I went into the box. “Let him in, Wally,” I said, and the farmer opened the half-door.
The bull trotted inside, and the cow, fastened by a halter to a ring on the wall, submitted calmly as he sniffed around her. He seemed to like what he saw because he finally stationed himself behind her with eager anticipation.
This was the moment. Take up position on the right side of the bull, the pamphlet had said, and the rest would be easy.
With surprising speed the young animal threw his forelegs on the cow’s rump and surged forward. I had to move quickly, and as the penis emerged from the sheath I grabbed it and poised the A.V. for action.
But I didn’t get the chance. The bull dismounted immediately and swung round on me with an affronted glare. He looked me carefully up and down as though he didn’t quite believe what he saw, and there was not an ounce of friendliness in his expression. Then he appeared to remember the rather pressing business on hand and turned his attention to the cow again.
He leaped up, I grabbed and once more he suspended his activities abruptly and brought his forefeet thudding to the ground. This time there was more than outraged dignity in his eyes; there was anger. He snorted, shook the needle-sharp horns in my direction and dragged a little straw along the floor with a hoof before fixing me with a long, appraising stare. He didn’t have to speak; his message was unequivocal. Just try that once more, chum, and you’ve had it.
As his eyes lingered on me, everything seemed to become silent and motionless as though I were part of a picture—the cow standing patiently, the churned straw beneath the animals and, beyond them, the farmer out in the yard, leaning over the half-door, waiting for the next move.
I wasn’t particularly looking forward to that next move. I felt a little breathless and my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth.
At length the bull, with a final warning glance at me, decided to resume his business and reared up on the cow once more. I gulped, bent quickly and as his slim red organ shot forth, I grasped it and tried to bring the A.V. down on it.
This time the bull didn’t mess about. He sprang away from the cow, put his head down and came at me like a bullet.
In that fleeting instant I realised what a fool I had been to stand with the animals between me and the door. Behind me was the dark corner of the box. I was trapped.
Fortunately, the A.V. was dangling from my right hand, and as the bull charged I was able to catch him an upward blow on the snout. If I had hit him on the top of the head, he would never have felt it, and one or both of those nasty homs would inevitably have started to explore my interior. But as it was, the hard rubber cylinder thumping against his nose brought him to a slithering halt, and while he was blinking and making up his mind about having a second go, I rained blows on him with a frenzy born of terror.
I have often wondered since that day if I am the only veterinary surgeon to have used an artificial vagina as a defensive weapon. It certainly was not built for the purpose because it soon began to disintegrate under my onslaught. First, the glass tube hurtled past the ear of the startled farmer who was watching, wide-eyed, from the doorway, then the cone spun away against the flank of the cow who had started to chew her cud placidly, oblivious of the drama being enacted by her side.
I alternated my swipes with thrusts and lunges worthy of a fencing master, but still I couldn’t jockey my way out of that corner. However, although my puny cylinder couldn’t hurt the bull, I obviously had him puzzled. His instinct told him that right about now he should be having a good time, and yet all he was getting were raps on the nose. While he weighed this incongruity, apart from a lot of weaving and prodding with his horns he made no sign of repeating his first headlong charge and seemed content to keep me penned in the few feet of space.
But I knew it was only a matter of time. He was out to get me, and I was wondering how it felt to receive a cornada when he took a step back and came in again full tilt, head down.
I met him with a back-handed slash and that was what saved me, because the elastic holding the latex lining came off and the warm water from within fountained into the bull’s eyes.
He stopped suddenly, and it was then I think he just decided to give up. In his experience of humans I was something new to him. I had taken intimate liberties with him in the pursuit of his lawful duty, I had belaboured him with a rubber instrument and finally squirted water in his face. He had plainly had enough of me.
During his pause for thought I dodged past him, threw open the door and escaped into the yard.
The farmer looked at me as I fought for breath. “By gaw, Mr. Herriot, it’s a ’ell of a job, this A.I., isn’t it?”
“Yes, Wally,” I replied shakily. “It is, rather.”
“Is it allus like that?”
“No, Wally, no. …” I looked sadly at my bedraggled A.V. “This is an exceptional case. I … I think we’d better get a specialist in to collect a sample from this bull.”
The farmer rubbed his ear where the tube had clipped it in passing. “Awright, then, Mr. Herriot. You’ll let me know when you’re comin’, I suppose. It’ll be another bit of excitement to look forward to.”
His words did nothing to ease the feeling of abject failure as I crept away from the farm. Vets were taking semen samples every day now with no trouble at all. What was the matter with me?
Back in the surgery I phoned the advisory service. Yes, they said, they would send out one of their sterility advisory officers. He would meet me on the farm at ten o’clock the next morning.
When I arrived there on the following day, the officer was already in the yard, and I thought there was something familiar about the back of the jaunty figure strolling over the cobbles and blowing out clouds of cigarette smoke. When he turned round I saw with a gush of relief that it was Tristan. I hadn’t been looking forward to recounting my shameful performance to a stranger.
His broad grin was like a tonic. “Hello, Jim, how are things?”
“Fine,” I replied. “Except for this semen collection. I know you’re doing it all the time, but I had a shambolic experience yesterday.”
“Really?” He pulled deeply at his Woodbine. “Tell me about it. Mr. Hartley’s just on his way in from the fields.”
We stepped inside the loose box, the scene of the previous day’s debacle, and I began my tale.
I hadn’t got far before Tristan’s jaw dropped. “You mean you just let the bull in here on his own, without any restraint?”
“That’s right.”
“You daft bugger, Jim. You’re lucky to be here. In the first place, this job should always be done out in the open, and secondly, the bull should always be held by a pole or a halter through the nose ring. I like to have two or three blokes helping me.” He shot me an incredulous glance as he lit another Woodbine. “Anyway, go on.”
As I proceeded with my story, his expression began to change. His mouth twitched, his chin trembled and little giggles burst from him. “Are you trying to tell me that you grabbed him by his old man?”
“Well … yes.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” Tristan leaned back against the wall and laughed immoderately for a long time. When he had recovered, he regarded me pityingly. “Jim, old lad, you are supposed to put your hand only on the sheath to do the directing.”
I gave a wry smile. “Oh, I know that now. I had another read at the pamphlet last night and realised I had made a lot of mistakes.”
“Well, never mind,” he said. “Carry on with your story. You’re beginning to interest me.”
The next few minutes had a devastating effect on my colleague. As I described the bull’s attack on me, he slumped, shouting, against the door, and by the time I had finished, he was hanging limply with his arms dangling over the woodwork. Tears coursed down his cheeks and feeble little moans issued from his mouth.
“You were… you were in that corner, fighting the bull off with the A.V. Clouting him over the nut with all that stuff … flying around.”
He reached for his handkerchief. “For God’s sake, don’t tell me any more, Jim. You’ll do me an injury.” He wiped his eyes and straightened up, but I could see that the whole thing had taken it out of him.
He turned unsteadily as he heard the farmer’s footsteps in the yard. “Ah, good morning, Mr. Hartley,” he said. “We can get started now.”
Tristan was very businesslike as he directed operations. Yesterday’s cow was still in oestrus, and within minutes she was tied to a gatepost in the yard with a man on either side. “That’s to stop her swinging round when the bull mounts,” he explained to me.
He turned to the farmer and handed him the A.V. “Will you fill this with warm water, please, and screw the stopper on tightly?”
The farmer trotted into the house, and as he returned, another of his men led out the bull. This time my antagonist of yesterday was securely held by a halter through his ring.
Tristan had certainly got everything arranged in an orderly fashion.
The farmer had said that the bull was keen as mustard, and his words were verified when the young animal took one look at the cow and started towards her, a picture of urgent lust. Tristan scarcely had time to get the A.V. into his hand before the bull was clambering eagerly aboard his quarry.
I had to admit that my young colleague was lightning-fast as he stooped, seized the sheath and sent the penis plunging into the A.V. So that was how it was done, I thought wistfully. So very easy.
My feeling of shame was building up when the bull pushed out his tongue and emitted a long-drawn, deafening bellow of rage. And he had scarcely entered the A.V. when he withdrew with a backward leap and began to caper around on the end of his halter, filling the air with disapproving bawls.
“What the hell …” Tristan stared at the animal in bewilderment. Then he poked his finger into the A.V. “Good God!” he cried. “The water in here is steaming hot!”
“Aye,” Wally Hartley nodded, accepting the compliment. “The kettle had just come to the boil when I went into t’house.”
Tristan clutched his brow and groaned. “Oh, bugger it!” he muttered to me. “I always check the temperature, but what with talking … Boiling water! No wonder the poor sod got out quick.”
Meanwhile the animal had stopped his noise and was circling the cow, sniffing her over and regarding her with a mixture of disbelief and respect. “What a woman!” was clearly the dominant thought in his mind.
“Anyway, let’s have another try.” Tristan made for the farmhouse. “I’ll fill the thing myself this time.”
Soon the stage was set once more—Tristan standing at the ready, and the bull, apparently undeterred by his recent experience, patently eager to join battle yet again. By his attitude now, he looked as though, come hell or high water, he was going to serve that cow.
My impression was confirmed when he made a sudden rush at her. Tristan, slightly pop-eyed, managed to jam the A.V. over the penis as it hurtled past him. But then something went wrong. The bull, wild with frustration and distracted by those two-legged fools around him, lost his footing. In the next instant two images flashed before me. The bull went down, still flying forward, somehow got on his back and slid clean under the cow. In the same moment, I could see the A.V., jerked from Tristan’s grasp and soaring high into the air. Mr. Hartley and I followed the glass container, open-mouthed, as it described a graceful parabola toward certain doom. Then our mouths clapped shut in disbelief as it landed harmlessly on a pile of straw at the other end of the yard.
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.
Chapter
27
I WINCED AS JACK 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 becau
se 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.”
The Lord God Made Them All Page 24