animal stories (10 page)

“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. Ooooh-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 realized 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 still 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. I came 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 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?”

“Just that’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 violenly, 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 onto 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 drugs as well as calcium and I had Nembutal and morphine ready at 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 whiskey 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 patients 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 summat 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 allus 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 nobbut 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 toward his bright-faced, tail-wagging little dog. “Just look at her. Anybody can see there was never anythin’ wrong with Myrtle tonight.”

A Spot or Two of Bother

I am never at my best in the early morning, especially the cold mornings you get in Yorkshire when piercing wind sweeps down from the fells, finding its way inside clothing, nipping at noses and ears. It was a cheerless time, and a particularly bad time to be standing in this cobbled farmyard watching a beautiful horse dying because of my incompetence.

It had started at eight o’clock. Mr. Kettlewell telephoned as I was finishing my breakfast.

“I ‘ave a fine big cart ‘oss here and he’s come out in spots.”

“Really? What kind of spots?”

“Well, round and flat, and they’re all over ‘im.”

“And it started quite suddenly?”

“Aye, he were right as rain last night.”

“All right, I’ll have a look at him right away.” I nearly rubbed my hands. Urticaria. It usually cleared up spontaneously, but an injection hastened the process and I had a new antihistamine drug to try out—it was said to be specific for this sort of thing. Anyway, it was the kind of situation where it was easy for the vet to look good. A nice start to the day.

In the fifties, the tractor had taken over most of the work on the farms, but there was still a fair number of draft horses around, and when I arrived at Mr. Kettlewell’s place I realized that this one was something special.

The farmer was leading him from a loose box into the yard. A magnificent Shire, all of eighteen hands, with a noble head which he tossed proudly as he paced toward me. I appraised him with something like awe, taking in the swelling curve of the neck, the deep-chested body, the powerful limbs abundantly feathered above the massive feet.

“What a wonderful horse!” I gasped. “He’s enormous!”

Mr. Kettlewell smiled with quiet pride. “Aye, he’s a right smasher. I only bought ‘im last month. I do like to have a good ‘oss about.”

He was a tiny man, elderly but sprightly, and one of my favorite farmers. He had to reach high to pat the huge neck and was nuzzled in return. “He’s kind, too. Right quiet.”

“Ah well, it’s worth a lot when a horse is good-natured as well as good-looking.” I ran my hand over the typical plaques in the skin. “Yes, this is urticaria, all right.”

“What’s that?”

“Sometimes it’s called nettle rash. It’s an allergic condition. He may have eaten something unusual, but it’s often difficult to pinpoint the cause.”

“Is it serious?”

“Oh no. I have an injection that’ll soon put him right. He’s well enough in himself, isn’t he?”

“Aye, right as a bobbin.”

“Good. Sometimes it upsets an animal, but this fellow’s the picture of health.”

As I filled my syringe with the antihistamine I felt that I had never spoken truer words. The big horse radiated health and well-being.

He did not move as I gave the injection, and I was about to put my syringe away when I had another thought. I had always used a proprietary preparation for urticaria and it had invariably worked. Maybe it would be a good idea to supplement the antihistamine, just to make sure. I wanted a good, quick cure for this splendid horse.

I trotted back to my car to fetch the old standby and injected the usual dose. Again the big animal paid no attention and the farmer laughed.

“By gaw, he doesn’t mind, does ‘e?”

I pocketed the syringe. “No, I wish all our patients were like him. He’s a grand sort.”

This, I thought, was vetting at its best. An easy, trouble-free case, a nice farmer and a docile patient who was a picture of equine beauty, a picture I could have looked at all day. I didn’t want to go away although other calls were waiting. I just stood there, half listening to Mr. Kettlewell’s chatter about the imminent lambing season.

“Ah well,” I said at length, “I must be on my way.” I was turning to go when I noticed that the farmer had fallen silent.

The silence lasted for a few moments, then, “He’s dotherin’ a bit,” he said.

I looked at the horse. There was the faintest tremor in the muscles of the limbs. It was hardly visible, but as I watched, it began to spread upward, bit by bit, until the skin over the neck, body and rump began to quiver. It was very slight, but there was no doubt it was gradually increasing in intensity.

“What is it?” said Mr. Kettlewell.

“Oh, just a little reaction. It’ll soon pass off.” I was trying to sound airy, but I wasn’t so sure.

With agonizing slowness the trembling developed into a generalized shaking of the entire frame and this steadily increased in violence as the farmer and I stood there in silence. I seemed to have been there a long time, trying to look calm and unworried, but I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This sudden inexplicable transition—there was no reason for it. My heart began to thump and my mouth turned dry as the shaking was replaced by great shuddering spasms which racked the horse’s frame, and his eyes, so serene a short while ago, started from his head in terror, while foam began to drop from his lips. My mind raced. Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed those injections, but it couldn’t have this fearful effect. It was impossible.

As the seconds passed, I felt I couldn’t stand much more of this. The blood hammered in my ears. Surely he would start to recover soon—he couldn’t get worse.

I was wrong. Almost imperceptibly the huge animal began to sway. Only a little at first, then more and more until he was tilting from side to side like a mighty oak in a gale. Oh, dear God, he was going to go down and that would be the end. And that end had to come soon. Even the cobbles seemed to shake under my feet as the great horse crashed to the ground. For a few moments he lay there, stretched on his side, his feet pedaling convulsively, then he was still.

Well, that was it. I had killed this magnificent horse. It was impossible, unbelievable that a few minutes ago that animal had been standing there in all his strength and beauty and I had come along with my clever new medicines and now there he was, dead.

What was I going to say? I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Kettlewell, I just can’t understand how this happened. My mouth opened, but nothing came out, not even a croak. And, as though looking at a picture from the outside I became aware of the square of farm buildings with the dark, snow-streaked fells rising behind under a lowering sky, of the biting wind, the farmer and myself, and the motionless body of the horse.

I felt chilled to the bone and miserable, but I had to say my piece. I took a long, quavering breath and was about to speak when the horse raised his head slightly. I said nothing, nor did Mr. Kettlewell, as the big animal eased himself onto his chest, looked around him for a few seconds, then got to his feet. He shook his head, then walked across to his master. The recovery was just as quick, just as incredible, as the devastating collapse, and he showed no ill effects from his crashing fall onto the cobbled yard.

The farmer reached up and patted the horse’s neck. “You know, Mr. Herriot, them spots have nearly gone!”

I went over and had a look. “That’s right. You can hardly see them now.”

Mr. Kettlewell shook his head wonderingly. “Aye, well, it’s a wonderful new treatment. But I’ll tell tha summat. I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ this, but,” he put his hand on my arm and looked up into my face, “ah think it’s just a bit drastic.”

I drove away from the farm and pulled up the car in the lee of a drystone wall. A great weariness had descended upon me. This sort of thing wasn’t good for me. I was getting on in years now—well into my thirties—and I couldn’t stand these shocks like I used to. I tipped the driving mirror down and had a look at myself. I was a bit pale, but not as ghastly white as I felt. Still, the feeling of guilt and bewilderment persisted, and with it the recurring thought that there must be easier ways of earning a living than as a country veterinary surgeon. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, rough, dirty and peppered with traumatic incidents like that near catastrophe back there. I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes.

When I opened them a few minutes later, the sun had broken through the clouds, bringing the green hillsides and the sparkling ridges of snow to vivid life, painting the rocky outcrops with gold. I wound down the window and breathed in the cold clean air drifting down, fresh and tangy, from the moorland high above.

Peace began to steal through me. Maybe I hadn’t done anything wrong with Mr. Kettlewell’s horse. Maybe antihistamines did sometimes cause these reactions. Anyway, as I started the engine and drove away, the old feeling began to well up in me and within moments it was running strong: it was good to be able to work with animals in this thrilling countryside; I was lucky to be a vet in the Yorkshire Dales.

There’s Christmas—and Christmas

This was a different kind of ringing. I had gone to sleep as the great bells in the church tower down the street pealed for the Christmas midnight mass, but this was a sharper, shriller sound.