Vet in Harness

pile of sticks and coal. Girls used to wear things called 'pixie hoods'

  in those days and I can see her now in a blue pixie hood, her face

  flushed with the long climb up the stairs looking round that door at me

  busy with my chores.

  But tonight my worst fears were being realised. My wife gave a long

  contented sigh and laid out one by one the dread ace, king, queen, jack

  and ten.

  "Sequence,' she murmured in a matter of fact tone and moved her peg up

  another two hundred and fifty.

  It wasn't a defeat, it was a massacre. It was obvious I hadn't long to

  live. But as I scanned the board anxiously the front door bell echoed

  along the passage downstairs.

  Maybe I was going to be saved. I leapt to my feet and began the familiar

  descent.

  A bulky figure loomed beyond the glass door at the end of the passage

  and as I turned the handle a waft of beer fumes blew in.

  "Ah want a cleansing drink,' the figure said.

  I opened the door wide. "Come inside for a minute, it's a cold night.'

  It was Reg Mallaby, a member of the large body of farmers who liked to

  drop in at the surgery on the way home after a night in the pub or the

  cinema, just to pick up some medicaments for the livestock.

  We went into the office and he stood leaning on the desk, breathing

  heavily.

  "A cleansing drink, eh?' I said. "Right, I'll bring one through.'

  Of course there was no such thing as a cleansing drink - there never has

  been - and when I first came to Darrowby and didn't know any better I

  used to waste a lot of time telling the farmers so. I went out of my way

  to explain as lucidly as I could that nothing you poured down a cow's

  throat could possibly influence the separation of the afterbirth and

  that they shouldn't throw their money away on something which was

  useless. The farmers listened with growing disbelief then left,

  offended, to purchase a cleansing drink at the chemist's shop.

  I took a more practical view now and went through to the stockroom.

  There was quite a pile of the square packets there. They were wrapped in

  bright red paper with lettering in confident black capitals and we did a

  brisk trade in them at half a crown a time. We bought them by the gross

  from a wholesaler and though I never had them analysed I had a strong

  suspicion that they consisted of a pound of Epsom salts flavoured with

  aromatic powder.

  "Here you are, Mr Mallaby,' I said. "That's what you want, isn't it?'

  "Aye, that's it, young man.' The farmer handled the packet almost

  lovingly. "They're champion things, these, the knows. Ah've never known

  'em fail. Must have some wonderful stuff in 'em.'

  He handed over his half crown then looked at me benevolently. "I 'ope I

  haven't disturbed you, lad. Maybe you were doing summat important like?'

  "No, that's quite all right, Mr Mallaby.' I looked at him with mingled

  surprise and gratitude. He was the first of the nocturnal callers who

  had shown any interest or concern. It had always been another symptom of

  the general opinion that vets have no private life. "No, you needn't

  worry about that. I was just playing cards with my wife.'

  The farmer nodded and a slow seraphic smile crept over his face. There

  was no doubt he had been indulging to the full. Then he narrowed his

  eyes suddenly.

  "Is your Missus t'lass that works at "'mill?'

  "Yes, that's right. She's in the office there.'

  His face became very solemn. "Aye well, I 'ave a complaint to make.'

  "A complaint? What do you mean?'

  I must have looked astonished because he held up a placatory hand.

  "Now then, young man, she's a grand lass, I'm not sayin' nowt about

  that. But she sent me a wrong bill.'

  "A wrong bill? In what way?'

  "There was a mistake in it. She charged me for a lot o' things I never

  'ad.'

  "Well that's very strange. Are you absolutely sure?' I could easily

  imagine myself making clerical errors but in my experience Helen was a

  model of efficiency in that line.

  "Aye, ah'm sure,' he replied. "Haud on a minute and I'll show you. I

  'ave it in my pocket here.'

  He put his cleansing drink on the desk and began a laborious search of

  his pockets. He tracked down the offending account among a huge wad of

  envelopes which he extracted from inside his coat.

  "There y'are, young man,' he said importantly. "Just have a look at

  that.'

  I studied the paper carefully. Opposite a date at the top there was an

  entry "Two bags pig meal' and underneath on dates when the order had

  obviously been repeated Helen had put dittos by writing 'do .. . do . ..

  do .. . do'.

  "Well what's wrong with it, Mr Mallaby?'

  The farmer pursed his lips. "Ah'll tell ye. Ye see that about pig meal?'

  I nodded.

  'well,' he went on, 'ah've had a few bags o' that, I'm not denyint and I

  expect to pay for't. But ... ' and here he raised a portentous

  forefinger, 'there's one thing I'm certain of. Ah've never 'ad none o'

  them bloody doo-doo's.'

  ~ _ .~

  Chapter Twenty.

  No vet likes to have his job made more difficult and as I worked inside

  the ewe I fought a rising tide of irritation.

  "You know, Mr Kitson,' I said testily, 'you should have got me out

  sooner. How long have you been trying to lamb this ewe?'

  The big man grunted and shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, for a bit - not

  ower long.'

  "Half an hour - an hour?'

  "Nay, nay, nobbut a few minutes.' Mr Kitson regarded me gloomily along

  his pointed nose. It was his habitual expression; in fact I had never

  seen him smile and the idea of a laugh ever disturbing those pendulous

  cheeks was unthinkable.

  I gritted my teeth and decided to say no more about it, but I knew it

  had taken more than a few minutes to cause the swelling of the vaginal

  wall, this sandpaper dryness of the little creature's inside. And it was

  a simple enough presentation - biggish twins, one anterior the other

  posterior, but of course as often happens the hind legs of one were laid

  alongside the head of the other giving the illusion that they belonged

  to the same lamb. I'd like to bet that Mr Kitson had been guddling for

  ages inside her with his big rough hands in a dogged attempt to bring

  that head and those legs out together.

  If I had been there at the start it would have been the work of a few

  moments but instead here I was without an inch of space, trying to push

  things around with one finger instead of my full hand and getting

  nowhere.

  Fortunately the present day farmer doesn't often play this trick on us.

  The usual thing I hear at a lambing is, "Nay, I just had a quick feel

  and I knew it wasn't a job for me,' or something I heard from a farmer

  the other day, "Two men at one ewe's no good,' and I think that says it

  very well.

  But Mr Kitson was of the old school. He didn't believe in getting the

  vet out until every other avenue had been explored and when he did

  finally have to fall back on our services he was usually dissatisfied

  with the resu
lt.

  "This is no good,' I said, withdrawing my hand and swilling it quickly

  in the bucket. "I'll have to do something about this dryness.'

  I walked the length of the old stable which had been converted into

  temporary lambing pens and lifted a tube of lubricating cream from the

  car boot. Coming in again I heard a faint sound from my left. The stable

  was dimly lit and an ancient door had been placed across the darkest

  corner to make a small enclosure. I looked inside and in the gloom could

  just discern a ewe lying on her chest, head outstretched. Her ribs rose

  and fell with the typical quick distressed respirations of a sheep in

  pain. Occasionally she moaned softly.

  "What's the trouble here?' I asked.

  Mr Kitson regarded me impassively from the other end of the building.

  "She 'ad a roughish time lambin' yesterday.'

  "How do you mean, roughish?'

  "Well .. . a big single lamb wi ' a leg back and I couldn't fetch it

  round.'

  "So you just pulled it out as it was .. . with the leg back?'

  "Aye, nowt else ah could do.'

  I leaned over the door and lifted the ewe's tail, filthy with faeces and

  discharge. I winced as I saw the tumefied, discoloured vulva and

  perineum.

  "She could do with a bit of attention, Mr Kitson.'

  The farmer looked startled. "Nay, nay, I don't want none o' that. It's

  ower with her - there's nowt you can do.'

  "You mean she's dying?'

  "That's right.'

  I put my hand on the sheep's head, feeling the coldness of the ears and

  lips. He could be right.

  "Well have you rung Mallock to come and pick her up? She really should

  be put out of her pain as soon as possible.'

  "Aye .. . ah'll do that.' Mr Kitson shuffled his feet and looked away.

  I knew what the situation was. He was going to let the ewe 'take her

  chance'. The lambing season was always a rewarding and fulfilling time

  for me but this was the other side of the coin. It was a hectic time in

  the farming year, a sudden onslaught of extra work on top of the routine

  jobs and in some ways it overwhelmed the resources of farmers and vets

  alike. The flood of new life left a pathetic debris behind it; a flotsam

  and jetsam of broken creatures; ewes too old to stand a further

  pregnancy, some debilitated by diseases like liver fluke and toxaemia,

  others with infected arthritic joints and others who had just had a

  'roughish time'. You were inclined to find them lying half forgotten in

  dark corners like the one in this stable. They had been left there

  to'take their chance'.

  I returned in silence to my original patient. My lubricating cream made

  a great difference and I was able to use more than one finger to

  explore. I had to make up my mind whether to repel the posterior or

  anterior presentation and since the head was well into the vagina I

  decided to bring out the anterior first.

  With the farmer's help I raised the ewe's hindquarters till they were

  resting on a straw bale. I could work downhill now and gently pushed the

  two hind limbs away into the depths of the uterus. In the space which

  this left I was able to hook a finger round the fore limbs which were

  laid back along the ribs of the anterior lamb and bring them into the

  passage. I only needed another application of the cream and a few

  moments' careful traction and the lamb was delivered.

  But it was all too late. The tiny creature was quite dead and the knell

  of disappointment sounded in me as it always did at the sight of a

  perfectly formed body which lacked only the spark of life.

  Hurriedly I greased my arm again and felt inside for the repelled lamb.

  There was plenty of room now and I was able to loop my hand round the

  hocks and draw the lamb out without effort. This time I had little hope

  of life and my effort were solely to relieve the ewe's discomfort but as

  the lamb came into the cold outside air I felt the convulsive jerk and

  wriggle of the woolly little form in my hands which told me all was

  well.

  It was funny how often this happened; you got a dead lamb - sometimes

  even a decomposed one - with a live one lurking behind it. Anyway it was

  a bonus and with a surge of pleasure I wiped the mucus from its mouth

  and pushed it forward for its mother to lick. A further exploration of

  the uterus revealed nothing more and I got to my feet.

  "Well she's come to no harm, and I think she'll be all right now,' I

  said. "And could I have some fresh water, Mr Kitson, please?'

  The big man wordlessly emptied the bucket on to the stable floor and

  went off towards the house. In the silence I could faintly hear the

  panting of the ewe in the far corner. I tried not to think of what lay

  in front of her. Soon I would drive off and see other cases, then I

  would have lunch and start my afternoon round while hidden in this

  cheerless place a helpless animal was gasping her life away. How long

  would it take her to die? A day? Two days. It was no good. I had to do

  something about it. I ran out to my car, grabbed the bottle of nembutal

  and my big fifty c.c. syringe and hurried back into the stable. I

  vaulted over the rotting timbers of the door, drew out forty c.c.'s from

  the bottle and plunged the whole dose into the sheep's peritoneal

  cavity. Then I leapt back, galloped the length of the stable and when Mr

  Kitson returned I was standing innocently where he had left me.

  I towelled myself, put on my jacket and gathered up my bottle of

  antiseptic and the tube of cream which had served me so well.

  Mr Kitson preceded me along the stable and on the way out he glanced

  over the door in the corner.

  "By yaw, she's going' fast,' he grunted.

  I looked over his shoulder into the gloom. The panting had stopped and

  was replaced by slow, even respirations. The eyes were closed. The sheep

  was anaesthetised. She would die in peace.

  "Yes,' I said. "She's definitely sinking. I don't think it will be very

  long now.' I couldn't resist a parting shaft. "You've lost this ewe and

  that lamb back there. I think I could have saved both of them for you if

  you'd given me a chance.'

  Maybe my words got through to Mr Kitson, because I was surprised to be

  called back to the farm a few days later to a ewe which had obviously

  suffered very little interference.

  The animal was in a field close to the house and she was clearly

  bursting with lambs; so round and fat she could hardly waddle. But she

  looked bright and healthy.

  "There's a bloody mix-up in there,' Mr Kitson said morosely. "Ah could

  feel two heads and God only knows how many feet. Didn't know where the

  'ell I was.'

  "But you didn't try very hard?'

  "Nay, never tried at all.'

  Well, we were making progress. As the farmer gripped the sheep round the

  neck I knelt behind her and dipped my hands in the bucket. For once it

  was a warm morning. Looking back, my memories of lambing times have been

  of bitter winds searing the grass of the hill pastures, of chapped

  hands, chafed arms, gloves, scarves and cold-nipped ears. For years

&nbs
p; after I left Glasgow I kept waiting for the balmy early springs of

  western Scotland. After thirty years I am still waiting and it has begun

  to dawn on me that it doesn't happen that way in Yorkshire.

  But this morning was one of the exceptions. The sun blazed from a sky of

  soft blue, there was no wind but a gentle movement of the air rolled the

  fragrance of the moorland flowers and warm grass over and around me as I

  knelt there.

  And I had my favourite job in front of me. I almost chuckled as I fished

  around inside the ewe. There was all the room in the world, everything

  was moist and fresh and unspoiled, and it was child's play to fit the

  various jigsaws together. In about thirty seconds I had a lamb wriggling

  on the grass, in a few moments more a second, then a third and finally

  to my delight I reached away forward and found another little cloven

  foot and whisked it out into the world.

  "Quadruplets!' I cried happily, but the farmer didn't share my

  enthusiasm.

  "Nowt but a bloody nuisance,' he muttered. "She'd be far better wi' just

  two.' He paused and gave me a sour look. "Any road, ah reckon there

  wasn't no need to call ye. I could've done that job meself.'

  I looked at him sadly from my squatting position. Sometimes in our job

  you feel you just can't win. If you take too long, you're no good, if

  you're too quick the visit wasn't necessary. I have never quite

  subscribed to the views of a cynical -old colleague who once adjured me:

  "Never make a lambing look easy. Hold the buggers in for a few minutes

  if necessary.' But at times I felt he had a point.

  Anyway, I had my own satisfaction in watching the four lambs. So often I

  had pitied these tiny creatures in their entry into an uncharitable

  world, :sometimes even of snow and ice, but today it was a joy to see

  them trying to struggle to their feet under the friendly sun, their

  woolly coats already drying rapidly. Their mother, magically deflated,

  was moving among them in a bemused manner as though she couldn't quite

  believe what she saw. As she nosed and licked them her deep-throated

  chuckles were answered by the first treble quaverings of her family. I

  was listening, enchanted, to this conversation when Mr Kitson spoke up.

  "There's t'ewe you lambed t'other day.'

  I looked up and there indeed she was, trotting proudly past, her lamb

  close at her flank.

  "Ah yes, she looks fine,' I said. That was good to see but my attention

  was caught by something else. I pointed across the grass.

  "That ewe away over there .. .' As a rule all sheep look alike to me but

  there was something about this one I recognised .. . a loss of wool from

  her back, a bare strip of skin stretched over the jutting ridge of her

  spinal column .. . surely I couldn't be mistaken.

  The farmer followed my pointing finger. "Aye, that's t'awd lass that was

  laid in the stable last time you were here.' He turned an expressionless

  gaze on me. "The one you told me to get Mallock to fetch.'

  ~ "But .. . but .. . she was dying!' I blurted out. i The corner of Mr

  Kitson's mouth twitched upwards in what must have been the nearest

  possible approach to a smile. "Well, that's what you tells me, young ,

  feller.' He hunched his shoulders. "Said she 'adn't long to go, didn't

  you?'

  I had no words to offer. I just gaped at him. I must have been the

  picture of bewilderment and it seemed the farmer was puzzled too because

  he went on.

  "But I'll tell the summat. Ah've been among sheep all me life but ah've

  never seen owl like it. That ewe just went to sleep.'

  "Is that so?'

  "Aye, went to sleep, ah tell you and she stayed sleepin'for two days!'