The Lord God Made Them All
by
James Herriot


James Herriot grew up in Glasgow and qualified as a veterinary surgeon
at Glasgow Veterinary College.  Shortly afterwards he took up a
position as an assistant in a North Yorkshire practice where he has
remained, with the exception of his wartime service in the RAF.

James Herriot's interests extend beyond writing and veterinary work to
music and dog-walking in the Dales.  He is married, with a son who is
also a veterinary surgeon and a daughter who is a doctor.

James Herriot is a pseudonym.

ISBN 0-330 26763 9

Also by James Herriot in Pan Books

If Only They Could Talk

It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet

Let Sleeping Vets Lie

Vet in Harness

Vets Might Fly

Vet in a Spin and omnibus editions

All Creatures Great and Small comprising If Only They Could Talk

It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet and three chapters from

Let Sleeping Vets Lie

All Things Bright and Beautiful comprising the majority of chapters
from Let Sleeping Vets Lie Vet in Harness

All hings Wise and Wonderful comprising Vets Might Fly and Vet in a
Spin

James Harriot

The Lord God Made Them All

Pan Books London and Sydney

First published 1981 by Michael Joseph Ltd

This edition published 1982 by Pan Books Ltd,

Cavaye Place, London SWio gPG

3rd printing 1982

James Herriot 1981

ISBN o 330 26763 9

Photoset by Parker Typesetting Service, Leicester

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser

To ZOE

latest beautiful grandchild

When the gate fell on top of me I knew I was really back home.

My mind drifted effortlessly over my spell in the RAF to the last time
I had visited the Ripleys.  It was to 'nip some calves' as Mr.  Ripley
said over the phone, or more correctly to emasculate them by means of
the Burdizzo bloodless castrator and when the message came in I
realised that a large part of my morning had gone.

It was always something of a safari to visit Anson Hall, because the
old house lay at the end of a ridged and rutted track which twisted
across the fields through no fewer than seven gates.

Gates are one of the curses of a country vet's life and in the
Yorkshire Dales, before the coming of cattle grids, we suffered more
than most.  We were resigned to opening two or three on many of the
farms, but seven was a bit much.  And at the Ripleys it wasn't just the
number but the character.

The first one which led off the narrow road was reasonably normal an
ancient thing of rusty iron and as I unlatched it it did at least swing
round groaning on its hinges.  It was the only one which swung; the
others were of wood and of the type known in the Dales as 'shoulder
gates'.  I could see how they got their name as I hoisted each one up,
balanced the top spar on my shoulder and dragged it round.  These had
no hinges but were tied at one end with binder twine top and bottom.

Even with an ordinary gate there is a fair amount of work involved. You
have to stop the car, get out, open the gate, drive through, stop the
car again, dismount and close the thing behind you.  But the road to
Anson Hall was hard labour.  The gates deteriorated progressively as I
approached the farm and I was puffing with my efforts as I bumped and
rattled my way up to number seven.

This was the last and the most formidable a malignant entity with a
personality of its own.  Over decades it had been patched and repaired
with so many old timbers that probably none of the original structure
remained.  But it was dangerous.

I got out of the car and advanced a few steps.  We were old foes, this
gate and I, and we faced each other for some moments in silence.  We
had fought several brisk rounds in the past and there was no doubt the
gate was ahead on points.

The difficulty was that, apart from its wobbly, loosely-nailed
eccentricity, it had only one string hinge, halfway down.  This enabled
it to pivot on its frail axis with deadly effect.

With the utmost care I approached the right-hand side and began to
unfasten the binder twine.  The string, I noticed bitterly, was, like
all the others, neatly tied in a bow, and as it fell clear I grabbed
hastily at the top spar.  But I was too late.  Like a live thing the
bottom rail swung in and rapped me cruelly on the shins, and as I tried
to correct the balance the top bashed my chest.

It was the same as all the other times.  As I hauled it round an inch
at a time, the gate buffeted me high and low.  I was no match for it.

Another thing which didn't help was that I could see Mr.  Ripley
watching me benevolently from the farmhouse doorway.  While I wrestled
the gate open, contented puffs rose from the farmer's pipe and he did
not stir from his position until I had hobbled over the last stretch of
grass and stood before him.

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot, you've come to nip me a few calves?"  A smile
of unaffected friendship creased the stub-bled cheeks.  Mr.  Ripley
shaved once a week on market day -considering, with some logic, that
since only his wife and his cattle saw him on the other six days there
was no point in scraping away at his face every morning with a razor.

I bent and massaged my bruised ankles.  "Mr.  Ripley, that gate!  It's
a menace!  Do you remember that last time I was here you promised me
faithfully you'd have it mended?  In fact you said you'd get a new one-
it's about time, isn't it?"

"Aye, you're right, young man," Mr.  Ripley said, nodding his head in
profound agreement.  "Ah did say that, but that knaws, it's one o' them
little jobs which never seem to get done."  He chuckled ruefully, but
his expression altered to concern when I wound up my trouser leg and
revealed a long abrasion on my shin.

"Eee, that's a shame, that's settled it.  There'll be a new gate on
there by next week.  Ah'll guarantee it."

"But Mr.  Ripley, that's exactly what you said last time when you saw
the blood running down my knee.  Those were your very words.  You said
you'd guarantee it..  ."

"Aye, I knaw, I knaw."  The farmer tamped down the tobacco with his
thumb and got his pipe going again to his satisfaction.  "Me missus is
all us on to me about me bad memory, but don't worry, Mr.  Herriot,
I've had me lesson today.  I'm right sorry about your leg and that
gate'll never bother ye again.  Ah guarantee it."

"Okay, okay," I said and limped over to the car for the Burdizzo.
"Where are the calves, anyway?"

Mr.  Ripley crossed the farmyard unhurriedly and opened the half door
on a loose-box.  "They're in there."

For a moment I stood transfixed as a row of huge shaggy heads regarded
me impassively over the timbers, then I extended a trembling finger.
"Do you mean those?"

The farmer nodded happily.  "Aye, them's them."

I went forward and looked into the obx.  There were eight strapping
yearlings in there, some of them returning my stare with mild interest,
others cavorting and kicking up their heels among the straw.  I turned
to the farmer.  "You've done it again, haven't you?"

"Eh?"

"You asked me to come and nip some calves.  Those aren't calves,
they're bulls!  And it was the same time.  Remember those monsters you
had in the same box?  I nearly ruptured myself closing the nippers and
you said you'd get them done at three months old in future.  In fact
you said you'd guarantee it."

The farmer nodded solemnly in agreement.  He always agreed one hundred
per cent with everything I said.  "That's correct, Mr.  Herriot. That's
what ah said."

"But these animals are at least a year old!"

Mr.  Ripley shrugged and gave me a world-weary smile.  "Aye, well, time
gets on, doesn't it.  Fairly races by."

I returned to the car for the local anaesthetic.  "All right," I
grunted as I rilled the syringe.  "If you can catch them I'll see what
I can do."  The farmer lifted a rope halter from a hook on the wall and
approached one of the big beasts, murmuring encouragingly.  He snared
the nose with surprising ease, dropping the loops over nose and horn
with perfect timing as the animal tried to plunge past him.  Then he
passed the rope through a ring on the wall and pulled it tight.

"There yare, Mr.  Herriot.  That wasn't much trouble was it?"

I didn't say anything.  I was the one who was going to have the
trouble.  I was working at the wrong end, nicely in range of the hooves
which would surely start flying if my patients didn't appreciate having
a needle stuck into their testicles.

Anyway, it had to be done.  One by one I infiltrated the scrotal area
with the local, taking the blows on my arms and legs as they came. Then
I started the actual process of castration, the bloodless crushing of
the spermatic cord without breaking the skin.  There was no doubt this
was a big advance on the old method of incising the scrotum with a
knife, and in little calves it was a trifling business lasting only a
few seconds.

But it was altogether different with these vast creatures.  It was
necessary to open the arms of the Burdizzo beyond right angles to grip
the great fleshy scrotum and then they had to be closed again.  That
was when the fun started.

Thanks to my injection the beast could feel little or nothing but as I
squeezed desperately it seemed that I was attempting the impossible.
However it is amazing what the human frame can accomplish when pushed
to the utmost and as the sweat trickled down my nose and as I gasped
and strained, the metal arms inched closer until the jaws finally
clicked together.

I always nipped each side twice and I took a rest before repeating the
process lower down the cord.  When I had done the same with the other
testicle I flopped back again the wall, panting and trying not to think
of the other seven beasts still to do.

It was a long, long time before I got to the last one and I was
wrestling away, pop-eyed and open-mouthed when the idea came to me,

I straightened up and came along the side of the animal.  "Mr. Ripley,"
I said breathlessly, 'why don't you have a go?"

"Eh?"  The farmer had been watching me with equanimity, blowing out
slow clouds of blue smoke, but it was plain that I had jolted him out
of his composure.  "What dye mean?"

"Well, this is the last one and I want you to understand what I've been
talking about.  I'd like to see you close those nippers."

He thought the matter over for a moment or two.  "Aye, but who's goin'
to hold t'beast?"

That's all right," I said.  "We'll tie him up short to the ring and
I'll set everything up for you, then we'll see how you get on."

He looked a little doubtful but I was determined to make my point and
ushered him gently to the rear end of the animal.  I enclosed the
scrotum in the Burdizzo and placed Mr.  Ripley's fingers round the
handles.

"Right,"I said.  "Off you go."

The farmer took a long breath, braced himself and began to exert
pressure on the metal arms.  Nothing happened.

I stood there for several minutes as his face turned red then purple,
his eyes protruded even further than mine and the veins on his forehead
stood out in livid ridges.  Finally he gave a groan and dropped to his
knees.

"Nay, lad, nay, it's no good, I can't do it."

He got to his feet slowly and mopped his brow.

"But Mr.  Ripley."  I put a hand on his shoulder and smiled kindly at
him  "You expect me to do it."

He nodded dumbly.

"Ah well, never mind," I said.  "You understand now what ii

I've been talking about.  This is an easy little job made difficult by
leaving it until the beasts are as big as this.  If you'd called me out
when they were calves of three months I'd have been on and off your
place in a few minutes, wouldn't I?"

"Aye, you would, Mr.  Herriot, you're right.  I've been daft and I'll
see it doesn't happen again."

I felt really clever.  I don't often have moments of inspiration but
the conviction swelled in me that one of them had come to me today.  I
had finally got through to Mr.  Ripley.

The feeling of exhilaration gave me added strength and I finished the
job effortlessly.  As I walked to the car I positively glowed and my
self-satisfaction deepened when the farmer bent to the window as I
started the engine.

"Well, thank ye, Mr.  Herriot," he said.  "You've taught me sum mat
this mornin'.  Next time ye come I'll have a nice new gate for ye and
I'll never ask ye to nip big beasts like that again.  Ah guarantee
it."

All that had happened a long time ago, before the RAF, and I was now in
the process of reinserting myself into civilian life, tasting the old
things which I had almost forgotten.  But at the moment when the phone
rang I was tasting something very near to my heart Helen's cooking.

It was Sunday lunchtime, when the traditional roast beef and Yorkshire
pudding was served.  My wife had just dropped a slab of the pudding on
my plate and was pouring gravy over it, a rich brown flood with the
soul of the meat in it and an aroma to dream of.  I was starving after
a typical country vet's Sunday morning of rushing round the farms and I
was thinking, as I often did, that if I had some foreign gourmet to
impress with the choicest sample of our British food then this is what
I would give him.

A great chunk of Yorkshire pud and gravy was the expedient of the
thrifty farmers to fill their families' stomachs before the real meal
started Them as eats most puddin' gets most meat," was the wily
encouragement but it was heaven.  And as I chewed my first forkful I
was happy in the knowledge that when I had cleared my plate Helen would
fill it again with the beef itself and with potatoes, peas and runner
beans gathered from our garden that morning.

The shrilling phone cut cruelly into my reverie but I told myself that
nothing was going to spoil this meal.  The most urgent job in
veterinary practice could wait until I had finished.

But my hand shook as I lifted the receiver and a mixture of anxiety and
disbelief flowed through me as I heard the voice at the other end.  It
was Mr.  Ripley.  Oh please, no, not that long long trek to Anson Hall
on a Sunday.

The farmer's voice thundered in my ear.  He was one of the many who
still thought you had to bawl lustily to cover the miles between.

"Isthatvitnery?"

"Yes, Herriot speaking."

"Oh, you're back from t'war, then?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, ah want ye out here right away.  One of me cows is right bad."

"What's the trouble?  Is it urgent?"

"Aye, it is!  I think she's maybe broke 'er leg!"

I held the ear-piece away from me.  Mr.  Ripley had increased his
volume and my head was beginning to ring.  "What makes you think that?"
I asked, suddenly dry-mouthed.

"Well, she's on three legs," the farmer blasted back at me.  "And
tother's sort of hangin', like."

Oh God, that sounded horribly significant.  I looked sadly across the
room at my loaded plate.  "All right, Mr.  Ripley, I'll be along."

"You'll come straight away, won't ye?  Right now?"  the voice was an
importunate roar.

"Yes, I'll come straight away."  I put down the receiver, rubbed my ear
and turned to my wife.

Helen looked up from the table with the stricken face of a woman who
can visualise her Yorkshire pudding sagging into lifeless ruin.  "Oh
surely you don't have to go this minute?"

"I'm sorry, Helen, this is one of those things I can't leave."  I

could picture only too easily the injured animal plunging around in her
agony, perhaps compounding the fracture.  "And the man sounds
desperate.  I've just got to go."

My wife's lips trembled.  "All right, I'll put it in the oven till you
come back."

As I left I saw her carrying the plate away.  We both knew it was the
end.  No Yorkshire pud could survive a visit to Anson Hall.

I increased my speed as I drove through Darrowby.  The cobbled market
place, sleeping in the sunshine, breathed its Sunday peace and
emptiness with all the inhabitants of the little town eating busily
behind closed doors.  Out in the country the dry-stone walls flashed by
as I kept my foot on the boards, and when I finally arrived at the
beginning of the farm track I had a sense of shock.

It was the first time I had been there since I left the service and I
suppose I had been expecting to find something different.  But the old
iron gate was just the same, except that it was even more rusty than
before.  With a growing feeling of doom I fought my way through the
other gates, untying the strings and shouldering the top spars round
until finally I came to number seven.

This last and most terrible of the gates was still there, and
unchanged.  It couldn't be true, I told myself as I almost tiptoed
towards it.  All sorts of things had happened to me since I last saw
it.  I had been away in a different world of marching and drilling and
learning navigation and finally flying an aeroplane, while this rickety
structure stood there unheeding.

I eyed it closely.  The loose-nailed wobbly timbers were as before, as
was the single-string hinge probably the same piece of string.  It was
unbelievable.  And then I noticed something different.  Mr.  Ripley,
apparently worried lest his livestock might rub against and damage the
ancient bastion had festooned the thing with barbed wire.

Maybe it had mellowed with time.  It couldn't be as vicious as before.
Gingerly I loosened the bottom string on the right-hand side, then with
infinite care I untied the bow at the top.  I was just thinking that it
was going to be easy when the binder twine fell away and the gate swung
with all its old venom on the left-hand string.

It got me on the chest first, then whacked against my legs, and this
time the steel barbs bit through my trousers.  Frantically I tried to
throw the thing away from me, but it pounded me high and low and when I
leaned back to protect my chest my legs slid from under me and I fell
on my back.  And as my shoulders hit the track, the gate, with a soft
woody crunch, fell on top of me.

I had been nearly underneath this gate several times in the past and
had got clear at the last moment, but this time it had really happened.
I tried to wriggle out, but the barbed wire had my clothing in its iron
grip.  I was trapped.

I craned desperately over the timbers.  The farm was only fifty yards
away but there was not a soul in sight.  And that was a funny thing
where was the anxious farmer?  I had expected to find him pacing up and
down the yard, wringing his hands, but the place seemed deserted.

I dallied with the idea of shouting for help, but that would have been
just too absurd.  There was nothing else for it.  I seized the top rail
in both hands and pushed upwards, trying to close my ears to the
tearing sounds from my garments, then, very slowly, I eased my way to
safety.

I left the gate lying where it was.  Normally I meticulously close all
gates behind me but there were no cattle in the fields and anyway I had
had enough of this one.

I rapped sharply at the farmhouse door and Mrs.  Ripley answered.

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot, it's grand weather," she said.  Her carefree
smile reminded me of her husband's as she wiped at a dinner plate and
adjusted the apron around her ample midriff.

"Yes ... yes ... it is.  I've called to see your cow.  Is your husband
in?"

She shook her head.  "Nay 'e hasn't got back from t'Fox and Hounds
yet."

"What!"  I stared at her.  "That's the pub at Diverton, isn't it?  I
thought he had an urgent case for me to see."

"Aye, well, he had to go across there to ring ye up.  We haven't no
telephone here, ye know."  Her smile widened.

"But but that was nearly an hour since.  He should have been back here
long ago."

"That's right," she said, nodding with perfect understanding.  "But
he'll 'ave met some of his pals up there.  They all get into t'Fox and
Hounds on a Sunday mornin'."

I churned my hair around.  "Mrs.  Ripley, I've left my meal lying on
the table so that I could get here immediately!"

"Oh, we've 'ad ours," she replied as though the words would be a
comfort to me.  And she didn't have to tell me.  The rich scent
drifting from the kitchen was unmistakably roast beef, and there was no
doubt at all that it would have been preceded by Yorkshire pudding.

I didn't say anything for a few moments, then I took a deep breath.
"Well, maybe I can see the cow.  Where is she, please?"

Mrs.  Ripley pointed to a box at the far end of the yard.

"She's in there."  As I set off across the cobbles she called after me.
"You can be lookin' at her till 'e gets back.  He won't be many
minutes."

I flinched as though a lash had fallen across my shoulders.  Those were
dreadful words.  "Not many minutes' was a common phrase in Yorkshire
and could mean anything up to two hours.

I opened the half door and looked into the box at the cow.  She was
very lame, but when I approached her she hopped around in the straw,
dotting the injured limb on the ground.

Well, she hadn't a broken leg.  She couldn't take her weight on it but
there was none of the typical dangling of the limb.  I felt a surge of
relief.  In a big animal, a fracture usually meant the humane killer
because no number of plaster bandages could take the strain.  The
trouble seemed to be in her foot but I couldn't catch her to find out.
I'd have to wait for Mr.  Ripley.

I went out into the afternoon sunshine and gazed over the gently rising
fields to the church tower of Diverton pushing from the trees.  There
was no sign of the farmer and I

walked wearily beyond the buildings on to the grass to await his
coming.

I looked back at the house and even through my exasperation I felt a
sense of peace.  Like many of the older farms, Anson Hall had once been
a noble manor.  Hundreds of years ago some person of title had built
his dwelling in a beautiful place.  The roof looked ready to fall in
and one of the tall chimney stacks leaned drunkenly to one side, but
the mullioned windows, the graceful arched doorway and the stately
proportions of the building were a delight, with the pastures beyond
stretching towards the green fells.

And that garden wall.  In its former glory the sun-warmed stones would
have enclosed a cropped lawn with bright flowers but now there were
only nettles.  Those nettles fascinated me, a waist-high jungle filling
every inch of space between wall and house.  Farmers are notoriously
bad gardeners but Mr.  Ripley was in a class by himself.

My reverie was interrupted by a cry from the lady of the house.  "He's
comin', Mr.  Herriot.  I've just spotted 'im through the window."  She
came round to the front and pointed towards Diverton.

Her husband was indeed on his way, a black dot moving unhurriedly down
through the fields, and we watched him together for about fifteen
minutes until at last he squeezed himself through a gap in a wall and
came up to us, the smoke from his pipe rising around his ears.

I went straight into the attack.  "Mr.  Ripley, I've been waiting a
long time!  You asked me to come straight away!"

"Aye, ah knaw, ah knaw, but I couldn't very well ask to use t'phone
without havin' a pint, could I?"  He put his head on one side and
beamed at me, secure in his unanswerable logic.

I was about to speak when he went on.  "And then Dick Henderson bought
me one, so I had to buy 'im one back, and then I was just leaving' when
Bobby Talbot started on about them pigs he got from me last week."

His wife chipped in with bright curiosity.  "Eee, that Bobby Talbot!
Was he there this mornin', too?  He's never away from t'pub, that
feller.  I don't know how his missus puts up with it."

"Aye, Bobby was there all right.  He all us is."  Mr.  Ripley smiled
gently, knocked his pipe out against his heel and began to refill it.
"And ah'll tell you who else ah saw Dan Thompson.  Haven't seen 'im
since his operation.  By gaw it has fleeced him he's lost a bit
o'ground.  Looks as though a few pints would do 'imgood."

"Dan, eh?"  Mrs.  Ripley said eagerly.  That's good news, any road.
From what I heard they thought he'd never come out of t'hospital."

"Excuse me," I broke in.

"Nay, nay, that was just talk," Mr.  Ripley continued.  "It was nob but
a stone in t'kidney.  Dan'll be all right.  He was tellin' me

>

I held up a hand, "Mr.  Ripley, can I please see this cow?  I haven't
had my lunch yet.  My wife put it back in the oven when you phoned."

"Oh, I 'ad mine afore I went up there."  He gave me a reassuring smile
and his wife nodded and laughed to put my mind fully at rest.

"Well, that's splendid," I said frigidly.  "I'm glad to hear that." But
I could see that they took me at my word.  The sarcasm was lost on
them.

In the loose-box Mr.  Ripley haltered the cow and I lifted the foot.
Cradling it on my knee I scraped away the caked muck with a hoof knife
and there, glinting dully as the sunshine slanted in at the door, was
the cause of the trouble.  I seized the metal stud with forceps,
dragged it from the foot and held it up.

The farmer blinked at it for a few seconds, then his shoulders began to
shake gently.  "One of me own hobnails.  Heh, heh, heh.  Well, that's a
rum 'un.  Ah must've knocked it out on t'cobbles, they're right
slippery over there.  Once or twice I've nearly gone arse-over-tip.  I
was sayin' to t'missus just tother day..."

"I really must get on, Mr.  Ripley," I interposed.  "Remember I still
haven't had my lunch.  I'll just slip out to the car for an
anti-tetanus injection for the cow."

I gave her the shot, dropped the syringe into my pocket and was on my
way across the yard when the farmer called after me.

"Have ye got your nippers with ye, Mr.  Herriot?"

"Nippers .. . ?"  I halted and looked back at him.  I couldn't believe
this.  "Well, yes, I have, but surely you don't want to start
castrating calves now?"

The farmer flicked an ancient brass lighter and applied a long sheet of
flame to the bowl of his pipe.  There's nob but one, Mr.  Herriot.
Won't take a minute."

Ah well, I thought, as I opened the boot and fished out the Burdizzo
from its resting place on my calving overall.  It didn't really matter
now.  My Yorkshire pudding was a write-off, a dried-up husk by now, and
the beef and those gorgeous fresh vegetables would be almost cremated.
All was lost, and nipping a calf wasn't going to make any difference.

As I turned back, a pair of double doors at the end of the yard burst
open and an enormous black animal galloped out and stood looking around
him warily in the bright sunshine, pawing the ground and swishing his
tail bad-temperedly.  I stared at the spreading horns, the great hump
of muscle on the shoulder and the coldly glittering eyes.  It only
needed a blast on a trumpet and sand instead of cobbles and I was in
the Plaza de Toros in Madrid.

"Is that the calf?"I asked.

The farmer nodded cheerfully.  "Aye, that's 'im.  I thowt ah'd better
run 'im over to the cow house so we could tie 'im up by the neck."

A wave of rage swept over me and for a moment I thought I was going to
start shouting at the man, then, strangely, I felt only a great
weariness.

I walked over to him, put my face close to his and spoke quietly.  "Mr.
Ripley, it's a long time since we met and you've had plenty of
opportunities to keep the promise you made me then.  Remember?  About
getting your calves nipped when they were little and about replacing
that gate?  Now look at that great bull and see what your gate has done
to my clothes,"

The farmer gazed with genuine concern at the snags and tears in my
trousers and reached out to touch a gaping rent in my sleeve.

~"Eee, I'm right sorry about that."  He glanced at the bull.  "And I
reckon 'e is a bit big."

I didn't say anything and after a few moments the farmer threw up his
head and looked me in the eye, a picture of resolution.

"Aye, it's not right," he said.  "But ah'll tell ye sum mat  Just nip
this 'un today, and I'll see nowt of this ever happens again."

I wagged a finger at him.  "But you've said that before.  Do you really
mean it this time?"

He nodded vigorously.  "Ah'll guarantee it."

"Oooh .. . ooh-hoo-hooo!"  The broken-hearted sobbing jerked me into
full wakefulness.  It was I a.m. and after the familiar jangling of the
bedside phone I expected the gruff voice of a farmer with a calving
cow.  Instead, there was this terrible sound.

"Who is this?"  I asked a little breathlessly.  "What on earth is the
trouble?"

I heard a gulping at the other end and then a man's voice pleading
between sobs.  "It's Humphrey Cobb.  For God's sake come out and see
Myrtle.  I think she's dyin'."

"Myrtle?"

"Aye, me poor little dog.  She's in a 'ell of a state!  Oooh-hooo!"

The receiver trembled in my grasp.  "What is she doing?"

"Oh, pantin' and gaspin'.  I think it's nearly all over wither  Come
quick!"

"Where do you live?"

"Cedar House.  End of Hill Street."

"I know it.  I'll be there very soon."

"Oh, thank ye, thank ye.  Myrtle hasn't got long.  Hurry, hurry!"

I leaped from the bed and rushed at my clothes, draped over a chair
against the wall.  In my haste, in the darkness, I got both feet down
one leg of my working corduroys and crashed full length on the floor.

Helen was used to nocturnal calls and often she only half woke.  For my
part I always tried to avoid disturbing her by dressing without
switching on the light; there was always a glow from the night light we
kept burning on the landing for young Jimmy.

However, the system broke down this time.  The thud of my falling body
brought her into a sitting position.

"What is it, Jim?  What's happening?"

I struggled to my feet.  "It's all right, Helen, I just tripped over."
I snatched my shirt from the chair back.

"But what are you dashing about for?"

"Desperately urgent case.  I have to hurry."

"All right, Jim, but you won't get there any sooner by going on like
this.  Just calm down."

My wife was right, of course.  I have always envied those vets who can
stay relaxed under pressure.  But I wasn't made that way.

I galloped down the stairs and through the long back garden to the
garage.  Cedar House was only a mile away and I didn't have much time
to think about the case, but by the time I arrived I had pretty well
decided that an acute dys-pneoa like this would probably be caused by a
heart attack or some sudden allergy.

In answer to my ring the porch light flashed on and Humphrey Cobb stood
before me.  He was a little round man in his sixties and his
humpty-dumpty appearance was accentuated by his gleaming bald head.

"Oh, Mr.  Herriot, come in, come in," he cried brokenly as the tears
streamed down his cheeks.  "Thank ye for getting' out of your bed to
help me poor little Myrtle."

As he spoke, the blast of whisky fumes almost made my head spin and I
noticed that as he preceded me across the hall he staggered slightly.

My patient was lying in a basket by the side of an Aga cooker in a
large, well-appointed kitchen.  I felt a warm surge when I saw that she
was a beagle like my own dog, Sam.  I knelt down and looked at her
closely.  Her mouth was open and her tongue lolled, but she did not
seem to be in acute distress.  In fact, as I patted her head her tail
flapped against the blanket.

A heart-rending wail sounded in my ear.  "What dye make of her, Mr.
Herriot?  It's her heart, isn't it?  Oh, Myrtle, Myrtle!"  The little
man crouched over his pet and the tears flowed unchecked.

"You know, Mr.  Cobb," I said.  "She doesn't seem all that bad to me,
so don't upset yourself too much.  Just give me a chance to examine
her."

I placed my stethoscope over the ribs and listened to the steady
thudding of a superbly strong heart.  The temperature was normal and I
was palpating the abdomen when Mr.  Cobb broke in again.

"The trouble is', he gasped, "I neglect this poor little animal."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, ah've been all day at Catterick at the races, gamblin' and
drinkin' with never a thought for me dog."

"You left her alone all that time in the house?"

"Nay, nay, t'missus has been with her."

"Well, then."  I felt I was getting out of my depth.  "She would feed
Myrtle and let her out in the garden?"

"Oh aye," he said, wringing his hands.  "But I shouldn't leave 'er. She
thinks such a lot about me."

As he spoke, I could feel one side of my face tingling with heat.  My
problem was suddenly solved.

"You've got her too near the Aga," I said.  "She's panting because
she's uncomfortably hot."

He looked at me doubtfully.  "We just shifted 'er basket today.  We've
been getting' some new tiles put down on the floor."

"Right," I said.  "Shift it back again and she'll be fine."

"But Mr.  Herriot."  His lips began to tremble again.  "It's more than
that.  She's sufferin'.  Look at her eyes."

Myrtle had the lovely big liquid eyes of her breed and she knew how to
use them.  Many people think the spaniel is number one when it comes to
looking soulful but I personally plump for the beagle.  And Myrtle was
an expert.

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that, Mr.  Cobb," I said.  "Believe me,
she'll be all right."

He still seemed unhappy.  "But aren't ye going to do something?"

It was one of the great questions in veterinary practice.  If you
didn't 'do something' they were not satisfied.  And in this case Mr.
Cobb was in greater need of treatment than his pet.  Still, I wasn't
going to stick a needle into Myrtle just to please him, so I produced a
vitamin tablet from my bag and pushed it over the back of the little
animal's tongue.

"There you are," I said.  "I'm sure that will do her good."  And after
all, I thought, I wasn't a complete charlatan it wouldn't do her any
harm.

Mr.  Cobb relaxed visibly.  "Eee, that's champion.  You've set me mind
at rest."  He led the way into a luxurious drawing-room and tacked
unsteadily towards a cocktail cabinet.  "You'll 'ave a drink before you
go?"

"No really, thanks," I said.  "I'd rather not, if you don't mind."

"Well, I'll 'ave a drop.  Just to steady me nerves.  I was that upset."
He tipped a lavish measure of whisky into a glass and waved me to a
chair.

My bed was calling me, but I sat down and watched as he drank.  He told
me that he was a retired bookmaker from the West Riding and that he had
come to Darrowby only a month ago.  Although no longer directly
connected with horse racing he still loved the sport and never missed a
meeting in the north of England.

"I all us get a taxi to take me and I have a right good day."  His face
was radiant as he recalled the happy times, then for a moment his
cheeks quivered and his woebegone expression returned.

2?

"But I neglect me dog.  I leave her at home."

"Oh nonsense," I said.  "I've seen you out in the fields with Myrtle.
You give her plenty of exercise, don't you?"

"Oh aye, lots of walks every day."

"Well, then she really has a good life.  This is just a silly little
notion you've got."

He beamed at me and sloshed out another few fingers of whisky.

"Eee, you're a good lad.  Come on, you'll just have one before you
go."

"Oh, all right, just a small one, then."

As we drank he became more and more benign until he was gazing at me
with something like devotion.

"James Herriot," he slurred.  "I suppose it'll be Jim, eh?"

"Well, yes."

I'll call you Jim, then, and you can call me Humphrey."

"Okay, Humphrey," I said, and swallowed the last of my whisky.  "But I
really must go now."

Out in the street again he put a hand on my arm and his face became
serious again.  "Thank ye, Jim.  Myrtle was right bad tonight and I'm
grateful."

Driving away, I realised that I had failed to convince him that there
was nothing wrong with his dog.  He was sure I had saved her life.  It
had been an unusual visit and as my 2 a.m. whisky burned in my stomach
I decided that Humphrey Cobb was a very funny little man.  But I liked
him.

After that night I saw him quite frequently exercising Myrtle in the
fields.  With his almost spherical build he seemed to bounce over the
grass, but his manner was always self-contained and rational except
that he kept thanking me for pulling his dog back from the jaws of
death.

Then quite suddenly I was back at the beginning again.  It was shortly
after midnight and as I lifted the bedside phone I could hear the
distraught weeping before the receiver touched my ear.

"Oooh .. . oooh .. . Jim, Jim.  Myrtle's in a terrible bad way.  Will
ye come?"

"What..  what is it this time?"

"She's twitchin'."

"Twitching?"

"Aye, twitchin' sum mat terrible.  Oh, come on, Jim, lad, don't keep me
waiting.  I'm worried to death.  I'm sure she's got distemper."  He
broke down again.

My head began to reel.  "She can't have distemper, Humphrey.  Not in a
flash, like that."

"I'm beggin' you Jim," he went on as though he hadn't heard.  "Be a
pal.  Come and see Myrtle."

"All right," I said wearily.  I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Oh, you're a good lad, Jim, you're a good lad .. ."  The voice trailed
away as I replaced the phone.

I dressed at normal speed with none of the panic of the first time.  It
sounded like a repetition, but why after midnight again?  On my way to
Cedar House I decided it must be another false alarm- but you never
knew.

The same dizzying wave of whisky fumes enveloped me in the porch.
Humphrey, sniffling and moaning, fell against me once or twice as he
ushered me into the kitchen.  He pointed to the basket in the corner.

"There she is," he said, wiping his eyes.  Tve just got back from Ripon
and founder like this."

"Racing again, eh?"

"Aye, gamblin' on them 'osses and drinkin' and leavin' me poor dog
pining at home.  I'm a rotter, Jim, that's what I am."

"Rubbish, Humphrey!  I've told you before.  You're not doing her any
harm by having a day out.  Anyway, how about this twitching?  She looks
all right now."

"Yes, she's stopped doing it, but when I came in her back leg was goin'
like this."  He made a jerking movement with his hand.

I groaned inwardly.  "But she could have been scratching or flicking
away a fly."

"Nay, there's sum mat more than that.  I can tell she's sufferin'. 
Just look at them eyes."

I could see what he meant.  Myrtle's beagle eyes were pools of emotion
and it was easy to read a melting reproach in their depths.

With a feeling of futility I examined her.  I knew what I would find
nothing.  But when I tried to explain to the little man that his pet
was normal he wouldn't have it.

"Oh, you'll give her one of them wonderful tablets," he pleaded.  "It
cured her last time."

I felt I had to pacify him, so Myrtle received another instalment of
vitamins.

Humphrey was immensely relieved and weaved his way to the drawing-room
and the whisky bottle.

"I need a little pick-me-up after that shock," he said.  "You'll 'ave
one too, won't you, Jim lad?"

This pantomime was enacted frequently over the next few months, always
after race meetings and always between midnight and i a.m. I had ample
opportunity to analyse the situation and I came to a fairly obvious
conclusion.

Most of the time Humphrey was a normal conscientious pet owner, but
after a large intake of alcohol his affectionate feelings degenerated
into a glutinous sentimentality and guilt.  I invariably went out when
he called me because I knew that he would be deeply distressed if I
refused.  I was treating Humphrey, not Myrtle.

It amused me that not once did he accept my protestations that my visit
was unnecessary.  Each time he was sure that my magic tablets had saved
his dog's life.

Mind you, I did not discount the possibility that Myrtle was
deliberately working on him with those eyes.  The canine mind is quite
capable of disapproval.  I took my own dog almost everywhere with me
but if I left him at home to take Helen to the cinema he would lie
under our bed, sulking, and when he emerged, would studiously ignore us
for an hour or two.

I quailed when Humphrey told me he had decided to have Myrtle mated
because I knew that the ensuing pregnancy would be laden with
harassment for me.

That was how it turned out.  The little man flew into a series of
alcoholic panics, all of them unfounded, and he discovered imaginary
symptoms in Myrtle at regular intervals throughout the nine weeks.

2t>

I was vastly relieved when she gave birth to five healthy pups.  Now, I
thought, I would get some peace.  The fact was that I was just about
tired of Humphrey's nocturnal nonsense.  I have always made a point of
never refusing to turn out at night but Humphrey had stretched this
principle to breaking point.  One of these times he would have to be
told.

The crunch came when the pups were a few weeks old.  I had had a
terrible day, starting with a prolapsed uterus in a cow at 5 a.m. and
progressing through hours of road-slogging, missed meals and a
late-night wrestle with Ministry forms, some of which I suspected I had
filled up wrongly.

My clerical incompetence has always infuriated me and when I crawled,
dog tired, into bed my mind was still buzzing with frustration.  I lay
for a long time trying to put those forms away from me, and it was well
after midnight when I fell asleep.

I have always had a silly fancy that our practice knows when I
desperately want a full night's sleep.  It knows and gleefully steps
in.  When the phone exploded in my ear I wasn't really surprised.

As I stretched a weary hand to the receiver the luminous dial of the
alarm clock read 1.15 a.m. "Hello,"I grunted.

"Oooh..  . ooh..  . oooh!"  The reply was only too familiar.  I
clenched my teeth.  This was just what I needed.  "Humphrey!  What is
it this time?"

"Oh Jim, Myrtle's really dyin', I know she is.  Come quick, lad, come
quick!"

"Dying?"  I took a couple of rasping breaths.  "How do you make that
out?"

"Well..  she's stretched out on'er side, tremblin'."

"Anything else?"

"Aye, t'missus said Myrtle's been looking worried and walkin' stiff
when she let her out in the garden this afternoon.  I'm not long back
from Redcar, ye see?"

"So you've been to the races, eh?"

"That's right..  . neglectin' me dog.  I'm a scamp, nothing but a
scamp."

I closed my eyes in the darkness.  There was no end to Humphrey's
imaginary symptoms.  Trembling, this time, looking worried, walking
stiff.  We'd had panting and twitching and head-nodding and ear-shaking
what would it be next?

But enough was enough.  "Look, Humphrey," I said.  "There's nothing
wrong with your dog.  I've told you again and again... ."

"Oh, Jim, lad, don't be long.  Oooh-hooo!"

"I'm not coming, Humphrey."

"Nay, nay, don't say that!  She's goin' fast, I tell ye!"

"I really mean it.  It's just wasting my time and your money, so go to
bed.  Myrtle will be fine."

As I lay quivering between the sheets I realised that refusing to go
out was an exhausting business.  There was no doubt in my mind that it
would have taken less out of me to get up and attend another charade at
Cedar House than to say 'no' for the first time in my life.  But this
couldn't go on.  I had to make a stand.

I was till tormented by remorse when I fell into an uneasy slumber and
it is a good thing that the subconscious mind works on during sleep,
because with the alarm clock reading 2:30 a.m. Icame suddenly wide
awake

"My God!"  I cried, staring at the dark ceiling.  "Myrtle's got
eclampsia!"

I scrambled from the bed and began to throw on my clothes.  I must have
made some commotion because I heard Helen's sleepy voice.  "What is it?
What's the matter?"  "Humphrey Cobb!"  I gasped, tying a shoe lace.
"Humphrey .. . but you said there was never any hurry

>

"There is this time.  His dog's dying."  I glared again at the clock.
"In fact she could be dead now."  I lifted my tie, then hurled it back
on the chair.  "Damn it!  I don't need that!"  I fled from the room.

Down the long garden and into the car with my brain spelling out the
concise case history which Humphrey had

2%

given me.  Small bitch nursing five puppies, signs of anxiety and stiff
gait this afternoon and now prostrate and trembling.  Classical
puerperal eclampsia.  Rapidly fatal without treatment.  And it was
nearly an hour and a half since he had phoned.  I couldn't bear to
think about it.

Humphrey was still up.  He had obviously been consoling himself with
the bottle because he could barely stand.

"You've come, Jim lad," he mumbled, blinking at me.

"Yes, how is she?"

"Justt'same.."

Clutching my calcium and my intravenous syringe I rushed past him into
the kitchen.

Myrtle's sleek body was extended in a tetanic spasm.  She was gasping
for breath, quivering violently, and bubbles of saliva dripped from her
mouth.  Those eyes had lost their softness and were fixed in a frantic
stare.  She looked terrible, but she was alive..  . she was alive.

I lifted the squealing pups on to a rug nearby and quickly clipped and
swabbed the area over the radial vein.  I inserted the needle into the
blood vessel and began to depress the plunger with infinite care and
very slowly.  Calcium was the cure for this condition but a quick blast
would surely kill the patient.

I took several minutes to empty the syringe then sat back on my heels
and watched.  Some of these cases needed narcotics as well as calcium
and I had nembutal and morphine ready to hand.  But as the time passed
Myrtle's breathing slowed down and the rigid muscles began to relax.
When she started to swallow her saliva and look round at me I knew she
would live.

I was waiting for the last tremors to disappear from her limbs when I
felt a tap on my shoulder.  Humphrey was standing there with the whisky
bottle in his hand.

"You'll 'ave one, won't you, Jim?"

I didn't need much persuading.  The knowledge that I had almost been
responsible for Myrtle's death had thrown me into a mild degree of
shock.

My hand was still shaking as I raised the glass and I had barely taken
the first sip when the little animal got up from the basket and walked
over to inspect her pups.  Some eclampsias were slow to respond but
others were spectacularly quick and I was grateful for the sake of my
nervous system that this was one of the quick ones.

In fact the recovery was almost uncanny because, after sniffing her
family over, Myrtle walked across the table to greet me.  Her eyes
brimmed with friendliness and her tail waved high in the true beagle
fashion.

I was stroking her ears when Humphrey broke into a throaty giggle.

"You know, Jim, I've learned sum mat tonight."  His voice was a slow
drawl but he was still in possession of his wits.  "What's that,
Humphrey?"

"I've learned .. . hee-hee-hee .. . I've learned what a silly feller
I've been all these months."  "How do you mean?"

He raised a forefinger and wagged it sagely.  "Well, you've all us been
tellin' me that I got you out of your bed for nothing and I was
imagining things when I thought me dog was ill."  "Yes," I said.
"That's right."

And I never believed you, did I?  I wouldn't be told.  Well, now I know
you were right all the time.  I've been nob but a fool and I'm right
sorry for botherin' you all those nights."  "Oh, I shouldn't worry
about that, Humphrey."  "Aye, but it's not right."  He waved a hand
towards his bright-faced, tail-wagging little dog.  "Just look at her.
Anybody can see there was never anythin' wrong with xMyrtle tonight."

The high moorland road was unfenced and my car wheels ran easily from
the strip of tarmac on to the turf cropped to a velvet closeness by the
sheep.  I stopped the engine, got out and looked around me.

The road cut cleanly through the grass and heather before dipping into
the valley beyond.  This was one of the good places where I could see
into two dales, the one I had left and the one in front.  The whole
land was spread beneath me; the soft fields in the valley floors, the
grazing cattle, and the rivers, pebbled at their edges in places,
thickly fringed with trees at others.

The brilliant green of the walled pastures pushed up the sides of the
fells until the heather and the harsh moor grass began, and only the
endless pattern of walls was left climbing to the mottled summits,
disappearing over the bare ridges which marked the beginning of the
wild country.

I leaned back against the car and the wind blew the cold sweet air
around me.  I had been only a few weeks back in civilian life, and
during my time in RAF blue I had thought constantly of Yorkshire, but I
had forgotten how beautiful it was.  Just thinking from afar could not
evoke the peace, the solitude, the sense of the nearness of the wild
which makes the Dales thrilling and comforting at the same time.  Among
the crowds of men and the drabness and stale air of the towns I could
not really imagine a place where I could be quite alone on the wide
green roof of England, and where every breath was filled with the grass
scent.

I had had a disturbing morning.  Everywhere I had gone I was reminded
that I had come back to a world of change, and I did not like change.
One old farmer saying, "It's all t'needle now, Mr.  Herriot' as I
injected his cow, had made me look down almost with surprise at the
syringe in my hand, realising suddenly that this was what I was doing
most of the time now.

I knew what he meant.  Only a few years ago I would have

3'

been more likely to have 'drenched' his cow.  Grabbed it by the nose
and poured a pint of medicine down its throat.

We still carried a special drenching bottle around with us.  An empty
wine bottle because it had no shoulders and allowed the liquid to run
more easily.  Often we would mix the medicine with black treacle from
the barrel which stood in the corner of most cow byres.

All this was disappearing and the farmer's remark about 'all t'needle'
brought it home to me once more that things were never going to be the
same again.

A revolution had begun in agriculture and in veterinary practice.
Farming had become more scientific and concepts cherished for
generations were being abandoned, while in the veterinary world the
first trickles of the flood of new advances were being felt.

Previously undreamed-of surgical procedures were being carried out, the
sulpha drugs were going full blast and, most exciting of all, the war,
with its urgent need for better treatment of wounds had given a
tremendous impetus to the development of Sir Alexander Fleming's
discovery of penicillin.  This, the first of the antibiotics, was not
yet in the hands of the profession except in the form of intra-mammary
tubes for the treatment of mastitis, but it was the advance guard of
the therapeutic army which was to sweep our old treatments into
oblivion.

There were signs, too, that the small farmer was on the way out.  These
men, some with only six cows, a few pigs and poultry, still made up
most of our practice and were the truly rich characters, but they were
beginning to wonder if they could make a living on this scale and one
or two had sold out to the bigger men.  In our practice now, in the
eighties, there are virtually no small farmers left.  I can think of
only a handful.  Old men doggedly doing the things they have always
done for the sole reason that they have always done it.  They are the
last remnants of the men I cherished, living by the ancient values,
speaking the old Yorkshire dialect which television and radio have
almost extinguished.

I took a last long breath and got into my car.  The uncomfortable
feeling of change was still with me, but I looked through the window at
the great fells thrusting their bald summits into the clouds, tier upon
tier of them, timeless, indestructible, towering over the glories
beneath, and I felt better immediately.  The Dales had not changed at
all.

I did one more call, then drove back to Skeldale House to see if there
were any more visits before lunch.

All was new here, too.  My partner, Siegfried, had married and was
living a few miles outside Darrowby, and Helen and I with our little
son, Jimmy, were installed in the practice headquarters.  When I got
out of the car I gazed up at the ivy climbing over the mellow brick to
the little rooms which looked out from under the tiles to the hills.
Helen and I had started our married life in those rooms, but now we had
the run of the whole house.  It was too big for us, of course, but we
were happy to be there because we both loved the old place with its
spaciousness and its Georgian elegance.

The house looked much the same as when I had first seen it those years
ago.  The only difference was that they had taken the iron railings
away for scrap metal during the war and our plates were now hanging on
the wall.

Helen and I slept in the big room which I occupied in my bachelor days
and Jimmy was in the dressing-room where Siegfried's student brother,
Tristan, used to rest his head.  Tristan, alas, had left us.  When the
war ended he was Captain Farnon of the Royal Army Veterinary Corps.  He
married and joined the Ministry of Agriculture as an Infertility
Investigation Officer.  He left a sad gap in our lives, but fortunately
we still saw him and his wife regularly.

I opened the front door and in the passage the fragrance of pulv aromat
was strong.  It was the aromatic powder which we mixed with our
medicaments and it had an excitement for me.  It always seemed to be
hanging about the house; it was the smell of our trade.

Halfway along the passage I passed the doorway to the long high-walled
garden and turned in to the dispensary.  This was a room whose
significance was already on the wane.  The rows of beautifully shaped
glass bottles with their Latin titles

L.G.M.T.A.-B

engraved on them looked down at me.  Spiritus Aetheris Nitrosi, Liquor
Ammonii Acetatis Fonts, Potassii Nitras, Sodii Salicylas.  Noble names.
My head was stuffed with hundreds of them, their properties, actions
and uses, and their dosage in horse, ox, sheep, pig, dog and cat.  But
soon I would have to forget them all and concern myself only with how
much of the latest antibiotic or steroid to administer.

Some years were to pass before the steroids arrived on the scene but
they, too, would bring another little revolution in their wake.

As I left the dispensary I almost bumped into Siegfried.  He was
storming along the passage and he grabbed my arm in an agitated
manner.

"Ah, James, just the man I was looking for!  I've had the most ghastly
time this morning.  I knocked the exhaust off my car going up that
bloody awful track to High Liston and now I'm without transport.
They've sent for a new exhaust but until it arrives and they get it
fitted I'm stuck.  It's maddening!"

"That's all right, Siegfried.  I'll do your calls."  "No, no, James,
it's kind of you, but don't you see, this sort of thing is going to
happen again and again.  That's what I wanted to talk to you about.  We
need a spare car."

"A spare?"

"That's right.  Doesn't have to be a Rolls Royce.  Just something to
fall back upon at a time like this.  As a matter of fact I rang Hammond
at the garage to bring round something suitable for us to look at.  I
think I can hear him outside now."

My partner was always one for instant action and I followed him to the
front door.  Mr.  Hammond was there with the vehicle for our
inspection.  It was a 1933 Morris Oxford and Siegfried trotted down the
steps towards it.

"A hundred pounds, you said, eh, Mr.  Hammond?"  He walked around the
car a couple of times, picking off pieces of rust from the black
paintwork, opening the doors and peering at the upholstery.  "Ah well,
it's seen better days, but the appearance doesn't matter as long as it
goes all right."

"It's a sound little job, Mr.  Farnon," the garage proprietor said.
"Re-bored 2,000 miles ago and don't use hardly any oil.  New battery
and a good bit o' tread on the tyres."  He adjusted the spectacles on
his long nose, drew his thin frame upright and adopted a business-like
expression.

"Mmmm."  Siegfried shook the rear bumper with his foot and the old
springs groaned.  "How about the brakes?  Important in this hilly
country."

"They're champion, Mr.  Farnon.  First rate."

My colleague nodded slowly.  "Good, good.  You don't mind if I drive
her round the block, do you?"

"Nay, nay, of course not," Mr.  Hammond replied.  "Give 'er any trial
you like."  He was a man who prided himself on his imperturbability and
he dropped confidently into the passenger seat as Siegfried took the
wheel.

"Hop in the back, James!"  my partner cried.  I opened the rear door
and took my place behind Mr.  Hammond in the musty interior.

Siegfried took off abruptly with a roaring and creaking from the old
vehicle and despite the garage man's outward calm I saw the back of his
shirt collar rise a couple of inches above his blue serge jacket as we
shot along Trengate.

The collar subsided a little when Siegfried slowed down at the church
to make a left turn but reappeared spasmodically as we negotiated a
series of sharp and narrow bends at top speed.

When we reached the long straight lane which runs parallel to Trengate
Mr.  Hammond appeared to relax, but when Siegfried put his foot on the
boards and sent the birds squawking from the overhanging branches as he
thundered beneath them, I saw the collar again.

When we reached the end of the lane Siegfried came almost to a halt as
he turned left.

"I think we'll test the brakes, Mr.  Hammond," he said cheerfully, and
hurled the car suddenly along the home straight for Trengate.  He
really meant to carry out a thorough test.  The roar of the ancient
engine rose to a scream and as the street approached with frightening
rapidity the collar reappeared, then the shirt.

When Siegfried stood on the brakes the car slewed violently to the
right and as we catapulted crabwise into Trengate, Mr.  Hammond's head
was jammed against the roof and his entire shirt-back was exposed. When
we came to a halt he slid slowly back into his seat and the jacket took
over again.  At no time had he spoken or, apart from his up-and-down
movements, shown any emotion.

At the front door of the surgery we got out and my colleague rubbed his
chin doubtfully.  "She does pull a little to the right on braking, Mr.
Hammond.  I think we'd need to have that rectified.  Or perhaps you
have another vehicle available?"

The garage man did not answer for a few moments.  His spectacles were
askew and he was very pale.  "Aye .. . aye .. ."  he said shakily.  "I
'ave another little job over there.  It might suit you."

"Capital' Siegfried rubbed his hands.  "Perhaps you'd bring it along
after lunch and we can have a spin round to try it."

Mr.  Hammond's eyes widened and he swallowed a few times.  "Right..  .
right, Mr.  Farnon.  But I'm goin' to be busy this afternoon.  I'll
send one of me men."

We bade him goodbye and went back into the house.  Walking along the
passage my partner put an arm across my shoulders.  "Well, James,
another step towards increasing the efficiency of the practice.
Anyway," he smiled and whistled a few cheerful bars, "I rather enjoy
these little interludes."

Suddenly I began to feel good.  So many things were new and different
but the Dales hadn't changed, and Siegfried hadn't changed either.

"A voyage to Russia!"  I stared at John Crooks.

Siegfried and I worked alone in the practice during the immediate
post-war years and this book is about that period.  In 1951 John Crooks
came to us as assistant and three years later left to set up his own
practice in Beverley.  Before he departed he paid us the charming
compliment of 'filling' a bottle with the air from Skeldale House to be
released in his new surgery with the object of transferring some of our
atmosphere.  Sometime in the future I shall write about John's spell in
Darrowby, but at the moment I should like to jump forward in time to
1961 in order to interpolate some extracts from the journal I kept of
my Russian adventure.

John was behind it.  Although he no longer worked for us he came back
often as a friend and had been describing some of his experiences in
exporting animals from Hull.  He often sailed with these animals as
veterinary attendant, but it was the Russian thing which caught my
imagination.

"That must have been very interesting," I said.

John smiled.  "Oh yes, fascinating.  I've been out there several times
now and it's the real Russia with the lid off, not a tour of the show
places they want you to see.  You get a glimpse of the country through
the eyes of a seaman and you meet the ordinary Russians, the commercial
people, the workers."

"Sounds great!"

"And you get paid for it, too," John went on.  That makes it even
better."

I sighed.  "You're a lucky beggar.  And these jobs come up pretty
regularly?"

"Yes, they do."  He looked at me closely and I suppose my expression
must have been wistful.  "Would you like to have a go some time?"

"Do you mean it?"

"Of course," he said.  "Just say the word and you can sail on the next
one.  That'll be some time around the end of October," i. I thumped my
fist into my palm.  "Book me in, John.  It's really kind of you.
Country vetting is fine but sometimes I feel I'm sliding into a rut.  A
trip to Russia is just what I need."  "Well, that's grand."  John stood
up and prepared to leave.  I'll let you know the details later but I
believe you'll be sailing with a cargo of valuable sheep breeding
animals.  The insurance company is bound to insist on veterinary
supervision."

For weeks I went around in a fever of anticipation but there were many
people who didn't share my enthusiasm.

One cowman cocked an eye at me.  "Ah wouldn't go there for a bloody big
clock," he said.  "One wrong word and you'll find yourself in t'nick
for a long long time."

He had a definite point.  East-west relations were at one of their
lowest ebbs at that time and I grew used to my clients making it clear
that Russia was one place they would avoid.  In fact when I told
Colonel Smallwood about it while I was tuberculin testing his cattle a
few days before I left, he raised his eyebrows and gave me a cold
stare.

"Nice to have known you," he murmured.

But I have seafarers' blood in my veins going back several generations
and I felt only happy expectation.

October 28,1961

The first day has come and gone.  When I walked on to the quay side at
Hull I saw our ship right in front of me.  She was Danish, the Iris
Clausen, of 300 tons and my first sensation was of mild shock that she
was so small.  I had cherished a mental picture of a substantial vessel
for such a vovage.

When I first saw her at the dockside only the bows ana a portion of
deck were visible.  This part looked tiny and a high superstructure
obscured what I surmised must be the greater part of the ship.  I
walked along past this superstructure and experienced a moment of
disquiet.  I found that the ship ended right there.  There just wasn't
any more.

To my untutored eyes the Iris Clausen looked like a toy oil tanker and
it was difficult to imagine her crossing an ocean or weathering a
storm.  The cargo of sheep had just been loaded and the decks were
littered with straw.  When I went into the little mess room I saw the
captain, who was called Rasmussen, sitting at the head of the table
around which were grouped representatives of the export company and two
Russian veterinary surgeons who had been inspecting the sheep.  The
table itself was heavily laden with a wonderful variety of Danish open
sandwiches, beer, whisky, schnapps and other drinks, and with mountains
of forms which everybody was furiously signing.

One of the Russians, a bespectacled little man, apparently realised who
I was, because he came up and with a smile said, "Veterinary Surgeon'
and shook my hand warmly.  His colleague, tall and gaunt, was
painstakingly going through the forms and saying nothing.

The chief man from the export people informed me that not only was I to
be the medical attendant to the 383 pedigree Romney Marsh and Lincoln
sheep we were carrying but I had also to deal with the Russians at our
port of destination, Klaipeda.  I had to bring back five acceptance
forms signed by the Russians and myself, otherwise the company would
not get paid.

"How much are the sheep worth?"  I asked.

The export man's mouth twitched up at one corner.  Twenty thousand
pounds."

My stomach lurched.  It was a fortune.  This was a responsibility I
hadn't foreseen.

When the crowd had cleared, Captain Rasmussen and I were left alone in
the room.  He introduced himself charmingly and I was immediately
attracted by his gentle manner.  He was smallish, silver-haired and
spoke excellent English.

He waved me to the chair by his side.  "Sit down, Mr.  Herriot, and let
us talk."

We spoke about our families, then about the job in hand.

"This is a motor ship," said the captain.  "Built for the sole purpose
of transporting animals.  There are two decks below with pens for the
sheep.  Perhaps you would like to see your charges?"

As we left the mess room I noticed that the captain was limping
slightly.  He smiled as he saw me looking down at his feet.

"Yes, I broke my ankle a few months ago.  Fell down the steps from the
bridge to my cabin during a storm.  Silly of me."

I wondered if I would be doing any falling around over the next week or
so.  We walked around the sheep.  Beautiful animals, all of them, and
they were very comfortable, well bedded in straw and with lots of sweet
hay to eat.  The ventilation was just right and the atmosphere
pleasantly warm.

When I left the captain I was agreeably surprised at the first sight of
my cabin.  No doubt those on passenger liners were more sumptuous but
there was a bunk with spotless sheets and pillows, a desk, armchair and
sofa, a wash basin, fitted wardrobe, two cupboards and a lot of
drawers.  The whole place was done out in shining light oak.  I was
very impressed with my temporary home.

I opened my suitcase.  Only a tiny part of it was taken up by my
personal effects, the rest was filled with the things I thought I might
need.  My black PVC working coat, bottles of calcium, antibiotics and
steroids, scalpel, scissors, suture materials, bandages, cotton wool
and syringes.

I looked down thoughtfully at the limited array.  Would I find it too
meagre or would I not need any of it?  The following days would tell
me.

We took on the pilot at 8 p.m."  and at 9 p.m. I heard some activity
outside my window.  I looked out and saw two of the crew winching up
the anchor.

I went-up on deck to watch our departure.  The night was very dark and
the dockside was deserted.  A cat scurried through the light thrown by
a single street lamp but nothing else stirred.  Then our siren gave a
loud blast and I could see we were moving very slowly away from the
quay.  We glided through the narrow outlet of the dock, then began to
head quite swiftly towards the mouth of the Humber, two miles away.
40

As I stood on the deck I could see several other ships sailing out on
the evening tide, some quite close, cleaving through the water abreast
of us only a few hundred yards away, a graceful and thrilling sight.

Away behind, the lights of Hull receded rapidly and I was looking at
their faint glitter beyond the stretch of dark water when I felt a
touch on my arm.

It was a young sailor, and he grinned cheerfully as I turned round.

"Doctor," he said.  "You show me how to feed the sheeps?"

I must have looked puzzled because his grin widened as he explained.
"Many times I sail with cat ties and pigs but never with sheeps."

I understood and motioned him to lead on.  Like all the crew he was a
Dane, big, fair-haired, typically Nordic, and I followed his broad back
down to the animals' pens.  He listened intently as I gave him the
information about feeding and watering, especially about how much
concentrates to give.  I was particularly pleased to see that as well
as the fine-quality hay there was an abundance of a top-class brand of
sheep nuts in big paper sacks.

While he got on with his work I looked around at the animals who would
be under my care.  Most of them were Romney Marsh sheep and as the
engines throbbed and the deck vibrated under my feet I marvelled again
at their attractiveness.  They had great woolly heads like teddy bears
and their eyes, soft and incurious, looked back at me as they lay in
the straw or nibbled at their food.

Before I went to bed I had an irresistible urge to return to the upper
deck and look around.  I have sea captains among my uncles and a
great-grandfather who was a ship's pilot, and the sea has always had a
pull for me.  In the darkness I walked around the deck.  This wasn't
easy because there was only a narrow strip twenty-five yards long on
either side.

The moon had come out, casting a cold white brilliance on the water of
the river estuary.  Far on the starboard side a long row of lights
glimmered probably Grimsby.  On the port side, about three hundred
yards away, a ship sped silently through the night, keeping pace
exactly with us.  I watched her for a long time, but her positions
never varied and she was still with us when I came down to bed.

My cabin was now a place of shakes and shudders, of indefinable bumps
and rattles and groans.  As I wrote up my diary I knew for sure that we
were well out to sea because I was very much aware of the rolling of
the ship.

I had an experimental lie in my bunk and this was where the rolling was
most noticeable.  From side to side it went, side to side, over and
over again.  At one time there had been some talk of Helen coming with
me on this trip and I smiled to myself at the thought.  This wouldn't
suit her at all she soon becomes queasy sitting in the back of a car.
But to me the gentle motion was like the rocking of a cradle.  I knew I
should sleep well.

"Hello!  Hello!"I bellowed.

"Hello!  Hello!"  little Jimmy piped just behind me.

I turned and looked at my son.  He was four years old now and had been
coming on my rounds with me for over a year.  It was clear that he
considered himself a veteran of the farmyards, an old hand versed in
all aspects of agricultural lore.

This shouting was a common habit of mine.  When a vet arrived on a farm
it was often surprisingly difficult to find the farmer.  He might be a
dot on a tractor half a mile across the fields, on rare occasions he
might be in the house, but I always hoped to find him among the
buildings and relied on a few brisk shouts to locate him.

Certain farms in our practice were for no apparent reason distinctive
in that you could never find anybody around.  The house door would be
locked and we would scour the barns,

cow-houses and fold yards while our cries echoed back at us from the
unheeding walls.  Siegfried and I used to call them the 'no-finding'
places and they were responsible for a lot of wasted time.

Mimmy had caught on to the problem quite early and there was no doubt
he enjoyed the opportunity to exercise his lungs a bit.  I watched him
now as he strutted importantly over the cobbles, giving tongue every
few seconds.  He was also making an unnecessary amount of noise by
clattering on the rough stones with his new boots.

Those boots were his pride, the final recognition of his status as
veterinary assistant.  When I first began to take him round with me his
first reaction was the simple joy of a child at being able to see
animals of all kinds, particularly the young ones the lambs, foals,
piglets, calves and the thrill of discovery when he came upon a huddle
of kittens in the straw or found a bitch with pups in a loose box.

Before long, however, he began to enlarge his horizons.  He wanted to
get into the action.  The contents of my car boot were soon as familiar
to him as his toy box at home, and he delighted in handing out the tins
of stomach powder, the electuaries and red blisters, the white lotion
and the still-revered long cartons of Universal Cattle Medicine.
Finally he began to forestall me by rushing back to the car for calcium
and flutter valve as soon as he saw a recumbent cow.  He had become a
diagnostician as well.

I think the thing he enjoyed most was accompanying me on an evening
call, if Helen would allow him to postpone his bedtime.  He was in
heaven driving into the country in the darkness, training my torch on a
cow's teat while I stitched it.

The farmers were kind, as they always are with young people.  Even the
most uncommunicative would grunt, "Ah see you've got t'apprentice with
ye," as we got out of the car.

But those farmers had something which Jimmy coveted; their big
hob-nailed boots.  He had a great admiration for farmers in general;
strong hardy men who spent their lives in the open and who pushed
fearlessly among plunging packs of cattle and slapped the rumps of
massive cart-horses.  I could see he was deeply impressed as he watched
them quite often small and stringy mounting granary steps with twelve-
or sixteen-stone stacks on their shoulders, or hanging on effortlessly
to the noses of huge bullocks, their boots slithering over the floor, a
laconic cigarette hanging from their lips.

It was those boots which got under Jimmy's skin most of all.  Sturdy
and unyielding, they seemed to symbolise for him the characters of the
men who wore them.

Matters came to a head one day when we were conversing in the car.  Or
rather my son was doing the conversing in the form of a barrage of
questions which I did my best to fend off while trying to think about
my cases.  These questions went on pretty well nonstop every day, and
they followed a well-tried formula.

"What is the fastest train the Blue Peter or the Flying Scotsman?"

"Well now ... I really don't know.  I should say the Blue Peter."

Then, getting into deeper water.  "Is a giant train faster than a
phantom racing-car?"

That's a difficult one.  Let's see now .. . maybe the phantom racer."

Jimmy changed his tack suddenly.  That was a big man at the last farm
wasn't he?"

"He certainly was."

"Was he bigger than Mr.  Robinson?"

We were launching into his favourite 'big man' game and I knew how it
would end, but I played my part.  "Oh yes, he was."

"Was he bigger than Mr.  Leeming?"

"Certainly."

"Was he bigger than Mr.  Kirkley?"

"Without a doubt."

Jimmy gave me a sidelong glance and I knew he was about to play his two
trump cards.  "Was he bigger than the gas man?"

The towering gentleman who came to read the gas meters at Skeldale
House had always fascinated my son and I had to think very carefully
over my reply.

"Well, you know, I really think he was."

"Ah, but .. ."  The corner of Jimmy's mouth twitched up craftily.  "Was
he bigger than Mr.  Thackray?"

That was the killer punch.  Nobody was bigger than Mr.  Thackray who
looked down on the other inhabitants of Darrowby from six feet seven
inches.

I shrugged my shoulders in defeat.  "No, I have to admit it.  He wasn't
as big as Mr.  Thackray."

Jimmy smiled and nodded, well satisfied, then he began to hum a little
tune, drumming his fingers on the dashboard at the same time.  Soon I
could see he was having trouble.  He couldn't remember how it went.
Patience was not his strong point, and as he tried and stopped again
and again it was plain that he was rapidly becoming exasperated.

Finally, as we drove down a steep hill into a village and another
abortive session of tum-te-tum-te-tum came to an abrupt halt he rounded
on me aggressively.

"You know," he exploded, "I'm getting just about fed up of this!"

Tm sorry to hear that, old lad."  I thought for a moment.  "I think
it's "Lilliburlero" you're trying to get."  I gave a swift rendering.

"Yes, that's it!"  He slapped his knee and bawled out the melody at the
top of his voice several times in triumph.  This put him in such high
good humour that he broached something which must have been on his mind
for some time.

"Daddy," he said.  "Can I have some boots?"

"Boots?  But you've got some already, haven't you?"  I pointed down at
the little Wellingtons in which Helen always rigged him before he set
out for the farms.

He gazed at his feet sadly before replying.  "Yes, I know, but I want
proper boots like the farmers."

This was a facer.  I didn't know what to say.  "But Jim, little boys
like you don't have boots like that.  Maybe when you're bigger .. ."

"Oh, I want them now," he moaned in anguished tones.  "I want proper
boots."

At first I thought it was a passing whim but he kept up his campaign
for several days, reinforcing it with disgusted looks as Helen drew on
the Wellingtons each morning and a listless slouching to convey the
message that his footwear was entirely unsuitable for a man like him.

Finally Helen and I talked it over one night after he had gone to
bed.

"They surely don't have farm boots his size, do they?"  I asked.

Helen shook her head.  "I wouldn't have thought so, but I'll look
around in any case."

And it seemed that Jimmy wasn't the only little boy to have this idea
because within a week my wife returned flushed with success and bearing
the smallest pair of farm boots I had ever seen.

I couldn't help laughing.  They were so tiny, yet so perfect.  Thick,
hob-nailed soles, chunky uppers and a long row of lace-holes with metal
loops at the top.

Jimmy didn't laugh when he saw them.  He handled them almost with awe
and once he had got them on his demeanour changed.  He was naturally
square set and jaunty but to see him striding round a farmyard in
corduroy leggings and those boots you would think he owned the place.
He clumped and stamped, held himself very upright, and his cries of
"Hello!  Hello!"  took on a new authority.

It was never what I would call naughty certainly never destructive or
cruel but he had that bit of devil which I suppose all boys need to
have.  He liked to assert himself and perhaps unconsciously, he liked
to tease me.  If I said, "Don't touch that," he would keep clear of the
object in question but later would give it the merest brush with his
finger which could not be construed as disobedience but nevertheless
served to establish his influence in the household.

Also, he was not above taking advantage of me in awkward situations.
There was one afternoon when Mr.  Garrett brought his sheepdog in.  The
animal was very lame and as I

hoisted him on to the table in the consulting room a small head
appeared for a moment at the window which overlooked the sunlit
garden.

I didn't mind that.  Jimmy often watched me dealing with our small
animal patients and I half expected him to come into the room for a
closer look.

It is often difficult to locate the source of a dog's lameness but in
this case I found it immediately.  When I gently squeezed the outside
pad on his left foot he winced and a tiny bead of serum appeared on the
black surface.

"He's got something in there, Mr.  Garrett," I said.  "Probably a
thorn.  I'll have to give him a shot of local anaesthetic and open up
his pad."

It was when I was filling the syringe that a knee came into view at the
corner of the window.  I felt a pang of annoyance.  Jimmy surely
couldn't be climbing up the wist aria  It was dangerous and I had
expressly forbidden it.  The branches of the beautiful creeper curled
all over the back of the house and though they were as thick as a man's
leg near ground level they became quite slender as they made their way
up past the bathroom window to the tiles of the roof.

No, I decided that I was mistaken and began to infiltrate the pad.
These modern anaesthetics worked very quickly and within a minute or
two I could squeeze the area quite hard without causing pain.

I reached for the scalpel.  "Hold his leg up and keep it as steady as
you can," I said.

Mr.  Garrett nodded and pursed his lips.  He was a serious-faced man at
any time and obviously deeply concerned about his dog.  His eyes
narrowed in apprehension as I poised my knife over the telltale drop of
moisture.

For me it was an absorbing moment.  If I could find and remove this
foreign body the dog would be instantly rid of his pain.  I had dealt
with many of these cases in the past and they were so easy, so
satisfying.

With the point of my blade I made a careful nick in the tough tissue of
the pad and at that moment a shadow crossed the window.  I glanced up.
It was Jimmy, ah1 right, this time at the other side just his head
grinning through the glass from halfway up.

The little blighter was on the wist aria but there was nothing I could
do about it then, except to give him a quick glare.  I cut a little
deeper and squeezed, but still nothing showed in the wound.  I didn't
want to make a big hole but it was clear that I had to make a cruciate
incision to see further down.  I was drawing the scalpel across at
right angles to my first cut when from the corner of my eye I spotted
two feet dangling just below the top of the window.  I tried to
concentrate on my job but the feet swung and kicked repeatedly,
obviously for my benefit.  At last they disappeared, which could only
mean that their owner was ascending to the dangerous regions.  I dug
down a little deeper and swabbed with cottonwool.

Ah yes, I could see something now, but it was very deep, probably the
tip of a thorn which had broken off well below the surface.  I felt the
thrill of the hunter as I reached for forceps and just then the head
showed itself again, upside down this time.

My God, he was hanging by his feet from the branches and the face was
positively leering.  In deference to my client I had been trying to
ignore the by-play from outside but this was too much.  I leaped at the
glass and shook my fist violently My fury must have startled the
performer because the face vanished instantly and I could hear faint
sounds of feet scrambling upwards.

That was not much comfort either.  Those top branches might not support
a boy's weight.  I forced myself back to my task.

"Sorry, Mr.  Garrett," I said.  "Will you hold the leg up again,
please."

He replied with a thin smile and I pushed my forceps into the depths.
They grated on something hard.  I gripped, pulled gently, and, oh
lovely, lovely, out came the pointed, glistening head of a thorn.  I
had done it.

It was one of the tiny triumphs which lighten vets' lives and I was
beaming at my client and patting his dog's head when I heard the crack
from above.  It was followed by a long howl of terror then a small form
hurtled past the window and thudded with horrid force into the
garden.

I threw down the forceps and shot out of the room, along the passage
and through the side door into the garden.  Jimmy was already sitting
up among the wallflowers and I was too relieved to be angry.

"Have you hurt yourself?"  I gasped, and he shook his head.

I lifted him to his feet and he seemed to be able to stand all right. I
felt him over carefully.  There appeared to be no damage.

I led him back into the house.  "Go along and see Mummy," I said, and
returned to the consulting-room.

I must have been deathly pale when I entered because Mr.  Garrett
looked startled.  "Is he all right?"  he asked.

"Yes, yes, I think so.  But I do apologise for rushing out like that.
It was really too bad of me to .. ."

Mr.  Garrett laid his hand on my shoulder.  "Say no more, Mr.  Herriot,
I have children of my own."  And then he spoke the words which have
become en graven on my heart.  "You need nerves of steel to be a
parent."

Later at tea I watched my son demolishing a poached egg on toast, and
then he started to slap plum jam on a slice of bread.  Thank heaven he
was no worse for his fall, but I still had to remonstrate with him.

"Look, young man," I said.  "That was a very naughty thing you did out
there.  I've told you again and again not to climb the wist aria

Jimmy bit into his bread and jam and regarded me impassively.  I have a
big streak of old hen in my nature and down through the years even to
this day he and later my daughter, Rosie, have recognised this and
developed a disconcerting habit of making irreverent clucking noises at
my over-fussiness  At this moment I could see that whatever I was going
to say he wasn't going to take it too seriously.

"If you're going to behave like this," I went on, "I'm not going to
take you round the farms with me.  I'll just have to find another
little boy to help me with my cases."

His chewing slowed down and I looked for some reaction in this morsel
of humanity who was later to become a far better veterinary surgeon
than I could ever be-in fact to quote thirty years later a dry Scottish
colleague who had been through college with me and didn't mince words,
"A helluva improvement on his old man."

Jimmy dropped the bread on his plate.  "Another little boy?"  he
enquired.

"That's right.  I can't have naughty boys with me.  I'll have to find
somebody else."

Jimmy thought this over for a minute or so then he shrugged and
appeared to accept the situation philosophically.  He started again on
the bread and jam.

Then in a flash his sangfroid evaporated.  He stopped in mid-chew and
looked up at me in wide-eyed alarm.

His voice came out in a high quaver.  "Would he have my boots?"

"By gaw, it's Doctor Fu Manchu!"

The farmer dropped the buttered scone on to his plate and stared,
horror-struck, through the kitchen window.

I was drinking a cup of tea with him and I almost choked in mid-sip as
I followed his gaze.

Beyond the glass an enormous oriental was standing.  Slit eyes regarded
us menacingly from a pock-marked face whose left cheek was hideously
scarred from ear to chin, but the most arresting feature was the
one-sided mustachio, black and greasy, with its single end dangling
several inches from the upper lip.  A robe of exotic colouring flowed
from the man's shoulders and his hands, held across his body, were
tucked deeply into the sleeves.

The farmer's wife screamed and jumped from the table but

I sat transfixed.  I couldn't believe this apparition, framed as it was
against the buildings and pastures of a Yorkshire farm.

The wife's rising screams were bordering on hysteria when suddenly she
stopped and advanced slowly to the window.  As she came close the big
man's mouth relaxed into a friendly leer, then he withdrew a hand from
the sleeve and waggled the fingers at her in Oliver Hardy fashion.

"It's Igor!"  she gasped, and swung round on her husband.  "And that's
me good house-coat he's got on.  You rotten devil, you put him up to
this!"

The farmer rolled about in his chair, laughing helplessly.  He couldn't
have asked for a better response to his little joke.

Igor was one of a batch of prisoners of war who had recently arrived to
work on the farm.  There were hundreds of these men employed on the
land at the end of the war and it was a happy arrangement all round.
The farmers had a windfall in the shape of abundant labour and the
prisoners were content to spend their pre-repatriation time in the open
air with ample farm meals to sustain them in a world of food rationing.
I personally had a respite from one of my constant problems the lack of
help in my job.  I found now that there were always willing hands to
assist me in the rough and .  tumble of large animal practice.

The prisoners were, of course, mainly German, but there were a number
of Italians and, strangely, Russians.  It baffled me at first when I
saw hundreds of men who looked like Chinese in German uniforms
disembarking at Darrowby railway station.  I learned later that they
were Mongolian Russians who had been pressed into fighting for the
Germans and later were captured by the British.  Igor was one of
these.

I know of farming families who to this day spend their holidays at the
homes of the Germans and Italians whom they befriended at this time.

I was still laughing after the Igor incident and the farmer was still
receiving a tongue-lashing from his wife when I climbed into my car and
consulted the list of calls.

"Preston, Scarth Lodge, lame cow," I read.  It was twenty minutes'
drive away and as always I idly turned over the possibilities in my
mind.  Probably foul, maybe pus in the foot, which would entail some
hacking with my hoof knife.  Or it could be a strain.  I'd soon see.

Hal Preston was bringing my patient in from the field as I arrived and
I didn't even have to get out of the car to make my diagnosis.  It was
one which gave me no joy.

The cow was hobbling slowly with her right hind foot barely touching
the ground.  The limb was shortened and carried underneath the body
while a bulge in the pelvic region showed where the great trochanter of
the femur pushed against the skin.  Upward displacement.  Absolutely
typical.

"Just happened this morning'," the farmer said.  "She was as right as
rain last night.  Ah can't think..  ."

"Say no more, Mr.  Preston," I said.  "I know what it is.  She's got a
dislocated hip."

"Is that serious?"

"Yes, it is.  You see, it takes tremendous force to pull the head of
the displaced bone back into its socket.  Even in a dog it is a
difficult job, but in cattle it's sometimes impossible."

The farmer looked glum.  "That's a beggar.  This is a right good cow,
smashin' milker.  What app ens if you can't get it back?"

"I'm afraid she'd always be a bit of a cripple," I replied.  "Dogs
usually form a very good false joint but it's different with a cow.  In
fact many farmers decide to slaughter the animal."

"Oh 'ell, I don't want that!"  Hal Preston rubbed his chin vigorously.
"We'll have to have a go."

"Good, that's what I want."  I turned towards my car.  "I'm going back
to the surgery for the chloroform muzzle and in the meantime will you
go round your neighbours and get a few strong chaps?  We'll need all
the manpower you can find."

The farmer looked round the rolling green miles with not another
dwelling in sight.  "Me neighbours are a long way away, but I don't
need 'em today.  Look 'ere."

He led the way into the farm kitchen where the savoury aroma of roast
bacon was heavy in the air.  Four burly Germans were seated at the
table.  In front of each lay a plate mounded high with potatoes,
cabbage, bacon and sausage.

They've sent me these feilefs to help with hay time Mr.  Preston
explained.  "I reckon they look pretty useful."

"They do indeed."  I smiled at the men and waved my hand in greeting.
They jumped to their feet and bowed.

"Right," I said to the farmer, 'you can be having your dinners while
I'm gone.  I'll be back in about half an hour."

When I returned, we led the cow to a patch of soft grass.  Her progress
was painfully slow as she trailed her almost useless hind leg.

I buckled the muzzle to her head and dribbled the chloroform on to the
sponge.  As she inhaled the strange vapour her eyes widened in
surprise, then she stumbled forward and sank to the turf.

I slipped a reund stake into the animal's groin and stationed the two
biggest men at either end of it, then I fastened a rope above the
fetlock and gave the other end to Mr.  Preston and the remaining two
Germans.

The stage was set.  I crouched over the pelvis and placed both hands on
the bulging head of the femur.  Would it stay obstinately still or
would I feel it riding up the side of the acetabulum on the way to its
proper home?

Anyway, this was the moment and I took a deep breath.  "Pull!"  I
shouted, and the three men on the rope hauled away while the brown
corded arms on each side of me took the strain on the stake.

No doubt an unedifying spectacle, this tug of war with the sleeping
animal in the middle.  Not much science in evidence, but country
practice is often like that.

However, I had no time for theorising all my mind was concentrated on
that jutting bone under my hands.  "Pull!"  I yelled again and fresh
grunts of effort came back in reply.

I clenched my teeth.  The thing wasn't moving.  I couldn't believe it
could resist the terrific traction, but it was like a rock.

Then when the feeling of defeat was rising I felt a stirring beneath my
fingers.  It all happened in seconds after that.  The lifting of the
femoral head as I pushed frantically at it, and the loud click as it
flopped into its socket.  We had won.

I waved my arms in delight.  "All right, let go!"  I crawled to the
cow's head and whipped off the muzzle.

We heaved her on to her chest and she lay there, blinking and shaking
her head as consciousness returned.  I could hardly wait for what is
one of the most rewarding moments in veterinary practice, and it came
when the cow rose to her feet and strolled over the grass without the
trace of a limp.  The five faces, sweating in the hot sunshine, watched
in happy amazement, and though I had seen it all before, I felt the
warm flush of triumph which is always new.

I handed cigarettes round to the prisoners and before I left I drew on
my scanty store of German.

"Danke sc hon  I said fervently, and I really meant it.

"Bitte!  Bitte!"  they cried, all smiles.  They had enjoyed the whole
thing and I had the feeling that this would be one of the tales they
would tell when they returned to their homes.

A few days later, Siegfried and I alighted at Village Farm, Harford. We
had come together because we had been told that our patient, a Red Poll
bullock, was of an uncooperative disposition and we thought that a
combined operation was indicated.

The farmer led us to the fold yard where about twenty cattle were
eating turnips.  "That's the one," he said, pointing to an enormously
fat beast.  "And that's the thing I was tellin' ye about."  He
indicated a growth as big as a football dangling from the animal's b,
ly.

Siegfried gave him a hard look.  "Really, Mr.  Harrison, you should
have called us out to this long ago.  Why did you let it get so big?"

The farmer took off his hat and scratched his balding head
ruminatively.  "Aye, well, you know how it is.  Ah kept meanin' to give
you a ring but it slipped me mind and time went on."

"It's a hell of a size now," Siegfried grunted.

"Ah know, ah know.  I all us had the hope that it might drop off
because he's a right wild sod.  You can't do much with'im."

"All right, then."  Siegfried shrugged.  "Bring a halter and we'll
drive him into that box over there."

The farmer left and my partner turned to me.  "You know, James, that
tumour isn't as fearsome as it looks.  It's beautifully pedunculated
and if we can get a shot of local into that narrow neck we can ligate
it and have it off in no time."

The farmer returned with the halter and he was accompanied by a dark
little man in denims.

"This is Luigi," he said.  "Italian prisoner.  Don't speak no English
but 'e's very handy at all sorts o' jobs."

I could imagine Luigi being handy.  He was short in stature but his
wide spread of shoulder and muscular arms suggested great strength.

We said 'hello', and the Italian returned our greetings with an
inclination of his head and a grave smile.  He carried an aura of
dignity and self-assurance.

After a bit of galloping round the fold yard we managed to get our
patient into the box, but we soon realised that our troubles were only
beginning.

Red Polls are big cattle and an ill-natured, one can be a problem. This
fat creature had a mean look in his eyes and all our attempts to halter
him were unavailing.  He either whipped away from the rope or shook his
head threateningly at us.  Once, as he thundered past me, I got my
fingers into his nose but he brushed me off like a fly and lashed out
with a hind leg, catching me a glancing blow on the thigh.

"He's like an elephant," I gasped.  "God only knows how we're going to
catch him."

The sedative injections for such animals and the metal crushes to
restrain them were still years in the future, and Siegfried and I were
looking gloomily at the bullock when Luigi stepped forward.

He held up a hand and loosed off a burst of Italian at us.  None of us
could understand him, but we took his point as he ushered us back
against the wall with great ceremony.  Plainly he was going to do
something, but what ?

He advanced stealthily on the bullock, then with a lightning movement
he seized one of the ears in both hands.  The animal took off
immediately but without its previous abandon.  Luigi was screwing the
ear round on its long axis and it seemed to act as a brake because the
beast slowed to a halt and stood there, head on one side, glancing
almost plaintively up at the little man.

I was reminded irresistibly of pictures of Billy Bunter being held up
by a Greyfriars prefect and I almost expected the bullock to cry,
"Ouch!  Yaroo!  Leggo my ear!"

But I didn't have much time for musing because Luigi, in full command
of the situation, jerked his head towards the hanging tumour.

Siegfried and I leaped forward.  We had never seen anybody catch a
beast by the ear before, but we weren't going to discuss it.  This was
our chance.

I cradled the growth in my hands while Siegfried injected the local
into the neck.  As the needle entered the skin the hairy leg twitched
and under ordinary circumstances we would have been kicked out of the
box, but Luigi took another half turn on the ear and rapped out a
colourful reprimand.  The animal subsided immediately and stood
motionless as we worked.

Siegfried applied a strong ligature and severed the neck bloodlessly
with an ecraseur.  The tumour thudded on to the straw.  The operation
was over.

Luigi released the ear and received our congratulations with a half
smile and a gracious nodding of the head.  He really was a man of
enormous presence.

Now, more than thirty years later, Siegfried and I still talk about
him.  We have both tried to catch large cattle by the ears without the
slightest success, so was Luigi just an amateur with wrists of steel or
was he a farmer and do they do it that way in Italy after a lifetime of
practice?  We still don't know.

One still summer evening I was returning from a call when I heard the
sound of singing.  It was a rich, swelling chorus of many voices and it
seemed to come from nowhere.  I stopped the car and wound down the
window.  The fells rose around me, their summits glinting in the last
sunshine, but trie only living creatures were the cattle and sheep
grazing on the walled slopes.

Then I saw Knowle Manor perched on a plateau high above and I
remembered that hundreds of Russian prisoners were billeted there.

These men were singing the songs of their homeland, but the sound which
drifted from the windows of the big house was not that of a casual
party.  There was a vast, drilled choir up there, deep voices blending
in thrilling harmonies which hung and lingered on the soft air.

I sat entranced for a long time till the light faded and the chill of
nightfall made me close my window and drive away.

Years later I read that these Russians went home to death or captivity
and whenever I thought of their fate I remembered that summer evening
and the beautiful music they made in the peace of the Yorkshire
hills.

October 29,1961 "Breakfast, Mr.  Herriot."

I heard the mess boy's call and his knock on my cabin door.  It was the
first of many during this day.  "Lunch, Mr.  Herriot."  "Dinner, Mr.
Herriot."  "Coffee time, Mr.  Herriot."  He was a fresh-faced lad of
seventeen and took care I didn't miss anything.

I hurried to the mess room.  To my surprise I found it was empty, but
there was a large pot of coffee on the table along with a stack of rye
bread and a remarkable selection of cold meats and fish.  I counted
nine different platters on the table.

Well, it was an unusual breakfast but I was hungry so I started
operations immediately.  The coffee was delicious and

1 was happily washing down wonderful raw herrings and onion, smoked ham
and a particularly toothsome meat loaf when the mess boy appeared and
smilingly deposited two fried eggs and bacon in front of me.

I was surprised but undeterred, and as I started my fresh attack with
the ship heaving and pitching I thanked providence that I had never
known sea-sickness.

I was soon joined by two of the ship's officers: the mate, a tubby
little man also called Rasmussen, and the engineer, Hansen, very dark
with a humorous face.

Neither of them spoke much English but we managed to converse on
various subjects including football pools, which when they had the
chance they both filled up assiduously without success.

After breakfast I went down to inspect my animals.  The general picture
was a happy one, but I noticed a sheep limping as it walked to its hay.
I examined the feet and found a small area of foot rot  I had been told
that the Russian vets were meticulous in their examination but they had
missed that one.  I directed a long jet of Terramycin aerosol at the
affected spot; I was confident that a few more similar treatments would
put that right before we reached Klaipeda.

Another animal blinked painfully at me as I passed its pen and I found
that its eyes were weeping and inflamed.  It was the only one so
affected and I felt that it had probably picked up some irritant
material on the journey to Hull.  I squeezed some chloramphenicol eye
ointment across the eyeballs and decided to do the same at midday and
in the evening.

I finished my tour with the comforting thought that so far my stock of
drugs had been adequate.

Before lunch the captain asked me to drink a glass of lager with him in
his cabin.  He himself, despite being a man of natural refinement,
drank straight from the bottle and later that day I found that this was
the approved method among the ship's officers, but he gave me a
glass.

I sat down at the end of the table and poured the lager, and at that
moment the ship gave a tremendous roll.  My chair went over, I
literally flew through the air, shot across the floor

on my side and finished up underneath a desk in the corner.  My glass
was shattered and a pool of the precious Carlsberg Special spread
across the floor.

The captain leaped anxiously to my assistance.  "Oh, Mr.  Herriot, I
hope you do not hurt yourself!"  As I have said, his English was very
good but occasionally little inaccuracies crept in.

"No, I'm fine," I replied, laughing.  I got up and started on another
bottle but this time I kept my knees jammed against the legs of the
table.  I was beginning to learn.

After this little contretemps we went down to lunch, passing on the way
the cook's galley.  This was about the size of a large cupboard and was
crammed with pans, stove, ovens and food.  I wondered how anybody could
possibly produce proper meals in that tiny place and it occurred to me
that perhaps that was the reason for the lavish breakfast.  The other
meals would probably be makeshift and I mentally resigned myself to the
fact that I would have to put up with a primitive diet during the
voyage.

When we had gathered round the table in the little mess room the first
course arrived.  It was an exquisite asparagus soup in which floated
meat balls and large stalks of asparagus.  This was followed by what
the captain described as 'boneless birds' tender veal steaks wrapped
around strips of bacon, parsley and spices with anchovies draped across
them.  We finished off with a sago pudding thickly sprinkled with
cinnamon and with peaches nestling on its bosom.  As I sipped my coffee
and nibbled delicious Danish cheese I felt I might have been eating at
the Ritz.

The cook, Nielsen by name, a large smiling man in a white apron, pushed
his head round the door at the end of the meal and I called out to him
that his food was wonderful.  He looked intensely gratified but also
surprised, because the other ship's officers seemed to take it all for
granted.

His smile grew wider and he nodded his head rapidly.  Thank you, thank
you, thank you."  He stared at me as though he had been looking for me
all his life.  I had a feeling that I had made a friend there.

After lunch, back down to t'ween decks and lower hold, to give them
their proper names, for another look at the sheep, but on the way I had
to stop for a few minutes on the upper deck to take gulping breaths of
the unbelievably fresh air that swept over the heaving miles of water.
Walking around was difficult as I found it almost impossible to stand
upright because of the constant movement of the ship.

Down below I studied the animals carefully.  There was something on my
mind.  Right at the beginning I had heard the odd cough and I hadn't
paid much attention because all sheep cough occasionally, but since we
sailed it had become more frequent and had a rasping quality which was
only too familiar.

As I walked around I heard it again and this time I traced it to the
affected sheep.  I climbed into the pen all Lincolns -and began to stir
them around, and after a few seconds there was a regular chorus of
coughs.  I knew now; they had husk.

I took a few temperatures, leaning back against the swaying wall to
read the thermometer, but there was clearly no secondary infection; it
was a straightforward parasitic bronchitis and with my pitiful little
stock of drugs in the suitcase upstairs there was nothing I could do
about it.

Of course as I wrote my notes later in my cabin I realised it was only
a mild attack and since they were off the pasture, in top condition and
with an abundant supply of good food, they would certainly throw it off
in time.  But for all that I didn't like it.  The vets in Hull didn't
spot it, but those in Klaipeda probably would and I wanted to present a
batch of healthy animals to them.

Later, I had a most interesting hour with the captain on the bridge. He
showed me how the radar and other gadgets worked and pointed out our
position on the chart.  We were off the coast of Holland but out of
sight of land.

I was intrigued by the mariners' view of a map.  The sea is a
complicated mass of lines, words and figures while the land is a white
blank.

At 6.30 p.m. I began again on what I had thought was to be my frugal
living.  Mountains of roast chicken with a piquant stuffing I had never
tasted before and surrounded by thin layers of cucumber done up with
sugar and vinegar.  Fruit followed and of course there was the ever
present array of herrings and tomato, salami, salt beef, pork, smoked
ham, bacon and endless kinds of Danish sliced sausages and cheeses.  I
haven't mentioned the two most popular things among the Danes
themselves the liver paste and trays of dripping.

The ship's officers seemed to love these two things, especially the
dripping which they spread on rye bread and ate at the end of the
meal.

After dinner we settled down to a two-hour session of smoking and
swopping yarns over the schnapps and beer.  I gathered that this was a
regular custom in the evenings.  The seamen were very interesting with
their tales of many countries and peoples and the often startling
adventures they had had on their travels.

"It was Hemingway who said that, wasn't it?"

Norman Beaumont shook his head.  "No, Scott Fitzgerald."

I didn't argue because Norman usually knew.  In fact it was one of the
attractive things about him.

I enjoyed having veterinary students seeing practice with us.  They
helped with fetching and carrying, they opened gates and they were
company on our lonely rounds.  In return they absorbed a lot of
knowledge from us in our discussions in the car and it was priceless
experience for them to be involved in the practical side of their
education.

Since the war, however, my relationship with these young men had
undergone a distinct change.  I found I was learning from them just
about as much as they were learning from me.

The reason, of course, was that veterinary teaching had taken a leap
forward.  The authorities seemed to have suddenly discovered that we
weren't just horse doctors and that the vast new field of small animal
work was opening up dramatically.  Advanced surgical procedures were
being carried out on farm animals, too, and the students had the great
advantage of being able to see such things done in the new veterinary
schools with their modern clinics and operating theatres.  , New
specialist text books were being written which made my own thumbed
volumes with everything related to the horse seem like museum pieces. I
was still a young man, but all the bursting knowledge which I had
nurtured so proudly was becoming irrelevant.  Quittor, fistulous
withers, poll evil, bog spavin, stringhalt they didn't seem to matter
much any more.

Norman Beaumont was in his final year and was a deep well of
information at which I drank greedily.  But apart from the veterinary
side we had a common love of books and reading.

When we weren't talking shop the conversation was usually on literary
lines and Norman's companionship lightened my days and made the
journeys between farms seem short.

He was immensely likeable with a personality that was formal and
dignified beyond his twenty-two years and which was only just saved
from pomposity by a gentle humour.  He was a solid citizen in the
making if ever I saw one, and this impression was strengthened by his
slightly pear-shaped physique and the fact that he was determinedly
trying to cultivate a pipe-He was having a little trouble with the pipe
but I felt sure he would win through.  I could see him plainly twenty
years from now, definitely tubby, sitting around the fireside with his
wife and children, puffing at that pipe which he had finally
subjugated; an upright, dependable family man with a prosperous
practice.

As the dry-stone walls rolled past the car windows I got back on to the
topic of the new operations.

"And you say they are actually doing Caesareans on cows in the college
clinics?"

"Good Lord, yes."  Norman made an expansive gesture and applied a match
to his pipe.  "Doing them like hot cakes, it's a regular thing."  His
words would have carried more weight if he had been able to blow a puff
of smoke out after them, but he had filled the bowl too tightly and
despite a fierce sucking which hollowed his cheeks and ballooned his
eyeballs he couldn't manage a draw.

"Gosh, you don't know how lucky you are," I said.  "The number of hours
I've slaved on byre floors calving cows.  Sewing up calves with
embryotomy wire, knocking my guts out trying to bring heads round or
reach feet.  I think I must have shortened my life.  And if only I'd
known how, I could have saved myself the trouble with a nice
straightforward operation.  What sort of a job is it, anyway?"

The student gave me a superior smile.  "Nothing much to it, really." He
relit his pipe, tamped the tobacco down and winced as he burned his
finger.  He shook his hand vigorously for a moment, then turned towards
me.  "They never seem to have any trouble.  Takes about an hour, and no
hard labour."

"Sounds marvelous."  I shook my head wistfully.  "I'm beginning to
think I was born too soon.  I suppose it's the same with ewes?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed," Norman murmured airily.  "Ewes, cows, sows
they're in and out of the place every day.  No problem at all.  Nearly
as easy as bitch spays."

"Ah well, you young lads are lucky.  It's so much easier to tackle
these jobs when you've seen a lot of them done."

"True, true."  The student spread his hands.  "But of course most
bovine parturitions don't need a Caesarean and I'm always glad to have
a calving for my case book."

I nodded in agreement.  Norman's case book was something to see, a
heavily bound volume with every scrap of interesting material
meticulously entered under headings in red ink.  The examiners always
wanted to see these books and this one would be worth a few extra marks
to Norman in his finals.

It was August Bank Holiday Sunday, and Darrowby market place had been
bustling all day with holiday makers and coach parties.  Each time we
passed through I looked at the laughing throngs with a tiny twinge of
envy.  Not many people seemed to work on Sundays.

I dropped the student at his digs in late afternoon and went back to
Skeldale House for tea.  I had just finished when Helen got up to
answer the phone.

"It's Mr.  Bushell of Sycamore House," she said.  "He has a cow
calving."

"Oh damn.  I thought we'd have Sunday evening to ourselves."  I put
down my cup.  "Tell him I'll be right out, Helen, will you."  I smiled
as she put down the receiver.  "One thing, Norman will be pleased.  He
was just saying he wanted something for his case book."

I was right.  The young man rubbed his hands in glee when I called for
him and he was in excellent humour as we drove to the farm.

"I was reading some poetry when you rang the bell," he said.  "I like
poetry.  You can always find something to apply to your life.  How
about now, when I'm expecting something interesting.  "Hope springs
eternal in the human breast"."

"Alexander Pope, Essay on Man," I grunted.  I wasn't feeling as
enthusiastic as Norman.  You never knew what was ahead on these
occasions.

"Jolly good."  The young man laughed.  "You aren't easy to catch
out."

We drove through the farm gateway into the yard.

"You've made me think with your poetry," said.  "It keeps buzzing in my
head.  "Abandon hope all ye who enter here"."

"Dante, of course, The Inferno.  But don't be so pessimistic."  He
patted me on the shoulder as I put on my Wellingtons.

The farmer led us into the byre and in a stall opposite the window a
small cow looked up at us anxiously from her straw bed.  Above her
head, her name, Bella, was chalked on a board.

"She isn't very big, Mr.  Bushell," I said.

"Eh?"  he looked at me enquiringly and I remembered that he was hard of
hearing.

"She's a bit small,"I shouted.

The farmer shrugged.  "Aye, she all us was a poor doer.  Had a rough
time with her first calvin' but she milked well enough after it."

I looked thoughtfully at the cow as I stripped off my shirt and soaped
my arms.  I didn't like the look of that narrow pelvis and I breathed
the silent prayer of all vets that there might be a tiny calf inside.

The farmer poked at the light roan hairs of the rump with his foot and
shouted at the animal to make her rise.

"She won't budge, Mr.  Herriot," he said.  "She's been painin' all day.
Ah doubt she's about buggered."

I didn't like the sound of that either.  There was always something far
wrong when a cow strained for a long time without result.  And the
little animal did look utterly spent.  Her head hung down and her
eyelids drooped wearily.

Ah well, if she wouldn't get up I had to get down.  With my bare chest
in contact with the ground the thought occurred that cobbles didn't get
any softer with the passage of the years.  But when I slid my hand into
the vagina I forgot about my discomfort.  The pelvic opening was
villainously narrow, and beyond was something which froze my blood. Two
enormous hooves and resting on their cloven surfaces a huge expanse of
muzzle with twitching nostrils.  I didn't have to feel any more but
with an extra effort I strained forward a few inches and my fingers
explored a bulging brow squeezing into the small space like a cork in a
bottle.  As I withdrew my hand the rough surface of the calf s tongue
flicked briefly against my palm.

I sat back on my heels and looked up at the farmer.  "There's an
elephant in there, Mr.  Bushell."

"Eh?"

I raised my voice.  "A tremendous calf, and no room for it to come
out."

"Can't ye cut it away?"

"Afraid not.  The calf s alive and anyway there's nothing to get at. No
room to work."

U.G.M.T.A. - c 65

"Well, that's a beggar," Mr.  Bushell said.  "She's a good little
milker.  Ah don't want to sender to the butcher."

Neither did I. I hated the very thought of it, but a great light was
breaking beyond a new horizon.  It was a moment of decision, of
history.  I turned to the student.

"This is it, Norman!  The ideal indication for a Caesar.  What a good
job I've got you with me.  You can keep me right."

I was slightly breathless with excitement and I hardly noticed the
flicker of anxiety in the young man's eyes.

I got to my feet and seized the farmer's arm.  "Mr.  Bushell, I'd like
to do a Caesarean operation on your cow."

"A what?"

"A Caesarean.  Open her up and remove the calf surgically."

"Tek it out o' the side, dye mean?  Like they do wi' women?"

"That's right."

"Well that's a rum 'un."  The farmer's eyebrows went up.  "I never knew
you could do that wi' cows."

"Oh, we can now," I said airily.  "Things have moved on a bit in the
last few years."

He rubbed a hand slowly across his mouth.  "Well, ah don't know.  I
reckon she'd die if you made a bloody great 'ole in her like that.
Maybe she'd be better goin' for slaughter.  I'd get a few quid for her
and I all us think first loss is best."

I could see my big moment slipping away from me.  "But she's only a
thin little thing.  She wouldn't be worth much for meat and with a bit
of luck we might get a live calf out of her."

I was going against one of my steadfast rules never to talk a farmer
into doing something but I was seized by a kind of madness.  Mr.
Bushell looked at me for a long time, then without changing expression
he nodded.

' Awright, what do you want?"

"Two buckets of warm water, soap, towels," I replied.  "And I'll bring
some instruments into the house to boil if I may."

When the farmer had departed I thumped Norman on the shoulder.  "This
is just right.  Plenty of light, a live calf to aim for, and it's just
as well poor Mr.  Bushell doesn't hear too well.  If we keep our voices
down I'll be able to ask you things as we go along."

Norman didn't say anything.  I told him to set up some straw bales for
our equipment and had him scatter loose straw around the cow while I
boiled the instruments in a pan in the farm kitchen.

Soon all was ready.  Syringes, suture materials, scalpels, scissors,
local anaesthetic and cotton wool laid in a row on a clean towel draped
over one of the bales.  I added some antiseptic to the water and
addressed the farmer.

"We'll roll her over and you can hold the head down, Mr.  Bushell.  I
think she's too tired to move much."

Norman and I pushed at the shoulder and Bella flopped on her side
without resistance.  The farmer put his knee against her neck and the
long area of the left flank was exposed for our attention.

I nudged the student.  "Where do I make the incision?"  I whispered.

Norman cleared his throat.  "Weller it's about .. ."  He pointed
vaguely.

I nodded.  "Around the rumenotomy site, eh?  But a bit lower I
suppose."  I began to clip away in the hair from a foot-long strip.  It
would need a big opening for that calf to come through.  Then I quickly
infiltrated the area with local.

We do these jobs under a local anaesthetic nowadays, and in most cases
the cow lies quietly on her side or even stands during the operation.
The animal can't feel anything, of course, but I have a few extra grey
hairs round my ears which owe their presence to the occasional wild cow
suddenly rearing up halfway through and taking off with me in desperate
pursuit trying to keep her internal organs from flopping on the
ground.

But that was all in the future.  On this first occasion I had no such
fears.  I cut through skin, muscle layers and peritoneum and was
confronted by a protruding pink and white mass of tissue.

I poked at it with my finger.  There was something hard inside.  Could
it be the calf?

"What's that?"  I hissed.

"Eh?"  Norman, kneeling by my side, jumped convulsively.  "What do you
mean?"

"That thing.  Is it the rumen or the uterus?  It's pretty low down, it
could be the uterus."

The student swallowed a couple of times.  "Yes ... yes ... that's jhe
uterus all right."

"Good."  I smiled in relief and made a bold incision.  A great gout of
impacted grass welled out followed by a burst of gas and an outflow of
dirty brown fluid.

"Oh Christ!"  I gasped.  "It's the rumen.  Look at all that bloody
mess!"  I groaned aloud as the filthy tide surged away down and out of
sight into the abdominal cavity.  "What the hell are you playing at,
Norman?"

I could feel the young man's body trembling against mine.  "Don't just
sit there!"  I shouted.  Thread me one of those needles.  Quick!
Quick!"

Norman bounded to his feet, rushed over to the bale and returned with a
trailing length of catgut extended in shaking fingers.  Wordlessly,
dry-mouthed, I stitched the gash I had made in the wrong organ.  Then
the two of us made frantic attempts to swab away the escaped rumen al
contents with .  cotton wool and antiseptic but much of it had run away
beyond our reach.  The contamination must be massive.

When we had done what we could, I sat back and looked at the student.
My voice was a hoarse growl.  "I thought you knew all about these
operations."

He looked at me with frightened eyes.  "They do quite a few of them at
the clinic."

I glared back at him.  "How many Caesareans have you seen?"  "Weller.. 
one, actually

"One!  To hear you speak I thought you were an expert!  And anyway,
even if you'd seen only one you should know a little bit about it."

"The thing is .. ."  Norman shuffled his knees around on the cobbles.
"Yousee..  .Iwasrightatthebackoftheclass."

I worked up a sarcastic snarl.  "Oh, I understand.  So you couldn't see
very well?"  68

"That's about it."  The young man hung his head.

"Well, you're a stupid young fool!"  I said in a vicious whisper.
"Dishing out your confident instructions when you know damn-all.  You
realise you've killed this good cow?  With all that contamination
she'll certainly develop peritonitis and die.  All we can hope for now
is to get the calf out alive."  With an effort I turned my gaze from
his stricken face.  "Anyway, let's get on with it."

Apart from my first shouts of panic the entire interchange had been
carried out pianissimo and Mr.  Bushell kept shooting enquiring glances
at us.

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile and returned to the
attack.  Getting the calf out alive was easy to say, but it soon dawned
on me that getting the calf out in any way whatsoever was going to be a
mammoth task.  Plunging my arm deep below what I now knew was the rumen
I encountered a smooth and mighty organ lying on the abdominal floor.
It contained an enormous bulk with the hardness and immobility of a
sack of coal.

I felt my way along the surface and came upon the unmistakable contours
of a hock pushing against the slippery wall.  That was the calf all
right, but it was far far away.

I withdrew my arm and started on Norman again.  "From your position at
the back of the class," I enquired bitingly, 'did you happen to notice
what they did next?"

"Next?  Ah yes."  He licked his lips and I could see beads of sweat on
his brow.  "You are supposed to exteriorise the uterus."

"Exteriorise it?  Bring it up to the wound, you mean?"

"That's right."

"Good God!"  I said.  "King Kong couldn't lift up that bloody uterus.
In fact I can't move it an inch.  Have a feel."

The student, who was stripped and soaped like myself, introduced his
arm and for a few moments I watched his eyes pop and his face redden.
Then he withdrew and nodded sheepishly.  "You're right.  It won't
move."

"Only one thing to do."  I picked up a scalpel.  I'll have to cut into
the uterus and grab that hock.  There's nothing else to get hold of."

It was very nasty fiddling about away out of sight down in the dark
unknown, my arm buried to the shoulder in the cow, my tongue hanging
out with anxiety.  I was terrified I might slash into something vital
but in fact it was my own fingers that I cut, several times, before I
was able to draw the scalpel edge across the bulge made by the hock.  A
second later I had my hand round the hairy leg.  Now I was getting
somewhere.

Gingerly I enlarged the incision, inch by inch.  I hoped fervently I
had made it big enough, but working blind is a terrible thing and it
was difficult to be sure.

At any rate I couldn't wait to deliver that calf.  I laid aside my
knife, seized the leg and tried to lift it, and immediately I knew that
another little nightmare lay ahead.  The thing was a tremendous weight
and it was going to take great strength to bring it up into the light
of day.  Nowadays when I do a Caesar I take care to have a big strong
farm lad stripped off ready to help me with this lifting job, but today
I had only Norman.  , "Come on," I panted.  "Give me a hand."

We reached down together and began to pull.  I managed to repel the
hock and bring the foot round and that gave us greater purchase but it
was still agonisingly laborious to raise the mass to the level of the
skin incision.

Teeth clenched, grunting with effort, we hauled upwards till at last I
was able to grasp the other hind leg.  Even then, with a foot apiece in
our hands, nothing wanted to move.  It was just like doing a tough
calving except it was through the side.  And as we lay back, panting
and sweating, pulling with every vestige of our strength, I had the
sudden wave of illumination which comes to all members of our
profession at times.  I wished with all my heart and soul that I had
never started this ghastly job.  If only I had followed Mr.  Bushell's
suggestion to send the cow for slaughter I would now be driving
peacefully on my rounds.  Instead, here I was, killing myself.  And
even worse than my physical

7O

torment was the piercing knowledge that I hadn't the slightest idea
what was going to happen next.

But the calf was gradually coming through.  The tail appeared, then an
unbelievably massive rib cage and finally with a rush, the shoulders
and head.

Norman and I sat down with a bump, the calf rolling over our knees. And
like a gleam of light in the darkness I saw that he was snorting and
shaking his head.

"By gaw, he's a big 'un!"  exclaimed the farmer.  "And wick, too."

I nodded.  "Yes, he's huge.  One of the biggest I've ever seen."  I
felt between the hind legs.  "A bull, as I thought.  He'd never have
come out the proper way."

My attention was whisked back to the cow.  Where was the uterus?  It
had vanished.  Again I started my frantic groping inside.  My hand
became entangled with yards of placenta.  Oh hell, that wouldn't do any
good floating around among the guts.  I pulled it out and dropped it on
the floor but I still couldn't find the uterus.  For a palpitating
moment I wondered what would happen if I never did locate it, then my
fingers came upon the ragged edge of my incision.

I pulled as much as possible of the organ up to the light and I noticed
with sinking disquiet that my original opening had been enlarged by the
passage of that enormous calf and there was a long tear disappearing
out of sight towards the cervix.

"Sutures."  I held my hand out and Norman gave me a fresh needle. "Hold
the lips of the wound," I said and began to stitch.

I worked as quickly as I could and was doing fine until the tear ran
out of sight.  The rest was a kind of martyrdom.  Norman hung on grimly
while I stabbed around at the invisible tissue far below.  At times I
pricked the young man's fingers, at others my own.  And to my dismay a
further complication had arisen.

The calf was now on his feet, blundering unsteadily around.  The speed
with which newly born animals get on to their legs has always
fascinated me but at this moment it was an unmitigated nuisance.

The calf, looking for the udder with that instinct which nobody can
explain, kept pushing his nose at the cow's flank and at times toppling
head first into the gaping hole in her side.  "Reckon 'e wants back in
again," Mr.  Bushell said with a grin.  "By 'eck, he is a wick' un

1 Wick' is Yorkshire for lively and the word was never more aptly
applied.  As I worked, eyes half closed, jaws rigid, I had to keep
nudging the wet muzzle away with my elbow, but as fast as I pushed him
back the calf charged in again and with sick resignation I saw that
every time he nosed his way into the cavity he brought particles of
straw and dirt from the floor and spread them over the abdominal
contents.

"Look at that," I moaned.  "As if there wasn't enough muck in there."

Norman didn't reply.  His mouth was hanging open and the sweat ran down
his blood-streaked face as he grappled with that unseen wound.  And in
his fixed stare I seemed to read a growing doubt as to his wisdom in
deciding to be a veterinary surgeon.

I would rather not go into any more details.  The memory is too
painful.  Sufficient to say that after an eternity I got as far down
the uterine tear as I could, then we cleared away a lot of rubbish from
the cow's abdomen and covered everything with antiseptic dusting
powder.  I stitched up the muscle and skin layers with the calf trying
all the time to get in on the act and at last the thing was finished.

Norman and I got to our feet very slowly, like two old, old men.  It
took me a long time to straighten my back and I saw the young man
rubbing tenderly at his lumbar region.  Then, since we were both
plastered with caked blood and filth, we began the slow process of
scrubbing and scraping ourselves clean.

Mr.  Bushell left his position by the head and looked at the row of
skin stitches.  "Nice neat job," he said.  "And a grand call, too."

Yes, that was something.  The little creature had dried off now and he
was a beauty, his body swaying on unsteady legs,

his wide set eyes filled with gentle curiosity.  But that 'neat job'
hid things I didn't dare think about.

Antibiotics were still not in general use but in any case I knew there
was no hope for the cow.  More as a gesture than anything else I left
the farmer some sulpha powders to give her three times a day.  Then I
got off the farm as quickly as I could.

We drove away in silence.  I rounded a couple of corners, then stopped
the car under a tree and sank my head against the steering wheel.

"Oh hell," I groaned.  "What a bloody balls-up."

Norman replied only with a long sigh and I continued.  "Did you ever
see such a performance?  All that straw and dirt and rumen al muck in
among that poor cow's bowels.  Do you know what I was thinking about
towards the end?  I was remembering the story of that human surgeon of
olden times who left his hat inside his patient.  It was as bad as
that."

"I know."  The student spoke in a strangled undertone.  "And it was all
my fault."

"Oh, no it wasn't," I replied.  "I made a right rollocks of the whole
thing all by myself and I tried to blame you because I got in a panic.
I shouted and nagged at you and I owe you an apology."

"Oh no, no .. ."

"Yes, I do.  I am supposed to be a qualified veterinary surgeon and I
did nearly everything wrong."  I groaned again.  "And on top of
everything I behaved like an absolute shit towards you and Fm sorry."

"You didn't, really you didn't..  . I..  ."

"Anyway, Norman," I broke in, "I'm going to thank you now.  You were a
tremendous help to me.  You worked like a trojan and I'd have got
nowhere at all without you.  Let's go and have a pint."

With the early evening sunshine filtering into the bar parlour of the
village inn we dropped into a quiet corner and pulled deeply at our
beer glasses.  We were both hot and weary and there didn't seem to be
anything more to say.

, 73

It was Norman who broke the silence.  "Do you think that cow has any
chance?"

I examined the cuts and punctures on my fingers for a moment.  "No,
Norman.  Peritonitis is inevitable, and I'm pretty sure I've left a
good-sized hole in her uterus."  I shuddered and slapped my brow at the
memory.

I was sure I would never see Bella alive again, but first thing next
morning a morbid curiosity made me lift the phone to find out if she
had survived so far.

The 'buzz-buzz' at the other end seemed to last a long time before Mr.
Bushell answered.

"Oh, it's Mr.  Herriot.  Cow's up and eatin'."  He didn't sound
surprised.

It was several seconds before I was able to absorb his words.  "Doesn't
she look a bit dull or uncomfortable?"  I asked huskily.

"Nay, nay, she's bright as a cricket.  Finished off a rackful of hay
and I got a couple o' gallons of milk from erAs in a dream I heard his
next question.  "When'll you take them stitches out?"

"Stitches..  .?  Oh yes."  I gave myself a shake.  "In a fortnight, Mr.
Bushell, in a fortnight."

After the horrors of die first visit I was glad Norman was with me when
I removed die sutures.  There was no swelling round the wound and Bella
chewed her cud happily as I snipped away.  In a pen nearby the calf
gambolled and kicked his feet in die air.

I couldn't help asking.  "Has she shown any symptoms at all,

Mr.  Bushell?"

"Nay."  The farmer shook his head slowly.  "She's been neither up nor
down.  You wouldn't know owl had happened toer

That was die way it was at my first Caesarean.  Over the years Bella
went on to have eight more calves normally and unaided, a miracle which
I can still hardly believe.

But Norman and I were not to know that.  All we felt then was an
elation which was all die sweeter for being unexpected.

As we drove away I looked at die young man's smiling face.

"Well, Norman," I said.  "That's veterinary practice for you.  You get
a lot of nasty shocks but some lovely surprises too.  I've often heard
of the wonderful resistance of the bovine peritoneum and thank heavens
it's true."

"The whole thing's marvelous, isn't it"' he murmured dreamily.  "I
can't describe the way I feel.  My head seems to be full of quotations
like "Where there is life there's hope"."

"Yes indeed," I said.  "John Gay, isn't it "The Sick Man and The
Angel"."

Norman clapped his hands.  "Oh, well done."

"Let's see."  I thought for a moment.  "How about "But t'was a famous
victory"."

"Excellent," replied the young man.  "Southey, "The Battle
ofBlenheim'V

I nodded.  "Quite correct."

"Here's a good one," the student said."  "Out of this nettle, danger,
we pluck this flower, safety"."

"Splendid, splendid," I replied.  "Shakespeare, Henry Fifth."

"No, Henry Fourth."

I opened my mouth to argue but Norman held up a confident hand.  "It's
no good, I'm right.  And this time I do know what I'm talking about."

October 30,1961

At 6.30 a.m. we reached die Kiel Canal.  There was a little town at the
western end and a big lock gate.  We had to wait for about half an hour
to get through the lock and during this time we took aboard a German
policeman and a Dutch pilot.  The policeman's job was to see that we
did not pollute die canal by throwing out the manure and soiled bedding
from the ship.  He was very smart in a black leather coat with gold
buttons, and a neat blue uniform with two pips on die shoulder, and we
spent a pleasant time chatting.  He shamed me, as so many foreigners
do, by speaking quite good

English.

After passing through the lock gate it was a delight to be gliding
along in still water for a change and I stood out on the strip of deck
watching the many types of vessels which use the canal.  There were
several German warships and the young sailors with their little caps on
the side of their heads waved cheerily to me as they passed.

The countryside was flat with much farmland and woods which looked very
pretty with their autumn tints.  We passed many villages with
attractive houses, most of which had long steeply-sloping roofs and
dormer windows.

After about six hours we arrived at the eastern end of the canal.  Here
a German immigration official came aboard and stamped my passport.  He
also put a stamp on my name in the ship's articles as this morning I
was officially signed on as a member of the ship's company.  It was odd
to see the list of Danish names and then "James Herriot, Supercargo'. I
felt strangely uplifted.  I had never been a supercargo before.

The sheep looked quite happy this morning though there was still that
nagging cough among the Lincolns.  The one with the eye irritation was
almost normal now but the lame sheep had not improved, in fact it had
deteriorated slightly and was running a high temperature, so I had got
it in a pen on its own and given it a shot of penicillin as well as the
antibiotic spray.  Obviously the infection was deeper than I thought.

The sailor who was my constant helper was the same one who spoke to me
on the first evening.  His name was Raun and he was a flaxen-haired
young husky with great shoulders and a flattened-nosed boxer's face,
but when he smiled he radiated charm.  He was warm natured and an
animal lover.  When we had installed the lame sheep in its pen he knelt
down, put his arms round the woolly neck and gave it a long hug.  I had
noticed him doing this with the other sheep, particularly the massive
Romney Marsh rams.  As I have said, they were like huge teddy bears and
Raun seemed to find them irresistible.  Anyway, I was delighted they
had chosen such a man to be my assistant.

At the east end the canal widened out into the Baltic.  I could see the
town of Kiel just round the corner and there was a tremendous amount of
shipping.  We passed an imposing memorial to the Germans killed in the
First World War and there were a few deserted sandy beaches with summer
houses around them.

As we headed out into the sea I found a hidden corner of the deck and
did a bit of hopping about and running on the spot.  I tried to make a
habit of this because the only exercise I got was clambering up and
down the ladders to the hold and I had to work off Nielsen's abundant
fare somehow.

I had decided to make a final inspection of the animals each night at
ten o'clock and go round them with Raun to hold any I wanted to examine
more closely.  On this night I was told that Raun was steering but that
if I went up on the bridge he would soon be relieved.

The ship was pitching wildly as I staggered out on to the upper deck.
This, I thought, was the real thing as I felt my way along in the inky
blackness, drenched with sea spray, the boards heaving and slippery
under my feet, my hands grabbing at anything to hold me upright.

I stumbled on to the bridge and found myself in a decidedly eerie
atmosphere.  The bridge was an entirely different place at night
absolutely dark and I had to stand there for a long time before I could
pick out the lonely figure at the wheel.  That was a quiet job if ever
there was one.

When Raun came down with me I gave the ewe with the eye trouble what
ought to have been its final application of ointment, and injected the
lame sheep again.  The animals which tried to stand were swaying and
tumbling around, but they didn't seem any the worse.  However, I
wondered what they would be like in the morning because Raun told me he
had heard the captain say there was a real storm blowing up.

"No matter," the big sailor said cheerfully.  "You come and have a beer
with me."

"Okay, thanks," I replied and we went together to the crew's mess room.
We sat down, he gave me a Camels cigarette and as we talked I looked
around at the other members of the crew.  Strangely, though the
officers were dark, these were all of a type: thick yellow hair, fine
physiques, tremendous men.  All of them were cheerful and polite.

Raun in his limited English told me about himself.  He was
twenty-eight, had been at sea for fourteen years and was married with
two young children.  He never stopped smiling except at the end when he
leaned across the table and tapped me on the chest.

"Doctor, on my last voyage we take 200 cat ties from Dublin to Lubeck.
When we get to Lubeck five cat ties dead."

I whistled.  That's nasty.  Didn't they have a vet with them?"

"No, no."  His battered face was very serious.  "No doctor for the cat
ties  Is good that you are here for the sheeps."

It made me think.  Maybe I really was going to earn my keep.

I thanked him, said goodnight to everybody and made my way back to my
quarters.  Just outside my cabin was a door which opened on to a small
platform on the stern of the ship.  I liked to go out there for a
lungful of the good air before going to bed.  That night, in the
roaring wind, I could see only the creamy wash from the ship's
propellers disappearing into the surrounding blackness.  Above, there
were a million stars and I could pick out the plough and the pole star
plainly.  I didn't have to be an expert navigator to find our course.
We were heading dead east.

It was difficult to write my log that night because the cabin kept
tilting steeply.  The captain was going to be right about the storm.

IO

To any conscientious veterinary surgeon, killing a patient is a
terrible thought.  I am not talking about euthanasia, which is so often
merciful, but of inadvertently killing when attempting to cure.

This has probably happened to many of us and I think it happened to me.
I can never be sure, but the memory still haunts me.

It all started when a young representative from a pharmaceutical
company called at the surgery and started to talk about a wonderful new
treatment for foul of the foot in cattle.

This condition was a headache in those early days.  Judging by its
name, it had been going on for centuries and it happened when the
inter-digital space between the cleats of the cloven-footed bovine was
invaded by the organism Fus-iformis necrophorus, usually through some
small wound or abrasion.

This resulted in the actual death of an area of tissue in the region
along with swelling of the foot and extreme lameness.  A good cow could
lose condition at an alarming rate due simply to the pain.  The
medieval-sounding name came from the fact that the dead tissue gave off
a particularly offensive smell.

The treatment we used to employ ranged from the tedious to the heroic.
A cow's hind feet were never meant to be lifted up and I was always
grateful when it was a forefoot which was affected.  With hind feet,
even applying antiseptics was a chore.  If that didn't work we bandaged
on pads of cotton wool impregnated with caustics like copper sulphate,
and a very popular treatment among the farmers was dressing the area
with Stockholm tar and salt a messy and unpleasant business with the
feet whistling round the head of the operator.

So I couldn't believe it when the representative told me that an
injection of M & B 693 into the vein would rapidly clear up the
condition.

I actually laughed at the young man.  "I know you chaps have to make a
living, but this sounds like one of your tallest stories."

"It works, I tell you," he said.  "It has been well tested and I

promise you it really does the trick."  "And you don't have to touch
the foot at all?"  "No, only for diagnosis.  Then you can forget about
it."  "How long does it take to have an effect?"  "Just a few days. And
I give you my word the cow is sometimes much better within twenty-four
hours."

It sounded like a beautiful dream.  "Okay," I said.  "Send some on.
We'll give it a try."

He made a note on his pad, then looked up.  "There's just one thing.
This drug is very irritant.  You must be sure you don't get it
subcutaneous or it could cause an abscess."

As he walked out of the door I wondered if this really meant the end of
one of our most disagreeable tasks.  I had already had occasion to be
thankful for the beneficent M & B tablets.  They had wrought some minor
miracles in our practice.  But I found it hard to believe that an
intravenous injection could cure a necrotic condition of the foot.

When the stuff arrived I had the same trouble convincing the farmers.
"What are you doin', injectin' the neck?  You should be putting it into
t'bloody foot."  Or, "Is that all you're goin' to do?  Aren't you goin'
to give me sum mat to put on t'foot?"  These were typical remarks and
my answers were halting because I had the same reservations as the
stock owners.

But oh, how magically everybody's attitude changed, because it was just
as the young man said.  Very often within a single day the beast was
walking sound, the swelling had gone down, the pain had vanished.  It
was like witchcraft.

It was a giant step forward and I was at the height of my euphoria when
I saw Robert Maxwell's cow.  The reddened swollen foot, the agonised
hopping, the stinking discharge it was all there.

The fact is that it was so bad that I was delighted because I had found
that the worst cases with the acute lameness and the interdigital
tissues pouting from toe or heel were the ones which recovered
quickest.

"We'll have some work on with this 'un," the farmer grunted.  He was in
his late forties, a dynamic little man and one of the bright farmers of
the district.  He was always to the fore in farmers' discussion groups,
always eager to learn and teach.

"Not a bit of it, Mr.  Maxwell," I said airily.  "There's a new
injection for this now.  No foot dressing that's gone for good."

"Well, that would be a blessin', anyway.  It's savage amusement hangin'
on to cows' feet."

He bent over the leg and looked down.  Where exactly do ye inject this
new stuff, then?"

"In the neck."

"In the neck!"

I grinned.  I never seemed to get tired of the reaction.  "That's
right.  Into the jugular vein."

"Well, there's sum mat new every day now."  Robert Maxwell shrugged and
smiled, but he accepted it.  The intelligent farmers like him were the
ones who didn't argue.  It was always the thick-heads who knew
everything.

"Just hold the nose," I said.  "That's right, pull the head a little
way round.  Fine."  I raised the jugular with my finger and it stood
out like a hose pipe as I slipped the needle into it.  The M & B
solution ran into the bloodstream in about two minutes and I pulled the
needle out.

"Well, that's it," I said with a trace of smugness.

"Nothing else?"

"Not a thing.  Forget about it.  The cow will be sound in a few
days."

"Well, I don't know.5 Robert Maxwell looked at me with a half smile.
"You young fellers keep surprising me.  I've been in farmin' all me
life but you do things I've never dreamed of."

I saw him at a farmers' meeting about a week later.

"How's that cow?"  I asked.

"Just like you said.  Sound as a bell o' brass.  That stuff shifts foul
all right, there's no doubt about it, it's like magic."

I was just expanding when his expression changed.  "But there's a heck
of a swelling on 'er neck."

"You mean, where I injected her?"

"Yes."

My happy feeling evaporated.  I didn't like the sound of that.  My
first thought was that I must have got some of the solution under the
skin, but I seemed to remember the blood still gushing from the needle
when I pulled it out.

"That's funny," I said.  "I can't see any reason for that."

Robert Maxwell shook his head.  "I can't either.  I did that cow over
with fly spray right after you left.  Could some of that have got in
your needle wound?"

"No .. . surely not.  I've never heard of such a thing.  I'd better
have a look at her tomorrow."

I made it one of my first calls next morning.  The farmer had not been
exaggerating.  There was a marked swelling on the neck, but it was not
confined to the injection site.  It ran right along the course of the
jugular.  The vein itself had a solid, corded feel and there was oedema
around the swollen area.

"She's got phlebitis," I said.  "The vein has somehow got infected
through my injection."

"How would that happen?"

"I just don't know.  I'm pretty sure none of the solution escaped and
my needle was clean."

The farmer peered closely at the cow's neck.  "It's not like an
abscess, is it?"

"No," I replied, "There's no abscess."

"And what's that long hard lump goin' up to the jaw?"

That's a thrombus."

"A what?"

"A thrombus.  A big clot in the vein."  I wasn't enjoying this little
pathological lecture considering that I had been responsible for the
whole thing myself.

Robert Maxwell gave me a searching look.  "Well, what's going to
happen?  What do we do?"

"Usually collateral circulation develops within a few weeks.  That is,
other veins take over the job.  And in the meantime I'll put her on to
a course of mixed sulphon amide powders."

"Aye, well, she doesn't seem bothered," the farmer said.

That was one gleam of light.  The cow had been looking round at us
contentedly as we spoke and now I saw her pulling a little hay from her
rack.

"No ... no ... She doesn't look concerned at all.  I'm sorry this has
happened but it should just be a question of time before she's
right."

He scratched the root of the animal's tail for a moment.  "Would
bathin' with hot water do any good?"

I shook my head vigorously.  "Please don't touch that place at all.  It
would be dangerous if that clot broke down."

I left the powders and drove away, but I had that nasty feeling I
always have when I know I have boobed.  I gripped the wheel and swore
under my breath.  What had I done wrong?  The sterilised disposable
needles and syringes which we take for granted now were unknown then,
but Siegfried and I always boiled our hypodermics and carried them in
cases where they were always immersed in surgical spirit.  We could
hardly do more.  Had the farmer's fly spray done something?  Hard to
believe.

In any case I comforted myself with the thought that the cow didn't
look ill.  These cases recovered in time.  But the unpalatable fact
remained.  That animal had had a simple case of foul until James
Herriot MRCVS took a hand and now she had jugular phlebitis.

Helen had just put my breakfast in front of me on the following morning
when the phone rang.  It was Robert Maxwell.

"That cow's dead," he said.

I stared stupidly at the wall in front of me for several seconds before
I could speak.  "Dead..  .?"

"Aye, founder laid in her stall this morning'.  Just as though she'd
dropped down."

"Mr.  Maxwell ... I ... er."  I had to clear my throat more than once.
"I'm terribly sorry.  I never expected this."

"What's happened then?"  The farmer's voice was strangely
matter-of-fact.  ,

"There's only one explanation," I said.  "Embolism."

"What's that?"

"It's when a piece of the clot breaks off and gets into the
circulation.  When an embolus reaches the heart it usually means
death."

"I see.  That would do it, then."

I swallowed.  "Let me say again, Mr.  Maxwell, I'm very sorry."

"Ah well..  ."  There was a pause.  "These things happen in farmin".  I
just thought I'd let you know.  Goodmornin'."

I felt sick as I put the phone down and the feeling persisted as I sat
at the breakfast table, staring at my plate.

"Aren't you going to eat, Jim?"  Helen asked.

I looked down sadly at the nice slice of home-fed ham.  "Sorry Helen,
it's no good.  I can't tackle it."

"Oh, come on."  My wife smiled and pushed the plate nearer to me.  "I
know you worry about your work, but I've never, known it put you off
your food."

I shrugged miserably.  "But this is different.  I've never killed a cow
before."

Of course I didn't know this for sure1 never will know -but the thing
stayed with me for a long time.  I am a great believer in Napoleon's
dictum, 'throw off your worries when you throw off your clothes', and I
had never known the meaning of insomnia, but for many nights turgid
jugular veins and floating emboli brought me gasping to wakefulness.

As time passed I continued to wonder at the farmer's attitude on the
phone.  Most people would have been furious at a disaster like this and
it would have been natural enough if Robert Maxwell had blasted me at
great length.  But he hadn't been rude, hadn't even tried to blame
me.

Of course there was always the possibility that he might be going to
sue me.  He was a nice man, but after all he had suffered a financial
loss and it would not take a legal genius to make out a good case that
I was the villain.

But the solicitor's letter never arrived.  In fact I did not hear a
word from the farmer for nearly a month and since I had been a regular
visitor on his place I concluded that he had changed his veterinary
surgeon.  Well, I had lost the practice a good client and that was not
a pleasant thought either.

Then, one afternoon the phone rang and it was Robert Maxwell again,
speaking in the same quiet voice.  "I want you to come and look at one
of me cows, Mr.  Herriot.  There's something' amiss with her."

A wave of relief went through me.  Not a mention of the other thing,
just a call for assistance as if nothing had happened.  There were a
lot of charitable farmers in the Dales and this man was one of them.  I
just hoped I could make it up to him in some way.

What I wanted was a case which I could cure quickly and if possible in
a spectacular manner.  I had a lot of ground to make up on this farm.

Robert Maxwell received me with his usual quiet courtesy.

"That was a good rain last night, Mr.  Herriot.  The grass was getting'
right parched."  It was as though my last unhappy visit had never
happened.

The cow was a big Friesian and when I saw her, my hopes of a cheap
triumph vanished in an instant.  She was standing, arch-backed and
gaunt, staring at the wall in front of her.  One thing I hate to see is
a cow staring at the wall.  As we approached she showed no interest and
I made a spot diagnosis.  This was traumatic reticuli tis  She had
swallowed a wire.  I would have to operate on her and after my last
experience in this byre the idea did not appeal.

Yet, when I began to examine her I realised that things were not adding
up.  The rumen was working well, seething and bubbling under my
stethoscope, and when I pinched her withers she did not grunt just
swivelled an anxiety-ridden eye in my direction before turning her
attention to the wall again.

"She's a bit thin,"I said.

"Aye, she is."  Robert Maxwell dug his hands into his pockets and
surveyed the animal gloomily.  "And I doa't know why.  She's had nob
but the best of stuff to eat, but she's lost condition fast over the
last few days."

Pulse, respiration and temperature was normal.  This was a funny one.

"At first I thought she had colic," the farmer went on.  "She kept
tryin' to kick at her belly."

"Kicking at her belly?"  Something was stirring at the back of my mind.
Yes, that was often a symptom of nephritis.  And as if to clinch my
decision the animal cocked her tail and sent a jet of bloody urine into
the channel.  I looked at the pool behind her.  There were flecks of
pus among the blood and though I knew her trouble now it did not make
me happy.

I turned to the farmer.  "It's her kidneys, Mr.  Maxwell."

"Her kidneys?  What's the matter wi 'em?"

"Well, they're inflamed.  They've become infected in some way.  It's
called pyelonephritis.  Probably the bladder is affected, too."

The farmer blew out his cheeks.  "Is it serious?"

How I wished I could give him, of all people, a light answer, but there
was no doubt that this was a highly fatal condition.  I had a feeling
of doom.

Tm afraid so," I replied.  "It is very serious."

"I had a feelin' there was something far wrong.  Can you do owl for
her?"

"Yes," I said.  "I would like to try her with some mixed sulphon
amides

He glanced at me quickly.  That was what I had used for the
phlebitis.

"It really is the best thing," I went on hurriedly.  "Cows like this
used to be hopeless to treat, but since the sulpha drugs came on the
scene we do have a chance."

He gave me one of his long, calm looks.  "All right, then, we'd better
get started."

I'll keep an eye on her," I said as I handed over the powders.

And I did keep an eye on her.  I was in the Maxwell byre every day; I
desperately wanted that cow to live.  But after four days there was no
improvement, in fact she was slowly sinking.

I was steeped in gloom as I stood by the farmer's side and looked at
the animal's jutting ribs and pelvic bones.  She was thinner than ever
and still she passed that blood-stained urine.

I could not bear the thought that another tragedy was going to follow
so soon after the first one, but the certainty was growing in my mind
that death was imminent.

"The sulphon amides are keeping her alive," I said, 'but we need
something stronger."

"Is there anythin' stronger?"

"Yes, penicillin."

Penicillin.  The marvelous new drug, the first of the antibiotics, but
as yet the veterinary profession had no injectable form.  All we had
were the tiny tubes, each containing 300 mg in an oily base, for the
treatment of mastitis.  The nozzle of the tube was inserted in the teat
canal and the contents squeezed up in the udder.  It was a magical
improvement on any previous mastitis treatment, but at that stage of my
career I had never injected an antibiotic into an animal hypodermic
ally

I am not usually inventive but I had a sudden idea.  I went out to my
car, found a box of twelve mastitis tubes and tried the nozzle in the
base of a record hypodermic needle.  It fitted perfectly.

I am no scientific theorist so I didn't know whether I was doing the
right thing or not, but I plunged the needle into the cow's rump and
squeezed tube after tube into the depths of the muscle until the box
was empty.  Would the penicillin be absorbed in that form?  I didn't
know.  But there was comfort in the knowledge that at least it was in
there.  It was a spark of hope.

I kept this up for three days and on the third day I knew I was doing
some good.

"Look!"  I said to Robert Maxwell.  "Her back isn't arched now.  She
seems to have relaxed."

The farmer nodded.  "You're right.  She isn't as tucked up as she
was."

The sight of the cow standing there peacefully, looking around her and
occasionally pulling a mouthful of hay from her rack was like a blast
of trumpets to me.  The pain in the kidneys was plainly subsiding and
the farmer had said that the urine was not as dark as it was.

I seemed to go mad after that.  With the scent of victory in my
nostrils I pumped my little tubes into the animal day after day.  I
didn't know the correct dose for a bovine nobody did at that time so I
just whacked them in, willy-nilly, sometimes more, sometimes less, and
all the time the improvement continued steadily.

There came the happy day when I was quite certain that the battle was
won.  As I worked on the cow she straddled her legs and sent out a
cascade of crystal-clear urine.  I stepped back and as if for the first
time I contemplated the change in my patient.  The gaunt frame of that
first day was padded with flesh and the cow's coat shone with the gloss
of health.  She had returned to normal just as quickly as she had
fallen away.  It was remarkable.

I threw down the empty box.  "Well, Mr.  Maxwell, I think we can say
she's about right.  I'll give her another treatment tomorrow and that
will be the end."  "You're comin' back tomorrow, then?"  "Yes, for the
last time."

The farmer's face grew grave and he stepped closer to me.  "All right,
then, I 'ave a complaint to make about you."

Oh God, at last he was going to tackle me about that phlebitis.  And
what a terrible moment to pick, just when I was flushed with success.
Human nature could be very strange and if he had decided to give me
hell after all this time there was nothing I could do about it.  I
would just have to take it.

"Oh yes?"  I replied shakily.  "And what is that?"  He leaned forward
and tapped my chest with his forefinger.  His face was transfigured,
heavy with menace.  "D'ye think I've got nothin' better to do than
sweep up after you every day?"

"Sweep up..  what..  .?"I stared at him stupidly.

He waved an arm over the byre floor.  "Just look at all this dang mess!
I've got to clear it away!"

I looked down at the scattering of empty penicillin tubes, the paper
pamphlets which always went with them, and the discarded box.  Totally
unheeding, I had hurled them far and wide as I worked.

"Gosh, I'm sorry," I muttered.  "I didn't realise..  ."

I was interrupted by a great burst of laughter from the farmer.

"Nay, I'm just havin' ye on lad.  Of course you didn't realise.  You
were ower busy curin' me good cow."  He thumped me on the shoulder and
I knew it was his way of saying thanks.

That was my first experience of injecting an antibiotic, and even
though the method was bizarre I learned something from it.  But I
learned more on that farm about the way to live than I did about
veterinary science.  Over the following thirty years I knew him, the
farmer never alluded to that disaster which he could so easily have
laid at my door.

During that period there were occasions when I suffered misfortunes due
to the shortcomings of others, when I found people at fault and at my
mercy if I wished to make trouble for them.  At these times I had a
standard of conduct to follow.  I tried to behave like Robert
Maxwell.

II

"You know, Jim," said Tristan, pulling thoughtfully at his Woodbine, "I
often wonder if there is any other household where the mark of a lady's
favour is expressed in goat shit."

In quiet moments I often thought about the old bachelor days in
Skeldale House and it was at one of these times that I recalled
Tristan's observation.  I could remember looking up at him from the day
book in surprise.  "Well, isn't that funny!  I've just been thinking
the same thing.  It certainly is rather an odd business."

We had just come through from the dining-room and my memory of the
breakfast table was very clear.  Mrs.  Hall always placed our letters
next to our plates and there, at Siegfried's place, dominating the
scene like an emblem of triumph, stood the tin of goat droppings from
Miss Grantley.

We all knew what it was, despite its wrapping of brown paper, because
Miss Grantley always used the same container, an empty cocoa tin about
six inches high.  Either she collected them from friends or she was
very fond of cocoa.

One indisputable thing was that she was very fond of goats.  In fact
they seemed almost to rule her existence, which was strange because the
care of goats was an unlikely hobby for a blonde beauty who could have
stepped effortlessly into the film world.

Another odd thing about Miss Grantley was that she had never married.
Each time I had been at her house I had marvelled that anybody like her
was able to keep the men away.  She would be about thirty with a nicely
rounded figure and elegant legs and sometimes when I looked at the fine
contours of her face I wondered whether that rather firm jaw might have
frightened prospective suitors.  But no, she was cheerful and charming;
I decided that she just didn't want to get married.  She had a lovely
home and obviously plenty of money.  She appeared to be perfectly
happy.

There was no doubt at all that the goat droppings were a mark of
favour.  Miss Grantley took her stock-keeping very seriously and
insisted on regular laboratory examination of faeces samples for
internal parasites or any other abnormality which might be found.

These samples were always addressed personally to Mr.  Siegfried Farnon
and I had attached no importance to this until one morning, a few days
after I had pleased her immensely by removing an embedded piece of
chaff from one of her billy's eyes, the familiar tin appeared by my
breakfast plate and I read "James Herriot Esq."  MRCVS' on the label.

That was when I realised it was an accolade, a gesture of approval.  In
ancient days the feudal knights would carry a glove at their saddle bow
or a scarf on their lance point as a symbol of their lady's esteem but
with Miss Grantley it was goat droppings.

On the occasion when I got mine, Siegfried's face showed the slightest
flicker of surprise and I suppose I might have shown a trace of
smugness but he needn't have worried.  Within a week or two the tin
reappeared at his end of the table.

And after all it was the natural thing, because if sheer male
attractiveness entered into this situation there was no doubt that
Siegfried was out in front by a street.  Tristan pursued the local
girls enthusiastically and with considerable success.  I had no reason
to complain about my share of female company, but Siegfried was in a
different class.  He seemed to drive women mad.

He didn't have to chase them, they chased him.  I hadn't known him long
before I realised that the tales I had heard about the irresistible
appeal of tall, lean-faced men were true.  And when you added his
natural charm and commanding personality it was inevitable that the
goat droppings would land regularly by his plate.

In fact that is how it was for a long time, even though Tristan and I
paid almost as many visits to Miss Grantley's goats as Siegfried.  As I
said, she seemed to be quite rich because she called us out to the
slightest ailment and was as good a client as some of our big
farmers.

However, when I heard her voice on the telephone one morning I knew
that this time it wasn't for something trivial.  She sounded
agitated.

"Mr.  Herriot, Tina has caught her shoulder on a nail and torn herself
rather badly.  I do hope you can come out immediately."

"Yes, as it happens, I can.  There is nothing urgent at the moment.
I'll leave right away."

A mild glow of satisfaction rippled through me.  This would be just
another stitching job and I liked stitching.  It was easy, and always
impressed the client.  I would be on happier ground there than when
Miss Grantley was quizzing me about goat diseases.  They had taught me
practically nothing about goats at college and though I had tried to
catch up by snatches of reading here and there I realised uncomfortably
that I was no expert.

I was leaving the room when Tristan levered himself slowly from the
depths of the armchair where he spent a lot of his time.  Since
breakfast I had been aware of his presence only by the rustle of the
Daily Mirror under a cloud of Woodbine smoke.

He yawned and stretched.  "Miss Grantley's, eh?  Think I'll come with
you.  Just feel like a ride out."

I smiled.  "Okay, come on, then."  He was always good company.

Miss Grantley met us in a tight-fitting pale blue boiler suit of some
silky material which did nothing to diminish her attractions.

"Oh, thank you so much for coming," she said.  "Please follow me."

Following her was rewarding.  In fact, on entering the goat house
Tristan failed to see the step and fell on to his knees.  Miss Grantley
glanced at him briefly before hurrying to a pen at the far end.

"There she is," she said and put a hand over her eyes.  "I can't bear
to look."

Tina was a fine white Saanen but her beauty was ravaged by a huge
laceration which had pulled the skin down from her shoulder in a long
V, exposing the naked smoothness of the supraspinatus and infraspinatus
muscles.  The bony spine of the scapula gleamed white through the
blood.

It was a mess, but I had to stop myself rubbing my hands.  It was all
superficial and I could put it right and look very good in the process.
Already I could see myself inserting the last stitch and pointing to
the now almost invisible wound.  "There now, that, looks a lot better,
doesn't it?"  Miss Grantley would be in raptures.

Yes .. . yes .. ."  I murmured in my most professional manner as I
probed the damaged area.  "It's nasty, really nasty."  92

Miss Grantley clasped her hands together.  "But do you think you can
save her?"

"Oh, yes."  I nodded weightily.  "It will be a big stitching job and
take rather a long time, but I feel sure she will pull through."

"Oh, thank heaven."  She gave a long sigh of relief.  I'll fetch some
hot water."

Soon I was ready for action.  My needles, cotton wool, scissors, suture
materials and forceps laid out on a clean towel, Tristan holding Tina's
head, Miss Grantley hovering anxiously, ready to help.

I cleaned the whole area thoroughly, sprinkled dusting powder with a
liberal hand and began to stitch.  Miss Grantley was soon in action,
passing me the scissors to clip each suture.  It was a nice smooth
start but it was a very large wound and this was going to take some
time.  I searched my mind for light conversation.

Tristan chipped in, apparently thinking the same thing.  "Wonderful
animal, the goat," he said lightly.

"Ah yes."  Miss Grantley looked across at him with a bright smile.  "I
do agree."

"When you think about it, they are probably the earliest of the
domestic animals," he went on.  "It always thrills me to realise that
there is ample evidence of domestication of goats in pre-historic
times.  There are cave paintings of goats and later, ancient books from
all over the world mention their existence.  They have been part of the
world of man since recorded time.  It is a fascinating thought."

From my squatting position I looked up at him in surprise.  In my
relationship with Tristan I had discovered several things which
fascinated him, but goats were not among them.

"And another thing," he went on.  "They have such a marvelous
metabolism.  They will consume food which other animals won't look at
and they will produce abundant milk from that food."

"Yes, indeed," breathed Miss Grantley.  Tristan laughed.  "They're such
characters, too.  Tough and hardy under all climatic conditions,
absolutely fearless and ready to tackle any other animal, no matter how
large.  And of course it is a known fact that they can eat with
impunity many poisonous plants which would kill most creatures in a
very short time."

"Oh, they are amazing."  Miss Grantley gazed at my friend and passed
the scissors to me without turning her head.

I felt I ought to make some contribution.  "Goats certainly are
extremely..  ."I began.

"But really, you know," Tristan was in full flow again, "I think that
the thing which appeals to me most about them is their affectionate
nature.  They are friendly and sociable, and I feel that that is why
people become so deeply attached to them."

Miss Grantley nodded gravely.  "How true, how true."  My colleague
stretched out a hand and fingered the hay in the animal's rack.  "I see
you feed them properly.  There's all sorts of rough stuff in here
thistles and bits of shrubs and coarse plants.  Obviously you know that
goats prefer such things to grass.  No wonder your animals are so
healthy."

"Oh thank you."  She blushed faintly.  "Of course I give them
concentrates, too."  "Whole grain, I hope?"  "Oh yes, always."

"Good, good.  Keeps up the pH of the rumen.  You know you can get
hypertrophy of the rumen al walls and inhibition of cellulose-digesting
bacteria with a low pH?"

"Well, no... I didn't really understand it in those terms."  She was
staring at him as if he were a prophet.

"Ah, no matter," Tristan said airily.  "You are doing all the right
things and that is the important point."

"Can I have the scissors, please?"  I grunted.  I was beginning to feel
cramped in my bent-over position and also a little piqued at the
growing impression that Miss Grantley had forgotten all about me.

But I stitched on doggedly, one half of my mind watching, thankfully as
the skin gradually covered the denuded area, the other listening in
amazement as Tristan pontificated on the construction of goat houses,
their dimensions, ventilation and relative humidity.

A long time later, Miss Grantley hardly noticed as I inserted the last
suture and straightened up wearily.  "Well now, that looks better,
doesn't it?"  I said, but there wasn't the expected impact because
Tristan and my client were deeply involved in a discussion of the
relative merits of the different breeds of goats.

"Are you really in favour of the Toggenburg and Anglo-Nubian?"  she
asked.

"Oh yes," Tristan inclined his head judicially.  "Excellent animals,
both of them."

Miss Grantley suddenly became aware that I had finished.  "Oh thank you
so much," she said absently.  "You have taken such pains, I am most
grateful.  Now you must both come in for a cup of coffee."

As we balanced our cups on our knees in the elegant sitting-room,
Tristan carried on, unabated.  He dealt in depth with reproductive
problems, obstetrics and the feeding of weaned kids, and he was well
into a little treatise on anaesthesia for dehorning when Miss Grantley
turned towards me.  She was clearly still under his spell but no doubt
felt that it would be only polite to bring me into the conversation.

"Mr.  Herriot, one thing worries me.  I share a pasture with the farmer
next door and very often my goats are grazing with his ewes and lambs.
Now I have heard that his sheep are troubled with coccidiosis.  Is
there any chance that my goats could contract it from them?"

I took a long pull at my coffee cup to give myself time to think.
"Weller..  . I would say..  ."

My friend broke in again effortlessly.  "Most unlikely.  It seems that
most types of coccidiosis are specific to their individual hosts.  I
don't think you need worry on that account."

"Thank you."  Miss Grantley addressed me again as though deciding to
give me a last chance.  "And how about worms, Mr.  Herriot?  Can my
goats become infected with worms from the sheep?"

"Ah now, let's see ..."  My cup rattled in the saucer and I could feel
a light perspiration breaking out on my brow.  "The thing is..  ."

"Quite so," murmured Tristan, gliding once more to my aid.  "As Mr.
Herriot was about to say, helminthiasis is a different proposition.
There is a very real danger of infection, since the common nematodes
are the same in both species.  You must always worm regularly, and if I
can give you a brief programme..  ."

I sank deeper in my chair and let him get on with it, only half hearing
erudite remarks about the latest anthelmintics and their actions on
trichostrongyles, haemonchus and oster tag ia

It came to an end at last and we went out to the car.  I'll come back
in ten days to remove the stitches," I said as Miss Grantley showed us
off the premises.  It struck me that it was just about the only
sensible thing I had said.

I drove a few hundred yards along the road then I stopped the car.

"Since when have you been a goat lover?"  I demanded bitterly.  "And
where the hell did you get all that high-powered stuff you were
preaching back there?"

Tristan giggled, then threw back his head and laughed immoderately.
"Sorry, Jim," he said when he had recovered.  "I have exams coming up
in a few weeks, as you know, and I heard that one of the examiners is
really goat-orientated.  Last night I boned up on every bit of goat
literature I could find.  Uncanny how I had the opportunity to trot it
all out so soon after."

Ah well, that made sense.  Tristan had the kind of brain which absorbed
information like a sponge.  I could believe that he would have to read
those chapters only once and they would be his for good.  In my student
days I often had to go over a thing about six times before it sank
in.

"I see," I said.  "You'd better let me see those things you read last
night.  I didn't realise I was so ignorant."

There was an interesting little sequel about a week later.

Siegfried and I were going in to breakfast when my partner stopped in
mid-stride and stared at the table.  The familiar brown-wrapped cocoa
tin was there, but it was~ at his brother's place.  Slowly he walked
over and examined the label.  I had a look, too, and there was no
mistake.  It read "Mr.  Tristan Farnon'.

Siegfried said nothing, but sat down at the head of the table.  Very
soon the young man himself joined us, examined the tin with interest
and started on his meal.

Not a word was spoken and the three of us sat in silence, but over
everything the undeniable fact hung heavy in the room.  Tristan, for
the moment, at least, was top man.

October31, rg6i

Getting into bed last night wasn't easy.  With every passing minute the
ship's movements became more violent and I fell down several times
while undressing.

Once in the bunk I was thrown from side to side, not in the gentle roll
of the other nights but with an unpleasant jarring bump.  I turned on
to my stomach, braced arms and legs against the wood and after about
half an hour I managed to fall asleep.

Around 2 a.m. I was jerked from a troubled slumber into a world gone
mad.  I was being tossed around like a rubber ball, the wind howled,
driving rain spattered against the cabin window and a frightful din
rose from all over the ship.  The banging and clattering was deafening.
I could hear the pans in the galley flying around against the walls, a
loose iron door clanged repeatedly on its hinges and from everywhere
came a medley of undefined rattles and groans.

I switched on the light and looked out on a scene of chaos.  My money,
keys, pipe and tobacco were rolling about on the

L.G.M.T.A. - D

floor, the desk drawers were shooting out to their full extent, then
slamming back again, the chair and my suitcase were sliding from one
side to another.

Reeling about in the pandemonium, falling down repeatedly, I did my
best to clear up the mess, then got back into bed.  But I couldn't
stand the thumping of the drawers against the chair, so I got out
again, jammed the chair against the drawers and my suitcase between
chair and bunk, and clambered wearily up again.  But though this cured
most of the local noise, the uproar outside was unabated and I got very
little sleep after that.

At dawn, a cheerless sight greeted me as I looked out of my window. All
around was an empty waste of grey water tossed up into mighty green and
white-topped waves which broke up into clouds of spray as the wind
caught them.  It gave me an uncomfortable thrill to see our little ship
climb up one monstrous wave after another and then drop into a series
of deep watery valleys beyond.  The Baltic was really playing up.

My first thought was for the sheep but I heard the knock on my door and
the familiar voice of the mess boy.  "Breakfast,

MrHerriot."

I hurried to the mess room.  I would have a quick bite and then collect
Raun.  The captain was seated alone at the table when I entered.

"Good morning, Mr.  Herriot," he said, and gave me a long appraising
stare which I couldn't quite understand.

I sat down and waited.  I was impatient to get down to the hold and I
wished the breakfast would arrive.  On top of that I was distinctly
peckish and I picked around busily at the smoked ham, herrings and salt
beef.  The captain watched me with narrowed eyes all the time.

After a few minutes the mess boy appeared.  His face was as green as
grass and he averted his eyes from the piled plateful of sausages,
scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.

I grabbed a piece of rye bread and fell upon the savoury mound without
delay.  I was hacking at a sausage when the captain spoke again.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr.  Herriot?"

I looked up in surprise and replied with my mouth full."  "Mm, yes,
fine thanks, a bit tired, maybe.  I didn't get much sleep last
night."

"But you are hungry, yes?"

"I am, yes, I certainly am.  All that bouncing around seems to have
stimulated my appetite."

"This is most unusual," the captain said in his precise way.  "We have
just come through a force-nine gale and I was sure you would be seasick
this morning.  You are a very good sailor."

I laughed.  "Well, thank you.  I don't suppose there's anything very
clever about that.  I'm just made that way.  Motion of any kind has
never troubled me."

"Yes, yes .. ."  The captain nodded gravely.  "Still, it is remarkable.
Didn't you notice Peter's face?"

"Peter?"

"Yes, the mess boy.  All mess boys are called Peter, by the way, no
matter what their real name is.  He is feeling very ill, in fact he is
always ill in bad weather."

"Oh, poor lad.  It was pretty rough last night, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Mr.  Herriot, and I might say that we were sailing with the wind
behind us.  If we have to come back in weather like that with the wind
against us, then heaven help us.  It will be much worse."

"Really?  I didn't know that.  I..  ."

Raun's face, poking round the door, cut me off in mid-sentence.

"Doctor, come queek.  The sheeps..  . the sheeps are bad!"

I bolted the last of the sausage and followed him to the hold as
quickly as the heaving of the ship would allow me.

"Look, doctor!"  The big Dane pointed excitedly at one of the Romney
Marsh rams.

The sheep was standing with some difficulty, legs straddled wide.  It
was panting violently, its mouth gaped and a bubbling saliva poured
from its lips.  The normally docile eyes were wide and charged with
terror as the animal fought for breath.

All the euphoria I had felt since boarding the Iris Clausen evaporated
as I rushed feverishly around the pens.  A lot of the other sheep were
behaving in exactly the same way and I realised with a sense of shock
that I wasn't on a pleasure cruise after all.

I suppressed a rising panic as I examined the animals.  They all looked
as though they were going to die and I had a strong conviction that
those unknown Russians waiting at the other end were not going to be
amused when the expert veterinary attendant presented them with a heap
of carcasses.  A fine start it would be to my first venture at sea.

But as I went round the pens again I began to calm down.  None of the
sheep looked happy, but it was only the biggest which were affected in
this way all the rams and one or two of the larger ewes, about a dozen
in all.  So, though it might be a tragedy, it wasn't going to be total
disaster.  With Raun hanging on to the necks I took the temperatures.
They were all around 107 F. I leaned back against the wooden rail and
tried to rationalise my thoughts.  This was stress a classical example.
It must be, and up in my case I had a few bottles of the new wonder
drug, cortisone, and one of its indications was just this.

I was up to my cabin and down again quicker than I thought was possible
and in the pockets of my working-coat the precious bottles bumped
against each other.  The brand name was Predsolan; it was one of the
first of the steroid products and though I had used it for arthritic
and inflammatory conditions I had never tried it in a case like this.

It wasn't only the ship's pitching that made my hand shake and wobble
as I drew the liquid into my syringe.  The supply was very limited and
heaven only knew how many more sheep would go down.  I rationed the
injection to 3 cc.  per sheep and as I went round the stricken animals
my spirits sank lower.  Only three of them could stand, the others were
slumped on their chests, necks craning forward, eyes starting from
their heads, their flanks heaving uncontrollably.  As I worked, Raun
stroked the woolly heads and muttered endearments in Danish.  It was
the first time I had seen him look unhappy and I knew how he felt.  I
hadn't been seasick but I was sick now with apprehension.  These
beautiful pedigree animals .. . And it was the rams, the most valuable
of all, which were struck down.  I could only wait now, but I was
convinced that the whole business was hopeless.  I realised that I
couldn't bear to stand there watching them any longer and I hurried up
the iron ladders to the top deck which was running with water and
slanting at crazy angles.  It was clearly no place for me, and I went
up to the bridge.

The captain, as always, greeted me courteously and when I told him
about the sheep he looked thoughtful Then he smiled.

"I know they are in good hands, Mr.  Hernot.  Do not be upset, I am
sure you will cure them."

I couldn't share his optimism and in any case I was pretty certain he
was only trying to cheer me up.  To take my mind off my troubles he
again showed me our position on the chart and began to talk of maritime
things.

"We are out of the sea lanes now," he said.  He waved a hand round the
desolation on all sides.  "You see no ships now and I think you see no
ships all day."

As we talked we looked out through the glass at the bows of the ship
dipping into each gulf then climbing up the green mountain on the other
side.  This was the best position to appreciate the size of those
mighty waves and a part of me never stopped being surprised as our tiny
vessel fought her way up again and again.

The captain fell silent for a few minutes and gazed impassively at the
endless stretch of sea beyond the glass.

"I tell you again, Mr.  Herriot, we are running before the wind now and
if it is like this on our return journey we are in big trouble."  He
turned and smiled.  "You see, once we are unloaded we must come back
straight away.  A ship is doing no good lying in harbour."

All the time I was hanging on grimly to a rail and it fascinated me to
see the mate stroll casually on to the bridge, pipe in mouth, hands in
pockets, and begin to move around

IOJ

effortlessly.  At times his body seemed to be at an angle of 45 to the
ground.  I had noticed that all the crew were wonderfully adept at
this, but for me it was frankly very dangerous to walk anywhere at all
without support.

After two hours I had to give in to my gnawing anxiety.  It would be
too soon to expect any improvement in my patients but at least I could
cneck to see that they were no worse.

I struggled a foot at a time back to my cabin to get my gear and on the
way I passed the galley.  The cell-like room was a chaos of tumbled
pans and plates and the walls were almost entirely covered with soup
which Nielsen the cook was wiping away with a cloth.  When he saw me he
nodded and smiled as he worked.  He didn't seem in the least put out;
this was probably a common occurrence for him.

Down those iron ladders again; they really were uncomfortable things
when the world was whirling and wet.  I rushed straight to the pen
which held the first ram and for a moment I was sure I had gone to the
wrong place because a large woolly head was regarding me placidly over
the rails.  A few strands of hay hung from the mouth, then the jaws
began to move in a contented chew.

I was standing there, bewildered, when from the deep straw in the pen
the massive figure of Raun rose like a golden-maned genie and began to
wave his arms about.

"Look, doctor, look!"  His boxer's face vibrated in every feature as he
gestured at the ram, then at the other patients in the hold.

I moved among them like a man in a dream.  They were all normal.  Not
just improved but right back to where they were before the trouble
started, and all within two hours.

Over my veterinary career I have learned about new things in various
odd places and I learned about cortisone in the bowels of a little
cattle ship on the way to Russia.  And it was sweet, made sweeter by
the ecstatic response of Raun to the little miracle.  He vaulted over
the rails from pen to pen, hugging the sheep as though they were dogs,
and laughing nonstop.

"Is wonderful, doctor, is wonderful!  So queek they dying, now they
live.  So queek, how you do it?"  He stared at me with undisguised
admiration.

Just then I felt a pang of envy for Danish vets.  I have had my black
moments in practice but I have also pulled off the occasional
spectacular cure without seeing anything like this reaction from the
Yorkshiremen.  But then, maybe Danish farmers didn't leap about with
joy either.  After all, Raun was a sailor.

Anyway, I was filled with the exhilaration which every veterinary
surgeon knows when the curtain of despair is unexpectedly lifted.  The
pre-lunch beer with the captain tasted like nectar and lunch itself in
the swaying mess room was a celebration.

Somehow the wonder man in the galley had conjured up a glorious
vegetable soup with pieces of sausage and dumpling floating around in
it.  This was followed by "Fregadillas' which were delicious and made,
I was told, from chopped pork and veal rolled into balls, bound
together with egg and highly spiced.

As I wrote my journal I was conscious that it was in danger of
degenerating into a kind of Cattle-Boat Cook Book, but how Nielsen
managed to produce this kind of food in a cubby hole and in stormy
weather was a constant source of wonder to me.  I was finding it
difficult to resist making references to his artistry.

He had a habit of poking his head round the door halfway through every
meal.  He looked only at me, the one who recognised him as a culinary
genius, and when I put my fingers to my lips and closed my eyes his
sweating face beamed with delight.  He thought I was wonderful.

My cabin was almost opposite the galley, and between meals he
experimented on me constantly with his own special tit bits  I admit I
was a willing subject.

The bad weather continued throughout the day and, as the captain had
prophesied, we did not see another ship at any time.  I kept a close
eye on the sheep and a few more showed the beginnings of the stress
symptoms, but I was on them immediately with my Predsolan and crushed
the trouble before it became alarming.

That night, the ritual after-dinner session with the schnapps and lager
was particularly pleasant.  The ship's officers were such likeable men.
They showed me pictures of their families and of the places they had
visited, and the conversation never flagged.  At the end the captain
raised a finger and looked at me smilingly.  "Would you like to
telephone your wife?"

I laughed.  "You're joking, aren't you?"  "No, no, it is quite
simple."

He took me up to the bridge and within a few minutes I was talking to
Helen and daughter Rosie in the darkness.  With a sense of unreality I
heard their voices giving me the news of home, of Jimmy at the
university, of the latest football scores.  It put the final touch on a
rewarding day.

I made a close inspection of the sheep before going to my cabin because
the next day we should be in Klaipeda and I should have to hand them
over.  They looked fine.  No more stress, the lame animal had recovered
as had the one with the discharging eyes.  There was just that cough
among the Lincolns and it was a worry.  What would those Russians make
of it?  I knew that it was just a touch of parasitic bronchitis, that
it was getting better all the time and that it would soon be gone
completely.  But would I be able to explain that to the Russian vets? I
should soon know.

The farm man moved between the cows and took hold of my patient's tail,
and when I saw his haircut I knew immediately that Josh Anderson had
been on the job again.  It was a Sunday morning and everything fitted
into place.  I really didn't have to ask.

"Were you in the Hare and Pheasant last night?"  I enquired carelessly
as I inserted my thermometer.

He ran a hand ruefully over his head.  "Aye, bugger it, ah was.  Ye can
see straight off, can't ye?  T'missus has been playin' 'ell with me
ever since."  "I suppose Josh had had one too many, eh ?"  "Aye he had.
I should've known better, pickin' a Saturday night.  It's me own
fault."

Josh Anderson was one of the local barbers.  He liked his job, but he
also liked his beer.  In fact he was devoted to it, even to the extent
of taking his scissors and clippers to the pub with him every night.
For the price of a pint he would give anybody a quick trim in the
gents' lavatory.

Habitues of the Hare and Pheasant were never surprised to find one of
the customers sitting impassively on the toilet seat with Josh
snip-snipping round his head.  With beer at sixpence a pint it was good
value, but Josh's clients knew they were taking a chance.  If the
barber's intake had been moderate they would escape relatively
unscathed because the standard of hair-styling in the Darrowby district
was not very fastidious, but if he had imbibed beyond a certain point
terrible things could happen.

Josh had not as yet been known to cut off anybody's ear, but if you
strolled around the town on Sundays and Mondays you were liable to come
across some very strange coiffures.

I looked again at the farm man's head.  From my experience I judged
that Josh would be around the ten-pint mark when he did that one.  The
right side burn had been trimmed off meticulously just below eye-level
while the left was nonexistent.  The upper hair seemed to have been
delved into at random, leaving bare patches in some parts and long
dangling wisps in others.  I couldn't see the back but I had no doubt
it would be interesting, too.  There could be a pigtail or anything
lurking behind there.

Yes, I decided, definitely a ten-pinter.  After twelve to fourteen
pints Josh was inclined to cast away all caution and simply run over
his victim's head with the clippers, leaving a tuft in front.  The
classical convict's crop, which necessitated wearing a cap well pulled
down at all times for several weeks thereafter.

I always played safe, and when my hair needed cutting I went to Josh's
shop where he operated in a state of strict sobriety.

I was sitting there a few days later waiting my turn, with my dog Sam
under my seat, and as I watched the barber at work the wonder of human
nature seemed to glow with a particular radiance.  There was a burly
man in the chair and his red face, reflected in the mirror, above the
enveloping white sheet, was contorted every few seconds with spasms of
pain.  Because the simple fact was that Josh didn't cut hair, he pulled
it out.

He did this not only because his equipment was antiquated and needed
sharpening but because he had perfected a certain flick of the wrist
with his hand clippers which wrenched the hairs from their follicles at
the end of each stroke.  He had never got round to buying electric
clippers, but with his distinctive technique I doubt whether it would
have made any difference.

One wonder was that anybody went to Josh for a haircut, because there
was another barber in the town.  My own opinion was that it was because
everybody liked him.

Sitting there in his shop I looked at him as he worked.  He was a tiny
man in his fifties with a bald head which made a mockery of the rows of
hair restorer on his shelves and on his face rested the gentle smile
which never seemed to leave him.  That smile and the big, curiously
unworldly eyes gave him an unusual attraction.

And then there was his obvious love of his fellow men.  As his client
rose from the chair, patently relieved that his ordeal was over.  Josh
fussed around him, brushing him down, patting his back and chattering
gaily.  You could see that he hadn't been just cutting this man's hair,
he had been enjoying a happy social occasion.

Next to the big farmer, Josh looked smaller than ever, a minute husk of
humanity, and I marvelled as I had often done at how he managed to
accommodate all that beer.

Of course foreigners are often astonished at the Englishman's ability
to consume vast quantities of ale.  Even now,

after forty years in Yorkshire, I cannot compete.  Maybe it is my
Glasgow upbringing, but after two or three pints discomfort sets in.
The remarkable thing is that throughout the years I can hardly recall
seeing a Yorkshireman drunk.  Their natural reserve relaxes and they
become progressively jovial as the long cascade goes down their throats
but they seldom fall about or do anything silly.

Josh, for instance.  He would swallow around eight pints every night of
the week except Saturday when he stepped up his intake to between ten
and fourteen, yet he never looked much different.  His professional
skill suffered, but that was all.

He was turning to me now.  "Well, Mr.  Herriot, it's good to see you
again."  He warmed me with his smile and those wide eyes with their
almost mystic depths caressed me as he ushered me to the chair.  "Are
you very well?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr.  Anderson," I replied.  "And how are you?"

"Nicely, sir, nicely."  He began to tuck the sheet under my chin then
laughed delightedly as my little beagle trotted in under the folds.

"Hullo, Sam, you're there as usual, I see."  He bent and stroked the
sleek ears.  "By gum, Mr.  Herriot, he's a faithful friend.  Never lets
you out of'is sight if he can help it."

"That's right," I said.  "And I don't like to go anywhere 'without
him."  I screwed round in my chair.  "By the way, didn't I see you with
a dog the other day?"

Josh paused, scissors in hand.  "You did an' all.  A little bitch.  A
stray got 'er from the Cat and Dog Home at York.  Now that our kids
have all left home t'missus and I fancied getting' a dog and we think
the world of her.  I tell ye, she's a grand' un  "What breed is she?"

"Eee, now you're asking'.  Nobbut a mongrel, I reckon.  I can't see any
pedigree about her but money wouldn't buyer

I was about to agree with him when he held up a hand.  "Hang on a
minute and I'll bringer down."

He lived above the shop and his feet clumped on the stairs as he
returned with a little bitch in his arms.

"There you are, Mr.  Herriot.  What d'you think of that?"  He stood her
on the floor for my inspection.

I looked at the little animal.  She was a light grey in colour with
very long crinkled hair.  In fact at a quick glance she looked like a
miniature Wensleydale sheep.  Definitely a hound of baffling lineage,
but the panting mouth and swishing tail bore witness to her good
nature.

"I like her," I said.  "I think you've picked a winner there."  "That's
what we think."  He stooped and fondled his new pet and I noticed that
he kept picking up the long hairs and rubbing them gently between
finger and thumb again.  It looked a little odd, then it occurred to me
that was what he was used to doing with his human customers.  "We've
called her Venus," he said.  "Venus?"

"Aye, because she's so beautiful."  His tone was very serious.

"Ah yes,"I said.  "I see."

He washed his hands, took up his scissors again and grasped a few
strands of my hair.  Again I saw that he went through the same
procedure of rubbing the hairs between his fingers before cutting
them.

I couldn't understand why he did this but my mind was too preoccupied
to give the matter much thought.  I was steeling myself.  Still, it
wasn't too bad with the scissors just an uncomfortable tug as the blunt
edges came together.

It was when he reached for the clippers that I gripped the arms of the
chair as though I were at the dentist.  It was all right as long as he
was running the things up the back of my neck; it was that jerk at the
end, plucking the last tuft from its roots which set my face grimacing
at me in the mirror.  Once or twice an involuntary "Ooh!"  or "Aah!"
escaped me but Josh gave no sign of having heard.

I remember that for years I had sat in that shop listening to the
half-stifled cries of pain from the customers but at no time had the
barber shown any reaction.  108

The thing was that, although he was the least arrogant or conceited of
men, he did consider himself a gifted hairdresser.  Even now as he gave
me a final combing, I could see the pride shining from his face.  Head
on one side, he patted my hair repeatedly, circling the chair and
viewing me from all angles, making a finicky snip here and there before
holding up the hand mirror for my inspection.

"All right, Mr.  Herriot?"  he enquired with the quiet satisfaction
which comes from a job well done.

"Lovely, Mr.  Anderson, just fine."  Relief added warmth to my voice.

He bowed slightly, well pleased.  "Aye, you know, it's easy enough to
cut hair off.  The secret is knowin' what to leave on."

I had heard him say it a hundred times before, but I laughed dutifully
as he whisked his brush over the back of my coat.

My hair used to grow pretty fast in those days, but I didn't have time
to pay another visit to the barber before he arrived on my front door
step.  I was having tea at the time and I trotted to the door in answer
to the insistent ringing of the bell.

He was carrying Venus in his arms but she was a vastly different
creature from the placid little animal I had seen in his shop.  She was
bubbling saliva from her mouth, retching and pawing frantically at her
face.

Josh looked distraught.  "She's chokin', Mr.  Herriot.  Look at 'er!
She'll die if you don't do sum mat quick!"

"Wait a minute, Mr.  Anderson.  Tell me what's happened.  Has she
swallowed something?"

"Aye, she's 'ad a chicken bone."

"A chicken bone!  Don't you know you should never give a dog chicken
bones?"

"Aye, ah know, ah know, everybody knows that, but we'd had a bird for
our dinner and she pinched the frame out of the dustbin, the little
beggar.  She had a good crunch at it afore I spotted 'er and now she's
goin' to choke!"  He glared at me, lips quivering.  He was on the verge
of tears.  
"Now just calm down," I said.  "I don't think Venus is
choking.  By the way she's pawing I should say there's something stuck
in her mouth."

I grabbed the little animal's jaws with finger and thumb and forced
them apart.  And I saw with a surge of relief the sight familiar to all
vets a long spicule of bone jammed tightly between the back molars and
forming a bar across the roof of the mouth.

As I say, it is a common occurrence in practice and a happy one,
because it is harmless and easily relieved by a flick of the forceps.
Recovery is instantaneous, skill minimal and the kudos most warning.  I
loved it.

I put my hand on the barber's shoulder.  "You can stop worrying, Mr.
Anderson, it's just a bone stuck in her teeth.  Come through to the
consulting-room and I'll have it out in a jiffy."

I could see the man relaxing as we walked along the passage to the back
of the house.  "Oh, thank God for that, Mr.  Herriot.  I thought she'd
had it, honest, I did.  And we've grown right fond of the little thing.
I couldn't bear to lose

'er."

I gave a light laugh, put the dog on the table and reached for a strong
pair of forceps.  "No question of that, I assure you.  This won't take
a minute."

Jimmy, aged five, had left his tea and trailed after us.  He watched
with mild interest as I poised the instrument.  Even at his age he had
seen this sort of thing many a time and it wasn't very exciting.  But
you never knew in veterinary practice; it was worth hanging around
because funny things could happen.  He put his hands in his pockets and
rocked back and forth on his heels, whistling softly as he watched
me.

Usually it is simply a matter of opening the mouth, clamping the
foreceps on the bone and removing it.  But Venus recoiled from the
gleaming metal and so did the barber.  The terror in the dog's eyes was
reproduced fourfold in those of its owner.

I tried to be soothing.  "This is nothing, Mr.  Anderson.  I'm no not
going to hurt her in the least, but you'll just have to hold her head
firmly for a moment."

The little man took a deep breath, grasped the dog's neck, screwed his
eyes tight shut and turned his head as far away as he could.

"Now, little Venus," I cooed.  "I'm going to make you better."  Venus
clearly didn't believe me.  She struggled violently, pawing at my hand,
to the accompaniment of strange moaning sounds from her owner.  When I
did get the forceps into her mouth she locked her front teeth on the
instrument and hung on fiercely.  And as I began to grapple with her,
Mr.  Anderson could stand it no longer and let go.

The little dog leaped to the floor and resumed her inner battle there
while Jimmy watched appreciatively.

I looked at the barber more in sorrow than in anger.  This was just not
his thing.  He was manually ham-fisted, as his hair-dressing proved,
and he seemed quite incapable of holding a wriggling dog.

"Let's have another go," I said cheerfully.  "We'll try it on the floor
this time.  Maybe she's frightened of the table.  It's a trifling
little job, really."

The little man, lips tight, eyes like slits, bent and extended
trembling hands towards his dog, but each time he touched her she
slithered away from him until with a great shuddering sigh he flopped
face down on the tiles.  Jimmy giggled.  Things were looking up.

I helped the barber to his feet.  "I tell you what, Mr.  Anderson, I'll
give her a short-acting anaesthetic.  That will cut out all this
fighting and struggling."

Josh's face paled.  "An anaesthetic?  Put her to sleep, you mean?"
Anxiety flickered in his eyes.  "Will she be all right?"

"Of course, of course.  Just leave her to me and come back for her in
about an hour.  She'll be able to walk then."  I began to steer him
through the door into the passage.

"Are you sure?"  He glanced back pitifully at his pet.  "We're doing
the right thing?"

"Without a doubt.  We'll only upset her if we go on this way."  "Very
well, then, I'll go along to me brother's for an hour."

in

"Splendid."  I waited till I heard the front door close behind him then
quickly made up a dose of pentothal.  Dogs do not put on such a tough
front when their owners are not present and I scooped Venus easily from
the floor on to the table.  But her jaws were still clamped tight and
her front feet at the ready.  She wasn't going to stand for any messing
with her mouth.

"Okay, old girl, have it your own way," I said.  I gripped her leg
above the elbow and clipped an area from the raised radial vein.  In
those days Siegfried or myself were often left to anaesthetise dogs
without assistance.  It is wonderful what you can do when you have
to.

Venus didn't seem to care what I was about as long as I kept away from
her face.  I slid the needle into the vein, depressed the plunger and
within seconds her fighting pose relaxed, her head dropped and her
whole body sagged on to the table.  I rolled her over.  She was fast
asleep.

"No trouble now, Jimmy, lad," I said.  I pushed the teeth apart
effortlessly with finger and thumb, gripped the bone with the forceps
and lifted it from the mouth.  "Nothing left in there lovely.  All
done."

I dropped the piece of chicken bone into the waste bin.  "Yes, that's
how to do it, my boy.  No undignified scrambling.  That's the
professional way."

My son nodded briefly.  Things had gone dull again.  He had been hoping
for great things when Mr.  Anderson draped himself along the surgery
floor, but this was tame stuff.  He had stopped smiling.

My own satisfied smile, too, had become a little fixed.  I was watching
Venus carefully and she wasn't breathing.  I tried to ignore the lurch
in my stomach because I have always been & nervous anaesthetist and am
not very proud of it.  Even now when I come upon one of my younger
colleagues operating I have a nasty habit of placing my hand over the
patient's chest wall over the heart and standing wide-eyed and rigid
for a few seconds.  I know the young surgeons hate to have me spreading
alarm and despondency, and one day I am going to be told to get out in
sharp terms, but I can't help it.

' As I watched Venus I told myself as always that there was no danger.
She had received the correct dose and anyway, you often did get this
period of apnoea with pentothal.  Everything was normal, but just the
same I wished to God she would start breathing.

The heart was still going all right.  I depressed the ribs a few times
nothing.  I touched the unseeing eyeball no corneal reflex.  I began to
rap my fingers on the table and stared closely at the little animal and
I could see that Jimmy was watching me just as keenly.  His deep
interest in veterinary practice was built upon a fascination for
animals, farmers and the open air, but it was given extra colour by
something else; he never knew when his father might do something funny
or something funny might happen to him.

The unpredictable mishaps of the daily round were all good for a laugh,
and my son with his unerring instinct had a feeling that something of
the sort was going to happen now.

His hunch was proved right when I suddenly lifted Venus from the table,
shook her vainly a few times above my head then set off at full gallop
along the passage.  I could hear the eager shuffle of the little
slippers just behind me.

I threw open the side door and shot into the back garden.  I halted at
the narrow part no, there wasn't enough room there and continued my
headlong rush till I reached the big lawn.

Here I dropped the little dog on to the grass and fell down on my knees
by her side in an attitude of prayer.  I waited and watched as my heart
hammered, but those ribs were not moving and the eyes stared
sightlessly ahead.

Oh, this just couldn't happen!  I seized Venus by a hind leg in either
hand and began to whirl her round my head.  Sometimes higher, sometimes
lower, but attaining a remarkable speed as I put all my strength into
the swing.  This method of resuscitation seems to have gone out of
fashion now, but it was very much in vogue then.  It certainly met with
the full approval of my son.  He laughed so much that he fell down and
sprawled on the grass.

When I stopped and glared at the still immobile ribs he cried, "Again,
Daddy, again."  And he didn't have to wait more than a few seconds
before Daddy was in full action once more with Venus swooping through
the air like a bird on the wing.

It exceeded all Jimmy's expectations.  He probably had wondered about
leaving his jam sandwiches to see the old man perform, but how
gloriously he had been rewarded.  To this day the whole thing is so
vivid; my tension and misery lest my patient should die for no reason
at all, and in the background the helpless, high-pitched laughter of my
son.

I don't know how many times I stopped, dropped the inert form on the
grass, then recommenced my whirling, but at last at one of the
intervals the chest wall gave a heave and the eyes blinked.

With a gasp of relief I collapsed face down on the cool turf and peered
through the green blades as the breathing became regular and Venus
began to lick her lips and look around her.

I dared not get up immediately because the old brick walls of the
garden were still dancing around me and I am sure I would have
fallen.

Jimmy was disappointed.  "Aren't you going to do any more, Daddy?"

"No, son, no."  I sat up and dragged Venus on to my lap.  "It's all
over now."

"Well, that was funny.  Why did you do it?"

"To make the dog breathe."

"Do you always do that to make them breathe?"

"No, thank heaven, not often."  I got slowly to my feet and carried the
little animal back to the consulting-room.

By the time Josh Anderson arrived his pet was looking almost normal.

"She's still a little unsteady from the anaesthetic," I said.  "But
that won't last long."

"Eee, isn't that grand.  And that nasty bone, is it..  . ?"

"All gone, Mr.  Anderson."

He shrank back as I opened the mouth.  "You see?"  I said.  "Not a
thing."

He smiled happily.  "Did ye have any bother with her?"

Well, my parents brought me up to be honest rather than clever and the
whole story almost bubbled out of me.  But why should I worry this
sensitive little man?  To tell him that his dog had been almost dead
for a considerable time would not cheer him nor would it bolster his
faith in me.

I swallowed.  "Not a bit, Mr.  Anderson.  A quite uneventful
operation."  The whitest of lies, but it nearly choked me and the
after-taste of guilt was strong.

"Wonderful, wonderful.  I am grateful, Mr.  Herriot."  He bent over the
dog and again I noticed the strange rolling of the strands of hair
between his fingers.

"Have ye been floatin' through the air, Venus?"  he murmured
absently.

The back of my neck prickled.  "What..  . what makes you say that?"

He turned his eyes up to me, those eyes with their unworldly depths.
"Well ... I reckon she'd think she was floatin' while she was asleep.
Just a funny feeling I had."

"Ah, yes, weller .. . right."  I had a very funny feeling myself.
"You'd better take her home now and keep her quiet for the rest of the
day."

I was very thoughtful as I finished my tea.  Floating .. . floating.

A fortnight later I was again seated in Josh's barber's chair, bracing
myself for the ordeal.  To my alarm he started straight in with the
dread clippers.  Usually he began with the scissors and worked up
gradually but he was throwing me in at the deep end this time.

In an attempt to alleviate the pain I began to chatter with an edge of
hysteria in my voice.

"How is -ouch Venus going on?"

"Oh fine, fine."  Josh smiled at me tenderly in the mirror.  "She was
neither up nor down after that job."

"Well ooh, aah -1 really didn't expect any trouble.  As I said, it was
ow just a trifling thing."

The barber whipped out another tuft with that inimitable flick of his.
"The thing is, Mr.  Herriot, it's a grand thing to 'ave faith in your
vet.  I knew our little pet was in good 'ands."

"5

"Well, thank you very much, Mr.  Anderson, it's - aaah -very nice to
hear that."  I was gratified, but that guilt feeling was still there.

I got tired of trying to speak while watching my twitching features in
the mirror, so I tried to concentrate on something else.  It is a trick
I adopt at the dentist's and it doesn't work very well but as the
little man tugged away I thought as hard as I could about my garden at
Skeldale House.

The lawns really did want mowing and there were all those weeds to get
at when I had a minute to spare.  I had got round to considering
whether it was time to put some fertiliser on my outdoor tomatoes when
Josh laid down the clippers and lifted his scissors.

I sighed and relaxed.  The next part was only mildly uncomfortable and
who knows, he may have had the scissors sharpened since last time.  My
mind was wandering over the fascinating subject of tomatoes when the
barber's voice pulled me back to reality.

"Mr.  Herriot."  He was twiddling away at a wisp of my hair with his
fingers.  "I like gardening, too."

I almost jumped fronuthe chair.  "That's remarkable.  I was just
thinking about my garden."

"Aye, ah know."  There was a faraway look in his eyes as he rolled and
rolled with finger and thumb.  "It comes through the hair, ye know."

"Eh?"

"Your thoughts.  They come through to me."

"What!"

"Yes, just think about it.  Them hairs go right down into your head and
they catch sum mat from your brain and send it up to me."

"Oh really, you're kidding me."  I gave a loud laugh which nevertheless
had a hollow ring.

Josh shook his head.  "I'm not jokin' nor jestin', Mr.  Herriot.  I've
been at this game for nearly forty years and it keeps happening' to me.
You'd be flabbergasted if I told ye some of the thoughts that's come
up.  Couldn't repeat 'em, I tell ye."

I slumped lower in my white sheet.  Absolute rubbish and nonsense, of
course, but I made a firm resolve never to think of Venus's anaesthetic
during a haircut.

November 1,1961

When I awoke in the morning everything was wonderfully still.  It was a
blessed relief because the previous night had been like the others and
I was thrown about in my bunk like a rag doll.

I went up on deck and found we were anchored in the mouth of a river or
inlet.  A few hundred yards away I could see the Russian port of
Klaipeda.

I couldn't believe the calm only a gentle swell rocked the ship but
half a mile back the great sea waves still dashed themselves against
the entrance to the harbour.

Up on the bridge I found the captain pale and unshaven.  He told me he
had had a terrible job bringing the ship between the concrete walls at
the entrance to the harbour.  He had signalled repeatedly for a pilot
but none had come and finally he was forced to bring the ship in
himself.  Doing this, in the dark, in unfamiliar waters and during a
storm, must have been a great strain.

He said we were now waiting for a pilot to take us through the great
concrete breakwaters to a berth at the quay side  At length one
arrived, a little stubbly-chinned man of about thirty-five in a very
Russian-looking overcoat a couple of sizes too big for him and a large
peaked cap.

He was very nervous as he guided us in.  He kept hopping about the
bridge, peering here and there, and then dashing to have a look over
the ship's side.  I was astonished to hear that he gave his commands in
English and it was strange to hear him cry "Starrboard', and the big
Dane at the wheel reply "Starrboard', then "Meedsheeps', followed by
the answering call "Meedsheeps'.

Up in the bows the mate and a sailor were gazing down into the water
and signalling back to the bridge apparently testing the depth and
looking for obstructions.

To my untutored eyes it seemed that the captain brought the ship in
himself.  He was, as always, calm and self-contained and as we
approached another ship or part of the breakwater he would say "Perhaps
a little astern, Mr.  Pilot' or "Post side, perhaps, Mr.  Pilot' in a
quiet voice while the little man rushed about the bridge in a panic.

On either side of the estuary the banks were thickly clothed in pine
trees and further ahead I could see tenement buildings and then the
cranes and quays of the port.

Once we had been moored by the quay side I looked eagerly ashore almost
into the eyes of a young Russian soldier.  There were two of them
standing by the gangway of the Iris Clawen and at least two guarding
each of the other ships in the port.

They all had automatic guns slung on their backs and were wearing long
greenish coats, crinkly, Wellington-type boots and furry hats turned up
at the front and sides.

Leaning over the rail of our little ship I was only a few yards away
from my soldier.  I raised my hand and gave him a wave.

"Good morning," I cried cheerfully.

His expression never changed.  He looked back at me with a completely
impassive, dead countenance.

I moved along the rail and tried his colleague.

"Hello," I called, waving again.

The response was exactly the same.  A blank unsmiling stare.

Just then it started to rain and they both reached back and pulled
hoods over their heads.

, I felt it was not a happy start and I looked past them at a sight
which was not much more cheering: a network of railway lines with
wagons, a forest of huge cranes and, around the perimeter, tall watch
towers each with its armed soldier looking down at us.  Beyond the port
itself rose an assortment of dilapidated houses.

Klaipeda is, of course, the old Lithuanian port of Memel and I had
previously read that, when the Russians took over, a proportion of the
native population was deported and replaced by Russians.  I was unable
to ascertain the extent of this and since Klaipeda is now part of the
Soviet Union I shall refer to all the people I met as Russians.

Very soon a large number of officials came aboard and I was relieved to
find that they were cheerful and smiling.  There was much shaking of
hands and loud laughter and everybody addressed me as "Doktor' in a
guttural tone with the accent on the second syllable.  Most of them
were from the customs and immigration authorities and among them were
several young women, one of whom spoke very good English.  In fact
nearly all of them seemed to be able to get along in English; the other
language in which they conversed with the captain was German.

The exception in this merry company was a tall, lugubrious sanitary
inspector wearing breeches and a cowboy hat.  I had to go down into the
hold with him, where he looked around him sadly but said nothing.

Immediately afterwards a little fat woman beckoned to me to accompany
her to where the animals' food was kept.  There were several tons of
this surplus and it was all to be left for the Russians free of charge.
But it seemed that they suspected some catch in this, because to my
astonishment the little woman began to slash open the bags of
super-quality sheep nuts and the bales of sweet hay.  She pushed her
hand into the centre of each bag and bale and dropped some of the
contents into a series of polythene bags.  Apparently these samples had
to go to a laboratory to be examined before they would accept the
food.

I went back up to the captain's room where the officials were still
signing forms and smoking and drinking.  They had been joined by the
chief of'Saufratt' which deals with all the incoming and out-going
cargoes, and like the others he was polite, friendly and ready to roar
with laughter at the slightest excuse.

I was interested in the dress of these men, who were obviously
important people.  They all wore smartly cut dark suits and some had
greenish gaberdine mackintoshes, but the materials of their clothes
looked cheap and shoddy.  Still, they were trim and neatly turned out,
though the whole effect was spoiled by the fact that every man sported
an abominable off-white tweedy cloth cap pulled right down to his ears.
This was clearly the fashion in these parts, but to me the result was
truly ghastly.

However, they were very pleasant and I found their conversation
fascinating.  One thing which struck me forcibly was their tremendous
willingness to work and their desire to learn.  They told me that most
of them had begun as factory workers but had studied at night and in
every available moment to rise to their present positions.

Of course all the time I was anxiously awaiting the veterinary
examination of the sheep.  The veterinary surgeon turned out to be a
little fat woman very like the one who had inspected the food.  Unlike
the officials she could not speak a word of English but she marched up
to me, tapped her chest and said "Doktor'.  As we shook hands as
colleagues, she burst into an infectious bubbling laugh.

She had a helper with her, a big tough-looking chap in blue dungarees,
and we all went down to the hold together.  I was intrigued by her
method of examining the sheep.  The man penned five animals in a corner
while she opened a little bag and took out a whole bunch of
thermometers.  These were strange-looking flat things with Centigrade
markings and attached to each was a piece of string with a clip on the
end.

She methodically dipped each nozzle in a jar of vaseline before
inserting it in the rectum and clipping the string to the wool.  Then
she stood looking at her watch for what seemed an age.  Finally she
removed the thermometers and took the readings.

After that she had another five caught up and again we had the lengthy
wait and the reading before moving to another pen.  The realisation
burst on me with a sense of shock that these were two-minute
thermometers unlike our half-minute ones and also that she was going to
examine ten sheep in every pen.  This was going to take an awful long
time.

Gallantly holding her jar of vaseline, I tried to alleviate the boredom
by making conversation.  It was difficult, since neither of us spoke a
word of the other's language, but I managed to get over to her that
most of the sheep were of the Romney Marsh breed.  This appeared- to
delight her because thereafter whenever she pushed the thermometer up a
sheep's rectum she would cry "Rromnee Marrsh!"  and laugh happily, then
on to the next one and again the thrust of the thermometer and the
joyous "Rromnee Marrsh!"

It lightened the proceedings to a certain extent but after an hour and
a half we had covered only one side of the 'tween decks hold about a
quarter of the sheep and I quailed at the thought of another four and a
half hours of this.

But there was no doubt She was a pleasant little woman.  She was
dressed in a cheap-looking navy-blue raincoat and the kind of velour
hat you see in jumble sales in England, and her chubby face never
stopped smiling.

The only time she looked serious was when she heard a cough from one of
the Lincolns.  It was the moment I had been dreading and she turned to
me questioningly.

"Ah-hah, ah-hah, ah-hah," she said in a fair imitation of the parasitic
bark, and raised her eyebrows.

I shrugged my shoulders.  What could I do?  How could I explain?

The animal's temperature was normal and she appeared reassured, but
some time later another sheep coughed.

"Ah-hah, ah-hah, ah-hah?"  she asked and again I shrugged and gave a
non-committal smile.

About halfway through we were joined by another vet, obviously the
little woman's superior.  He was very well dressed in dark overcoat and
black trilby hat and his handsome, high-cheekboned, Asiatic face
radiated charm as he shook my hand and thumped me on the back.

"Salaam aleikum," he said, somewhat to my surprise.

He, too, spoke no English and when he heard the cough he swung round on
me.

"Ah-hah, ah-hah, ah-hah?"  he enquired.  I spread my hands and shook my
head and he laughed suddenly.  He seemed a happy-go-lucky- fellow and
was clearly in a hurry to be off.  He waved goodbye to his colleague,
shook my hand warmly and smiled, then he strode from the hold.

I was still baffled by the oriental greeting and turned to the little
woman.  "Salaam aleikum?"  "Irkutsk, Tartar," she replied.

I realised that he came from the other end of this vast country, and to
let her know I understood I pulled the corners of my eyes outwards.

She burst into a high-pitched giggle.  She did love to laugh.  But the
strain of hanging around with the pot of vaseline was beginning to
tell.  I tried to get rid of the tension by saying things like, "Look,
this is driving me right up the bloody wall', at which she would give
me a nod and a sweet, uncomprehending smile, but at last I could stand
it no longer.  I gave her back the vaseline and fled to the sanctuary
of my cabin.  I heard later that it took her five hours to get round
the sheep.

The unloading berth was occupied by another ship, the Ubbergen, which
was discharging a cargo of cattle and taking on a lot of little
cob-like horses, so we could not start our unloading until she moved.
My immediate ambition was to get ashore, but the customs and
immigration people had taken our passports and until they came back
nobody could leave the ship.

When the passports were returned, I looked around for a companion
because John Crooks had warned me not to go ashore alone.  The mate and
engineer would not budge as they were worried about relations between
Denmark and Russia following an attack on the Scandinavian countries by
Khrushchev which they had heard on the radio in the Danish news.  In
fact, as I went around it soon became obvious that none of the ship's
company had any intention of going ashore.

It was the captain, gentlemanly as always, who stepped in.  He could
see that I was disappointed and said that if I gave him a few minutes
to wash and change he would come with me.

As I waited on the deck the daylight faded rapidly to dusk and lights
began to appear in the tenements beyond the port.  They all seemed like
4o-watt bulbs and the general effect was dreary in the extreme.

By the time the captain was ready it was quite dark.  I had been
strongly advised by the man from Saufratt to visit the seaman's club
called Interklub and I decided to do this and leave the exploration of
the town until tomorrow.

We went down the gangway, showed our passports to the soldiers and I
took my first step on to Russian soil.  I said "Interklub?"  and the
soldiers pointed vaguely along the railway Lines into the distance.
They still preserved the deadpan look I had seen this morning and it
struck me that they were just about the only unsmiling Russians I had
met all day.  I wondered why they acted so very differently.

There were floodlights shining down from the cranes and we began to
pick our way along by their light.  But it was slow going.  We were in
a maze of sheds, cranes and wagons and the quay side seemed to stretch
indefinitely ahead.

I soon became impatient.  "Look," I said to the captain.  "The town's
just over there."  I pointed to the high fence which surrounded the
harbour.  "Surely there's a gate of some kind here."

The captain shook his head.  "I think not.  There will be a gatehouse
somewhere along at the end.  We must go through there."

Now I believe I am fundamentally a fairly solid citizen but every now
and then I do something daft.  This was one of those times.  I decided
to look for a short cut..

I groped my way into the darkness behind a row of wagons and I was
studying the dim silhouette of the fence, when suddenly an enormous dog
shot out at me from the gloom.  It was of an Alsatian type and it came
at me with a terrifying baying sound.  I caught a glimpse of a snarling
mouth and white teeth but I didn't wait to make a closer examination. I
took off at great speed but after a few yards I tripped over a railway
line and fell flat on my face.

At that moment I was sure it was all over with me.  I am not going to
suggest that my past life flashed before my eyes, but in that second or
two I did have a vivid impression of the incongruity of my situation.
I, James Herriot, Yorkshire Dales veterinary surgeon and dog lover,
meeting my end by being torn to pieces by a dog behind a railway wagon
on a dark night in Russia.

I was waiting for the first crunch when I heard the animal twang to a
stop at the end of its chain and as I looked back I could see it
fighting to get at me, the great teeth, gleaming in the floodlights,
about six inches from my leg.

I scrabbled along on my stomach to where the captain was waiting.  That
usually calm man was visibly shaken and he helped me up, gripped my arm
and hurried me along the road we had first taken.

As I struggled to regain my breath I felt I had learned my first
lesson.  Do not go nosing about in dark places in Russia.  Keep to the
proper path.

When we came to the gatehouse I had to smile to myself.  My nerves were
still vibrating after my encounter with that creature back there, but
when I saw the groups of soldiers around the brightly lit room and more
soldiers behind a sliding window carrying out an interminable,
hard-eyed scrutiny of our passports and ourselves the absurdity of my
idea of a short cut was forced on me.  Before passing through, I took a
last glance at the long stretch of quay side behind us and I wondered
how many more four-legged killers were lurking in the shadows under the
fence.

Once in the street we asked a young fellow in the inevitable light
cloth cap about Interklub and he politely marched us to the door before
shaking hands and leaving us.

Inside we found a very comfortable, even mildly luxurious club. Russian
time is two hours ahead of ours so most of the activities had ceased
for the night, but nevertheless the little man in charge was effusive
in his welcome.

The captain spoke to him in German and told him who we were, and he
kept bowing and smiling as though we were his long-lost brothers.

He insisted on taking us on a tour of the establishment and ushered us
into each room with a deferential "Please, please' -a common and much
used word among the people I have met here.

There was a little cinema, dance hall, bar, and a billiard room where
some young German sailors were knocking balls about.  We saw several
cosy lounges in one of which a large radio was giving a commentary on
Tottenham Hotspur in the European Cup.

Our guide led us into a library and reading-room where there were
newspapers in all languages, and I hastened to the English section,
hoping to catch up with some of the latest news.  However, I found only
a pile of the Daily Worker and the most recent was a fortnight old.  I
was moodily reading about the long-past England v. Wales football match
when the little man bustled up, all smiles, and began to load me with a
huge quantity of books and pamphlets, all in English.

These books were all beautifully produced and one of them, Khrushchev
in the USA, would be very expensive to buy in England.  I was also
presented with a roll of cine film of the same visit and a little badge
which I kept for Rosie.

We left on a wave of cordiality and as I came out into the night and
looked at the gaunt tenements nearby, it struck me how sharply they
contrasted with that club.

That night as I completed my journal, two thoughts were uppermost in my
mind.  First, my bed would keep still for a change and second, it had
been an eventful day.

This is Amber," Sister Rose said.  "The one I wanted you to examine."

I looked at the pale, almost honey-coloured shading of the hair on the
dog's ears and flanks.  "I can see why you've given her that name.  I
bet she'd really glow in the sunshine."

The nurse laughed.  "Yes, funnily enough it was sunny when I first saw
her and the name just jumped into my mind."  She gave me a sideways
glance.  "I'm good at names, as you know."

"Oh yes, without a doubt," I said, smiling.  It was a little joke
between us.  Sister Rose had to be good at christening the endless
stream of unwanted animals which passed through the little dog
sanctuary which lay behind her house and which she ran and maintained
by organising small shows, jumble sales, etc."  and by spending her own
money.

And she didn't only give her money, she also gave her precious time,
because as a nursing sister she led a full life of service to the human
race.  I often asked myself how she found the time to fight for the
animals, too.  It was a mystery to me, but I admired her.

"Where did this one come from?"  I asked.

Sister Rose shrugged.  "Oh, found wandering in the streets of
Hebbleton.  Nobody knows her and there have been no enquiries to the
police.  Obviously abandoned."

I felt the old tightening of anger in my throat.  "How could they do
this to such a beautiful dog?  Just turn it away to fend for itself?"

"Oh, people like that have some astonishing reasons.  In this case I
think it's because Amber has a little skin disease.  Perhaps it
frightened them."

"They could at least have taken her to a vet," I grunted as I opened
the door of the pen.

I noticed some bare patches around the toes and as I knelt and examined
the feet, Amber nuzzled my cheek and wagged her tail.  I looked up at
her, at the flopping ears, the pronounced jowls and the trusting eyes
which had been betrayed.

"It's a hound's face," I said.  "But how about the rest of her?  What
breed would you call her?"

Sister Rose laughed.  "Oh, she's a puzzle.  I get a lot of practice at
guessing but this one beats me.  I wondered if a fox hound had got
astray and mated with something like a labrador or dalmatian, but I
don't know."

I didn't know, either.  The body, dappled with patches of brown, black
and white, was the wrong shape for a hound.  She had very large feet, a
long thin tail in constant motion and everywhere on her coat the
delicate sheen of gold.

"Well," I said.  "Whatever she is, she's a bonny one, and good-natured,
too."

"Oh yes, she's a darling.  We'll have no difficulty in finding a home
for her.  She's the perfect pet.  How old do you think she is?"

I smiled.  "You can never tell for sure, but she's got a juvenile look
about her."  I opened the mouth and looked at the rows of untainted
teeth.  "I'd say nine or ten months.  She's just a big pup."

"That's what I thought.  She'll be really large when she reaches full
size."

As if to prove the sister's words, the young bitch reared up and
planted her forefeet on my chest.  I looked again at the laughing mouth
and those eyes.  "Amber," I said.  "I really like you."

"Oh, I'm so glad," Sister Rose said.  "We must get this skin trouble
cleared up as quickly as possible and then I can start finding her a
home.  It's just a bit of eczema, isn't it?"

"Probably .. . probably ... I see there's some bareness around the eyes
and cheeks, too."  Skin diseases in dogs, as in humans, are tricky
things, often baffling in origin and difficult to cure.  I fingered the
hairless areas.  I didn't like the combination of feet and face but the
skin was dry and sound.  Maybe it was nothing much.  I banished to the
back of my mind a spectre which appeared for a brief instant.  I didn't
want to think of that and I had no intention of worrying Sister Rose.
She had enough on her mind.

"Yes, probably eczema," I said briskly.  "Rub this ointment well into
the parts night and morning."  I handed over the box of zinc oxide and
lanoline.  A bit old-fashioned, maybe, but it had served me well for a
few years and ought to do the trick in combination with the nurse's
good feeding.

When two weeks passed without news of Amber I was relieved.  I was
happy, too, at the thought that she would now be in a good home among
people who appreciated her.

I was brought back to reality with a bump when Sister Rose phoned one
morning.

"Mr.  Herriot, those bare patches aren't any better.  In fact they're
spreading."  "Spreading?  Where?"  "Up her legs and on the face."

The spectre leaped up, mouthing and gesticulating.  Oh not that,
please.  I'll come right out, Sister," I said and on my way to the car
I picked up the microscope.

Amber greeted me as she had before, with dancing eyes and lashing tail,
but I felt sick when I saw the ragged denudation of the face and the
naked skin staring at me on the legs.

I got hold of the young animal and held her close, sniffing at the
hairless areas.

Sister Rose looked at me in surprise.  "What are you doing?"  "Trying
to detect a mousy smell."  "Mousy smell?  And is it there?"  "Yes."

"And what does that mean?"  "Mange."

"Oh dear."  The nurse put a hand to her mouth.  "That's rather nasty,
isn't it."  Then she put her shoulders back in a characteristic
gesture.  "Well, I've had experience of mange before and I can tackle
it.  I've always been able to clear it up with sulphur baths, but
there's such a danger of infection to the other dogs.  It really is a
worry."  I put Amber down and stood up, feeling suddenly weary.

"Yes, but you're thinking of sarcoptic mange, Sister.  I'm afraid this
is something rather worse."

"Worse?  In what way?"

"Well, the whole look of the thing suggests demodectic mange."

She nodded.  "I've heard of that and it's more serious?"

"Yes .. ."  I may as well bite the bullet.  "Very often incurable."

"Goodness me, I had no idea.  She wasn't scratching much, so I didn't
worry."

"Yes, that's just it," I said wryly.  "Dogs scratch almost nonstop with
sarcoptic mange and we can cure it, but they often show only mild
discomfort with demodectic which usually defeats us."

The spectre was very large in my mind now and I use the word literally
because this skin disease had haunted me ever since I had qualified.  I
had seen many fine dogs put to sleep after the most prolonged attempts
to treat them.

I lifted the microscope from the back of the car.  "Anyway, I may be
jumping the gun.  I hope I am.  This is the only way to find out."

There was a patch on Amber's left foreleg which I squeezed and scraped
with a scalpel blade.  I deposited the debris and serum on a glass
slide, added a few drops of potassium hydroxide and put a cover-slip on
top.

Sister Rose gave me a cup of coffee while I waited, then I rigged up
the microscope in the light from the kitchen window and looked down the
eyepiece.  And there is was.  My stomach tightened as I saw what I
didn't want to see the dread mite, Demodex canis: the head, the thorax
with its eight stumpy legs and the long, cigar-shaped body.  And there
wasn't just one.  The whole microscopic field was teeming with them.

"Ah well, that's it, Sister," I said.  "There's no doubt about it.  I'm
very sorry."

The corners of her mouth drooped.  "But .. . isn't there anything we
can do?"

"Oh yes, we can try.  And we're going to try like anything,

L.O.M.T.A. -f because I've taken a fancy to Amber.  Don't worry too
much.  I've cured a few demodex cases in my time, always by using the
same stuff."  I went to the car and fished around in the boot.  "Here
it is Odylen."  I held up the can in front of her.  I'll show you how
to apply it."

It was difficult to rub the lotion into the affected patches as Amber
wagged and licked, but I finished at last.

"Now do that every day," I said, 'and let me know in about a week.
Sometimes that Odylen really does work."

Sister Rose stuck out her jaw with the determination which had saved so
many animals.  "I assure you I'll do it most carefully.  I'm sure we
can succeed.  It doesn't look so bad."

I didn't say anything and she went on.  "But how about my other dogs?
Won't they become infected?"

I shook my head.  "Another odd thing about demodex.  It very rarely
spreads to another animal.  It is nothing like as contagious as the sar
cops so you have very little cause for worry in that way."

"That's something, anyway.  But how on earth does a dog get the disease
in the first place?"

"Mysterious again," I said.  "The veterinary profession are pretty well
convinced that all dogs have a certain number of demodex mites in their
skins, but why they should cause mange in some and not in others has
never been explained.  Heredity has got something to do with it because
it sometimes occurs in several dogs in the same litter.  But it's a
baffling business."

I left Sister Rose with her can of Odylen.  Maybe this would be one of
the exceptions to my experiences with this condition.  I had to hope
so.

I heard from the nurse within a week.  She had been applying the Odylen
religiously but the disease was spreading further up the legs.

I hurried out there and my fears were confirmed when I saw Amber's
face.  It was disfigured by the increasing hair-less ness and when I
thought of the beauty which had captivated me on my first visit the
sight was like a blow.  Her tail-wagging cheerfulness was undiminished,
and that seemed to make the whole thing worse.

I had to try something else and in view of the fact that a secondary
subcutaneous invasion of staphylococci was an impediment to recovery I
gave the dog an injection of staph toxoid.  I also started her on a
course of Fowler's solution of arsenic which at that time was popular
in the treatment of skin conditions.

When ten days passed I had begun to hope, and it was a bitter
disappointment when Sister Rose telephoned just after breakfast.

Her voice trembled as she spoke.  "Mr.  Herriot, she really is
deteriorating all the time.  Nothing seems to do any good.  I'm
beginning to think that .. ."

I cut her off in mid-sentence.  "All right, I'll be out there within an
hour.  Don't give up hope yet.  These cases sometimes take months to
recover."

I knew as I drove to the sanctuary that my words were only meant to
comfort.  They had no real substance.  But I had tried to say something
helpful because there was nothing Sister Rose hated more than putting a
dog to sleep.  Of all the hundreds of animals which had passed through
her hands I could remember only a handful which had defeated her.  Very
old dogs with chronic kidney or heart conditions which were in a
hopeless plight, or young ones with distemper.  With all the others she
had battled until they were fit to go to their new homes.  And it
wasn't only Sister Rose I myself recoiled from the idea of doing such a
thing to Amber.  There was something about that dog which had taken
hold of me.

When I arrived I still had no idea what I was going to do and when I
spoke I was half surprised at the things I said.

"Sister, I've come to take Amber home with me.  I'll be able to treat
her myself every day, then.  You've got enough to do, looking after
your other dogs.  I know you have done everything possible but I'm
going to take on this job myself."

"But..  . you are a busy man.  How will you find the time?"

"I can treat her in the evenings and any other spare moments.  This way
I'll be able to check on her progress all the time.  I'm determined to
get her right."

And, driving back to the surgery I was surprised at the depth of my
feeling.  Throughout my career I have often had this compulsive desire
to cure an animal, but never stronger than with Amber.  The young bitch
was delighted to be in the car with me.  Like everything else she
seemed to regard this as just another game and she capered around,
licking my ear, resting her paws on the dash and peering through the
windscreen.  I looked at her happy face, scarred by the disease and
smeared with Odylen, and thumped my hand on the wheel.  Demodectic
mange was hell, but this was one case which was going to get better.

It was the beginning of a strangely vivid episode in my life, as fresh
now as it was then, more than thirty years ago.  We had no facilities
for boarding dogs very few vets had at that time but I made up a
comfortable billet for her in the old stable in the yard.  I penned off
one of the stalls with a sheet of plywood and put down a bed of straw.
Despite its age the stable was a substantial building and free from
draughts.  She would be snug in there.

I made sure of one thing.  I kept Helen out of the whole business.  I
remembered how stricken she had been when we adopted Oscar the cat and
then lost him to his rightful owner and I knew she would soon grow too
fond of this dog.  But I had forgotten about myself.

Veterinary surgeons would never last in their profession if they became
too involved with their patients.  I knew from experience that most of
my colleagues were just as sentimental over animals as the owners, but
before I knew what was happening I became involved with Amber.

I fed her myself, changed her bedding and carried out the treatment.  I
saw her as often as possible during the day, but when I think of her
now it is always night.  It was late November when darkness came in
soon after four o'clock and the last few visits were a dim-sighted
fumbling in cow byres, and when I came home I always drove round to the
yard at the back of Skeldale House and trained my headlights on the
stable.

When I threw open the door Amber was always there, waiting to welcome
me, her forefeet resting on the plywood sheet, her long yellow ears
gleaming in the bright beam.  That is my picture of her to this day.
Her temperament never altered and her tail swished the straw
unceasingly as I did all the uncomfortable things to her; rubbing the
tender skin with the lotion, injecting her with the staph toxoid,
taking further skin scrapings to check progress.

As the days and the weeks went by and I saw no improvement I became a
little desperate.  I gave her sulphur baths, and derris baths, although
I had done no good with such things in the past, and I also began to go
through all the proprietary things on the market.  In veterinary
practice every resistant disease spawns a multitude of quack 'cures'
and I lost count of the shampoos and washes I swilled over the young
animal in the hope that there might be some magic element in them
despite my misgivings.

These nightly sessions under the headlights became part of my life and
I think I might have gone on blindly for an indefinite period until one
very dark evening with the rain beating on the cobbles of the yard I
seemed to see the young dog for the first time.

The condition had spread over the entire body, leaving only tufts and
straggling wisps of hair.  The long ears were golden no longer.  They
were almost bald, as was the rest of her face and head.  Everywhere her
skin was thickened and wrinkled and had assumed a bluish tinge.  And
when I squeezed it a slow ooze of pus and serum came up around my
-fingers.

I flopped back and sat down in the straw while Amber leaped around me,
licking and wagging.  Despite her terrible state, her nature was
unchanged.

But this couldn't go on.  I knew now that she and I had come to the end
of the road.  As I tried to think, I stroked her head, and her cheerful
eyes were pathetic in the scarecrow face.  My misery was compounded of
various things; I had grown too fond of her, I had failed, and she had
nobody, only Sister Rose and myself.  And that was another thing what
was I going to tell that good lady after all my brave words?

It took me until the following lunchtime to summon the will to
telephone her.  In my effort to be matter-of-fact about the thing I
fear I was almost brusque.

"Sister," I said.  Tm afraid it's all over with Amber.  I've tried
everything and she has got worse all the time.  I do think it would be
the kindest thing to put her to sleep."

Shock was evident in her voice.  "But... it seems so awful.  Just for a
skin disease."

"I know, that's what everybody thinks.  But this is a dreadful thing.
In its worst form it can ruin an animal's life.  Amber must be very
uncomfortable now and soon she is going to be in pain.  We can't let
her go on."

"Oh .. . well, I trust in your judgement, Mr.  Herriot.  I know you
wouldn't do anything that wasn't necessary."  There was a long pause
and I knew she was trying to control her voice.  Then she spoke calmly.
"I think I would like to come out and see her when I can get away from
the hospital."  "Please, Sister," I said gently, "I'd much rather you
didn't."  Again the pause, then, "Very well, Mr.  Herriot.  I leave
everything to you."

I had an urgent visit immediately afterwards and a rush of work kept me
going all afternoon.  I never really stopped thinking about what I had
to do later but at least the other pressures stopped it from obsessing
me.  It was as always pitch dark when I drove into the yard and opened
the garage doors.

And it was like all the other times.  Amber was there in the beam, paws
on the plywood, body swinging with her wagging, mouth open and panting
with delight, welcoming me.

I put the barbiturate and syringe into my pocket before climbing into
the pen.  For a long time I made a fuss of her, patting her and talking
to her as she leaped up at me.  Then I filled the syringe.

"Sit, girl," I said, and she flopped obediently on to her
hind-quarters.  I gripped her right leg above the elbow to raise the
radial vein.  There was no need for clipping all the hair had gone.
Amber looked at me interestedly, wondering what new game this might be
as I slipped the needle into the vein.  I realised that there was no
need to say the things I always said.  "She won't know a thing."  "This
is just an overdose of anaesthetic."  "It's an easy way out for her."
There was no sorrowing owner to hear me.  There were just the two of
us.

And as I murmured, "Good girl, Amber, good lass," as she sank down on
the straw, I had the conviction that if I had said those things they
would have been true.  She didn't know a thing between her playfulness
and oblivion and it was indeed an easy way out from that prison which
would soon become a torture chamber.

I stepped from the pen and switched off the car lights and in the cold
darkness the yard had never seemed so empty.  After the weeks of
struggle the sense of loss and of failure was overpowering, but at the
end I was at least able to spare Amber the ultimate miseries; the
internal abscesses and septicaemia which await a dog suffering from a
progressive and incurable demodectic mange.

For a long time I carried a weight around with me, and I feel some of
it now after all these years.  Because the tragedy of Amber was that
she was born too soon.  At the present time we can cure most cases of
demodectic mange by a long course of organo-phosphates and antibiotics,
but neither of these things were available then when I needed them.

It is still a dread condition, but we have fought patiently with our
modern weapons and won most of the battles over the past few years.  I
know several fine dogs in Darrowby who have survived, and when I see
them in the streets, healthy and glossy-coated, the picture of Amber
comes back into my mind.  It is always dark and she is always in the
headlight's beam.

"Just look at that," the farmer said.

"At what?"  I was 'cleansing' a cow (removing the afterbirth) and my
arm was buried deep in the cow's uterus.  I turned my head to see him
pointing at the byre floor beneath my patient.  I saw four white jets
of milk spurting on to the concrete from the animal's udder.

He grinned.  That's a funny thing, isn't it?"  "It isn't really," I
said.  "It's a reflex action caused by my hand twiddling the uterus
about.  This acts on a gland in the brain which causes the milk to
flow.  I often see cows letting their milk down like that when I'm
cleansing them."

"Well, that's a rum 'un."  The farmer laughed.  "Any road, you'd better
get finished quick or you'll have a few pints of milk to knock off your
bill."

That was in 1947, the year of the great snow.  I have never known snow
like that before or since and the odd thing was that it took such a
long time to get started.  Nothing happened in November and we had a
green Christmas, but then it began to get colder and colder.  All
through January a northeast wind blew, apparently straight from the
Arctic, and usually after a few days of this sort of unbearable blast,
snow would come and make things a bit warmer.  But not in 1947.

Each day we thought it couldn't get any colder, but it did, and then,
borne on the wind, very fine flakes began to appear over the last few
days of the month.  They were so small you could hardly see them but
they were the forerunners of the real thing.  At the beginning of
February big, fat flakes started a steady relentless descent on our
countryside and we knew, after all that build-up, that we were for
it.

For weeks and weeks the snow fell, sometimes in a gentle, almost lazy
curtain which remorselessly obliterated the familiar landmarks, at
others in fierce blizzards.  In between, the frost took over and
transformed the roads into glassy tracks of flattened snow over which
we drove at fifteen miles an hour.  136

The long garden at Skeldale House disappeared under a white blanket.
There was a single deep channel by the wall-side where I fought my way
daily to my car in the yard at the top.

The yard itself had to be dug out every day and the opening of the big
double doors into the yard was a back-breaking job.  One day I found
the doors were jammed immovably in high mounds of frozen snow.  There
was nothing I could do about it so they were left standing open for the
rest of the winter.

To get to our cases we did a lot of walking, since so many of the farm
tracks were blocked wall to wall.  On the very high country there were
some farms which we couldn't reach at all and that was very sad because
there was no doubt that many animals died for lack of veterinary help.
It was around the middle of March, when helicopters were dropping food
on these isolated spots, that Bert Kealey telephoned me.

He was one of those who was out of reach on a high moor which was bleak
even in summertime, and I was surprised to hear his voice.

"I thought your phone wires would be down, Bert," I said.

"Naw, they've survived, God knows how."  The young farmer's voice was
cheerful as always.  He ran a small suckling herd on the high tops and
was one of the many who scratched a living from the unfriendly soil.

"But ahim in trouble," he went on.  "Polly's just had a litter and she
hasn't a drop of milk."

"Oh dear, that's unfortunate," I said.  Polly was the only pig on the
Kealey farm.

"Aye, it's a beggar.  Bad enough losin' the litter- there's twelve
smashin' little pigs but it's Tess I'm bothered about."

"Yes .. . yes .. ."  I was thinking of Tess, too.  She was Bert's
eight-year-old daughter and she had a thing about little pigs.  She had
persuaded her father to buy her an in-pig sow for her birthday so that
she could have a litter

13?

of her own.  I could remember Tess's excitement when she showed me her
birthday gift a few days after its arrival.

"That's Polly Pig," she said, pointing to the sow nuzzling the straw in
its pen.  "She's mine.  My dad gave her to me."

I leaned over the pen.  "Yes, I know.  You're a lucky girl.  She looks
a fine pig to me."

"Oh, she is, she is."  The little girl's eyes shone with pleasure.  "I
feed her every day and she lets me stroke her.  She's nice."

"I bet she is.  She looks nice."

"Yes, and do you know something else?"  Tess's face grew serious and
her voice took on a conspiratorial tone.  "She's going to have babies
in March."

"Well I never!"  I said.  "Is that so?  You'll have a whole lot of
little pink pigs to look after."  I held my hands a few inches apart.
"Just about this size."

She was so thrilled at the thought that she was lost for words.  She
just smiled happily, got hold of the wall of the pen and began to jump
up and down.

All this came back to me as I listened to Bert Kealey's voice on the
phone.

"Do you think she's got mastitis, Bert?  Is the udder red and swollen?
Is she off her food?"

"No, nowt like that.  She's eatin' her head off and her udder's not a
bit inflamed."

"Well, then, it's a straight case of agalactia.  She needs a shot of
pituitrin, but how the heck is she going to get it?  Your district's
been cut off for weeks now."

In takes a lot to make a Yorkshire farmer admit that his farm is
inaccessible because of the weather, but these were exceptional
circumstances and Bert had to agree.

"I know," he said.  "Ah've tried diggin' me road out, but it fills up
as fast as I clear it.  Anyway, top road's blocked for two miles so I'm
wastin' me time."

I thought for a moment.  "Have you tried getting some cow's milk into
the piglets?  An egg mixed with a quart of milk and a teaspoonful of
glucose isn't a bad milk substitute.  I know you got some glucose for
those scouring calves."

"I've tried 'em with that," Bert replied.  "Put it in a Yorkshire
puddin' tin and dipped their noses in it, but they wouldn't look at it.
If only they could have a good suck at their mother and get sum mat
into their bellies it would start them off and then they'd maybe have a
go at t'substitute."

He was right.  There was nothing to compare with that first suck.  And
if they didn't get it, those tiny creatures with their empty stomachs
could start dying at an alarming rate.

"Looks like they're all goin' to go down t'nick," Bert said.  "Ah don't
know what little Tess is goin' to say.  She'll be heartbroken."

I tapped my fingers against the receiver.  An idea was forming in my
mind.  "There's just one possibility," I said.  "I know I can get to
the top of Dennor Bank because the road is open to there.  After that
it's all flat going to your place.  I could maybe get there on skis."

"Skis?"

"Yes, I've been doing a bit of that lately.  But I've not tackled
anywhere as far off as your farm.  I can't be sure that I'll make it
but I'll try."

"By 'eck, I'd be very grateful if you would, Mr.  Herriot.  It's
t'little lass ahim thinkin' of."

"Same here, Bert.  Anyway, I'll have a go.  I'll leave now."

On the summit of Dennor Bank I manoeuvred my car as close as possible
to the tall white walls which the snow ploughs had thrown up, got out
and buckled on my skis.  I have to admit I was beginning to fancy
myself a bit on skis, because one bonus of the long spell of snow and
frost was that some nice little slopes had become available.  With a
few other enthusiasts I had been rushing out to the hillsides at every
opportunity and I had found that gliding down again and again in the
frosty air was one of the most exhilarating things I had ever known.  I
had bought a book on the subject and thought I was becoming quite
skilful.

All I needed was the bottle of pituitrin and a syringe, and I put them
in my pocket.

To get to the Kealey farm in normal conditions you drove a couple of
miles along a very straight road, turned right and made for the
high-lying village of Branderley.  Bert's farm lay in an isolated
position about halfway along this second road.

But today, although I had travelled this region a hundred tunes, I
might have been in a strange country, somewhere I had never seen
before.  The stone walls had been deeply engulfed so there were no
fields, no roads, nothing but a yawning white expanse with the tops of
telegraph poles sticking up here and there.  It was uncanny.

Without skis there was no saying how far I might have sunk into the
billowing drifts.  I felt a twinge of misgiving, but I had promised to
try.  Anyway, I would be able to travel cross-country.  It would be
like cutting off two sides of a triangle, and I was pretty sure the
farm lay in one of the hollows just below the dark skyline.

I am afraid this is not a glorious episode in my history.  I had
slithered amateurishly for about half a mile when the snow started
again.  It seemed to come from nowhere and was by no means a blizzard,
just a white veil which cut me off completely from my surroundings.
There was no point in going on because I had lost all sense of
direction; the swirling screen of flakes was impenetrable.  There is no
disguising the fact that I was scared.  As I stood stock still in the
cold with my eyes half closed I wondered what would happen to me if the
snow didn't stop.  In fact I still wonder about that because I could
have blundered for miles in that empty wilderness without coming upon a
house.

It is a question which will never be answered because the flurry
stopped as suddenly as it had begun.  My heart thumped as I stared
around me, and the dark smudge of my car roof in the white distance was
a sweet sight.  I headed back to it with a speed worthy of an Olympic
skier and I am sure my eyes were popping as I kept them fixed on my
link with home.

Relief flowed through me as I threw my skis into the back and started
the engine, and I had left Dennor Bank behind and was well on the way
to Darrowby before my pulse rate returned to normal.

"Bert," I said on the phone.  "I'm terribly sorry but I just couldn't
make it.  I got caught by a snow snower and had to turnback."

"Well, ahim glad ye did turn.  I've been a bit worried since ye left.
Fellers have got lost and died in the snow up here.  I shouldn't have
let you try."

He paused for a moment then said wistfully, "If only there was some
other way to make Polly let 'er milk down."

As he spoke, the picture flashed into my mind of that cow I was
cleansing and the white jets striking the byre floor.  And there were
other memories when I was doing uterine examinations on sows, the same
thing had happened.

"Maybe there is a way," I blurted out.

"What dye mean?"

"Bert, have you ever had your hand inside a sow?"

"Eh?"

"Have you ever examined a sow internally?"

"Youmean..  .in'erpigbed?"

"Yes."

"Nay, nay, ah leave that to you chaps."

"Well, I want you to start now.  Get some warm water and soap and..
."

"Hey, hang on, Mr.  Herriot.  I'm sure there's no more pigs left
in'er."

"I don't suppose there are, Bert, but do as I say.  Soap your arm well
and use any household antiseptic you have.  Then feel your way into the
vagina till you come to the cervix.  She's only just farrowed so the
cervix should still be open.  Put a finger inside and waggle the pig
bed around a bit."

"Oh 'eck, I don't fancy this.  What's it all about?"

"It often brings the milk down, that's what it's about, so get
going."

I put down the phone and went through to have lunch.  Helen kept
glancing at me during the meal as I answered little Jimmy's questions
in a preoccupied way.  She knew something was on my mind and I don't
suppose she was surprised when I leaped to my feet at the sound of the
phone ringing.

It was Bert.  He sounded breathless but triumphant.  "It worked, Mr.
Herriot!  I 'ad a good waggle round like you said,

then I tried the udder.  I could draw milk out of every tit and there
wasn't a drop there before.  It was like magic."

"Are the piglets feeding?"

"Not half!  They were fightin' to get a drink before, but they're all
laid quiet in a row, suckin' hard.  It's lovely to see them."

"Well, that's great," I said.  "But we haven't won yet.  The piglets
have had that vital first feed but Polly will probably dry up again by
tomorrow or even tonight.  You'll have to get your hand in again."

"Oh crumbs."  A lot of the enthusiasm went out of Bert's voice.  "I
thought I'd finished wi' that."

The poor man did indeed have to perform his unusual task several times
and in fact Polly never did come fully to her milk, but the piglets
were kept going until they were able to drink the milk substitute from
the tin.  The litter was saved.

The great snow of 1947 was followed by the most glorious summer I can
remember, but in late April in the high country the white streaks still
lay behind the walls, standing out against the green moorland like the
ribs of a great beast.  But the roads were clear and my journey to see
one of Bert Kealey's heifers had none of the drama of last time.

When I had finished my job, young Tess took me though to see her
beloved Polly and family.

"They're pretty, aren't they?"  she said as we looked into the pen at
the twelve chunky little pigs playing around their mother.

"They certainly are, Tess," I replied.  "Your first attempt at pig
breeding has been a big success but I really think you have to thank
your father for it.  He did a wonderful job."

Bert gave a wry smile, then screwed up his face at the memory.  "Aye,
maybe so, and I reckon it was worth it.  But I'll tell ye, ah didn't
enjoy it."

1.7

"Are you all right, Helen?"

I looked round anxiously as my wife fidgeted in her seat.  We were in
the one and nine pennies in the La Scala cinema in Brawton and I had a
strong conviction that we had no right to be there.

I had voiced my doubts that morning.  "I know it's our half-day, Helen,
but with the baby due any time don't you think it would be safer to
stay around Darrowby?"

"No, of course not."  Helen laughed incredulously at the very idea of
missing our outing.  And I could see her point because it was an oasis
of relaxation in our busy lives.  For me it was an escape from the
telephone and the mud and the Wellington boots and for my wife it meant
a rest from her own hard slog plus the luxury of having meals cooked
and served by somebody else.

"But honestly," I said.  "What if the thing comes on quickly?  It's all
right you laughing.  We don't want our second child to be born in
Smith's book shop or the back of a car."

The whole business had me worried.  I wasn't as bad as when Jimmy was
on his way.  I was in the RAF then and I went into a sort of decline
during which I lost two stones in weight, which wasn't all due to the
hard training.  People make jokes about this syndrome but I didn't find
it funny.  There was something about having babies which really got
through to me, and lately I had spent a lot of time flapping around
watching Helen's every move, much to her amusement.  I just couldn't
calm down about the thing.  There isn't much of the Yogi in my make-up
at any time and over the last two days the tension had built up.

But Helen had been adamant this morning.  She wasn't going to be done
out of her half-day by such a trifle and now here we were in the La
Scala with Humphrey Bogart competing vainly for my attention and my
blood pressure rising steadily as my wife squirmed around and
occasionally ran a thoughtful hand over her swollen aba omen

'43

As I scrutinised her keenly from the corner of my eye she gave a
convulsive jerk and her lips parted in a soft moan.  An instant dew of
perspiration had already sprung out all over me before she turned and
whispered, "I think we'd better go now,

Jim."

Stumbling over the outstretched legs in the darkness I guided her up
the sloping aisle, and such was my panic that I felt sure the crisis
would be upon us before we reached the usherette standing at the back
with her torch.

I was thankful to reach the street and see our little car standing only
a few yards away.  As we set off I seemed to notice the rattles and
bumping of the old springs for the first time.  It was the only time in
my life that I wished I had a Rolls Royce.

The twenty-five miles to Darrowby seemed to take an eternity.  Helen
sat very quiet by my side, occasionally closing her eyes and catching
her breath while my heart beat a tattoo against my ribs.  When we
reached our lit de town I turned the car to the right towards the
market place.  Helen looked at me in surprise.  "Where are you going?" 
"Well, to Nurse Brown's of course."  "Oh, don't be so silly.  It's not
time for that yet."  "But..  how do you know?"

"I just know."  Helen laughed.  "I've had a baby before, don't you
remember?  Come on, let's go home."

Heavy with misgiving, I drove to Skeldale House and as we mounted the
stairs I marvelled at Helen's composure.

It was the same when we got into bed.  She lay there, obviously not
very comfortable but quite patient and there was about her a calm
acceptance of the inevitable which I could not share.

I suppose I kept dropping into what is termed a fitful slumber because
it was 6 a.m. when she nudged my arm.

Time to go, Jim."  Her tone was very matter-of-fact.

I shot from the bed like a jack-in-the-box, threw on my clothes and
shouted across the landing to Auntie Lucy who was staying with us for
the occasion.  "We're off!"

A faint reply came through the door.  "All right, I'll see to Jimmy."

When I returned to our bedroom Helen was dressing methodically.

"Get that suitcase out of the cupboard, Jim," she said.

I opened the cupboard door.  "Suitcase?"

"Yes, that one.  It's got my nighties and toilet things and baby
clothes and everything I'll need.  Go on, bring it out."

Suppressing a groan I carried the case out and stood waiting.  I had
missed all this last time because of the war and had often regretted
it, but at that moment I wasn't at all sure whether I wouldn't rather
be elsewhere.

Outside it was a glorious May morning, the air limpid with the new-day
freshness which had soothed the irritation of many an early call, but
it was all lost on me today as I drove across the empty market place.

We had only about half a mile to go and I was pulling up outside
Greenside Nursing Home within minutes.  There was a touch of grandeur
about the name but in fact it was just the small dwelling-house of
Nurse Brown.  Upstairs there were a couple of bedrooms which for many
years had seen the arrival of the local children.

I knocked at the door and pushed it open.  Nurse Brown gave me a quick
smile, put her arm round Helen's shoulders and led her upstairs.  I was
left in the kitchen feeling strangely alone and helpless but a voice
cut in on my jumbled thoughts.

"Now, then, Jim, it's a grand mornin'."

It was Cliff, Nurse Brown's husband.  He was sitting in the corner of
the kitchen eating his breakfast and he spoke to me casually as though
we had encountered each other in the street.  He wore the broad grin
which never seemed to leave his face, but I suppose I half expected
that he would leap from the table, seize my hand and say, "There,
there," or something of the sort.

However he continued to work his way phlegmatically through the stack
of bacon, eggs, sausages and tomatoes on his plate, and I realised that
over the years he must have seen hundreds of quivering husbands
standing in that kitchen.  It was old stuff to Cliff.

'45

"Yes, Cliff..  . yes .. ."  I replied.  "I think it will turn out hot
later."

He nodded absently and pushed his plate to one side to join an empty
porridge bowl before turning his attention to bread and marmalade.
Nurse Brown was a noted cook as well as a baby expert and it was
evident that she believed in ensuring that her husband, a very big man
and a lorry driver for one of the local contractors, would not grow
faint from hunger during the morning.

Watching him slapping on the marmalade I cringed inwardly at the
creaking sounds from the floorboards above.  What was happening in that
bedroom?

As he chewed, Cliff seemed to notice that I was perhaps one of the more
distraught type of husbands because he turned his big kind smile on me.
He was and is one of the nicest men in our town and he spoke gently.

"Don't worry, lad," he said.  "It'll be right."

His words were mildly soothing and I fled.  In those days it was
unheard-of for the husband to be present at the birth and though it is
now the in thing to observe it all I marvel at the fortitude of these
young men.  I know beyond all doubt that Herriot would be carried away
unconscious at some time during the proceedings.

When Siegfried arrived at the surgery he was very thoughtful.

"You'd better stick around, James.  I'll get through the morning round
on my own.  Take it quietly my boy.  All will be well."

It was difficult to take it quietly.  I found that expectant fathers
really did pace the floor for long periods, and I varied this by trying
to read the newspaper upside down.

It was around eleven o'clock when the long-awaited telephone call came.
It was my doctor and good friend, Harry Allinson.  Harry always spoke
in a sort of cheerful shout and his very presence in a sick-room was a
tonic.  This morning the booming voice was like the sweetest music.

"A sister for Jimmy!"  His words were followed by a burst of laughter.
146

"Oh great, Harry.  Thank you, thank you.  That's marvelous news."  I
held the receiver against my chest for a few moments before putting it
down.  I walked with dragging steps to the sitting room and lay back in
a chair until my nerves had stopped vibrating.

Then on an impulse, I leaped to my feet.  I believe I have said before
that I am a fairly sensible man with a propensity for doing daft things
and I decided that I had to go round to the Nursing Home immediately.

At that time a husband was not welcome straight after the birth.  I
knew it because I had gone to see Jimmy too soon and had not been well
received.  But still I went.

When I burst into her establishment Nurse Brown's usual smile was
absent.  "You've done it again, haven't you?"  she said with some
asperity.  "I told you with Jimmy that you should have given us time to
get the baby washed, but it seems you took no notice."

I hung my head sheepishly and she relented.  "Oh well, now you're here
you might as well come upstairs."

Helen had the same tired, flushed look that I remembered before.  I
kissed her thankfully.  We didn't say anything, just smiled at each
other.  Then I had a look in the cot by the bed.

Nurse Brown regarded me with tight lips and narrowed eyes as I peered
down.  Last time I had been so aghast at Jimmy's appearance that I had
mortally offended her by asking if there was anything wrong with him,
and heaven help me I felt the same now.  I won't go into details but
the new little girl's face was all squashed and red and bloated and the
sense of shock hit me as it had done before.

I looked up at the nurse and it was only too clear that she was waiting
for me to say something derogatory.  Her normally laughing face was set
in a threatening scowl.  One wrong word from me and she would have
kicked me on the shins1 was sure of that.

"Gorgeous," I said weakly.  "Really gorgeous."

"Allright."  She had seen enough of me.  "Outyougo."

She ushered me downstairs and as she opened the outside door she fixed
me with a piercing eye.  That bright little woman could read me without
effort.  She spoke slowly and deliberately as though addressing a
person of limited intelligence.

"That... is ... a ... lovely .. . healthy .. . baby .. ."  she said and
closed the door in my face.

And, bless her heart, her words helped me because as I drove away I
knew she must be right.  And now, all these years later, when I look at
my handsome son and my beautiful daughter I can hardly believe my own
stupidity.

When I returned to the surgery there was one visit waiting for me, high
in the hills, and the journey up there was like a happy dream.  My
worry was over and it seemed that all nature was rejoicing with me.  It
was the ninth of May, 1947, the beginning of the most perfect summer I
can remember.  The sun blazed, soft breezes swirled into the car,
carrying their fragrance from the fells around, an elusive breath of
the bluebells, primroses and violets scattered everywhere on the grass
and flowing among the shadows of the trees.

After I had seen my patient, I took a walk on the high tops along a
favourite path of beaten earth on the hill's edge with Sam trotting at
my heels.  I looked away over the rolling patchwork of the plain
sleeping in the sun's haze and at the young bracken on the hillside
springing straight and green from last year's dead brown stalks.
Everywhere new life was calling out its exultant message, and it was so
apt with my new little daughter lying down there in Darrowby.

We had decided to call her Rosemary.  It is such a pretty name and I
still love it, but it didn't last long.  It became Rosie at a very
early stage and, though I did make one or two ineffectual stands, it
has remained so to this day.  She is now Doctor Rosie in our
community.

On that May day I caught myself just in time.  It has always been my
practice to recline in the sunshine on the springy bed of heather which
clusters on these hillsides and I was just settling down when I
remembered I had other things to do today.  I sped back to Skeldale
House and began to telephone my glad news all over the country.

It was received rapturously by all, but it was Tristan who grasped the
essentials of the situation.

"We'vegot to wet this baby's head, Jim," he said seriously.

I was ready for anything.  "Of course, of course, when are you coming
over?"

I'll be there at seven," he replied crisply, and I knew he would be.

Tristan was concerned about the venue of the celebration.  There were
four of us in the sitting-room at Skeldale House-Siegfried, Tristan,
Alex Taylor and myself.  Alex was my oldest friend we started school
together in Glasgow at the age of four and when he came out of the army
after five years in the western desert and Italy he came to spend a few
weeks with Helen and me in Darrowby.  It wasn't long before he had
fallen under the spell of the country life and now he was learning
farming and estate agency with a view to starting a new career.  It was
good that he should be with me tonight.

Tristan's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair as he thought aloud.
His expression was fixed and grave, his eyes vacant.

"We'd normally go to the Drovers but they've got that big party on
tonight, so that's no good," he muttered.  "We want a bit of peace and
quiet.  Let's see now, there's the George and Dragon Tetley's beer,
splendid stuff, but I've known them a bit careless with their pipes and
I've had the odd sour mouthful.  And of course we have the Cross Keys.
They pull a lovely pint of Cameron's and the draught Guinness is
excellent.  And we mustn't forget the Hare and Pheasant their bitter
can rise to great heights although the mild is ordinary."  He paused
for a moment.  "We might do worse than the Lord Nelson-very reliable
ale-and of course there's always..  ."

"Just a minute, Triss," I broke in.  "I went round to Nurse Brown's
this evening to see Helen, and Cliff asked if he could come with us.
Don't you think it would be rather nice to go to his pub since the baby
was born in his house?"

Tristan narrowed his eyes.  "Which pub is that?"

The Black Horse."

"Ay yes, ye-es."  Tristan looked at me thoughtfully and put his finger
tips together.  "Russell and Rangham's.  A good little brewery, that.
I've had some first-rate pints in the Black Horse, though I've noticed
a slight loss of nuttiness under very warm conditions."  He looked
anxiously out of the window.  "It's been hot today.  Perhaps we'd..
."

"Oh for heaven's sake!"  Siegfried leaped to his feet.  "You sound like
an analytical chemist.  It's only beer you're talking about, after
all."

Tristan looked at him in shocked silence but Siegfried turned to me
briskly.  "I think that's a pleasant idea of yours, James.  Let's go
with Cliff to the Black Horse.  It's a quiet little place."

And, indeed, as we dropped to the chairs in the bar parlour I felt we
had chosen the ideal spot.  The evening sunshine sent long golden
shafts over the pitted oak tables and the high-backed settles where a
few farm men sat with their glasses.  There was nothing smart about
this little inn, but the furniture which hadn't been changed for a
hundred years gave it an air of tranquillity.  It was just right.

Reg Wilkey, the diminutive landlord, welcomed us and charged our
glasses from his tall white jug.

Siegfried raised his pint.  "James, may I be the first to wish a long
life, health and happiness to Rosemary."

"Thank you, Siegfried," I said, feeling suddenly very much among
friends as the others said 'hear, hear' and began to drink.

Cliff, his face wreathed in his eternal smile, lowered the level in his
glass by half then turned to the landlord.  "It gets better, Reg," he
said reverently.  "It gets better."

As Reg bowed modestly Cliff said, "Ye know, Jim, I've said for years
that me two best friends are Mr.  Russell and Mr.  Rangham.  I think
the world of'em."

Everybody laughed and the stage was set for a happy celebration.  With
my anxieties over I felt wonderful.

After a couple of pints Siegfried patted me on the shoulder.  "I'm off,
James.  Have a good time.  Can't tell you how pleased lam."

I watched him go and I didn't argue.  He was right.  There was a
veterinary practice out there and somebody had to watch the shop.  And
this was my night.

It was one of those cosy evenings when everything seemed perfect.  Alex
and I recalled our childhood in Glasgow, Tristan came up with some
splendid memories of Skeldale House in the bachelor days and over
everything, like a beneficent moon, hung the huge smile of Cliff
Brown.

A great love of my fellow men mounted in me and I kept buying drinks
for the local people around us.  Finally I grew tired of fumbling for
money and handed my wallet to the landlord.  It was stuffed with notes
because I had made a special visit to the bank that afternoon.

"Here, Reg," I said.  "Just keep taking the drinks out of that."

"Aye, right, Mr.  Herriot," he replied without changing expression.
"It'll mek it easier."

It did make it a lot easier.  Men whom I hardly knew raised their
glasses and toasted my new daughter repeatedly, and all I had to do was
smile and raise mine in return.

When closing time was announced it didn't seem possible that it was all
coming to an end.

As the little pub emptied I approached the landlord.  "We can't go home
yet, Reg."

He looked at me quizzically.  "Well, ye know the law, Mr.  Herriot."

"Yes, but this is a special night, isn't it?"

"Aye, it is, I suppose."  He hesitated for a moment.  "Tell ye what.
I'll lock up, then we could go down and 'ave one or two in the cellar,
just to finish off."

I put my arm round his shoulders.  "Reg what a delightful idea.  Let's
go down there."

We descended a few steps into the pub cellar, switched on the light and
pulled the trap door closed after us.  As we disposed ourselves among
the barrels and crates I looked around the company.  Apart from the
original four we were now augmented by two young farmers, one of the
local grocers and an official from the Darrowby Water Board.  We were a
warmly knit little group.

ISI

It was much easier down there.  No need to bother the landlord with his
jug.  We just went to a barrel and turned the tap.

"Still plenty in the wallet, Reg?"  I shouted.

"Aye, there's plenty 'ere, don't worry.  Help yourselves."

We kept doing that and the party never flagged.  It must have been past
midnight when we heard the thumping on the outside door.  Reg listened
for a few moments then went upstairs.  He returned soon but was
preceded through the trap door by the long blue legs, tunic, cadaverous
face and helmet of Police-Constable Hubert Goole.

A silence fell on the merry gathering as the constable's melancholy
gaze passed slowly over us.

"Drinkin' a bit late, aren't ye?"  he enquired tonelessly.

"Ah well."  Tristan gave a gay little laugh.  "It's a special occasion,
you see, Mr.  Goole.  Mr.  Herriot's wife gave birth to a daughter this
morning."

"Oh aye?"  The Old Testament countenance looked down on my friend from
its bony perch.  "I don't remember Mr.  Wilkey applyin' for an extended
licence for tonight."

It was the nearest he could get to making a joke, because PC Goole
never made jokes.  He was known in the town as a stern and unbending
man, one who went by the book.  It was no good riding a bike at night
without lights when PC Goole was around.  He was particularly merciless
on this offence.  He sang in the church choir, his morals were
impeccable, he was active in community work, he did everything right.
It was strange that in his mid-fifties he was still an ordinary
constable.

Tristan bounced back.  "Ah yes, ha-ha, very good.  But of course this
was a totally impromptu thing.  Spur of the moment, you know."

"Ye can call it what you like, but you're breakin' the law and you know
it."  The big man unbuttoned his breast pocket and flipped open his
notebook.  I'll 'ave to 'ave your names."

I was sitting on an upturned crate and I gripped my knees tightly. What
-n end to the happy evening.  Nothing much happened in the town and
this would make headlines in the

Darrowby and Houlton Times.  It would look great, with all my friends
involved, too.  And poor little Reg standing sheepishly in the
background he would really get it in the neck, and it was all my
fault.

Tristan, however, was not beaten yet.  "Mr.  Goole," he said coldly,
"I'm disappinted in you."

"Eh?"

"I said I'm disappointed.  I'd have expected you to show a different
attitude on an occasion like this."

The constable was unmoved.  He poised his pencil.  "I'm a policeman,
Mr.  Farnon, and I 'ave my duty to do.  We might as well start with
your name."  He wrote carefully then looked up.  "What's your address,
now?"

"It seems to me," said Tristan, ignoring the question, 'that you have
forgotten all about little Julie."

"What about Julie?"  The long face showed a certain animation for the
first time.  Tristan's mention of PC Goole's beloved Yorkshire Terrier
had found a tender spot.

"Well, as I recall," Tristan went on, "Mr.  Herriot sat up for several
hours during the night with Julie when she was having pups.  In fact if
it hadn't been for him you might have lost the pups and Julie, too.  I
know it's a few years ago, but I remember it distinctly."

"Now then, that has got nowt to do with tonight.  I've told ye, I have
my duty to do."  He turned to the official of the Water Board.

Tristan returned to the attack.  "Yes, but surely you could have a
drink with us on a night like this when Mr.  Herriot has become a
father for the second time.  It's the same thing in a way."

PC Goole paused and his face softened.  "Julie's still goin' strong."

"Yes, I know," I said.  "Wonderful little thing for her age."

"And I still have one of them pups."

"Of course.  You've had him in to see me a few times."

"Aye .. . aye .. PC Goole hitched up his tunic, delved in his trouser
pocket and brought out a large watch.  He studied it thoughtfully.
"Well, I'm off duty about now.

'53

Suppose I could have a drink with ye.  I'll just phone in to the office
first."

"Oh, good!"  Tristan moved quickly to the barrel and drew another
pint.

When the constable returned from the phone he raised the glass
solemnly.  "Here's wishin' t'little lass all the best," he said, and
took a long swallow.

Thank you, Mr.  Goole," I replied.  "You're very kind."

He sat down on one of the lower steps, placed his helmet on a crate and
had another deep drink.  "Both well, I 'ope?"

"Yes, just grand.  Have another."

It was surprising how soon he seemed to forget all about his notebook
and the party picked up again rapidly.  The relief of the escape added
greatly to the festivities, and joy reigned unrestrained.

"It's bloody 'of down 'ere," PC GooSe remarked after some time and
removed his tunic.  With this symbolic gesture the last barrier went
down.

And yet, over the next two hours, nobody got really plastered.  Nobody,
that is, except PC Goole.  With the rest of us it was a case of
laughter, reminiscing and an undoubted heightening of the senses but
the policeman passed through various stages on the road to a fairly
profound inebriation.

The first was when he insisted on a Christian-name relationship, then
he became almost tearfully affectionate as he rhapsodised on the
wonders of birth, human and canine.  The latest phase was more
sinister.  He was turning aggressive.

"You're 'avin' another, Jim."  It was a statement rather than an
enquiry as the tall, shirt-sleeved figure bent, swaying slightly, over
the tap of the barrel, glass at the ready.

"No thanks, Hubert," I replied.  "I've had enough."

He blinked at me owlishly.  "You're not 'avin' another?"

"No, honestly, Hubert, I've had it.  I started long before you."

He sent another pint frothing into his glass before continuing.

"Then you're a bloody piker, Jim," he said.  "And if there's one thing
I can't shtand, if there's one thing I can't bloody well shtand it's a
bloody piker."

I tried an ingratiating smile.  Tm terribly sorry, Hubert, but I'm up
to here, and anyway, it's half-past two.  I really think we ought to be
going."

It seemed to be a general sentiment because the assembly all began to
get to their feet.

"Coin'?"  Hubert glared at me belligerently.  "Whassa matter with you?
The night's young yet."  He slurped down another mouthful of beer
indignantly.  "You ask a feller to 'ave a drink with you and next
minute ye say we're goin'.  Itsh not right."

"Now, now, Hubert," said little Reg Wilkey, sidling up to him, smiling
and radiating the bonhomie which came from thirty years' practice at
easing reluctant clients from his premises.  "Be a good lad, now. We've
all 'ad a grand time and it's been lovely seein' you, but everybody's
settin' off 'ome.  Now where's your jacket?"

The constable muttered and grumbled as we helped him into his tunic and
balanced his helmet on his head, but allowed us to lead him up the
steps into the darkness of the pub.  Outside, I installed him in the
back of my car with Tristan and Alex on either side.  Cliff sat with me
in front.

Before we left, the landlord passed my wallet through the window.  It
had slimmed down to the point of emaciation and it occurred to me that
my bank manager, who was always advising me in the kindest possible way
to watch my overdraft, would be tossing uneasily in his bed if he
knew.

I drove through the sleeping town and turned down the narrow street
towards the market place.  As we approached I could see that the
cobbled square was deserted except for two figures standing at the edge
of the roadway under a street light.  With a twinge of alarm I
recognised Inspector Bowles and Sergeant Rostron, our two head
policemen.  They were standing, very erect and trim-looking hands
behind their backs, glancing around them keenly They looked as though
they wouldn't miss any misdemeanours in their vicinity.

A sudden scream from the back seat almost sent me through a shop
window.  Hubert had seen them too.

"It's that bugger Rostron!"  he yelled.  "I 'ate that bugger!  He's 'ad
it in for me for years and I'm goin' to tell 'im what I think about
'imf"

There was a thrashing of arms in the back as he wound down the window
and started his tirade at the top of his voice.  "You bloody rotten ..
."

For the second time that night an icy dread swept me that something
awful was going to happen because of me.

"Quell him!"  I shouted.  "For God's sake, quell him!"

However my friends in the rear had anticipated me.  Hubert's cries were
suddenly switched off as Tristan and Alex bundled him to the floor and
fell on top of him.  Tristan was actually sitting on his head when we
came up to the two policemen and only muffled sounds drifted from
below.

As we passed, the inspector nodded and smiled and the sergeant gave me
a friendly salute.  It was not difficult to read their minds as they
docketed away another item of information.  Mr.  Herriot returning from
yet another night call.  A dedicated vet, that young man.

With their colleague writhing on the floor behind me I could not relax
until we had turned off the square out of sight and sound.  Hubert,
when allowed to get up, seemed to have lost a lot of his belligerence.
In fact he was reaching the sleepy stage and when he reached his home
he walked quietly and fairly steadily up his garden path.

Back in Skeldale House I went up to our bedroom.  The big room with the
double bed, wardrobe and dressing-table was eerily empty without
Helen.

I opened the door to the long narrow apartment which had been the
dressing-room in the great days of the old house.  It was where Tristan
slept when we were all bachelors together but now it was Jimmy's room
and his bed stood in exactly the same place as my old friend's.

I looked down on my son as I had often looked down on Tristan in his
slumbers.  I used to marvel at Tristan's cherubic innocence but even he
could not compete with a sleeping child.

I gazed at little Jimmy, then glanced at the other end of the room
where a cot stood to receive Rosie.

Soon, I thought, I would have two in here.  I was becoming rich.

November 2,1961

We learned in the morning that we would not start unloading the sheep
until evening as the Ubbergen was still occupying the berth, so this
gave me plenty of opportunity to explore the town.

Shortly after breakfast an important person came aboard, the head
director of "Inflot' which deals with the movement of all ships in the
harbour.

He was a kindly-looking man of about fifty with an attractive smile. He
wore very thick glasses and he told me that his weak eyesight had been
caused by hours of studying at night.  His English was very good.

Maybe it was because he was so pleasant that I was emboldened to broach
the question of the school.  Another reason, of course, was that I was
somewhat puffed up by my own importance.  When I was recently elected
chairman of the Darrowby Parent-Teachers' Association it gave my ego a
definite boost and when our headmaster expressed an interest in Russian
education he started an idea in my mind.

Anyway, whatever the cause, I was about to do another of my daft
things.

'57

"Do you think I could possibly see inside a Russian school?"  I asked
him.

The eyes behind the glasses stopped twinkling and he gave me a long
thoughtful stare.  After a few moments he nodded.  "I think it will be
all right if you ask permission when you get to the school.  As it
happens, my wife is a teacher and if you go to Skola No.  2 you could
ask for Madame Juowskaya."

I could hardly wait to get ashore, but again I couldn't find any
volunteers to come with me.  When I finally approached the captain he
probably felt like throwing me over the side.  He was short of sleep
after our stormy voyage and weary with his long negotiations with the
officials but still had the goodness to humour me.

He smiled and said, "Of course, Mr.  Herriot."  As he settled his
peaked hat on his silvery head and pulled on a smart navy-blue coat I
thought how very distinguished he looked.

Down the gangway again, past the unsmiling soldiers and along the
railway tracks towards the gate.  But I just had to solve the mystery
of the man-eating dog.  As we passed the wagon of last night I caught
the captain's arm.

"Just a minute," I said.  "I want to have a peep behind here."

For a moment he lost his poise and his eyes widened.  "Mr.  Herriot,
no!  What are you doing?"

"It's all right."  I smiled reassuringly.  "I only want a quick
look."

With the greatest care I edged my way behind the wagon, but the dog was
gone.  There was only an empty kennel.  Then I noticed that there was a
kennel about every fifty yards and a chain attached by a ring to a wire
which stretched along the entire length of the fence.

As I re-emerged, to the obvious relief of the captain, I saw in the
distance groups of dogs being led towards us.  We passed them on the
way to the gate house; large, stringy creatures loping along on the end
of their leads,

looking neither to right nor left.  They were of the Alsatian type, but
taller, and they certainly had a lean and hungry look.

I looked around at the soldiers by the water's edge and in the watch
towers and back again at the dogs.  Best of luck, I thought, to anybody
who tried to get in or out of here after dark.

As we walked along, loudspeakers blared at us from all directions. This
went on all the time the ship was in Klaipeda, but it was not music but
talking.  Talk, talk, talk, all day.  I do not know if it was political
indoctrination or news of Soviet achievements, but it went on without
stopping and I was very tired of it.

Once outside the harbour we began to make our way through the streets.
Klaipeda is a town of 100,000 inhabitants and we headed for what we
thought was the centre of the place.

The streets on the outskirts were simply packed-down earth and this
applied also to the footpaths.  Great muddy puddles stood everywhere
and there were holes, sometimes three or four feet deep, which had been
dug in the footpaths and apparently just left with the heap of soil
beside them.

Apart from the tenements there were the old Lithuanian houses and these
were in a very poor state of repair with the paint flaking and roof
tiles loose or missing.  Many of the houses had little balconies in
front of the upper windows.

There were quite a few people about, picking their way over the reddish
clay.

We walked until we reached the main street, Montes Street.  This had a
cobbled surface and proper pavements and there were shops on either
side.

The book shops seemed to sell only technical literature.  There was a
store full of bicycles, scooters and mopeds and a sports shop with
roller skates of a different type from ours -fencing foils and table
tennis sets in the window.  One shop was apparently devoted entirely to
chessmen and chess boards.

We saw what looked like one of our licensed grocers with

'59

lots of tinned and bottled goods and bottles of wine on show, but the
place which really intrigued me was the fish shop.  Its window was
filled with large imitation fish of all colours.  These models were
covered with dust and were enough to put one off fish for life.  Inside
I could see a high counter with white enamel bowls filled with the real
things.

A characteristic of all the shops was their general dinginess.  The
windows were all dirty and unwashed and there was no attempt to display
their wares attractively.

There was very little traffic mainly commercial vehicles with an
occasional private car or taxi.

There were a lot of people in the town centre, most of the women in
head scarves and undistinguished clothes.  It occurred to me then that
I had not seen a single smartly dressed woman since my arrival.  In
fact women seemed to do a lot of the rough jobs.  Back in the harbour,
women, dressed in cloaks and hoods, operated some of the mighty cranes
which served the ships.  I noticed, too, on a building site, a group of
girls throwing bricks from one to another as our bricklayers do.  Their
hands must have been hard and rough.

A column of youngsters marched by, led by a tall man, probably a
teacher.  They were laughing and singing and looked very like English
children except that many of the boys had peaked army-style caps and
the little girls without exception wore long brown woollen stockings of
the sort girls used to wear in our country in my early schooldays.  All
the children looked healthy and happy.

I stopped a young man in the street and showed him the slip of paper
with the name of the school written in Russian.  Again there was the
polite response.  He went out of his way and led us to the door of the
school.

It was a large, old-fashioned type of building set flush on the
roadside with no sign of a playground.  It looked more like a big block
of offices.

The man from Inflot had told me to ask permission, but there didn't
seem to be anybody about so I did my second daft thing of the trip; I
just barged inside, followed dutifully by the captain.  160

Once through the door there was something I noticed immediately the
intense silence, unusual in a school.  We were in a long passage whose
walls were hung with brightly coloured paintings of every conceivable
sporting activity and of Russian feats of arms.  These latter were done
in a very romantic style; soldiers with bandaged foreheads, bayonets
outstretched, handsome faces gazing fearlessly ahead.  There was a
glass case containing diplomas and certificates.

Many doors led off the passage and I began to work my way along,
knocking first then trying the handle.  They all seemed to be locked,
and when I reached one near the end I had given up hope.  I turned the
handle without knocking and it flew open.

I almost fell into a big room with a lot of startled women looking at
me.  They were all seated around a long table and at the top was a big,
impressive man with craggy features.  He was staring at me harder than
any of them.

I was obviously in the staff room and I realised that I must have
presented a strange sight.  I had brought only my working clothes with
me on the voyage and was clad in the black plastic mackintosh which I
wore round the farms.  This coat was frayed at cuffs and collar and
tattered by many horn thrusts.  When horns tore off buttons and ripped
pockets I didn't like to pass it on to Helen to repair because despite
my efforts to keep it clean it carried the powerful odour of the
farmyard deep in its seams.  So I always did the sewing myself, using
the thick bright blue nylon with which I stitched cows' wounds.  This,
with the ends of the coloured threads hanging loose, gave the garment
an even more bizarre appearance.

They all continued to stare, but the man at the head of the table had
clearly seen enough.  He rose from his chair and hurried through a door
at the far end.  It didn't need a lot of intuition to know that he had
gone to the telephone.

A realisation of my imprudence was dawning on me but I swallowed a lump
in my throat, gave what I hoped was a winning smile and said, "Madame
Juowskaya?"

One of the women nodded, the others looked at her ques

L.G.M.T.A. - F

tioningly and she turned deathly pale.  She must have thought I was
somebody sinister because she was undoubtedly frightened.

The captain could see it was time he took over.  He stepped in front of
me and addressed the company rapidly in German.  He told them that I
was chairman of the PTA in Darrowby, but this information, not
surprisingly, evoked no gasps of awe.

I stood there, the centre of all those female eyes.  They were a very
attractive lot of young women, for all the world like teachers in
Britain except for one dark-skinned Mongolian miss, but it was easy to
see that they were not similarly impressed with me.

The captain, a man of infinite resource, came to the rescue again and
asked which one was the English teacher.  The prettiest of them all
came forward and I was just about to speak to her when the door behind
me burst open and two Russian army officers marched in.

They were massive men, very smart in their high-shouldered uniforms,
epaulettes with stars, breeches and shiny high boots.  They began to
speak rapidly with the man who had returned to the top of the table,
glaring over at me every few seconds.  The man was wide eyed, throwing
his arms around, shaking his head, and I required no knowledge of
Russian to divine that he was telling them that I had rushed in here
from nowhere, he had no idea who the devil I was, and he didn't like
the look of me one little bit.

I do not wish to be over-dramatic, but I am convinced that if Captain
Rasmussen had not been with me I would have been hustled off to the
local jail.  He, however, stepped in once more with a flurry of
explanations in German.

Another thing which saved me was that the little English teacher began
to talk to me about the school.  I sat down by her side at the table
and the officers moved close to me as we spoke together.  All the time
I was very conscious of their towering presence; they hung over me,
looking me up and down, no doubt mystified at my eccentric apparel.  On
an inspiration I asked the English teacher her name.  It was a real jaw
breaker and I couldn't make much of it, but she said she was known as
what sounded like "Kitty'.  She told me she was married with a child of
six.

She clapped her hands together.  "Oh, I am so excited," she said.  "I
have taught English for so long but I have never spoken to a real
Englishman before.  You must tell me if my pronunciation is very
bad."

"I give you my word, you speak better English than I do," I replied.
And with my thick Glaswegian accent it was the literal truth.  Kitty
was delighted.

She told me that the director of the school had taken all the i ,200
children away for the day on what was a regular visit to some local
institution where they saw a film show and listened to talks.  This
accounted for the silence.  The big man at the head of the table was
the deputy director.

As we swapped information the other teachers pulled their chairs closer
to us and listened with the greatest interest as Kitty passed
everything on to them.  Even the forbidding deputy director could not
contain his curiosity and leaned across the table, elbows on the wood,
watching me intently.

As the atmosphere grew more cordial I was relieved to see the two
officers move away and lean against the wall.  Their previous hostile
expressions were now merely impassive.

A hectic question-and-answer session now ensued with Kitty relaying my
words round the table.

"At what age do your children start school?"  she asked.

When I replied, "At four or five years old," it caused general
amazement.

"Ours do not start till seven or eight years old," she said, and I was
similarly surprised.

The deputy director got quite heated on this point.  He banged his hand
on the table and declared that according to the principles of education
it was impossible to teach children of five.  What could they possibly
learn, he wanted to know.

When I told him they learned simple sums and words to start with he
shook his head vigorously in disbelief.

All the teachers were astonished, too, to hear about the normal school
hours in Britain.  Kitty told me that Russian younger children go from
8.30 a.m. till 2.30 p.m. and the fifth- and sixth-formers go from 2.30
p.m. till 7 p.m. or 8 p.m. at night.

Their classes average about thirty in number and they teach all the
mathematical subjects, physics, chemistry, biology, geography and
Russian history.  The principal foreign language at that school was
English, then German and Lithuanian.  French and Latin were not
taught.

I had to get in a question about sport.  "Do you have games in your
curriculum?"

Kitty raised her hands and laughed.  "Many many games.  Volley-ball is
the most popular, but there is also swimming, hockey, skating,
football, PE, and gymnastics."

"Also," she went on, 'we have many school clubs and outside activities.
Do you have pioneers in your country?"

I presumed that this meant camping and hiking.  I said yes, we did this
too in our schools and I launched into an explanation of the Duke of
Edinburgh's Award Scheme.  I struck an unexpected snag here because
none of them had even heard of the Duke of Edinburgh.

I laughed.  "Oh, surely you must know him.  Our Queen's husband?"

Blank faces and shrugs all round.

"Edinbor?  Edinbor?"  Kitty queried.

"Yes, of course," I replied.  "The capital of Scotland."

"But Dublin is the capital of Scotland," she said, so I decided to drop
that topic.

Just about then, the army officers, seeing the teachers grouped around
me, laughing and talking animatedly, apparently decided I was harmless
and left the room.  The atmosphere, which had thawed remarkably, became
still more cordial and the questioning went on at top speed.

"Do you teach religion?"  I asked.  Of course I knew very well that
they didn't but I was interested to see what they would say.

Their reaction was pretty uniform.  A kind of pitying amusement.  One
big dark girl, smiling sarcastically, put a question through Kitty.
164

"Do you teach about Darwin, too?"

I nodded.  "Yes, we teach religion and also about evolution and the
scientific explanations of the beginnings of the world and of man."

This caused general puzzlement.

We discussed their attitude to religion and I gathered that it was
regarded as a private thing and people could go to church if they
wished.  It was not banned, nor was there any propaganda against it in
the schools.  The teachers seemed to be of the opinion that it would
just quietly die out.  There were three churches in Klaipeda but in
some towns of a similar size there were many more.

The teachers commiserated with me on the tremendous unemployment and
poverty in Britain, and I got the impression that they thought I came
from a land of starvation and soup kitchens.  When I told them that
British workers enjoyed a steady improvement in their living standards
and that many of them owned cars they looked at me with frank
incredulity.  Obviously they thought I was purveying capitalist
propaganda.

And in one way, r couldn't blame them.  I could see their eyes
flickering over my ragged coat with the torn-down pockets and the
buttons with their blue garlands.  If this was a British professional
man what were the ordinary workers like?

"But your teachers do not have our standard of living," one of them
declared.

I wondered if she had a point.  These women were all beautifully
dressed and clearly prosperous.  I had the feeling that the teacher is
a very prestigious person in Russia.

"What is the eleven-plus examination?"  was the next question.

I tried to explain it as well as I could but they really grilled me on
this.  The deputy director burst in, his deep-chested voice booming
like an organ note amid the female chatter.

"There is absolutely no point in grading children according to ability
as you describe!"  He was clearly a man of immovable opinions.

I looked across at him.  "Well, do you have all grades in one class?"

The answer came back through Kitty.  "All Russian children are clever."
This was said with complete conviction and quite seriously.

In the ensuing discussion I gathered that a very high proportion of the
pupils go on to universities and that further education in the form of
night schools is very popular.  In fact many Russians obtain a complete
education up to university standard by working in these night
schools.

"How about school meals?"  I asked,

"Oh yes," Kitty replied.  "All the children stay for meals."  She
mentioned the number of kopeks they paid each day and it worked out at
about one shilling per meal.

"For this," Kitty went on, 'they get a glass of tea, bread and
sausage."  This did not sound as substantial as the food in English
schools.

A volley of Russian from the deputy director was translated as an
attack on the private-school system in Britain.  In the course of my
reply I mentioned that the private schools were called public schools,
which made them all look blank.  The big man kept hammering home his
point that only the children of the rich got a proper education in
Britain, but when I pointed out that through University Grants
everybody in our country could receive a full education no matter what
their financial position, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  I don't
think he believed me.

However the party was really going with a bang, with lots of laughter,
banter and give and take.  It was a pity in one way that the children
were away, but on the other hand I should never have had this priceless
opportunity to have a long discussion with all the teachers.

I was enjoying it so much that I could have stayed all day but I saw
the captain glancing anxiously at his watch and knew he was worried
about getting back to the ship.  Poor chap, he must have been praying
that he would never have to sail with another veterinary attendant like
me.

We took our leave in the friendliest spirit with laughter and
handshakes all round.  Little Kitty was particularly nice.

"Oh, I am so thrilled.  I will always remember meeting a real live
Englishman," she said as we parted.

The deputy director also revealed an unexpected vein of massive charm
as he led us out formally to the main door.  His powerful features
relaxed into a pleasant smile as he shook hands, bowed and waved us off
down the street.

As we left the school I saw some of the children coming back.  They
were all boys about twelve years old and many had a greenish,
military-style uniform and peaked cap.  I saw one with a stripe on his
arm.  Whether this was a school uniform or whether they were members of
a cadet corps I do not know.

Back at the ship, trouble awaited me.  A woman who, I Was told, was a
farm commissar, had been' asking to see me.

She was huge, well over six feet and broad in proportion, and as she
towered over me, two hard eyes in a rough-hewn countenance regarded me
coldly from under a black beret.  She obviously meant business.

She spoke no English but came to the point straight away.

"Ah-hah, ah-hah, ah-hah!"  The other Russians had simulated the sheep's
cough very closely, but this, rumbling from deep in her mighty ribcage,
was the best effort yet.

I tried my hrug and vacant smile but it didn't work with this one.  She
seized my arm in steel claws and propelled me effortlessly towards the
hold.

Down there among the sheep she pointed an accusing finger at the
Lincolns and went through the coughing routine again and again, while I
replied with a series of reassuring grins which became more and more
exhausting.

She produced a thermometer and I wondered if she was a vet.  If so I
greatly preferred her chubby little colleague of the morning.  She
needed no assistance to hold the sheep but jammed a great knee against
each animal, trapping them against the wall as though they were puppy
dogs.  All the readings were normal and she grew more and more
impatient.

16?

As she charged around the pens she made frequent contact with me.  I am
a fairly solidly built man of around five feet ten but she never even
noticed as I bounced off her, and the thought occurred to me that if we
both donned boxing gloves and got into a ring together I would be lucky
to last a three-minute round.

Finally she produced a tiny Russian-English dictionary and tried me out
with various incomprehensible words.  The nearest she came to the root
of the matter was 'bron-cheetees', but by then she had lapsed into a
discontented muttering.  I had the feeling that she was no longer aware
of my presence so I took my opportunity and made a bolt for my cabin.

I was almost there when Nielsen's head poked out from his cooking
cell.

"You miss your lunch, Mr.  Herriot.  You have tough time, you look
tired.  Wait there."  He help up a hand.  "I make you something."

I stood in the doorway as he laid out a slice of rye bread and began to
chop on to it tiny pieces of raw steak.  He slashed away like
lightning, his huge knife glinting with the expert movements.  Then he
began to whittle away at a raw onion till the meat was covered with the
fragments and followed this by cracking an egg on to the top of the
pile.  He finished by dusting the whole mound with salt and black
pepper before holding the final result proudly in my direction.

"Beef tartare!"  His voice had a triumphant ring.  "You eat, Mr.
Herriot..You feel better."

I shrank back a pace.  How could I possibly eat this concoction?  Raw
meat, uncooked egg it was unthinkable.  I was desperately scouring my
mind for some use to decline when I looked up again at Nielsen's
beaming face.  He was my friend, this unsung genius of the galley, and
he was trying to succour me in my time of need.  I would undoubtedly be
ill later but I couldn't say no.

It took courage, but I thanked him, seized the heaped slice of bread
and bit resolutely into it.  I thought if I held my breath throughout I
wouldn't taste anything, but there was too much of it and as I exhaled
I got the full flavour.  It was delicious.

The cook's expression became more and more ecstatic as he saw the
growing wonder in my face.  Then as I chewed steadily he must have
noticed a fleeting doubt, a moment of disbelief in my eyes because he
rested a hand anxiously on my shoulder.

"A leetle more pepper, maybe?"

I swallowed and regarded him for a moment.  "Well .. . yes, possibly..
just a touch."

He plied the grater and as I started again on the delicacy he began to
pour me a glass of lager, his face a picture of delight.  I was sorry
when I came to the end of the beef tartare but the strong Carlsberg was
just right to wash it down.  Nielsen's taste was impeccable as
always.

It was dark about 8 p.m. when the Ubbergen moved out.  Our ship took
its place and the discharging of the cargo commenced.  Wagons drew up
on the railway lines alongside the ship, a great crane lowered a
gangway and my poor little iheep were driven up the ramps.

I had literally lived with them for six days and even though knew that
as pedigree breeding animals they would get the est of treatment it
tugged at my heart to see them go.  Those beautiful Romney Marshes with
their teddy-bear heads trotting under the glaring lights and
disappearing into the black interiors of the wagons1 didn't like it at
all.  They had come from the green fields of Kent and as the doors
closed behind them I wondered where they were going.

A throng of black-capped Russian workers swarmed on the quay side
wheeling the wagons from the darkness into the light thrown by the
cranes.  They all looked frail, dark and washed-out in contrast with
the strapping Danes on the ship.  My faithful helper, Raun, was in the
thick of the action, all six feet four of him, his mop of golden hair
flapping as he ushered the animals along the ramp.

Another striking figure was Jumbo, the youngest seaman on the ship.
Apparently the youngest member of the crew is always called Jumbo,
pronounced "Yoombo' and this chap was just about the bonniest lad I
have ever seen.  Seventeen years old, immensely tall and with massive
shoulders, yet he had an angelic face with large blue eyes and thick
yellow hair growing down over his ears.

His job was the unloading of the surplus fodder and I marvelled at the
effortless way he roped and hoisted the heavy bags and bales on to the
hook which swung down again and again from the crane on the quay.  I
could not help thinking of the Vikings; if these men were typical, the
Danes are a wonderful race.

Finally, at about midnight the last sheep had trotted from sight and
the last bale of hay and bag of nuts had been lifted out.  The man in
charge of the Russian workers waved up at me as I looked down from the
rail of the ship.

"Doktor, goodbye," he cried, and went off into the night.  I walked
around the empty holds feeling a sense of loss, then I went up to the
captain's cabin to await a representative from Saufratt to sign my
acceptance forms.

He came at about 2 a.m."  that is 4 a.m. Russian time.  He was a young
chap of about twenty-five and had been hard at it all day, checking the
sheep and supervising the unloading.  He was exhausted, white-faced and
grimy, and I noticed that his nails were bitten right back.  But he was
no fool.  He could speak and write English very well and he had the
authority to sign for 20,000 worth of sheep.

On the first form he wrote, "About 20% of Lincoln sheeps have cough."
Gently I pointed out that it should be 'sheep' and though he was so
tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open, he launched into an
interrogation as to why the singular should be the same as the plural
and wanted to know all the other English words which had this
peculiarity.  It was another symptom of the passion for learning that I
had found repeatedly in Klaipeda.

He was followed by the customs and immigration people who cleared our
passports.  Then the Inflot representatives came aboard and presented
their bills to the captain: so many roubles for pilot, berthing, etc.
The captain gave them hell in his gentlemanly way and said they charged
far too much, but they only shrugged their shoulders and laughed
heartily.

The very last Russian to come aboard was the pilot, a different one
this time.

His face was grave as he spoke to the captain.  "There is big storm
blowing out beyond the estuary force six to eight and getting worse.  I
advise you to pull away from the berth and anchor in the harbour till
morning."  He wagged a finger as he made his final admonition.  "It
will not be so good out there for you tonight."

The captain paced up and down the cabin, trying to make up his mind. He
badly wanted to be off, but dared he risk the storm?

At last he said, "I think you are right, Mr.  Pilot.  We had better
stay here tonight."

Leaving the cabin, I bumped into the mate.  He had overheard the
conversation and he looked at me ruefully.

"I tell you this, Mr.  Herriot, I have heard this before.  We will
leave tonight.  Captain Rasmussen he is not afraid of storms.  Prepare
yourself."

Sitting over my log I became very sleepy and my bunk looked very
inviting.  Still and peaceful, it beckoned to me.  It had been a long,
long day.

"This is Biggins'ere."

I gripped the telephone tightly and dug the nails of my other hand into
my palm.  Mr.  Biggins' vacillations always tried me sorely.  He
regarded calling out the vet as a final desperate measure and it was
always sheer torture for him to make up his mind to take it.  On top of
that he was extremely pig-headed about taking my advice if I did man
age to fight my way on to his farm and I knew beyond doubt that I had
never ever managed to please him.

He had made me suffer during my pre-RAF days and now with the war well
over he was still there, a bit older and a bit more pig-headed.

"What's the trouble, Mr.  Biggins?"

"Well..  .I'ave a heifer badly."

"Right, I'll have a look at her this morning."

"Haud on, just a minute."  Mr.  Biggins was still not sure if he wanted
me out there even though he had got as far as lifting the phone.  "Are
you sure she needs seein'?"

"Well, I don't know.  What is she doing?"

There was a long pause.  "Just laid out, like."

"Laid out?"  I said.  That sounds rather serious to me.  I'll be along
as soon as possible."

"Now then, now then, she 'asn't all us been laid out."

"Well, how long, then?"

"Just this last couple o' days."

"You mean she just dropped down?"

"Nay, nay, nay."  His voice took on an edge of exasperation at my
thick-headedness.  "She's been off her grub for a week and now she's
gone down."

I took a long breath.  "So she's been ill for a week and now she's
collapsed and you've decided to call me?"

"Aye, that's right.  She were pretty bright about t'head till she went
offer legs."

"Right, Mr.  Biggins, I'll be with you very soon."

"Ah, but..  but..  are ye sure there's any need..  .?"

I put down the receiver.  I knew from hard experience that this
conversation could go on for a long time.  I also knew that I was
probably visiting a hopeless case, but if I got there immediately I
might be able to do something.

I was on the farm within ten minutes and Mr.  Biggins met me with his
typical attitude.  Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes regarding
me suspiciously from under a thick fringe of greying eyebrows.

"Ye're ower late," he grunted.

I stopped with one foot out of the car.  "You mean she's dead?"

"Nay, but just about.  Ye're too late to do owl about it now."

I gritted my teeth.  This animal had been ill for a week, I had arrived
ten minutes after being summoned, but the farmer's tone was
unequivocal; if it died it would be my fault.  I had come ower late.

"Ah well," I said, trying to relax.  "If she's dying there's nothing I
can do."  I began to get back into the car.

Mr.  Biggins lowered his head and kicked at a cobblestone with a
massive boot.  "Are ye not going to look at 'er while you're 'ere?"

"I thought you said it was too late."  "Aye .. . aye .. . but you're
the vitnery."  "Right, if that's what you want."  I climbed out again.
"Where is she?"

He hesitated.  "Will ye charge me extra?"  "No, I won't.  I've made the
journey to your farm and if I can't do anything more, that's all you'll
pay for."

It was a sadly familiar sight.  The skinny young beast lying in a dark
corner of the fold yard.  Eyes sunken and glazed and moving every few
seconds with the slow nystagmus of approaching death.  Temperature was
99 F. "Yes, you're right, Mr.  Biggins," I said.  "She's dying."  I put
my thermometer away and began to leave.

The farmer was a picture of gloom with his head sunk deep in his
shoulders as he looked down at the beast.  Then he glanced at me
quickly.  "Where are ye goin'?"

I looked back in surprise.  Tm going on my round.  I'm truly sorry
about your heifer, Mr.  Biggins, but she's beyond human aid."

"So you're just goin' to walk away without doin' owl?"  He gave me a
truculent stare.  "But she's dying.  You said so yourself."  "Aye, but
you're t'vet, not me.  And I've all us heard that where there's life
there's hope."

"Not in this case, I assure you.  She could go any minute."  He
continued to stare down at the animal.  "Look, she's breathin' isn't
she?  Aren't you goin' to give her a chance?"

"Well ... if you like I can try giving her a stimulant injection into
her vein."

"It's not what ah like.  You're tone that's supposed to know."

"Very well, I'll have a go."  I trailed out to the car for the
injection.

The heifer, in a deep coma, knew nothing as I slipped the needle into
the jugular vein.  As I depressed the plunger Mr.  Biggins gave tongue
again.

"Expensive things, them injections.  How much is this goin' to cost me,
then?"

"I honestly don't know."  My brain was beginning to reel.

"You'll know aw right when you get t'pen in your 'and to send me that
big bill, won't ye?"

I didn't answer.  As the last drop of fluid trickled into the vein the
heifer extended her forelimbs, stared sightlessly ahead for a second
then stopped breathing.  I watched her for a few moments and put my
hand over her heart.  "I'm afraid she's dead, Mr.  Biggins."

He bent quickly.  "Have ye killed erNo, no, of course not.  She was
just ready to go."

The farmer rubbed his chin.  "It wasn't much of a bloody stimulant, was
it?"

I had no answer to that one and began to put my syringe away.  I was
conscious of an increasing desire to get off this farm as quickly as
possible.

I was on the way to the car when Mr.  Biggins caught at my arm.

"Well, what was t'matter wither

"I don't know."

"You don't know?  Well, you've wasted ma money with that injection.
Vets are supposed to know, aren't they?"

"Yes, Mr.  Biggins, they are.  But in this case I could only say that
the animal was dying.  You would need a post-mortem examination to find
out the cause of death."

The farmer began to pluck excitedly at his coat.  "Well, this is a
funny carry on.  I 'ave a dead beast here and nobody knows what killed
her.  Could be, anything, couldn't it?"

"Well..  . I suppose so."  "Could be anthrax!"

"Oh no, Mr.  Biggins.  Anthrax is very sudden and you say this heifer
was ill for over a week."

"Nay, nay, not right ill.  Just a bit off it, then she went down like a
shot at tend.  That was sudden enough!"  "Oh,but..  ."

"And Fred Bramley along t'road had a beast wi' anthrax last month,
didn't he?"

"Yes, that's right.  There was a positive case there first around here
for several years.  But that was in a cow he found dead."

"Ah don't care!"  Mr.  Biggins stuck his jaw out.  "The Dar-row by
andHoulton Times was on about it and they said that all sudden deaths
should be examined for anthrax because it was right dangerous and fatal
to people.  I want ma heifer examined!"

"Okay," I replied wearily.  "If you say so.  As it happens, I have my
microscope with me."

"Microscope?  That sounds a costly job.  How much will that be?"

"That's all right, the Ministry pays me," I said, and began to walk
towards the house.

Mr.  Biggins nodded with glum satisfaction then raised his eyebrows.
"Where you goin' now?"

"Into the house.  I've got to use your phone to report to the Ministry.
I can't do anything till I get permission.  I'll pay for the call."  I
added the last few words because he was beginning to look worried.

He stood by me as I spoke to the Ministry clerk.  He fidgeted
impatiently when I asked him for his full name, the proper name of the
farm, the breed of the heifer.

"Didn't know ah'd have to go through all this," he mumbled.

I went out and produced my post-mortem knife from the car boot.  It was
a large and dangerous carving knife which I used only on dead animals.
Mr.  Biggins' eyes widened at the sight of it.  "By gaw, I don't like
the look of that bloody great knife.  What are you goin' to do with
that?"

"Just take a bit of blood."  I bent and made a nick at the root of the
heifer's tail and smeared a film of blood on to a glass slide.  I took
this, along with the microscope into the farmhouse kitchen.

"Now what do you want?"  Mr.  Biggins asked sourly.

I looked around.  "I want the use of the sink, the fire and that table
by the window."

The sink was full of dirty dishes which the farmer removed with groans
of protest while I fixed the blood film by drawing it through the
flames in the hearth.  Then I moved to the sink and poured methylene
blue over the slide.  In the process a small blue pool formed in the
white sink bottom and the coloration stayed there after I had swilled
the slide with cold water from the tap.

"Look at the bloody mess you've made!"  Mr.  Biggins exclaimed. "You've
stained t'sink.  The missus'll play 'ell when she gets home this
afternoon."

I forced a smile.  "Don't worry, that isn't a stain.  It will come off
quite easily."  But I could see he didn't believe me.

I dried the slide off at the fire, rigged up the microscope on the
table and peered through the eyepiece.  As I expected I found only the
usual pattern of red and white corpuscles.  Not an anthrax bacillus in
sight.

"Well, there's nothing there," I said.  "You can call the knacker man
quite safely."

Mr.  Biggins blew out his cheeks and made a long-suffering gesture with
one hand.  "All that bloody fuss for nothin'," he sighed.

As I drove away I felt, not for the first time, that you just couldn't
win with Mr.  Biggins, and a month later the conviction was
strengthened when he came into the surgery one market day.

"One of me cows has wooden tongue," he announced.  "I want some iodine
to paint on."

Siegfried looked up from the day book where he was checking the visits.
"Oh, you're a bit out of date, Mr.

Biggins," he said, smiling.  "We've got far better medicine than that
now."

The farmer took up his usual stance, head down, glowering under his
eyebrows.  "I don't care about your new medicine.  Ah want the stuff
I've all us used."

"But Mr.  Biggins."  Siegfried was at his most reasonable.  "Painting
the tongue with iodine went out years ago.  Since then we've used
intravenous injections of sodium iodide which was much better but now
even that has been replaced by sulphanilamide."

"Big words, Mr.  Farnon, big fancy words," grunted the farmer.  "But ah
know what's best for me cow, so are you goin' to give me the iodine or
not?"

"No, I am not," Siegfried replied, the smile fading from his face.  "I
wouldn't be a competent veterinary surgeon if I prescribed something as
totally out-dated as that."  He turned to me.  "James, would you slip
through to the stock room and bring a pound packet of the
sulphanilamide."

Mr.  Biggins was protesting as I hurried from the office.  In the stock
room the sulphanilamide packets stood in rows, some pounds, others half
pounds, but there was plenty of them because at that time this drug
bulked very large in our veterinary life.  It was such a striking
improvement on our old remedies.  It was useful in many kinds of
bacterial diseases, it was an excellent dusting powder for wounds and,
of course, as Siegfried had said, it cleared up actinobacillosis or
wooden tongue quite rapidly.

The packets were square and wrapped in white paper tied down with
string.  I grabbed one from the shelf and returned at a trot, listening
to the two voices echoing along the passage.

The argument was still raging when I came back to the office and I
could see that Siegfried's patience was running out.  He seized the
packet from me and began to write the instructions on the label.

"You give three tablespoonsful in a pint of water to start with, then
."

"But ah tell you ah don't want..  ."

*..  . you follow with one tablespoonful three times daily

"... got no faith in them new things .. ."  '..  . and after you've
used the packet let us know and we'll give you another supply if
necessary."  The farmer glared at my partner.  "That stuff 11 do no
good."

"Mr.  Biggins," Siegfried said with ominious calm.  "It will cure your
cow."

"It won't!"

"It will!"

"It won't!"

Siegfried brought his hand down on the desk with a thud.  Clearly he
had had enough.  "Take this, and if it doesn't do the trick I won't
charge you, all right?"

Mr.  Biggins narrowed his eyes but I could see that the idea of
something for nothing had an irresistible appeal.  Slowly he stretched
out his hand and took the sulphanilamide.

"Splendid!"  Siegfried jumped up and patted the farmer's shoulder. "Now
you get in touch with us when you've used it.  I bet you anything your
cow will soon be much better."

It would be about ten days after his interview that Siegfried and I
were out together castrating colts, and on the way back to the surgery
we had to pass through Mr.  Biggins'

village.

Siegfried slowed down when he saw the farmhouse.  It was square faced
and massive and the front garden showed only the sprouting heads of
potato plants.  Mr.  Biggins did not believe in wasting money on
ornamentation.

"Tell you what, James," my partner murmured.  "We'll just drop in
there.  We haven't heard from our old friend about the sulphanilamide.
Doesn't want to lose face, I suspect."  He laughed softly.  "We'll be
able to rub it in a bit."

He turned the wheel and drove round to the yard at the back of the
house.  Outside the kitchen door Siegfried raised his hand to knock,
then he gripped my arm.  "Look at that, James!"  he said in an urgent
whisper.

He pointed to the kitchen window and there on the sill was our square
white packet, virgin and unopened, the string binding undisturbed.

My partner clenched his fist.  "The cussed old blighter!  He won't try
it-out of sheer spite."

At that moment the farmer opened the door and Siegfried greeted him
cheerfully.  "Ah, good morning to you, Mr.  Biggins.  We were just
passing and thought we'd check on how your cow was progressing."

The eyes under the shaggy brows registered sudden alarm but my partner
held up a reassuring hand.  "No charge, I give you my word.  This is
just for our own interest."

"But..  but..  . I've got me slippers on.  Was just havin' a cup o'
tea.  There's no need for ye to..  ."

But Siegfried was already striding towards the cow byre.  The patient
was easy to pick out.  Her skin was stretched tightly over the jutting
ribs and pelvic bones, saliva drooled from her lips and a long swelling
bulged from under her jaw.  She was a scarecrow among her sleek
neighbours.

Siegfried moved quickly to her head, seized the nose and pulled it
towards him.  With his other hand he prised open the mouth and fingered
the tongue.

"Feel that, James," he said softly.

I ran my hand over the knobbly hard surface which for centuries had
given actinobacillosis its evocative name.  "This is awful.  It's a
wonder she can eat at all."  I sniffed at my fingers.  "And there's
iodine here."

Siegfried nodded.  "Yes, he's been to the chemist despite what I
said."

At that moment the byre door burst open and Mr.  Biggins hurried in,
panting slightly.

My partner looked at him sadly along the cow's back.  "Well, it seems
you were right.  Our medicine hasn't done a bit of good.  I can't
understand it."  He rubbed his chin.  "And your poor cow is a mess, I'm
afraid.  Almost starving to death.  I do apologise."

The farmer's face was a study.  "Aye, well..  . that's right .. she's
done no good..  . I reckon she'll..  ."

Siegfried broke in.  "Look here," he said.  "I feel responsible for
this.  My medicine has failed so it's up to me to get her right."  He
strode from between the cows.  "I have an injection in the car which I
think will do the trick.  Excuse me for a moment."

"Now then, wait a minute ... I don't know .. ."  But the farmer's words
went unheeded as my colleague hurried out to the yard.

He was back very quickly holding a bottle which I couldn't recognise.
He held it up and began to fill a 20 cc syringe, watching the rising
level intently and whistling tunelessly under his breath.

"Hold the tail, will you, James," he said, and poised the needle over
the cow's rump.  With his hand still held high he looked across at Mr.
Biggins.  "This is an excellent injection but it's a good job you've
been using our medicine."

"Why's that?"

"Well, on its own it could have serious effects on the animal."

"You mean..  . could killer

"Just possible," Siegfried murmured.  "But you've nothing to worry
about.  She's had the sulphanilamide."  He was about to plunge the
needle in when the farmer gave tongue.

"Hey, hey, haud on.  Don't do that!"

"What is it, Mr.  Biggins?  Something wrong?"

"Nay, nay, but there's mebbe been a bit of a misunderstan-din'."
Conflicting emotions chased across the farmer's face.  "Ye see, it's
like like this ah don't think she's been getting' enough of your
stuff."

Siegfried lowered his arm.  "You mean you've been under dosing  I wrote
the instructions on the packet if you remember."

"That's right.  But ah must have got a bit mixed up."

"Oh, that doesn't matter.  As long as you put her back to full dosage
all will be well."  Siegfried inserted the needle and, ignoring Mr.
Biggins' yelp of alarm, he injected the full contents.

As he put the syringe back in its case he sighed with satisfaction.
"Well, I'm sure that will put everything right.

But remember you must start again with the full three tablespoonsful
and continue till you've finished the packet.  The cow is in such a
state that I'm pretty sure you'll need a further supply, but you'll let
us know about that, eh?"

As we drove away I stared at my colleague.  "What the devil was that
injection?"

"Oh, mixed vitamins.  It'll help the poor thing's condition but it had
nothing to do with the wooden tongue.  Just part of my plan."  He
smiled gleefully.  "Now he's got to use the sulphanilamide.  It will be
interesting to see what happens."

It was indeed interesting.  Within a week Mr.  Biggins was back in the
surgery, looking sheepish.  "Can I have some more o' that stuff?"  he
muttered.  "By all means."  Siegfried extended his arm in an expansive
gesture, "As much as you like."  He leaned on the desk.  "I suppose the
cow is looking better?"  "Aye."

"Stopped slavering?"  "Aye."

"Putting on flesh, is she?"

"Aye, aye, she is."  Mr.  Biggins lowered his head as though he didn't
want to answer any more questions.  Siegfried gave him another
packet.

Through the surgery window we watched him cross the street and my
partner thumped me on the shoulder.  "Well, James.  That was a little
victory.  At last we've managed to beat Mr.  Biggins."

I laughed, too, because it was very sweet, but when I look back over
the years I realise it was the only time we did beat him.

There is nothing very exciting about tuberculin testing and I was quite
pleased when George Forsyth the insurance agent came into the byre and
started to make conversation.

I was doing the annual test on the little farm of the Hudson brothers.
Clem, the elder, about forty years old, was painstakingly writing the
numbers in the book while Dick, a few years younger, was rubbing the
inner surfaces of the ears to find the tattoo marks.

As I clipped, measured and injected I listened to George's observations
on the weather, the latest cricket scores and the price of pigs.  He
was leaning against a wall, taking leisurely pulls at a cigarette as
though he had all the time in the world, but I had a fair idea he had
come along for something more than idle talk.

After a few minutes he got round to the point.  "You know, Clem," he
said.  "You fellows should be properly insured."

Clem carefully rounded off a figure in the book.  "What are ye talkin'
about?  We've got the car insured and we're covered for fire and
lightnin'.  That's enough, isn't it?"

"Enough!"  George was shocked.  "That's nothing.  You should both have
life policies for a start."

"Nay, nay."  Clem shook his head.  "Don't believe in all that.  In fact
I don't believe in insurance at all except what we've got to have."

Dick raised his head from the front of the cow.  "And ah don't believe
in it either.  You're wastin' your time, George."

"Honestly," the agent said, 'you two are living in the past.  Don't you
think it would be a good thing for your dependants to have a nice sum
of money in the event of your deaths?"

"Not goin' to die for a long time yet," Clem grunted, moving along to
the next cow.

"How the heck do you know that?"

"All the Hudsons is long lived," Dick said.  "They nearly have to shoot
some of 'em.  Our old dad's over eighty and he's 182

fightin' fit.  He passed the farm over to us but 'e could be workin'now
if he wanted."

George tip-toed daintily to one side in his patent leather shoes as a
cow raised her tail dangerously in his direction.  "You don't seem to
get the point, but I won't press the matter.  However," he raised a
finger, 'you should certainly ha ve sickness policies."  Both the
brothers had a good laugh at this.  "Sickness?"  Clem said, a pitying
smile creasing his craggy features.  "Neither of us 'ave ever ailed a
thing in our lives.  Never even had a cold.  We 'aven't missed a day's
work since we started on this place."

"But how do you know that's going to continue," the agent replied
weakly.  "As you get older you'll be more liable to illness."

"Oh, leave off, Geroge."  Dick pushed his way out from between two
cows.  "We've told you we don't believe in insurance, and that's all
about it.  And we're not goin' to chuck our money away on any of your
fancy policies."

George narrowed his eyes.  This was a challenge and I could see he was
going to rise to it.

"I tell you what..  he began, but I had got to the end of the byre.

"Where do we go now?"  he asked.

Clem pointed across the yard.  "Few heifers in a box over there."

These were big, rough beasts and I pressed back against the wall as
they careered around in the, straw.  The brothers had made a few
ineffectual throws with a rope halter when I noticed George's head
appearing over the box door.

"I tell you what," he repeated and I was reminded of the old couplet,
There's no guy got endurance like the guy who sells insurance.  "How
about an accident policy?  Both of you ought to have one."

Clem managed to snare one of the galloping animals and leaned back on
the rope.  "Accident?  Fiddlesticks!  We've never' ad a accident."

"Aha!  That's the very reason why you should start protects ting
yourselves.  The fact that nothing has happened to you makes it more
probable that something is waiting round the corner.  It's simple
mathematics."

There's nowt simple about it," Dick said.  "Just because we've never
had a accident doesn't meant that .. ."  His words were cut off as the
haltered beast went violently into reverse and its bony rump thudded
into his midriff, crushing him with brutal force against the rough
stones of the wall.

He sank down in the straw, completely winded, and sat motionless,
holding his middle.

"Look at that!"  George cried.  "Just what I've been talking about!
Yours is a dangerous trade.  Anything could happen."

"Aye, well, 'e's all right," Clem said doubtfully as his brother eased
himself to his feet.

George's eyes had the fanatical gleam of an insurance man who suddenly
finds fate on his side.  "Yes, yes, maybe he is all right this time,
but he might have had an internal injury, mightn't he?  Could have been
off work for ages and then where would you be?  You'd have to pay for
extra labour, wouldn't you?  And with a nice little policy from me
you'd have the money to do it."

The musical sound of the word 'money' appeared to stir something in
Clem.  He gave the agent a sidelong glance.  "How much?"

George became brisk and businesslike.  "Now then, I have just the thing
for you here."  He pulled a sheaf of policies from his inside pocket.
"For a premium of 10 per annum you would receive 20 a week in the case
of incapacitating injuries.  There are other benefits, of course, look
here."

Clem put on a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and perused the document
while Dick looked over his shoulder.  I could hear mutterings

"Twenty pun a week... lot o' money..  . not bad."  Twenty pounds was
indeed a tidy sum in 1948 when the average weekly wage for a qualified
veterinary assistant was around 10.

Finally Clem looked up.  "Reckon we might 'ave a go at that.  Twenty
pun a week would come in right handy."

"Splendid, splendid."  George produced a silver pencil.  "Just sign
here, both of you.  Thank you very much."

He paused for a moment.  "And of course there's young Herbert who works
for you."

"Aye, he's down t'fields," Dick said.  "What about 'im?"

"Well, you ought to have him covered, too."

"But he's nob but a lad."

"Okay."  George spread his hands.  "He goes in cheaper.  Five pounds a
year.  Same benefits."

The brothers' resistance seemed to have crumbled.  "Awrightj s'pose we
might as well.  We'll do 'im, too."

George tripped off to his car, whistling merrily, and we got on with
the test.

It was about three weeks later that I met Clem in Dar-row by market
place.  He was sauntering along, looking in the shop windows, and he
was wearing a smart dark suit, obviously not his working clothes.  It
was late afternoon when he would normally have been bringing in his
cows for milking and I wondered at his presence in the town until he
turned round and I saw that his arm was in a sling.

"What on earth have you been doing, Clem?"  I asked.

He looked down at the bulky white cast.  "Broke me arm.  Slipped up on
the cow-house floor.  And would you believe it," his eyes widened, 'it
was nob but three days after I'd signed that insurance form.  Ahim
getting' twenty pun a week and the doctor reckons it'll be another nine
weeks afore I can start work.  That'll be more than two hundred quid
I'll have collected.  All right, eh?"

"It certainly is.  What a blessing you took George Forsyth's advice.
But you'll be paying for somebody to help you?"

"Nay, nay, we're managin' grand as it is."  He walked away,
chuckling.

Clem's injury had healed by the time I had to visit the Hudson farm
again to 'cleanse' a cow.  Clem brought me a bucket of hot water and I
was soaping my arms when Dick came in.  I should say he hobbled in
because he was on crutches.

I stared at him and an eerie sense of the workings of fate stirred in
my mind.  "Broken leg?"

"Aye," Dick replied laconically.  "Did it as easy as owl.  Tryin' to
catch an awd ewe on top pasture and upskittled me self in a rabbit
hole."

"You'll be out of action for a while, then?"

"Aye, plaster's got to stay on for fourteen weeks.  It's a bloody
nuisance but all of them twenty quids is very nice.  Good job we signed
that paper."

I didn't see him until he came into the surgery one market day to pay
his veterinary bill.  He had shed his cast but was still limping
slightly.

"How is the leg, Dick?"  I asked as I wrote in the receipt book.

He grimaced.  "Nobbut middlin'.  Aches like 'ell sometimes but I think
it's getting' stronger."

"Ah well."  I handed him the receipted account.  "You'll just have to
take things a bit easier till you're back to normal."

"Can't do that," he said, shaking his head.  "We're shorthanded as it
is.  Young Herbert's had a accident."

"What!"

"Aye, stuck a hay fork into 'is foot and got blood poisonin'.  He's
well enough in 'himself, but doctor says it'll be a long time afore he
can walk about."

In fact it was ten weeks before Herbert returned to work but, as Clem
confided to me over a beer when I encountered him one night in the
Drovers' Arms, the two hundred pounds they collected from the insurance
company had been something of a consolation.

"Remarkable thing," I said.  "George Forsyth must have been sent from
heaven that morning.  His company have been a tremendous help to
you."

Clem showed no enthusiasm but stared gloomily into his glass.  "But
ah'll tell that sum mat  They're funny fellers, them insurance men.
Would ye believe it, after all that talkin' they don't want us any
more."

"Really?  How's that?"

"Well, we got a letter from them sayin' "We do not wish to renew your
insurance."  What d'you make of that?"

"That sometimes happens, Clem," I said.  Privately, I wasn't surprised.
For an outlay of thirty pounds the Hudsons had received more than seven
hundred pounds within a few months.  I could imagine any company
beating a hasty retreat.

"Any road," he continued.  "We got another lot to take us on at tend of
the year.  We've shifted all our business to tnem -farm, car and
t'lot."

"And another accident policy, I suppose?"  Clem tipped up his glass and
took a long swallow.  "Oh aye."  Then he turned to me with an injured
expression.  "But they've made us pay an extra pound each."

It was some months later, shortly after the new company had shouldered
the burden of the Hudsons' insurance, that Dick fell into the bowels of
the tractor.  He could have been seriously injured but sustained only a
fracture of the thumb which kept him off work for eight weeks.

He told me about it himself when he had recovered and I was having a
cup of tea in the farmhouse.  "Another 160 into the kitty," he said
philosophically, pushing a plateful of home-made scones towards me.

I must have looked bemused because he laughed.  "And that's not all,
Mr.  Herriot.  I had a accident with the car."  "No!"

"Aye, ah did.  Ran into t'side of young Bessie Trenholm's car and
smashed me radiator and lights."  "Well, that's almost unbelievable.
And another claim, eh?"  Dick gave me a wry smile.  "Well now, I'll
tell ye.  There's a bit of a story there.  It was Bessie's fault, all
right she came out of her farm gate with no warning but ah'd only
insured my car for third party and I thought if it came to an argument
wi' only my word against hers I'd have no chance, because she's a bonny
young lass is Bessie.  So I decided not to claim, though ah did mention
it to the agent."  "So nothing doing this time?"  Dick's smile widened.
"That's what ah thought, but the agent came to see me a few days after
and told me they'd made a mistake at his office.  They'd insured me car
comprehensive."

"Good Lord!  So you collected again?"

"Aye, another 150.  Not bad."  Dick cut a piece from a wedge of
Wensleydale cheese and his expression grew serious.  "There's only one
thing we're worried about.  The agent acted a bit queer like when 'e
gave us the money.  Didn't seem ower pleased.  We're just hopin' this
company isn't goin' to give us t'push like the last one."

"Yes," I said.  "I understand.  That would be unfortunate."

"It would an' all."  Dick nodded gravely.  "Clem and me's big believers
in insurance."

November 3,1961

1 crawled into my bunk at 3 a.m. and it seemed that I had hardly fallen
asleep before I was awakened by the ship leaping and bucking like a
wild thing.  I looked out of my window at a vast stretch of wind-tossed
ocean.

Away in the distance the lights of Klaipeda glimmered and faded.  So
the mate had been right; our captain was not to be deterred by a bit of
bad weather.

For the rest of the night I remembered painfully the warnings I had
heard about coming home against the wind.  On the way to Klaipeda the
main motion had been a sideways rolling which I countered by jamming
knees and elbows against the sides of the bunk, but this was a violent
fore and aft movement and it was ten times worse.  Over and over again
I slid from one end of the bunk to the other and there wasn't a thing I
could do about it.  From my weird changes of position I could divine
that the ship's bows were high in the air one moment and pointing right
down the next.

Outside, the gale howled, spray dashed against the windows and the
cabin furniture and my worldly goods flew around the place unchecked. I
let them get on with it.  Tidying up, I felt, would be a fruitless and
dangerous business.  Being thrown about constantly and listening to the
medley of bangs and clatterings from all over the ship gave me small
chance of sleep, and when dawn came I peered out at a dismal scene.

I discovered then the reason for one of the new sounds I had heard
during the night.  Whereas the ship had slid down the sides of the huge
waves with the wind behind it, it now fell, keel first, into each green
chasm and when this happened there was a jarring crash as though we had
hit a rock.  It was like a diver doing a belly flop and the effect was
alarming.

It seemed that after this terrible night my friends on the ship had
decided that I would be prostrate and helpless this morning, because
instead of the mess boy calling me at 8 a.m."  Nielsen himself knocked
and spoke through the door.

"You stay in bed, Mr.  Herriot.  I bring you a little breakfast."

"Nothanks,"Ireplied.  "Comein."

He opened the door and looked startled when he saw me trying to shave
with my back jammed against one wall and my foot against another.  "You
okay?"  he asked disbelievingly.  I seized upon a momentary pause in
the ship's pitching to scrape another inch of soap from my face.  "Yes,
fine.  What did you say about breakfast?"

"Well ... we have kippers, fried eggs and some nice smoked sausage."

"Sounds great.  I'll be there in a few minutes."  He gave me a final
incredulous glance and left.  When I entered the mess room only the
mate was present.  He was working among the assorted foodstuffs and he
raised his eyebrows and paused, fork halfway to his mouth, when he saw
me start enthusiastically on my piled plate.

"Mr.  Herriot," he said solemnly.  "You are the first landsman I have
known who is not sick after last night."

It made me feel good.  As I have said, there is nothing clever about
not being sick but it was nice to know I had something special in the
way of stomachs.

It is interesting to note that the only time I felt strange was when I
struggled up to the deck for some fresh air and stood for some time
looking out on the crazily swinging sea.  After a while, as I hung on
to a rail I began to experience a sort of dizziness.  It was a visual
thing, brought on somehow by watching the constant lifting and falling
of the world about me, but it wasn't pleasant and I went back to my
cabin.

In fact I stayed in my bunk most of the day.  It was the only safe
place.  Since my sheep had gone I had nothing to do, and in any case it
was dangerous for an inexperienced sailor like me to move about.  I had
one or two frights through being suddenly catapulted off my feet and
the danger of breaking a limb or splitting my head on a sharp
projection was very real.

So it looked as though my life for the next few days was going to
consist of lying on my back reading paperback books and eating.  This
was all very fine but I am used to an active existence and I felt that
a very bloated Herriot was going to roll back to Darrowby.

One hazard was that the faithful Nielsen now had me at his mercy.  The
galley was only a few yards away and he kept opening my door and
sliding in a crate of lager or a tray with a mug of coffee and bread
and jam.  Sometimes it was a more substantial offering, as when he
marched into my cabin one afternoon, his body adjusting miraculously to
the shifting slope of the floor.  In one hand he held a plate and in
the other a jug.  On the plate rested a ring of mashed potatoes into
which he had poured hot fat containing bacon and onions.

He laughed eagerly.  "This is beeg food of the poor in Denmark.  Is
called Hot Love."

He watched with deep satisfaction as I consumed this strange dish.  I
relished every morsel, though dieticians would frown on it.  The same
dieticians would be horrified if they knew that this was merely an
interlude between a lunch of huge beefy things which looked like
hamburgers followed by a chocolate soup with unpronounceable rusks
broken into it and a dinner which consisted of a creation of sauerkraut
cooked in butter, milk and flour and mixed with potatoes.  I say
nothing of the usual array of cold dishes always at my disposal to
allay any lingering hunger pangs.  Yes, there was no doubt about it.  I
was going to get fat

If I was on this ship long enough I would probably finish up like Carl
Rasmussen, the plump little mate.  He was the champion eater of the
ship.  He ploughed impassively through the official meal, then started
on the cold stuff of which he consumed a vast quantity before finishing
with slice after slice of bread and dripping.  The captain often looked
at him with his gentle smile and patted his stomach wonderingly

I am not going to say that he had the biggest appetite I have ever seen
because I have come across some mighty troughers on the Dales farms,
but he was undoubtedly in the top flight.  I myself have a modest
reputation in this field Tristan often refers to me as 'the big eater
from Darrowby' but I am not in Carl's class.  He enthralled me.

Over the schnapps the captain told me that they had intended to go to
Danzig on the way back, but the plan had been changed.  We were going
instead to the Polish port of Stettin.  At least, those were their
names when they were part of Germany but they are now called Gdansk and
Szczecin although the ship's officers referred to them by their German
names.  We had to pick up 800 pigs to transport to Lubeck.

He hoped to arrive in Stettin (I think I'll stick to the old spelling),
on Sunday, and get the pigs to Lubeck by Monday, but everything
depended on the weather which was still foul.  With this gale against
us we were managing to do only six knots.

As I scribbled in my dairy I kept sliding down to the cabin door, then
I had to drag myself back to the other end and start again.  It looked
like another sleepless night.

'/ let my heart fall into careless hands."  Little Rosie's voice piped
in my ear as I guided my car over a stretch of rutted road.  I had
singing now to cheer the hours of driving.

I was on my way back to dress a wound on a cow's back and it was nice
to hear the singing.  But it was beginning to dawn on me that something
better still was happening.  I was starting all over again with another
child.  When Jimmy went to school I missed his company in the car but I
did not realise that the whole thing was going to begin again with
Rosie.

The intense pleasure of showing them the farm animals and seeing their
growing wonder at the things of the countryside; the childish chatter
which never palled, the fun and the laughter which lightened my days it
all happened twice to me.

The singing had originated in the purchase of a radiogram.  Music has
always meant a lot to me and I owned a record-player which gave me a
lot of pleasure.  Still, I felt I wanted something better, some means
of reproducing more faithfully the sound of my favourite orchestras,
singers, instrumentalists.

Hi-fi outfits hadn't been heard of at that time, nor stereo, nor
wrap-around sound nor any of the other things which have revolutionised
the world of listening.  The best the music-lover could do was to get a
good radiogram.

After much agonising and reading of pamphlets and listening to advice
from many quarters I narrowed the list down to three models and made my
choice by having them brought round to Skeldale House and playing the
opening of the Beethoven Violin Concerto on one after the other, again
and again.  I must have driven the two men from the electric shop
nearly mad but at the end there was no doubt left in my mind.

It had to be the Murphy, a handsome piece of furniture with a louvred
front and graceful legs, and it bellowed out the full volume of the
Philharmonia Orchestra without a trace of muzziness.  I was enchanted
with it, but there was one snag, it cost over ninety pounds and that
was an awful lot of money in 1950.

"Helen," I said when we had installed it in the sitting-room.  "We've
got to look after this thing.  The kids can put records on my old
player but we must keep them away from the Murphy."

Foolish words.  The very next day as I came in the front door the
passage was echoing with "Yippee ay oooh, Yippee ay aaay, Ghost riders
in the skyyy!"  It was Bing Crosby's back-up choir belting out the
other side of the "Careless Hands' record and the Murphy was giving it
full value.

I peeped round the sitting-room door.  "Ghost Riders' had come to an
end and with her chubby little hands Rosie removed the record, placed
it in its cover and marched, pig-tails swinging, to the record cabinet.
She selected another disc and was halfway across the floor when I
waylaid her.

"Which one is that?"  I asked.

"The Little Gingerbread Man," she replied.

I looked at the label.  It was, too, and how did she know, because I
had a whole array of these children's records and many of them looked
exactly the same.  The same colour, the same grouping of words, and
Rosie at the age of three could not read.

She fitted the disc expertly on the turntable and set it going.  I
listened to "The Little Gingerbread Man' right through and watched as
she picked out another record.

I looked over her shoulder.  "What is it this time?"

Tubby the Tuba."

And indeed it was.  I had an hour to spare and Rosie gave me a recital.
We went through "Uncle Mac's Nursery Rhymes', "The Happy Prince',
"Peter and the Wolf, and many of the immortal Bing to whom I was and am
devoted.  I was intrigued to find that her favourite Crosby record was
not "Please', or "How Deep is the Ocean' or his other classics but
"Careless Hands'.  This one had something special for her.

At the end of the session I decided that it was fruitless to

L.G.M.T.A.-G

'93

try to keep Rosie and the Murphy apart.  Whenever she was not out with
me she played with the radiogram.  It was her toy.

It all turned out for the best, too, because she did my precious
acquisition no harm and when she came with me on my rounds she sang the
things she had played so often and which were word perfect in her mind.
And I really loved that singing.  "Careless Hands' soon became my
favourite, too.

There were three gates on the road to this farm and we came bumping up
to the first one now.  The singing stopped abruptly.  This was one of
my daughter's big moments.  When I drew up she jumped from the car,
strutted proudly to the gate and opened it.  She took this duty very
seriously and her small face was grave as I drove through.  When she
returned to take her place by my dog, Sam, on the passenger seat, I
patted her knee.

"Thank you, sweetheart," I said.  "You're such a big help to me all the
time."

She didn't say anything but blushed and seemed to swell with
importance.  She knew I meant what I said because opening gates is a
chore.

We negotiated the other two gates in similar manner and drove into the
farmyard.  The farmer, Mr.  Binns, had shut the cow up in a ramshackle
pen with a passage which stretched from a dead end to the outside.

Looking into the pen I saw with some apprehension that the animal was a
Galloway black and shaggy with a fringe of hair hanging over
bad-tempered eyes.  She lowered her head and switched her tail as she
watched me.

"Couldn't you have got her tied up, Mr.  Binns?"  I asked.

The farmer shook his head.  "Nay, I'm short o' room and this 'un spends
most of 'er time on the moors."

I could believe it.  There was nothing domesticated about this animal.
I looked down at my daughter.  Usually I lifted her into hay racks or
on to the tops of walls while I worked but I didn't want her anywhere
near the Galloway.

"It's no place for you in there, Rosie," I said.  "Go and stand at the
end of the passage well out of the way."

We went into the pen and the cow danced about and did her best to run
up the wall.  I was pleasantly surprised when the farmer managed to
drop a halter over her head.  He backed into a corner and held tightly
to the shank.

I looked at him doubtfully.  "Can you hold her?"

"I think so," Mr.  Binns replied, a little breathlessly.  "You'll find
t'place at the end of her back, there."

It was a most unusual thing.  A big discharging abscess near the root
of the tail.  And that tail was whipping perpetually from side to side
a sure sign of ill nature in a bovine.

Gently I passed my fingers over the swelling and like a natural reflex
the hind foot lashed out, catching me a glancing blow on the thigh.  I
had expected this and I got on with my exploration.

"How long has she had this?"

The farmer dug his heels in and leaned back on the rope.  "Oh, 'bout
two months.  It keeps bustin' and fillin' up over and over again. Every
time I thought it 'd be the last but it looks like it's never goin' to
get right.  What's cause of it?"

"I don't know, Mr.  Binns.  She must have had a wound there at some
time and it's become infected.  And of course, being on the back,
drainage is poor.  There's a lot of dead tissue which I'll have to
clear away before the thing heals."

I leaned from the pen.  "Rosie, will you bring me my scissors, the
cotton wool and that bottle of peroxide."

The farmer watched wonderingly as the tiny figure trotted to the car
and came back with the three things.  "By gaw, t'little lass knows 'er
way around."

"Oh yes," I said, smiling.  "I'm not saying she knows where everything
is in the car, but she's an expert on the things I use regularly."

Rosie handed me my requirements and I reached over the door.  Then she
retreated to her place at the end of the passage.

I began my work on the abscess.  Since the tissue was necrotic the cow
couldn't feel anything as I snipped and swabbed, but that didn't stop
the hind leg from pistoning out every few seconds.  Some animals cannot
tolerate any kind of interference and this was one of them.

I finished at last with a nice wide clean area on to which I trickled
the hydrogen peroxide.  I had a lot of faith in this old remedy as a
penetrative antiseptic when there was a lot of pus about, and I watched
contentedly as it bubbled on the skin surface.  The cow, however, did
not seem to enjoy the sensation because she made a sudden leap into the
air, tore the rope from the farmer's hands, brushed me to one side and
made for the door.

The door was closed but it was a flimsy thing and she went straight
through it with a splintering crash.  As the hairy black monster shot
into the passage I desperately willed her to turn left but to my horror
she went right and after a wild scraping of her feet on the cobbles
began to thunder down towards the dead end where my little daughter was
standing.

It was one of the worst moments of my life.  As I dashed towards the
broken door I heard a small voice say "Mama'.  There was no scream of
terror, just that one quiet word.  When I left the pen Rosie was
standing with her back against the end wall of the passage and the cow
was stationary, looking at her from a distance of two feet.

The animal turned when she heard my footsteps then whipped round in a
tight circle and galloped past me into the yard.

I was shaking when I lifted Rosie into my arms.  She could easily have
been killed and a jumble of thoughts whirled in my brain.  Why had she
said "Mama'?  I had never heard her use the word before she always
called Helen "Mummy' or "Mum'.  Why had she been apparently unafraid? I
didn't know the answers.  All I felt was an overwhelming thankfulness. 
To this day I feel the same whenever I see that passage.

Driving away I remembered that something very like this had happened
when Jimmy was out with me.  It was not so horrific because he was
playing in a passage with an open end leading into a field and he was
not trapped when the cow I was working on broke loose and hurtled
towards him.  I could see nothing, but I heard a piercing yell of
"Aaaagh!"  before I

rounded the corner.  To my intense relief Jimmy was streaking across
the field to where my car was standing and the cow was trotting away in
another direction.

This reaction was typical because Jimmy was always the noisy one of the
family.  Under any form of stress he believed in making his feelings
known in the form of loud cries.  When Dr.  Allinson came to give him
his routine inoculations he heralded the appearance of the syringe with
yells of "Owl  This is going to hurt!  Owl  Owf He had a kindred spirit
in our good doctor who bawled back at him, "Aye.  You're right, it is!
Oooh!  Aaah!"  But Jimmy really did scare our dentist because his
propensity for noise appeared to carry on even under general
anaesthesia.  The long quavering wail he emitted as he went under the
gas brought the poor man out in a sweat of anxiety.

Rosie solemnly opened the three gates on the way back, then she looked
up at me expectantly.  I knew what it was -she wanted to play one of
her games.  She loved being quizzed just as Jimmy had loved to quiz
me.

I took my cue and began.  "Give me the names of six blue flowers."

She coloured quickly in satisfaction because of course she knew. "Field
Scabious, Harebell, Forget-me-not, Bluebell, Speedwell, Meadow
Cranesbill."

"Clever girl," I said.  "Now let's see how about the names of six
birds?"

Again the blush and the quick reply.  "Magpie, Curlew, Thrush, Plover,
Yellowhammer, Rook."

"Very good indeed.  Now name me six red flowers."  And so it went on,
day after day, with infinite variations.  I only half realised at the
time how lucky I was.  I had a demanding, round-the-clock job and yet I
had the company of my children at the same time.  So many men work so
hard to keep the home going that they lose touch with the families who
are at the heart of it, but it never happened to me.

Both Jimmy and Rosie, until they went to school, spent most of their
time with me round the farms.  With Rosie, as her schooldays
approached, her attitude, always solicitous,

became distinctly maternal.  She really couldn't see how I was going to
get by without her and by the time she was five she was definitely
worried.

"Daddy," she would say seriously.  "How are you going to manage when
I'm at school?  All those gates to open and having to get everything
out of the boot by yourself.  It's going to be awful for you."

I used to try to reassure her, patting her head as she looked up at me
in the car.  "I know, Rosie, I know.  I'm going to miss you, but I'll
get along somehow."

Her response was always the same.  A relieved smile and then the
comforting words.  "But never mind, Daddy, I'll be with you every
Saturday and Sunday.  You'll be all right then."

I suppose it was a natural result of my children seeing veterinary
practice from early childhood and witnessing my own pleasure in my work
that they never thought of being anything else but veterinary
surgeons.

There was no problem with Jimmy.  He was a tough little fellow and well
able to stand the buffets of our job, but somehow I couldn't bear the
idea of my daughter being kicked and trodden on and knocked down and
covered with muck.  Practice was so much rougher in those days.  There
were no metal crushes to hold the big struggling beasts, there were
still quite a number of farm horses around and they were the ones which
regularly put the vets in hospital with broken legs and ribs.  Rosie
made it very clear that she wanted country practice and to me this
seemed very much a life for a man.  In short, I talked her out of it.

This really wasn't like me because I have never been a heavy father and
have always believed that children should follow their inclinations.
But as Rosie entered her teens I dropped a long series of broad hints
and perhaps played unfairly by showing her as many grisly, dirty jobs
as possible.  She finally decided to be a doctor of humans.

Now when I see the high percentage of girls in the veterinary schools
and observe the excellent work done by the two girl assistants in our
own practice I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing.

But Rosie is a happy and successful doctor and anyway, parents are
never sure that they have done the right thing.  They can only do what
they think is right.

However, all that was far in the future as I drove home from Mr.  Binns
with my three-year-old daughter by my side.  She had started to sing
again and was just finishing the first verse of her great favourite:
"Careless hands don't care when dreams slip through'.

It was in 1950 that one of my heroes, George Bernard Shaw, broke his
leg while pruning apple trees in his garden.  By a coincidence I had
been reading some of the Prefaces that same week, revelling in the
unique wit of the man and enjoying the feeling I always had with Shaw
that I was in contact with a mind whose horizons stretched far beyond
those of the other literary figures of the day and most other days.

I was shocked when I read about the calamity and there was no doubt the
national press shared my feelings.  Banner headlines pushed grave
affairs of state off the front pages and for weeks bulletins were
published for the benefit of an anxious public.  It was right that this
should be, and I agreed with all the phrases which rolled off the
journalists' typewriters.  "Literary genius ..."  "Inspired musical
critic who sailed fearlessly against the tide of public opinion ..."
"Most revered playwright of our age ..."

It was just about then that the Caslings' calf broke its leg, too, and
I was called to set it.  The Casling farm was one of a group of
homesteads set high on the heathery Yorkshire Moors.  They were
isolated places and often difficult to find.  To reach some of them you
had to descend into gloomy garlic-smelling gills and climb up the other
side; with others there was no proper road, just a clay path through
the heather, and it came as a surprise to find farm buildings at the
end of it.

Casling's place didn't fall into either of these categories.  It was
perched on the moor top with a fine disregard for the elements.  The
only concession was a clump of hardy trees which had been planted to
the west of the farm to give shelter from the prevailing wind, and the
way those trees bent uniformly towards the stones of house and barns
was testimony to the fact that the wind hardly ever stopped blowing.

Mr.  Casling and his two big sons slouched towards me as I got out of
the car.  The farmer was the sort of man you would expect to find in a
place like this, his sixty-year-old face purpled and roughened by the
weather, wide bony shoulders pushing against the ragged material of his
jacket.  His sons, Alan and Harold, were in their thirties and
resembled their father in almost every detail, even to the way they
walked, hands deep in pockets, heads thrust forward, heavy boots
trailing over the cobbles.  Also, they didn't smile.  They were good
chaps, all of them, in fact a nice family, but they weren't smilers.

"Now, Mr.  Herriot."  Mr.  Casling peered at me under the frayed peak
of his cap and came to the point without preamble.  "Calf sin
t'field."

"Oh, right," I said.  "Could you bring me a bucket of water please.
Just about lukewarm."

At a nod from his father, Harold made wordlessly for the kitchen and
returned within minutes with a much dented receptacle.

I tested the water with a finger.  "Just right.  That's fine."

We set off through a gate with two stringy little sheepdogs slinking at
our heels, and the wind met us with savage joy, swirling over the
rolling bare miles of that high plateau, chill and threatening to the
old and weak, fresh and sweet to the young and strong.

About a score of calves were running with their mothers on a long
rectangle of green cut from the surrounding heather.  It was easy to
iJck out my patient, although, when the herd took off at the sight of
us, it was surprising how fast he could run with his dangling hind
leg.

At a few barked commands from Mr.  Casling the dogs darted among the
cattle, snapping at heels, baring their teeth at defiant horns till
they had singled out cow and calf.  They stood guard then till the
young men rushed in and bore the little animal to the ground.

I felt the injured limb over with a tinge of regret.  I was sure I
could put him right but I would have preferred a foreleg.  Radius and
ulna healed so beautifully.  But in this case the crepitus was midway
along the tibia, which was more tricky.  However, I was thankful it was
not the femur.  That would have been a problem indeed.

My patient was expertly immobilised, held flat on the sparse turf by
Harold at the head, Alan at the tail and their father in the middle.
One of a country vet's difficulties is that he often has to do vital
work on a patient which won't keep still, but those three pairs of huge
hands held the shaggy creature as in a vice.

As I dipped my plaster bandages in the water and began to apply them to
the fracture I noticed that our heads were very close together.  It was
a very small calf- about a month old and at times the three human faces
were almost in contact.  And yet nobody spoke.

Veterinary work passes blithely by when there is good conversation, and
it is a positive delight when you are lucky enough to have one of those
dry Yorkshire raconteurs among your helpers.  At times I have had to
lay down my scalpel and laugh my fill before being able to continue.
But here all was silence.

The wind whistled and once I heard the plaintive cry of a curlew, but
the group around that prostrate animal might have been Trappist monks.
I began to feel embarrassed.  It wasn't a difficult job, I didn't need
a hundred per cent concentration.  With all my heart I wished somebody
would say something.

Then, like a glorious flash of inspiration I remembered the recent
clamour in the newspapers.  I could start things off, at least.

"Just like Bernard Shaw, eh?"  I said with a light laugh.

The silence remained impenetrable and for about half a minute it seemed
that I was going to receive no reply.  Then Mr.  Casling cleared his
throat.

"Oo?"  he enquired.

"Bernard Shaw, George Bernard Shaw, you know.  He's broken his leg,
too."  I was trying not to gabble.

The silence descended again and I had a strong feeling that I had
better leave it that way.  I got on with my job, dousing the white cast
with water and smoothing it over while the plaster worked its way under
my fingernails.

It was Harold who came in next.  "Does 'e live about 'ere?"

"No ... no ... not really."  I decided to put on one more layer of
bandage, wishing fervently that I had never started this topic.

I was tipping the bandage from the tin when Alan chipped in.

"Darrowby feller is 'e?"

Things were becoming more difficult.  "No," I replied airily, "I
believe he spends most of his time in London."

"London!"  The conversation, such as it was, had been carried on
without any movement of the heads but now the three faces jerked up
towards me with undisguised astonishment and the three voices spoke as
one.

After the initial shock had worn off the men looked down at the calf
again and I was hoping that the subject was dead when Mr.  Casling
muttered from the corner of his mouth.

"He won't be in t'farmin'Aline, then?"

"Well, no ... he writes plays."  I didn't say anything about Shaw's
intuitive recognition of Wagner as a great composer.  I could see by
the flitting side glances that I was in deep enough already.

"We'll just give the plaster time to dry," I said.  I sat back on the
springy turf as the silence descended again.

After a few minutes I tapped a finger along the length of the white
cast.  It was as hard as stone.  I got to my feet.  "Right, you can let
him go now."

The calf bounded up and trotted away with his mother as though nothing
had happened to him.  With the support of the plaster his lameness was
vastly diminished and I smiled.  It was always a nice sight.

I'll take it off in a month," I said, but there was no further talk as
we made our way over the field towards the gate.

Still, I knew very well what the remarks would be over the farm house
dinner table.  "Queer lad, that vitnery.  Kept on about some feller i'
London that writes plays."

And my last feeling as I drove away was not just that all fame is
relative hut that I would take care in future not to start talking
about somebody who doesn't live about 'ere.

November 4,1961

The weather was, if anything, worse next morning and I spent a night
very like the one before.  I noticed at meal times that the table cloth
was soaking wet.  I kept quiet because I assumed that somebody had
spilled something, but when it stayed wet all day I had to mention
it.

The captain smiled at my query.  "Ah yes, Mr.  Herriot, I should have
told you.  We have dipped it in water.  It does not slide about the
table so much."  He looked at me ruefully.  "When the cloth is wet you
can bet the weather is really bad."

I saw his point.  The sliding cloth, the slopping soup and indeed the
constant restlessness of everything on the table had been a problem for
some time.

I could not rid myself of the feeling that we had struck a rock every
time the ship fell from the summit of the waves and apparently it was a
standing joke among the crew, because after one of these shattering
belly flops during lunch the plates and cutlery flew all over the room
and Hansen the engineer jumped to his feet and peered out of the
porthole.

"Deed you see that beeg stone?"  he cried, staring at me with a
terrified expression.  It was a little jest for my benefit.

Again I had spent another disgracefully lazy day, stretched on my bunk
reading.  I would have loved to do a few exercises on my hidden corner
on deck but I dared not take the chance.  Even my trip for my daily
shower was fraught with danger.  It was a communal shower and, so far
as I knew, the only one on this tiny vessel.  It was just a few yards
away down the passage past the crew's quarters but it seemed a long way
as I reeled along, armed with towel and soap.

On my way I could see several of the big flaxen-haired seamen lying on
their bunks and I am sure I did not imagine the hollow groans which
issued from the doorways.  Could it be that even these supermen were
seasick..  .?

Tomorrow we should be in Stettin and with a bit of luck I might get
ashore and see something of interest.

Novembers, 1961

My wedding anniversary.  Strange to be spending it in Poland.

That morning when I awoke, the world was still and the sea and sky were
not wheeling beyond my cabin windows.  I realised that we must be in
Stettin and heaved myself up in my bunk.  I saw that we were moored to
a frost-covered quay.  It was very foggy but I could see several men
with rods fishing from the quay side

There was a Polish soldier on guard but he was not festooned with
artillery like the Russians.  Also, he smiled when I called out to him.
We were lying in a quiet backwater of the main river, the Oder, and
there were willow trees and rushes at the water's ^edge.  I judged from
the wooden sheds with pens that this was probably a special place for
the loading of livestock.

The usual mob of officials descended on us.  Representatives from
customs, immigration and farms.  Among them was a handsome young Polish
army officer who insisted not only on seeing the passports but on
interviewing each of their owners too.

I tentatively approached the captain as he dealt with the
thronginhiscabin.

"I'd like to go ashore into the town," I said.

His expression was slightly harassed and I couldn't help feeling that
he would be glad to get rid of this pest from Yorkshire.  He looked at
me thoughtfully for a moment.

"I am too busy to go with you, Mr.  Herriot, and we must leave here at
n a.m."

"Well, that gives me two hours," I replied.  My natural curiosity and
my almost desperate desire for some exercise lent weight to my
appeal.

"All right."  He raised a finger.  "But you will not be late?"

"No, I promise you."

He nodded and returned to his business while I showed my pass to the
soldier and set off for the town.  Oh, it was lovely to be able to
stride out in the frosty air, to feel my limbs moving after the days of
immobility and Nielsen's insidious skills.  The fog had lifted and I
could see about two miles away the roofs and spires of a sizeable
town.

First I passed a military barracks with gymnastic equipment outside it,
then allotments with a few women digging in them.  My immediate
impression as I approached the town was of the tremendous devastation
left from the RAF raids in wartime.  Everywhere there were ruins and
empty spaces.  Vast buildings, some with ornate statuary over the
doors, stood roofless with gaping windows.

During the first mile of my walk I saw hardly any evidence of efforts
to repair these ravages.  It was not until I reached the town centre
that I came on modern blocks of flats with shops on their ground
floors.  I took great care to impress every turning on my mind if I got
lost I couldn't ask my way back.

Right inside the town I was able to gain a general impression of the
place and people.  Obviously they observed Sunday as a holiday because
there was nobody working in the port area and.  most of the shops were
closed.  Notable exceptions were two hairdressers' salons side by side
designated "Dam-ski' and "Meski' above their respective doors.  A lady
was having a manicure in the front window of'Damski'.

The population were arrayed in their Sunday best and it seemed to me
remarkable that the well-dressed man in Poland wore what amounted
almost to a uniform.  Black beret with a small stalk projecting from
the top, dark gaberdine mackintosh and a navy-blue suit.  Also, every
single one had a scarf crossed under his coat.  The women were much
smarter than in Klaipeda.

There were little kiosks on every corner and people were strolling up
to buy their newspapers and cigarettes.  These places also sold draught
beer and, having been on an exclusive diet of bottled lager for some
time, I watched with envy as one fellow downed a frothing pint.  If I
had possessed any Polish money it would have been nice to emulate
him.

Stettin has 350,000 inhabitants and I was struck by the greater air of
comfort and civilisation compared with Klaipeda.  The people looked
altogether smoother and more urbane, and the town had a cheerful
atmosphere despite the ever-present ruins.

Funny little single-decker tram cars ran through the streets, always in
pairs, one joined to the other, and there were a lot of private cars
and taxis.  Shops displayed attractive dresses and materials but a huge
picture of Lenin reminded me that I was still behind the iron
curtain.

Groups of youths, well dressed and laughing among themselves, were
sauntering around and I watched one family getting off a tram; mum very
chic in a light fluffy hat and brightly coloured coat, dad in the
unvarying black beret and mac, and two teenage sons in identically the
same outfit.

As I passed over the main river bridge I could see innumerable barges
moored along the banks.  I walked past many churches but saw only two
elderly women going into them.

I was amused when a little man in a soft hat, breeches and riding boots
came and asked me the way somewhere in an unintelligible gibberish.  He
too, it seemed, was a stranger but not, I warrant, as much a stranger
as I. It was now a glorious cold sunny day and I was revelling in the
activity after my incarceration, but I kept referring to my son Jimmy's
pocket watch and when I saw I had been away an hour I had to turn
back.

I reached the ship before 11 a.m. and found the Polish officials still
in the captain's cabin.  They had given the free booze and cigarettes a
severe hammering and were exuding bonhomie when I came in.

They seemed very glad to see me and shouted for me to sit down with
them with merry cries of "Doktor, please, Doktor, please."  I thought
it was the schnapps which made them so welcoming but later the captain
said they had been anxious in case I got lost and kept asking him, "Has
the Englishman returned yet?"  But, he said, there was no doubt they
had wrought havoc among the bottles, all except the young Polish
officer who had been very correct and after one drink politely declined
any more.

I went down to the hold and had a look at the pigs.  We were to have
them for only twenty-four hours and nobody seemed particularly
concerned about them, but pigs are funny things they often fight among
themselves and it occurred to me that if 800 of them started a
free-for-all it would be a problem.

However, Polish pigs are perhaps more placid than ours because I found
them all lying asleep, snuggling up to each other in perfect harmony.
During the day I heard an occasional squeal from the hold and dashed
down there in some anxiety, but it always turned out to be an isolated
squabble or flash of irritation with none of the bleeding scars or torn
ears I had seen so often in Yorkshire.  On the whole, peace reigned.

We had taken aboard a great load of potatoes to feed them till we
reached Lubeck.  The crew did not like carrying pigs because of the
smell and there was no doubt the ship had an entirely different aroma
now.  This did not percolate as far as the cabins or mess-room, but I
am told that in the summer it is pretty bad and shipboard life can be
dominated by the ever-present atmosphere of pig.

After lunch I spent a fascinating afternoon on the deck as the ship
made its way through the delta of the Oder which spreads itself into a
maze of huge lakes.  This, I was told, was characteristic of the
coastline in this region, right along through Estonia, Latvia and
Lithuania.  If ever a pilot was needed it was here.

We sailed through the strangest and most desolate countryside I have
ever seen.  Endless miles of flat marshlands with innumerable
rush-lined inlets and pools and occasional belts of trees.  Clouds of
wild duck and geese provided the only sign of life and the effect was
inexpressibly wild and lonely despite the bright sunshine.

After about four hours the delta narrowed to a straight channel and we
came to the port of Swinemunde on the Baltic.  This is a big naval base
and I saw a lot of Russian destroyers, torpedo boats and submarines.

At the entrance to the port we dropped the pilot and headed out to sea
again.  The gale had dropped and the weather was now much better.  It
was very pleasant to stand out there in the stern, watching the land
recede as the ship glided through calm water with hardly any rolling.

As far as my eye could reach, the coastline was thickly wooded, mainly
with pine trees, right down to the water's edge.  There were some sandy
beaches and cliffs, but no hills.

I stayed outside as we cruised along the East German coast, never out
of sight of land, and maybe it was because my voyage was nearly over
that I didn't want to go below.  I came inside only when the daylight
was drowned in a magnificent sunset.

The ship's officers were particularly charming since it was my wedding
anniversary.  They shook my hand warmly and bombarded me with lager.
The captain asked anxiously if he should send a telegram to my wife but
I explained that I had left a card with Rosie and I felt that a
telegram might alarm Helen.

The cook, too, produced what I think must have been a banquet in my
honour because it had a touch of England about it.  A delectable soup
of celery, spinach and other vegetables, then roast pork with crackling
accompanied by roast ham, potatoes and red cabbage.  Dessert was sago
pudding thickly sprinkled with cinnamon.

After dinner we had our usual, and sadly my last, session with the
schnapps.  The captain, red-eyed and tired after one-and-a-half hours
sleep in the last twenty-four, still managed to be the perfect host.

November 6,1961

The end of it all.  From Lubeck to Hamburg by train, then by plane to
Heathrow, London, before the last lap to Darrowby.  I had much to think
of on the way.  I had been lucky enough to have a peep at mysterious
places, a glimpse of a totally different world, but when I looked back
on the last ten days my warmest and most vivid memories were of the
ship, the animals, and the people aboard her.

The brave little Iris Clausen butting her way through the storms and
with the sheep safe inside her, the big tough yellow-haired crewmen,
especially Raun and "Yoombo', and of course the ship's officers who had
treated me so kindly.  The captain who never seemed to lose his grace;
Carl Rasmussen the mate, tubby, balding and with the mighty appetite;
Peter Hansen the engineer, always ready with a joke; and of course my
devoted Nielsen who, I feel sure, put half a stone of surplus flesh on
to me.

I hoped they had the same friendly memories of me.  The captain,
invariably courteous as he was, must have regarded me as an unmitigated
nuisance at times, but Nielsen I knew was going to miss me.

"Was there no peace in a vet's life?"  I wondered fretfully as I
hurried my car along the road to Gilthorpe village.  Eight o'clock on a
Sunday evening and here I was trailing off to visit a dog ten miles
away which, according to Helen who had taken the message, had been
ailing for more than a week.

I had worked all morning, then spent an afternoon in the hills with the
children and some of their friends, a long-standing weekly event during
which we had managed to explore nearly every corner of the district
over the years.  Jimmy had set a brisk pace with his hardy young pals
and I had had to carry Rosie on my shoulders up the steepest slopes.
After tea there was the usual routine of baths, story-reading and bed
for the two of them, then I was ready to settle down with the Sunday
papers and listen to the radio.

Yet here I was back on the treadmill, staring through the windscreen at
the roads and the walls which I saw day in, day out.  When I left
Darrowby the streets of the little town were empty in the gathering
dusk and the houses had that tight-shut, comfortable look which raised
images of armchairs and pipes and firesides, and now as I saw the
lights of the farms winking on the fell-sides I could picture the
stocks men dozing contentedly with their feet up.

I had not passed a single car on the darkening road.  There was nobody
out but Herriot.

I was really sloshing around in my trough of self-pity when I drew up
outside a row of grey stone cottages at the far end of Gilthorpe.  Mrs.
Cundall, Number 4, Chestnut Row, Helen and written on the slip of paper
and as I opened the gate and stepped through the tiny strip of garden
my mind was busy with half-formed ideas of what I was going to say.

My few years' experience in practice had taught me that it did no good
at all to remonstrate with people for calling me out at unreasonable
times.  I knew perfectly well that my words never seemed to get through
to them and that they would continue to do exactly as they had done
before, but for all that I had to say something if only to make me feel
better.

No need to be rude or ill-mannered, just a firm statement of the
position; that vets liked to relax on Sunday evenings just like other
people; that we did not mind at all coming out for emergencies but that
we did object to having to visit animals which had been ill for a
week.

I had my speech fairly well prepared when a little middle-aged woman
opened the door.

"Good evening, Mrs.  Cundall," I said, slightly tight-lipped.

"Oh, it's Mr.  Herriot."  She smiled shyly.  "We've never met but I've
seen you walkin' round Darrowby on market days.  Come inside."

The door opened straight into the little low-beamed living-room and my
first glance took in the shabby furniture and some pictures framed in
tarnished gilt when I noticed that the end of the room was partly
curtained off.

Mrs.  Cundall pulled the curtain aside.  In a narrow bed a man was
lying, a skeleton-thin man whose eyes looked up at me from hollows in a
yellowed face.

"This is my husband, Ron," she said cheerfully, and the man smiled and
raised a bony arm from the quilt in greeting.

"And here is your patient, Hermann," she went on, pointing to a little
dachshund who sat by the side of the bed.

"Hermann?"

"Yes, we thought it was a good name for a German sausage dog."  They
both laughed.

"Of course," I said.  "Excellent name.  He looks like a Hermann."

The little animal gazed up at me, bright-eyed and welcoming.  I bent
down and stroked his head and the pink tongue flickered over my
fingers.

I ran my hand over the glossy skin.  "He looks very healthy.  What's
the trouble?"

"Oh, he's fine in himself," Mrs.  Cundall replied.  "Eats well and
everything, but over the last week he's been goin' funny on 'is legs.
We weren't all that worried but tonight he sort of flopped down and
couldn't get up again."

"I see.  I noticed he didn't seem keen to rise when I patted his head."
I put my hand under the little dog's body and gently lifted him on to
his feet.  "Come on, lad," I said.  "Come on, Hermann, let's see you
walk."

As I encouraged him he took a few hesitant steps but his hind end
swayed progressively and he soon dropped into the sitting position
again.

"It's his back, isn't it?"  Mrs.  Cundall said.  "He's strong enough on
'is forelegs."

"That's ma trouble, too," Ron murmured in a soft husky voice, but he
was smiling and his wife laughed and patted the arm on the quilt.

I lifted the dog on to my knee.  "Yes, the weakness is certainly in the
back."  I began to palpate the lumbar vertebrae, feeling my way along,
watching for any sign of pain.

"Has he hurt 'himself?"  Mrs.  Cundall asked.  "Has somebody hit 'im?
We don't usually let him out alone but sometimes he sneaks through the
garden gate."

"There's always the possibility of an injury," I said.  "But there are
other causes."  There were indeed a host of unpleasant possibilities. I
did not like the look of this little dog at all.  This syndrome was one
of the things I hated to encounter in canine practice.

"Can you tell me what you really think?"  she said.  "I'd like to
know."

"Well, an injury could cause haemorrhage or concussion or oedema that's
fluid all affecting his spinal cord.  He could even have a fractured
vertebra but I don't think so."

"And how about the other causes."

"There's quite a lot.  Tumours, bony growths, abscesses or discs can
press on the cord."

"Discs?"

"Yes, little pads of cartilage and fibrous tissue between the
vertebrae.  In long-bodied dogs like Hermann they sometimes protrude
into the spinal canal.  In fact I think that it what is causing his
symptoms."

Ron's husky voice came again from the bed.  "And what's 'is prospects,
Mr.  Herriot?"

Oh, that was the question.  Complete recovery or incurable paralysis.
It could be anything.  "Very difficult to say at this moment," I
replied.  "I'll give him an injection and some tablets and we'll see
how he goes over the next few days."

I injected an analgesic and some antibiotic and counted out some
salicylate tablets into a box.  We had no steroids at that time.  It
was the best I could do.

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot."  Mrs.  Cundail smiled at me eagerly.  "Ron
has a bottle o' beer every night about this time.  Would you like to
join 'im?"

"Well..  . it's very kind of you but I don't want to intrude

>

"Oh, you're not doing that.  We're glad to see you."

She poured two glasses of brown ale, propped her husband up with
pillows and sat down by the bed.

"We're from South Yorkshire, Mr.  Herriot," she said.

I nodded.  I had noticed the difference from the local accent.

"Aye, we came up here after Ron's accident, eight years ago."

"What was that?"

"I were a miner," Ron said.  "Roof fell in on me.  I got a broken back,
crushed liver and a lot o' other internal injuries, but two of me mates
were killed in the same fall so ahim lucky to be 'ere."  He sipped his
beer.  "I've survived, but doctor says I'll never walk no more."

"I'm terribly sorry."

"Nay, nay," the husky voice went on.  "I count me blessings and I've
got a lot to be thankful for.  Ah suffer very little and I've got
t'best wife in the world."

Mrs.  Cundall laughed.  "Oh, listen to 'im.  But I'm right glad we came
to Gilthorpe.  We used to spend all our holidays in the Dales.  We were
great walkers and it was lovely to get away from the smoke and the
chimneys.  The bedroom in our old house just looked out on a lot o'
brick walls but Ron has this big window right by 'im and he can see for
miles."

"Yes, of course," I said.  "This is a lovely situation."  The village
was perched on a high ridge on the fell-side and that window would
command a wide view of the green slopes running down to the river and
climbing high to the wildness of the moor on the other side.  This
sight had beguiled me so often on my rounds and the grassy paths
climbing among the airy tops seemed to beckon to me.  But they would
beckon in vain to Ron Cundall.

"Gettin' Hermann was a good idea, too," he said.  "Ah used to feel a
bit lonely when t'missus went into Darrowby for shoppin' but the little
feller's made all the difference.  You're never alone when you've got a
dog."

I smiled.  "How right you are.  What is his age now, by the way?"

"He's six," Ron replied.  "Right in the prime o' life, aren't you, old
lad."  He let his arm fall by the bedside and his hand fondled the
sleek ears.

"That seems to be his favourite place."

"Aye, it's a funny thing, but 'e all us sits there.  T'missus is the
one who has to take 'im walks and feeds 'im but he's very faithful to
me. He has a basket over there but this is 'is place.  I only have to
reach down and he's there."

This was something that I had seen on many occasions with disabled
people; that their pets stayed close by them as if conscious of their
role of comforter and friend.

I finished my beer and got to my feet.  Ron looked up at me.  "Reckon
I'll spin mine out a bit longer."  He glanced at his half-full glass.
"Ah used to shift about six pints some nights when I went out withe
lads but you know, I enjoy this one bottle just as much.  Strange how
things turn out."

His wife bent over him, mock-scolding.  "Yes, you've had to right your
ways.  You're a reformed character, aren't you?"

They both laughed as though it were a stock joke between them.

"Well, thank you for the drink, Mrs.  Cundall.  I'll look in to see
Hermann on Tuesday."  I moved towards the door.

As I left I waved to the man in the bed and his wife put her hand on my
arm.  "We're very grateful to you for comin' out at this time on a
Sunday night, Mr.  Herriot.  We felt awful about callin' you, but you
understand it was only today that the little chap started going off his
legs like that."

"Oh, of course, of course, please don't worry.  I didn't mind in the
least."

And as I drove through the darkness I knew that I didn't mind now.  My
petty irritation had evaporated within two minutes of my entering that
house and I was left only with a feeling of humility.  If that man back
there had a lot to be thankful for, how about me?  I had everything.  I
only wished I could dispel the foreboding I felt about his dog.  There
was a hint of doom about those symptoms of Hermann's and yet I knew I
just had to get him right..  .

On Tuesday he looked much the same, possibly a little worse.

"I think I'd better take him back to the surgery for X-ray," I said to
Mrs.  Cundall.  "He doesn't seem to be improving with the treatment."

In the car Hermann curled up happily on Rosie's knee, submitting with
good grace to her petting.

I had no need to anaesthetise him or sedate him when I placed him on
our newly acquired X-ray machine.  Those hind quarters stayed still all
by themselves.  A lot too still for my liking.

I was no expert at interpreting X-ray pictures but at least I could be
sure there was no fracture of the vertebrae.  Also, there was no sign
of bony extoses, but I thought I could detect a narrowing of the space
between a couple of the vertebrae which would confirm my suspicions of
a protrusion of a disc.

Laminectomy or fenestration had not even been heard of in those days so
I could do nothing more than continue with my treatment and hope.

By the end of the week hope had grown very dim.  I had supplemented the
salycilates with long-standing remedies like tincture of nux vomica and
other ancient stimulant drugs, but when I saw Hermann on the Saturday
he was unable to rise.  I tweaked the toes of his hind limbs and was
rewarded by a faint reflex movement, but with a sick certainty I knew
that complete posterior paralysis was not far away.

A week later I had the unhappy experience of seeing my prognosis
confirmed in the most classical way.  When I entered the door of the
Cundalls' cottage Hermann came to meet me, happy and welcoming in his
front end but dragging his hind limbs helplessly behind him.

"Hello, Mr.  Herriot."  Mrs.  Cundall gave me a wan smile and looked
down at the little creature stretched frog-like on the carpet.  "What
d'you think of him now?"

I bent and tried the reflexes.  Nothing.  I shrugged my shoulders,
unable to think of anything to say.  I looked at the gaunt figure in
the bed, the arm outstretched as always on the quilt.

"Good morning, Ron," I said as cheerfully as I could, but there was no
reply.  The face was averted, looking out of the window.  I walked over
to the bed.  Ron's eyes were staring fixedly at the glorious panorama
of moor and fell, at the pebbles of the river, white in the early
sunshine, at the crisscross of the grey walls against the green.  His
face was expressionless.  It was as though he did not know I was
there.

I went back to his wife.  I don't think I have ever felt more
miserable.

"Is he annoyed with me?"  I whispered.

"No, no, no, it's this."  She held out a newspaper.  "It's upset him
something awful."

I looked at the printed page.  There was a large picture at the top, a
picture of a dachshund exactly like Hermann.  This dog, too, was
paralysed but its hind end was supported by a little four-wheeled
bogie.  On the picture it appeared to be sporting with its mistress. In
fact it looked quite happy and normal except for those wheels.

Ron seemed to hear the rustle of the paper because his head came round
quickly.  "What dye think of that, Mr.  Herriot?  D'ye agree with
it?"

"Well ... I don't really know, Ron.  I don't like the look of it, but I
suppose the lady in the picture thought it was the only thing to do."

"Aye, maybe."  The husky voice trembled.  "But ah don't want Hermann to
finish up like that."  The arm dropped by the side of the bed and his
fingers felt around on the carpet, but the little dog was still splayed
out near the door.  "It's ope less now, Mr.  Herriot, isn't it?"

"Well, it was a black look-out from the beginning," I said.  "These
cases are so difficult.  I'm very sorry."

"Nay, I'm not blamin' you," he said.  "You've done what ye could, same
as vet for that dog in the picture did what 'e could.  But it was no
good, was it?  What do we do now put 'im down?"

"No, Ron, forget about that just now.  Sometimes paralysis cases just
recover on their own after many weeks.  We must carry on.  At this
moment I honestly cannot say there is no hope."

I paused for a moment, then turned to Mrs.  Cundall.  "One of the
problems is the dog's natural functions.  You'll have to carry him out
into the garden for that.  If you gently squeeze each side of his
abdomen you'll encourage him to pass water.  I'm sure you'll soon learn
how to do that."

"Oh, of course, of course," she replied.  I'll do anything.  As long as
there's some hope."

"There is, las sure you, there is."

But on the way back to the surgery the thought hammered in my brain.
That hope was very slight.  Spontaneous recovery did sometimes occur
but Hermann's condition was extreme.  I repressed a groan as I thought
of the nightmarish atmosphere which had begun to surround my dealings
with the Cundalls.  The paralysed man and the paralysed dog.  And why
did that picture have to appear in the paper just at this very time?
Every veterinary surgeon knows the feeling that fate has loaded the
scales against him and it weighed on me despite the bright sunshine
spreading into the car.

However, I kept going back every few days.  Sometimes I took a couple
of bottles of brown ale along in the evening and drank them with Ron.
He and his wife were always cheerful but the little dog never showed
the slightest sign of improvement.  He still had to pull his useless
hind limbs after him when he came to greet me, and though he always
returned to his station by his master's bed, nuzzling up into Ron's
hand, I was beginning to resign myself to the certainty that one day
that arm would come down from the quilt and Hermann would not be
there.

It was on one of these visits that I noticed an unpleasant smell as I
entered the house.  There was something familiar about it.

I sniffed and the Cundalls looked at each other guiltily.  There was a
silence and then Ron spoke.

"It's some medicine ah've been givin' Hermann.  Stinks like 'ell but
it's supposed to be good for dogs."

"Oh yes?"

"Aye, well..."  His fingers twitched uncomfortably on the bedclothes.
"It was Bill Noakes put me on to it.  He's an old mate o' mine we used
to work down t'pit together and he came to visit me last weekend. Keeps
a few whippets, does Bill.  Knows a lot about dogs and 'e sent me this
stuff along for Hermann."

Mrs.  Cundall went to the cupboard and sheepishly presented me with a
plain bottle.  I removed the cork and as the horried stench rose up to
me my memory became suddenly clear.  Asafoetida, a common constituent
of quack medicines before the war and still lingering on the shelves of
occasional chemist shops and in the medicine chests of people who liked
to doctor their own animals.

I had never prescribed the stuff myself but it was supposed to be
beneficial in horses with colic and dogs with digestive troubles.  My
own feeling had always been that its popularity had been due solely to
the assumption that anything which stank as badly as that must have
some magical properties, but one thing I knew for sure was that it
could not possibly do anything for Hermann.

I replaced the cork.  "So you're giving him this, eh?"

Ron nodded.  "Aye, three times a day.  He doesn't like it much, but
Bill Noakes has great faith in it.  Cured hundreds o5 dogs with it, 'e
says."  The deep-sunk eyes looked at me with a silent appeal.

"Well, fine, Ron," I said.  "You carry on.  Let's hope it does the
trick."

I knew the asafoetida couldn't do any harm and since my treatment had
proved useless I was in no position to turn haughty.  But my main
concern was that these two nice people had been given a glimmer of
hope, and I wasn't going to blot it out.

Mrs.  Cundall smiled and Ron's expression relaxed.  "That's grand, Mr.
Herriot," he said.  "Ahim glad ye don't mind.  I can dose the little
feller myself.  It's sum mat for me to do."

It was about a week after the commencement of the new treatment at I
called in at the Cundalls as I was passing through Gilthorpe.

"How are you today, Ron?"  I asked.

"Champion, Mr.  Herriot, champion."  He always said that, but today
there was a new eagerness in his face.  He reached down and lifted his
dog on to the bed.  "Look 'ere."

He pinched the little paw between his fingers and there was a faint but
definite retraction of the leg.  I almost fell over in my haste to grab
at the other foot.  The result was the same.

"My God, Ron," I gasped.  "The reflexes are coming back."

He laughed his soft husky laugh.  "Bill Noakes's stuffs working, isn't
it?"

A gush of emotions, mainly professional shame and wounded pride, welled
in me, but it was only for a moment.  "Yes, Ron," I replied.  "It's
working.  No doubt about it."

He stared up at me.  "Then Hermann's going to be all right?"

"Well, it's early days yet, but that's the way it looks to me."

It was several weeks more before the little dachshund was back to
normal and of course it was a fairly typical case of spontaneous
recovery with nothing whatever to do with the asafoetida or indeed with
my own efforts.  Even now, thirty years later, when I treat these
puzzling back conditions with steroids, broad spectrum antibiotics and
sometimes colloidal calcium I wonder how many of them would have
recovered without my aid.  Quite a number, I imagine.

Sadly, despite the modern drugs, we still have our failures and I
always regard a successful termination with profound relief.

But that feeling of relief has never been stronger than it was with
Hermann and I can recall vividly my final call at the cottage in
Gilthorpe.  As it happened it was around the same time as my first
visit eight o'clock in the evening, and when Mrs.  Cundall ushered me
in, the little dog bounded joyously up to me before returning to his
post by the bed.

"Well, that's a lovely sight," I said.  "He can gallop like a racehorse
now."

Ron dropped his hand down and stroked the sleek head.  "Aye, isn't it
grand.  By heck, it's been a worryin' time."

"Well, I'll be going."  I gave Hermann a farewell pat.  "I just looked
in on my way home to make sure all was well.  I don't need to come any
more now."

"Nay, nay," Ron said.  "Don't rush off.  You've time to have a bottle
o' beer with me before ye go."

I sat down by the bed and Mrs.  Cundall gave us our glasses before
pulling up a chair for herself.  It was exactly like that first night.
I poured my beer and looked at the two of them.  Their faces glowed
with friendliness and I marvelled because my part in Hermann's
salvation had been anything but heroic.

In their eyes everything I had done must have seemed bumbling and
ineffectual and in fact they must be convinced that all would have been
lost if Ron's old chum from the coal-face had not stepped in and
effortlessly put things right.

At best they could only regard me as an amiable fathead and all the
explanations and protestations in the world would not alter that.  But
though my ego had been bruised I did not really care.  I was witnessing
a happy ending instead of a tragedy and that was more important than
petty self-justification.  I made a mental resolve never to say
anything which might spoil their picture of this triumph.

I was about to take my first sip when Mrs.  Cundall spoke up.  "This is
your last visit, Mr.  Herriot, and all's ended well.  I think we ought
to drink some sort o' toast."

"I agree," I said.  "Let's see, what shall it be?  Ah yes, I've got
it."  I raised my glass.  "Here's to Bill Noakes."

The bull with the bowler hat.

That was one of the irreverent terms for Artificial Insemination when
it first arrived on the post-war scene.  Of course AI was a wonderful
advance.  Up till the official licensing of bulls the farmers had used
any available male bovine to get their cows in calf.  A cow had to
produce a calf before it would give milk and it was milk that was the
goal of the dairy farmers, but unfortunately the progeny of these
'scrub' bulls were often low grade and weakly.

But AI was a great improvement on licensing.  To use a high-class,
pedigree, proven bull to inseminate large numbers of cows for farmers
who could never afford to own such an animal was and is a splendid
idea.  Over the years I have seen countless thousands of superior young
heifers, bullocks and bulls populate the farms of Britain and I have
rejoiced.

I am speaking theoretically, however.  My own practical experience of
Artificial Insemination was brief and unhappy.

When the thing first began, most practitioners thought they would be
rushing about, doing a lot of insemination on their own account, and
Siegfried and I could hardly wait to get started.  We purchased an
artificial vagina, which was a tube of hard vulcanised rubber about
eighteen inches long with a lining of latex.  There was a little tap on
the tube and warm water was run into this to simulate the temperature
of a genuine bovine vagina.  On one end of the AV was a latex cone
secured by rubber bands and this cone terminated in a glass tube in
which the semen was collected.

Apart from its use in insemination this instrument provided an
excellent means of testing the farmers' own bulls for fertility.  It
was in this context that I had my first experience.

Wally Hartley had brought a young Ayrshire bull from one of the big
dairy farmers and he wanted the animal's fertility tested by the new
method.  He rang me to ask if I would do the job and I was elated at
the chance to try out our new acquisition.

At the farm I filled the liner with water just nicely at blood heat and
fastened on the cone and glass tube.  I was ready and eager for
action.

The required cow in oestrus was in a large loose box off the yard and
the farmer led the bull towards it.

"He's nob but a little 'un," Mr.  Hartley said, 'but I wouldn't trust
'im.  He's a cheeky young bugger.  Never served a cow yet, but keen as
mustard."

I eyed the bull.  Certainly he wasn't large, but he had mean eyes and
the sharp curving horns of the typical Ayrshire.  Anyway, this job
shouldn't be much trouble.  I had never seen it done but had flipped
through a pamphlet on the subject and it seemed simple enough.

All you did was wait till the bull started to mount, then you directed
the protruded penis into the AV.  Apparently then, the bull, with
surprising gullibility, thrust happily into the water-filled cylinder
and ejaculated into the tube.  I had been told repeatedly that there
was nothing to it.

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 AV 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 AV 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 horns 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 I still couldn't jockey my way out of that corner.  However,
although my puny cylinder couldn't hurt the bull I obviously had him
puzzled.  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 cor nada 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 be
laboured 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 AI, isn't it?"

"Yes, Wally," I replied shakily.  "It is, rather."

"Isitalluslikethat?"

"No, Wally, no .. ."I looked sadly at my bedraggled AV.  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 ivould send out one of their sterility advisory 224

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."

L.G.M.T.A. - H

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
AV.  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 gate post
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 AV.  "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 AV 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 AV. 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 AV 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 AV.  "Good God!"  he cried.  "The
water in here is damned hot!"

Walley Hartley nodded.  "Aye well, the kettle had just come to the boil
when I went into t'house, so ah just poured it straight in."

Tristan clutched his brow and groaned.  "Oh, bugger it!"  he muttered
to me.  "I always check the temperature with a thermometer but what
with talking to you and that young beggar going into action so fast, I
clean forgot.  Boiling water!  No wonder the poor sod got out quick."

Meanwhile the bull 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.

It is difficult to know what an animal is thinking and at that moment I
wondered whether the bull was in a torment of frustration, remembering
the disasters of yesterday and the recent blow to his pride and
comfort.  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 AV over the penis as it hurtled
past him but as he did so the velocity of the charge caused the animal
to lose his footing so that the bull slid on his back clean underneath
the cow.

The AV was jerked from Tristan's grasp and soared high into the air.
Mr.  Hartley followed it, open-mouthed, as it described a graceful
parabola before landing on a pile of straw at the other end of the
yard.

As the bull scrambled to his feet 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 3 cc 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 wonderingly.  "By 'ell, it's a complicated
sort o' business, isn't it?"

"Ah well."  Tristan shrugged his shoulders.  "It can be just a little
at times, it can be.  Anyway, I'll get my microscope from the car and
examine the sample."

It didn't take long and soon afterwards 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 and I'm right grateful to you."  ^

As I sipped my tea the thought occurred to me that despite the passage
of years things hadn't changed.  Just as that glass tube had landed on
a soft bed of straw Tristan always landed on his feet.

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 post-war 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 because 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 the
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 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 in to his muscle.

"Champion.  Good lad, good lad."  Jack scratched the hairy poll for a
few moments before we left.

"There's some lambs ah want you to look at," he said, and led me into a
Nissen hut.  "Ah've never seen owl 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 matter wit hem 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."

"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 which 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 which 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 me
self  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
doing?"  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 he 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 me
chest.  He's been getting' 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'sthat?"

"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.  Itud 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 sum mat
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 on to the village
street and a car caught 'im.  He dragged 'himself back intot'yard."

"Dragged?"  Siegfried was puzzled.

"Aye, the broken leg's on the same side as tother 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.  Tm 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, like a hinge.  We were no further forward.

I could hear Siegfried pottering among the bottles in the dispensary
and I called 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 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.

"Ishesufferin'?"

"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 Ms 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.  Coin' 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 io6 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 sum mat in the air about here.  Are all me
stock going 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 pre-war 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 cc 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.  Ahim 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 text book.

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 marvelous!  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,
ahim 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'snot perfect, thaknows."

"Not..  what do you mean?"

"I mean there's just a little something'."  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 all us 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 owl 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
tother things?"

"I expect it will," I said.  "But how very strange."

The farmer nodded.  "Aye, there's sum mat right cheeky about it.  I all
us get the feelin' she's trying to ask me something."

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."

"She is that," Jack said.  "I'm glad we persevered wither"  (It was
nice of him to say 'we'.) "Ah've had 'er served and she should be
calvin' just right for Darrowby show."

"Well, that will be interesting.  She's certainly a show animal."

And there was no doubt that Bramble had developed into a classical
Dairy Shorthorn with all the delicacy and grace of that now-lost breed.
The beautifully straight back, the neat tail head and the makings of a
fine udder.  She was a picture.

She was even more of picture a few months later as she stood in the
centre of the show ring with the August sun glinting on her rich dark
coat.  She had recently produced a calf, and her udder, tight and
flat-based, with a small teat thrusting proudly from each corner,
bulged between the back limbs.

She would take some beating and it was a pleasant thought that the
seemingly doomed little creature of two-and-a-half years ago might be
just about to win a championship trophy.

However, Bramble was in pretty hot company.  The judge, Brigadier
Rowan, had narrowed the field down to three after much cogitation, and
the other two contestants, a red and white and a light roan, were
beautiful animals.  It would be a close thing.

Brigadier Rowan himself was a splendid sight.  He was a distinguished
soldier, a gentleman farmer and an unrivalled judge of dairy cattle in
the district.  His dress and general bearing were fully in keeping with
his position.  That tall lean figure would have been aristocratic and
impressive enough without the beautifully cut check suit, yellow
waistcoat, cravat and bowler hat.  The fact that he was one of the few
people I have ever seen wearing a monocle added the final touch.

The brigadier strolled up and down the little row of cattle, shoulders
high, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally screwing the glass
tighter into his eye as he bent to inspect a particular point.  Clearly
he was having difficulty in deciding.

His normally pink face was bright red, not, I felt from the sunshine
but from the long succession of brandies and sodas I had seen him
consuming in the president's tent.  He pursed his lips and approached
Bramble, who stood patiently at the end of the row nearest to me with
her head held by Jack Scott on a halter.

He leaned forward and peered into the animal's face as though to
examine the eyes.  Something happened then.  I was standing behind
Bramble and could not see her face but it is possible that she gave the
little twitch which had startled me.  In any case something undoubtedly
pierced the Brigadier's patrician calm.  His eyebrows shot up and the
monocle dropped to the end of its cord where it dangled for a few
seconds before he retrieved it, gave it a thorough polish and returned
it to his eye.

He again studied Bramble fixedly for quite a long time and even after
he had moved away he glanced back at her once or twice.  I could read
his mind.  Had he really seen that, or was it the brandy?

As he came slowly back down the row he had the look of a man who was
definitely going to make up his mind this time, even though he was
confronted by three superb animals.  He finished up in front of Bramble
and as he gave her a final appraising stare he flinched suddenly and I
had a strong conviction that she had done her trick again.

The Brigadier kept a grip on himself this time but though the monocle
remained in position the man was obviously shaken.  It seemed, however,
to remove all doubts from his mind.  He immediately placed Bramble
first, the red and white second and the light roan third.

I am sure he made the right choice but I have a great deal of sympathy
for the Brigadier.  It must have been a terrible experience to be awash
with brandy and see a cow trying to talk to him.  The poor man really
had no option.

"Disaster!  Disaster!  Disaster!"

The voice at the other end was so shrill and panic-stricken that I
almost dropped the telephone.  "Who..  . who is that?"  "It's Mrs.
Derrick!  Oh, such a disaster!"  "Yes, Mrs.  Derrick, what on earth has
happened?"  "It's my goat, Mr.  Herriot!  It's really terrible!"  The
Derricks were a young couple who had recently come to live in one of
the villages near Darrowby.  They were in their early thirties and
Ronald Derrick was a businessman who commuted daily to Brawton.  His
wife was extremely 242

attractive and a pleasant young woman in every way, but she was
slightly scatter-brained and I had felt misgivings in the first place
when she told me she had bought a goat.

I gripped the receiver tightly.  "Has the goat had an accident?"

"No, no, it's not the goat I'm worried about.  It's the tomatoes!"

"Tomatoes?"

"Yes, the wretched thing has eaten all my husband's tomatoes.  I left
the greenhouse door open by mistake."

A chill swept through me.  Ronald Derrick loved his tomatoes dearly and
since I, too, found them fascinating things I had been very interested
when he had shown me his plants.

Like many people coming to live in a country district he and his wife
had been seized with a passion for the country things, like growing all
sorts of vegetables in the big garden behind the house, and keeping
livestock.  They had a few hens, ponies for their children, and, of
course, the goat.  But with Ronald the tomatoes were his great joy.

There was a little greenhouse in the garden and on my last visit there
he had shown me the twelve plants with justifiable pride.  It was early
July and the young fruit were still green and small but obviously
thriving.

"Magnificent trusses,5 I remembered saying.  "You are going to have a
wonderful crop."  I could recall the smile of gratification on his face
as his wife continued on the phone.

"He counts them every morning, Mr.  Herriot.  In fact before he left
for the office today he told me there were two hundred and
ninety-three.  Do please come.  I'm afraid that when he gets home he'll
kill the goat and me!"  There was a pause.  "I think I can see him
through the window.  Oh yes, my God, here he is now!"

There was a thud in my ear as she crashed the receiver down and I found
I was shaking slightly.  What was I supposed to do?  Act as
peace-maker?  Prevent a murder?  Anyway, Ronald Derrick was a gentle,
goodthumoured man who would certainly not resort to violence.  But by
heck, he was going to be annoyed and maybe the goat would be ill after
that feast.  I dashed out to the car.

I was at the scene of the catastrophe within ten minutes.  The
Derricks' home was a gracious old manor house with an open drive at one
side leading to the garden.  I roared down there, leaped from my car
and the whole sad spectacle lay before me.

Mrs.  Derrick, still very attractive despite the tears which trickled
down her cheeks, was standing on a strip of lawn twisting a sodden
handkerchief in her fingers.

"Darling," she was saying.  "I just went in for a moment to get the
watering-can.  I can't think why I forgot to close the door."

Her husband did not answer and I could see that his was a bereavement
too deep for words.  He was leaning against the open doorway, gazing
into the greenhouse.  He was quite motionless and plainly he had not
moved since his arrival because he was like a business executive who
had been frozen to the spot; dark-suited, bowler-hatted, briefcase
dangling from one hand.

I stepped forward and looked over his shoulder, and the sight was even
more bizarre than I had expected.  The tastes and eating habits of
goats are often unfathomable, but this one had for some reason consumed
all the tomatoes and leaves and left the slender green stalks, naked
and pathetic, stilll neatly tied to the canes which led up to the glass
roof.

As a fellow tomato-lover I felt for him deeply, but there was nothing I
could do.  I patted him on the shoulder and murmured a few words of
sympathy, but he still continued to stare at the row of stalks.

I could see the goat on its tether at the other end of the garden. That
was another point how had it got free to wreak this devastation? But I
wasn't going to add more tension to the situation by bringing that
up.

I went over and had a look at the animal.  It was bright-eyed and
cheerful and clearly didn't require my services in any way.  In fact as
I watched, it began to nibble at a cabbage with obvious relish.  As I
say, I was sad for the Derricks but I could not but look with
admiration at any creature whose appetite was not satisfied by the
consumption of two hundred and ninety-three tomatoes.

A large part of the veterinary life seems to be made up of these little
incidents.  Trivial perhaps, but rewarding.  I recall a visit I made to
test the herd of Rupe and Will Rowney.  Rupe and Will just didn't get
on.  They were bachelor brothers who had run a dairy farm for many
years together but they didn't seem to be able to agree about
anything.

Visits there could be embarrassing as the brothers argued continually
and criticised each other's every move, but on this particular day I
found they had forgotten to keep the cows in for me.

I stood to one side as they castigated each other.

"Ah told ye the postcard said today."

"Naw, ye didn't ye said Tuesday.  It was me as said today."

"Well, fetch the bloody card from t'house and let's 'ave another look
at it."

"How can I?  Ye burned it, ye daft bugger!"

I let the debate go on for a few minutes, then intervened tactfully.

"It's all right," I said.  "There's no harm done.  The cows are just
there in the field.  It shouldn't take long to get them in."

Rupe gave his brother a final glare and turned to me.  "Nay, it won't
take long, Mr.  Herriot.  The byre door's open.  Ah'll sooncaU'emin."

He inflated his lungs and began a series of shrill cries.  "Come on,
Spotty Nose, come on, Big Lugs, come on, Mucky Tail, come on, Fat Tits,
come on, Fuzzy Top!"

Will, nettled at being upstaged, broke in with his own shout.  "Come
on, Long Legs!  Come on, Slow Coach!"

Rupe froze him with a stare then bent towards me.  "Ye'll have to
excuse me brother, Mr.  Herriot," he said in a confidential whisper.
"Ah've tried to tell 'im many a time, but he will call the cows them
daft names."

Contrasts in people always intrigue me.  I was called to see a bullock
with a swollen foot.  The owner was one of the new breed of young
farmer who had been to agricultural college and was steeped in modern
science.  He was a nice lad but like many of his kind he gave me the
uncomfortable feeling that he knew about as much as I did.

He showed me the animal.

"Bit of infection there," he said.  "Bacteria must have gained entry
through that abrasion.  I should think he needs about 20 cc of
long-acting procaine penicillin intramuscularly."

He was right, of course, and I duly injected the dose into the animal's
rump.

It happened that my next call, just a mile along the road, was to a
similar case, but this time the farmer was old Ted Buckle, one of the
fast disappearing old characters and a great favourite of mine.

"Now then, Mr.  Herriot," he said, and led me into the fold yard.  He
pointed to the lame bullock standing in a corner.  "There's a youth
ower there wants a jab in t'arse."

Then there was Mr.  Bogg whose tight-fisted ness was a byword in a
community where thrift was the norm.  I had heard many tales of his
parsimony but I have a few experiences of my own which I cherish."

He owned a herd of good Ayrshire cows and ran a few turkeys and
chickens on the side.  He certainly would not be short of money.

His turkeys were frequently afflicted with blackhead and he used to
come to us for Stovarsol tablets which were the popular treatment at
that time.

One afternoon he approached me in the surgery.

"Look," he said.  "Ah keep comin' here for fifty or a hundred of them
little tablets and it's a flippin' nuisance.  I'd rather buy a whole
tinful it'ud save a lot of journeys."

"Yes, Mr.  Bogg, you're right," I replied.  "It would be a much better
idea.  I'll get you some now."

When I returned from the dispensary I held up the tin.  "This contains
a thousand tablets and as it happens it's the only one we have in
stock.  It has been opened and a few have been taken out but it is
virtually a new tin."

"A few .. . taken out..  . ?"  I could read the alarm in his eyes at
the idea of paving for the full thousand when he was getting less than
that.

"Oh, don't worry," I said.  "There's maybe something like a dozen
tablets short-no more."

My words failed to reassure him and as he left the surgery he looked
gloomy and preoccupied.

He was back again that same evening.  He rang the bell at about eight
o'clock and I faced him on the front doorstep.

"I've just come in to tell ye," he said.  "I've been counting them
tablets and there's nine hundred and eighty-seven."

On another occasion I went to buy some eggs from Mr.  Bogg.  I got a
dozen from him most weeks because his farm was on the outskirts of the
town.  When I returned home with this particular batch I found that
there were only eleven eggs in the bag, so when I saw him a week later
I mentioned the fact.

"Mr.  Bogg," I said.  "There were only eleven eggs in last week's
lot."

"Aye, ah knaw," he replied, fixing me with a steady eye.  "But one of
'em was a double-yolked 'un."

I have a dear memory, too, of the time the only time1 did a farm-round
in shorts.

I had just got back from the family holiday in Scotland.  The weather
had been perfect and after spending a fortnight in shirt and shorts I
rebelled at the idea of climbing into workaday clothes.

Looking from our bedroom window at the sun blazing from a clear sky I
made a sudden decision.  I pulled on the shorts.  And as I walked down
the long garden to get my car the air played around my legs and I half
closed my eyes at the sensation of coolness and freedom.  I was still
on holiday, still striding the hills around Ullapool.

The conviction that I had done the right thing was strengthened when I
got out at the first farm.  The day was going to be really hot and the
whole green landscape shimmered in the morning haze.  Yes, this was the
right garb for country practice in the summer.

24?

The place was a small holding and old Mrs.  Meynell answered my knock.
At first she did not reply to my cheerful greeting but stared in silent
fascination at my exposed knees.  After a few seconds I repeated my
query.

"Is your husband in, Mrs.  Meynell?"

"Nay .. . nay .. ."  She still had difficulty in dragging her eyes away
from my legs.  "He's over t'field, mendin' a wall."  At last she looked
up at my face.  "I'm sorry, Mr.  Herriot, but when I peeped through the
window I thought it was a boy scout comin' to see us."

Slightly abashed, I opened the gate to the pasture and headed over the
long stretch of green to where the farmer was resetting the stones on
the wall.

He did not hear my approach and I spoke to his back.  "Good morning,
Mr.  Meynell, it's a lovely day."

The old man turned round and his reaction was very like his wife's.  He
did not speak but directed a prolonged, unsmiling gaze at my knees
until I began to feel uncomfortable.

At length I broke the silence.  "I believe you have a sick calf."

He nodded slowly, still staring downwards.

I cleared my throat.  "Touch of scour, is it?"

"Aye .. . aye .. . that's right."  There was no change in his attitude
and I felt we weren't getting anywhere.

"Well," I said.  "Will we go and have a look at him?"

Without warning the old man dropped into the sprint starting position,
one knee on the turf, fingers out splayed

He looked up at me eagerly.  "Come on, then, I'll race ye back to the
house."

Again I step forward in time from the post-war years.  It was 1963 and
John Crooks was visiting me again.  He lay back in his chair and
laughed.

"You know, Jim, I often think about your Russian trip, and honestly, it
doesn't sound as though you had a very comfortable time.  Force-nine
gales, only just avoiding being thrown into jail, nearly savaged by a
killer dog not my idea of pleasure.  In fact, I feel a bit guilty about
sending you out there."

"Please don't feel like that, John," I said.  "I loved it.  Wouldn't
have missed it for anything."

He sat up.  "I've been thinking.  You deserve a bit of luxury and
relaxation after that and I've got just the thing for you."

"What's that?"

"Well, I'll tell you."  He leaned closer, his eyes eager.  John's
natural enthusiasm and eloquence had pushed him to the top in
veterinary practice and like most people I fell easily under his spell.
"Last spring I had the most wonderful voyage to Istanbul with a cargo
of Jersey cows.  How would you like that?"

"Istanbul?"  Immediately my mind was full of the mysterious east:
mosques, minarets, blue skies, tranquil seas, exotic perfumes,
Scheherezade..  .

"Yes, Jim, and it was memorable.  We sailed from Hull to Jersey, picked
up the cattle from there and came right round to Gibraltar.  After that
it was just a beautiful Mediterranean cruise.  The cows never ailed a
thing and all I did was eat lovely food, bask out on the deck and sleep
in a super cabin.  The sea hardly rippled, the sun shone all the time
and I saw places I'd only dreamed about; the Greek Islands, the coast
of Asia and of course Istanbul itself."

"Fascinating city, they say."

"It certainly is," John said.  "And really you have to see it for
yourself.  You can't describe it-it's magic."

"Did you have some spare time to look around?"

"Oh yes, the whole trip took seventeen days and I had a full two days
to explore.  The cattle were unloaded as soon as we arrived and after
that my time was my own.  The Export Company put me up in a five-star
hotel, too luxury room, gourmet food I tell you, it was terrific.  Talk
about living like a Sultan!"

"And you got paid for that?"

"Yes, and so will you."

"You really mean I can go?"

"Yes, Jim, of course you can."  John smiled.  "There's another load of
Jerseys to go over there in August and I'll book you in."  *

I rubbed my hands.  "That's marvelous, but how about you?  Don't you
want another trip?"

"Oh, it would be very nice, but I can't leave the practice too often.
It would have to be you or another of my friends."

It was the beginning of another little adventure.  For the next few
weeks as I drove on my rounds the green hills and bracken-clad slopes
which sped past my windows were intermingled with the heady scenes of
my imaginings.  New places have always intrigued me and as I have said
before, I have seafaring blood.  I could smell the salty freshness of
the wide ocean which had thrilled me on the voyage to Klaipeda, only
this time it would be sunshine and a calm sea and one of the most
exciting cities in the world at the end of it.

As John promised, I had a telephone call at the beginning of August
from Mr.  Costain, the representative of the Export Company.

"I'd like you to be here at two o'clock on Thursday the eighth at our
offices," he said.  "And then I'll take you out to Gatwick."

"Gatwick?"

"Yes, that's right.  The plane takes off at around eight o'clock in the
evening."

"Plane!  I thought we were going by sea."

Mr.  Costain laughed for quite a long time at this.  "No, no, no
whatever gave you that idea?"

"John Crooks did."

"Ah well, as it happened John did go by sea and I suppose it was
natural he would think the next trip would be the same.  But you'll
thoroughly enjoy the flight and it means you get the whole thing over
quickly.  Less than four days."

"I see."  I didn't want to get the whole thing over quickly.  I had
been looking forward to that leisurely seventeen days.  But never mind,
this could be fun, too.

"Right," I said.  I'll see you on the day."

The night before I left I packed the same attache case I had taken to
Russia.  Antibiotics, calcium, steroids, bandages and suture materials.
I hoped I would not have to use anything in that case, particularly the
humane killer lying in the corner.

August 8,1963

On the train to London my enthusiasm grew steadily.  It was a pity
about the sea voyage and I was sorry that it would not be worth keeping
a daily diary on such a short trip.  I would have to write it up later.
But on the other hand, I liked flying, and it would be interesting to
see the reactions of the animals.  On the Klaipeda voyage I had learned
a lot about the behaviour of animals aboard ship and now I had the
chance to observe the reaction of cows to being whisked into the air. I
felt a faint twinge of alarm when I remembered a story of how a
veterinary surgeon had been in charge of some racehorses flying to
America and one of the animals had gone berserk and kicked a hole in
the side of the aircraft.  But I put away the disturbing image.  Jersey
cows would never do that.

Another happy thought was that I was able to take my camera and bring
back a record of my adventure.  That had been forbidden on the Russian
trip.

Mr.  Costain was pleasant and friendly.  We took the train to Gatwick
and I had my first view of our aircraft standing a few hundred yards
away out on the airfield.  It looked very smart, its red, white and
silvery-grey paint glittering in the sunshine.

"Gosh, it's big!"  I said.

Mr.  Costain nodded.  "Yes, it's a Globemaster, and to the best of my
knowledge it is the biggest aircraft in the world at the present
time."

I don't know whether he was right about this, but it was easy to
believe because as we approached the Globemaster it seemed to get
larger all the time.  It also became less smart because on closer
inspection the paint wasn't nearly as glossy, and there was a faint air
of de lapidation about the whole mighty machine.  This was epitomised
by the great tyres on the undercarriage.  The rubber was worn smooth
and frayed in parts, and in fact if you took a motor car out with tyres
like that you would be fined and have your licence endorsed.

There were four propeller engines, and along one side the name Heracles
sprawled in large red letters.

I climbed up the steps into the flight cabin and here the impression of
age and a long, hard life was stronger still.  The black paintwork had
almost been rubbed away from the bank of dials and levers in the
cockpit, leaving the bare metal gleaming through and the seats showed
the outline of their contents bulging dangerously against their leather
coverings.  A curtain, when drawn aside, revealed a toilet of the most
primitive type.  This was indeed an elderly aeroplane.

I looked back wonderingly at the enormous empty belly stretching away
to the tail and at that moment Mr.  Costain poked his head in from the
steps.

"Tremendous, isn't it?"  he said.  "It was used as a troop carrier and
general transport during the war."

I nodded silently.  That was quite a long time ago.

We walked back together to the airport terminal and had a cup of tea
and a sandwich while keeping an eye open for the arrival of the cattle.
I learned that we were taking forty pedigree cows and heifers, and as
the time stretched round to half-past six I wondered just how they were
going to be loaded in time for an eight o'clock take-off.

At length, two cattle wagons rumbled on to the airfield and we hurried
to meet them.  I was pleased and relieved to find that two Jersey
farmers were joining us on the flight and I was introduced to them
before the loading started.  They were both dark haired and spoke with
a slow drawl very different from my Yorkshire clients.  Noel would be
in his early thirties, smiling and with an ingenuous air about him,
Joe, probably ten years older, similarly amiable but, it seemed to me,
a hard man at bottom.  He was easy to like but I couldn't imagine him
suffering fools gladly.

It didn't take me long to realise that the two of them knew what they
were doing.  One of the Globemaster's crew, a little Dane called Karl,
operated an electric hoist with tubular metal sides which descended
from the underside of the aircraft while Joe and Noel led the cattle up
a ramp and jockeyed them into position until the hoist was full and
they could be lifted up.

Above in the cavernous interior they arranged the animals in rows of
six facing the front, with a metal tube clamped behind each row.

Those farmers were good stocks men  There was no shouting, no
brandishing of sticks, just a continual gentle nudging and pushing and
soft words of encouragement.  And of course they had the ideal subjects
to handle.  I have often said that I wished all cows were Jerseys and I
felt it again that day.

I do not think I have ever seen a more beautiful group of cattle.  Most
heifers with a few young cows and all of them fine boned and graceful,
with their lambent, kind eyes regarding us with mild interest as they
took their places.

It was a steamy hot London evening and as Joe and Noel toiled, the
sweat streamed down their faces.  But like my Yorkshire farmers hard
work seemed to be something they took for granted.  Sleeves rolled high
on their sunburned arms, they kept at it without pausing.

More than half the animals had been loaded when the main members of the
crew arrived.  Captain Birch looked down at me from a gaunt six feet
four as he shook hands and the sombre face above the black,
grey-flecked beard emanated authority.  This was a man of formidable
presence.

The co-pilot and navigator, Ed, and the engineer, Dave, were in their
twenties and grinned cheerfully as they hoisted their bags into the
flight cabin.  The captain was English and dressed in a formal dark
uniform, but these young men vere American and their clothing intrigued
me.  They wore white, loose-fitting jackets and trousers of a
light-weight material which, with their peaked caps cocked at an angle,
gave them a carefree appearance.

As I thought, there was no possibility of an eight o'clock take-off and
it was nearly eleven when the last heifer was loaded and clamped in
safely.  The forty cattle were quite a sight as they stood patiently in
their rows, their feet deep in straw and an armful of hay in front of
each of them.  The long stretch of backs made a ripple of fawn gold
under the interior lights of the aircraft.  One sang was that the heat
in the packed interior was almost overpowering and I prayed that some
ventilation would come into operation when we were airborne.

Mr.  Costain prepared to leave.  He had spent quite a long time in a
financial negotiation, almost a wrangle, with the captain, about the
cost of the transportation and I gathered that the captain either owned
the aircraft personally or was a top director of the firm which did.
They came to an agreement at last and Mr.  Costain shook my hand.

"Have a good trip, Mr.  Herriot," he said.  "You will be refuelling in
Rome and reach Istanbul early tomorrow.  I know you'll love that city.
Goodbye.8

The thought of this huge, heavily-loaded aeroplane landing anywhere on
those bald tyres gave me a moment of disquiet, but I put it out of my
mind and sat down with Joe and Noel on one of the battered seats in the
cabin.

We waited and waited for something to happen but a seemingly
interminable discussion was going on in the cockpit.  The humans in the
aircraft were quite clearly in two camps the crew and the cattlemen and
the only attention we three got during this period was a piercing look
from the captain and a stern admonition.  "You'll look after these
cattle, won't you?  They are very valuable and they're my
responsibility.  You'll keep a constant eye on them, I hope."

"Of course," I replied.  "That's what we're here for."  I spoke
confidently but I had no idea how the animals would react when this
monster began to roar its way into the sky.  If they started to run
amok and break their legs there wasn't much I could do but use my
humane killer, and I didn't think the captain would be overjoyed at
that.

The two farmers and I talked in the dimly lit cabin during the long
wait.  They told me of their stock troubles and I described the
veterinary life in Yorkshire, then, to our relief, around i a.m. the
aircraft's engine began to cough into life.  We actually started to
taxi along to the end of the runway.

This was the moment I had been waiting for and I turned in my seat and
gazed over the forty sleek backs as the aircraft began to roll.  The
engines bellowed, the vast frame shook and juddered as the machine
hurtled down the runway, then there was the wrench of lift-off and the
sensation of climbing, climbing.

And all those cattle did was sway gently from side to side, their eyes
looking at me, calm and untroubled.  Some even nibbled at their hay as
we rose into the night sky.

Thank heaven, flying seemed to be second nature to them and I was
relaxing happily when I noticed a commotion in the cabin.  The huge
undercarriage had not retracted fully and Karl, Dave and Ed were
pulling with all their strength on a loop attached to it.  After a few
moments of concentrated effort the wheels came up with a clunk and the
crewmen returned to their places.  They did this calmly as though it
was a regular procedure.  I wondered idly how many other things didn't
work on this aeroplane.

I was grateful for one thing my worries about the heat had been
groundless because as we climbed the atmosphere became steadily
colder.

It had been a long day for Noel, Joe and me.  We had left home early
that morning and we dozed fitfully on the uncomfortable seats in the
semi-darkness, glancing at our charges from time to time.  After a few
hours I was jerked to wakefulness.  We were coming in to land,
descending quickly over the lights of an airfield.  I watched the
cattle again as we bumped and rattled along the runway, but they took
it all with the same aplomb as before.

When we halted I looked out at a brightly lit sign -Munchen.

"Refuelling," Karl muttered.  Mr.  Costain said it would be Rome and it
was Munich.  The nagging little thought returned that nothing about
this trip since John Crooks first drew the scenario had turned out as
expected.

Anyway, we had landed safely on those awful tyres and we took off too,
without disaster, although once more Karl and Dave had to haul with all
their might until the undercarriage thumped into position.

By 5 a.m. the two farmers and I were weary and desperate to stretch our
cramped limbs.  Finally Joe beckoned to us to follow him, and we groped
our way down by the side of the animals right to the tail of the
aircraft where a deep pile of hay was lying.  He stretched out and Noel
and I followed suit.

Again, this was different from my friend John's bed in his cabin on the
Mediterranean, but it was heaven.  I closed my eyes and floated away.
The captain had adjured us to do our duty carefully, but I couldn't
keep my eyes open any more.  And though I was thousands of feet up
somewhere in the dark skies above Yugoslavia I might have been back in
Darrowby, because the scents and the sounds were the same.  The
fragrance of hay, the sweet bovine smell and the soft grunting,
coughing and champing of many cattle.  These were familiar things and
they lulled me into slumber within minutes.

Bright sunshine was streaming into the aircraft when I opened my eyes
again.  I looked at my watch seven o'clock.  The two farmers were still
nestled motionless in the hay and I got to my feet and looked with a
touch of anxiety along the rows of cattle.  I need not have worried,
they were as contented as if they had been in their byres in Jersey.
Some were lying in the straw, others stood chewing their cud.  It was a
peaceful scene.

It was not peaceful, however, in the flight cabin and cockpit.  In
fact, as I gazed beyond the animals to the front of the aircraft I
could see evidence of intense activity.  The crew members were leaping
around staring at the starboard window and operating controls which I
couldn't see.

I pushed my way past the metal standings to the cabin and had a look
for myself.

The starboard inner engine had been switched off and its four propellor
blades hung motionless as oil gushed from its interior, spiralling into
the flawless blue of the sky, flowing in black tendrils over the wing
and spattering against the window.  Nobody bothered to say good-morning
to me.  There was no panic, but there was definitely consternation.

As I looked I saw that there was something more alarming than an oil
leak.  Flames were licking around the engine cowling and a long tongue
of fire crept back towards the wing.  I scarcely had time to digest the
meaning of all this when the flames disappeared, apparently
extinguished by the crew's efforts.

There was a general relaxation in the cockpit and some wan smiles were
exchanged.

I heard a whisper in my ear.  "Some bloody aeroplane, this, Jim boy."
Joe had joined me at the window and was looking with disbelief at the
still, scarred engine.  Behind him, Noel was wide eyed but silent.

On our three engines we flew on through the cloudless sky and below, a
turquoise sea sparkled.  Soon we began to lose height and I looked down
on a great city with domes and minarets abounding.  This was indeed
some bloody aeroplane, but it had got us to Istanbul.

L.G.M.f.A. - I

Mr.  Garrett's words about parents needing nerves of steel have come
back to me many times over the years.  One notable occasion was the
annual recital given by Miss Livingstone piano class.

Miss Livingstone was a soft-voiced, charming lady in her fifties who
started many of the local children in piano lessons, and once a year
she held a concert in the Methodist Hall for her pupils to show their
paces.  They ranged from six-year-olds to teenagers, and the room was
packed with their proud parents.  Jimmy was nine at the time and had
been practising without much enthusiasm for the big day.

Everybody knows everybody else in a small town like Darrowby, and as
the place filled up and the chairs scraped into position there was much
nodding and smiling as people recognised each other.  I found myself on
the outside chair of the centre aisle with Helen on my right, and just
across the few feet of space I saw Jeff Ward, old Willie Richardson's
cowman, sitting very upright, hands on knees.

He was dressed in his Sunday best, and the dark serge was stretched
tightly across his muscular frame.  His red, strong-boned face shone
with intensive scrubbing and his normally wayward thatch of hair was
plastered down with brilliantine.

"Hello, Jeff," I said.  "One of your youngsters performing today?"

He turned and grinned.  "Now then, Mr.  Herriot.  Aye, it's our
Margaret.  She's been comin' on right well at t'piano and I just hope
she does herself justice this afternoon."

"Of course she will, Jeff.  Miss Livingstone is an excellent teacher.
She'll do fine."

He nodded and turned to the front as the concert commenced.  The first
few performers who mounted the platform were very small boys in shorts
and socks or tiny girls in frilly dresses, and their feet dangled far
above the pedals as they sat at the keyboard.

Miss Livingstone hovered nearby to prompt them, but their little
mistakes were greeted with indulgent smiles from the assembly and the
conclusion of each piece was greeted with thunderous applause.

I noticed, however, that as the children grew bigger and the pieces
became more difficult, a certain tension began to build up in the hall.
The errors weren't so funny now and when little Jenny Newcombe, the
fruiterer's daughter, halted a couple of times, then bowed her head as
though she were about to cry, the silence in the room was absolute and
charged with anxiety.  I could feel it myself.  My nails were digging
into my palms and my teeth were tightly clenched.  When Jenny
successfully restarted and I relaxed with all the others, the
realisation burst upon me that we were not just a roomful of parents
watching our children perform, we were a band of brothers and sisters
suffering together.

When little Margaret Ward climbed the few steps to the platform her
father stiffened perceptibly in his seat.  From the corner of my eyes I
could see Jeffs big work-roughened fingers clutching tightly at his
knees.

Margaret went on very nicely till she came to a rather complicated
chord which jarred on the company with harsh dissonance.  She knew she
had got the notes wrong and tried again .. . and again .. . and again,
each time jerking her head with the effort.

"No, C and E, dear," murmured Miss Livingstone and Margaret crashed her
fingers down once more, violently and wrongly.

"My God, she's not going to make it," I breathed to myself, aware
suddenly that my pulse was racing and that every muscle in my body was
rigid.

I glanced round as Jeff.  It was impossible for anybody with his
complexion to turn pale but his face had assumed a hideously mottled
appearance and his legs were twitching convulsively.  He seemed to
sense that my gaze was on him because he turned tortured eyes towards
me and gave me the ghastly semblance of a smile.  Just beyond his wife
was leaning forward.  Her mouth hung slightly open and her lips
trembled.

As Margaret fought for the right notes a total silence and immobility
settled on the packed hall.  It seemed an eternity before the little
girl got it right and galloped away over the rest of the piece and
though everybody relaxed in their seats and applauded with relief as
much as approval, I had the feeling that the episode had taken its toll
on all of us.

I certainly didn't feel so good, and watched in a half-trance as a
succession of children went up and did their thing without incident.
Then it was Jimmy's turn.

There was no doubt that most of the performers and parents were
suffering from nerves, but this couldn't be applied to my son.  He
almost whistled as he trotted up the steps and there was a hint of
swagger in his walk up to the piano.  This, he clearly thought, was
going to be a doddle.

In marked contrast, I went into a sort of rigor as soon as he appeared.
My palms broke out in an instant sweat and I found I was breathing only
with difficulty.  I told myself that this was utterly ridiculous, but
it was no good.  It was how I felt.

Jimmy's piece was called "The Miller's Dance', a title which is burned
on my brain till the day I die.  It was a rollicking little melody
which of course I knew down to the last semi-quaver, and Jimmy started
off in great style, throwing his hands about and tossing his head like
Artur Rubinstein in full flow.

Around the middle of "The Miller's Dance' there is a pause in the quick
tempo where the music goes from a brisk
ta-rum-tum-tiddle-iddle-om-poom-pom to a lingering taa-rum, taa-rum,
taa-rum, before starting off again at top speed.  It was a clever
little ploy of the composer and gave a touch of variety to the whole
thing.

Jimmy dashed up to this point with flailing arms till he slowed down at
the familiar taa-rum, taa-rum, taa-rum.  I waited for him to take off
again but nothing happened.  He stopped and looked down fixedly at the
keys for a few seconds then he played the slow bit again and halted
once more.

My heart gave a great thud.  Come on, lad, you know the next part I've
heard you play it a hundred times.  My voiceless plea was born of
desperation, but Jimmy didn't seem troubled at all.  He looked down
with mild puzzlement and rubbed his chin a few times.

Miss Livingstone's gentle voice came over the quivering silence.
"Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning again, Jimmy."

"Okay."  My son's tone was perky as he plunged confidently into the
melody again and I closed my eyes as he approached the fateful bars.
Ta-rum-tum-tiddle-iddle-om-pom-pom, taa-rum, taa-rum, taa-rum then
nothing.  This time he pursued his lips, put his hands on his knees and
bent closely over the keyboard as though the strips of ivory were
trying to hide something from him.  He showed no sign of panic, only a
faint curiosity.

In the almost palpable hush of that room I was sure that the hammering
of my heart must be audible.  I could feel Helen's leg trembling
against mine.  I knew we couldn't take much more of this.

Miss Livingstone's voice was soft as a zephyr or I think I would have
screamed.  "Jimmy, dear, shall we try it once more from the
beginning?"

"Yes, yes, right."  Away he went again like a hurricane, all fire and
fury.  It was unbelievable that there could ever be a flaw in such
virtuosity.

The whole room was in agony.  By now the other parents had come to know
"The Miller's Dance' almost as well as I did and we waited together for
the dread passage.  Jimmy came up to it at breakneck speed.
Ta-rum-tum-tiddle-iddle-om-pom-pom then taa-rum, taa-rum, taa-rum .. .
and silence.

Helen's knees were definitely knocking now and I stole an anxious
glance at her face.  She was pale, but she didn't look ready to faint
just yet.

As Jimmy sat motionless except for a thoughtful drumming of his fingers
against the woodwork of the piano, I felt.  I was going to choke.  I
glared around me desperately and I saw that Jeff Ward, across the
aisle, was in a bad way.  His face had gone all blotchy again, his jaw
muscles stood out in taught ridges and a light sheen of perspiration
covered his forehead.

Something had to break soon and once more it was Miss Livingstone's
voice which cut into the terrible atmosphere.

"All right, Jimmy dear," she said.  "Never mind.  Perhaps you'd better
go and sit down now."

My son rose from the stool and marched across the platform.  He
descended the steps and rejoined his fellow pupils in the first few
rows.

I slumped back in my seat.  Ah well, that was it, the final indignity.
The poor little lad had blown it.  And though he didn't seem troubled,
I was sure he must feel a sense of shame at being unable to get through
his piece.

A wave of misery enveloped me, and though many of the other parents
turned and directed sickly smiles of sympathy and friendship at Helen
and me it didn't help.  I hardly heard the rest of the concert, which
was a pity because as the bigger boys and girls began to perform, the
musical standard rose to remarkable heights.  Chopin nocturnes were
followed by Mozart sonatas and I had a dim impression of a tall lad
rendering an impromptu by Schubert.  It was a truly splendid show by
everybody but poor old Jimmy, the only one who hadn't managed to
finish.

At the end, Miss Livingstone came to the front of the platform.  "Well,
thank you, ladies and gentlemen for the kind reception you have given
my pupils.  I do hope you have enjoyed it as much as we have."

There was more clapping, and as the chairs started to push back I rose
to my feet, feeling slightly sick.

"Shall we go then, Helen," I said, and my wife nodded back at me, her
face a doleful mask.

But Miss Livingstone wasn't finished yet.  "Just one thing more, ladies
and gentlemen."  She raised a hand.  "There is a young man here who, I
know, can do much better.  I wouldn't be happy going home now without
giving him another opportunity.  Jimmy."  she beckoned towards the
second row.  "Jimmy, I wonder... I wonder if you would like to have one
more try."  262

As Helen and I exchanged horrified glances there was an immediate
response from the front.  Our son's voice rang out, chirpy and
confident.  "Aye, aye, I'll have a go!"

I couldn't believe it.  The martyrdom was surely not about to start all
over again.  But it was true.  Everybody was sitting down and a small
familiar figure was mounting the steps and striding to the piano.

From a great distance I heard Miss Livingstone again.  "Jimmy will play
"The Miller's Dance"."  She didn't have to tell us-we all knew.

As though in the middle of a bad dream I resumed my seat.  A few
seconds earlier I had been conscious only of a great weariness, but now
I was gripped by a fiercer tension that I had known all afternoon.  As
Jimmy poised his hands over the keys, a vibrant sense of strain lapped
around the silent room.

The little lad started off as he always did, as though he hadn't a care
in the world, and I began a series of long shuddering breaths designed
to carry me past the moment which was fast approaching.  Because I knew
he would stop again.  And I knew just as surely that when he did I
would topple senseless to the floor.

I didn't dare look round at anybody.  In fact when he reached the
crucial bars I closed my eyes tightly.  But I could still hear the
music so very clearly.  Ta-rum-tum-tiddle-iddle-om-pom-pom, taa-rum,
taa-nan, taa-rum ... There was a pause of unbearable length then,
tiddle-iddle-om-pom, tiddle-iddle-om-pom, Jimmy was blissfully on his
way again.

He raced through the second half of the piece, but I kept my eyes
closed as the relief flooded through me.  I opened them only when he
came to the finale which I knew so well.  Jimmy was making a real meal
of it, head down, fingers thumping, and at the last crashing chord he
held up one hand in a flourish a foot above the keyboard before letting
it fall by his side in the true manner of the concert pianist.

I doubt if the Methodist Hall has ever heard a noise like the great
cheer which followed.  The place erupted in a storm of clapping and
shouting and Jimmy was not the man to ignore such an accolade.  All the
other children had walked impassively from the stage at the end of
their efforts, but not so my son.

To my astonishment he strode from the stool to the front of the
platform, placed one arm across his abdomen and the other behind his
back, extended one foot and bowed to one side of the audience with the
grace of an eighteenth-century courtier.  He then reversed arms and
pushed out the other foot before repeating his bow to the other side of
the hall.

The cheering changed to great roar of laughter which continued as he
descended the steps, smiling demurely.  Everybody was still giggling as
we made our way out.  In the doorway we bumped into Miss Mullion, who
ran the little school which our son attended.  She was dabbing her
eyes.

"Oh dear," she said breathlessly.  "You can always depend on Jimmy to
provide the light relief."

I drove back to Skeldale House very slowly.  I was still in a weak
condition and I felt it dangerous to exceed twenty-five miles an hour.
The colour had returned to Helen's face, but there were lines of
exhaustion round her mouth and eyes as she stared ahead through the
windscreen.

Jimmy, in the back, was lying full length along the seat, kicking his
legs in the air and whistling some of the tunes which had been played
that afternoon.

"Mum!  Dad!"  he exclaimed in the staccato manner which was so typical
of him.  "I like music."

I glanced at him in the driving-mirror.  "That's good, son, that's
good.  So do we."

Suddenly he rolled off the back seat and thrust his head between us.
"Do you know why I like music so much?"

I shook my head.

"I've just found out," he cried delightedly.  "It's because it's so
soothing."

When Walt Barnett asked me to see his cat I was surprised.  He had
employed other veterinary surgeons ever since Siegfried had mortally
offended him by charging him ten pounds for castrating a horse, and
that had been a long time ago.  I was surprised, too, that a man like
him should concern himself with the ailments of a cat.

A lot of people said Walt Barnett was the richest man in Darrowby
rolling in brass which he made from his many and diverse enterprises.
He was mainly a scrap merchant, but he had a haulage business, too, and
he was a dealer in second-hand cars, furniture-anything, in fact, that
came his way.  I knew he kept some livestock and horses around his big
house outside the town, but there was money in these things and money
was the ruling passion of his life.  There was no profit in
cat-keeping.

Another thing which puzzled me as I drove to his office was that owning
a pet indicated some warmth of character, a vein of sentiment, however
small.  It just didn't fit in with his nature.

I picked my way through the litter of the scrap yard to the wooden shed
in the corner from which the empire was run.  Walt Barnett was sitting
behind a cheap desk and he was exactly as I remembered him, the massive
body stretching the seams of his shiny navy-blue suit, the cigarette
dangling from his lips, even the brown trilby hat perched on the back
of his head.  Unchanged, too, was the beefy red face with its arrogant
expression and hostile eyes.

"Over there," he said, glowering at me and poking a finger at a black
and white cat sitting among the papers on the desk.  It was a typical
greeting.  I hadn't expected him to say "Good morning' or anything like
that, and he never smiled.  I reached across the desk and tickled the
animal's cheek, and was rewarded with a rich purring and an arching of
the back against my hand.  He was a big torn, long-haired and
attractively marked with a white breast and white paws, and though I
have always had a predilection for tabbies I took an immediate liking
to this cat.  He exuded friendliness.  "Nice cat," I said.  "What's the
trouble?"

"It's 'is leg.  There's sum mat wrong with that 'un there.
Must'vecutisself."

I felt among the fluffy hair and the little creature flinched as I
reached a point halfway up the limb.  I took out my scissors and
clipped a clear area.  I could see a transverse wound, quite deep, and
discharging a thin serous fluid.  "Yes , .. this could be a cut.  But
there's something unusual about it.  I can't see how he's done it. Does
he go out in the yard much?"

The big man nodded.  "Aye, wanders around a bit."

"Ah well, he may have caught it on some sharp object.  I'll give him a
penicillin injection and leave you a tube of ointment to squeeze into
the wound night and morning."

Some cats strongly object to hypodermics and since their armoury
includes claws as well as teeth they can be difficult, but this one
never moved.  In fact, the purring increased in volume as I inserted
the needle.

"He really is good-natured," I said.  "What do you call him?"

"Fred."  Walt Barnett looked at me expressionlessly.  There didn't
appear to be anything particularly apposite about the name but the
man's face discouraged further comment.

I produced the ointment from my bag and placed it on the desk.  "Right,
let me know if he doesn't improve."

I received no reply, neither acknowledgement nor goodbye, and I took my
leave feeling the same prickle of resentment as when I first
encountered his boorishness.

But as I walked across the yard I forgot my annoyance in my
preoccupation with the case.  There was something very peculiar about
that wound.  It didn't look like an accidental laceration.  It was neat
and deep as though somebody had drawn a razor blade across the flesh. I
listened as I had listened so often before to that little inner voice
the voice that said things were not as they seemed.

A touch on my arm brought me out of my musings.  One of the men who had
been working among the scrap was looking at me conspiratorially.
"You've been in to see t'big boss?"

"Yes,"

"Funny thing tjawd bugger botherin' about a cat, eh?"

"I suppose so.  How long has he had it?"

"Oh, about two years now.  It was a stray.  Ran into 'is office one day
and, knowin' him, I though he'd 'ave booted it straight out, but 'he
didn't.  Adopted it instead.  An can't reckon it up.  It sits there all
day on 'is desk."

"He must like it," I said.

"Him?  He doesn't like anythin'or anybody.  He's a..  . '

A bellow from the office doorway cut him short.

"Hey you!  Get on with your bloody work!"  Walt Barnett, huge and
menacing, brandished a fist and the man, after one terrified glance,
scuttled away.

As I got into my car the thought stayed with me that this was how Walt
Barnett lived surrounded by fear and hate.  His ruthlessness was a
byword in the town and though no doubt it had made him rich I didn't
envy him.

I heard his voice on the phone two days later.  "Get out 'ere sharpish
and see that cat."

"Isn't that wound any better?"

"Naw, it's wuss, so don't be long."

Fred was in his usual place on the desk and he purred as I went up and
stroked him, but the leg was certainly more painful.  It was
disappointing, but what really baffled me was that the wound was bigger
instead of smaller.  It was still the same narrow slit in the skin but
it had undoubtedly lengthened.  It was as though it was trying to creep
its way round the leg.

I had brought some extra instruments with me and I passed a metal probe
gently into the de pts of the cut.  I could feel something down there,
something which caught the end of the probe and sprang away.  I
followed with long forceps and gripped the unknown object before it
could escape.  When I brought it to the surface and saw the narrow
brown strand ah1 became suddenly clear.

"He's got an elastic band round his leg," I said.  I snipped the thing
through, withdrew it and dropped it on the desk.  "There it is.  He'll
be all right now."

Walt Barnett jerked himself upright in his chair.  "Elastic band!  Why
the 'ell didn't you find it first time?"

He had me there.  Why the hell hadn't I?  In those days my eyesight was
perfect, but on that first visit all I had seen was a little break in
the skin.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  Barnett," I said.  "The elastic was embedded in the
flesh, out of sight."  It was true, but I didn't feel proud.

He puffed rapidly at the ever present cigarette.  "And 'ow did it get
there?"

"Somebody put it on his leg, without a doubt."

"Put it on..  . wot for?"

"Oh, people do that to cats.  I've heard of cases like this but never
actually seen one.  There are some cruel folk around."

"One o' them fellers in the yard, I'll wager."

"Not necessarily.  Fred goes out in the street, doesn't he?"

"Oh aye, often."

"Well, it could have been anybody."

There was a long silence as the big man sat scowling, his eyes half
closed.  I wondered if he was going over the list of his enemies.  That
would take some time.

"Anyway," I. said.  "The leg will heal very quickly now.  That's the
main thing."

Walt Barnett reached across the desk and slowly rubbed the cat's side
with a sausage-like forefinger.  I had seen him do this several times
during my previous visit.  It was an odd, unsmiling gesture but
probably the nearest he could get to a caress.

On my way back to the surgery I slumped low in the car seat, hardly
daring to think of what would have happened if I hadn't found that
elastic.  Arrest of ckculation, gangrene, loss of the foot or even
death.  I broke into a sweat at the thought.

Walt Barnett was on the phone three weeks later and I felt a twinge of
apprehension at the sound of the familiar voice.  Maybe I wasn't out of
the wood yet.

"Is his leg still troubling him?"  I asked.

"Naw, that' sealed up.  There's sum mat matter with 'is head."

"His head?"

"Aye, keeps cockin' it from side to side.  Come and see 'im."

This sounded to me like canker, and in fact when I saw the cat sitting
on the desk twisting his head around uneasily I was sure that was it,
but the ears were clean and painless.

This amiable cat seemed to like being examined and the purring rose to
a crescendo as I made a close inspection of his teeth, mouth, eyes and
nostrils.  Nothing.  Yet something up there was causing a lot of
discomfort.

I began to work my way through the black hair and suddenly the purring
was interrupted by a sharp 'miaow' as my fingers came upon a painful
spot on his neck.

"Something here," I murmured.  I took out my scissors and began to
clip.  And as the hair fell away and the skin showed through, a wave of
disbelief swept through me.  I was looking down at a neat little
transverse slit, the identical twin of the one I had seen before.

My God, surely not on the neck.  I went into the wound with probe and
forceps and within seconds I had brought the familiar brown band to the
surface.  A quick snip and I pulled it clear.

"More elastic," I said dully.

"Round'is neck!"

"Afraid so.  Somebody really meant business this time."

He drew his enormous forefinger along the furry flank and the cat
rubbed delightedly against him.  "Who's doin' this?"

I shrugged.  "No way of telling.  The police are always on the look out
for cruelty, but they would have to catch a person actually in the
act."

I knew he was wondering when the next attempt would come and so was I,
but there were no more elastic bands for Fred.  The neck healed rapidly
and I didn't see the cat for nearly a year, till one morning Helen met
me as I was coming in from my round.

"Mr.  Barnett's just been on the phone, Jim.  Would you please go at
once.  He thinks his cat has been poisoned."

Another attack on this nice little animal, and after all this time.  It
didn't make sense and my mind was a jumble as I hurried into Walt
Barnett's office.

I found a vastly different Fred this time.  The cat was not on his old
place on the desk but was crouched on the floor among a litter of
newspapers.  He did not look up but as I went over to him he retched
and vomited a yellow fluid on to the paper.  More vomit lay around
among pools of diarrhoea which had the same yellowish hue.

Walt Barnett, overflowing the chair behind the desk, spoke past the
dangling cigarette.  "He's poisoned, isn't 'e?  Somebody's given 'im
sum mat

"It's possible ..."  I watched the cat move slowly to a saucer of milk
and sit over it in the same crouching attitude.  He did not drink but
sat looking down with a curious immobility.  There was a sad
familiarity in the little animal's appearance.  This could be something
worse even than poison.

"Well, it is, isn't it," the big man went on.  "Somebody's tried to
kill'im again."

"I'm not sure."  As I took the cat's temperature there was none of the
purring or outgoing friendliness I had known before.  He was sunk in a
profound lethargy.

The temperature was 105 F. I palpated the abdomen, feeling the doughy
consistency of the bowels, the lack of muscular tone.

"Well, if it's not that, what is it?"

"It's feline enteritis.  I'm nearly certain."

He looked at me blankly.

"Some people call it cat distemper," I said.  "There's an outbreak in
Darrowby just now.  I've seen several cases lately and Fred's symptoms
are typical."

The big man heaved his bulk from behind the desk, went over to the cat
and rubbed his forefinger along the unheeding back.  "Well, if it's
that, can you cure 'im?"

I'll do my best, Mr.  Barnett, but the mortality rate is very high '

\ You mean, most of 'em die?"

"I'mafraid so."

"How can that be?  I thought you fellers had all them wonderful new
medicines now."

"Yes, but this is a virus and viruses are resistant to antibiotics."

"Awright, then."  Wheezing, he drew himself upright and returned to his
chair.  "What are you goin' to do?"

"I'm going to start right now," I said.  I injected electrolytic fluid
to combat the dehydration.  I gave antibiotics against the secondary
bacteria and finished with a sedative to control the vomiting.  But I
knew that everything I had done was merely supportive.  I had never had
much luck with feline enteritis.

I visited Fred each morning and the very sight of him made me unhappy.
He was either hunched over the saucer or he was curled up on the desk
in a little basket.  He had no interest in the world around him.

He never moved when I gave him his injections.  It was like pushing a
needle into a lifeless animal and on the fourth morning I could see
that he was sinking rapidly.

I'll call in tomorrow," I said, and Walt Barnett nodded without
speaking.  He had shown no emotion throughout the cat's illness.

Next day when I entered the office I found the usual scene.  The huge
figure in his chair, brown trilby on the back of his head, cigarette
hanging from his lips, the cat in the basket on the desk.

Fred was still and as I approached I saw with a dull feeling of
inevitability that he was not breathing.  I put my stethoscope over his
heart for a few moments and then looked up.

"I'm afriad he's dead, Mr.  Barnett."

The big man did not change expression.  He reached slowly across and
rubbed his forefinger against the dark fur in that familiar gesture.
Then he put his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his
hands.

I did not know what to say, but watched helplessly as his shoulders
began to shake and tears welled between the thick fingers.  He stayed
like that for some time, then he spoke.

"He was my friend, "he said.

I still could find no words and the silence was heavy in the room until
he suddenly pulled his hands from his face.

He glared at me defiantly.  "Aye, ah know what you're thinkin'.  This
is that big tough bugger, Walt Barnett, cryin' his eyes out over a cat.
What a joke!  I reckon you'll have a bloody good laugh later on."

Evidently he was sure that what he considered a display of weakness
would lower my opinion of him, and yet he was so wrong.  I have liked
him better ever since.

August 9,1963

There was a general chattering and lightening of spirits when we landed
safely and taxied to a halt.  With everybody else I climbed out and
looked around.  We were standing on a wide concreted airfield.  Nearby
there was a hangar, away on the other side a long stretch of coarse
grass ran down to the sea and over everything the beautiful hot
sunshine washed in a comforting flood.  The airport buildings were
about a quarter of a mile away and far beyond in the shimmering heat
haze I could just make out the high buildings of the city.  It was just
eight o'clock.  We would unload the cattle and then there would be most
of the day to explore Istanbul.  I felt a tinge of excitement at the
prospect.

The two farmers were soon ready for action, ja.kets off, sleeves rolled
up.  Noel grinned at me as he flexed his muscles after the long night
of inactivity.  "Where are the wagons?"  he asked.

It was a good question.  Where indeed were they?  They should have been
awaiting our arrival, but I scanned the airfield in vain.  Karl went
over to the buildings to make enquiries but returned looking
despondent.

"Nobody knows," he said.  "We wait."

So we waited as the sun beat on the concrete and the sweat trickled
inside our shirts.  It was over an hour later when the wagons rolled
up.

Just then, the captain's tall form hovered over me.  "Mr.  Herriot."
The grave eyes looked down and he ran a finger over his beard.  Again I
felt the impact of a masterful personality.  "Mr.  Herriot, there are a
few things I must do.  I have to see about getting that engine repaired
and there is the hotel accommodation to arrange.  I am leaving now and
I rely on you to supervise things here."

"Okay," I replied.  "Don't worry.  I'll see that the animals are all
right."

He nodded slowly.  "Good, good," then he swept the two farmers with his
unsmiling gaze.  "And that goes for you chaps, too.  I don't want any
of you to leave this spot until the last cow has been taken away.  You
do understand me?"

We mumbled our assent.  I don't suppose many people would have tried to
argue with Captain Birch.  Anyway, the mention of the hotel had lit a
cheerful spark in me as I remembered John Crooks' description of his
five-star oppulence.  I am not attracted by continual luxury but I do
like a little bit now and again.  Especially now.  I was hot and sweaty
and very hungry.  The sandwiches at Gatwick were only a hazy memory and
the thought of a bath and a good meal was idyllic.  I wanted the
unloading to be as quick as possible.

The farmers seemed to have the same idea, because they already had the
first batch of heifers on the hoist.  Little Karl pulled a lever, there
was a long high-pitched whine but nothing happened.  He operated the
lever again with the same result.

"The hoist, she is jammed," he said, and began to fiddle about with
switches and other parts of the mechanism.  Finally he dealt the
shining metal a vicious kick.  He shrugged his shoulders and looked at
us.  "Is no good.  I have to get electrician."

He ambled off to the airport buildings and the three of us were left
looking at each other in some dismay.  It was getting hotter by the
minute.

It was half-past ten before he returned with a man in white overalls
who appeared determined to take the hoist to pieces.  He muttered and
exclaimed in Turkish all the time and I just hoped he knew his business
because he was taking an age to find the cause of the trouble. Finally,
after an hour and a half, the hoist answered to the pull on the lever
and began to move.  But we had lost a lot of time.

Meanwhile it was reassuring to see a party of mechanics working on the
damaged engine.  I hoped even more fervently that they knew their
stuff.

As Noel and Joe leaped into action and commenced the unloading, a party
of Turkish vets arrived to inspect the animals.  They were a most
impressive group handsome, olive-skinned men in smart lightweight
suits, much more prosperous looking than the average British vet.  Only
one of them spoke English but he did so almost without accent.

"Beautiful creatures, Mr.  Herriot," he murmured as the first cattle
were ushered up the ramp into the wagons.  The other vets, too, clucked
their appreciation and I felt personally proud that Britain could still
lead the world in this field.  So many countries had to turn to our
green pastures to find livestock to improve their own strains.

The head man explained that they were all government vets from the
Turkish Ministry of Agriculture and their job was to examine the
animals for health and to ensure that all the ear numbers were correct.
We both laughed heartily at this because it seemed that in Turkey an
ear number is as world-shakingly important and sacrosanct as in
England.

The unloading was a painfully slow business.  The electrician hadn't
done a perfect job, because the hoist kept stopping in mid-air for
tense periods while Karl tugged at the lever and swore, but it always
restarted and the work went on.  Fortunately the animals' wagons were
shaded by the hangar, because the sun was truly fierce.  Also they had
water and some hay, so they were comfortable.

The same could not be said of the farmers and myself.  I was dirty,
sweaty, unshaven and starving and I was only popping up and down from
aircraft to ground, supervising things.  How Joe and Noel felt,
wrestling with the cattle, I could not imagine.  And all the time
Istanbul lay tantalisingly out of reach.

As the hours wore on and the sun blazed there was no sign of the
captain, but the two young Americans, Ed and Dave, wandered over
frequently to inspect the repairs on the engine.  Occasionally they
stopped and chatted to me about their life and job and I found them
most likeable men.  They didn't seem to have a care in the world.  They
slouched around smilingly in their baggy suits, hands deep in their
pockets.  Those pockets, I was to find out later, were filled with the
currency of a dozen nations.  Pesetas rubbed shoulders with drachmas,
guilders, lira, dimes, kroners and shillings.  They roamed the world in
their old aircraft, free as birds, taking each day and new country as
it came and, though hardly more than boys, they must have seen almost
everything.  They have remained in my mind as true soldiers of
fortune.

It was around four o'clock when the last heifer entered its wagon and
the Turkish vets were completing their examination.  Noel came up to
me.  His shirt was a wet rag clinging to his chest and he wiped his
streaming face with his forearm.  "I tell you, Jim," he said.  "Moi
stomach thinks moi throat's cut."

"Mine too, Noel," I replied.  "I'm ravenous.  I've gone nearly round
the clock since the sandwiches at Gatwick."

"Oi could murder a pint, too," Joe put in.  "Can't remember when oi've
had such a bloody thirst on."

It seemed that our troubles weren't over yet.  The vets were taking
their time over the inspection, but at any rate there did not seem to
be any complaints.  They were clearly satisfied with what they saw.

Unfortunately this did not last.  From our place under the
Globemaster's wing where we were sheltering from the sun,

27S

we saw a sudden stillness fall on the group of men.  They were looking
in a cow's ear and consulting a sheaf of papers again and again and
even from a distance I sensed the tension.  Then there followed a
consultation followed by a lot of waving of arms.

Finally the head vet shouted across.  "Mr.  Herriot, come here,
please!"

With the farmers I walked over to the wagon.

"Mr.  Herriot," the man went on, 'we have found a wrong number."  His
dark complexion had paled and his lips trembled.  The expressions on
the faces of the other men in the group were uniformly distraught.

I groaned inwardly.  The unthinkable had happened.

One of the vets, upright and set-faced, waved me towards the offending
cow with a dramatic gesture of his arm.  I climbed into the wagon and
looked in the ear.  It was number fifteen.  With the same theatrical
flourish the vet handed me the sheaf of papers.  They contained the
descriptions, ages and numbers of the animals, and sure enough, no
number fifteen.

I smiled weakly.  I wasn't sure whether this was my responsibility or
not.  I had checked off all the numbers on our own sheet when we loaded
at Gatwick and I thought they all tallied.  Had I made some awful boob?
It made it worse being so far from home.

I turned to Joe.  "You brought the list from Jersey, didn't you?"

"Oi did," Joe replied with an edge of belligerence in his voice.  "And
it's correct.  It's in moi bag."

"Slip over and get it will you, Joe?"  I said.  "We'll see if we can
sort this out."

The farmer strolled unhurriedly to the Globemaster, climbed inside and
duly returned with the sheet.

Breathlessly I scanned the list.  "There it is!"  I said triumphantly.
"Pedigree number, then number fifteen!"  Relief flowed through me.  We
were saved.

The Turkish vet took Joe's list and retired for a further consultation.
For a long time there was an incomprehensible chattering and much
brandishing of arms, then apparently there was a unanimous decision.
All the men nodded firmly and some of them folded their arms.  The head
man stepped forward, taut-faced.

"Mr.  Herriot, we have concluded that there is only one thing to do.
You will understand that we have to follow our own list.  There is no
guarantee that this is the animal which we purchased originally so with
regret I have to tell you that you must take her back."

"Take her back!"  This was a bombshell.  "But that's impossible!"  I
cried.  "This cow doesn't just come from England, she is from the
island of Jersey.  I can't see any way of doing what you say."

"I am sorry," he said, 'but nothing can change our decision.  We cannot
accept a wrong animal.  How you do it is your concern, but you must
take her back."  , "But .. . but .. ."  I quavered.  "How do you know
it's a wrong animal?  The whole thing is probably a simple clerical
error at your office."

He drew himself up to his full height.  He was a well-fleshed
six-footer and he looked most impressive as he stared at me and held up
his hand.  "Mr.  Herriot, I repeat, what I have said is irrevocable."

"I... I... well, you see .. ."  I was beginning to gabble when I felt
Joe's hand on my arm.  He eased me gently to one side and stepped up in
front of the head vet.  He put his hands on his hips and pushed his
craggy, sweat-soaked face close to the man's moustache.  His steady
eyes held the imperious stare of the Turk for several seconds before he
spoke.

"Oi ain't takin' 'er baack, mate," he said in his slow drawl.  "That's
moi job and oi ain't takin' 'er baack."  The voice was soft, the words
unhurried, but they held a wonderful note of finality and the effect
was dramatic.  The big man's facade collapsed with startling
suddenness.  His whole face seemed to crumble and he looked at Joe with
an almost pathetic appeal.  His mouth opened and I thought he was going
to say something but instead he turned slowly and re-joined his
friends.

There was a murmured consultation punctuated by shrugging of shoulders
and sorrowful glances in the farmer's direction, then the head man gave
the signal for the wagons to move away.  The battle was over.

"Bless you, Joe," I said.  "I thought we'd had it that time."

We obeyed the captain's instructions and hung around till the cows had
left the airfield.  It pleased me to think they were heading for a good
life.  They were all going to top class pedigree farms, in fact they
were animal VIPs.

I was also pleased when my Turkish colleagues came up and bade us
goodbye in the most cordial manner.  I had an uncomfortable feeling
that the incident might have spoiled their day, but they were all
smiles and appeared to have recovered magically.

I looked at my watch.  Five o'clock.  We had been out on that oven of
an airfield for nine hours.  It was actually seven o'clock Turkish
time, so the precious day was fast slipping away.  I felt at the
stubble on my chin.  The first thing was a shave and a wash.

With the farmers I made my way over to the airport terminal and in the
men's room we stripped off, drank a lot of water and made our
ablutions.  I have a vivid memory of a little man who kept dabbing talc
on my bare back all the time.  I thought he was working for a tip but
all he wanted was one of my razor blades which I gave him.

"That's better," Noel said as we came into the lounge.  "If only we
could get some grub.  Oi'm famished."

I knew how he felt.  My appetite now was wolfish, but surely food
couldn't be far away.

This hope received a boost when we saw the towering form of Captain
Birch striding towards us.

"I've been looking for you fellows," he said.  "There are a few things
I want to tell you.  Come and sit down over here."

We arranged ourselves on padded chairs round a small table and the
sombre eyes looked us over for few moments before he spoke.

"I don't know who is in charge of your party, but I'll address my
remarks to you, Mr.  Herriot."

"Right."

"Now I'm sorry to tell you that all attempts to rectify the oil leak in
the engine have failed."

"Oh."

"This means we will have to fly the aircraft on three engines to our
headquarters in Copenhagen for major repairs."

"I see."

"It also means that you chaps can't come with us."

"What!"

His expression softened.  "I'm sorry to have to spring this on you, but
the position is, frankly, that the aircraft is in an unsafe condition
and we are not allowed to carry passengers or any personnel but the
crew."

"But..  ."  I asked the obvious question.  "How do we get home?"

"I've been thinking about that," the captain replied.  "The obvious
thing is to contact the Export Company in London by telephone I have
their number here and I'm sure they will make arrangements for you to
be flown to England."

"Well .. . thank you ... I suppose that would be the thing to do."
Another thought occurred to me.  "You say the aircraft is unsafe?"

The majestic head nodded gravely.  "That is so."

"In other words, you might never make Copenhagen."

"Quite.  There is that possibility.  Flying over the Alps under these
circumstances is going to be a little tricky."

"But how about you?  How about you and the crew?"

"Ah, yes."  He smiled and suddenly he looked like a kind man.  "It's
good of you to ask, but this is our job.  We have to go, don't you
understand?  It's our job."

I turned to the farmers.  "Well, I suppose we'd better do as the
captain says."

They nodded silently.  They looked shattered and I felt the same.  But
I took the point about that strange aeroplane.  If one engine had given
up, how reliable were the other three?

"I'd better find a phone, then.  Will I do it from here or from the
hotel?"

The captain cleared his throat.  "That's another thing I was going to
mention.  I haven't been able to find a hotel."

"Eh?"

"Afraid not," he said.  "I've tried everywhere but it's some kind of a
public holiday here and all the hotels are booked."

I had nothing to say to this.  Everything was turning out great.

"But don't worry," he went on.  "I am assured that if we go a few miles
up the Bosphorus we'll find some little place which will put us up."

Some little place .. . The visions of five-starred splendour evaporated
rapidly.

"Yes, of course."  The captain smiled again encouragingly.  "I've got a
minibus outside.  We'll soon find somewhere."

Dave and Ed were already installed in the little vehicle, lounging
comfortably in their silky suits.

"Hi," they said cheerfully.  "Hi," said little Karl grinning at us from
the back seat.  Such contretemps were no doubt part of their normal
lives and they were taking everything in their stride.  I made a sudden
resolve to do the same.  Things were looking a bit sticky, but I was
here in Istanbul and I was going to enjoy what little time I had.

I fished out my camera.  I had taken some pictures of the flight and of
the Globemaster during the unloading.  Even if it was a fleeting thing
I would capture some memories of this city.  As the minibus shot
through the streets I snapped away like mad and when I wasn't snapping
I was devouring the scene greedily.  The knowledge that I was going to
have only a short time in these surroundings made every new spectacle
imprint itself on my mind.

As we sped through the teeming traffic on that gloriously sunny
evening, exquisite mosques and minarets towered incongruously over
modern tenements, then unexpectedly there would be a long stretch of
waste ground with stubbly scorched grass and garish bill-boards.
Tremendous stone aqueducts, ancient and overgrown, appeared briefly in
our 280

windows and were gone before I could do more than catch them on my
film.  The massive ruins of the walls of old Constantinople, the
crumbling fortresses on the shattered walls I glimpsed them briefly,
but even today among my photographs I can still look at the slightly
blurred images beyond the smeared glass.

Among all these wonders eddied the Istanbul street scene.  The vendors
of coloured cordials, sweetmeats and peaches, the dark-skinned
pedestrians in Kemal Ataturk's obligatory westernised clothes; the
women in cotton dresses, the men in an outfit of shirt and slacks so
unvarying that it looked like a uniform.

Soon we were running along the side of the Bosphorus, surely one of the
most beautiful and romantic waterways in the world.  Wide and blue,
bounded by tree-lined hills where elegant houses and even palaces
nestled.  Families sunned themselves on chairs on the little beaches,
while out on the water a great variety of craft lay at anchor.  There
were large modern ships, fishing smacks and some wonderful old wooden
vessels.

I had a fair opportunity to view the Bosphorus because we kept stopping
in our efforts to find accommodation.  At last we were successful and
we climbed out of the minibus in front of a small building.  It wasn't
Claridges nor was it a flea pit.  It was an unpretentious little hotel
up a side street.

The members of the staff were friendly and cheerful, but I had a strong
impression that they couldn't care less whether we stayed there or not.
I managed to communicate to the manager that I wanted to telephone
London.  Smilingly he assured me that I would have to go to the local
post office for that and said there was a taxi nearby.

The taxi whirled me through the streets with the same reckless speed as
our minibus driver.  This is something I had noticed straight away; all
traffic seemed to proceed at about seventy miles an hour.

At the post office I explained my needs to a little fat lady who nodded
and smiled repeatedly.  She knew enough English to assure me that all
would be well.

She lifted a phone and made enquiries.  Turning back to me, she beamed
happily.  "Long wait, maybe hour.  You go hotel, I send taxi."

When I got back to the hotel all my colleagues had been installed in
rooms.  There seemed to be no reception desk so I asked various members
of the staff where I was to sleep.  My queries were received with
uncomprehending shrugs until I found the manager again.  He seemed to
take a certain amount of pleasure in telling me that there was no room
for me, but my obvious dismay softened his heart because he took me
downstairs and showed me into a cell-like apartment in the basement
where he left me.  There was a single unmade bed with rumpled pile of
old blankets on a chair in a corner.  That was all, but I was thankful
for it.  The bathroom was a long, long way away.

But then all my senses were submerged by one thing the smell of food. A
rich, spicy aroma was beginning to pervade the little place and I began
to stumble towards its source.  I suppose eating nothing for more than
twenty-four hours is an unimportant detail to people who go on diets
and visit health farms, but I have always believed in a regular hearty
intake and at that moment I was more ravenous than I have ever been in
my life.

I found the dining-room, where the crew and the farmers were already at
the table and as I sat down with them the glorious victuals began to
arrive.  Great heaped-up plates of kebabs resting on beds of saffron
rice and peppers, steaming bowls of mixed vegetables and an abundance
of coarse Turkish bread.  I love bread and I bit into this stuff
immediately.  It was delicious and Ed laughed as he saw my expression.
"Good, isn't it," he said.  "It's got sunflower seeds in it."

Whether it had or it hadn't it was some of the best bread I have ever
tasted.  But I couldn't wait to get at the serious eating and I was
posing my fork over the skewer laden with chunks of assorted meats when
the taxi driver burst into the room.

"Mr.  Herroot, come quick.  Phone, phone!"

I could have wept.  To have my food snatched from me 282

before I had even started was too much.  But this was important.  I
dropped my fork and hurried out.  Once more I was swept at breakneck
speed to the post office where the fat lady, still all smiles,
indicated the phone.

I tried a lot of "Hello, hello' before I heard anything and then it was
a faint voice in the crackling distance, "Meester Harrioot, Meester
Harrioot'.  I replied with a "Yes, yes, Herriot speaking', but that was
as far as I got.  I don't want to bore anybody with a detailed account
of my session with that phone.  Sufficient to say that it lasted about
three-quarters of an hour and was made up of long silences, hopeful
clicks and crackles and every few minutes that tiny voice, "Meester
Harrioot'.  My desperate outbursts were totally wasted.

Only once was there a shaft of light in the darkness when a very
English female voice said loudly as though from the same room, "Oh God,
I can't hear a thing!"  That was evidently London and I set up an
almost tearful yammering reply, but the silence came down again, and
though I waited hopefully the voice never came back.

As I looked out at the gathering dusk in the street the realisation
grew on me that I was never going to get through.

I thanked the fat lady and left.

At the hotel I didn't know how much to pay the taxi driver so I held
out a handful of notes.  A huge grin split his face as he selected a
few but before he could get them into his pocket a little man,
apparently one of the staff, dashed down the steps and grabbed the
money from him.  He reduced the amount by about half which he handed
back to me, then he shook his fist in the man's face and showered him
with eloquent abuse before getting out of the car.

The driver's big grin never slipped and he bade me goodnight with a
courteous wave of the hand before leaving.

I thanked my benefactor but as I passed into the hotel my spirits were
touching zero.  I was stranded in Istanbul with no prospect of ever
returning to hearth and home, my relaxing trip to the Orient had so far
turned out to be a fairly steady-going fiasco.  I was hungrier than I
had ever been in my life and I had missed my supper.

On top of that I wasn't looking forward to telling my two nice farmers
that I had failed them.  Not my fault, of course, but it had been left
to me to organise something and I was coming back empty-handed.

Joe and Noel were waiting for me in the dining-room.  I was touched
that they were more concerned about my food than their immediate
future.

Noel leaped to his feet.  "We asked them to keep it warm for you, Jim,"
he cried, and ran from the room.  Within minutes he was back with a
tray with the entire meal, including the gorgeous bread.

They watched in silence as I devoured everything down to the last
crumb, then they looked at me expectantly.

Tm sorry chaps," I said.  "I had no joy there."  I gave them details of
my forty-five minutes in the post office.

When I had finished my story they looked pretty glum.  Joe stared down
at his knees.  "What the 'ell are we going to do, Jim?"

A few minutes ago I would have been compelled to say I had no idea, but
maybe the food had stimulated my brain because suddenly everything
became clear.

"I didn't bring much with me from home," I said.  "But I did bring a
cheque book.  I'll go to the BEA desk at the airport tomorrow and get
three tickets to London.  The Export Company will reimburse me later.
It's obvious, isn't it?  There was no need for all that phoning
tonight."

The mood of our little company cheered magically and we were doing a
bit of mutual back-slapping when I saw the captain passing the
doorway.

I ran out and told him about our plan.

"Yes," he said seriously.  "That sounds like a good scheme."  He paused
and looked at his watch.  "The only alternative would be to go to the
British Consul, but it's after nine now -I don't suppose they'd be able
to arrange anything at this time of night, and we're taking off at ten
o'clock tomorrow morning.  No, I think yours is the best idea."

When he had gone we were gripped by a frothy elation.

"We got nothing to worry about, Jim, boy," said Joe.  "So we 284

might as well enjoy ourselves.  Oi could still murder that pint, so
let's go out on the town and enjoy ourselves."

Joe's pint was our immediate goal and there is no doubt we were three
country cousins because searching for a pub in a Muslim city is a
fruitless venture, but, full of enthusiasm, we piled into a taxi.

The night life in Istanbul seemed to be just getting into its stride.
The streets were crowded and the traffic had, if possible, speeded up
after dark.  Our taxi catapulted between other hurtling vehicles, the
driver exchanging a running fire of shouted insults with his
colleagues.  I was relieved when he deposited us in what we hoped was
the city centre.

Immediately in the warm darkness I was reminded that we were in the
Orient.  I could see nothing now of the romantic buildings and ruins,
only the lighted shop windows, but the air was filled with mysterious
scents and over everything hung the heavy aroma of Turkish tobacco.

My other overriding impression was the noise; an unbroken strident
chorus of automobile horns of every conceivable pitch punctuated by the
screeching of brakes and the roar of engines.

In our search for a pub we gazed into the windows of many interesting
shops.  Some were selling rugs and other souvenirs of the area and I
was intrigued by the large number of bakers who were turning out very
sweet-looking cakes and confections and doing a brisk trade.

We stuck to one side of the street because it seemed like suicide to
head into that boiling torrent of vehicles.  There were in fact
pedestrian crossings, but I noticed only one unfortunate little man
trying to negotiate one.  He was about halfway across when, to my
horror, a car struck him and sent him flying high in a tangle of arms
and legs.  In Britain that motorist would have been heavily fined and
received a dressing-down from the magistrates but as I watched, a large
helmeted policeman loomed over the injured victim who stood trembling
in his inevitable shirt and slacks and rubbing his backside.  The
policeman shook his truncheon over the little man's head and bawled out
a flood of vituperation which was unintelligible to me except for one
word which sounded very like 'stupido' and vividly reflected his
attitude in the matter.  He never even looked at the driver of the
car.

"Hey, look, Jim."  Joe nudged me.  "There's a lot of fellers goin' in
there.  How about it?"

Joe's quest for a pint was becoming an obsession so I acquiesced and
followed him through a doorway and up a long staircase.  We came out on
an open balcony which was really the flat roof of the shop beneath and
to the farmers' disgust scores of shirt-sleeved men were sitting at
tables smoking and drinking coffee out of tiny cups.

We would have retreated then, but a waiter was upon us so we sat down
and ordered the coffee.  It was very thick and very sweet and both Joe
and Noel screwed up their faces, but I rather liked it.  I also enjoyed
just sitting there above the roar and smell of the city, taking in the
atmosphere of the place.  In my hurried visit to Istanbul this is one
of my persisting memories, and rightly or wrongly it appealed to me as
a typical scene.

After the coffee we resumed our tour of the streets, with Joe becoming
more depressed by the minute.  Then he suddenly gave tongue.  "Look in
there, lads!  That's a bit more like it!"  He pointed through a window
at a big brightly lit room where a large number of men and women were
sitting around drinking from tall glasses.  There wasn't a coffee cup
in sight.

He did not hesitate but opened a swing door and bustled inside with
Noel and I following.  We sat down at a vacant table and Joe beckoned
to a waiter.

"Drink!  Drink!"  he said, and when the man's face registered polite
incomprehension he made the unmistakable motion raising a glass to his
lips.

The waiter smiled immediately and brought a tray bearing three tumblers
of bright red liquid.  I offered him money but he shook his head,
laughed and walked away.

"What the 'ell's this?"  Joe grunted.  He tried a sip and pulled a
worse face than over the coffee.  "It's bloody lemonade!"  he
spluttered.

I tried it myself.  It wasn't lemonade.  It was a bland, syrupy
concoction, sickly sweet and obviously non-alcoholic.  It was too
sugary for me, but Noel, who, I suspected, wasn't much of a drinker,
seemed to enjoy it.

"All right, this," he said, imbibing contentedly.

Joe looked at him in disgust.  Like me, he could not tackle the stuff,
whatever it was, and with an air of defeat he flopped back in his
chair.

Within a few minutes the same waiter came back with a dish of cakes and
pastries and laid them before us.  Again he refused any money and
walked away, laughing and shaking his head.

Biting into one of the sticky cakes, I found it had the same
characteristic as the coffee and the coloured drinks.  It seemed to me
that a sweet tooth would be a prerequisite for anybody living in
Istanbul.

However, it was an interesting scene.  The big room was crowded with
beautifully dressed people I noticed that most of the women wore white
evening gowns and they nibbled the cakes and drank from glasses like
ours not only bright red liquid but equally brilliant blue, green and
yellow.

When I saw that several children were present something began to stir
in the back of my mind.  The children were playing among the tables and
some of the adults were moving from group to group as though they knew
everybody.

"Hey, wait a minute," I said.  "Do you know what I think?"

Joe gave me a sideways glance.  "What?"

"I think this is a private party and we've gate-crashed it."

Both the farmers sat up suddenly as I went on.  "Those kids down there,
and all the people seem to be friends.  And remember that waiter who
thought it was funny to be offered money?"

Just at that moment a handsome young couple appeared at the far end of
the room the man in a dark suit, the girl in a glittering spangled
bridal gown.

"My God!"  I said.  "It's a wedding reception!"

And it was indeed.  The newly-weds moved around among their guests and
when they reached us I half expected to be

28-7

thrown out, but on the contrary they seemed to regard our presence as a
gracious courtesy visit.  They bowed and shook hands with us and made
us welcome with smiles and gestures.  Before they moved on, the bride
gave each of us a long silver thread.  She did this with some ceremony
and I deduced that it was an honoured local custom, the thread having
possibly been taken from her gown.  In any case I took it in this
spirit and I carried that thread in my wallet for many years
thereafter, until it gradually disintegrated.

We were still recovering from our surprise when two men in traditional
Turkish dress appeared on a stage at the other end of the room.  They
were obviously entertainers and comedians to boot, because very soon
the room was echoing with laughter.  It was strange for the three of us
sitting there to hear the totally unintelligible cross-talk followed by
roars of mirth, the little children jumping up and down and clapping
their hands in delight.

They were versatile chaps, those two.  When they had finished being
funny, one of them produced a one-string fiddle and began to play,
while the other sang in that peculiar wail which is associated only
with eastern countries.

I had no way of telling whether it was a love song, a happy song or a
sad song, but as I listened to that strange ululation going on and on I
felt very far from home.

It was about then that my eyelids began to droop.  I remembered that I
had had only two hours' sleep last night and that rather a lot had
happened in a short time.  I was very tired and when I turned to look
at my farmer friends I saw that Joe was nodding and Noel was slumbering
peacefully, his chin on his chest.

I stood up and suggested that we ought to leave.  They didn't need much
persuading.

Back in the hotel I descended to my basement room and made up the bed
from the pile of blankets on the chair.  I would have fallen asleep
immediately but from somewhere quite close at hand came the same
wailing which I had heard at the wedding reception.  At first I thought
I was dreaming, but then I realised there was a party going on in one
of the 288

hotel rooms.  It was a noisy party, too, with screams of laughter,
outbursts of music, thumping of dancing feet.  It went on and on and it
must have been the middle of the night before the din subsided and I
fell into an exhausted sleep.

I stood, head bowed, leaning on my great guillotine which stood chest
high.  It occurred to me that my pose was exactly that of the
executioner resting against his axe as I had seen in old pictures of
the beheading of Sir Walter Raleigh and other unfortunates.

However, I wasn't wearing a hood, I was standing in a deep-str awed
fold yard, not on a scaffold, and I was waiting for a bullock to be
dehorned, not for a hapless victim to lay his head upon the block.

In the fifties, bovine horns quite suddenly went out of fashion.  To
veterinary surgeons and most farmers their passing was unlamented.
Horns were at best a nuisance, at worst extremely dangerous.  They
worked their way under vets' coats and pulled off the buttons and tore
out pockets.  They could whip round and bash the hand, arm or even the
head of a man injecting the neck, and of course in the case of a really
wild cow or bull they could be instruments of death.

Horns were a menace, too, to other bovines.  Some cows and bullocks
were natural bullies and one animal could impose a reign of terror on
its more timid neighbours, driving them away viciously from food
troughs in open yards and inflicting savage wounds on any who resisted.
The farmers in Yorkshire used to call these injuries 'hipes' and they
ranged from massive haematomata over the ribs to deep lacerations of
the udder.  It was strange how a boss cow would always go for the udder
and the results were often ruinous.  Since the passing of horns you
never hear the word 'hipe' now.

L.G.M.T.A.-K 28q

There were farmers, notably pedigree breeders, who attached great
importance to well-set horns and pointed out that a neat, 'cocky'
little horn looked well in the show ring and that their highly bred
animals would be disfigured, but their voices were lost in the tumult
of abolition.

One down-to-earth dairyman said to me at the time, "You don't get much
milk out of a bloody horn," and that seemed to be the general
attitude.

From my own point of view the only thing I missed was that convenient
handle to get hold of a cow.  For many years I had smacked one hand
down on the horn, then pushed the fingers of the other hand into the
nose, but after the dehorning revolution there was nothing to grasp.
Most cows were expert at tucking their noses down on the ground or
round the other side where you couldn't get at them, but that was a
small thing.

So by and large the disappearance of these dangerous and largely
useless appendages was a great blessing but, oh dear, there was one
tremendous snag.  The horns didn't just go away by themselves.  They
had to be removed by the vets, and that removal wrote a gory and ham
fisted chapter in veterinary history which still hangs like a dark
cloud in my memory.

I suppose Siegfried and I reacted just like the other members of our
profession.  As the situation arose and we looked out on a countryside
apparently dominated by a waving forest of horns we wondered how we
would start.  Was it to be general or local anaesthesia?  Did we saw
them off or chop them off?

In the beginning, the 'chop' school appeared to hold sway because there
were many advertisements in the Veterinary Record for
villainous-looking guillotines.  We ordered one of these, but we both
experienced a sense of shock when we unpacked it.  As I said, it was
nearly as tall as a small man and its weight was frightening.
Siegfried, groaning slightly, hefted the thing by its long wooden
handles till the huge sliding blades were at eye level, then he lowered
it quickly and leaned against the wall.

He took a long shuddering breath.  "Hell, you need to be a 290

trained athlete just to lift that bloody thing!"  He paused in thought.
"There's no doubt we'll need something like that for the big beasts but
surely we can find something else for the little st irks  He raised a
finger.  "James, I believe I know the very thing."

"You do?"

"Yes.  I saw some nice light hedge-clippers in Albert Kenning's window
yesterday.  I bet they'd do the job.  Tell you what let's go round and
try them."

When Siegfried had one of his ideas he didn't mess about.  Within
seconds we were hurrying, almost a trot, through the market place to
the ironmonger's.  I followed close on Siegfried's heels as he burst
into the shop.

"Albert!"  he shouted.  "Those hedge-clippers.  Let's have a look at
them!"

They certainly looked all right.  Round, gleaming wooden shafts
terminating in small curved blades which crossed each other scissors
wise

"Mm, yes," I said.  "Do you think they'll be strong enough to cut
through a little horn?"

"Only one way to find out."  Siegfried brandished his new weapon.
"Fetch me one of those canes, Albert!"

The little man turned towards a bundle of thick bamboos which were on
sale for tying up flowers and shrubs.  "These?"

That's right.  Look sharp."

Alberst selected a cane and brought it over.

"Now hold it out towards me," Siegfried said.  "No, no, no, upright.
That's fine."

Starting at the top he began to clip off inch lengths of the bamboo at
lightning speed.  The fragments flew in all directions and Albert had
to duck several times as they flew past his ears.  But he was more
anxious about his hand as the blades worked rapidly downwards.
Apprehensively he kept lowering his grasp until Siegfried made his
final slash an inch above his thumb.  Holding the tiny stump at arm's
length he looked wide-eyed at my colleague.

But Siegfried wasn't finished yet.  He continued to chop away at the
air, obviously enjoying his work.  "Let's have another one, Albert!"

Wordlessly the little man produced a second cane, half closed his eyes
and held it as far away from his body as possible.

My colleague recommenced his onslaught with such vigour that the woody
cylinders whizzed around the shop like machine-gun bullets.  A customer
entering by the door backed away and took cover behind a stack of
milking buckets.

Albert had gone pale by the time Siegfried demolished the second cane,
finishing once more just above the little man's thumb.

"Grand little machine, this, James."  Siegfried hesitated, tried a few
more practice snips, then turned to the ironmonger.  "Just one more,
Albert."

"Really, Mr.  Farnon, don't ye think..  ."

"C'mon, c'mon, we've got work to do.  Don't hang about!"

This time the little man's jaw dropped and the cane wobbled
uncontrollably in his grasp.  Siegfried, obviously determined to make
the most of this last test, put everything into his effort and his
movements were almost too rapid to follow.  There was a brief fusillade
of clippings, then Albert was left breathless, clutching his small
remnant.

"Splendid!"  Siegfried cried happily.  "We'll take it.  How much?"

"Twelve an' six," gasped the ironmonger.

"And the canes?"

"Oh,er..  . another shilling

My colleague delved in his pocket and pulled out a handful of notes,
coins and small veterinary instruments.  "There's a quid among that
lot, Albert.  Help yourself."

Tremblingly the little man extracted the pound from Siegfried's palm
then crunched over the carpet of bamboo clippings to get change.

Siegfried crammed the money into his pocket without looking and tucked
his new purchase under his arm.  "Goodbye, Albert, and thank you," he
said and we left.

' As I passed the shop window at a brisk pace I could see the
ironmonger following us wonderingly with his eyes.

The hedge-clippers did indeed perform nobly for us with the smaller
bovines, but there were so many other complications.  For a long time
we use general anaesthesia by means of the chloroform muzzle and when
the animal collapsed unconscious we whipped the horns off quickly.  But
we found to our dismay that the haemorrhage was massive and terrifying.
Red jets fountained several feet in the air, spraying everything and
everybody for yards around.  In those days you could always tell when a
vet had been out dehorning because his collar and face were spattered
with blood.

An ingenious tourniquet was devised by laying a length of binder twine
long ways to the inside of each horn, then encircling both horns with
another piece of twine.  By knotting the first two tightly over the
encircling one the arteries were effectively compressed and haemorrhage
was nil.

But then often the chopping blades severed the twine and we were in
trouble again.

As time passed two advances emerged.  The first was that by removing
the horn by sawing, and taking about half an inch of skin with it,
there was virtually no bleeding.  The second was that local anaesthesia
was infinitely easier and more effective.  It was quite simple to
inject a few ccs of local under the temporal ridge and into the branch
of the fifth cranial nerve which supplies the horn.  There was nothing
to it and it gave a perfect nerve block.  The animal couldn't feel a
thing.

I have seen cows chewing their cud while I sawed away, and this
merciful improvement in our method signalled the end of all the old
things.  The horrible choppers and guillotines and tourniquets
disappeared almost overnight.

Nowadays, of course, a horn is rarely seen anywhere because calves are
painlessly disbudded early in life using this same nerve block.  But as
I say, the whole period of adult dehorning left a scar on my memory,
and it was during the guillotine period that Andrew Bruce came to visit
me.

For several years after the war people were still renewing contact with
each other.  The war brought the normal lives of so many people to a
full stop that the ensuing period was a time of taking stock, of
looking around and wondering what had happened to one's friends.

Andrew and I had not met since our schooldays and I hardly recognised
the dark-suited, bowler-hatted figure on the doorstep.  It turned out
that he was doing very nicely in a bank in Glasgow and was on a
business trip down south when he saw the sign to Darrowby and decided
to pay me a call.  A lot of my schoolmates seemed to have gone into
banking and since I have always had to use my fingers for counting I
regarded these men with a certain amount of awe.

"I don't know how you do it, Andy," I said after lunch.  "I wouldn't
last a couple of days in your job."

He shrugged and smiled.  "Oh, it's meat and drink to me.  I loved maths
at school if you remember."

"Oh yes," I shivered.  That's right.  You used to get prizes for
dreadful things like trigonometry."

We chatted for a few minutes over our coffee, then I stood up.  "I'm
afraid I've got to go," I said.  "I have to be on a farm by
two-fifteen."

"Okay, Jim .. He hesitated for a moment.  "Do you think I could come
with you?  I've never seen a country vet at work and I could easily
drive to Birmingham this evening."

I smiled.  So many people wanted to accompany me on my rounds.  There
seemed to be some fascination in the veterinary life.  "Of course you
can, Andy.  But I don't think you'll find it very entertaining.  All I
have is an afternoon's dehorning."

"Really?  Sounds interesting.  I'd love to come if you don't mind."

I found a spare pair of Wellingtons for him and we got into the car. As
we drove away I noticed him looking around him; at the boxes of bottles
and instruments on the back seat, at my clothes which contrasted so
sharply with his own natty outfit.  At that time I had discarded the
breeches and leggings which were almost a vet's uniform when I
qualified, and now wore brown corduroy trousers with a sort of canvas
jacket which had been made for me by a German prisoner-of-var and which
I had cherished for years.

The corduroys were frayed and stiffened with mud and muck, and the
jacket too, despite the protective clothing which I always wore, bore
ample evidence of my trade.

I could see Andy's nostrils wrinkling as he took in the rich bouquet of
manure, dog hairs and assorted chemicals which was the normal
atmosphere in my car, but after a few minutes he appeared to forget
everything as he gazed out of the window.

It was a golden afternoon in October and beyond the stone walls the
fell-sides, ablaze with their mantle of dead bracken, rose serenely
into a deep, unbroken blue.  We passed under a long canopy of tinted
leaves thrown over us by the roadside trees then followed a stretch of
white-pebbled river before turning along a narrow track which led up
the hillside.

Andrew was silent as we climbed into the stark, airy solitude which is
the soul of the Dales, but as the track levelled out on the summit he
put a hand on my arm.

"Just stop a minute, Jim, will you?"  he said.

I pulled up and wound down the window.  For a few moments he looked out
over the miles of heathery moorland and the rounded summits of the
great hills slumbering in the sunshine, then he spoke quietly as though
to himself.

"So this is where you work?"

"Yes, this is it, Andy."

He took a long breath, then another as if greedy for more.

"You know," he said.  "I've heard a lot about air like wine, but this
is the first time I've realised what it means."

I nodded.  I always felt I could never get enough of that air; sharp
and cool and tinged only with the grass scent which lingers in the high
country.

"Well, you're a lucky beggar, Jim," Andrew said with a touch of
weariness.  "You spend your life driving around in country like this
and I'm stuck in a damned office."

"I thought you liked your job."

He ran a hand through his hair.  "Oh yes, I supposed playing around
with figures is what I'm best at but, oh hell, I

have to do it all inside.  In fact," he said, becoming a little worked
up, 'when I start to think about it I live and have my being in a
bloody, centrally heated box with no windows and electric light
blasting down all day, and I share what passes for air with a whole
crowd of other people."  He slumped back in his seat.  "Makes me wish I
hadn't come out with you."

Tm sorry, Andy."

He laughed ruefully.  "Oh, I didn't really mean that, but honestly,
this is idyllic."

At the end of the moor the land dipped into a lush valley where the
herd of Mr.  Dunning grazed and grew fat on the abundant grass around
the farm buildings.  The Dunnings were not dairymen as was usual in the
Dales, but raised beef cattle.  And they did so on a large scale with
more than two hundred animals under their care.

I had been there for the last few afternoons, dehorning, and I was glad
that this was my last visit, because the bullocks on which I had been
operating were massive three-year-old shorthorns and I had had a rough
time.  Nowadays, with the housewife's preference for smaller, leaner
joints, most beef cattle are slaughtered at around eighteen months and
the kind of huge creatures I had to face at Mr.  Dunning's are rarely
seen.

As we drove into the farm yard there were about twenty of them milling
around in a collecting pen.

"We'll run 'em into the fold yard one at a time as usual," Mr.  Dunning
cried as he trotted towards me.  He was a small excitable man, bursting
with energy, and his voice seldom fell below a piercing shout.  His
sons, large young men with the classical Dales names of Thomas, James
and William followed more slowly.

I introduced Andy and he gazed with interest at the enormous boots, the
work-worn clothes and the tangle of hair pushing from under the caps.
The farmers in turn seemed similarly intrigued with my friend's
pinstripes, gleaming white collar and tasteful tie.

Once the action commenced, Mr.  Dunning launched into full cry, poking
at the beasts' rumps with his stick and emitting shrill yelps of "Haow,
haow, cush-cush, get on there!"

Finally one of the bullocks trotted into the fold yard and the brothers
guided it into a loose box.  I handed the chloroform muzzle in to them
and leaned on my mighty guillotine, thinking how much easier life had
become over the past few days.

At the start of this session I had applied every tourniquet myself,
then buckled on the muzzle before putting the halter over the top.  But
farmers are very adaptable people and the brothers soon devised a
better way.

On the second day Thomas, the eldest, made a quiet suggestion.  "We
could put on them bands and the muzzle ourselves, Mr.  Herriot, while
you wait outside t'box."

I leaped happily at the idea.  That rough binder twine had to be pulled
very tight and my soft palms had been rubbed sore, but the horny
fingers of the Dunning boys would be impervious to such a detail. Also,
I would not be thrown around in the tying process.

As I leaned there, feeling again like an executioner, I bethought
myself of my friend.

"Andy', I said.  "I think it would be a good idea if you climbed up
there."  I pointed to one of a long row of square wooden feeding
troughs known as 'tumblers' which stretched down the middle of the
straw-covered yard.  Above them, running the full length of the
tumblers, a hay rack dangled on chains.

He smiled indulgently.  "Oh, I'll be alright here."  He rested a
shoulder against a post opposite the box and lit a cigarette.  "I don't
want to miss anything and anyway, it sounds very interesting in
there."

It did indeed sound interesting behind the wooden doors of the box.  It
always did.  Gruff outbursts of "Owl"  "Stand still ya bugger!"
"Gerroff me foot!"  blended with tremendous crashes as the big beast
hurled itself against the timbers.

At length came the inevitable volley of yells.  "Right!  "E's comin'
out!"

I tensed myself as the doors were thrown wide and the great animal,
festooned with binder twine and wearing the muzzle like a wartime
gas-mask, catapulted outwards with two of the brothers hanging grimly
to the halter.

As the bullock felt the straw around its knees, it paused for a moment
in its headlong rush and looked around till the eyes, glaring above the
rim of the muzzle, focussed on the elegant form of my friend leaning
against the post.  Then it put its head down and charged.

Andy, confronted by fourteen hundredweights of hairy beef hurtling
towards him, did not linger.  He vaulted on to the tumbler, grabbed the
slats of the hay rack and swung himself to safety as the horns sent the
tumbler crashing away beneath his feet.  I recalled that he had been
very good on the wall bars in the school gymnasium and it was apparent
that he had lost none of his agility.

Cradled in the frag ant clover, he looked down at me as the rack swung
gently to and fro on its chains.

"I'd stay up there if I were you," I said.

Andy nodded.  I could see he didn't need much persuading.  He had lost
a little colour and his eyebrows were arched high on his forehead.

All three of the Dunning brothers were needed to bring the bullock to a
halt and they stood there, leaning back on the rope and breathing
heavily as they waited for me to make the next move.

This was the tricky bit.  I leaned the guillotine against a tumbler and
slowly approached the beast.  Opening the front of the muzzle, I
trickled chloroform on to the sponge.  At this moment I never knew what
was going to happen.  Some animals turned sleepy almost immediately,
while others, on inhaling the strange vapour, seemed to resent my
presence and took a sudden dive at me.  And in the deep straw it was
difficult to get out of the way.

I was relieved to see that this was one of the former type.  His charge
at Andy and his subsequent struggles had made him breathless and as he
gulped deeply at the anaesthetic his eyes glazed and he began to sway.
He took a few stumbling steps, toppled on to his side and slipped into
unconsciousness.

Now I had to move fast.  I struggled through the straw, grabbed the
guillotine and dropped the cutting jaws over a horn.  I seized the
shafts and began to pull.  With small animals a single swift clip did
the job, but the horns of these big bullocks were extraordinarily wide
at the base and I had to haul away with all my strength for several
panting seconds till the knives crunched together.  I repeated the
process with the other horn and it was just as tough to remove.

"Right," I gasped.  "Get the muzzle off him."  I was sweating and I had
done only one beast with about nineteen to go.

The brothers leaped into action, unbuckling the muzzle and running to
usher another bullock from the pen where their father was already
screaming and flailing around him with his stick.

With the loss of a little more perspiration I did the second and third,
but the fourth defeated me.  The horns were so vast that I had to open
the shafts wider and wider until they were almost in a straight line. I
groaned and strained but it was obvious I would never be able to close
them.  Thomas, who had the build of a heavyweight wrestler, came up
behind me.

"Move in a bit closer, Mr.  Herriott," he said.

I grasped the shafts halfway up their length while Thomas seized the
extreme ends in his great hands.  Even with our united effort nothing
happened for a few seconds then the horn came off with a crack.  But
unfortunately I was the man in the middle and as the shafts came
together they thudded with pitiless force against my ribs.  It was the
same with the other horn.  Thomas had to help again and my ribs took
another hammering.

As the brothers trotted off for the next beast I sank down on the straw
and moaned softly as I massaged my aching sides.

"Are you alright, Jim?"  The voice came from above and I looked up into
Andy's anxious face.  I had been vaguely aware of him all the time,
rocking on his chains as he twisted around in the rack to see as much
as possible.

I gave him a rueful smile.  "Oh yes, Andy, I'm okay.  Just a bit
bruised

"I don't doubt it.  I wouldn't like that big bloke squeezing me in
those choppers."  My friend's head, protruding from the hay, was all I
could see of him, but his eyes looked startled.

They looked still more startled when the next beast at the first sniff
of chloroform launched himself forward and knocked me flat on my back.
In fact it was clear that little Mr.  Dunning was upsetting the cattle
by his constant shrieking and the poking with his stick.

Thomas thought so, too.  "For God's sake, Dad," he said in his slow
way.  Tut that bloody stick away and shurrup."  He spoke without anger
because he was fond of his father, as indeed I was, because he was a
nice little man at heart.  Mr.  Dunning quietened down but he could
contain himself for only a brief spell.  Very soon he was yelling
again.

About halfway through, the dreaded accident happened.  I chopped
through the tourniquet on one of the horns.

"Quick!  more twine!"  I shouted, groping my way through the red
fountains spurting high from the sleeping animal.  I had to re-tie the
tourniquet with the warm fluid spraying my face.  There was no escape.
As I pulled the last knot tight I turned to Mr.  Dunning.

"Could I have a bucket of warm water, some soap and a towel, please?"
My eyes were almost closed, the lashes gummed with the fast-clotting
blood.

The little man hurried to the house and was back soon with a steaming
bucket into which I eagerly plunged my hands.  A second later I was
hopping round the fold yard, yelping with pain and shaking my scalded
fingers.

That bloody water's boiling hot!"  I cried.

The brothers regarded me stolidly but little Mr.  Dunning was highly
amused.

"Hee-hee, hee-hee, hee-hee."  His high-pitched giggles went on and on.
He hadn't seen anything so funny for a long time.

While he was recovering, William fetched some cold water and diluted
the original sufficiently for me to give my hands and face a rough
wash.

I went on with my work almost automatically and with increasing
weariness.  The driving of each bullock into the box, the hangings and
oaths from behind the door, the final yell of "He's comin' out!"  then
the straining and the chopping and all the time in the back of my mind
the question which every veterinary surgeon of that era must have asked
himself "Why in heaven's name did I have to study five years at college
just to do this?"

But at last I saw with relief that there was only one more to do.  I
had just about had enough.  Thomas had done his nutcracker act on my
ribs a few times more and every muscle in my body seemed to be
protesting.  I watched thankfully as Mr.  Dunning started to drive the
beast into the yard.

This animal, however, was reacting differently to the little man's
bawling and stick-work.  I remembered that the brothers had described
the beast as being 'bully-headed' and indeed there was a vibrant
masculinity about its shape and expression which suggested that the
bloodless castrators might not have done their work completely.

The shaggy head, instead of turning away from Mr.  Dunning
importunities, kept pushing towards him.  The little farmer poked at
the nose with his stick but it still came on, and at that point Mr.
Dunning evidently decided he would be better out of the way.

He walked off through the straw and the bullock walked after him.  He
broke into a trot and the bullock did the same.  The trot became a
stiff-legged gallop and the bullock followed suit.

At no time did the beast show any sign of charging the farmer, but Mr.
Dunning didn't seem reassured.  He kept on running and his face
registered increasing alarm.  His progress was impeded by the deep
straw and it must have been like running in knee-high water but for all
that he cut out a very fair pace for a sixty-year-old.

Nobody interfered.  Maybe we were all a bit irritated by his antics
during the afternoon but we stood back and laughed.  I

laughed so much that it hurt my bruised ribs as Mr.  Dunning shot down
one side of the row of tumblers then up the other with the big animal's
nose a foot behind his neck.  It might have been a Roman arena, with
the mocking spectators and Andy away above rocking perilously in his
cradle as he watched the chase.

It had to end some time.  After the second circuit Mr.  Dunning's cap
flew off, he made a few lunging strides, then felJ flat on his face in
the straw.  The animal did nothing more than run over the top of him,
then allowed itself to be caught as though the whole thing had been a
tease.

The little farmer jumped to his feet, hurt only in his dignity, and
glared at us as he retrieved his cap.

With the help of the brothers I dehorned the beast and the afternoon's
work was over.

We helped Andy down from the rack and it took quite a while to brush
the hay seeds from his smart serge.  He watched impassively as I
cleaned and dried my guillotine and with an effort heaved it into the
boot.  Then with my own little brush I washed the thick plastering of
muck from my Wellingtons before putting on my shoes.  We got into the
car and drove away into the darkening countryside.  Andy lit another
cigarette and I could see him glancing at my sweaty, blood-flecked face
and at my hand feeling the tenderness of my ribs under my jacket.

5Jim," he said at length.  "It's funny how you can jump to conclusions.
Maybe my own job isn't so bad after all."

In the semi-darkness of the surgery passage I thought it was a hideous
growth dangling from the side of the dog's face but as he came closer I
saw that it was only a condensed milk can.  Not that condensed milk
cans are commonly found sprouting from dogs' cheeks, but I was relieved
because I knew I was dealing with Brandy again.

I hoisted him on to the table.  "Brandy, you've been at the dustbin
again."

The big golden labrador gave me an apologetic grin and did his best to
lick my face.  He couldn't manage it since his tongue was jammed inside
the can, but he made up for it by a furious wagging of tail and rear
end.

"Oh, Mr.  Herriot, I am sorry to trouble you again."  Mrs.  Westby, his
attractive young mistress, smiled ruefully.  "He just won't keep out of
that dustbin.  Sometimes the children and I can get the cans off dur
selves but this one is stuck fast.  His tongue is trapped under the
lid."

"Yes .. . yes .. ."  I eased my finger along the jagged edge of the
metal.  "It's a bit tricky, isn't it?  We don't want to cut
hisrnouth."

As I reached for a pair of forceps I thought of the many other
occasions when I had done something like this for Brandy.  He was one
of my patients, a huge, lolloping, slightly goofy animal, but this
dustbin raiding was becoming an obsession.

He liked to fish out a can and lick out the tasty remnants, but his
licking was carried out with such sudden dedication that he burrowed
deeper and deeper until he got stuck.  Again and again he had been
freed by his family or myself from fruit salad cans, corned beef cans,
baked bean cans, soup cans.  There didn't seem to be any kind of can he
didn't like.

I gripped the edge of the lid with my forceps and gently bent it back
along its length till I was able to lift it away from the tongue.  An
instant later, that tongue was slobbering all over my cheek as Brandy
expressed his delight and thanks.

"Get back, you daft dog!"  I said, laughing, as I held the panting face
away from me.

"Yes, come down, Brandy."  Mrs.  Westby hauled him from the table and
spoke sharply.  "It's all very fine making a fuss now, but you're
becoming a nuisance with this business.  It will ha veto stop."

The scolding had no effect on the lashing tail and I saw that his
mistress was smiling.  You just couldn't help liking Brandy, because he
was a great ball of affection and tolerance without an ounce of malice
in him.

I had seen the Westby children there were three girls and a boy
carrying him around by the legs, upside down, or pushing him in a pram,
sometimes dressed in baby clothes.  Those youngsters played all sorts
of games with him, but he suffered them all with good humour.  In fact
I am sure he enjoyed them.

Brandy had other idiosyncracies apart from his fondness for dustbins.

I was attending the Westby cat at their home one afternoon when I
noticed the dog acting strangely.  Mrs.  Westby was sitting knitting in
an armchair while the oldest girl squatted on the hearth rug with me
and held the cat's head.

It was when I was searching my pockets for my thermometer that I
noticed Brandy slinking into the room.  He wore a furtive air as he
moved across the carpet and sat down with studied carelessness in front
of his mistress.  After a few moments he began to work his rear end
gradually up the front of the chair towards her knees.  Absently she
took a hand away from her knitting and pushed him down but he
immediately restarted his backward ascent.  It was an extraordinary
mode of progresssion, his hips moving in a very slow rumba rhythm as he
elevated them inch by inch, and all the time the golden face was blank
and innocent as though nothing at all was happening.

Fascinated, I stopped hunting for my thermometer and watched.  Mrs.
Westby was absorbed in an intricate part of her knitting and didn't
seem to notice that Brandy's bottom was 304

now firmly parked on her shapely knees which were clad in blue jeans.
The dog paused as though acknowledging that phase one had been
successfully completed, then ever so gently he began to consolidate his
position, pushing his way up the front of the chair with his fore limbs
till at one time he was almost standing on his head.

It was at that moment, just when one final backward heave would have
seen the great dog ensconced on her lap that Mrs.  Westby finished the
tricky bit of knitting and looked up.

"Oh, really, Brandy, you are silly!"  She put a hand on his rump and
sent him slithering disconsolately to the carpet where he lay and
looked at her with liquid eyes.

"What was all that about?"  I asked.

Mrs.  Westby laughed.  "Oh, it's these old blue jeans.  When Brandy
first came here as a tiny puppy I spent hours nursing him on my knee
and I used to wear the jeans a lot then.  Ever since, even though he's
a grown dog, the very sight of the things makes him try to get on my
knee."

"But he doesn't just jump up?"

"Oh no," she said.  "He's tried it and got ticked off.  He knows
perfectly well I can't have a huge labrador in my lap."

"So not it's the stealthy approach, eh?"

She giggled.  "That's right.  When I'm preoccupied knitting or reading
sometimes he manages to get nearly all the way up, and if he's been
playing in the mud he makes an awful mess and I have to go and change.
That's when he really does receive a scolding."

A patient like Brandy added colour to my daily round.  When I was
walking my own dog I often saw him playing in the fields by the river.
One particularly hot day, many of the dogs were taking to the water
either to chase sticks or just to cool off, but whereas they glided in
and swam off sedately, Brandy's approach was unique.

I watched as he ran up to the river bank, expecting him to pause before
entering.  But instead he launched himself outwards, legs splayed in a
sort of swallow dive, and hung for a moment in the air rather like a
flying fox before splashing thunderously into the depths.  To me it was
the action of a completely happy extrovert.

On the following day in those same fields I witnessed something even
more extraordinary.  There is a little children's playground in one
corner a few swings, a roundabout and a slide.  Brandy was disporting
himself on the slide.

For this activity he had assumed an uncharacteristic gravity of
expression and stood calmly in the queue of children.  When his turn
came he mounted the steps, slid down the metal slope, all dignity and
importance, then took a staid walk round to rejoin the queue.

The little boys and girls who were his companions seemed to take him
for granted, but I found it difficult to tear myself away.  I could
have watched him all day.

I often smiled to myself when I thought of Brandy's antics, but I
didn't smile when Mrs.  Westby brought him into the surgery a few
months later.  His bounding ebullience had disappeared and he dragged
himself along the passage to the consulting-room.

As I lifted him on to the table I noticed that he had lost a lot of
weight.

"Now, what is the trouble, Mrs.  Westby?"  I asked.

She looked at me worriedly.  "He's been off colour for a few days now,
listless and coughing and not eating very well, but this morning he
seems quite ill and you can see he's starting to pant."

"Yes..  yes..  As I inserted the thermometer I watched the rapid rise
and fall of the rib cage and noted the gaping mouth and anxious eyes. 
"He does look very sorry for himself."

His temperature was IO4 F. I took out my stethoscope and auscultated
his lungs.  I have heard of an old Scottish doctor describing a
seriously ill patient's chest as sounding like a 'kist o' whustles' and
that just about described Brandy's.  Rales, wheezes, squeaks and
bubblings they were all there against a background of laboured
respiration.

I put the stethoscope back in my pocket.  "He's got pneumonia."

"Oh dear."  Mrs.  Westby reached out and touched the heaving chest.
"That's bad, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"But..."  She gave me an appealing glance.  "I understand it isn't so
fatal since the new drugs came out."

I hesitated.  "Yes, that's quite right.  In humans and most animals the
sulpha drugs and now penicillin have changed the picture completely,
but dogs are still very difficult to cure."

Thirty years later it is still the same.  Even with all the armoury of
antibiotics which followed penicillin streptomycin, the tetracyclines,
and synthetics, and the new non-antibiotic drugs and steroids1 still
hate to see pneumonia in a dog.

"But you don't think it's hopeless?"  Mrs.  Westby asked.

"No, no, not at all.  I'm just warning you that so many dogs don't
respond to treatment when they should.  But Brandy is young and strong.
He must stand a fair chance.  I wonder what started this off, anyway
'

"Oh, I think I know, Mr.  Herriot.  He had a swim in the river about a
week ago.  I try to keep him out of the water in this cold weather but
if he sees a stick floating he just takes a dive into the middle.
You've seem him-it's one of the funny little things he does."

"Yes, I know.  And was he shivery afterwards?"

"He was.  I walked him straight home, but it was such a freezing cold
day.  I could feel him trembling as I dried him down."

I nodded.  That would be the cause, all right.  Anyway, let's start his
treatment.  I'm going to give him this injection of penicillin and I'll
call at your house tomorrow to repeat it.  He's not well enough to come
to the surgery."

"Very well, Mr.  Herriot.  And is there anything else?"

"Yes, there is.  I want you to make him what we call a pneumonia
jacket.  Cut two holes in an old blanket for his forelegs and stitch
him into it along the back.  You can use an old sweater if you like,
but he must have his chest warmly covered.  Only let him out in the
garden for necessities."

I called and repeated the injection on the following day.  There wasn't
much change.  I injected him for four more days and the realisation
came to me sadly that Brandy was like so many of the others he wasn't
responding.  The temperature did drop a little but he ate hardly
anything and grew gradually thinner.  I put him on sulphapyridine
tablets, but they didn't seem to make any difference.

As the days passed and he continued to cough and pant and to sink
deeper into a blank-eyed lethargy, I was forced more and more to the
conclusion which, a few weeks ago, would have seemed impossible; that
this happy, bounding animal was going to die.

But Brandy didn't die.  He survived.  You couldn't put it any higher
than that.  His temperature came down and his appetite improved and he
climbed on to a plateau of twilight existence where he seemed content
to stay.

"He isn't Brandy any more," Mrs.  Westby said one morning a few weeks
later when I called in.  Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

I shook my head.  "No, I'm afraid he isn't.  Are you giving him the
halibut-liver oil?"

"Yes, every day.  But nothing seems to do him any good.  Why is he like
this, Mr.  Herriot?"

"Well, he has recovered from a really virulent pneumonia, but it's left
him with a chronic pleurisy, adhesions and probably other kinds of lung
damage.  It looks as though he's just stuck there."

She dabbed at her eyes.  "It breaks my heart to see him like this. He's
only five, but he's like an old, old dog.  He was so full of life,
too."  She sniffed and blew her nose.  "When I think of how I used to
scold him for getting into the dustbins and muddying up my jeans.  How
I wish he would do some of his funny old tricks now."

I thrust my hands deep into my pockets.  "Never does anything like that
now, eh?"

"No, no, just hangs about the house.  Doesn't even want to go for a
walk."

As I watched, Brandy rose from his place in the corner and 308

pottered slowly over to the fire.  He stood there for a moment, gaunt
and dead-eyed, and he seemed to notice me for the first time because
the end of his tail gave a brief twitch before he coughed, groaned and
flopped down on the hearth rug.

Mrs.  Westby was right.  He was like a very old dog.

"Do you think he'll always be like this?"  she asked.

I shrugged.  "We can only hope."

But as I got into my car and drove away I really didn't have much hope.
I have seen calves with lung damage after bad pneumonias.  They
recovered but were called 'bad doers' because they remained thin and
listless for the rest of their lives.  Doctors, too, had plenty of
'chesty' people on their books; they were, more or less, in the same
predicament.

Weeks and then months went by and the only time I saw the labrador was
when Mrs.  Westby was walking him on his lead.  I always had the
impression that he was reluctant to move and his mistress had to stroll
along very slowly so that he could keep up with her.  The sight of him
saddened me when I thought of the lolloping Brandy of old, but I told
myself that at least I had saved his life.  I could do no more for him
now and I made a determined effort to push him out of my mind.

In fact I tried to forget Brandy and managed to do so fairly well until
one afternoon in February.  On the previous night I felt I had been
through the fire.  I had treated a colicky horse until 4 a.m. and was
crawling into bed, comforted by the knowledge that the animal was
settled down and free from pain when I was called to a calving.  I had
managed to produce a large live calf from a small heifer, but the
effort had drained the last of my strength and when I got home it was
too late to return to bed.

Ploughing through the morning round I was so tired that I felt
disembodied, and at lunch Helen watched me anxiously as my head nodded
over my food.  There were a few dogs in the waiting-room at two o'clock
and I dealt with them mechanically, peering through half-closed
eyelids.  By the time I reached my last patient I was almost asleep on
my feet.  In fact I had the feeling that I wasn't there at all.

"Next, please," I mumbled as I pushed open the waiting-room door and
stood back waiting for the usual sight of a dog being led out to the
passage.

But this time there was a big difference.  There was a man in the
doorway all right and he had a little poodle with him, but the thing
that made my eyes snap wide open was that the dog was walking upright
on his hind limbs.

I knew I was half-asleep but surely I wasn't seeing things.  I stared
down at the dog, but the picture hadn't changed the little creature
strutted through the doorway, chest out, head up, as erect as a
soldier.

"Follow me, please," I said hoarsely and set off over the tiles to the
consulting-room.  Halfway along I just had to turn round to check the
evidence cf my eyes and it was first the same the poodle, still on his
hind legs, marching along unconcernedly at his master's side

The man must have seen the bewilderment in my face because he burst
suddenly into a roar of laughter.

"Don't worry, Mr.  Herriot," he said.  This little dog was circus
trained before I got him as a pet.  I like to show off his little
tricks.  This one really startles people."

"You can say that again," I said breathlessly.  "It nearly gave me
heart failure."

The poodle wasn't ill, he just wanted his nails clipping.  I smiled as
I hoisted him on to the table and began to ply the clippers.

"I suppose he won't want his hind claws doing," I said.  "He'll have
worn them down himself."  I was glad to find I had recovered
sufficiently to attempt a little joke.

However, by the time I had finished, the old lassitude had taken over
again and I felt ready to fall down as I showed man and dog to the
front door.

I watched the little animal trotting away down the street -in orthodox
manner this time and it came to me suddenly that it had been a long
time since I had seen a dog doing something unusual and amusing.  Like
the things Brandy used to do.

A wave of gentle memories flowed over me as I leaned 310

wearily against the door post and closed my eyes.  When I opened them I
saw Brandy coming round the corner of the street with Mrs.  Westby. His
nose was entirely obscured by a large red tomato-soup can and he
strained madly at the leash and whipped his tail when he saw me.

It was certainly a hallucination this time.  I was looking into the
past.  I really ought to go to bed immediately.  But I was still rooted
to the door post when the labrador bounded up the steps, made an
attempt, aborted by the soup can, to lick my face and contented himself
with cocking a convivial leg against the bottom step.

I stared into Mrs.  Westby's radiant face.  "What..  . what .. .?"

With her sparkling eyes and wide smile she looked more attractive than
ever.  "Look, Mr.  Herriot, look!  He's better, he's better!"

In an instant I was wide awake.  "And I... I suppose you'll want me to
get that can off him?"

"Oh yes, yes, please!"

It took all my strength to lift him on to the table.  He was heavier
now than before his illness.  I reached for the familiar forceps and
began to turn the jagged edges of the can outwards from the nose and
mouth.  Tomato soup must have been one of his favourites because he was
really deeply embedded and it took some time before I was able to slide
the can from his face.

I fought off his slobbering attack.  "He's back in the dustbins, I
see."

"Yes, he is, quite regularly.  I've pulled several cans off him myself.
And he goes sliding with the children, too."  She smiled happily.

Thoughtfully I took my stethoscope from the pocket of my white coat and
listened to his lungs.  They were wonderfully clear.  A slight
roughness here and there, but the old cacophony had gone.

I leaned on the table and looked at the great dog with a mixture of
thankfulness and incredulity.  He was as before, boisterous and full of
the joy of living.  His tongue lolled in a

3"

happy grin and the sun glinted through the surgery window on his sleek
golden coat.

"But Mr.  Herriot," Mrs.  Westby's eyes were wide.  "How on earth has
this happened?  How has he got better?"

"Vis medicatrix naturae," I replied in tones of deep respect.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The healing power of nature.  Something no veterinary surgeon can
compete with when it decides to act."

"I see.  And you can never tell when this is going to happen?"

"No."

For a few seconds we were silent as we stroked the dog's head, ears and
flanks.

"Oh, by the way," I said.  "Has he shown any renewed interest in the
blue jeans?"

"Oh my word, yes!  They're in the washing machine at this very moment.
Absolutely covered in mud.  Isn't it marvelous!"

August 10,1963

My sleep in that Bosphorus hotel seemed to last only a short time
because apparently within minutes I was roused by one of the hotel
staff and looked up to see the sunshine flooding into my room from the
street above.

I washed and shaved and hurried to the dining-room.  Noel and Joe had
suffered from the noisy party and were looking heavy-eyed, but the
captain and the rest of the crew had been sleeping at the back of the
hotel and had heard practically nothing.  This was a good thing because
they 'ere the ones who had a tough day ahead of them.

After breakfast the minibus whisked us along the glittering Bosphorus
and through the city where I had my second fleeting glimpse of its
wonders.  It was frustrating.  I had hoped to explore the treasures of
Istanbul at my leisure the Blue Mosque, Saint Sophia and so many
others, but maybe another day ... At the airport there was the bustle
of early-morning departures with aircraft taking off and climbing into
the sunny sky, but I found something ominous in the sight of our
Globe-master standing on its own; vast, shabby, with the scorch marks
on its useless engine.  Dave, Ed and Karl didn't seem to be worried as
they went over to it, the little Dane whistling, the young Americans
slouching, relaxed, hands as ever buried in the pockets of their white
trousers.

I made straight for the BEA desk and it was a relief to see the
fresh-faced Englishman in the familiar uniform.

"And what can I do for you, sir?"  he asked, smiling.

I brandished my cheque book.  "I want three tickets to London on the
first flight if possible."

"You want to pay by cheque?"

"Yes, please."

"I'm sorry, but we cannot accept personal cheques."

"What!"

"I'm afraid that is the rule, sir."  He was still smiling.

"But..  . we're stuck here."  I gave him a brief outline of our
plight.

He shook his head sadly.  "I do wish I could help, but I have to abide
by the rules."

I kept at him for a few minutes longer but it was no good.  Then, when
he wasn't looking, I tried one of the other BEA officials further along
but I got the same answer.

My heart was beating fast as I returned to my friends who were waiting
for me in the airport lounge.  They were speaking to the captain.  I
was beginning to feel like an expert in the bringing of evil tidings
and I hardly knew what to say to them.  In fact, they took the news
surprisingly well and if they thought I was a hopeless organiser they
disguised their feelings.

We all looked at the captain.

"If I were you," he said.  "I should go to the British Consul."

I turned to the farmers.  "Have you ever had anything to do with
Consuls?"

They shook their heads dumbly.

"Neither have I. I don't know how they'd react in a situation like
this.  Would they be sure to fly us home?"

"Oh yes."  The captain gave me a faint reassuring smile.  "I'm pretty
certain you'd have no trouble."

"Pretty certain, you say, but not absolutely?"

The big man stroked his beard.  "Well, Mr.  Herriot, like yourself, I
have never had the need to approach them."

"When do you take off?"

"In about half an hour."

I had a nasty vision of the three of us trailing back into the city,
being turned down by the Consul and coming back with hardly any money
in our pockets to find the Globemaster gone.

"Look, captain," I said.  "The way I see it, your aircraft is our only
link with home.  If you got us to Copenhagen would you be able to
arrange a flight to London from there?"

He gave me a long, appraising stare.  "Oh, of course.  Copenhagen is
our headquarters.  But you would be very silly to take the chance."

"Well, I'm willing to take it.  How about you chaps?"

The farmers both nodded immediately.

"Oi'm game," Joe said.  "Oi want to get 'ome."

The captain looked down at him.  "But you do realise there is a very
real danger."

Joe grinned back.  "Ah, you'll get us there, caap'n.  I ain't worried
about that."

He was voicing my own thoughts.  Captain Birch inspired confidence.

"All right, then, if you've made up your minds," the big man said. "But
I'm afraid you'll have to sign a document which I must leave here in
Istanbul.  I'll go and draw it up now."  He paused.  "As I explained
earlier, since the aircraft is in an unsafe condition you are, in
effect, un authorised personnel.  Signing this document verifies that
you are aware of this and that you relinquish all rights to
compensation if the worst should happen."  He swept us again with his
serious gaze.  "I must point out that if you lose your lives today your
dependants will receive nothing, no insurance, nothing."

I think we all gulped a bit at this and there was a longish silence.
For once it was Noel who broke it, and he echoed his friend.  "You'll
get us there, caap'n."

The document was drawn up and we signed it, and with hindsight I know
without any doubt that we behaved like complete idiots, because the
danger was not imaginary.  We could have been killed that day.

The captain's advice was right, of course.  We should have gone to the
British Consul.  Over the years I have read frequently of football fans
being flown home by the Consul after getting drunk and missing charter
planes and when I think that we three were on legitimate business it
makes our decision all the more crazy.  I, in particular, should have
known better.

I suppose part of the reason was that we were not thinking straight.
The three of us were tired out with lack of sleep and the series of
niggling mishaps in strange surroundings.  We were in the mood to
clutch at straws.

In any case the thing was done now and we walked over the hot concrete
to the Globemaster.  It seemed that a fair proportion of the population
of Istanbul had heard about our aircraft and had turned out to spec
tate because a large crowd of people watched us as we went.  I had an
uncomfortable feeling that they didn't expect us to get off the
ground.

When we climbed into the aircraft I saw that the interior had been
swept clean and that a large door had been removed from one side of the
fuselage to allow aeration after the cattle had gone.

Joe elected to sit up front in the flight cabin while Noel and I
strapped ourselves into two drop-down seats at the very back.  We felt
very insignificant sitting there in the tail, looking at the yawning
emptiness in front of us.

We couldn't see what was happening and it was a shock when the engines
roared into life.  With that big opening in the side the noise was
intolerable and we both instinctively pushed our fingers into our ears.
Noel's face worked and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he
tried to talk to me.  I knew we couldn't stand this for long and I
reached for my bag.  I pulled out some cotton wool and stuffed it into
the farmer's ears.  I did the same for myself and there was no doubt it
relieved the noise problem, but the same time it gave me a strange
unreal feeling as if I were in limbo.

From the jerkings and vibrations I deduced that we were taxiing to the
end of the runway prior to take-off.  Then we stopped and I knew we
were in position.

The roar of the engines increased to a deep-throated bellow which
penetrated the ear plugs and made my head spin.  I looked at Noel and
he shaped his lips into Taking off now?".  I nodded encouragingly.  I
don't know what his emotions were but I felt utterly fatalistic about
the whole thing.  I am not brave but I have always felt like that about
flying and though this was a very special case my attitude was the
same.

For a long time we sat there listening to the roar and feeling the
great aircraft shaking under and around us.  This went on and on until
I began to wonder if we had in fact left the ground.  Noel's puzzled
face and the spreading of his hands told me he was thinking the same
thing.  After another five minutes I decided we must be high in the air
by now but I had to have a look to make sure.  I unstapped myself and
crawled on hands and knees to the open side.  I pushed my head out and
looked down and with a jolt of disappointment I saw the grey concrete
of the runway a few feet below me.

I slithered back to my place shook my head at Noel.  What, I wondered,
was going on?  Could the captain not get up enough power or was he just
giving his three remaining engines a long test before making his
attempt?

I think it must have been the latter because suddenly we were under
way.  We couldn't see anything but the surge forward was unmistakable.
There were a tense few seconds as the vibration rose to a crescendo,
then a calm which told us we were airborne.  I felt the impact of the
undercarriage thudding into place and I pictured Karl and h,s friends
hauling it up over the last few inches.  I leaned back in my seat.  The
first obstacle was behind us.

The feeling of relief seemed to affect Noel immediately because when I
looked round he was sound asleep, slumped against the webbing strap. My
natural curiosity was too much for me and I returned to the gap in the
fuselage to view the scene passing below.

I sat there, entranced, all day, the cotton-wool plugs dangling from my
ears.  It wasn't like flying in a modern jet where you can't see much
else besides clouds.  I watched an unfolding, ever-changing panorama of
mountains and sea, islands, yellow beaches, arid plains, the tightly
clustered houses of large cities and tiny villages.  Occasionally I
took pictures, leaning precariously against the strip of sacking which
was the only thing between me and the dazzling blue water thousands of
feet below.

In mid-afternoon I broke off to consume the contents of a white carton
which the captain had solemnly handed out to each of us in Istanbul. It
contained a slab of unidentifiable meat, the inevitable sticky cake and
to my delight some slices of that delicious bread and a wedge of
cheese.

I also went up to the flight cabin for a few minutes to get some
pictures of the stricken engine with its four propeller blades dangling
still and useless.  It was a sad sight but I was glad to see that the
other three engines were buzzing away with heartening vigour.

When I returned to my post by the open side, the great rampart of the
Alps was rising before us.  This, I knew, was the crucial time.  The
Globemaster climbed higher, but when we reached the tumbled mass of
peaks we still seemed to be very near to the summits.  Beneath me I
could see the loose boulders and scarred rock on the mountain tops
quite plainly, but like my friends I had faith in that bearded man's
ability to take us over, and he did.

It was growing dusk when we circled above Copenhagen and I had a
glimpse of the little mermaid in the bay.  Soon Joe was happy at last
with a glass of real beer in his hand in the airport bar.

There isn't much more to tell.  We had to wait till 2 a.m. for a flight
to Heathrow and I was sitting on a luggage barrow trying to read The
Sunday Times at seven o'clock in the morning at King's Cross Station. I
wasn't very successful because the paper kept slipping from my fingers
as my eyes closed involuntarily.

My last memory is of a friendly old gentleman in the compartment of the
north-bound train trying to engage me in conversation, but to my shame
I fell asleep in front of him and didn't wake up until York.

After I had got back into the routine of the practice I looked back on
my Istanbul trip as an interesting experience.  A bit too concentrated,
perhaps, and by no means the rest cure my friend, John, had pictured,
but fascinating in its way.  And of course I felt I had greatly
exaggerated any possible danger on the flight home.  From the comfort
of my car as I drove round the familiar roads of the Yorkshire Dales
the whole thing had a touch of fantasy.

It all came back to me in stark truth when I heard, many months later,
that, soon after the Istanbul flight, the Globe-master had plunged into
the Mediterranean with the loss of all her crew.  The news came to me
indirectly and I did my best to find out if it was true, but it was a
long time afterwards and I had no success.

Ever since, I have thought often about those men.  The captain, the two
young Americans and Karl.  During those few days I had come to admire
them, and even now I still cling to the faint hope that that terrible
news was wrong.

What horrible little dogs!

It was a sentiment which rarely entered my mind, because I could find
something attractive in nearly all my canine patients.

I had to make an exception in the cases of Ruffles and Muffles
Whithorn.  Try as I might I could find no lovable traits, only
unpleasant ones like their unvarying method of welcoming me into their
home.

"Down!  Down!"  I yelped, as I always did.  The two little animals West
Highland Whites were standing on their hind limbs clawing furiously at
my trouser legs with their front paws.  I don't know whether I have
unusually tender shins but the effect was agonising.

As I backed away on tiptoe like a ballet dancer going into reverse the
room resounded to Mr.  and Mrs.  Whithorn's delighted laughter.  They
found this unfailingly amusing.

"Aren't they little pets!"  Mr.  Whithorn gasped between paroxysms.
"Don't they give you a lovely greeting, bless them!"

I wasn't so sure about that.  Apart from excoriating my flesh through
my grey flannels the dogs were glaring up at me balefully, their mouths
half open, lips quivering, teeth chattering in a characteristic manner.
It wasn't exactly a snarl, but it wasn't friendly either.

"Come, my darlings."  The man gathered the dogs into his arms and
kissed them both fondly on the cheeks.  He was still giggling.  "You
know, Mr.  Herriot, isn't it priceless that they welcome you into our
house so lovingly and then try to stop you from leaving?"

I didn't say anything, but massaged my trousers in silence.  The truth
was that these animals invariably clawed me on my entry, then did their
best to bite my ankles on the way out.  In between, they molested me in
whatever ways they could devise.  The strange thing was that they were
both old -Ruffles fourteen and Muffles twelve and one might have
experienced some mellowness in their characters, but it was not so.

"Well," I said, after reassuring myself that my wounds were
superficial.  "I understand Ruffles is lame."

"Yes," Mrs.  Whithorn took the dog and placed him on the table where
she had spread some newspapers.  "It's his left front paw.  Just
started this morning.  He's in agony, poor dear."

Gingerly I took hold of the foot, then whipped my hand away as the
teeth snapped shut less than an inch from my fingers.

"Oh, my precious!"  Mrs.  Whithorn exclaimed.  "It's so painful.  Do be
careful, Mr.  Herriot, he's so nervous and I think you're hurting
him."

I breathed deeply.  This dog should have had a tape muzzle applied
right at the start, but I had previously caused shock and dismay at the
Whithorns by suggesting such a thing, so I had to manage as best I
could.  Anyway, I wasn't a novice at the business.  It would take a
very smart biter to catch me.

I curled my forefinger round the leg and had another look, and I was
able to see what I wanted in the fleeting instant before the next snap.
A reddish swelling pouting from between the toes.

An interdigital cyst!  How ridiculous that a vet should be making a
house call for such a trivial ailment.  But the Whithorns had always
firmly refused to bring their dogs to the surgery.  It frightened the
darlings, they said.

I stood back from the table.  This is just a harmless cyst, but I agree
that it is painful so I'd advise you to bathe it in hot water until it
bursts, and that will relieve the pain.  Many dogs burst these
themselves by nibbling at them but you can hasten the process."

I drew some antibiotic into a syringe.  "Nobody knows exactly what
causes an interdigital cyst.  No specific causal organisms have been
found, but I'll give him this shot in case of infection."

I achieved the injection by holding the little animal by the 320

scruff of the neck, then Mrs.  Whithorn lifted the other dog on to the
table.

"You'd better give him a check-up while you're here," she said.

This usually happened, and I palpated the snarling bundle of white hair
and went over him with a stethoscope and thermometer.  He had most of
the afflictions which beset old dogs arthritis, nephritis and other
things, including a heart murmur which was difficult to hear among the
bad-tempered rumblings which echoed round his thorax.

My examination completed, I replenished his various medicaments and
prepared to leave.  This was when the exit phase of my visit started
and it was relished by Mr.  and Mrs.  Whithorn even more than the
entry.

The ritual never changed.  As their owners tittered gleefully, the two
little dogs stationed themselves in the doorway, effectively barring my
way out.  Their lips were drawn back from their teeth.  They were the
very picture of venom.  To draw them away from their posts I feinted to
the right, then made a rush for the door but with my fingers on the
handle I had to turn and fend off the hungry jaws snapping at my
ankles, and as I skipped around on my heels my previous dainty ballet
steps were superseded by the coarser hoppings of a clog dance.

But I escaped.  A final couple of quick pushes with my feet and I was
out in the fresh air, crashing the door thankfully behind me.

I was regaining my breath when Doug Watson the milkman drew up in his
blue van.  He kept a few dairy cows on a small holding on the edge of
town and augmented his income by operating a retail round among the
citizens of Darrowby.

"Mornin', Mr.  Herriot."  He gestured towards the house.  "You been in
to see them dogs?"

"Yes."

"Proper little sods, aren't they?"

I laughed.  "Not very sweet-tempered."

"By gaw, that's the truth.  I've got to watch me self when I

L.G.M.T.A. - L

deliver t'milk.  If that door happens to be open they're straight out
at me."

I'll bet they are."

His eyes widened.  "They go for me feet.  Sometimes I feel a right
bloody Charlie, jumpin' about like a daft thing in front of
everybody."

I nodded.  "I know exactly how you feel."

"You've got to keep movin' or you've 'ad it"' he said.  "Look 'ere." He
pushed his leg out of the van and pointed to the heel of one of his
Wellington boots he always wore on his rounds.  I could see a neat
puncture hole on either side.  "One of 'em got me there, just tother
day.  Went right through to me skin."

"Good heavens, which one did that?"

"Don't rightly know-what's their names, anyway?"

"Ruffles and Muffles,"I replied.

"Bloody 'ell!"  Doug looked at me wonderingly.  His own dog was called
Spot.  He spent a few moments in thought, then raised a finger.  "But
ah'll tell that sum mat and maybe ye won't believe me.  Them dogs used
to be real nice little things."

"What!"

"I'm not jokin' nor jestin'.  When they first came here they were as
friendly as any dogs I've ever seen.  It was afore your time, but it's
true."

"Well, that's remarkable," I said.  "I wonder what happened."

Doug shrugged his shoulders.  "God knows, but each of 'em turned nasty
after a few months and they've got wuss and wuss ever since."

Doug's words stayed with me until I got back to the surgery.  I was
puzzled.  Westies, in my experience, were a particularly amiable breed.
Siegfried was in the dispensary, writing directions on a bottle of
colic mixture.  I mentioned the situation to him.

"Yes," he said.  "I've heard the same thing.  I've been to the
Whithorns a couple of times and I know why those dogs are so
objectionable."

"Really?  Why is it?"

"Their owners make them that way.  They never correct them and they
slobber over them all the time."

"You could be right," I said.  "I've always made a fuss of my own dogs,
but all that kissing and cuddling is a bit sickening."

"Quite.  Too much of that is bad for a dog.  And another thing, those
two animals are the bosses in that home.  A dog likes to obey.  It
gives them security.  Believe me, Ruffles and Muffles would be happy
and good-tempered if they had been controlled right from the start."

"There's no doubt they rule the roost now."

"Absolutely," Siegfried said.  "And really, they hate it.  If only the
Whithorns would take off the rose-tinted spectacles and treat them
normally.  But it's too late now, I'm afraid."  He pocketed the colic
mixture and left.

The months passed, I had a few more visits to the Whithorns and went
through the usual dancing routine, then, oddly, both the old dogs died
within a few weeks of each other.  And despite their tempestuous lives
they had peaceful ends.  Ruffles was found dead in his basket one
morning and Muffles wandered down the garden for a sleep under the
apple tree and never woke up.

That was merciful, anyway.  They hadn't treated me very well but I was
glad they had been spared the things which upset me most in small
animal practice.  The road accident, the lingering illness, the
euthanasia.  It was like a chapter in my life closing, but shortly
afterwards Mr.  Whithorn rang me.

"Mr.  Herriot," he said.  "We have acquired another pair of Westies and
I wonder if you would call and give them their distemper
inoculations."

It was a delightful change to go into the room and be met by two
tail-wagging puppies.  They were twelve weeks old and they looked up at
me with benevolent eyes.

"They're beautiful," I said.  "What have you called them?"

"Ruffles and Muffles," Mr.  Whithorn replied.

"Same again, eh?"

"Yes, we wanted to keep the memory of our other darlings alive."  He
seized the puppies and showered kisses on them.

After the inoculations it was a long time before I saw the little dogs
again.  They seemed to be singularly healthy.  It must have been nearly
a year later when I was called to the house to give them a check-up.

When I went into the sitting-room, Ruffles and Muffles Mark 2 were
seated side by side on the sofa.  There was an odd immobility in their
attitude.  As I approached, they stared at me coldly and as if
responding to a signal they bared their teeth and growled softly but
menacingly.

A chill ran through me.  It couldn't be happening all over again.  But
as Mr.  Whithorn lifted Ruffles on to the table and I took the
auroscope from its box I quickly realised that fate had turned the
clock back.  The little animal stood there, regarding me with a
bristling mistrust.

"Hold his head, will you, please," I said.  "I want to examine his ears
first."  I took the ear between finger and thumb and gently inserted
the auroscope.  I applied my eye to the instrument and was inspecting
the external meatus when the dog exploded into action.  I heard a
vicious snarl and as I jerked my head back, the draught of the
crunching teeth fanned my face.

Mr.  Whithorn leaned back and abandoned himself to mirth.  "Oh, isn't
he a little monkey!  Ha-ha-ha, he just won't stand any nonsense."  He
rested his hands on the table for some time, shaking with merriment,
then he wiped his eyes.  "Dear, oh dear, what a character he is."

I stared at the man.  The fact that he might easily have been
confronted by a noseless veterinary surgeon did not seem to weigh with
him.  I looked too, at his wife standing behind him.  She was laughing
just as merrily.  What was the use of trying to instil reason into
these people?  They were utterly besotted.  All I could do was get on
with the job.

"Mr.  Whithorn," I said tautly.  "Will you please hold him again, and
this time take a tight grip with your hands on either side of his
neck."

He looked at me anxiously.  "But I won't hurt the little pet?"

"No, no, of course not."

"All right."  He placed his cheek against the dog's face and whispered
lovingly.  "Daddy promises to be gentle, my angel.  Don't worry,
sweetheart."

He grasped the loose skin of the neck as I directed and I warily
recommenced operations.  Peering at the interior of the ear, listening
to Mr.  Whithorn's murmured endearments, I was tensed in readiness for
another explosion.  But when it came with a ferocious yap I found I was
in no danger because Ruffles had turned his attention elsewhere.

As I dropped the auroscope and jumped back I saw that the dog had sunk
his teeth into the ball of his master's thumb.  And it wasn't an
ordinary bite.  He was hanging on, grinding deeply into the flesh.

Mr.  Whithorn emitted a piercing yell of agony before shaking himself
free.

"You rotten little bugger!"  he screamed, dancing around the room,
holding the stricken hand.  He looked at the blood pouring from the two
deep holes, then glared at Ruffles.  lOh, you bloody little swine!"

I thought of Siegfried's words and of his wish that these people might
take a more sensible view of their dogs.  Well, this could be a
start.

"Are ye all right, Mr.  Herriot?"

Lionel Brough looked down at me solicitously as I crawled on hands and
knees through the gap in the wire netting.

"Yes," I gasped.  Lionel was very thin and he had slipped through the
aperture like a snake, but I was having a little difficulty.

There were some unusual farms and small holdings in our practice
converted railway wagons, henhouses and other artifices but this one, I
always thought, took the prize.

Lionel was one of a plentiful breed in those days, a road man who kept
livestock as a sideline and hobby.  Some of them had four cows, others
a few pigs, but Lionel had the lot.

He had housed his motley collection in a large hut by the side of his
cottage.  He appeared to have divided the hut into sections by using
the first thing which came to hand.  It was a labyrinth, a monumental
piece of improvisation with upended bed frames, sheets of plywood and
corrugated iron and stretches of wire netting separating the animals.
There were no doors or passages anywhere.

I got to my feet, puffing slightly.  "Where is this calf?"

"Not far to go now, Mr.  Herriot."  We passed his solitary cow, then
little pigs nibbled at my heels as Lionel laboriously undid a series of
knots tied with coarse string so that we could enter the next
compartment.

Here a couple of nanny goats regarded us impassively.

"Grand milkers, them two," the road man grunted.  T' missus makes some
smashin' cheese from 'em, and it's healthy milk, isn't it?"

"That's right, it is."  At that time, when T.B. infection was still a
constant threat, the milk.  from the comparatively immune goat was
highly regarded.  The far wall of their pen consisted of a mahogany
dining-table lying on its side, its legs projecting into the interior.
I skirted it warily before climbing over.  I had suffered some nasty
blows from those ca stored knobs.

We were among the calves now, three of them, and it was easy to pick
out my patient, a small black animal with a purulent discharge crusting
his nostrils.

As I bent to take his temperature I had to push aside a couple of
squawking hens, and a fat Muscovy duck waddled out of my way.  These
feathered creatures seemed to have the run of the place, jumping and
fluttering from pen to pen and in and out of the building.  From my
position by the calf I could see an assortment of cats perched on
window sills or on the tops of partitions.  A sudden snarling from the
end of the hut marked the beginning of a friendly fight between
Lionel's three dogs.  Beyond the doorway two sheep were visible,
grazing contentedly in the field by the cottage.

I looked at the thermometer a hundred and three, then I ausculated the
chest with my stethoscope.  "Just a touch of bronchitis, Lionel, but
I'm glad you called me.  He's quite rough in his lungs and pneumonia
could be just round the corner.  As it is, a couple of injections will
probably clear him up."

Lionel nodded in quiet satisfaction.  He was a vague man, but kind, and
all his animals were comfortable and well fed in their eccentric
dwelling.  Deep straw abounded and the hay racks and troughs were well
supplied.

I felt in my pockets.  They were bulging with bottles and syringes.  I
had brought everything I might possibly need.  On this establishment it
wasn't easy to slip back to the car as an afterthought.

After the injection I turned to the road man  I'll look in tomorrow
morning.  It's Sunday, so you won't be working, eh?"

That's right.  Thank ye, Mr.  Herriot."  He turned and began to lead me
back through the obstacle course.

On the following day I found the calf greatly improved.  "Temperature
normal, Lionel," I said.  "And he's on his feet now.  That's a good
sign."

The road man nodded abstractedly and I could see that his mind was
elsewhere.  "Aye, well, that's-grand .. . ahim right pleased."  His
eyes looked past me vacantly for a few moments then he suddenly seemed
to come back to the world.

"Mr.  Herriot!"  His voice took on an unaccustomed urgency.  "There's
sum mat I want to ask ye."

"Oh, yes?"

"Aye, I'll tell you what it is."  He looked at me eagerly.  "Ah fancy
goin' in for pigs in a big way."

"You mean..  keep a lot of pigs?"

"That's right.  Just pigs and nowt else, and keep 'em in a proper
place."

"But that would mean building a piggery."

He thumped a fist into his palm.  "You've just said it.  That's what I
fancy.  I've all us liked pigs and I'd like to do the job proper.  Ah
could build the piggery out there in t'field."

I looked at him in surprise.  "But Lionel, these things cost a lot.
There's the question of .. ."

"Money?  Oh, ah've got t'money.  Remember me awd uncle died a bit back?
Lived with us for years.  Well 'e left me a little legacy.  Not a
fortune, that knows, but I could branch out a bit now."

"Well, it's up to you, of course," I said.  "But are you sure it's what
you really want?  You've always seemed to be happy with your bit of
stock here and you're not a youngster you'll be fifty odd, won't
you?"

"Aye, I'm fifty-six, but they say you're never too old to have a go at
something new."

I smiled.  "Oh, I'm a strong believer in that.  I'm all for it
-providing you're happy doing it."

He looked very thoughtful and scratched his cheek a few times.  I
suppose, like most happy men, he didn't realise it.  "Get by, duck!" he
grunted with a flash of irritation and nudged the Muscovy with his toe
as it tried to march between his legs.  Still deep in thought, he bent
and lifted a hen's egg from the straw in the corner and put it in his
pocket.

"Nay, ah've thought it over for a bit now and me mind's made up.  I've
got to have a go."

"Okay, Lionel," I said.  "Have at it, and the best of luck."

With a speed unusual in the Dales the piggery took shape in the field.
Rows of concrete pens with a covered yard appeared, and within a few
weeks sows and a boar were installed in the pens and a solid bunch of
porkers grunted among the straw in the yard.

To me, this modern structure looked out of place with the ancient
dry-stone walls encircling its green setting and the smooth bulk of the
fell rising to the stark moorland above, but I hoped it would being
Lionel the satisfaction he craved.

He still carried on with his road work.  He had to get up earlier in
the morning to feed and clean out his pigs but he was a fit man and
seemed to be enjoying it.

His vet bills went up, of course, but there was nothing serious and
everything I treated went on well.  An occasional sow with mastitis, a
farrowing, a few piglets with joint ill.  He 328

accepted these things without complaint because the old adage "Where
there's stock there's trouble' was as familiar to him as to anybody
else.

The only thing that bothered me a little was that whereas, before, he
spent a lot of time just leaning on his various partitions looking at
his animals and smoking his pipe, he now had no time for that.  He was
always bustling about, pushing wheelbarrows, filling up troughs,
mucking out, and it seemed to me that all this was foreign to his
nature.

He certainly wasn't as relaxed as he had been.  He was happy enough,
caring for his fine new charges, but there was a tautness in his
expression, a slight anxiety which had not been there before.

There was anxiety in his voice, too, when he rang up one evening. "Just
got back from work, Mr.  Herriot, and there's some young pigs here I
don't like t'look of."

"What symptoms are they showing, Lionel."

"Well, they haven't been doin' right for a bit.  Not thrivin' like the
others.  But they've been eatin' and not really off it, like, so I
haven't bothered you."

"But how about now?"

There was a pause.  They look different now.  They're kind o' crambly
on their back legs and they're scourin' a bit ... and there's one dead.
Ahim a bit worried."

I was worried, too.  Instantly and profoundly.  It sounded horribly
like swine fever.  In my early days those two words were burned into my
soul, and yet to the modern young vet they don't mean a thing.

For around twenty years I was literally haunted by swine fever.
Whenever I did a post-mortem on a dead pig I feared I might come across
the dreaded button ulcers and haemorrhages.  And what I feared still
more was that I might fail to spot the disease and be responsible for
its spread.

It wasn't as bad as foot and mouth in that respect but the same
principles held good.  If I didn't recognise the symptoms, pigs might
go from that farm to a market and be sold to places scattered over many
miles.  And every pig would carry its own load of infection and would
spread the incurable disease among its healthy neighbours.  Then the
Ministry of Agriculture would be called in and they would painstakingly
trace the thing right back to Herriot, the man who had made the
original unforgivable blunder.

It was a recurring nightmare, because, unlike foot and mouth, the
disease was a common one, waiting round the corner all the time.  I
often used to think I would be blissfully happy if only there were no
such thing as swine fever.  In fact when I look back at all the worry
it caused me and my contemporaries, I feel that the present-day
veterinarians should leap happily from their beds each morning and
dance around the room crying out, "Hurrah, hurrah, there's no swine
fever now!"

At the farm, Lionel led me to a pen at the far end of the yard.

They're in there," he said gloomily.

I leaned over the wall and a wave of misery flowed through me.  There
were about a dozen young pigs in the pen around sixteen weeks old and
they were nearly all showing the same symptoms.

They were thin and had a scruffy unthrifty look, the backs of their
ears were a dark purple red, they staggered slightly as they walked and
a thin diarrhoea ran down the limp-hanging tails.  I took a few
temperatures.  They were around io6 F. It was classical straight out of
the book but I didn't tell Lionel right away.  In fact I wasn't allowed
to until I had gone through all the ritual.

"Where did you get this lot?"  I asked.

"Haverton market.  They were a right good level bunch when they came
but by gaw they've gone down."  He pushed at a little corpse with his
Wellington.  "And now ah've got this dead 'un."

"Yes .. . well, I'll have to open him up and look inside him, Lionel."
My voice sounded weary.  I was starting again on the agonising
merry-go-round.  "I'll get my knife from the car."

I came back with the post-mortem knife, rolled the dead 33o pig on its
back and slit open the abdomen.  How often had I done this with just
the same feeling of taut apprehension?

The region of the ileo-caecal valve was the text-book site and I aimed
for it first.  But as I cut into the intestine and scraped the mucosa
with my knife I found only haemorrhages and small necrotic spots, some
dark red, others yellowish.

Sometimes you found the real thing further along in the colon and for a
long time I snipped my way along the coils of bowel with my scissors
without finding anything definite.

Here I was again.  I was sure this was swine fever, but I couldn't say
so to the farmer.  The Ministry insisted that theirs was the right of
diagnosis and until they issued confirmation I could say nothing.

There were the usual petechial haemorrhages in kidney and bladder but
not one typical ulcer.

I sat back on my heels.  "Lionel, I'm very sorry, but I'll have to
report this as a suspected case of swine fever."

"Oh 'ell, that's bad, isn't it?"

"Yes .. . yes, it is.  But we can't be positive until the Ministry
confirm it.  I'm going to take samples and send them off to the
laboratory in Surrey."

"And can't you do owl to cure them?"

"No, I'm afraid not.  It's a virus, you see.  There's no cure."

"And how about tot hers  Does it spread?"

I cringed at having to answer, but there was no point in playing the
thing down.  "Yes, it spreads like anything.  You'll have to take every
precaution.  Keep a tray of disinfectant outside this pen and dip your
boots if you have to go in.  In fact I would go in as little as
possible.  Feed and water them over the top and always attend to the
healthy pigs first."

"And how about if me other pigs get it?  How many are goin' to die?"

Another horrible question.  The books say the mortality rate is 80-100
per cent.  In my experience it had been 100 per cent.

I took a long breath.  "Lionel, they could all die."

The road man looked slowly over the rows of new concrete pens with
their sows and litters, and the pigs rooting happily among the straw in
the yard.  I felt I had to say something, however lame.

"Anyway, it might not be what I fear.  I'll send these samples off to
the lab and let you know what they say.  In the meantime get these
powders into them either in their food or by dosing."

I stowed the loops of bowel in my car boot, then went round the piggery
making notes of the different grades of pigs.  Because another little
purgatory lay ahead of me the filling-up of the forms.  I have a blind
spot where forms are concerned and the swine-fever form was a
horrendous pink thing about two feet long with closely packed questions
on each side; about how many sows and boars and un weaned pigs and
fattening pigs, and heaven help you if you got any of the numbers
wrong.

That evening at Skeldale House I wrestled with this pink thing for a
long time, then turned to the real horror the packing of the sample of
bowel.  The Ministry provided a special outfit for this purpose.  At
first sight it looked just like a flat square of corrugated cardboard,
some pieces of greaseproof paper, several lengths of hairy string and a
sheet of brown paper.  However, on closer examination you found that
the cardboard folded into a small square box.  The instructions were
very explicit.  You didn't just bung a piece of bowel into the box; you
had to lay a three-feet portion lengthwise on the grease-proof paper,
then fold the ends of the paper inwards and tie the whole thing up in
one of the pieces of string.

However, there was a catch here, because among the swine-fever kit were
two stridently printed red and black cards saying "Pathological
Specimen.  Urgent," and with spaces for the address of the infected
premises and all kinds of things.  These cards had holes in each end
and the string containing the bowel had to be threaded through these
holes before the box was closed.  The other card went on the outside.

I painstakingly went through the ritual and as I finally fumbled the
string through the holes in the outside card and tied the box in the
brown paper I fell back exhausted, because this sort of thing took more
out of me than calving cows.

It was then, just as I was staring with glazed eyes at the envelopes
containing the form for Head Office and the one for Divisional Office
and the cardboard creation packed at last that I saw the other card
lying on the table.  I had forgotten to include it with the contents.

"Damn and blast it to hell!"  I yelled.  "I always do that!  I bloody
well always do that!"

Helen must have thought I might have had some kind of seizure because
she hurried through to the dispensary where I was working.

"Are you all right?"  she asked anxiously.

I hung my head and nodded weakly.  "Yes, sorry.  It's just this damned
swine fever."

"Well all right, Jim," she looked at me doubtfully, 'but try to keep
your voice down.  You'll wake the children."

In grim silence I dismantled the box, threaded the card and
reconstructed the outfit once more.  I had done this so often and, oh,
how I hated it.  I thought bitterly that if ever I wanted something to
fill in a quiet evening I had only to do an S-F report.

I took the thing to the station and sent if off and in an attempt to
ease my mind I turned to one of my veterinary bibles, Udall's Practice
of Veterinary Medicine.  Even among those hallowed pages I found little
comfort.  The great man's pronouncements only reconfirmed my
suspicions.  He was an American and he called it hog cholera, but
everything he described reminded me of what I had seen on Lionel's
place.  He talked about injection of-serum to protect the healthy pigs,
but I had tried that and it just didn't work.  It would be more expense
for Lionel with nothing to show for it.

Within a few days I got the result.  The Ministry were unable to
confirm the presence of swine fever on these premises.  On that day I
also heard from the road man

"Them pigs is worse.  Your powders have done no good and I 'ave another
dead 'un."

Again the dash out to the piggery and the post-mortem examination, and
this time, as I slit the intestine along its length, I realty thought I
had found something definite.  Surely those ulcers were slightly raised
and concentric.  The Ministry must confirm it this time and then at
least we would know where we were.

I had another evening of form filling and another struggle with the
cardboard box and the papers, but as I sent off the samples I was very
hopeful that my doubts would be resolved.  When the word came back that
the Ministry were once more unable to confirm the disease I could have
cried.

I appealed to Siegfried.  "What the hell are they playing at?  Can you
tell me how they ever diagnose S-F from these samples at the lab?"

"Oh, yes."  My partner looked at me gravely.  "They take the length of
bowel from the paper and throw it against the ceiling.  If it sticks
there it's positive, if it falls off it's negative."

I gave a hollow laugh.  "I've heard that one before and sometimes I
feel like believing it."

"But don't be too hard on the Ministry boys," Siegfried said. "Remember
they have to be dead sure before they confirm and they'd look damn
silly if they were wrong.  Lots of things can look like S-F.  You find
necrotic ulcers in worm infestations, for instance.  It's not easy."

I groaned.  "Oh, I know, I know.  I'm not blaming them, really.  It's
just that poor old Lionel Brough is sitting on the edge of a precipice
and I can't do anything to help him."

"Yes, James, it's a hell of a situation.  I've been there and I
know."

Two days later Lionel rang to say he had another dead pig.  This time I
found more typical ulcers and though I still had no idea what the
Ministry would say I knew exactly what I had to do.  My brain seemed to
have worked it out during the night hours because my decision was
crystal clear.

"Lionel," I said.  "You've got to slaughter every healthy pig on the
place."

His eyes widened.  "But there's hardly any of 'em ready for killin'
yet.  And there's in-pig sows and all sorts."

"Yes I know, but if the disease had been confirmed I would have advised
you to get rid of them all.  You are under restrictions, as you know,
and you can't send any pigs to the market but I can give you a licence
for all the healthy pigs to go to the bacon factory."

"Aye,but..  ."

' I can understand how you feel, Lionel.  It's tragic, but if once the
disease gets among your other pigs I won't be able to give you a
licence then and you'll just have to watch them die.  This way I can
save you about a couple of thousand pounds."

"But the bacon pigs..  . the porkers..  . ah'd get a lot more in two
months from now."

"Yes, but you'd get something for them now and nothing if they get
swine fever.  And apart from the money, wouldn't you rather have your
pigs humanely slaughtered than see them waste away like this sick
lot?"

My words brought home to me the fundamental sadness of a country vet's
work that so many of our patients are ultimately destined for the
butcher's hook, and no matter how attractive farm animals may be, all
our activities have a commercial foundation.

"Well, ah don't know.  It's a big thing."  He looked again over the new
piggery and the animals he had tended so carefully, then he turned and
gave me a level stare.  "And what if it isn't swine fever?"

He had me there.  Under those steady eyes I could only give him an
honest answer.  "If it isn't, Lionel, I'll be costing you thousands
instead of saving you thousands."

"Aye..  aye..  . I see that.  But you think it is?"

"As I told you before, I am not allowed to make an official diagnosis,
but in my own mind I'm bloody sure it is."

He nodded quickly.  "Right, Mr.  Herriot.  Start makin' out your
licences.  I've got a bit o' faith in you."

A 'bit o' faith' was a tremendous compliment from a plain Yorkshireman
and I hoped fervently that it was not misplaced.  I got out my blue
forms and started to write.

It wasn't long before the new piggery was an empty, silent place. There
remained only the pen of affected animals and they died off rapidly. 
With all its terrors I was sure that swine fever was not a painful
disease and the one gleam of light in the little tragedy was that the
diseased pigs quietly faded away and the others had a humane end. 
There was no real suffering.

Towards the end of the episode I heard from the Ministry that they had
confirmed the disease.  I showed the letter to Lionel and he put his
spectacles on and read it through very carefully.

"You were right, then," he said.  "So it were a good job we did what we
did."  He folded the paper and handed it back to me.  "I got a nice bit
from the factory for them pigs we sent in and if we'd hung on I'd have
got nowt.  Ahim grateful to ye."

So that was what I got from that simple road man after he had seen his
dream collapse and melt away.  No moaning, no complaints, only
gratitude.

Different people reacted in different ways when they were ravaged by
this terrible thing, but thank heaven it is all in the past now.  A
Crystal Violet vaccine was introduced and this helped to control the
disease, but finally the Ministry started a compulsory slaughter policy
as in foot and mouth, and that was the end of swine fever.  It must be
nearly thirty years since I had to witness these disasters and wrestle
with the forms and boxes and grease-proof papers but the memory still
lingers.

In the meantime I wondered what Lionel would do with his new buildings.
When the last pig had gone he meticulously cleaned out and disinfected
the place, but he didn't say anything about his intentions.  When the
place had stood empty for four months I concluded that he had had
enough of large-scale farming, but I was wrong.

One evening when I had finished seeing a few dogs and cats I found him
sitting in a corner of the waiting-room.

"Mr.  Herriot," he said without preamble.  "I want to start again."

"You mean, with pigs?"

"Aye, ah want to fill that place up again.  Can't bear seein' it
standin'empty."

I looked at him thoughtfully.  "Are you absolutely sure?  You took a
nasty knock last time.  I thought it might have put you off."

"Nay, nay ah still have this feelin'.  I want to be in pigs.  There's
just one thing, and that's what I've come to ask ye.  Could there be
any of them germs left from t'last do?"

It was the sort of question I don't like being asked.  In theory the
infection should have died out on that place long ago, but I had heard
some funny things about the swine fever virus surviving for long
periods.  But four months .. . the place must be safe by now.

Anyway, it's not much help when a vet says he doesn't know.  This man
wanted an answer.

"I'm sure it would be safe to bring more pigs up now if you've quite
made up your mind."

"Right, right, ah'll get started again."  He turned and left me as
though he couldn't begin quickly enough.

And indeed it wasn't long before the piggery echoed once more to the
grunts, snorts and squeals of a new colony.  And it wasn't long,
either, before trouble struck.

Lionel's voice on the phone was more agitated than I had ever heard it.
"I've just got back from me work and me pigs are in a 'ell of a state.
Laid out all over t'place."

My heart gave one mighty wallop against my ribs.  "What do you mean..
laid out?"

"Well, it's like they were takin' fits."

"Fits!"

"Aye, they're on their sides, kickin' and slaverin' and when they get
up they stagger around and fall down again."

"I'll be right out."  The receiver rattled on its rest as I replaced
it.  I felt suddenly drained.  I had advised this poor man that it was
safe to re-stock, and there was no doubt swine fever could display
nervous symptoms.  I rushed for Udall and whipped through the pages.
Yes, by God, there it was.  "Motor irritation may be noted in the
beginning in the form of circling, muscular twitchings and even
convulsions."

33'

I didn't see a thing as I threw my car at full speed along the narrow
road.  I never even noticed the trees speeding past the windows or the
green fell rising beyond.  I had only a horrid mental picture of what
was waiting for me at the other end.

And it was worse that I expected.  Much worse.  The yard was littered
with pigs of all sizes from young stores to big pregnant sows.  Some of
them were reeling and toppling in the straw but most were on their
sides, foaming at the mouth, trembling and pedalling frantically with
their feet at the empty air.  Udail had talked about convulsions and,
dear God, I had never seen worse convulsions than these.

Pale-faced and wordless, Lionel led me round the pens.  Suckling sows
lay twitching as their litters fought at their udders for milk.  The
boar paced around his area like a blind thing, bumping into the walls
then sitting down, dog-like, in a stupor.  There was hardly a normal
animal on the place.

The road man turned tome with an attempt at a smile.  "Well, we can't
license off the healthy 'uns this time.  There aren't any."

I shook my head dumbly.  I was utterly bewildered.

I found my voice at last.  "When did this start?"

"They were all right as nine pence this mornin', t'whole lot of 'em.
Bawlin' for their grub like they all us do.  Then when I came 'orae
they were like this."

"But dammit, Lionel," I said almost in a shout.  "It's too sudden!  It
doesn't make sense!"

He nodded.  "Aye, that's what t'plumber said when 'e saw them.  Got a
bit of a shock did t'feller."

"Plumber?"

"Aye, the missus noticed at dinner time that t'pigs had no water.  She
sent for Fred Buller and 'e came out this afternoon.  Said there was a
blockage in the pipes somewhere.  He's put it right now."

"Then they've been without water most of the day .. .?"

"Ah reckon so.  They must 'ave."

Oh glory be, now I knew.  I was still full of apprehension but the
weight of guilt was suddenly lifted from me.  Whatever happened now it
wasn't my fault.

"So that's it!"  I gasped.

Lionel looked at me questioningly.  "What dye mean?  The water? 
That'ud only make 'em a bit thirsty."

"They're not thirsty, they've got salt poisoning."

"Salt poisoning?  But they haven't 'ad no salt."

"Yes, they have.  There's salt in nearly all pig meal."  My mind was
racing.  What was the first thing to do?  I grabbed his arm and hustled
him into the yard.  "Come on, let's get some of these pigs on to their
feet."

"But they've all us had the same meal.  What's happened today?"  He
looked mystified as we trotted through the straw.

I selected a big sow which was lying quiet between convulsions and
started to push at her shoulder.  "They've been without water.  That's
what happened.  And that causes a higher concentration of salt in the
brain.  Gives them fits.  Push, Lionel, push!  We've got to get her
over to that trough.  There's plenty of water in there now."

I could see he thought I was raving, but he helped me to raise the sow
to her feet and we supported her on either side as she tottered up to
the long metal trough which bounded one side of the yard.  She took a
few gulps of water, then collapsed.

Lionel took a few panting breaths.  "She hasn't had much."

"No, and that's a good thing.  Too much makes them worse.  Let's try
this other pig.  She's lying very still."

"Makes 'em worse?"  He began to help me to lift.  "How the
'ell'sthat?"

"Never mind," I puffed.  "It just does."  I couldn't very well tell him
that I didn't know myself, that I had never seen salt poisoning before
and that I was only going by the book.

He groaned as we pushed the second pig towards the trough.  "God 'elp
us.  This is a bloody funny carry-on.  I've never seen owl like
this."

Neither have I, I thought.  And I only hoped all those things I was
taught at college were true.

We spent a busy hour, assisting the stricken animals to the water or
carefully dosing them when they were unable to move.  We did this by
pushing a Wellington boot with the toe cut off into the mouths and
pouring the water down the leg of the boot.  A pig would certainly
crunch the neck of a glass bottle.

The animals with the most powerful convulsions I injected with a
sedative to control the spasms.

When we had finished I looked around the piggery.  All the animals had
got some water into them and were lying within easy reach of the
troughs.  As I watched, several of them got up, took a few swallows,
then lay down.  That was just what I wanted.

"Well," I said wearily.  "We can't do any more."

He shrugged.  "Right, come in and 'ave a cup o' tea."

As I followed him to the house I could tell by the droop of his
shoulders that he had lost hope.  He had a defeated look and I couldn't
blame him.  My words and actions must have seemed crazy to him.  They
even did to me.

When the bedside phone rang at seven o'clock in the morning I reached
for it with half-closed eyes expecting the usual calving or milk fever,
but it was Lionel.

"I'm just off to me work, Mr.  Herriot, but I thowt you'd like to know
about them pigs first."

I snapped wide awake.  "Yes, I would.  How are they?"

"They're aw right

"How do you mean, all right?  Are they all alive?"

"Aye, every one."

"Are they ill in any way?"

"Nay, nay, every one of'em shoutin' for their breakfast just like they
were yesterday mornin"."

I fell back on the pillow still grasping the phone and my sigh of
relief must have been audible at the other end because Lionel
chuckled.

"Aye, that's how ah feel, too, Mr.  Herriot.  By gaw, it's a miracle. I
thought ye'd gone round the bend yesterday with all that salt talk, but
you were right, lad.  Talk about savin' ma bacon ye really did it,
didn't ye?"

I laughed.  "I suppose I did.  In more ways than one."

Over my forty years in practice I have seen only half a dozen cases of
salt poisoning or water deprivation or what ever you like to call it. I
don't suppose it is all that common.  But the one at Lionel's stays in
my mind as the most exciting and the happiest.

I thought this unexpected triumph would settle the road man down for
good as a pig keeper, but I was wrong again.  It was several weeks
before I was on his place, and just as I was leaving a young man rode
up on a bicycle.

Lionel introduced him.  "This is Billy Fothergill, Mr.  Her riot."  I
shook hands with a smiling lad of about twenty-two.

"Billy's takin' over ma place next month."

"What?"

"It's right.  Ah've sold 'im the pigs and he's goin' to rent the
buildin's from me.  In fact he's doin' all t'work now."

"Well, I'm surprised, Lionel," I said.  "I thought you were doing what
you wanted to do."

He looked at me quizzically.  "So did I, for a bit.  But ah'll tell ye,
that salt job really gave me a shock.  I thowt I was ruined and that's
a nasty feelin' at my time of life.  Billy's been pig man for Sir
Thomas Rowe for three years and he's just got married.  Feels like
branchin' out for 'himself, like."

I looked at the young man.  He wasn't tall but the bullet head,
muscular shoulders and slightly bowed legs gave the impression of a
great power.  He looked as though he could run through a brick wall.

"Ah know it's for t'best," Lionel went on.  "That piggery was all
right, but it was all us just a bit on top o' me.  Sort of a worry,
like.  I reckon Billy'll manage the job better than me."

I looked again at Billy's stubby features, at the brown skin, the
unclouded eyes and the confident grin.

"Oh yes," I said.  "He'll manage all right."

As the road man walked back towards my car with me I tapped his elbow.
"But Lionel, aren't you going to miss your livestock.  It was your
great hobby, wasn't it?"

"By gaw, you're right.  It was and it still is.  Ah couldn't do without
some stock to look after.  I've filled up tjawd hut again.  Come and
have a look."

We walked over to the hut and opened the door, and it was like turning
back the clock.  A cow, three calves, two goats,

two pigs and some assorted poultry all sectioned off with outlandish
partitions.  I could see the bed frames and wire netting with loops of
binder twine hanging from every corner.  The only difference was that
he had moved the dining-table to a position immediately inside the door
and a grand piano lid stood proudly by the side of the cow.

He pointed out the various animals and gave me a brief history of each
and as he spoke there was a contentment in his face which had been
absent for some time.

"Only two pigs, eh, Lionel?"  I said.

He nodded slowly.  "Aye, it's enough."

I left him there and went over to the car and as I opened the door I
looked back across the field.  From this angle I could shut out the
garish new piggery so that I saw only the stone cottage with its
sheltering trees and the old hut nearby.  The road man was leaning
against the up-ended dining-table, and as he gazed in at his mixed
charges the smoke from his pipe rose high against the back-cloth of the
hills.  The whole picture looked just right, and I smiled to myself.

That was Lionel's kind of fanning.

It was a Sunday morning in June and I was washing my hands in the sink
in Matt Clarke's kitchen.  The sun was bright with a brisk wind
scouring the fell-sides, so that through the window I could see every
cleft and gully lying sharp and clear on the green flanks as the cloud
shadows drove across them.

I glanced back beyond the stone flags at the white head of Grandma
Clarke bent over her knitting.  The radio on the dresser was tuned to
the morning service and, as I watched, the old lady looked up from her
work and listened intently to some words of the sermon for a few
moments before starting her needles clicking again.

In that brief time I had a profound impression of serenity and
unquestioning faith which has remained with me to this day.  It is a
strange thing, but over the years whenever I have heard discussions and
arguments on religion, on the varying beliefs and doctrines, on the
sincerity or otherwise of some pious individuals, there still rises
before me the seamed old face and calm eyes of Grandma Clarke.  She
knew and was secure.  Goodness seemed to flow from her.

She was in her late eighties and always dressed in black with a little
black neckband.  She had come through the hard times of farming and
could look back on a long life of toil, in the fields as well as in the
home.

As I reached for the towel the farmer led Rosie into the kitchen.

"Mr.  Clarke's been showing me some baby chicks, Daddy," she said.

Grandma looked up again.  "Is that your little lass, Mr.  Herriot?"

"Yes, Mrs.  Clarke," Ireplied.  "This is Rosie."

"Aye, of course.  I've seen her before, many a time."  The old lady put
down her knitting and rose stiffly from her chair.  She shuffled over
to a cupboard, brought out a gaily coloured tin and extracted a bar of
chocolate.

"How old are ye now, Rosie?"  she asked as she presented the
chocolate.

"Thank you, I'm six," my daughter replied.

Grandma looked down at the smiling face, at the sturdy tanned legs in
their blue shorts and sandals.  "Well, you're a grand little lass." For
a moment she rested her work-roughened hand against the little girl's
cheek, then she returned to her chair.  They didn't make much of a
fuss, those old Yorkshire folk, but to me the gesture was like a
benediction.

The old lady picked up her knitting again.  "And how's that lad o'
yours.  How's Jimmy?"

"Oh, he's fine thank you.  Ten years old now.  He's out with some of
his pals this morning."

"Ten, eh?  Ten and six ... ten and six .. ."  For a few seconds her
thoughts seemed far away as she plied her needles then she looked at me
again.  "Maybe ye don't know it, Mr.  Herriot, but this is the best
time of your life."

"Do you think so?"

"Aye, there's no doubt about it.  When your children are young and
growin' up around ye that's when it's best.  It's the same for
everybody, only a lot o' folk don't know it and a lot find out when
it's too late.  It doesn't last long, you know."

"I believe I've always realised that, Mrs.  Clarke, without thinking
about it very much."

"Reckon you have, young man."  She gave me a sideways smile.  "You all
us seem to have one or tother of your hairns with you on your calls."

As I drove away from the farm the old lady's words stayed in my mind.
They are still in my mind, all these years later, when Helen and I are
soon to celebrate our Ruby Wedding of forty years of marriage.  Life
has been good to us and is still good to us.  We are lucky we have had
so many good times but I think we both agree that Grandma Clarke was
right about the very best time of all.

When I got back to Skeldale House that summer morning I found Siegfried
replenishing the store of drugs in his car boot.  His children, Alan
and Janet, were helping him.  Like me, he usually took his family
around with him.

He banged down the lid of the boot.  "Right, that's that for another
few days."  He glanced at me and smiled.  "There are no more calls at
the moment, James, let's have a walk down the back."

With the children running ahead of us we went through the passage and
out into the long garden behind the house.  Here the sunshine was
imprisoned between the high old walls with the wind banished to the
upper air and ruffling the top leaves of the apple trees.

When we reached the big lawn Siegfried flopped on the turf and rested
on his elbow.  I sat down by his side.

My partner pulled a piece of grass and chewed it contemplatively.

"Pity about the acacia," he murmured.

I looked at him in surprise.  It was many years since the beautiful
tree which had once soared from the middle of the lawn had blown down
in a gale.

"Yes, it is," I said.  "It was magnificent."  I paused for a moment.
"Remember I fell asleep against it the first day I came here to apply
for a job?  We first met right on this spot."

Siegfried laughed.  "I do remember."  He looked around him at the
mellow brick and stone copings of the walls, at the rockery and rose
bed, the children playing in the old henhouse at the far end.  "My
word, James, when you think about it, we've come through a few things
together since then.  A lot of water, as they say, has flowed under the
bridge."

We were both silent for a while and my thoughts went back over the
struggles and the laughter of those years.  Almost unconsciously I lay
back on the grass and closed my eyes, feeling the sun warm on my face,
hearing the hum of the bees among the flowers, the croaking of the
rooks in the great elms which overhung the yard.

My colleague's voice seemed to come from afar.  "Hey, you're not going
to do the same trick again, are you?  Going to sleep in front of me?"

I sat up, blinking.  "Gosh, I'm sorry, Siegfried, I nearly did.  I was
out at a farrowing at five clock this morning and it's just catching up
with me."

"Ah, well," he said, smiling.  "You won't need your book tonight."

I laughed.  "No, I won't.  Not tonight."

Neither Siegfried nor I suffered from insomnia but on the rare
occasions when sleep would not come we had recourse to our particular
books.  Mine was The Brothers Karamazov, a great novel, but to me,
soporific in its names.  Even at the beginning I felt those names
lulling me.  "Alexey Fyodorovich

Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov  Then by the
time I had encountered Grigory Kutuzov, Yefim Petrovich Polenov,
Stepanida Bedryagina and a few others I was floating away.

With Siegfried it was a book on the physiology of the" eye which he
kept by his bedside.  There was one passage which never failed to start
him nodding.  He showed it to me once.  "The first ciliary muscle is
inserted into the ciliary body and by its contraction pulls the ciliary
body forward and so slackens the tension on the suspensory ligament,
while the second ciliary muscle is a circular muscle embedded in the
ciliary body and by its contraction drags the ciliary body towards the
crystalline lens."  He had never managed to get much further than
that.

"No," I said, rubbing my eyes.  "I won't need any encouragement
tonight."  I rolled on to my side.  "By the way, I was at Matt Clarke's
this morning."  I told him what Grandma had said.

Siegfried selected a fresh piece of grass and resumed his chewing.

"Well, she's a wise old lady and she's seen it all.  If she's right
we'll have no regrets in the future, because we have both enjoyed our
children and been with them from the beginning."

I was beginning to feel sleepy again when my partner startled me by
sitting up abruptly.

"Do you know, James," he said.  "I'm convinced that the same thing
applies to our job.  We're going through the best time there, too."

"Do you think so?"

"Sure of it.  Look at all the new advances since the war.  Drugs and
procedures we never dreamed of.  We can look after our animals in a way
that would have been impossible a few years ago and the farmers realise
this.  You've seen them crowding into the surgery on market day to ask
advice -they've gained a new respect for the profession and they know
it pays to call in the vet now."

That's true," I said.  "We're certainly busier than we've ever been,
with the Ministry work going full blast, too."

"Yes, everything is buzzing.  In fact, James, I'd like to bet that
these present years are the high noon of country practice."

I thought for a moment.  "You could be right.  But if we are on the top
now does it mean that our lives will decline later?"

"No, no, of course not.  They'll be different, that's all.  I sometimes
think we've only touched the fringe of so many other things, like small
animal work."  Siegfried brandished his gnawed piece of grass at me and
his eyes shone with the enthusiasm which always uplifted me.

"I tell you this, James.  There are great days ahead!"

