Vet in Harness by James Herriot
two thirds full of neat whisky. I couldn't say anything because I had
taken the plunge and put the onion in my mouth; and as I bit boldly into
it the fumes rolled in a volatile wave into my nasal passages, making me
splutter. I took a gulp at the whisky and looked up at Granville with
watering eyes.
He was holding out the onion bowl again and when I declined he regarded
it for a moment with hurt in his eyes. "It's funny you don't like them,
I always thought Zoe did them marvellously.'
"Oh you're wrong, Granville, they're delicious. I just haven't finished
this one.'
He didn't reply but continued to look at the bowl with gentle sorrow. I
realised there was nothing else for it; I took another onion.
Immensely gratified, Granville hurried through to the kitchen again.
This time when he came back he bore a tray with an enormous cold roast,
a loaf of bread, butter and mustard.
"I think a beef sandwich would go down rather nicely, Jim,' he murmured,
as he stropped his carving knife on a steel. Then he noticed my glass of
whisky still half full.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!' he said with some asperity. "You're not touching
your drink.' He watched me benevolently as I drained the glass then he
refilled it to its old level. "That's better. And have another onion.'
I stretched my legs out and rested my head on the back of the chair in
an attempt to ease my internal turmoil. My stomach was a lake of
volcanic lava bubbling and popping fiercely in its crater with each
additional piece of onion, every sip of whisky setting up a fresh
violent reaction. Watching Granville at work, a great wave of nausea
swept over me. He was sawing busily at the roast, carving off slices
which looked to be an inch thick, slapping mustard on them and enclosing
them in the bread. He hummed with contentment as the pile grew. Every
now and then he had another onion.
"Now then, laddie,' he cried at length, putting a heaped plate at my
elbow. "Get yourself round that lot.' He took his own supply and
collapsed with a sigh into another chair.
He took a gargantuan bite and spoke as he chewed. "You know, Jim, this
is something I enjoy - a nice little snack. Zoe always leaves me plenty
to go at when she pops out.' He engulfed a further few inches of
sandwich. "And I'll tell you something, though I say it myself, these
are bloody good, don't you think so?'
"Yes indeed.' Squaring my shoulders I bit, swallowed and held my breath
as another unwanted foreign body slid down to the ferment below.
Just then I heard the front door open.
"Ah, that'll be Zoe,' Granville said, and was about to rise when a
disgracefully fat Staffordshire Bull Terrier burst into the room,
waddled across the carpet and leapt into his lap.
"Phoebles, my dear, come to daddykins!' he shouted. "Have you had nice
walkies with mummy?'
The Staffordshire was closely followed by a Yorkshire Terrier which was
also enthusiastically greeted by Granville.
Yoo-hoo, Victoria, Yoo-hoo!'
The Yorkie, an obvious smiler, did not jump up but contented herself
with Sitting at her master's feet, baring her teeth ingratiatingly every
few seconds.
I smiled through my pain. Another myth exploded; the one about these ~
t~6 `~1 I JU/ 16~3
specialist small animal vets not being fond of dogs themselves. The big
man crooned over the two little animals. The fact that he called Phoebe
"Phoebles' was symptomatic.
I heard light footsteps in the hall and looked up expectantly. I had
Granville's wife taped neatly in my mind; domesticated, devoted, homely;
many of these dynamic types had wives like that, willing slaves content
to lurk in the background. I waited confidently for the entrance of a
plain little hauserau.
When the door opened I almost let my vast sandwich fall. Zoe Bennett was
a glowing warm beauty who would make any man alive stop for another
look. A lot of soft brown hair, large grey-green friendly eyes, a tweed
suit sitting sweetly on a slim but not too slim figure; and something
else, a wholesomeness, an inner light which made me wish suddenly that I
was a better man or at least that I looked better than I did.
In an instant I was acutely conscious of the fact that my shoes were
dirty, that my old jacket and corduroy trousers were out of place here.
I hadn't troubled to change but had rushed straight out in my working
clothes, and they were different from Granville's because I couldn't go
round the farms in a suit like his.
"My love, my love!' he carolled joyously as his wife bent over and
kissed him fondly. "Let me introduce Jim Herriot from Darrowby.'
The beautiful eyes turned on me.
"How d'you do, Mr Herriot!' She looked as pleased to see me as her
husband had done and again I had the desperate wish that I was more
presentable; that my hair was combed, that I didn't have this mounting
conviction that I was going to explode into a thousand pieces at any
moment.
"I'm going to have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot. Would you like one?'
"No-no, no no, thank you very much but no, no, not at the moment.' I
backed away slightly.
"Ah well, I see you've got one of Granville's little sandwiches.' She
giggled and went to get her tea.
When she came back she handed a parcel to her husband. "I've been
shopping today, darling. Picked up some of those shirts you like so
much.'
"My sweet! how kind of you!' He began to tear at the brown paper like a
schoolboy and produced three elegant shirts in cellophane covers.
"They're marvelous, my pet, you spoil me.' He looked Up? at me. "Jim!
These are the most wonderful shirts, you must have one.' He flicked a
shining package across the room on to my lap.
I looked down at it in amazement. "No, really I can't .. .'
"Of course you can. You keep it.'
"But Granville, not a shirt .. . it's too .. .'
"It's a very good shirt.' He was beginning to look hurt again.
I subsided.
They were both so kind. Zoe sat right by me with her tea cup, chatting
pleasantly, while Granville beamed at me from his chair as he finished
the last of the sandwiches and started again on the onions.
The proximity of the attractive woman was agreeable but embarrassing. My
corduroys in the warmth of the room had begun to give off the
unmistakable bouquet of the farmyard where they spent most of their
time. And though it was one of my favourite scents there was no doubt it
didn't go with these elegant surroundings.
And worse still, I had started a series of internal rumblings and
musical tinklings which resounded only too audibly during every lull in
the conversation. The only other time I have heard such sounds was in a
cow with an advanced case of displacement of the abomasum. My companions
delicately feign:,]
~L deafness even when I produced a shameful, explosive belch which made
the little fat dog start up in alarm, but when another of these mighty
borborygmi escaped me and almost made the windows rattle I thought it
/>
time to go.
In any case I wasn't contributing much else. The alcohol had taken hold
and I was increasingly conscious that I was just sitting there with a
stupid leer on my face. In striking contrast to Granville who looked
just the same as when I first met him back at the surgery. He was cool
and possessed, his massive urbanity unimpaired. It was a little hard.
So, with the tin of tobacco bumping against my hip and the shirt tucked
under my arm I took my leave.
Back at the hospital I looked down at Dinah. The old dog had come
through wonderfully well and she lifted her head and gazed at me
sleepily. Her colour was good and her pulse strong. The operative shock
had been dramatically minimised by my colleague's skilful speedy
technique and by the intravenous drip.
I knelt down and stroked her ears. "You know, I'm sure she's going to
make it, Granville.'
Above me the great pipe nodded with majestic confidence.
"Of course, laddie, of course.'
And he was right. Dinah was rejuvenated by her hysterectomy and lived to
delight her mistress for many more years.
On the way home that night she lay by my side on the passenger seat, her
nose poking from a blanket. Now and then she rested her chin on my hand
as it gripped the gear lever and occasionally she licked me lazily.
I could see she felt better than I did.
Chapter Eight.
As I looked at the group of sick young cattle on the hillside a mixture
of apprehension and disbelief flooded through me. Surely not more
trouble for the Dalbys.
The old saw "It never rains but it pours' seems to apply with particular
force to farming. The husk outbreak last year and now this. It had all
started with the death of Billy Dalby; big, slow-smiling, slow-talking
Billy. He was as strong and tough as any of the shaggy beasts which
ranged his fields but he had just melted away in a few weeks. Cancer of
the pancreas they said it was and Billy was gone before anybody could
realise it and there was only his picture smiling down from the kitchen
mantelpiece on his wife and three young children.
The general opinion was that Mrs Dalby should sell up and get out. You
needed a man to run this place and anyway Prospect House was a bad farm.
Neighbouring farmers would stick out their lower lips and shake their
heads when they looked at the boggy pastures on the low side of the
house with the tufts of spiky grass sticking from the sour soil or at
the rocky outcrops and scattered stones on the hillside fields. No, it
was a poor place and a woman would never make a go of it.
Everybody thought the same thing except Mrs Dalby herself. There wasn't
much of her, in fact she must have been one of the smallest women I have
ever seen - around five feet high - but there was a core of steel in
her.
She had her own mind and her own way of doing things.
I remember when Billy was still alive I had been injecting some sheep up
there and Mrs Dalby called me into the house.
"You'll have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot?' She said it in a gracious way,
not casually, her head slightly on one side and a dignified little smile
on her face.
And when I went into the kitchen I knew what I would find; the
inevitable tray. It was always a tray with Mrs Dalby. The hospitable
Dales people were continually asking me in for some kind of refreshment
- a 'bit o' dinner' perhaps, but if it wasn't midday there was usually a
mug of tea and a scone or a hunk of thick-crusted apple pie - but Mrs
Dalby invariably set out a special tray. And there it was today with a
clean cloth and the best china cup and saucer and side plates with
sliced buttered scones and iced cakes and malt bread and biscuits. It
was on its own table away from the big kitchen table.
"Do sit down, Mr Herriot,' she said in her precise manner. "I hope that
tea isn't too strong for you.'
Her speech was what the farmers would call 'very proper' but it went
with her personality which to me embodied a determination to do
everything as correctly as possible.
"Looks perfect to me, Mrs Dalby.' I sat down, feeling somewhat exposed,
in the middle of the kitchen with Billy smiling comfortably from an old
armchair by the fire and his wife standing by my side.
She never sat down with us but stood there, very erect, hands clasped in
front of her, head inclined, ceremoniously attending to my every wish.
"Let me fill your cup, Mr Herriot,' or "Won't you try some of this
custard tart?'
She wasn't what you would call pretty; it was a rough-skinned red little
face with tiny, very dark eyes but there was a sweet expression and a
quiet dignity. And as I say, there was strength.
Billy died in the spring and as everybody waited for Mrs Dalby to make
arrangement for the sale she went right on with the running of the farm.
She did it with the help of a big farm worker called Charlie who had
helped Billy occasionally but now came full time. During the summer I
was called out a few times for trivial ailments among the cattle and I
could see that Mrs Dalby was managing to hang on; she looked a bit
haggard because she was now helping in the fields and buildings as well
as coping with her housework and young family, but she was still
fighting. '
It was half way through September when she asked me to call to see some
young cattle - stirks of around nine months - which were coughing.
"They were really fit when they were turned out in May,' she said, as we
walked across the grass to the gate in the corner. "But they've gone
down badly this last week or two.'
I held the gate open, we walked through, and as I approached the group
of animals I grew progressively uneasy. Even at this distance I could
see that something was far wrong; they were not moving around or grazing
as they should have been but were curiously immobile. There would be
about thirty of them and many had their necks extended forward as if
seeking air. And from the bunch a barking cough was carried to us on the
soft breeze of late summer.
By the time we reached the cattle my uneasiness had been replaced by a
dry-mouthed dread. They didn't seem to care as I moved in among them and
I had to shout and wave my arms to get them moving; and they had barely
begun to stir before the coughing broke out throughout the group; not
just an occasional bark but a hacking chorus which seemed almost to be
tearing the little animals apart. And they weren't just coughing; most
of them were panting, standing straddle-legged, ribs heaving in a
desperate fight for breath. A few~v showed bubbles of saliva at their
lips and from here and there among the pack groans of agony sounded as
the lungs laboured.
I turned as in a dream to Mrs Dalby.
"They've got husk.' Even as I said it it sounded a grimly inadequate
description of the tragedy I was witnessing. Because this was neglected
husk, a terrible doom-laden thing.
"Husk?' the little woman said brightly. "What causes it?'
I looked at her f
or a moment then tried to make my voice casual.
"Well it's a parasite. A tiny worm which infests the bronchial tubes and
sets up bronchitis - in fact that's the proper name, parasitic
bronchitis. The larvae climb up the blades of grass and the cattle eat
them as they graze. Some pastures are badly affected with it.' I broke
off. A lecture was out of place at a time like this.
What I felt like saying was why in God's name hadn't I been called in
weeks ago. Because this wasn't only bronchitis now; it was pneumonia,
pleurisy, emphysema and any other lung condition you cared to name with
not merely a few of the hair-like worms irritating the tubes, but great
seething masses of them crawling everywhere, balling up and blocking the
vital air passages. I had opened up a lot of calves like these and I
knew how it looked.
I took a deep breath. "They're pretty bad, Mrs Dalby. A mild attack
isn't so bad if you can get them off the grass right away, but this has
gone a long way beyond that. You can see for yourself, can't you they're
like a lot of little skeletons. I wish I'd seen them sooner.'
She looked up at me apprehensively and I decided not to belabour the
point. It would be like rubbing it in; saying what her neighbours had
said all along, that her inexperience would land her in trouble sooner
or later. If Billy had been here he probably would never have turned his
young cattle on to this marshy field; or he would have spotted the
trouble right at the start and brought them inside. Charlie would be no
help in a situation like this; he was a good willing chap but lived up
to the Yorkshire saying, "Strong in t'arm and thick in "'head.' Farming
is a skilful business and Billy, the planner, the stocksman, the
experienced agriculturist who knew his own farm inside out, just wasn't
there.
Mrs Dalby drew herself up with that familiar gesture.
"Well what can we do about it, Mr Herriot?'
An honest reply in those days would have been, "Medicinally nothing.'
But I didn't say that.
"We've got to get them all inside immediately. Every mouthful of this
grass is adding to the worm burden. Is Charlie around to give us a
hand?'
"Yes, he's in the next field, mending a wall.' She trotted across the
turf and in a minute or two returned with the big man ambling by her
side.
"Aye, ah thought it were a touch of husk,' he said amiably, then with a
hint of eagerness. "Are ye going' to give them the throat injection?'
"Yes .. . yes .. . but let's get them up to the buildings.' As we drove
the cattle slowly up the green slope I marvelled ruefully at this
further example of faith in the intratracheal injection for husk. There
was really no treatment for the condition and it would be another twenty
years before one appeared in the shape of diethylcarbamazine' but the
accepted procedure was to inject a mixture of chloroform, turpentine and
creosote into the windpipe.
Modern vets may raise their eyebrows at the idea of introducing this
barbaric concoction directly into the delicate lung tissue and we old
ones didn't think much of it either. But the farmers loved it.
When we had finally got the stirks into the fold yard I looked round
them with something like despair. The short journey had exacerbated
their symptoms tremendously and I stood in the middle of a symphony of
coughs, grunts and groans while the cattle, tongues protruding, ribs
pumping, gasped for breath ~
I got a bottle of the wonderful injection from the car, and with Charlie
holding the head and little Mrs Dalby hanging on to the tail I began to
go through the motions. Seizing the trachea in my left hand I inserted
taken the plunge and put the onion in my mouth; and as I bit boldly into
it the fumes rolled in a volatile wave into my nasal passages, making me
splutter. I took a gulp at the whisky and looked up at Granville with
watering eyes.
He was holding out the onion bowl again and when I declined he regarded
it for a moment with hurt in his eyes. "It's funny you don't like them,
I always thought Zoe did them marvellously.'
"Oh you're wrong, Granville, they're delicious. I just haven't finished
this one.'
He didn't reply but continued to look at the bowl with gentle sorrow. I
realised there was nothing else for it; I took another onion.
Immensely gratified, Granville hurried through to the kitchen again.
This time when he came back he bore a tray with an enormous cold roast,
a loaf of bread, butter and mustard.
"I think a beef sandwich would go down rather nicely, Jim,' he murmured,
as he stropped his carving knife on a steel. Then he noticed my glass of
whisky still half full.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!' he said with some asperity. "You're not touching
your drink.' He watched me benevolently as I drained the glass then he
refilled it to its old level. "That's better. And have another onion.'
I stretched my legs out and rested my head on the back of the chair in
an attempt to ease my internal turmoil. My stomach was a lake of
volcanic lava bubbling and popping fiercely in its crater with each
additional piece of onion, every sip of whisky setting up a fresh
violent reaction. Watching Granville at work, a great wave of nausea
swept over me. He was sawing busily at the roast, carving off slices
which looked to be an inch thick, slapping mustard on them and enclosing
them in the bread. He hummed with contentment as the pile grew. Every
now and then he had another onion.
"Now then, laddie,' he cried at length, putting a heaped plate at my
elbow. "Get yourself round that lot.' He took his own supply and
collapsed with a sigh into another chair.
He took a gargantuan bite and spoke as he chewed. "You know, Jim, this
is something I enjoy - a nice little snack. Zoe always leaves me plenty
to go at when she pops out.' He engulfed a further few inches of
sandwich. "And I'll tell you something, though I say it myself, these
are bloody good, don't you think so?'
"Yes indeed.' Squaring my shoulders I bit, swallowed and held my breath
as another unwanted foreign body slid down to the ferment below.
Just then I heard the front door open.
"Ah, that'll be Zoe,' Granville said, and was about to rise when a
disgracefully fat Staffordshire Bull Terrier burst into the room,
waddled across the carpet and leapt into his lap.
"Phoebles, my dear, come to daddykins!' he shouted. "Have you had nice
walkies with mummy?'
The Staffordshire was closely followed by a Yorkshire Terrier which was
also enthusiastically greeted by Granville.
Yoo-hoo, Victoria, Yoo-hoo!'
The Yorkie, an obvious smiler, did not jump up but contented herself
with Sitting at her master's feet, baring her teeth ingratiatingly every
few seconds.
I smiled through my pain. Another myth exploded; the one about these ~
t~6 `~1 I JU/ 16~3
specialist small animal vets not being fond of dogs themselves. The big
man crooned over the two little animals. The fact that he called Phoebe
"Phoebles' was symptomatic.
I heard light footsteps in the hall and looked up expectantly. I had
Granville's wife taped neatly in my mind; domesticated, devoted, homely;
many of these dynamic types had wives like that, willing slaves content
to lurk in the background. I waited confidently for the entrance of a
plain little hauserau.
When the door opened I almost let my vast sandwich fall. Zoe Bennett was
a glowing warm beauty who would make any man alive stop for another
look. A lot of soft brown hair, large grey-green friendly eyes, a tweed
suit sitting sweetly on a slim but not too slim figure; and something
else, a wholesomeness, an inner light which made me wish suddenly that I
was a better man or at least that I looked better than I did.
In an instant I was acutely conscious of the fact that my shoes were
dirty, that my old jacket and corduroy trousers were out of place here.
I hadn't troubled to change but had rushed straight out in my working
clothes, and they were different from Granville's because I couldn't go
round the farms in a suit like his.
"My love, my love!' he carolled joyously as his wife bent over and
kissed him fondly. "Let me introduce Jim Herriot from Darrowby.'
The beautiful eyes turned on me.
"How d'you do, Mr Herriot!' She looked as pleased to see me as her
husband had done and again I had the desperate wish that I was more
presentable; that my hair was combed, that I didn't have this mounting
conviction that I was going to explode into a thousand pieces at any
moment.
"I'm going to have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot. Would you like one?'
"No-no, no no, thank you very much but no, no, not at the moment.' I
backed away slightly.
"Ah well, I see you've got one of Granville's little sandwiches.' She
giggled and went to get her tea.
When she came back she handed a parcel to her husband. "I've been
shopping today, darling. Picked up some of those shirts you like so
much.'
"My sweet! how kind of you!' He began to tear at the brown paper like a
schoolboy and produced three elegant shirts in cellophane covers.
"They're marvelous, my pet, you spoil me.' He looked Up? at me. "Jim!
These are the most wonderful shirts, you must have one.' He flicked a
shining package across the room on to my lap.
I looked down at it in amazement. "No, really I can't .. .'
"Of course you can. You keep it.'
"But Granville, not a shirt .. . it's too .. .'
"It's a very good shirt.' He was beginning to look hurt again.
I subsided.
They were both so kind. Zoe sat right by me with her tea cup, chatting
pleasantly, while Granville beamed at me from his chair as he finished
the last of the sandwiches and started again on the onions.
The proximity of the attractive woman was agreeable but embarrassing. My
corduroys in the warmth of the room had begun to give off the
unmistakable bouquet of the farmyard where they spent most of their
time. And though it was one of my favourite scents there was no doubt it
didn't go with these elegant surroundings.
And worse still, I had started a series of internal rumblings and
musical tinklings which resounded only too audibly during every lull in
the conversation. The only other time I have heard such sounds was in a
cow with an advanced case of displacement of the abomasum. My companions
delicately feign:,]
~L deafness even when I produced a shameful, explosive belch which made
the little fat dog start up in alarm, but when another of these mighty
borborygmi escaped me and almost made the windows rattle I thought it
time to go.
In any case I wasn't contributing much else. The alcohol had taken hold
and I was increasingly conscious that I was just sitting there with a
stupid leer on my face. In striking contrast to Granville who looked
just the same as when I first met him back at the surgery. He was cool
and possessed, his massive urbanity unimpaired. It was a little hard.
So, with the tin of tobacco bumping against my hip and the shirt tucked
under my arm I took my leave.
Back at the hospital I looked down at Dinah. The old dog had come
through wonderfully well and she lifted her head and gazed at me
sleepily. Her colour was good and her pulse strong. The operative shock
had been dramatically minimised by my colleague's skilful speedy
technique and by the intravenous drip.
I knelt down and stroked her ears. "You know, I'm sure she's going to
make it, Granville.'
Above me the great pipe nodded with majestic confidence.
"Of course, laddie, of course.'
And he was right. Dinah was rejuvenated by her hysterectomy and lived to
delight her mistress for many more years.
On the way home that night she lay by my side on the passenger seat, her
nose poking from a blanket. Now and then she rested her chin on my hand
as it gripped the gear lever and occasionally she licked me lazily.
I could see she felt better than I did.
Chapter Eight.
As I looked at the group of sick young cattle on the hillside a mixture
of apprehension and disbelief flooded through me. Surely not more
trouble for the Dalbys.
The old saw "It never rains but it pours' seems to apply with particular
force to farming. The husk outbreak last year and now this. It had all
started with the death of Billy Dalby; big, slow-smiling, slow-talking
Billy. He was as strong and tough as any of the shaggy beasts which
ranged his fields but he had just melted away in a few weeks. Cancer of
the pancreas they said it was and Billy was gone before anybody could
realise it and there was only his picture smiling down from the kitchen
mantelpiece on his wife and three young children.
The general opinion was that Mrs Dalby should sell up and get out. You
needed a man to run this place and anyway Prospect House was a bad farm.
Neighbouring farmers would stick out their lower lips and shake their
heads when they looked at the boggy pastures on the low side of the
house with the tufts of spiky grass sticking from the sour soil or at
the rocky outcrops and scattered stones on the hillside fields. No, it
was a poor place and a woman would never make a go of it.
Everybody thought the same thing except Mrs Dalby herself. There wasn't
much of her, in fact she must have been one of the smallest women I have
ever seen - around five feet high - but there was a core of steel in
her.
She had her own mind and her own way of doing things.
I remember when Billy was still alive I had been injecting some sheep up
there and Mrs Dalby called me into the house.
"You'll have a cup of tea, Mr Herriot?' She said it in a gracious way,
not casually, her head slightly on one side and a dignified little smile
on her face.
And when I went into the kitchen I knew what I would find; the
inevitable tray. It was always a tray with Mrs Dalby. The hospitable
Dales people were continually asking me in for some kind of refreshment
- a 'bit o' dinner' perhaps, but if it wasn't midday there was usually a
mug of tea and a scone or a hunk of thick-crusted apple pie - but Mrs
Dalby invariably set out a special tray. And there it was today with a
clean cloth and the best china cup and saucer and side plates with
sliced buttered scones and iced cakes and malt bread and biscuits. It
was on its own table away from the big kitchen table.
"Do sit down, Mr Herriot,' she said in her precise manner. "I hope that
tea isn't too strong for you.'
Her speech was what the farmers would call 'very proper' but it went
with her personality which to me embodied a determination to do
everything as correctly as possible.
"Looks perfect to me, Mrs Dalby.' I sat down, feeling somewhat exposed,
in the middle of the kitchen with Billy smiling comfortably from an old
armchair by the fire and his wife standing by my side.
She never sat down with us but stood there, very erect, hands clasped in
front of her, head inclined, ceremoniously attending to my every wish.
"Let me fill your cup, Mr Herriot,' or "Won't you try some of this
custard tart?'
She wasn't what you would call pretty; it was a rough-skinned red little
face with tiny, very dark eyes but there was a sweet expression and a
quiet dignity. And as I say, there was strength.
Billy died in the spring and as everybody waited for Mrs Dalby to make
arrangement for the sale she went right on with the running of the farm.
She did it with the help of a big farm worker called Charlie who had
helped Billy occasionally but now came full time. During the summer I
was called out a few times for trivial ailments among the cattle and I
could see that Mrs Dalby was managing to hang on; she looked a bit
haggard because she was now helping in the fields and buildings as well
as coping with her housework and young family, but she was still
fighting. '
It was half way through September when she asked me to call to see some
young cattle - stirks of around nine months - which were coughing.
"They were really fit when they were turned out in May,' she said, as we
walked across the grass to the gate in the corner. "But they've gone
down badly this last week or two.'
I held the gate open, we walked through, and as I approached the group
of animals I grew progressively uneasy. Even at this distance I could
see that something was far wrong; they were not moving around or grazing
as they should have been but were curiously immobile. There would be
about thirty of them and many had their necks extended forward as if
seeking air. And from the bunch a barking cough was carried to us on the
soft breeze of late summer.
By the time we reached the cattle my uneasiness had been replaced by a
dry-mouthed dread. They didn't seem to care as I moved in among them and
I had to shout and wave my arms to get them moving; and they had barely
begun to stir before the coughing broke out throughout the group; not
just an occasional bark but a hacking chorus which seemed almost to be
tearing the little animals apart. And they weren't just coughing; most
of them were panting, standing straddle-legged, ribs heaving in a
desperate fight for breath. A few~v showed bubbles of saliva at their
lips and from here and there among the pack groans of agony sounded as
the lungs laboured.
I turned as in a dream to Mrs Dalby.
"They've got husk.' Even as I said it it sounded a grimly inadequate
description of the tragedy I was witnessing. Because this was neglected
husk, a terrible doom-laden thing.
"Husk?' the little woman said brightly. "What causes it?'
I looked at her f
"Well it's a parasite. A tiny worm which infests the bronchial tubes and
sets up bronchitis - in fact that's the proper name, parasitic
bronchitis. The larvae climb up the blades of grass and the cattle eat
them as they graze. Some pastures are badly affected with it.' I broke
off. A lecture was out of place at a time like this.
What I felt like saying was why in God's name hadn't I been called in
weeks ago. Because this wasn't only bronchitis now; it was pneumonia,
pleurisy, emphysema and any other lung condition you cared to name with
not merely a few of the hair-like worms irritating the tubes, but great
seething masses of them crawling everywhere, balling up and blocking the
vital air passages. I had opened up a lot of calves like these and I
knew how it looked.
I took a deep breath. "They're pretty bad, Mrs Dalby. A mild attack
isn't so bad if you can get them off the grass right away, but this has
gone a long way beyond that. You can see for yourself, can't you they're
like a lot of little skeletons. I wish I'd seen them sooner.'
She looked up at me apprehensively and I decided not to belabour the
point. It would be like rubbing it in; saying what her neighbours had
said all along, that her inexperience would land her in trouble sooner
or later. If Billy had been here he probably would never have turned his
young cattle on to this marshy field; or he would have spotted the
trouble right at the start and brought them inside. Charlie would be no
help in a situation like this; he was a good willing chap but lived up
to the Yorkshire saying, "Strong in t'arm and thick in "'head.' Farming
is a skilful business and Billy, the planner, the stocksman, the
experienced agriculturist who knew his own farm inside out, just wasn't
there.
Mrs Dalby drew herself up with that familiar gesture.
"Well what can we do about it, Mr Herriot?'
An honest reply in those days would have been, "Medicinally nothing.'
But I didn't say that.
"We've got to get them all inside immediately. Every mouthful of this
grass is adding to the worm burden. Is Charlie around to give us a
hand?'
"Yes, he's in the next field, mending a wall.' She trotted across the
turf and in a minute or two returned with the big man ambling by her
side.
"Aye, ah thought it were a touch of husk,' he said amiably, then with a
hint of eagerness. "Are ye going' to give them the throat injection?'
"Yes .. . yes .. . but let's get them up to the buildings.' As we drove
the cattle slowly up the green slope I marvelled ruefully at this
further example of faith in the intratracheal injection for husk. There
was really no treatment for the condition and it would be another twenty
years before one appeared in the shape of diethylcarbamazine' but the
accepted procedure was to inject a mixture of chloroform, turpentine and
creosote into the windpipe.
Modern vets may raise their eyebrows at the idea of introducing this
barbaric concoction directly into the delicate lung tissue and we old
ones didn't think much of it either. But the farmers loved it.
When we had finally got the stirks into the fold yard I looked round
them with something like despair. The short journey had exacerbated
their symptoms tremendously and I stood in the middle of a symphony of
coughs, grunts and groans while the cattle, tongues protruding, ribs
pumping, gasped for breath ~
I got a bottle of the wonderful injection from the car, and with Charlie
holding the head and little Mrs Dalby hanging on to the tail I began to
go through the motions. Seizing the trachea in my left hand I inserted