Free Every Living Thing by James Herriot

discussing this matter, and my hope is that I shall have no further contact with you in the future.”
    He turned quickly and strode from the shop, leaving me fuming. I stood there, staring at my boots. Helen would be joining me any minute now—she had been having her hair done—and then our happy programme would start: shopping, tea, then the cinema and a late meal with a lot of good conversation, all with my pal, Gordon Rae, the vet from Boroughbridge, and his wife, Jean. It was a simple sequence, but a blessed escape from the hard work and we looked forward to it all week. And now it was in ruins, shattered.
    This thing with Mottram had started a few weeks previously. I was examining a spaniel with a skin eruption in our surgery when the lady owner suddenly said, “Mr. Mottram of Scanton has been treating this dog for some time. Says it’s eczema, but it’s not improving and I think it must be something else. I want a second opinion.”
    I looked at the lady. “I wish you’d mentioned that at the beginning. Really, I should have asked Mr. Mottram’s permission before I looked at your dog.”
    “Oh, I didn’t know that.”
    “Well, yes, that’s how it is, and I’m afraid I’ll have to speak to him before I do any more.”
    I excused myself and went through to the telephone in the office.
    “Mottram here.” The voice was as I remembered. Deep, assured, cool. As a neighbouring veterinary surgeon I had met him a few times and found I couldn’t get very near him. His aristocratic haughtiness was, to me, decidedly off-putting. But I had to try to be friendly.
    “Oh, hello, this is Herriot, Darrowby. How are you?”
    “I am quite well, Herriot. I trust you are the same.” Damn, he still sounded patronising.
    “Well now, I have one of your clients, a Mrs. Hickson, here with her dog—I see it has a skin condition. She’s asking for a second opinion.”
    The voice became suddenly glacial. “You’ve seen the animal? I think you might have consulted me first.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t get the chance. Mrs. Hickson didn’t tell me till I had the dog on the table. I do apologise, and I wonder if I might have your permission to carry on.”
    There was a long pause, then again the icy tones. “Well, I suppose if you must, you must.” The phone went down with a bonk.
    My face was hot with embarrassment. What was the matter with the chap? This sort of thing happened all the time in veterinary practice. I’d had to approach other neighbouring practitioners and sometimes they’d had to approach me. The response on both sides had always been, “Oh, yes, of course, carry on by all means. I’d be glad to know what you think.” And followed by a description of the treatment to date.
    None of that with Mottram, and I wasn’t going to phone him again. I’d have to find out the past treatment from the owner if I could.
    I told Siegfried later.
    “Snooty bugger,” he grunted. “Remember when I asked him to dinner a long time ago? He said that he felt that vets should have an honourable association with their neighbours in opposition, but he didn’t believe in their socialising with each other.”
    “Yes, I do remember.”
    “Okay, I respect his views, but there’s no need for this stupid touchiness.”
    A couple of weeks later I had a feeling of impending doom when I was feeling my way over the hind leg of a lame dog and the owner, a nice old man, chirped up, “Oh, by the way, I should have told you. Mr. Mottram over at Scanton has been treating him, but I can see no improvement at all and I’d like your opinion.”
    My toes began to curl, but there was nothing else for it. I rang up our neighbour again.
    “Mottram here.” That same discouraging voice.
    I told him what had happened, and asked his permission.
    Again that long pause, then a disdainful, “So you’re at it again?”
    “At it…? What do you mean? I’m not at anything, I’m merely asking your permission to do as your client has