Having, for so many years, regarded the company of a dog as a vital ingredient towards the enjoyment of his leisure time, Alf – following the untimely death of his beagle, Dinah, in 1963 – wasted little time in replacing her. Hearing that John Bumby, a farmer from near Topcliffe, had a litter of Jack Russell terrier puppies, it was not long before he and Rosie visited the farm. One of the puppies leapt towards Rosie and furiously began to lick her face. Minutes later, they left the farm with a tiny black and white ball of energy bouncing around in the car. He was to be called Hector.
Hector would be the first of James Herriot’s dogs to appear with him in the many photographs taken during the early years of his fame as an author. He was a vital part of Alf’s life and accompanied him everywhere on his daily rounds. He extracted maximum enjoyment out of life; he loved everyone and everyone seemed to love him. Upon Alf’s arrival at a farm in his open-topped car, the sharp face of Hector was often the first thing the farmer saw. He was a dog who would not be ignored and he rarely was. Cries of ‘Morning, Mr Wight! ’Ello ’Ector! By … ’e’s a grand little dog!’ were a common start to a visit as the farmer fought off the pointed, friendly nose darting at his face.
Hector never missed a thing while on his travels. His favourite position, as he gazed eagerly out of the window, was with his front paws balanced on Alf’s hand while he held the gear lever; no dog in the world could have changed gear so often as Hector!
He was the noisiest of all Alf’s dogs. In the years when I worked from home, before I was married, I often followed my father’s car on our short trip down to the surgery. I could see the silhouette of his head with, next to him, the outline of his small companion – paws on the gear lever and his little mouth opening and closing at regular intervals as he barked into my father’s left ear. The racket in the car must have been terrific but, to my father, Hector could do no wrong.
Hector possessed a seemingly endless supply of energy. He would often be allowed out of the car at the farms where the large, resident farm dogs, sensing his open and friendly disposition, would play with him happily. These frantic sessions did not last long, however; I saw many a panting dog lying exhausted on the ground with a small black and white torpedo remorselessly tearing into him. An odd snarl or a trembling upper lip were signals to Hector that the game was over.
One game the farm dogs took very seriously was the escorting of visiting motor vehicles off the farm. These chases were the highlights of their day. My father and I often saw them slinking around during our visits, waiting for their big moment which, when it arrived, heralded frenzied activity. Our departures from some farms were tumultuous occasions. As soon as the car wheels were set in motion, packs of lean, hairy creatures would appear from everywhere to accompany us down the long farm roads, their faces a picture of taut concentration. This threat to his domain drove Hector frantic as he rocketed around the inside of the car, barking defiance at the dogs outside.
These frenetic episodes were not without danger to the dogs. They had a habit of darting in towards the car and biting the wheels, which sometimes resulted in serious injury. One way of cooling the enthusiasm of our assailants was a well-directed jet of water. This was my job; I would load up a multidose syringe and, at the precise moment, fire at the panting faces when they got too close.
It seemed to be very effective. On receipt of the cold blast of water, the dog would grind to a halt before running off dejectedly back to the farm. On occasions I felt rather guilty about this, especially when the dog shook its head before following this with a reproachful look as if saying, ‘What did you have to do that for? We’re only having a bit of fun!’
Those days of ‘riding shotgun’ with my father were a source of great entertainment from my earliest years. The farm dogs provided the action and, later, Hector supplied the soundtrack.
Although basically a sound little animal – and much in demand locally as a stud dog – Hector became virtually blind at the age of five or six. He suffered from a disease called Keratitis Sicca, a slowly progressive drying of the conjunctiva, resulting in a curtain of black pigment creeping across the eye surface. There are modern treatments for this disease now, but in those days, having little idea as to the cause, we could only attempt to ease the severity of his condition while watching helplessly as Hector’s window on the world gradually became darker. Despite the pain and blackness, the little dog remained as vibrant as ever, peering expectantly out of the car and barking defiantly.
Hector was, without doubt, Alf’s favourite of all the dogs who shared his life. Much has been written over the years of the many benefits of pet ownership, with countless examples cited of the positive effects upon the health of those who enjoy the company of a pet. No animal had a more exhilarating effect upon its owner than that bestowed upon Alfred Wight by Hector, whose insatiable and infectious zest for life provided him with the perfect therapy to follow his recent years of illness.
Well aware of his good fortune in having emerged relatively unscathed, he determined to enjoy his life again to the full. Always having believed that there was more to life than just work, he began, once again, to take an interest in the world around him. The early years of the 1960s were a time when he decided to see more of it.
In 1961 and 1962, he visited Russia and Turkey as official Ministry of Agriculture veterinarian in charge of shipments of pigs, sheep and cattle, during which time he kept a diary, later using some of the entries in The Lord God Made Them AllHe was so intrigued by Russia that, on returning home, he began to teach himself Russian; he decided against learning Turkish. Following their holiday in Majorca in Eddie Straiton’s villa, Alf and Joan revisited the island twice more: in 1965, they drove through France and Spain to reach the island, during which time Alf again kept a diary. In 1965, he attended night school in Thirsk to study Spanish,
Beginning to feel so much better physically, he not only began to play much more tennis again – even representing Thirsk at the age of forty-six when he and Rosie teamed up in a doubles match – but he took up skiing in the winter as an additional interest. All this, together with his unchanging pastimes of walking, gardening, reading and watching football, resulted in his life becoming, once again, one of multiple activities.
His old enthusiasm had returned. With his marriage sound, as was the health of both himself and his family, Alf’s outlook on life had taken a remarkable turn for the better. As he eagerly threw himself into his work in the practice, his exhausting illness of such a short time before seemed but a distant memory.
Alf not only made time to spend with the practice’s assistants, he was enormously helpful to me. In the summer of 1965, he made arrangements with Eddie Straiton for me to see practice with him in Staffordshire. It was an enjoyable two months during which I learned a great deal from Eddie who was a first-class veterinary surgeon. For part of my time there, Eddie took a break in Majorca while I continued to work with the help, when needed, of his neighbouring colleagues – and my father.
I was on the telephone to Thirsk every day, asking about the treatment for scouring pigs, lame cows and coughing horses. I asked for advice on calving cows, and how to treat batches of calves with pneumonia and, in every case, I received invaluable assistance. My father had enough work of his own and it must have been very trying, giving advice to a young, green student more than 150 miles away – but he did, and I hung on his every word.