2. He seemed to have no energy. I thought he must be suffering from malnutrition. I have been giving him some little extras meals to build him up, some malt and cod-liver oil and a bowl of Horlicks at night to make him sleep.
4. , he has his little walks with me as you can see, but Hodgkin,the gardener, has been down with lumbago, so there has been noring-throwing lately.
1. Omg! Tricki has become hugely fat.
3. Are you giving him plenty of exercise?
Oh I will, Mr Herriot. I’m sure you are right, but it is so difficult, so very difficult.
Now I really mean this. If you don’t cut his food right down and give him more exercise he is going to be really ill.You must harden your heart and keep him on a very strict diet.
The expected call came within a few days. Mrs Pumphrey was distraught.
Tricki would eat nothing. Refused even his favourite dishes;and besides, he had bouts of vomiting. He spent all his time lying on arug, panting. Didn’t want to go for walks, didn’t want to do anything.
I think I should keep Tricki with me for sometime.
Tricki looked down at the noisy pack with dull eyes and, when put down, lay motionless on the carpet. The other dogs, after sniffing round him for a few seconds,decided he was an uninteresting object and ignored him.
His progress was rapid. He had no medicinal treatment of any kind but all day he ran about with the dogs, joining in their friendly scrimmages. He discovered the joys of being bowled over, tramped on and squashed every few minutes. He became an accepted member ofthe gang, an unlikely, silky little object among the shaggy crew, fighting like a tiger for his share at mealtimes and hunting rats in the old hen house at night. He had never had such a time in his life.
When Tricki was feeling better, Mr. Herriot called Mr. Pumphrey and gave Tricki back to her.
Oh, Mr Herriot, how can I ever thank you? This is a triumph of surgery