by Jim Wight
One day, in the years when I was still at primary school, my father was seated opposite me at the table. His face was drawn and weary. He had been up half the night at a calving case and he looked even more tired than usual.
‘You look exhausted, Alf,’ my mother said.
He laid his head back, looked up and took a deep breath. ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘What a bloody awful shambles we had this morning!’
It was not surprising that he was tired. Following an exhausting night in a cow byre, he and Donald had endured another of the stress-packed episodes that so typified the veterinary surgeon’s life. They had visited a farm near Bedale to castrate a big horse. In those days, Donald and Alf did the job ‘standing’ – operating on the animal solely under local anaesthesia. This method required great care and expertise; many a veterinary surgeon suffered serious injury, and even death, after receiving fearsome kicks from their patient.
Not surprisingly, the loss of his testicles had not figured in this animal’s plans, and he had proved to be a difficult patient. Donald had hardly begun when he felt what he thought was a gentle rush of air past his face. The knife that had been poised in his hand was nowhere to be seen; the lightning kick that had removed it from his grasp had missed his head by inches. It was after this that the show had really begun.
With Donald thankful to be still alive, the horse had been led into a field, at which point a chloroform muzzle had been applied to its nose, the idea being to perform the operation under full anaesthetic. This had sparked a dramatic response and the horse had taken off like a bullet across the field, with Alf hanging on grimly to the head rope. It must have been an entertaining sight but the animal had soon dispensed with his services. As the chloroform took effect, the big horse had crashed through a fence into a garden, flattening an ornamental flower bed in the process. The operation had been finally completed with Alf sitting on the horse’s head while Donald operated speedily among the flowers at the other end.
This spectacular variation to his daily routine had been observed by the unsmiling owner of the garden; legal proceedings could well be on the agenda.
I remember my father saying to me when I was very young, ‘It’s dead easy to remove the testicles from a horse. The real skill lies in persuading him to part with them!’ He thought for a few seconds before he spoke again. ‘One day – I don’t know when, but one day – someone will invent an injection given in a small syringe and the horse will collapse quietly to the ground. The vet will walk up and do the job – no shouting, no flying hooves, just a calm, professional procedure!’
Prophetic words! Nowadays, in our practice, we inject a small volume of anaesthetic into the patient before performing our task safely and quietly; very different from the tumultuous days that Alf ‘enjoyed’ in his heyday. He was quoted as saying in 1992: ‘I enjoy writing about my job because I loved it and it was a particularly interesting one when I was a young man. It was like a holiday with pay to me. The whole thing added up to a lot of laughs. There’s more science now, but not so many laughs.’ As the many readers of the James Herriot books have learned, there were a lot of laughs – and numerous events were amusing to recall – but they were not quite so funny at the time. As a small boy, I remember laughing loudly on being told of that escapade with the horse, but I do not remember my father sharing in my delight.
Alf Wight experienced more than half a century of enormous transformation within his profession. As a full-time working vet for more than forty years, no one could write with more authority about the changing face of veterinary practice than he. In those days, it was a much more physical job. It was a man’s job and the tougher you were, the better. As well as the rough obstetrical work with cows and horses, the vet’s day was occupied with jobs such as foot trimming, TB Testing and dehorning and, while the veterinary surgeons of today still have many hard physical tasks to perform, they have more effective drugs and modern equipment to assist them.
In the 1950s, the farming industry decided that cattle would be better without horns and Alf spent many an hour sawing or guillotining them off. It was hard work. The horns were often the consistency of concrete, with the work more akin to butchery than surgery. It was, however, a task that had to be done properly, and many veterinary surgeons took great pride in executing a good, professional job. Alf used to purr with satisfaction upon seeing the fruits of his labours six or eight weeks later – a smooth even slant on each side of the head where once there had been a pair of wicked-looking horns.
Whilst dehorning work was rough, some of the calvings and foalings of these big animals were worse. Farm animals – never having been noted for their cooperation when receiving veterinary attention – seem, most unreasonably, to exhibit a preference for giving birth during the hours of darkness. This meant that Alf’s early days as a veterinary surgeon were characterised by many hours of work when most of the country was asleep. To add to the discomfort, stripping off to the waist was frequently a necessity. This harsh existence, with rasping winds playing around the naked torso, took its toll. His respiratory system went through a regular cycle each year; he began coughing every November before finally stopping the following May.
It is more than coincidence that the opening chapter in his very first book describes a calving case. Some of his experiences struggling in cold cow byres remained his most vivid recollections of the hard old days.
One of the lowest points of his career occurred one New Year’s morning. He had crawled delicately into bed at 2 a.m., his Scottish connections having ensured that he had celebrated Hogmanay to the full. At six o’clock sharp, the bedside telephone blasted into his ear. He groped for the receiver, to be greeted by the flat voice of a Yorkshire farmer. New Year meant little to these men and there was no need to waste time with season’s greetings.
‘This is Stanley Duffield, Kilburn Parks. I ’ave an ’eifer calvin’. Don’t be ower long!’
Stan Duffield was a faithful client of the practice, one who typified the honest and hard-working Yorkshireman Alf liked and respected, but he felt an intense desire not to see him that morning.
As well as the physical strain on the system, one of the greatest problems for the vet, years ago, was the limited availability of drugs to combat infections. May and Baker’s Sulphonilamide, which appeared around the early 1940s, was the only standby, and the old ledgers of Sinclair and Wight were full of references to the widespread use of ‘M & B’. This came in powder form which, when mixed with water and poured down the throat, saved many lives.
A great advance, in the mid 1940s was the appearance of sulpha drugs in injection form. One, known as ‘Prontosil’, was much more effective than the drenches down the throat, but the greatest leap forward in the treatment of infection was the emergence, a year or two later, of antibiotics. In the early years of their use, results were often spectacular – animals with huge temperatures appeared to be miraculously improved the next morning, following one simple injection in the rump. This period of his professional life, during the late 1940s and early 1950s, not only gave Alf enormous satisfaction but his customers were hugely impressed. The vet, armed with a needle and a syringe, attained the status of a magician in the eyes of some of the older farmers.
Modern intensive farming has resulted in the emergence of diseases that were unheard of years ago – ones that often respond poorly to antibiotic injections. The vet is no longer the ‘magic man wi’t needle’, but Alf was one of those lucky enough to experience the golden years of antibiotics, savouring the wonderful results following the simple ‘jab in t’ arse’.
Donald Sinclair was not slow to exploit this situation. One day he visited a pig with Erysipelas, an acute infectious disease that responds dramatically to an injection of penicillin. The pig belonged to a smallholder called Tommy Barr and Donald decided to make a bit of a name for himself. He always believed in ‘painting a black picture’ about every case that he saw. ‘Never say anything is going to get better,’ he used to tel
l the young assistants in the practice. ‘If you say it’s going to be all right and it dies, you’re sunk! If you say it is going to die and it does, well, you have been proved right. But if it lives, you’re a hero!’ This particular pig was very ill. It was lying flat out and covered with purple spots but Donald knew that she would be a different pig after his injection. He gave a grim prognosis but the pig, true to form, was eating everything in sight the following day. Little Tommy Barr was staggered.
One week later, Alf was seated at the desk when Tommy came into the surgery to pay his account. He spoke in revered tones as Alf receipted it. ‘Mr Wight,’ he said, wide eyed, ‘Ah’m tellin’ yer, it were a miracle!’
Alf was both gratified and a little surprised. It was unusual to hear the work of the veterinary surgeon described in such glowing terms. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Mr Barr,’ he replied.
The little man continued. ‘Aye, Mr Sinclair came into’t pig ’ouse and there she were, all covered wi’spots. Ah thowt she were goin’ ter die, an’ so did ’e.’ Tommy paused for breath. ‘’E looked at me, an’ Ah looked at ’im, an ’e looked at’t pig! Ah could tell by’t look on ’is face as he thowt it were a bad job. Then ’e shook ’is ’ead an’ said, “By gaw, Tommy! Ah doubt we’re ower late!”’ Tommy’s eyes became even wider. ‘But we weren’t, Mr Wight! ’E capped that pig wi’ that injection! It’s a miracle, Ah’m tellin’ yer!’ That example of applying the art as well as the science to the everyday work of the veterinary surgeon resulted in Tommy Barr regarding Donald as a god.
Apart from the arrival of antibiotics, Alf received very little assistance during those long days around the farms, but at least he had some company. I travelled extensively with him from the age of two years, my main jobs being gate-opener and carrier of equipment, tasks that I seriously regarded as of paramount importance. I am sure that those early days, right up until I attended secondary school, ‘helping’ my father on his daily rounds, were responsible for my following in his footsteps. His great love and enthusiasm for his job could not fail to impress a young mind such as mine.
My sister Rosie, too, was soon to become a seasoned traveller in his car. She, like me, was later to express a desire to become a veterinary surgeon like her father, but he did not share her enthusiasm; he regarded the job as far too rough for a woman. There were few women in veterinary practice in those days, although it is very different now. The majority of graduates are women, and those that enter large animal practice manage very well, but I can still understand his feelings. The thought of his daughter driving lonely miles at night to attend to a hostile, half-ton cow in a muck-spattered byre did not appeal to him. He knew well, from experience, that the bovine race had scant respect for any human being, male or female.
My father had no such worries about me, and was pleased that I showed an interest in his work at such an early age, but he needed to be very patient with me. Much of my ‘assistance’ in the car was of dubious value. I kept up a fairly non-stop conversation, asking such meaningful questions as, ‘Dad, what’s the fastest? A magic train, or a phantom motor car … Dad? … Dad? … DAD?!’
The pressure of answering these sophisticated questions must have been considerable as he had a great deal on his mind. I can remember him driving around, glassy-eyed, as his overworked brain wrestled with details of difficult cases, as well as mounting problems such as wondering how he could further develop the practice or how on earth he could manage to conjure up enough money to buy his own home? Those loud punctuations from his noisy little son must have been trying, but he usually managed to come up with a satisfactory answer, only to receive many more searching questions as the day wore on.
Rosie and I journeyed widely with my father but he had another passenger in the car who rarely missed a visit. A faithful companion who accompanied him day and night for more than ten years – a dogged traveller who would sulk for days should my father ever have the temerity to leave him at home. His name was Danny.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Alf, where’s Danny?’ Joan Wight stared at her husband, a ring of tension in her voice.
‘Danny? Oh my God! I’ve left him at Aysgarth Falls!’
Alf, who had just returned from another day’s TB Testing in the Dales, was looking forward to relaxing at home but within seconds he was back in his car and screaming through the darkness to Aysgarth, some twenty-five lonely miles away. He had had so much on his mind, he had completely forgotten about his little companion; he just hoped that he would be able to find him.
Throughout the years of his literary fame, Alf, as James Herriot, was repeatedly asked, ‘What is your favourite animal?’ He invariably gave the same answer, ‘Most definitely the dog.’
Dogs figured prominently throughout his life. From his earliest days in practice, a variety of four-legged hairy friends accompanied him on his daily rounds. His books abound with so many stories about dogs that, in 1986, James Herriot’s Dog Stories was published, an anthology taken from his other books.
During his busy days in veterinary practice, he would always find some time to stop the car and walk his dogs. This pastime, strolling amongst the hills and dales with his favourite animals by his side, provided shafts of delight and relaxation in his demanding days. No matter how busy he was, he always found time for his dogs.
For the first year in practice he was without a dog, but this was soon to change. Joan brought more to the marriage than her half-share of a pig. She owned a dog who was to become the first of a line of canine companions that was to ride thousands of miles with her husband, and walk hundreds more. It was this small, white creature, of mystifying parentage, that he drove frantically up into the Yorkshire Dales to find on that dark night about fifty years ago.
Danny was a compact bundle of muscle and hair who had been presented to Joan by one of her boyfriends. His uncertain origins meant that no one really knew to what breeds of dog he belonged; we always thought of him as mainly West Highland White Terrier but the rich blood of many obscure breeds coursed through his veins.
Danny, whose character radiated self-assurance, was totally devoted to my father. His whole existence was geared to accompanying him everywhere he went; to leave him at home was the ultimate insult. On these rare occasions he sulked very effectively; a small nose peeping from under the bed, exuding waves of hurt and indignation, never failed to consume my father with guilt.
At 23 Kirkgate, the cars were garaged at the bottom of the long garden and Alf would have to walk the length of it when called out at night. He never had to call Danny from his bed; he knew that the small bristly form would be already trotting by his side. Arriving at the dark garage, he would automatically hold the car door open for a second and the little dog would flit silently inside. Alf was never alone during those countless night calls of his early career.
Alf was mortified as now he hurtled along the road to Aysgarth Falls to retrieve his dog; how could he have done such a thing to his faithful ally? He need not have worried. As his car drove onto the bridge over the river, the headlights picked out a small white creature sitting patiently at the roadside; Danny had seemingly not moved since my father had left him there hours previously. After jumping into the car, he sat haughtily on the seat all the way back to Thirsk; to his ordered little mind, this was simply a puzzling deviation from the daily routine.
Danny did not look to be a thin dog; in fact, he appeared to be rather well-rounded. His dense mass of white hair, however, belied the sinewy body beneath. On the few occasions that he was bathed, we were horrified to observe the skeletal figure that emerged from the tub before he disgustedly disappeared up the garden to dry himself off.
In those days it was accepted that dogs roamed freely, and Danny was familiar with every dark alleyway of Thirsk, which resulted in his becoming a veteran of many fights. Here, his thick coat of hair was a great advantage. He never seemed to instigate a fight – he was always being picked upon by large dogs – but he knew how to look after hi
mself. To observe Danny in action was a lesson in tactics. His assailant often appeared to be having the better of the affray, but was managing only to grab huge chunks of hair while his little opponent, having dived underneath the bigger dog, was wreaking havoc from below. These short, frantic fights usually ended with the larger dog limping away, bleeding, while little Danny, covered with saliva, would casually shake himself before trotting off to carry on with his day.
He was not only an expert pugilist, he was also an accomplished ratter, a sport he indulged in gleefully in the yard at the bottom of the garden. My father used to keep battery hens in an old stable which was plagued by rats. They climbed up into the batteries and ran among the hens, eating all the feed – something my father could ill afford to waste. He, Danny and I would work as a team. I would shine a torch while my father blocked off the rat holes around the floor of the stable to prevent their escape, following which, with the aid of a long stick, he would poke at the rats among the battery cages.
Rats would shoot out of the batteries onto the floor where the quivering little dog was waiting; one quick bite was all that he needed. I have a clear childhood memory of Danny, his eager face shining in the torchlight, as he waited for his next victim.
On our visits to Glasgow, where this confident little dog accompanied us on all our holidays, my memories are of the small figure trotting away on his own along the streets surrounding my grandparents’ house. The alien city seemed to hold no fears for him.
His wiry little frame was sustained by a Spartan diet. He was never a greedy dog, sniffing disdainfully at succulent plates of meat that other dogs would demolish in seconds, but there was one thing that he loved – pancakes, sugar and milk. Joan fed him this for years and, apart from the odd gristly bone, this unusual dish maintained Danny to a ripe old age. The manufacture of dog food is now a huge industry, with special diets scientifically formulated to help dogs live healthily into old age. I do not know what the modern nutritionist would have made of his diet but it certainly suited our little friend.