The thing that amazed me was that none of them ever became angry at the others butting in. Nobody ever said, “I’m speaking, do you mind?” or “Don’t interrupt!” or “For Pete’s sake, shut up!” They lived together in perfect harmony with all of them talking at once and none paying the slightest heed to what the other was saying.
When I saw the cow during the following week she was worse. Mr. Birtwhistle had followed my instructions faithfully but Nellie could scarcely hobble as he brought her in from the field.
Len was there to lift the foot and I gloomily surveyed the increased swelling. It ran right round the coronet from the heel to the interdigital cleft in front, and the slightest touch from my finger caused the big cow to jerk her leg in pain.
I didn’t say much, because I knew what was in store for Nellie, and I knew too that Mr. Birtwhistle wasn’t going to like it when I told him.
When I visited again at the end of the week I had only to look at the farmer’s face to realise that everything had turned out as I feared. For once he was on his own and he led me silently into the byre.
Nellie was on three legs now, not daring even to bring the infected foot into momentary contact with the cobble flooring. And worse, she was in an advanced state of emaciation, the sleek healthy animal of two weeks ago reduced to little more than bone and hide.
“I doubt she’s ’ad it,” Mr. Birtwhistle muttered.
Cows’ hind feet are difficult to lift, but today I didn’t need any help because Nellie had stopped caring. I examined the swollen digit. It was now vast—a great ugly club of tissue with a trickle of pus discharging down the wall.
“I see it’s bust there,” the farmer poked a finger at the ragged opening. “But it hasn’t given ’er no relief.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect it to,” I said. “Remember I told you the trouble is all inside the joint.”
“Well, these things ’appen,” he replied. “Ah might as well telephone for Mallock. She’s hardly givin’ a drop o’ milk, poor awd lass, she’s nowt but a screw now.”
I always had to wait for the threat of the knacker man’s humane killer before I said what I had to say now. Right from the start this had been a case for surgery, but it would have been a waste of time to suggest it at the beginning. Amputation of the bovine digit has always filled farmers with horror and even now I knew I would have trouble convincing Mr. Birtwhistle.
There’s no need to slaughter her,” I said. “There’s another way of curing this.”
“Another way? We’ve tried ’ard enough, surely.”
I bent and lifted the foot again. “Look at this.” I seized the inner cleat and moved it freely around. “This side is perfectly healthy. There’s nothing wrong with it. It would bear Nellie’s full weight.”
“Aye, but … how about t’other ’orrible thing?”
“I could remove it”
“You mean … cut it off?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Nay, nay, I’m not havin that. She’s suffered enough. Far better send for Jeff Mallock and get the job over.”
Here it was again. Farmers are anything but shrinking violets, but there was something about this business which appalled them.
“But Mr. Birtwhistle,” I said. “Don’t you see—the pain is immediately relieved. The pressure is off and all the weight rests on the good side.”
“Ah said no, Mr. Herriot, and ah mean no. You’ve done your best and I thank ye, but I’m not havin’ her foot cut off and that’s all about it.” He turned and began to walk away.
I looked after him helplessly. One thing I hate to do is talk a man into an operation on one of his beasts for the simple reason that if anything goes wrong I get the blame. But I was just about certain that an hour’s work could restore this good cow to her former state. I couldn’t let it go at this.
I trotted from the byre. The farmer was already half way across the yard on his way to the ’phone.
I panted up to him as he reached the farmhouse door. “Mr. Birtwhistle, listen to me for a minute. I never said anything about cutting off her foot. Just one cleat.”
“Well that’s half a foot isn’t it?” he looked down at his boots. “And it’s ower much for me.”
“But she wouldn’t know a thing,” I pleaded. “She’d be under a general anaesthetic. And I’m nearly sure it would be a success.”
“Mr. Herriot, I just don’t fancy it. I don’t like t’idea. And even if it did work it would be like havin’ a crippled cow walkin’ about.”
“Not at all. She would grow a little stump of horn there and I’d like to bet you’d never notice a thing.”
He gave me a long sideways look and I could see he was weakening.
“Mr. Birtwhistle,” I said, pressing home the attack. “Within a month Nellie could be a fat cow again, giving five gallons of milk a day.”
This was silly talk, not to be recommended to any veterinary surgeon, but I was seized by a kind of madness. I couldn’t bear the thought of that cow being cut up for dog food when I was convinced I could put her right. And there was another thing; I was already savouring the pleasure, childish perhaps, of instantly relieving an animal’s pain, of bringing off a spectacular cure. There aren’t many operations in the field of bovine surgery where you can do this but digit amputation is one of them.
Something of my fervour must have been communicated to the farmer because he looked at me steadily for a few moments then shrugged.
“When do you want to do it?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Right. Will you need a lot o’ fellers to help?”
“No, just you and Len. I’ll see you at ten o’clock.”
Next day the sun was warm on my back as I laid out my equipment on a small field near the house. It was a typical setting for many large animal operations I have carried out over the years; the sweet stretch of green, the grey stone buildings and the peaceful bulk of the fells rising calm and unheeding into the white scattering of clouds.
It took a long time for them to lead Nellie out though she didn’t have far to go, and as the bony scarecrow hopped painfully towards me, dangling her useless limb, the brave words of yesterday seemed foolhardy.
“All right” I said. “Stop there. That’s a good spot.” On the grass, nearby, lay my tray with the saw, chloroform, bandages, cotton wool and iodoform. I had my long casting rope too, which we used to pull cattle down, but I had a feeling Nellie wouldn’t need it.
I was right. I buckled on the muzzle, poured some chloroform on to the sponge and the big white cow sank almost thankfully on to the cool green herbage.
“Kestrels had a smashin’ match on Wednesday night,” Len chuckled happily. “Johnnie Nudd didn’t score but Len Bottomley …”
“I ’ope we’re doin’ t’right thing,” muttered Mr. Birtwhistle. “The way she staggered out ’ere I’d say it was a waste of time to …”
“… cracked in a couple o’ beauties.” Len’s face lit up at the memory. “Kestrels is lucky to ’ave two fellers like …”
“Get hold of that bad foot, Len!” I barked, playing them at their own game. “And keep it steady on that block of wood. And you, Mr. Birtwhistle, hold her head down. I don’t suppose she’ll move, but if she does we’ll have to give her more chloroform.”
Cows are good subjects for chloroform anaesthesia but I don’t like to keep them laid out too long in case of regurgitation of food. I was in a hurry.
I quickly tied a bandage above the hoof, pulling it tight to serve as a tourniquet, then I reached back to the tray for the saw. The books are full of sophisticated methods of digit amputation with much talk of curved incisions, reflections of skin to expose the region of the articulations, and the like. But I have whipped off hundreds of cleats with a few brisk strokes of the saw below the coronary band with complete success.
I took a long breath. “Hold tight, Len.” And set to work.
For a few moments there was silence except
for the rhythmic grating of metal on bone, then the offending digit was lying on the grass, leaving a flat stump from which a few capillary vessels spurted. Using curved scissors I speedily disarticulated the remains of the pedal bone from the second phalanx and held it up.
“Look at that!” I cried. “Almost eaten away.” I pointed to the necrotic tissue in and around the joint. “And d’you see all that rubbish? No wonder she was in pain.” I did a bit of quick curetting, dusted the surface with iodoform, applied a thick pad of cotton wool and prepared to bandage.
And as I tore the paper from the white rolls I felt a stab of remorse. In my absorption I had been rather rude. I had never replied to Len’s remark about his beloved team. Maybe I could pass the next few minutes with a little gentle banter.
“Hey, Len,” I said. “When you’re talking about the Kestrels you never mention the time Willerton beat them five nil. How is that?”
In reply the young man hurled himself unhesitatingly at me, butting me savagely on the forehead. The assault of the great coarse-haired head against my skin was like being attacked by a curlypolled bull, and the impact sent me flying backwards on to the grass. At first the inside of my cranium was illuminated by a firework display but as consciousness slipped away my last sensation was of astonishment and disbelief.
I loved football myself but never had I thought that Len’s devotion to the Kestrels would lead him to physical violence. He had always seemed a most gentle and harmless boy.
I suppose I was out for only a few seconds but I fancy I might have spent a good deal longer lying on the cool turf but for the fact that something kept hammering out the message that I was in the middle of a surgical procedure. I blinked and sat up.
Nellie was still sleeping peacefully against the green background of hills. Mr. Birtwhistle, hands on her neck, was regarding me anxiously, and Len was lying unconscious face down across the cow’s body.
“Has he hurt tha, Mr. Herriot?”
“No … no … not really. What happened?”
“I owt to have told ye. He can’t stand the sight o’ blood. Great daft beggar.” The farmer directed an exasperated glare at his slumbering son. “But ah’ve never seen ’im go down as fast as that. Pitched right into you, ’e did!”
I rolled the young man’s inert form to one side and began again. I bandaged slowly and carefully because of the danger of post operative haemorrhage. I finished with several layers of zinc oxide plaster then turned to the farmer.
“You can take her muzzle off now, Mr. Birtwhistle. The job’s done.”
I was starting to wash my instruments in the bucket when Len sat up almost as suddenly as he had slumped down. He was deathly pale but he looked at me with his usual friendly smile.
“What was that ye were sayin’ about t’Kestrels, Mr. Herriot?”
“Nothing, Len,” I replied hastily. “Nothing at all.”
After three days I returned and removed the original dressing which was caked hard with blood and pus. I dusted the stump with powder again and bandaged on a clean soft pad of cotton wool.
“She’ll feel a lot more comfortable now,” I said, and indeed Nellie was already looking vastly happier. She was taking some weight on the affected foot—rather gingerly, as though she couldn’t believe that terrible thing had gone from her life.
As she walked away I crossed my fingers. The only thing that can ruin these operations is if the infection spreads to the other side. The inevitable result then is immediate slaughter and terrible disappointment.
But it never happened to Nellie. When I took off the second dressing she was almost sound and I didn’t see her again until about five weeks after the operation.
I had finished injecting one of Mr. Birtwhistle’s pigs when I asked casually, “And how’s Nellie?”
“Come and ’ave a look at her,” the farmer replied. “She’s just in that field at side of t’road.”
We walked together over the grass to where the white cow was standing among her companions, head down, munching busily. And she must have done a lot of that since I saw her because she was fat again.
“Get on, lass.” The farmer gently nudged her rump with his thumb and she ambled forward a few paces before setting to work on another patch of grass. There wasn’t the slightest trace of lameness.
“Well, that’s grand,” I said. “And is she milking well, too?”
“Aye, back to five gallons.” He pulled a much dented tobacco tin from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and produced an ancient watch. “It’s ten o’clock, young man. Len’ll have gone into t’house for his tea, and lowance. Will ye come in and have a cup?”
I squared my shoulders and followed him inside, and the barrage began immediately.
“Summat right funny happened on Saturday,” Len said with a roar of laughter. “Walter Gimmet was refereein’ and ’e gave two penalties agin t’Kestrels. So what did the lads do, they …”
“Eee, wasn’t it sad about old Mr. Brent?” Mrs. Birtwhistle put her head on one side and looked at me piteously. “We buried ’im on Saturday and …”
“You know, Mr. Herriot,” her husband put in. “Ah thought you were pullin’ ma leg when you said Nellie would be givin’ five gallons again. I never …”
“… dumped the beggar in a ’oss trough. He won’t give no more penalties agin t’Kestrels. You should ’ave seen …”
“… it would ’ave been his ninetieth birthday today, poor old man. He was well liked in t’village and there was a big congregation. Parson said …”
“… expected owt like that. Ah thought she might maybe put on a bit of flesh so we could get ’er off for beef. Ah’m right grateful to …”
At that moment, fingers clenched tensely around my cup, I happened to catch sight of my reflection in a cracked mirror above the kitchen sink. It was a frightening experience because I was staring glassily into space with my features contorted almost out of recognition. There was something of an idiot smile as I acknowledged the humour of Walter in the horse trough, a touch of sorrow at Mr. Brent’s demise, and, I swear, a suggestion of gratification at the successful outcome of Nellie’s operation. And since I was also trying to look in three directions at once, I had to give myself full marks for effort.
But as I say, I found it a little unnerving and excused myself soon afterwards. The men were still busy with Mrs. Birtwhistle’s apple pie and scones and the conversation was raging unabated when I left. The closure of the door behind me brought a sudden peace. The feeling of tranquillity stayed with me as I got into my car and drove out of the yard and onto the narrow country road. It persisted as I stopped the car after less than a hundred yards and wound down the window to have a look at my patient.
Nellie was lying down now. She had eaten her fill and was resting comfortably on her chest as she chewed her cud. To a doctor of farm animals there is nothing more reassuring than that slow lateral grinding. It means contentment and health. She gazed at me across the stone wall and the placid eyes in the white face added to the restfulness of the scene, accentuating the silence after the babel of voices in the farmhouse.
Nellie couldn’t talk, but those calmly moving jaws told me all I wanted to know.
CHAPTER 33
TO ME THERE ARE FEW things more appealing than a dog begging. This one was tied to a lamp post outside a shop in Windsor. Its eyes were fixed steadfastly on the shop doorway, willing its owner to come out, and every now and then it sat up in mute entreaty.
Flying had been suspended for an afternoon. It gave us all a chance to relax and no doubt it eased the frayed nerves of our instructors, but as I looked at that dog all the pressures of the RAF fell away and I was back in Darrowby.
It was when Siegfried and I were making one of our market day sorties that we noticed the little dog among the stalls.
When things were quiet in the surgery we often used to walk together across the cobbles and have a word with the farmers gathered round the doorway of the Drovers Arms. Sometimes we collecte
d a few outstanding bills or drummed up a bit of work for the forthcoming week—and if nothing like that happened we still enjoyed the fresh air.
The thing that made us notice the dog was that he was sitting up begging in front of the biscuit stall.
“Look at that little chap,” Siegfried said. “I wonder where he’s sprung from.”
As he spoke, the stallholder threw a biscuit which the dog devoured eagerly but when the man came round and stretched out a hand the little animal trotted away.
He stopped, however, at another stall which sold produce; eggs, cheese, butter, cakes and scones. Without hesitation he sat up again in the begging position, rock steady, paws dangling, head pointing expectantly.
I nudged Siegfried. “There he goes again.”
My colleague nodded. “Yes, he’s an engaging little thing, isn’t he? What breed would you call him?”
“A cross, I’d say. He’s like a little brown sheepdog, but there’s a touch of something else—maybe terrier.”
It wasn’t long before he was munching a bun, and this time we walked over to him. And as we drew near I spoke gently.
“Here, boy,” I said, squatting down a yard away. “Come on, let’s have a look at you.”
He faced me and for a moment two friendly brown eyes gazed at me from a singularly attractive little face. The fringed tail waved in response to my words but as I inched nearer he turned and ambled unhurriedly among the market day crowd till he was lost to sight. I didn’t want to make a thing out of the encounter because I could never quite divine Siegfried’s attitude to the small animals. He was eminently wrapped up in his horse work and often seemed amused at the way I rushed around after dogs and cats.
At that time, in fact, Siegfried was strongly opposed to the whole idea of keeping animals as pets. He was quite vociferous on the subject—said it was utterly foolish—despite the fact that five assorted dogs travelled everywhere with him in his car. Now, thirty-five years later, he is just as strongly in favour of keeping pets, though he now carries only one dog in his car. So, as I say, it was difficult to assess his reactions in this field and I refrained from following the little animal.
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