animal stories (8 page)

And when he was stretched unconscious on his side I was able to carry out my first examination. I parted the lids, wincing at the matted lashes, awash with tears and discharge; there was a longstanding keratitis and conjunctivitis but with a gush of relief I found that the cornea was not ulcerated.

“You know,” I said, “this is a mess, but I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”

The farm men didn’t exactly break into a cheer but they were enormously pleased. The carnival air was heightened as they chattered and laughed and when I poised my scalpel it struck me that I had never operated in such a noisy environment.

But I felt almost gleeful as I made the first incision; I had been looking forward so much to this moment. Starting with the left eye I cut along the full length parallel to the margin of the lid, then made a semi-circular sweep of the knife to include half an inch of the tissue above the eye. Seizing the skin with forceps I stripped it away, and as I drew the lips of the bleeding wound together with stitches I noticed with intense gratification how the lashes were pulled high and away from the corneal surface they had irritated, perhaps for years.

I cut away less skin from the lower lid—you never need to take so much there—then started on the right eye. I was slicing away happily when I realized that the noise had subsided; there were a few mutterings, but the chaff and laughter had died. Once the cutting was over, however, life slowly returned to the party.

“What a lot of pale faces. I think you could all do with a drop of whiskey,” Tristan said after I had inserted the last stitch and we had begun to put away the instruments. He left the room and returned with a bottle which, with typical hospitality, he dispensed to all. Beakers, measuring glasses and test tubes were pressed into service and soon there was a boisterous throng around the sleeping dog. When the van finally roared off into the night the last thing I heard was the sound of singing from the packed interior.

They brought Mick back in ten days for removal of the stitches. The wounds had healed well but the keratitis had still not cleared and the old dog was still blinking painfully. I didn’t see the final result of my work for another month.

It was when I was again driving home through Copton from an evening call that the lighted doorway of the Fox and Hounds recalled me to the little operation which had been almost forgotten in the rush of new work. I went in and sat down among the familiar faces.

Things were uncannily like before. Old Albert Close in his usual place, Mick stretched under the table, his twitching feet testifying to another vivid dream. I watched him closely until I could stand it no longer. As if drawn by a magnet I crossed the room and crouched by him.

“Mick!” I said. “Hey, wake up, boy!”

The quivering limbs stilled and there was a long moment when I held my breath as the shaggy head turned toward me. Then with a kind of blissful disbelief I found myself gazing into the wide, clear, bright eyes of a young dog.

Warm wine flowed richly through my veins as he faced me, mouth open in a panting grin, tail swishing along the stone flags. There was no inflammation, no discharge, and the lashes, clean and dry, grew in a soft arc well clear of the corneal surface which they had chafed and rasped for so long. I stroked his head and as he began to look around him eagerly I felt a thrill of utter delight, at the sight of the old animal exulting in his freedom, savoring the new world which had opened to him. I could see Ted Dobson and the other men smiling conspiratorially as I stood up.

“Mr. Close,” I shouted, “will you have a drink?”

“Aye, you can put a drop i’ there, young man.”

“Mick’s eyes are a lot better.”

The old man raised his glass. “Good ‘ealth. Aye, it were nobbut a bit o’ caud.”

“But Mr. Close …!”

“Nasty thing, is caud in t’eyes. T’awd feller keeps lyin’ in that door’ole and ah reckon he’ll get it again. Ever since ‘e were a pup ‘e’s been subjeck …”

Blossom Comes Home

After the rigors of lambing during March and April, my world became softer and warmer through May and early June. At Skeldale House the wisteria exploded into a riot of mauve blooms which thrust themselves through the open windows and each morning as I shaved I breathed in the heady fragrance from the long clusters drooping by the side of the mirror. Life was idyllic.

At times it seemed unfair that I should be paid for my work; for driving out in the early morning with the fields glistening under the first pale sunshine and the wisps of mist still hanging on the high tops. The air, fresh as the sea, carried a faint breath of the thousands of wildflowers which speckled the pastures.

It was on such a morning that I arrived at Mr. Dakin’s farm just outside Darrowby. I saw Mr. Dakin in the cow byre and went across to him. The farmer’s patient eyes in the long, drooping mustached face looked down at me from his stooping height.

“It looks as though it’s over wi’ awd Blossom, then,” he said, and rested his hand briefly on the old cow’s back. It was an enormous, work-swollen hand. Mr. Dakin’s gaunt frame carried little flesh but the grossly thickened fingers bore testimony to a life of toil.

I dried off the needle and dropped it into the metal box where I carried my suture materials, scalpels and blades. “Well, it’s up to you of course, Mr. Dakin, but this is the third time I’ve had to stitch her teats and I’m afraid it’s going to keep on happening.”

“Aye, it’s just the shape she is.” The farmer bent and examined the row of knots along the four-inch scar. “By gaw, you wouldn’t believe it could mek such a mess—just another cow standin’ on it.”

“A cow’s hoof is sharp,” I said. “It’s nearly like a knife coming down.”

That was the worst of very old cows. Their udders dropped and their teats became larger and more pendulous so that when they lay down in their stalls the vital milk-producing organ was pushed away to one side into the path of the neighboring animals. If it wasn’t Mabel on the right standing on it, it was Buttercup on the other side.

There were only six cows in the little cobbled byre with its low roof and wooden partitions and they all had names. You don’t find cows with names anymore and there aren’t any farmers like Mr. Dakin who somehow scratched a living from a herd of six milkers plus a few calves, pigs and hens.

“Aye, well,” he said, “ah reckon t’awd lass doesn’t owe me anythin’. Ah remember the night she was born, twelve years ago. She was out of awd Daisy and ah carried her out of this very byre on a sack and the snow was comin’ down hard. Since then ah wouldn’t like to count how many thousand gallons o’ milk she’s turned out—she’s still givin’ four a day. Naw, she doesn’t owe me a thing.”

As if she knew she was the topic of conversation Blossom turned her head and looked at him. She was the classical picture of an ancient bovine; as fleshless as her owner, with jutting pelvic bones, splayed, over-grown feet, and horns with a multitude of rings along their curving length. Beneath her, the udder, once high and tight, drooped forlornly almost to the floor.

She resembled her owner, too, in her quiet, patient demeanor. I had infiltrated her teat with a local anesthetic before stitching but I don’t think she would have moved if I hadn’t used any. Stitching teats puts a vet in the ideal position to be kicked, with his head low down in front of the hind feet, but there was no danger with Blossom. She had never kicked anybody in her life.

Mr. Dakin blew out his cheeks. “Well there’s nowt else for it. She’ll have to go. I’ll tell Jack Dodson to pick ‘er up for the fatstock market on Thursday. She’ll be a bit tough for eatin’ but ah reckon she’ll make a few steak pies.”

He was trying to joke but he was unable to smile as he looked at the old cow. Behind him, beyond the open door, the green hillside ran down to the river and the spring sunshine touched the broad sweep of the shallows with a million dancing lights. A beach of bleached stones gleamed bone-white against the long stretch of grassy bank which rolled up to the pastures lining the valley floor. I had often felt that this small holding would be an ideal place to live; only a mile outside Darrowby, but secluded and with this heart-lifting vista of river and fell. I remarked on this once to Mr. Dakin and the old man turned to me with a wry smile. “Aye, but the view’s not very susta*’,” he said.

It happened that I was called back to the farm on the following Thursday to check over a cow and was in the byre when Dodson the drover called to pick up Blossom. He had collected a group of fat bullocks and cows from other farms and they stood, watched by one of his men, on the road high above.

“Nah then, Mr. Dakin,” he cried as he bustled in, “it’s easy to see which one you want me to tek. It’s that awd screw over there.”

He pointed at Blossom, and in truth the unkind description seemed to fit the bony creature standing between her sleek neighbors.

The farmer did not reply for a moment, then he went up between the cows and gently rubbed Blossom’s forehead. “Aye, this is the one, Jack.” He hesitated, then undid the chain round her neck. “Off ye go, awd lass,” he murmured, and the old animal turned and made her way placidly from the stall.

“Aye, come on with ye!” shouted the dealer, poking his stick against the cow’s rump.

“Don’t hit ‘er!” barked Mr. Dakin.

Dodson looked at him in surprise. “Ah never ‘it ‘em, you know that. Just send ‘em on, like.”

“Ah knaw, ah knaw, Jack, but you won’t need your stick for this ‘un. She’ll go wherever ye want—allus has done.”

Blossom confirmed his words as she ambled through the door and, at a gesture from the farmer, turned along the track.

The old man and I stood watching as the cow made her way unhurriedly up the hill, Jack Dodson in his long khaki smock sauntering behind her. As the path wound behind a clump of sparse trees man and beast disappeared but Mr. Dakin still gazed after them, listening to the clip-clop of the hooves on the hard ground.

When the sound died away he turned to me quickly. “Right, Mr. Herriot, let’s get on wi’ our job, then.”

The farmer was silent as I inspected the cow inside and out. He responded to my sallies on the weather, cricket and the price of milk with a series of grunts. Holding the cow’s tail he leaned on the hairy back and, empty-eyed, blew smoke from his pipe.

At last I was finished. I untied the sack from my middle and pulled my shirt over my head. All conversation died and the silence was almost oppressive as we opened the byre door.

Mr. Dakin paused, his hand on the latch. “What’s that?” he said softly.

From somewhere on the hillside I could hear the clip-clop of a cow’s feet. There were two ways to the farm and the sound came from a narrow track which joined the main road half a mile beyond the other entrance. As we listened a cow rounded a rocky outcrop and came toward us.

It was Blossom, moving at a brisk trot, great udder swinging, eyes fixed purposefully on the open door behind us.

“What the hangment …?” Mr. Dakin burst out, but the old cow brushed past us and marched without hesitation into the stall which she had occupied for all those years. She sniffed inquiringly at the empty hay rack and looked round at her owner.

Mr. Dakin stared back at her. The eyes in the weathered face were expressionless but the smoke rose from his pipe in a series of rapid puffs.

Heavy boots clattered suddenly outside and Jack Dodson panted his way through the door.

“Oh, you’re there, ye awd beggar!” he gasped. “Ah thought I’d lost ye!”

He turned to the farmer. “By gaw, I’m sorry, Mr. Dakin. She must ‘ave turned off at t’top of your other path. Ah never saw her go.”

The farmer shrugged. “It’s awright, Jack. It’s not your fault, ah should’ve told ye.”

“That’s soon mended anyway.” The drover grinned and moved toward Blossom. “Come on, lass, let’s have ye out o’ there again.”

But he halted as Mr. Dakin held an arm in front of him.

There was a long silence as Dodson and I looked in surprise at the farmer who continued to gaze fixedly at the cow. There was a pathetic dignity about the old animal as she stood there against the moldering timber of the partition, her eyes patient and demanding. It was a dignity which triumphed over the unsightliness of the long upturned hooves, the fleshless ribs, the broken-down udder almost brushing the cobbles.

Then, still without speaking, Mr. Dakin moved unhurriedly between the cows and a faint chink of metal sounded as he fastened the chain around Blossom’s neck. Then he strolled to the end of the byre and returned with a forkful of hay which he tossed expertly into the rack.

This was what Blossom was waiting for. She jerked a mouthful from between the spars and began to chew with quiet satisfaction.

“What’s to do, Mr. Dakin?” the drover cried in bewilderment. “They’re waiting for me at t’mart!”

The farmer tapped out his pipe on the half-door and began to fill it with black shag from a battered tin. “Ah’m sorry to waste your time, Jack, but you’ll have to go without ‘er.”

“Without ‘er …? But …?”

“Aye, ye’ll think I’m daft, but that’s how it is. T’awd lass has come ‘ome and she’s stoppin’ ‘ome.” He directed a look of flat finality at the drover.

Dodson nodded a couple of times then shuffled from the byre. Mr. Dakin followed and called after him. “Ah’ll pay ye for your time, Jack. Put it down on ma bill.”

He returned, applied a match to his pipe and drew deeply.

“Mr. Herriot,” he said as the smoke rose around his ears, “do you ever feel when summat happens that it was meant to happen and that it was for t’best?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Dakin. I often feel that.”

“Aye well, that’s how I felt when Blossom came down that hill.” He reached out and scratched the root of the cow’s tail. “She’s allus been a favorite and by gaw I’m glad she’s back.”

“But how about those teats? I’m willing to keep stitching them up, but

….”

“Nay, lad, ah’ve had an idea. Just came to me, but I thowt I was ower late.”

“An idea?”

“Aye.” The old man nodded and tamped down the tobacco with his thumb. “I can put two or three calves on to ‘er instead of milkin’ ‘er. The old stable is empty—she can live in there where there’s nobody to stand on ‘er awd tits.”