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because I knew that the ensuing pregnancy would be laden with harassment for me.
    That was how it turned out. The little man flew into a series of alcoholic panics, all of them unfounded, and he discovered imaginary symptoms in Myrtle at regular intervals throughout the nine weeks.
    I was vastly relieved when she gave birth to five healthy pups. Now, I thought, I would get some peace. The fact was that I was just about tired of Humphrey’s nocturnal nonsense. I have always made a point of never refusing to turn out at night, but Humphrey had stretched this principle to breaking point. One of these times he would have to be told.
    The crunch came when the pups were a few weeks old. I had had a terrible day, starting with a prolapsed uterus in a cow at 5 A.M. and progressing through hours of road slogging, missed meals and a late-night wrestle with ministry forms, some of which I suspected I had filled up wrongly.
    My clerical incompetence has always infuriated me and when I crawled, dog-tired, into bed, my mind was still buzzing with frustration. I lay for a long time, trying to put those forms away from me, and it was well after midnight when I fell asleep.
    I have always had a silly fancy that our practice knew when I desperately wanted a full night’s sleep. It knew and gleefully stepped in. When the phone exploded in my ear, I wasn’t really surprised.
    As I stretched a weary hand to the receiver, the luminous dial of the alarm clock read 1:15 A.M.
    “Hello,” I grunted.
    “Oooh … oooh … oooh!” The reply was only too familiar.
    I clenched my teeth. This was just what I needed. “Humphrey! What is it this time?”
    “Oh, Jim, Myrtle’s really dyin’, I know she is. Come quick, lad, come quick!”
    “Dying?” I took a couple of rasping breaths. “How do you make that out?”
    “Well … she’s stretched out on ’er side, tremblin’.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Aye, t’missus said Myrtle’s been lookin’ worried and walkin’ stiff when she let her out in the garden this afternoon. I’m not long back from Redcar, ye see.”
    “So you’ve been to the races, eh?”
    “That’s right … neglectin’ me dog. I’m a scamp, nothin’ but a scamp.”
    I closed my eyes in the darkness. There was no end to Humphrey’s imaginary symptoms. Trembling, this time, looking worried, walking stiff. We’d had panting and twitching and head nodding and ear shaking—what would it be next?
    But enough was enough. “Look, Humphrey,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with your dog. I’ve told you again and again …”
    “Oh, Jim, lad, don’t be long. Oooh-hooo!”
    “I’m not coming, Humphrey.”
    “Nay, nay, don’t say that! She’s goin’ fast, I tell ye!”
    “I really mean it. It’s just wasting my time and your money, so go to bed. Myrtle will be fine.”
    As I lay quivering between the sheets, I realised that refusing to go out was an exhausting business. There was no doubt in my mind that it would have taken less out of me to get up and attend another charade at Cedar House than to say no for the first time in my life. But this couldn’t go on. I had to make a stand.
    I was still tormented by remorse when I fell into an uneasy slumber, and it is a good thing that the subconscious mind works on during sleep because with the alarm clock reading 2:30 A.M. I came suddenly wide awake.
    “My God!” I cried, staring at the dark ceiling. “Myrtle’s got eclampsia!”
    I scrambled from the bed and began to throw on my clothes. I must have made some commotion because I heard Helen’s sleepy voice.
    “What is it? What’s the matter?”
    “Humphrey Cobb!” I gasped, tying a shoe lace.
    “Humphrey … but you said there was never any hurry …”
    “There is this time. His dog’s dying.” I glared again at the clock. “In fact, she could be dead now.” I lifted my tie, then hurled it back on the chair. “Damn it! I don’t need that!” I fled from the room.
    Down the long garden and into