Despite these antisocial traits, he was a most appealing dog and his whiskery little face accompanied Alf everywhere. He would sit patiently with him for hours – under his chair while he wrote in his study, or by his side as he watched television. Although frequently referring to his little friend as ‘a bit of a screwball’, Alf loved him dearly.

Bodie, who outlived his master by eighteen months, was a much appreciated companion for Joan in the period following Alf’s death. In 1996 he developed kidney failure and I had the sad task of putting him to sleep. As I did so, I could not help casting my mind back to my father’s very first dog, Don, who also succumbed to kidney failure, fifty-three years previously. Alfred Wight’s first and last dogs – two different characters in their own way, both of them difficult at times, but each one a loyal and wonderful companion.

Alf stated on a television programme in 1990, ‘Vets can be just as silly about their own dogs as the fussiest of our clients!’ This statement certainly describes Alf Wight himself. A large proportion of his life was dedicated to the well-being of his own dogs; whenever outings or holidays were planned, their welfare always received first consideration. Only under the most extreme circumstances would he board any of them in kennels, and the only hotels in Great Britain that Alf and Joan would stay at were ones that catered for dogs. Almost everywhere they went, a hairy face or two was invariably in attendance.

Throughout his years in practice, he was told many times by his clients, ‘You’d better get this dog better, Mr Wight. My missus thinks a lot more about him than she does of me!’ Being a dog lover himself, he could see the grain of truth in the statement. James Herriot writes movingly about the unique bond between people and their pets. The real man, Alf Wight, could have stepped out of any one of those stories.

By the mid 1980s, the practice of Sinclair and Wight was undergoing massive change, with the small animal work becoming increasingly important. By this time, Alf, who was almost seventy years old was, not unnaturally, finding it difficult to keep up with modern techniques, and left the more complicated treatments to his younger colleagues. He was still extremely interested, however, and would watch operations he had no intention of attempting himself. Despite the realisation that he was beginning to lose touch with the rapid advances within his profession, he still had his following among the practice clients; his thoughtful and caring approach to every case – the timeless attribute of the popular veterinary surgeon – was appreciated as much as ever.

Something else in the practice was timeless – Donald Sinclair. Now that Alf was no longer dependent upon veterinary work for a living, he could take a more relaxed view of his partner’s eccentricities at 23 Kirkgate.

One afternoon, during an unusually quiet day, Donald said to him, ‘Alfred, I don’t know why we pay all these young assistants. Life is not so hard as it used to be, and I could run this place single-handed.’

Alf raised his eyebrows. He knew his partner well but this sounded something special. ‘Single-handed? Are you quite sure about that, Donald?’ he replied, well aware that veterinary practice was one of the most unpredictable of professions.

‘Absolutely, Alfred! There is certainly no need for youto come in tomorrow. Take a day off!’

‘Are you really sure?’

‘Yes, Alfred, go home!’

The following morning, the practice of Sinclair and Wight was desperately short of staff. Early-morning emergencies had meant that the other two assistants and I were out on call, and to complete the picture, our secretary was off with flu. At ten minutes to nine, Donald Sinclair calmly walked into a quiet, empty veterinary surgery.

The ‘single-handed’ vet was soon to have some company. Within minutes, the office of 23 Kirkgate was transformed into a maelstrom of activity, with a long succession of customers filing in through the door while, to add to the noise, the telephone roared into life as repeated emergencies flowed into the practice.

We kept the diary of that day as a special memento and it makes interesting reading. In the space of about half an hour, over twenty telephone calls were logged, in addition to the several patients in the surgery needing urgent attention. The calls included lambings, broken legs, a horse to put down, a foal with a torn eye, several cases to stitch and, all the time, the office continued to fill with people and animals – one of which, a crazy Afghan dog, barked wildly and incessantly. The writing in the day-book becomes increasingly spidery and illegible as the pages are turned. The one-man show was under pressure.

It was not long before the telephone rang in Alf’s house. He could almost sense the tension as he lifted the receiver.

‘Alfred?’ there was a desperate quality in his partner’s voice.

‘Yes, Donald?’ he replied.

‘Come down – now!’

‘Why, Donald? Is it busy down there?’ The sound of shouting and barking dogs could clearly be heard.

‘ Busy?!The place is going mad!’

‘Are you alone? Is there no one to help you?’

The voice rose to a shriek, ‘Not a bloody soul!’

These were days of reflection for Alf. He was observing the gradual disappearance of veterinary practice as he used to know it. The small family farms were steadily going out of business, to be incorporated into larger estates, and the old stone houses bought up by wealthy people to be converted into fine, modernised homes. The old Yorkshire that he knew – the way of life he had preserved in print – was on the way to becoming history.

One of Donald Sinclair’s stock phrases was ‘I do not like change’, but there was little that Alf and he could do about the march of progress within both the veterinary profession and the farming industry. They were especially sad to see the steady replacement of the old cow byres with modern milking parlours; more efficient perhaps, but cold and austere. Both men remembered with affection the delicious sensation of warmth on walking into a cow byre on a cold winter’s day, with the rows of contented cows, the gentle chink of the chains around their necks, and the sweet, delectable smell of hay. But Alf knew this was a nostalgic picture that was fast becoming a thing of the past.

There were some timeless relics in the surgery that were soon to be destined for replacement. One day, while in the office at 23 Kirkgate, my wife Gill pointed towards the window. ‘Those curtains!’ she exclaimed in a loud voice.

She was referring to the old ‘red’ velvet curtains that had hung beside the office window for almost forty years. They were tattered and frayed, with part of the fabric so thin that it was possible to see straight through them out onto the street beyond.

My father was seated at the desk. ‘Curtains?’ he replied slowly.

‘Yes! They are utterly appalling!’

‘Oh?’ He gazed affectionately at them for a moment. He had spent so many years in their company that it seemed unthinkable to replace them. Her comments, however, had struck home and they were soon heading for the bonfire.

He told me about this shortly afterwards. ‘Gill’s absolutely right, of course,’ he said. ‘They were pretty awful, but they were old friends to me. They were here when I first came to Thirsk all those years ago!’

He paused a moment before pointing to our telephone exchange box on the shelf next to the desk. ‘It’s that thing over there that worries me far more than the old curtains!’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s about three inches from my ear when I sit at the desk and I don’t trust it.’

‘Why?’

‘It hums … and it’s hot!’

The days of the telephone box, too, were numbered. The practice of Sinclair and Wight had begun to enter the modern age.