Every Living Thing (35 page)

The little cat had swollen enormously, so much as to be almost unrecognisable, and as I kneeled and passed my hand over the distended abdomen I could feel the skin stretched tight. She was absolutely bursting full of kittens, but seemed lifeless and exhausted. She was straining, too, and licking at her vulva.

I looked up at the old man. “Have you some hot water, Mr. Ireson?”

“Yes, yes, the kettle has just boiled.”

I soaped my little finger. It would only just go into the tiny vagina. Inside I found the cervix wide open and a mass beyond, only just palpable. Heaven only knew how many kittens were jammed in there, but one thing was certain. There was no way they could ever come out. There was no room for manoeuvre. There was nothing I could do. Emily turned her face to me and gave a faint miaow of distress, and it came to me piercingly that this cat could die.

“Mr. Ireson,” I said. “I’ll have to take her away immediately.”

“Take her away?” he said in a bewildered whisper.

“Yes. She needs a Caesarean operation. The kittens can’t come out in the normal way.”

Upright in his chair, he nodded, shocked and only half comprehending. I grabbed the basket, Emily and all, and rushed out into the darkness. Then, as I thought of the old man looking blankly after me, I realised that my bedside manner had slipped badly. I pushed my head back through the sacks.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ireson,” I said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Don’t worry!
Brave words. As I parked Emily on the back seat and drove away I knew I was damn worried, and I cursed the mocking fate that had decreed that after all my airy remarks about cats effortlessly giving birth I might be headed for a tragedy. How long had Emily been lying like that? Ruptured uterus? Septicaemia? The grim possibilities raced through my mind. And why did it have to happen to that solitary old man, of all people?

I stopped at the village kiosk and rang Siegfried.

“I’ve just left old Eugene Ireson. Will you come in and give me a hand? Cat Caesar and it’s urgent. Sorry to bother you on your night off.”

“Perfectly all right, James, I’m not doing a thing. See you in about half an hour, eh?”

When I got to the surgery Siegfried had the steriliser bubbling and everything laid out. “This is your party, James,” he murmured. “I’ll do the anaesthetic.” I had shaved the site of the operation and had poised my scalpel over the grossly swollen abdomen when he whistled softly. “My God,” he said. “It’s like opening an abscess!”

That was exactly what it was like. I felt that if I made an incision the mass of kittens would explode out in my face and indeed, as I proceeded with the lightest touch through skin and muscle, the laden uterus bulged out alarmingly.

“Hell!” I breathed. “How many are in here?”

“A fairish number!” said my partner. “And she’s such a tiny cat.”

Gingerly, I opened the peritoneum, which to my relief looked clean and healthy, then, as I went on, I waited for the jumble of little heads and feet to appear. But with increasing wonderment I watched my incision travel along a massive, coal-black back and when I finally hooked my finger round the neck, drew forth a kitten and laid it on the table, I found that the uterus was empty.

“There’s only one!” I gasped. “Would you believe it?”

Siegfried laughed. “Yes, but what a whopper! And alive, too.” He lifted the kitten and took a closer look. “A whacking great tom—he’s nearly as big as his mother!”

As I stitched up and gave the sleeping Emily a shot of penicillin I felt the tension flow away from me in happy waves. The little cat was in good shape. My fears had been groundless. It would be best to leave the kitten with her for a few weeks, then I’d be able to find a home for him.

“Thanks a lot for coming in, Siegfried,” I said. “It looked like a very dodgy situation at first.”

I could hardly wait to get back to the old man who, I knew, would still be in a state of shock at my taking away his beloved cat. In fact, when I passed through the sacking doorway, it looked as though he hadn’t moved since I last saw him. He wasn’t reading, wasn’t doing anything except staring ahead from his chair.

When I put the basket down by his side he turned slowly and looked down wonderingly at Emily, who was coming round from the anaesthetic and beginning to raise her head, and at the black newcomer who was already finding his private array of teats interesting.

“She’s going to be fine, Mr. Ireson,” I said, and he nodded slowly.

“How wonderful. How simply wonderful,” he murmured.

When I went to take out the stitches ten days later, I found a carnival atmosphere in the igloo. Old Eugene was beside himself with delight, while Emily, stretched in the back with her enormous offspring sucking busily, looked up at me with an expression of pride that bordered on the smug.

“I think we ought to have a celebratory cup of tea and one of my favourite buns,” the old man said.

As the kettle boiled he drew a finger along the kitten’s body. “He’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is. He’ll grow up into a beautiful cat.”

Eugene smiled. “Yes. I’m sure he will, and it will be so nice to have him with Emily.”

I paused as he handed me a bun. “But just a minute, Mr. Ireson. You really can’t do with two cats here.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Well, you take Emily into the village on a lead most days. You’d have difficulty on the road with two cats, and anyway you don’t have room in here, do you?”

He didn’t say anything, so I pressed on. “Anyway, a lady was asking me the other day if I could find her a black kitten. So many people ask us to find a specific pet for them, often to replace an older animal that has just died, and we always seem to have trouble obliging them, but this time I was able to say I knew the very one.”

He nodded slowly, and then after a moment’s cogitation, said, “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Herriot. I hadn’t really thought about it enough.”

“Anyway,” I said, “she’s a very nice lady and a real cat lover. He’ll have a very good home. He’ll live like a little sultan with her.”

He laughed. “Good…good…and maybe I’ll hear about him now and then?”

“Absolutely. I’ll keep you posted regularly.” I could see I had got over the hurdle nicely and I thought I’d change the subject. “By the way, I saw your brother for the first time.”

“Cornelius?” He looked at me expressionlessly. We had never mentioned the subject before. “And what did you think of him?”

“Well…he didn’t look very happy.”

“He wouldn’t. He is not a happy man.”

“That’s the impression I got. And yet he’s got so much.”

The old man smiled gently. “Yes, but there are so many things he hasn’t got.”

I took a sip at my tea. “That’s right. For instance, he hasn’t got Emily!”

“Very true! In fact, I was about to say that but I thought you might think me silly.” He threw back his head and laughed. A merry, boyish laugh. “Yes, I have Emily, the all-important thing! I’m so glad we agree about that. Come now, do have another bun.”

“O
OH!
A
AAH!
O
OOH!
Y
A
bugger, ’erriot! What the hell ’ave ye done?” Nat Briggs staggered round the calf pen clutching his left buttock, and glaring at me in fury.

“Sorry, Nat,” I said, holding up the syringe loaded with Strain 19 abortion vaccine. “I’m afraid you fell right onto my needle.”

“Fell on? You stuck the bloody thing right up me arse, that’s what you mean!” He was a big man with a habitually glowering expression, but at the moment he looked positively murderous. He had been holding the calf’s head as I was about to make the injection and the animal had swung round at the wrong moment.

I tried a placatory smile. “No, really, Nat. It was just a little prick.”

“Don’t give me that!” The big man arched his back, kneaded his buttock and groaned. “Ah felt it go right in!”

His rage was not allayed by the peals of merriment from his comrades, Ray and Phil. The three were long-time workers on Sir Eustace Lamburn’s farm and we knew each other well, but Nat was the odd man out. The other two were always cheerful and ready for a joke but Nat was surly and seemed to carry a permanent chip on his shoulder.

A lot of my work consisted of preventive injections, and in the many wrestling matches with beasts packed in pens or down passages, my needles did occasionally score a bull’s-eye in human rather than animal flesh. The most common victim was myself because my patients rarely stood still, and with one hand pinching the skin and the other poising the syringe an inch away, it was the easiest thing in the world to pierce my hand. The vet coming to grief either in this way or by getting his toes stood on was invariably good for a laugh and there was always an outburst of hilarity as I yelped and hopped around, but having it happen to the dour Nat was nearly as good, especially as I had found my target in his backside.

“Aye, ye can laugh,” snarled the big man, “but what’s goin’ to happen now? Ah’ve had a bloody dose of that abortion stuff, and what’s that goin’ to do to me?”

“You’re not in calf, are ye, Nat, lad?” giggled Phil. “They say that vaccine’s only dangerous to pregnant cows, but ah can’t see you slippin’ your calf.” There was another eruption of mirth from the two.

Briggs stuck out his jaw. “It’s awright you talkin’ but that’s mucky stuff. It could do summat inside me.”

“Look, Nat,” I said. “You haven’t had a dose of anything.” I held up the syringe showing the full 5-c.c. dose within. “You’ve just had a prick from the needle. You might be a bit sore and I do apologise, but it can’t do you any harm.”

“That’s what you say, ’erriot, but we’ll see. Any road, I’m keepin’ clear of you. Somebody else can hold the rest of the buggers.”

Ray clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind, Nat. You’ve just got married, so you’ll be well looked after. Your new missus’ll get you a cushion whenever you want to sit down.”

There was no doubt that the little accident made the day for Phil and Ray, but for a long time afterwards I had to suffer complaints from their cantankerous colleague every time I visited the Lamburn farm. It transpired that the buttock had swelled up and remained painful for a long time, causing immense inconvenience, but I was sure the rigmarole was exaggerated and I paid little attention until one day a vastly more serious charge was laid at my door.

Nat Briggs pushed his irascible face close to mine. “Ah’m goin’ to tell tha summat, ’erriot. You’ve stopped me ever havin’ a family.”

“What!”

“Aye, ah’m not jokin’. Missus and me have been trying for a long time but there’s no sign of anything happenin’. The doctor doesn’t know why, but ah do! It’s your bloody injection!”

“Oh, come on, Nat, that’s ridiculous. How could that little accident possibly have such an effect?”

“How could it? Ah’ll tell you! That bloody stuff you injected into me was to do with abortion and breedin’ and all that sort o’ thing. It stands to reason that you’ve stopped me ever havin’ kids!”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I pleaded and expostulated, but the man was in deadly earnest. I had ruined his life and he’d never forgive me.

His mates didn’t help.

“Don’t listen to ’im, Mr. Herriot,” cried Ray. “He can’t do it properly—he’s only makin’ excuses.” Followed by more laughter.

Despite the jocularity I found the thing upsetting, because it wasn’t only on the farm that I had trouble. I never knew when I was going to run into the man. I received dirty looks from Briggs in Darrowby market-place, and in the evenings when I was sipping a soothing beer in some country inn it shattered my peace when I found that disapproving gaze trained on me.

Over many months my visits to the Lamburn farm were uncomfortable. The leg-pulling had stopped, but I sensed at all times the hostility from Briggs. He rarely mentioned the matter, but the thing was accepted between us. I was responsible for his permanent sterility and that was that.

A long time after the abortion incident I was back on the farm treating a batch of beasts with pneumonia. It was the usual rodeo with about twenty strong young cattle packed in a penned-off corner of the fold yard. I was poising my syringe charged with antibiotic as the men squeezed their way among the crush. Briggs was hanging on to a particularly wild stirk, his back towards me, and I’ll never know if he was thrown back or one of the other men nudged my arm because next moment he let out an anguished yell.

“Ya rotten bugger, ’erriot, you’ve done it again!” He staggered about, clutching his behind and staring wide-eyed at me.

I couldn’t believe it. Surely history couldn’t repeat itself so exactly. But there was no doubt about it, the scene was the same. Briggs bellowing and gripping his buttock, the other two men falling around laughing, myself transfixed in horror.

Still holding himself, Briggs turned on me, his fifteen stones hanging over me menacingly. “What’s this stuff goin’ to do to me, eh?” he barked. “You’ve done me enough damage, ya bugger, with that fust lot, but what am I goin’ to suffer now?”

“Nat, I’m truly sorry, but I can only tell you again that it can’t possibly do you any harm. There’s only antibiotic in the syringe—like penicillin, only stronger.”

“Ah don’t care a bugger what it is—it’s meant to go into the bloody beast, not me. Ah’m bloody fed up with you, ’erriot, doin’ the same thing to me again.”

“It’s not the same, Nat,” cried Phil. “You got it in the right cheek this time. Mr. Herriot’s just levellin’ you up—I’ve allus said he was a tidy worker and it’s only natural ’e would want to square the job up.” He and Ray abandoned themselves to helpless mirth.

After that incident I was grateful that Sir Eustace’s livestock had a long spell of good health and I was able to pass the few visits that came up on to Siegfried. It was nearly a year later that the three men and I were together again. As we carried on with our work, I was relieved to find that Briggs was not particularly unfriendly. Last time I had thought he was going to hit me, but he caught and held the struggling animals without comment.

During a moment’s respite, as I refilled my syringe, Ray piped up. “We’ve got a bit o’ news for you, Mr. Herriot.”