All Things Wise and Wonderful

by James Herriot

  “I’m quite sure, Mr. Sowden. He’s so weak that I think I’ll do it under a local anaesthetic, so we’ll need some help.”

  The farmer nodded slowiy. “Awright, ah’ll go down t’village and get George Hindley.” He coughed again, painfully. “But by gaw, ah could do without this tonight. Ah’m sure I’ve got brown chitis.”

  Brown chitis was a common malady among the farmers of those days and there was no doubt this poor man was suffering from it but my pang of sympathy faded as he left because he took the lamp with him and the darkness closed tightly on me.

  There are all kinds of barns. Some of them are small, cosy and fragrant with hay, but this was a terrible place. I had been in here on sunny afternoons and even then the dank gloom of crumbling walls and rotting beams was like a clammy blanket and all warmth and softness seemed to disappear among the cobwebbed rafters high above. I used to feel that people with starry-eyed notions of farming ought to take a look inside that barn. It was evocative of the grim comfortless other side of the agricultural life.

  I had it to myself now, and as I stood there listening to the wind rattling the door on its latch a variety of draughts whistled round me and a remorseless drip-drip from the broken pantiles on the roof sent icy droplets trickling over my head and neck. And as the minutes ticked away I began to hop from foot to foot in a vain effort to keep warm.

  Dales farmers are never in a hurry and I hadn’t expected a quick return, but after fifteen minutes in the impenetrable blackness bitter thoughts began to assail me. Where the hell was the man? Maybe he and George Hindley were brewing a pot of tea for themselves or perhaps settling down to a quick game of dominoes. My legs were trembling by the time the oil lamp reappeared in the entrance and Mr. Sowden ushered his neighbour inside.

  “Good evening, George,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Only moderate, Mr. Herriot,” the newcomer sniffled. “This bloody caud’s just—ah—ah—whooosh—just g’tting’ a haud o’ me.” He blew lustily into a red handkerchief and gazed at me wearily.

  I looked around me. “Well let’s get started. We’ll need an operating table. Perhaps you could stack up a few straw bales?”

  The two men trailed out and returned, carrying a couple of bales apiece. When they were built up they were about the right height but rather wobbly.

  “We could do with a board on top.” I blew on my freezing fingers and stamped my feet. “Any ideas?”

  Mr. Sowden rubbed his chin. “Aye, we’ll get a door.” He shuffled out into the yard with his lamp and I watched him struggling to lift one of the cow byre doors from its hinges. George went to give him a hand and as the two of them pulled and heaved I thought wearily that veterinary operations didn’t trouble me all that much but getting ready for them was a killer.

  Finally the men staggered back into the barn, laid the door on top of the bales and the theatre was ready.

  “Let’s get him up,” I gasped.

  We lifted the unresisting little creature on to the improvised table and stretched him on his right side. Mr. Sowden held his head while George took charge of the tail and the rear end.

  Quickly I laid out my instruments, removed coat and jacket and rolled up my shirt sleeves. “Damn! We’ve no hot water. Will you bring some, Mr. Sowden?”

  I held the head and again waited interminably while the farmer went to the house. This time it was worse without my warm clothing and the cold ate into me as I pictured the farm kitchen and the slow scooping of the water from the side boiler into a bucket, then the unhurried journey back to the buildings.

  When Mr. Sowden finally reappeared I added antiseptic to the bucket and scrubbed my arms feverishly. Then I clipped the hair on the left side and filled the syringe with local anaesthetic. But as I infiltrated the area I felt my hopes sinking.

  “I can hardly see a damn thing.” I looked helplessly at the oil lamp balanced on a nearby turnip chopper. “That light’s in the wrong place.”

  Wordlessly Mr. Sowden left his place and began to tie a length of plough cord to a beam. He threw it over another beam and made it fast before suspending the lamp above the calf. It was a big improvement but it took a long time and by the time he had finished I had abandoned all hope of ever throwing off my cold. I was frozen right through and a burning sensation had started in my chest. I would soon be in the same state as my helpers. Brown chitis was just round the corner.

  Anyway, at least I could start now, and I incised skin, muscles, peritoneum and rumenal wall at record speed. I plunged an arm deep into the opened organ, through the fermenting mass of stomach contents, and in a flash all my troubles dissolved. Along the floor of the rumen apples and pears were spread in layers, some of them bitten but most of them whole and intact. Bovines take most of their food in big swallows and chew it over later at their leisure, but no animal could make cud out of this lot.

  I looked up happily. “It’s just as I thought. He’s full of fruit.”

  “Hhrraaagh!” replied Mr. Sowden. Coughs come in various forms but this one was tremendous and fundamental, starting at the soles of his hob-nailed boots and exploding right in my face. I hadn’t realised how vulnerable I was with the farmer leaning over the calf’s neck, his head a few inches from mine. “Hhrraaagh!” he repeated, and a second shower of virus laden moisture struck me. Apparently Mr. Sowden either didn’t know or didn’t care about droplet infection, but with my hands inside my patient there was nothing I could do about it.

  Instinctively I turned my face a little in the other direction.

  “Whoosh!” went George. It was a sneeze rather than a cough, but it sent a similar deadly spray against my other cheek. I realised there was no escape. I was hopelessly trapped between the two of them.

  But as I say, my morale had received a boost. Eagerly I scooped out great handfuls of the offending fruit and within minutes the floor of the barn was littered with Bramley’s seedlings and Conference pears.

  “Enough here to start a shop,” I laughed.

  “Hhrraaagh!” responded Mr. Sowden.

  “Whooosh!” added George, not to be outdone.

  When I had sent the last apple and pear rolling into the darkness I scrubbed up again and started to stitch. This is the longest and most wearisome part of a rumenotomy. The excitement of diagnosis and discovery is over and it is a good time for idle chat, funny stories, anything to pass the time.

  But there in the circle of yellow light with the wind whirling round my feet from the surrounding gloom and occasional icy trickles of rain running down my back I was singularly short of gossip, and my companions, sunk in their respective miseries, were in no mood for badinage.

  I was half way down the skin sutures when a tickle mounted at the back of my nose and I had to stop and stand upright.

  “Ah—ah—ashooo!” I rubbed my forearm along my nose.

  “He’s startin’,” murmured George with mournful satisfaction.

  “Aye, ’e’s off,” agreed Mr. Sowden, brightening visibly.

  I was not greatly worried. I had long since come to the conclusion that my cause was lost. The long session of freezing in my shirt sleeves would have done it without the incessant germ bombardment from either side. I was resigned to my fate and besides, when I inserted the last stitch and helped the calf down from the table I felt a deep thrill of satisfaction. That horrible groan had vanished and the little animal was looking around him as though he had been away for a while. He wasn’t cheerful yet, but I knew his pain had gone and that he would live.

  “Bed him up well, Mr. Sowden.” I started to wash my instruments in the bucket. “And put a couple of sacks round him to keep him warm. I’ll call in a fortnight to take out the stitches.”

  That fortnight seemed to last a long time. My cold, as I had confidently expected, developed into a raging holocaust which settled down into the inevitable brown chitis with an accompanying cough that rivalled Mr. Sowden’s.

  Mr. Sowden was never an ebullient man but I expected him to lo
ok a little happier when I removed the stitches. Because the calf was bright and lively and I had to chase him around his pen to catch him.

  Despite the fire in my chest I had that airy feeling of success.

  “Well,” I said expansively. “He’s done very well. He’ll make a good bullock some day.”

  The farmer shrugged gloomily. “Aye, reckon ’e will But there was no need for all that carry on.”

  “No need …?”

  “Naw. Ah’ve been talkin’ to one or two folk about t’job and they all said it was daft to open ’im up like that. Ah should just ’ave given ’im a pint of oil like I said.”

  “Mr. Sowden, I assure you …”

  “And now ah’ll have a big bill to pay.” He dug his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Believe me, it was worth it.”

  “Nay, nay, never.” He started to walk away, then looked over his shoulder. “It would’ve been better if you ’adn’t come.”

  I had done three circuits with F. O. Woodham and on this third one he had kept fairly quiet. Obviously I was doing all right now and I could start enjoying myself again. Flying was lovely.

  The voice came over the intercom again. “I’m going to let you land her yourself this time. I’ve told you how to do it. Right you’ve got her.”

  “I’ve got her,” I replied. He had indeed told me how to do it—again and again—and I was sure I would have no trouble.

  As we lost height the tops of the trees appeared then the grass of the airfield came up to meet us. It was the moment of truth. Carefully I eased the stick back, then at what I thought was the right moment I slammed it back against my stomach. Maybe a bit soon because we bounced a couple of times and that made me forget to seesaw the rudder bar so that we careered from side to side over the turf before coming to a halt.

  With the engine stilled I took a deep breath. That was my first landing and it hadn’t been bad. In fact I had got better and better all the time and the conviction was growing in me that my instructor must have been impressed with my initial showing. We climbed out and after walking a few steps in silence F. O. Woodham halted and turned to me.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Ah yes, here was the proof. He knew I had done well. He was interested in me.

  “Herriot, sir,” I replied smartly.

  For a few moments he gave me a level stare. “Well, Herriot,” he murmured. “That was bloody awful.”

  He turned and left me. I gazed down at my feet in their big sheepskin boots. Yes, the uniform was different, but things hadn’t changed all that much.

  CHAPTER 29

  LIFE IN THE RAF reminded me of something I always knew: Men are like animals. I don’t mean men are “beastly.” The fact is I don’t think animals are “beastly.” What I mean is that no two are exactly alike. Many people think my farm patients are all the same, but cows, pigs, sheep and horses can be moody, placid, vicious, docile, spiteful, loving.

  There was one particular pig called Gertrude, but before I come to her I must start with Mr. Barge.

  Nowadays the young men from the pharmaceutical companies who call on veterinary surgeons are referred to as “reps,” but nobody would have dreamed of applying such a term to Mr. Barge. He was definitely a “representative” of Cargill and Sons, Manufacturers of Fine Chemicals since 1850, and he was so old that he might have been in on the beginning.

  It was a frosty morning in late winter when I opened the front door at Skeldale House and saw Mr. Barge standing on the front step. He raised his black homburg a few inches above the sparse strands of silver hair and his pink features relaxed into a smile of gentle benevolence. He had always treated me as a favourite son and I took it as a compliment because he was a man of immense prestige.

  “Mr. Herriot,” he murmured, and bowed slightly. The bow was rich in dignity and matched the dark morning coat, striped trousers and shiny leather briefcase.

  “Please come in, Mr. Barge,” I said, and ushered him into the house.

  He always called at midday and stayed for lunch. My young boss, Siegfried Farnon, a man not easily overawed, invariably treated him with deference and in fact the visit was something of a state occasion.

  The modern rep breezes in, chats briefly about blood levels of antibiotics and steroids, says a word or two about bulk discounts, drops a few data sheets on the desk and hurries away. In a way I feel rather sorry for these young men because, with a few exceptions, they are all selling the same things.

  Mr. Barge, on the other hand, like all his contemporaries, carried a thick catalogue of exotic remedies, each one peculiar to its own firm.

  Siegfried pulled out the chair at the head of the dining table. “Come and sit here, Mr. Barge.”

  “You are very kind.” The old gentleman inclined his head slightly and took his place.

  As usual there was no reference to business during the meal and it wasn’t until the coffee appeared that Mr. Barge dropped his brochure carelessly on the table as though this part of the visit was an unimportant afterthought.

  Siegfried and I browsed through the pages, savouring the exciting whiff of witchcraft which has been blown from our profession by the wind of science. At intervals my boss placed an order.

  “I think we’d better have a couple of dozen electuaries, Mr. Barge.”

  “Thank you so much.” The old gentleman flipped open a leather-bound notebook and made an entry with a silver pencil.

  “And we’re getting a bit low on fever drinks, aren’t we, James?” Siegfried glanced round at me. “Yes, we’ll need a gross of them if you please.”

  “I am most grateful,” Mr. Barge breathed, noting that down, too.

  My employer murmured his requests as he riffled through the catalogue. A Winchester of spirits of nitre and another of formalin, castration clams, triple bromide, Stockholm tar—all the things we never use now—and Mr. Barge responded gravely to each with “I do thank you” or “Thank you indeed,” and a flourish of his silver pencil.

  Finally Siegfried lay back in his chair. “Well now, Mr. Barge, I think that’s it—unless you have anything new.”

  “As it happens, my dear Mr. Farnon, we have.” The eyes in the pink face twinkled. “I can offer you our latest product, Soothitt, an admirable sedative.”

  In an instant Siegfried and I were all attention. Every animal doctor is keenly interested in sedatives. Anything which makes our patients more amenable is a blessing. Mr. Barge extolled the unique properties of Soothitt and we probed for further information.

  “How about unmaternal sows?” I asked. “You know—the kind which savage their young. I don’t suppose it’s any good for that?”

  “My dear young sir.” Mr. Barge gave me the kind of sorrowing smile a bishop might bestow on an erring curate. “Soothitt is a specific for this condition. A single injection to a farrowing sow and you will have no problems.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “And does it have any effect on car sickness in dogs?”

  The noble old features lit up with quiet triumph. “Another classical indication, Mr. Herriot. Soothitt comes in tablet form for that very purpose.”

  “Splendid.” Siegfried drained his cup and stood up. “Better send us a good supply then. And if you will excuse us, we must start the afternoon round, Mr. Barge. Thank you so much for calling.”

  We all shook hands, Mr. Barge raised his homburg again on the front step and another gracious occasion was over.

  Within a week the new supplies from Cargill and Sons arrived. Medicines were always sent in tea chests in those days and as I pried open the wooden lid I looked with interest at the beautifully packed phials and tablets of Soothitt. And it seemed uncanny that I had a call for the new product immediately.

  That same day one of the town’s bank managers, Mr. Ronald Beresford, called to see me.

  “Mr. Herriot,” he said. “As you know I have worked here for several years but I have been offered the managership of a bigger branch down south and I
leave tomorrow for Portsmouth.” From his gaunt height he looked down at me with the unsmiling gaze which was characteristic of him.

  “Portsmouth! Gosh, that’s a long way.”

  “Yes, it is—about three hundred miles. And I have a problem.”

  “Really?”

  “I have, I fear. I recently purchased a six month old cocker spaniel and he is an excellent little animal but for the fact that he behaves peculiarly in the car.”

  “In what way?”

  He hesitated “Well, he’s outside now. If you’ve got a minute to spare I could demonstrate.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll come with you now.”

  We went out to the car. His wife was in the passenger seat, as fat as her husband was thin, but with the same severe unbending manner. She nodded at me coldly but the attractive little animal on her lap gave me an enthusiastic welcome.

  I stroked the long silky ears. “He’s a nice little fellow.”

  Mr. Beresford gave me a sidelong glance. “Yes, his name is Coco and he really is quite charming. It’s only when the engine is running that the trouble begins.”

  I got in the back, he pressed the starter and we set off. And I saw immediately what he meant. The spaniel stiffened and raised his head till his nose pointed at the roof. He formed his lips into a cone and emitted a series of high-pitched howls.

  “Hooo, hooo, hooo, hooo,” wailed Coco.

  It really startled me because I had never heard anything quite like it. I don’t know whether it was the perfectly even spacing of the hoots, their piercing, jarring quality, or the fact that they never stopped which drove the sound deep into my brain, but my head was singing after a two minute circuit of the town. I was vastly relieved when we drew up again outside the surgery.

  Mr. Beresford switched off the engine and it was as though he had switched off the noise, too, because the little animal relaxed instantly and began to lick my hand.