I Think It Was The Fact That

If I Had Been A Little Dog I'd Have Gone Leaping And Gambolling Around The Room Wagging My Tail Furiously.

At Times It Seemed Unfair That I Should Be Paid For My Work; For Driving Out In The Early Morning With The Fields Glittering Under The First Pale Sunshine And The Wisps Of Mist Still Hanging On The High Tops.

And There Was That Letter From The Bramleys—that Really Made Me Feel Good. You Don’t Find People Like The Bramleys Now; Radio, Television And The Motorcar Have Carried The Outside World Into The Most Isolated Places So That The Simple People You Used To Meet On The Lonely Farms Are Rapidly Becoming Like People Anywhere Else. There Are Still A Few Left, Of Course—old Folk Who Cling To The Ways Of Their Fathers And When I Come Across Any Of Them I Like To Make Some Excuse To Sit Down And Talk With Them And Listen To The Old Yorkshire Words And Expressions Which Have Almost Disappeared.

They Can't Find My House Now Because I Keep It Very Quiet Where I Live.

I Think It Was The Beginning Of Mrs. Bond's Unquestioning Faith In Me When She Saw Me Quickly Enveloping The Cat Till All You Could See Of Him Was A Small Black And White Head Protruding From An Immovable Cocoon Of Cloth. He And I Were Now Facing Each Other, More Or Less Eyeball To Eyeball, And George Couldn't Do A Thing About It. As I Say, I Rather Pride Myself On This Little Expertise, And Even Today My Veterinary Colleagues Have Been Known To Remark, "old Herriot May Be Limited In Many Respects, But By God He Can Wrap A Cat.