Every Living Thing Part 24

"RIGHT, MR. BUSBY," I said, feeling a rising tension in response to the urgency of the voice at the other side of the phone. "I'll be out very soon."

"Well, see that you are! Ah don't like the look of this cow at all. She's sunken-eyed and gruntin' and she won't look at 'er hay. She could die. Don't be long!"

As I listened to the aggressive harangue I could almost see the red-haired man shouting, bulging-eyed, into the receiver. He had told me all the symptoms several times over to make sure they penetrated my thick skull. Mr. Busby wasn't a bad chap, but he had a temper to go with his hair and always seemed to operate on the edge of panic. I'd better hurry.

I looked at my list, then at my watch. It was 9:00 A.M. and there weren't any really urgent calls. I could do Mr. Busby first and keep him happy.

I grabbed my bag and trotted to the front door. Young Mrs. Gardiner was standing on the step with her terrier under her arm. She looked upset.

"Oh, Mr. Herriot, I was just going to ring your bell. Something has happened to William. He went out this morning and jumped over the garden gate and now he can't use one of his front legs."

I managed a strained smile. "All right, bring him in."

We went through to the consulting room and I lifted the little dog onto the table. It took only a quick feel to tell me that there was a fracture of radius and ulna.

"He's broken his leg, I'm afraid."

"Oh, dear," the lady wailed. "How awful!"

I tried to be cheerful. "Oh, don't worry. It's a clean break and it's a lot easier on a foreleg. We'll soon put him right."

William, trembling and anxious with his leg dangling, looked up at me with a mute appeal. He was hoping somebody would do something for him, and soon.

"Has he had any breakfast?" I asked as I fished the plaster of Paris bandages out of the cupboard.

"No, nothing today."

"Good. I can go ahead with the anaesthetic." As I filled the syringe the old feeling came back that this was the sort of thing that gave vets ulcers. Mr. Busby would have to wait and I could picture him stamping round his farmyard and cursing me.

A few c.c.'s of Nembutal sent William into a peaceful sleep and I began to soak the bandages in tepid water. Mrs. Gardiner held the s.h.a.ggy leg straight while I carefully applied the bandages. Normally, this was a job I enjoyed; seeing the plaster hardening till it formed a firm supporting sheath and knowing that the little animal would wake up to find his pain gone and his leg usable, but at this moment I was conscious mainly of the pa.s.sage of time.

I tapped the plaster. It had set like a rock.

"Right," I said, lifting the sleeping dog from the table. "He'll have to keep that on for at least a month, then you must bring him back. If you're worried before that, give me a ring, but I'm sure he'll be fine."

I deposited William on the back seat of the lady's car and looked at my watch-9:45 A.M. I picked up my gear again and set off for the second time.

It took me half an hour's hard driving along the narrow, dry-stone-walled roads to reach the Busby farm, and as I approached I could see the farmer standing, hands on hips, legs splayed on the cobbled yard, a menacing picture against the squat buildings and the bracken-clad fells behind. When I got out of the car the farmer looked exactly as I had imagined him. His eyes were glaring and the ginger fringe thrusting from under his cap seemed to bristle with rage.

"Where the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l have you been?" he yelled. "You said you were coming straight out."

"Yes, I know, but I had to attend to a dog just as I was leaving."

I thought Mr. Busby would explode. "A dog! A b.l.o.o.d.y dog! Ma good cow's a lot more important than any b.l.o.o.d.y dog!"

"Well, yes, but I had to treat him. He had a broken leg."

"I don't give a b.u.g.g.e.r what he had. This cow's my livelihood. If she dies it's a serious loss for me. The other thing's just a flippin' pet, a lap-dog."

"Not a lap-dog, Mr. Busby, a tough little terrier and he was in pain. The lady owner is very fond of him."

"Fond, fond! What does that matter? It's not touching her pocket, is it? It isn't costing her anything?"

I was going to say something about her heart being touched and about the importance of pets in the lives of people, but Mr. Busby's feet had begun to twitch and then to move up and down on the cobbles. I had never seen a man actually dancing with rage and I didn't want to start now. I made for the cow house.

I was vastly relieved to find that the cow had only a mild stasis of the rumen and it turned out that she had been in the fold yard earlier in the morning and had stolen a few extra turnips. But as I examined and injected her the farmer kept up a grumbling monologue as he held the tail.

"Ah've got to live on a little spot like this and you don't think one cow is important. Where do you think I'm gettin' the money to buy another? Ah'll tell ye, it's a job makin' ends meet on a little hill farm, but you don't seem to 'ave any idea. Dogs...b.l.o.o.d.y dogs...flippin' pets...this is my livin'...you don't care..."

I was fundamentally a cow doctor and I made the greatest part of my own personal living from hill-farmers, whom I regarded as the salt of the earth, but I held my peace.

When I revisited the following day I found the cow completely recovered, but Mr. Busby was still sulky. He hadn't forgiven me.

It was a few weeks later that Helen stopped me as I was leaving to start the morning round.

"Oh, Jim. I've just taken a call. There's a dog coming in. It's crying out in pain. I didn't get the name-the man put the phone down quickly."

I rubbed my chin. In those days we were a 90 per cent large-animal practice and had no set surgery hours, certainly not in the morning.

"Whoever it is will have to wait," I said. "Rod Thwaite has a bullock bleeding badly-knocked a horn off. I'll have to go there first."

Trying to be in two places at once was a constant problem in our job. I did my best not to think about the dog and sped into the hills at top speed.

It was a typical broken horn with a pretty ornamental fountain of blood climbing several feet into the air and onto anything near. Mr. Thwaite and I were soon liberally spattered as we tried to hold the beast still and I packed the stump with sulphonamide, applied a thick pad of cotton wool and bandaged it in a figure eight to the other horn. It all took quite a time as did the cleaning process afterwards, and more than an hour had gone by before I declined Mrs. Thwaite's offer of a cup of tea and headed back towards Darrowby.

At Skeldale House I hurried down the pa.s.sage and pushed open the waiting room door. I halted there in surprise. It was Mr. Busby. He was sitting in the far corner with a little corgi on his knee and his face bore exactly the same expression as when I had paid the first visit to his cow.

"Where the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l have you been?" he barked. The words were the same too. "I've been sittin' here for a b.l.o.o.d.y hour! And I made an appointment!"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Busby. I had a bleeding bullock. I just had to go."

"A flippin' bullock! And how about ma poor dog, waitin' here in agony! That doesn't matter, does it?"

"Of course it does, but you know as well as I do that beast could have bled to death. It would have been a big loss to the farmer."

"A big loss? Aye, a big loss o' money, you mean. But what if me good dog dies? He's worth more than any money. You couldn't put a price on him!"

"Oh, I do understand, Mr. Busby. He looks a grand little chap to me." I hesitated. "I didn't know you had a pet beside your farm dogs."

"Of course, I 'ave. This is Dandy. Missus and me think the world of 'im. If anything happens to 'im it 'ud break our hearts! And you neglect 'im for a flippin' bullock!"

"Oh, come on, now, it's not a case of neglecting him. You must appreciate that I couldn't leave that beast to go on bleeding-it's the farmer's livelihood."

"There ye go again! Money! It's all you can think about!"

I bent down to lift the little dog and almost as soon as I touched him he screamed out.

Mr. Busby's eyes popped further. "Listen to that! I told you he was in a desperate state, didn't I?"

I carried the corgi along the pa.s.sage, feeling his muscles tense and rigid as a board. Already I was sure I knew what was wrong with him. On the table I gently squeezed his neck and the dog yelped again, with Mr. Busby moaning in response.

The temperature was normal, in fact everything was normal except the rigidity and the pain.

"Is he goin' to die?" The farmer stared into my face.

"No, no, he's got rheumatism. It's a terribly painful thing in a dog, but it does respond well to treatment. I'm sure he'll soon be well again."

"I hope you're right," the farmer grunted. "I just wish you'd seen 'im sooner instead of leaving 'im to suffer while you run off to a bullock. It's all right you harpin' on about money, but love and companionship mean a lot more than that, you know."

I filled my syringe. "I quite agree, Mr. Busby. Just hold his head, will you."

"There's more things in life than money, young man. You'll find that out as you grow older."

"I'm sure you're right. Now give him one of these tablets night and morning and if he's not a lot better by tomorrow bring him back."

"I will and I 'ope you'll be here if I do." Mr. Busby's rage had subsided and was replaced by a lofty sanctimoniousness. "I would ha' thought that a chap like you would know what it means to have a pet. Material things ain't everything."

He tucked the corgi under his arm and made for the door. With his hand on the k.n.o.b he turned. "And I'll tell tha summat else."

I sighed. The lecture wasn't over yet.

He waved a finger. " 'Man shall not live by bread alone.' ?

As he walked along the pa.s.sage, Dandy turned his head and looked back at me. He seemed better already. Mercifully, rheumatism, though terrifying in its onset, is just as dramatically curable.

Yes, Dandy would soon be himself again, but I knew his master would remember only my mercenary outlook and my heartlessness.

Chapter 36.

IT WAS THE DARROWBY police sergeant's voice on the telephone.

"I think we have a criminal character here, Mr. Herriot. Found him skulking down Docker's alley in the dark, wearing a face mask. Asked him what he was doing there at ten o'clock at night and he said he was on the way to the fish and chip shop. That sounded a bit thin to me-we've had a lot of petty break-ins and thieving lately-so we've brought him in to the station."

"I see. But where do I come in?"

"Well, he insists he's innocent and says you can vouch for him. Says his name's Bernard Wain and he has a little farm out on the moors near Hollerton."

All became suddenly clear and I laughed. "And the face mask is a red-and-white spotted handkerchief?"

"Aye! How the heck did you know?"

"Because that's the Cisco Kid you have there."

"What!"

It would have taken a long time to explain to the sergeant but it all fitted in.

Bernard was in his forties and he shared a smallholding with his redoubtable elder sister. It would be wrong to say that he ran the place, because he simply did as he was told, Miss Wain's opinion of him being summed up in her favourite word, "useless."

For some years now I had become accustomed to her constant refrain on my visits. "Aye, well, you'll 'ave to manage as best you can, Mr. Herriot. Bernard won't be much good to you. He's useless."

I recounted to the sergeant the events surrounding my visit to the Wains' earlier that evening. It had been a ewe lambing. Miss Wain rang from the village kiosk. "She's been on all afternoon. Bernard's had 'is hand in and he says there's summat far wrong but I don't suppose you'll 'ave much trouble. It doesn't take much to flummox Bernard. He's useless."

There were three gates on the rough track to the farm and, as I drove into the yard, Bernard was standing there in the headlights' beam. Small, dark, perpetually smiling as I had always known him.

He rubbed his hands and, ever anxious to please, bowed slightly as I got out of the car. "Now then, Mr. Herriot." But he didn't make any sort of move till his sister came strutting from the house, her bandy legs carrying her dumpy little frame rapidly over the cobbles.

She was at least ten years older than her brother, and her jaw jutted as she looked at him. "Come on, don't just stand there. Take this bucket and show Mr. Herriot where t'ewe is. Eee, I don't know." She turned to me. "We've got 'er in the stable, but I think he's forgotten!"

As I stripped off in the makeshift pen and soaped my arms, I looked at the ewe. She stood knee-deep in straw, straining occasionally, but she didn't look unduly distressed. In fact, when Bernard made a clumsy grab at the wool of her neck she skipped away from him.

"Oh, can't you even hold the thing for Mr. Herriot?" his sister wailed. "Go on, get your arms round her neck properly and haud her in the corner. Eee, you're that slow! Aye, that's it, you've got 'er at last. Marvellous! And where's that towel I gave you to bring? You've forgotten that, too!"

As I slipped my hand into the ewe's v.a.g.i.n.a, Miss Wain folded her arms and blew out her cheeks. "Ah don't reckon you'll have any problems, Mr. Herriot. Bernard can't manage, but 'e's got no idea about lambin' a ewe, in fact 'e's got no idea about anything. He's useless."

Bernard, standing at the animal's head, nodded and his smile widened as though he had received a compliment. He wasn't really feeble-minded, he was just a supremely ineffectual, vague man, a gentle soul, totally unfitted for the rough farming life.

Kneeling on the straw, I reached forward into the ewe and Miss Wain spoke again. "Ah bet everything's all right in there."

She was right. Everything was fine. Sometimes this first exploration revealed a single, oversized lamb, maybe dead, with no room for the hand to move and everything dry and clinging; little wonder that the farmer was unsuccessful, however long he had tried doing the job himself. But on this occasion, there was all the room in the world, with at least two tiny lambs lying clean and clear and moist in the large uterus, beautifully lubricated by the placental fluid. The only thing that was stopping them from popping out was that two little heads and a bunch of legs were trying to enter the cervix at the same time. It was simply a case of repelling a head and relating the legs to the relevant lamb and I'd have them out, wriggling in the straw, in one minute flat. In fact I had corrected the legs with one finger while I was thinking about it, then I realised that if I did a lightning job Bernard was going to be in big trouble.

He could, of course, have done the whole thing easily, but anything so earthy as guddling round inside a ewe was anathema to him. I could just imagine his single, shuddering exploration before he capitulated.

I looked up and detected a trace of anxiety in the smiling face. There was no doubt about it; I was going to have to hold these lambs in for a little while.

I gasped and grunted as I rotated my arm and the first lamb moved his tongue against my hand.

"My word, Miss Wain, this is a right mix-up. Could be triplets in here and all tangled up together. It's a tricky business, I can tell you. Now let's see...which lamb does that leg belong to... no... no...gosh, it isn't easy." I gritted my teeth and groaned again as I fought my imaginary battle. "This is a real vet's job, I can tell you."

As I spoke, Miss Wain's eyes narrowed. Maybe I was overdoing it. Anyway, Bernard was in the clear now. I hooked a finger round the tiny legs that were first in the queue and drew out lamb number one. I deposited him in the straw and he raised his head and shook it vigorously; always a good sign, but possibly he was puzzled at the delay.

"Now then, what else have we got?" I said worriedly as I reached back into the ewe. The job was as good as over now, but I was still making a meal of it for Bernard's sake and I did a bit more panting and grunting before producing a second and then a third lamb. They made a pretty sight as they lay wriggling and snuffling in the straw. The first one was already making efforts to rise on wobbly legs. It would soon be on its way to the milk bar.

I smiled up at Miss Wain. "There you are, then. Three grand lambs. I'll put in a couple of pessaries and that's that. It was a complicated business, though, with the legs all jumbled up together. It's a good job you called me or you might have lost these three."

Arms still folded, her head sunk on her chest, she regarded me unsmilingly. I had the impression that part of her was sorry she had been deprived of another opportunity of castigating her brother. However, she had another line of attack.

"Tell ye what," she said suddenly. "There's a cow been hanging her cleansin' for five days. You might as well take it away while you're here."

This was the kind of routine job that you didn't usually do at nine o'clock at night, but I didn't demur. It would save another visit.