Lord God Made Them All (31 page)

The bull scrambled to his feet, and Tristan strolled unhurriedly towards the straw. The glass tube was still attached to the cylinder, and my friend held it up at eye level.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “A nice three c.c. sample.”

The farmer came puffing up. “You’ve got what you wanted, ’ave you?”

“Yes indeed,” Tristan replied airily. “Exactly what I wanted.”

The farmer shook his head admiringly. “By ’ell, it’s wondrous how the veterinary business has advanced, isn’t it?”

Tristan shrugged his shoulders. “Have to keep up with the times, Mr. Hartley. New science means new methods. I’ll get my microscope from the car and examine the sample.”

It didn’t take long, and soon afterwards we were all having a cup of tea in the kitchen.

My colleague put down his cup and reached for a scone. “That’s a fine fertile bull you have there, Mr. Hartley.”

“Eee, that’s champion.” The farmer rubbed his hands. “I paid a fair bit o’ brass for ’im, and it’s grand to know he’s up to scratch.” He looked across at the young man with undisguised admiration. “You’ve done a grand job. I couldn’t do what you did in a hundred years.”

As I sipped my tea the thought occurred to me that, despite the passage of time, things hadn’t changed. Like the glass tube landing on soft straw, Tristan always landed on his feet.

I
WINCED AS
J
ACK
Scott’s slender frame crashed against the cow’s ribs, but Jack himself didn’t seem unduly troubled. His eyes popped a little and his cap slid over one ear, but he took a fresh grip on the tail, braced his boots once more against the cobbles and prepared himself for further action.

I was trying to irrigate the cow’s uterus with Lugol’s iodine. This was the common postwar treatment for infertility in cattle caused by endometritis, but it involved the insertion of the long, metal Nielsen catheter through the uterine cervix, and this animal didn’t seem to appreciate it. Every time I attempted to work the catheter through the cervical folds, she swung round violently, and since the farmer weighed only about eight stones, he was whirled repeatedly against the neighbouring cow.

But this time I had the feeling I was winning. The tube was sliding nicely into the uterus, and if only she would stand still for a few seconds, the job would be over.

“Hang on, Jack,” I gasped as I began to pump in the Lugol’s. As soon as the cow felt the fluid trickling in, she veered over again, and the farmer’s mouth fell open as he was squashed between the big creatures. And when a hoof descended on his toes, a soft groan escaped him.

“Lovely, that’s it.” I withdrew the catheter and stepped back, thinking at the same time that this had been a singularly uncooperative patient.

Jack, however, didn’t seem to share my view. Hobbling on his bruised foot, he went up to the front of the cow and put his arms round her neck.

“Ah, you’re a grand awd lass,” he murmured, resting his cheek against the craggy jaw.

I looked at him wonderingly. It was always like this with Jack. He had a deep affection for every creature, human and animal, on his farm, and, with an occasional exception such as the cow I had just treated, the feeling seemed to be returned.

When he had concluded his embrace, he pushed his way out and hopped over the dung channel. His face wore its usual smile. It was not the ruddy face of the typical farmer; in fact it was always pale and haggard, as though its owner hadn’t slept for a few nights, and the deep wrinkles on the cheeks and forehead made Jack look older than his forty years. But the smile was radiant, like an inner light.

“Ah’ve one or two other jobs for ye, Mr. Herriot,” he said. “First, I want you to give a bullock a shot. He’s got a bit of a cough.”

We walked across the yard with Jack’s sheepdog, Rip, gambolling around his master in delight. Often these farm dogs were slinking, furtive little creatures, but Rip behaved like a happy pet.

The farmer bent and patted him. “Hello, feller, are you comin’, too?” As the dog went into further transports, a little boy and girl, the two youngest of the Scott family, trotted along with us.

“Dad, where are ye goin’?” “Dad, what are ye doin’?” They cried. There were usually children mixed up with the visits on this farm, getting in between the cows’ legs, often hindering the work, but it never worried Jack.

The bullock was lying in deep straw in a loose box. He was a huge animal and obviously not very ill because he was placidly chewing his cud as we entered.

“There’s nowt much wrong with ’im,” Jack said. “Maybe just a bit o’ cold. But I’ve heard ’im cough a few times, and I reckon he’d be better with an injection.”

The temperature was slightly elevated, and I filled a syringe with a penicillin suspension, which the veterinary profession had recently acquired. I leaned over, gave the hairy rump the usual quick thump with my hand and plunged the needle in.

On any other farm, an animal of this size could have been something of a problem to inject, perhaps involving a chase round the box, but this one did not even rise to his feet. Nobody was restraining him in any way, but he continued to chew, merely looking round with mild interest as I drove the needle deep into his muscle.

“Champion. Good lad, good lad.” Jack scratched the hairy poll for a few minutes before we left. “There’s some lambs ah want you to look at,” he said and led me into a Nissen hut. “I’ve never seen owt like them.”

There were a number of ewes and lambs in the hut, but it was not difficult to see what the farmer meant. Several of the lambs were wobbling on their hind legs as they walked, and two could take only a few faltering steps before collapsing on their sides.

Jack turned to me. “What’s the matter wi’ them, Mr. Herriot?”

“They’ve got swayback,” I replied.

“Swayback? What’s that?”

“Well, it’s a copper deficiency. Causes degeneration of the brain, which makes them weak on their hindquarters. That’s the typical form, but sometimes they become paralysed or take fits. It’s a funny disease.”

“That’s strange,” the farmer said. “Them ewes have had copper licks to go at all the time.”

“I’m afraid that’s not enough. If you get many cases, you ought to inject the ewes with copper halfway through pregnancy to prevent it for next time.”

He sighed. “Ah, well, now we know what it is, you’ll be able to put these lambs right.”

“Sorry, Jack,” I replied. “There’s no cure. Only prevention.”

“Well, that’s a beggar.” The farmer tipped back his cap. “What’s goin’ to happen to this lot, then?”

“Well, the ones that are just wobbly have a good chance of making fat lambs, but I haven’t much hope for those two.” I pointed to the pair lying on their sides. “They are already partially paralysed. I honestly think the kindest thing would be …”

That was when the smile left Jack’s face. It always did at the merest suggestion of putting an animal down. It is a country vet’s duty to advise his clients when treatment is obviously unprofitable. He must always have the farmer’s commercial interest in mind.

This system worked on most places, but not at Jack Scott’s. Tell him to get rid of a cow that had lost a couple of quarters with mastitis, and the curtain would come down over that smiling face. He had various animals on the farm that could not possibly be making him any money, but they were his friends and he was happy to see them pottering about.

He dug his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at the prostrate lambs. “Are they sufferin’, Mr. Herriot?”

“No, Jack, no. It doesn’t seem to be a painful disease.”

“Awright, I’ll keep them two. If they can’t suck, I’ll feed ’em meself. Ah like to give things a chance.”

He didn’t have to tell me. He gave everything a chance. No farmer likes to have the extra work of lamb feeding, especially when the little creatures are abnormal, but I knew it was no use arguing with Jack. It was his way.

Out in the yard again, he leaned against the half-door of a loose box. “Any road, I’ll have to remember to do them ewes with copper next time.”

As he spoke, an enormous head poked over the door. This was the bull box, and the great Shorthorn inside clearly wished to pay his respects.

He began to lick the back of Jack’s neck, and as the rasping tongue repeatedly knocked his cap over his eyes, the farmer remonstrated gently. “Give over, George, ye daft thing. What d’you think you’re doin’?” But he reached back and tickled the animal’s chin at the same time.

The expression on George’s face made him look more like a dog than a bull. Goofy-eyed and anxious to please, he licked and nuzzled faster than ever, despite the farmer’s protests. On many farms a bull that size would be a potential killer, but George was just another of Jack’s pets.

As lambing time was left behind and the summer wore on, I was glad to see that Jack’s dedication had paid off. The two semi-paralysed lambs were surviving and doing well. They still flopped down after a few steps, but they were able to nibble the fast-growing grass and the demyelination of their brains had mercifully not progressed.

It was in October, when the trees around the Scott farm were bursting into a blaze of warm colour, that Jack hailed me as I drove past his gate.

“Will ye stop for a minute and see Rip?” His face was anxious.

“Why, is he ill?”

“Naw, naw, just lame, but I can’t mek it out.”

I didn’t have to go far to find Rip—he was never far from his master—and I experienced a shock of surprise when I saw him because his right foreleg was trailing uselessly.

“What’s happened to him?” I asked.

“He was roundin’ up t’cows when one of ’em lashed out and got him on the chest. He’s been gettin’ lamer ever since. The funny thing is, ah can’t find a thing wrong with his leg. It’s a mystery.”

Rip wagged vigorously as I felt my way up his leg from foot to shoulder. There was no pain in the limb, no wound or injury, but he winced as I passed my hand over his first rib. Diagnosis was not difficult.

“It’s radial paralysis,” I said.

“Radial. . . what’s that?”

“The radial nerve passes over the first rib, and the kick must have damaged rib and nerve. This has put the extensor muscles out of action so that he can’t bring his leg forward.”

“Well, that’s a rum ’un.” The farmer passed a hand over the shaggy head and down the fine white markings of the cheeks. “Will he get better?”

“It’s usually a long job,” I replied. “Nervous tissue is slow to regenerate, and it could take weeks or months. Treatment doesn’t seem to make much difference.”

The farmer nodded. “Awright, we’ll just have to wait. There’s one thing”—and again the bright smile flooded his face—“he can still get round them cows, lame or not. It ’ud break ’is heart if he couldn’t work. Loves ’is job, does Rip.”

On the way back to the car, he nudged me and opened the door of a shed. In the corner, in a nest of straw, a cat was sitting with her family of tiny kittens. He lifted two out, holding one in each of his roughened hands. “Look at them little fellers, aren’t they lovely!” He held them against his cheeks and laughed.

As I started the engine, I felt I ought to say something encouraging. “Don’t worry too much about Rip, Jack. These cases usually recover in time.”

But Rip did not recover. After several months his leg was as useless as ever, and the muscles had wasted greatly. The nerve must have been irreparably damaged, and it was an unhappy thought that this attractive little animal was going to be three-legged for the rest of his life.

Jack was undismayed and maintained stoutly that Rip was still a good working dog.

The real blow fell one Sunday morning as Siegfried and I were arranging the rounds in the office. I answered the door bell and found Jack on the step with his dog in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is he worse?”

“No, Mr. Herriot.” The farmer’s voice was husky. “It’s summat different. He’s been knocked down.”

We examined the dog on the surgery table. “Fracture of the tibia,” Siegfried said. “But there’s no sign of internal damage. Do you know exactly what happened?”

Jack shook his head. “Nay, Mr. Farnon. He ran onto the village street and a car caught ’im. He dragged ’imself back into t’yard.”

“Dragged?” Siegfried was puzzled.

“Aye, the broken leg’s on the same side as t’other thing.”

My partner blew out his cheeks. “Ah, yes, the radial paralysis. I remember you told me about it, James.” He looked at me across the table, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I was. A fracture and a paralysis on the same side was a forbidding combination.

“Right, let’s get on,” Siegfried murmured.

We set the leg in plaster, and I held open the door of Jack’s old car as he laid Rip on the back seat.

The farmer smiled out at me through the window. “I’m takin’ the family to church this mornin’, and I’ll say a little prayer for Rip while I’m there.”

I watched until he drove round the corner of the street, and when I turned I found Siegfried at my elbow.

“I just hope that job goes right,” he said thoughtfully. “Jack would take it hard if it didn’t.” He turned and carelessly dusted his old brass plate on its new place on the wall. “He’s a truly remarkable chap. He says he’s going to say a prayer for his dog, and there’s nobody better qualified. Remember what Coleridge said? ‘He prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small.’ “

“Yes,” I said. “That’s Jack, all right.”

The farmer brought his dog into the surgery six weeks later for the removal of the plaster.

“Taking a cast off is a much longer job than putting it on,” I said as I worked away with my little saw.

Jack laughed. “Aye, ah can see that. It’s hard stuff to get through.”

I have never liked this job, and it seemed a long time before I splayed open the white roll with my fingers and eased it away from the hair of the leg.

I felt at the site of the fracture and my spirits plummeted. Hardly any healing had taken place. There should have been a healthy callus by now but I could feel the loose ends of the broken bones moving against each other, almost like a hinge. We were no further forward.