He derived, as many grandfathers do, great pleasure from his grandchildren. All my children are very musical, and I am sorry that my father, who had such an appreciation of music, could not have lived a little longer to hear their performances on the piano, cello and trumpet. He did, however, have the satisfaction of hearing Nicholas play the piano, shortly before winning the St Peter’s School music prize, and he heard Zoe playing the trumpet in a school orchestral performance of the Grand March from Aida.
On the way home from that performance, he kept repeating, ‘Was that reallyZoe playing those clear notes?’ I could not help feeling a little grateful to my children; through their playing, the pleasure they gave to their grandfather compensated somewhat for the agony he had had to endure, listening to the comical attempts from his own son all those years ago.
In 1981, another character bounced into Alf Wight’s life – a self-willed, whiskery-faced Border Terrier called Bodie. After the death of his black Labrador, Dan, no time was wasted in finding another four-legged companion and Bodie, Alf’s last dog, was one with a personality all his own. Alf, who had always admired the Border Terrier as a breed, was a happy man on the day he finally owned one.
Bodie, always regarded as a bit of a show-off, was a very photogenic dog who posed rather like a ham actor in the many photographs taken of him with Alf. The tendency to display a haughty superiority over others of his kind was illustrated many times – especially on meeting other male dogs when he would sail into the attack without a second thought. For the first time in his life, the world’s most famous vet needed a lead before he dared to venture forth with his dog.
Another reason for the lead was that this unpredictable little creature could take off into the distance with alarming suddenness. I remember, one late October afternoon, walking with my father, Bodie and my own little Heeler bitch over the wild moorland at the head of Coverdale. Suddenly, Bodie – without any warning – took off like a rocket and disappeared.
After a full half-hour, we were still desperately shouting his name – strangled cries of ‘Bodd … ee!… Bodd … ee!’ issuing from our cupped hands. Darkness was almost upon us as I scanned the bleak horizon, hearing only the sound of my father’s voice which, by then, was no more than a hoarse croak, We had just about given up hope when I finally spotted a small brown form zooming around the opposite hillside in the gathering gloom. I ran over and was able to catch him as he was demolishing a decomposing rabbit.
Bodie’s greatest pal was Rosie’s dog, Polly, a sweet-tempered yellow Labrador who has, like her effervescent little friend, appeared on many photographs with James Herriot. Bodie was the perfect gentleman towards Polly, always allowing her first grab at the biscuits that my father carried in his pocket during his many walks with the two dogs. Looking at Bodie standing patiently beside Polly, it was hard to believe that this was the hooligan who tore into every male dog unfortunate enough to cross his path.
In his later years, Bodie’s energy consumption dipped dramatically and he became bone idle, refusing to go on his daily walks. He was not, however, allowed to become a total degenerate; Alf carried him under his arm on the outward half of his walk leaving Bodie little choice but to return home under his own steam.
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.