The Story — A Triumph of Surgery

The narrator, a veterinary surgeon, was genuinely alarmed when he spotted Tricki — a little dog belonging to the wealthy Mrs Pumphrey — being walked along the street. The change in the animal was shocking. Once a sprightly little creature, Tricki had become grotesquely round, Simile bloated like a stuffed sausage with a leg protruding from each corner. His eyes were dull and watery, his tongue drooped from his jaws, and his whole bearing was one of miserable exhaustion. Imagery

Mrs Pumphrey rushed to explain. She had noticed Tricki seemed weak and lethargic — surely a sign of malnutrition! So she had been supplementing his meals with little extras — malt, cod-liver oil, late-night Horlicks. As for reducing the sweet foods the vet had recommended she cut back on, she had tried — but really, Tricki was so fond of his cream cakes and chocolates that she simply could not bear to disappoint him. Irony And exercise? Well, Hodgkin, the gardener who used to throw rings for Tricki, had been laid up with back pain. So there had been rather less activity of late.

The vet spoke firmly. If Mrs Pumphrey did not drastically reduce Tricki's food and increase his exercise, the dog was heading for a serious crisis. He urged her to be strict, no matter how difficult. She set off down the road with renewed determination — though the vet watched Tricki tottering in his little tweed coat with some concern, and felt confident it would not be long before he received another telephone call.

The call came within days, just as the vet had predicted. Mrs Pumphrey was distraught: Tricki had stopped eating, was vomiting frequently, and spent his days lying flat on a rug, panting. He showed no interest in anything. The vet immediately put his plan into action — the only effective solution was to remove Tricki from his current environment entirely. He recommended a two-week stay at the veterinary surgery for observation. Mrs Pumphrey nearly fainted at the suggestion. She was certain the dog would wither and die without seeing her daily. But the vet held firm. He carried the blanketed Tricki to his car, accompanied by Mrs Pumphrey's wailing — and the frantic efforts of the entire household staff to load the car with Tricki's day bed, night bed, special cushions, favourite toys, rubber rings, and three separate feeding bowls, along with a collection of his tiny tailored coats. The vet drove away quietly, leaving a household in tears.

At the surgery, Tricki was introduced to the resident pack of dogs. He arrived limp and unresponsive, and was promptly ignored by the other animals, who sniffed around him briefly and then walked away — he was simply not interesting enough to bother with. The vet made up a warm bed for him and kept him on water only — no food — for the first two days. By the end of the second day, the little dog had perked up enough to take notice of his surroundings. By the third day, when Tricki heard the other dogs playing in the yard, he whimpered and pressed himself against the door.

When the vet opened the door, Tricki trotted out and was immediately absorbed into the boisterous pack. He was rolled over, sat on, and thoroughly investigated — and he loved every moment of it. He began running with the others across the garden, his excess weight wobbling slightly but reducing with each day. He joined in every scuffle and chase. He competed fiercely at mealtimes — fighting for his portion with genuine hunger, an expression of health that delighted the vet. Imagery Tricki had never experienced the joy of being a real dog among other dogs, and he threw himself into this new life with complete enthusiasm.

Throughout the fortnight, Mrs Pumphrey rang the surgery dozens of times a day for updates. She enquired anxiously whether his cushions were being turned, whether he was wearing the correct coat for the weather, whether his preferred dishes were being served. The vet was rather evasive about these details, but genuinely happy to report that Tricki was out of danger and recovering beautifully. The word convalescing had an electrifying effect on Mrs Pumphrey. Within hours, a consignment of two dozen fresh eggs arrived at the surgery — intended to restore Tricki's strength. Irony The vet and his two partners began enjoying scrambled eggs every morning. Then cases of wine arrived — for Tricki's blood. Lunch became a rather splendid affair. Then came brandy, for Tricki's constitution. The evenings grew pleasantly convivial around the fire.

Tempting as it was to keep Tricki indefinitely as the source of these luxurious provisions, the vet knew that Mrs Pumphrey was genuinely suffering. After two weeks, he phoned to tell her Tricki was fully recovered and ready to go home. Minutes later, a thirty-foot gleaming black limousine drew up outside the surgery. Mrs Pumphrey sat in its depths, her hands clasped, her lips trembling. When she asked whether Tricki was truly well, the vet offered to fetch the dog himself.

He walked out to the garden, where a mass of dogs was racing around the lawn. Among them, ears flapping and tail waving in pure delight, was Tricki — barely recognisable as the bloated creature who had arrived a fortnight earlier. He had been transformed into a firm, lean, energetic little animal, keeping pace with the pack and bounding forward with real vigour. The vet carried him back through the house. When Tricki caught sight of his mistress through the car window, he launched himself from the vet's arms in a spectacular leap and landed in Mrs Pumphrey's lap, covering her face with enthusiastic licks. Imagery She declared, through grateful tears, "Oh, Mr Herriot, how can I ever thank you? This is a triumph of surgery!" Irony