallholder called Tommy Barr and Donald decided to make a bit of a name for himself. He always believed in ‘painting a black picture’ about every case that he saw. ‘Never say anything is going to get better,’ he used to tell the young assistants in the practice. ‘If you say it’s going to be all right and it dies, you’re sunk! If you say it is going to die and it does, well, you have been proved right. But if it lives, you’re a hero!’ This particular pig was very ill. It was lying flat out and covered with purple spots but Donald knew that she would be a different pig after his injection. He gave a grim prognosis but the pig, true to form, was eating everything in sight the following day. Little Tommy Barr was staggered.

One week later, Alf was seated at the desk when Tommy came into the surgery to pay his account. He spoke in revered tones as Alf receipted it. ‘Mr Wight,’ he said, wide eyed, ‘Ah’m tellin’ yer, it were a miracle!’

Alf was both gratified and a little surprised. It was unusual to hear the work of the veterinary surgeon described in such glowing terms. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Mr Barr,’ he replied.

The little man continued. ‘Aye, Mr Sinclair came into’t pig ’ouse and there she were, all covered wi’spots. Ah thowt she were goin’ ter die, an’ so did ’e.’ Tommy paused for breath. ‘’E looked at me, an’ Ah looked at ’im, an ’e looked at’t pig! Ah could tell by’t look on ’is face as he thowt it were a bad job. Then ’e shook ’is ’ead an’ said, “By gaw, Tommy! Ah doubt we’re ower late!” ’ Tommy’s eyes became even wider. ‘But we weren’t, Mr Wight! ’E capped that pig wi’ that injection! It’s a miracle, Ah’m tellin’ yer!’ That example of applying the art as well as the science to the everyday work of the veterinary surgeon resulted in Tommy Barr regarding Donald as a god.

Apart from the arrival of antibiotics, Alf received very little assistance during those long days around the farms, but at least he had some company. I travelled extensively with him from the age of two years, my main jobs being gate-opener and carrier of equipment, tasks that I seriously regarded as of paramount importance. I am sure that those early days, right up until I attended secondary school, ‘helping’ my father on his daily rounds, were responsible for my following in his footsteps. His great love and enthusiasm for his job could not fail to impress a young mind such as mine.

My sister Rosie, too, was soon to become a seasoned traveller in his car. She, like me, was later to express a desire to become a veterinary surgeon like her father, but he did not share her enthusiasm; he regarded the job as far too rough for a woman. There were few women in veterinary practice in those days, although it is very different now. The majority of graduates are women, and those that enter large animal practice manage very well, but I can still understand his feelings. The thought of his daughter driving lonely miles at night to attend to a hostile, half-ton cow in a muck-spattered byre did not appeal to him. He knew well, from experience, that the bovine race had scant respect for any human being, male or female.

My father had no such worries about me, and was pleased that I showed an interest in his work at such an early age, but he needed to be very patient with me. Much of my ‘assistance’ in the car was of dubious value. I kept up a fairly non-stop conversation, asking such meaningful questions as, ‘Dad, what’s the fastest? A magic train, or a phantom motor car … Dad?…  Dad?.… DAD?!’

The pressure of answering these sophisticated questions must have been considerable as he had a great deal on his mind. I can remember him driving around, glassy-eyed, as his overworked brain wrestled with details of difficult cases, as well as mounting problems such as wondering how he could further develop the practice or how on earth he could manage to conjure up enough money to buy his own home? Those loud punctuations from his noisy little son must have been trying, but he usually managed to come up with a satisfactory answer, only to receive many more searching questions as the day wore on.

Rosie and I journeyed widely with my father but he had another passenger in the car who rarely missed a visit. A faithful companion who accompanied him day and night for more than ten years – a dogged traveller who would sulk for days should my father ever have the temerity to leave him at home. His name was Danny.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘Alf, where’s Danny?’ Joan Wight stared at her husband, a ring of tension in her voice.

‘Danny? Oh my God! I’ve left him at Aysgarth Falls!’

Alf, who had just returned from another day’s TB Testing in the Dales, was looking forward to relaxing at home but within seconds he was back in his car and screaming through the darkness to Aysgarth, some twenty-five lonely miles away. He had had so much on his mind, he had completely forgotten about his little companion; he just hoped that he would be able to find him.

Throughout the years of his literary fame, Alf, as James Herriot, was repeatedly asked, ‘What is your favourite animal?’ He invariably gave the same answer, ‘Most definitely the dog.’

Dogs figured prominently throughout his life. From his earliest days in practice, a variety of four-legged hairy friends accompanied him on his daily rounds. His books abound with so many stories about dogs that, in 1986, James Herriot’s Dog Storieswas published, an anthology taken from his other books.