“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.
I could hear Siegfried pottering among the bottles in the dispensary, and I cal
led to him.
He palpated the limb. “Damn! One of those! And just when we didn’t want it.” He looked at the farmer. “We’ll have to try again, Jack, but I don’t like it.”
We applied a fresh plaster, and the farmer grinned confidently. “Just wanted a bit more time, I reckon. He’ll be right next time.”
But it was not to be. Siegfried and I worked together to strip off the second cast, but the situation was practically unchanged. There was little or no healing tissue around the fracture.
We didn’t know what to say. Even at the present time, after the most sophisticated bone-pinning procedures, we still find these cases where the bones just will not unite. They are as frustrating now as they were that afternoon when Rip lay on the surgery table.
I broke the long silence. “It’s just the same, I’m afraid, Jack.”
“You mean it ’asn’t joined up?”
“That’s right.”
The farmer rubbed a finger along his upper lip. “Then ’e won’t be able to take any weight on that leg?”
“I don’t see how he possibly can.”
“Aye … aye … well, we’ll just have to see how he goes on, then.”
“But Jack,” Siegfried said gently. “He can’t go on. There’s no way a dog can get around with two useless legs on the same side.”
The silence set in again, and I could see the familiar curtain coming down over the farmer’s face. He knew what was in our minds, and he wasn’t going to have it. In fact, I knew what he was going to say next.
“Is he sufferin?”
“No, he isn’t,” Siegfried replied. “There’s no pain in the fracture now and the paralysis is painless anyway, but he won’t be able to walk, don’t you see?”
But Jack was already gathering his dog into his arms. “Well, we’ll give him a chance, any road,” he said and walked from the room.
Siegfried leaned against the table and looked at me, wide-eyed. “Well, what do you make of that, James?”
“Same as you,” I replied gloomily. “Poor old Jack. He always gives everything a chance, but he’s got no hope this time.”
But I was wrong. Several weeks later I was called to the Scott farm to see a sick calf and the first thing I saw was Rip bringing the cows in for milking. He was darting to and fro around the rear of the herd, guiding them through the gate from the field, and I watched him in amazement.
He still could not bear any appreciable weight on either of his right limbs, yet he was running happily. Don’t ask me how he was doing it because I’ll never know, but somehow he was supporting his body with his two strong left legs and the paws of the stricken limbs merely brushing the turf. Maybe he had perfected some balancing feat like a one-wheel bicycle rider but, as I say, I just don’t know. The great thing was that he was still the old friendly Rip, his tail swishing when he saw me, his mouth panting with pleasure.
Jack didn’t say anything about “I told you so,” and I wouldn’t have cared because it thrilled me to see the little animal doing the job he loved.
“This calf, Mr. Herriot,” Jack began, then he pointed excitedly at a pigeon perched on the byre roof. “By gaw, that little feller looks better. I’ve been watching ’im for months. He went down to skin and bone, but he’s fillin’ out now.”
I smiled to myself. Even the pigeons were under Jack’s eye.
He dragged himself back to more practical things. “Aye, now, this calf. Never seen one like it. Goin’ round and round as if it was daft.”
Depression flowed over me. I had been hoping for something straightforward this time. My recent contacts with Jack’s animals could be described as abortive treatment and wrong prognosis, and I did want to pull something out of the bag. This didn’t sound good.
It was a bonny little calf about a month old. Dark roan—the Shorthorn farmer’s favourite colour—and it was lying on its straw bed looking fairly normal, except that its head was inclined slightly to one side. Jack touched the hairy rump with his toe, and the calf rose to its feet.
That was where the normality ended because the little creature blundered away to the right, as if drawn by a magnet, until it walked into the wall. It picked itself up and recommenced its helpless progress, always to the right. It managed to complete two full circuits of the pen until it collapsed against the door.
Ah, well, so that was it. I was relieved and worried at the same time because I knew what the trouble was, and I was pretty sure I could cure it … but not quite sure.
The temperature was 106°F.
“This is a thing called listeriosis, Jack,” I said.
He looked at me blankly.
“Circling disease is the other name, and you can see why. It’s a brain disease, and the animal can’t help going round and round like that.”
The farmer looked glum. “Brain again, just like them lambs? God ’elp us, there must be summat in the air about here. Are all me stock goin’ to go off their heads?” He paused, bent over the calf and began to stroke it. “And there’ll be nowt you can do for this, either, I suppose.”
“I hope I can do something, Jack. This is a different thing altogether from the swayback lambs. It’s an actual bug affecting the brain, and with a bit of luck I can put this calf right.”
I felt like crossing my fingers. I was still not vastly experienced. I had seen only a few of these cases and in the prewar days they had been invariably fatal, but the causal organism was sensitive to antibiotics and the whole scene had changed. I had seen animals with listeriosis recover completely within a few days.
I shook up my bottle of penicillin-streptomycin suspension and injected 5 c.c.’s into the thigh. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. “I hope to find the little thing improved by then.”
Next day the temperature was down, but the symptoms had not abated. I repeated the injection and said I would call again.
I did call, again and again, because I was gripped by a kind of desperation, but after a week, though the temperature was normal and the appetite excellent, the calf was still circling.
“How d’you feel about t’job, then, Mr. Herriot?” the farmer asked.
Actually I felt like screaming and railing against fate. Was there a hoodoo on this place? Could I do nothing right?
I calmed down and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Jack, but we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. The antibiotic has saved the calf’s life, but there must be some brain damage. I can’t see any hope of recovery now.”
He didn’t seem to have heard me. “It’s a grand ’un, a heifer, too, and out of me best cow. She’ll make a smashin’ milker. Just look at the shape of ’er—and that grand colour. We’ve called her Bramble.”
“Yes, but Jack …”
He patted me on the shoulder and led me out to the yard. “Well, thank ye, Mr. Herriot. Ah’m sure you’ve done all you can.” Quite obviously he didn’t want to pursue the matter further.
Before I left, I took a final glance over the door of the pen at that calf reeling in the straw. As I walked to the car, Rip gambolled at my feet, and the almost useless legs mocked me with further evidence of my veterinary skill. What kind of an animal doctor was I, anyway?
As I started the engine, I looked out through the open window and was about to speak when I saw the familiar blank look on Jack’s face. He didn’t want to hear any advice from me on what he should do with his calf. Clearly he had decided to give Bramble a chance.
It turned out that Jack’s faith was rewarded and that my prognosis was wrong again, but I cannot blame myself because the sequence of events in Bramble’s recovery is not contained in any textbook.
Over the next two years the brain symptoms gradually diminished. The improvement was so slow as to be almost imperceptible, but every time I was on Jack’s farm I had a look into her pen and saw to my astonishment that the little animal was just a bit better. For many weeks she circled, then this subsided into an occasional staggering towards the right. This, in turn, faded over the months into an
inclination of the head to one side, until one day I looked in and found that this, too, had disappeared and a fine, normal two-year-old heifer was strolling around unconcernedly in the straw. I didn’t mind being wrong. I was delighted.
“Jack,” I said. “How marvellous! I’d have bet anything that this was a hopeless case, and there she is, absolutely perfect.”
The farmer gave me a slow smile with a hint of mischief in it. “Aye, ah’m right capped with her, Mr. Herriot, and she’s goin’ to be one of the best cows in the herd before she’s finished. But …” He raised a finger and his smile broadened. “She’s not perfect, tha knows.”
“Not … what do you mean?”
“I mean there’s just a little somethin’.” He leaned towards me conspiratorially. “Keep watchin’ her face.”
I stared at the heifer, and the calm, bovine eyes looked back at me with mild interest. We inspected each other for a couple of minutes, then I turned to the farmer. “Well, I can’t see a thing wrong with her.”
“Hang on a bit,” Jack said. “She doesn’t allus do it.”
“Do what?” I was mystified. “There’s nothing at all … my God!”
The farmer laughed and thumped me on the back. “Did ye see it?”
I certainly had, and it was startling. Just for an instant Bramble’s placid expression was transfigured by a faint twitch of the eyes and head to the right. There was something human about the gesture; in fact, I was reminded instantly of the film “vamps” of the twenties, when a girl would stand, hand on hip, and beckon seductively at her quarry. It was a come-hither look.
Jack was still laughing. “I reckon you’ve never seen owt like that afore, Mr. Herriot?”
“No, you’re right. I haven’t. What an extraordinary thing. How often does she do it?”
“Oh, every now and then. I suppose it’ll go away in time like all t’other things?”
“I expect it will,” I said. “But how very strange.”
The farmer nodded. “Aye, there’s summat right cheeky about it. I allus get the feelin’ she’s trying to ask me somethin’.”
I laughed, too. “Yes, that’s it, exactly. You’d think she was trying to communicate, but, of course, it’s just the last trace of the condition she had. Anyway, the main thing is, she’s a grand, bonny heifer.”
The Lord God Made Them All Page 25