During his busy days in veterinary practice, he would always find some time to stop the car and walk his dogs. This pastime, strolling amongst the hills and dales with his favourite animals by his side, provided shafts of delight and relaxation in his demanding days. No matter how busy he was, he always found time for his dogs.
For the first year in practice he was without a dog, but this was soon to change. Joan brought more to the marriage than her half-share of a pig. She owned a dog who was to become the first of a line of canine companions that was to ride thousands of miles with her husband, and walk hundreds more. It was this small, white creature, of mystifying parentage, that he drove frantically up into the Yorkshire Dales to find on that dark night about fifty years ago.
Danny was a compact bundle of muscle and hair who had been presented to Joan by one of her boyfriends. His uncertain origins meant that no one really knew to what breeds of dog he belonged; we always thought of him as mainly West Highland White Terrier but the rich blood of many obscure breeds coursed through his veins.
Danny, whose character radiated self-assurance, was totally devoted to my father. His whole existence was geared to accompanying him everywhere he went; to leave him at home was the ultimate insult. On these rare occasions he sulked very effectively; a small nose peeping from under the bed, exuding waves of hurt and indignation, never failed to consume my father with guilt.
At 23 Kirkgate, the cars were garaged at the bottom of the long garden and Alf would have to walk the length of it when called out at night. He never had to call Danny from his bed; he knew that the small bristly form would be already trotting by his side. Arriving at the dark garage, he would automatically hold the car door open for a second and the little dog would flit silently inside. Alf was never alone during those countless night calls of his early career.
Alf was mortified as now he hurtled along the road to Aysgarth Falls to retrieve his dog; how could he have done such a thing to his faithful ally? He need not have worried. As his car drove onto the bridge over the river, the headlights picked out a small white creature sitting patiently at the roadside; Danny had seemingly not moved since my father had left him there hours previously. After jumping into the car, he sat haughtily on the seat all the way back to Thirsk; to his ordered little mind, this was simply a puzzling deviation from the daily routine.
Danny did not look to be a thin dog; in fact, he appeared to be rather well-rounded. His dense mass of white hair, however, belied the sinewy body beneath. On the few occasions that he was bathed, we were horrified to observe the skeletal figure that emerged from the tub before he disgustedly disappeared up the garden to dry himself off.
In those days it was accepted that dogs roamed freely, and Danny was familiar with every dark alleyway of Thirsk, which resulted in his becoming a veteran of many fights. Here, his thick coat of hair was a great advantage. He never seemed to instigate a fight – he was always being picked upon by large dogs – but he knew how to look after himself. To observe Danny in action was a lesson in tactics. His assailant often appeared to be having the better of the affray, but was managing only to grab huge chunks of hair while his little opponent, having dived underneath the bigger dog, was wreaking havoc from below. These short, frantic fights usually ended with the larger dog limping away, bleeding, while little Danny, covered with saliva, would casually shake himself before trotting off to carry on with his day.
He was not only an expert pugilist, he was also an accomplished ratter, a sport he indulged in gleefully in the yard at the bottom of the garden. My father used to keep battery hens in an old stable which was plagued by rats. They climbed up into the batteries and ran among the hens, eating all the feed – something my father could ill afford to waste. He, Danny and I would work as a team. I would shine a torch while my father blocked off the rat holes around the floor of the stable to prevent their escape, following which, with the aid of a long stick, he would poke at the rats among the battery cages.
Rats would shoot out of the batteries onto the floor where the quivering little dog was waiting; one quick bite was all that he needed. I have a clear childhood memory of Danny, his eager face shining in the torchlight, as he waited for his next victim.
On our visits to Glasgow, where this confident little dog accompanied us on all our holidays, my memories are of the small figure trotting away on his own along the streets surrounding my grandparents’ house. The alien city seemed to hold no fears for him.
His wiry little frame was sustained by a Spartan diet. He was never a greedy dog, sniffing disdainfully at succulent plates of meat that other dogs would demolish in seconds, but there was one thing that he loved – pancakes, sugar and milk. Joan fed him this for years and, apart from the odd gristly bone, this unusual dish maintained Danny to a ripe old age. The manufacture of dog food is now a huge industry, with special diets scientifically formulated to help dogs live healthily into old age. I do not know what the modern nutritionist would have made of his diet but it certainly suited our little friend.
Another friend was soon to come back into Alf’s life. Towards the end of 1949, he was delighted to learn that Brian Sinclair was returning to live in Yorkshire.
Following his eventual graduation from Edinburgh Veterinary College, Brian had joined the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, during which time he was posted to India where he was, in his own words, ‘involved in studies of infertility and spent a large part of my time with my hand up the backsides of water buffaloes’.
Despite the hours he spent exploring these dark and pungent recesses, he developed an interest in infertility which he continued to pursue in his next job working for the Ministry of Agriculture in Inverness in the north of Scotland. He remained there for three years, before returning to work in Yorkshire, again for the Ministry of Agriculture, in the veterinary diagnostic laboratories in Leeds. He was to remain there until his retirement.
Since Brian and Alf now had young families, the wild and carefree escapades of ten years before were fewer, but with Brian having bought a house in nearby Harrogate, he and Alf were able to meet regularly, a refreshing injection in Alf’s hectic life. The two friends would never lose touch from that time on.
At about the time that Brian returned to the area, Alf’s other great friend, Alex Taylor, left. Alf had heard of a vacancy for an assistant district officer with the Ministry of Agriculture and Alex applied for the job and got it, he and Lynne then moving to Whitby on the Yorkshire coast. Soon he was on his way to passing exams which qualified him as a land agent, managing farms for big estates. Alex was to leave Yorkshire in 1954 but although he then worked in several far-flung corners of the British Isles, he always maintained regular contact with his old friend.
Years later, Alex recalled how much he owed Alf in getting him set up with a job, as well as providing support at a perilous financial period of his life. ‘Not only was he responsible for setting me on the right track,’ he said, ‘but he was, in so many other ways, such a great friend to me.’
During the years immediately following the war, Alf faced a demanding routine. He worked a seven-day week, being on call almost every night and weekend, but he still found time to follow his many interests.
One of these was music. Although not an accomplished performer on any musical instrument – save for his ability to turn out tunes by ear on the piano – music always formed an integral part of his life. He loved all varieties of music and was just as much at home listening to the voices of Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra as he was sitting in a concert hall, drinking in the enthralling music of a Puccini opera.