Unfiltered Story #215135

, , | Unfiltered | November 12, 2020

This story might be a wee bit chocolate-boxy, but I told it to my 21-year-old god-daughter recently and she pronounced it “cute”. Of course she may have been being polite, but it’s worth a shot.

I’m a big fan of the James Herriot books. These are semi-autobiographical books about a vet in Yorkshire, England. They were first published in the 60s and continued up until the 90s. James Herriot (real name Alfred Wight) died in 1995, and a few years later, his son Jim wrote his biography.

I finished it not long ago. I had actually been unaware of it, or I would certainly have read it sooner. Jim describes his father as a lover of all animals, but the dog was indisputably No. 1. My husband and I are the same; over 30 years of marriage has never seen us without a hound, usually more than one. There’s a shaggy form draped across my feet under the desk as I write this.

Jim recounts the many hours and many miles his father walked with his dogs. On one such walk, accompanied by his son, Alfred pointed out a man in the distance, walking towards them. “There’s a suspicious-looking character!” he said. “Why suspicious, Dad?” Jim asked. “He hasn’t got a dog!” Alfred replied.

I showed this passage to my husband who thought it was hysterical. He then reminded me that it was time we were on our way with our own dogs. While walking beside a river through the countryside, with our dogs alternately dashing along the bank or swimming in the stream, we saw a chap coming towards us. Alone. “Morning!” he said to us. “G’day!” we chimed back. And when he was out of earshot, we looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Suspicious!”