“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 hosepipe as I slipped the needle into it. The M & B solution ran into the blood stream 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. That cow will be sound in a few days.”
“Well, I don’t know.” 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 the 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 onto a course of mixed sulphonamide 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, found ’er laid in her stall this mornin’. 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. Good mornin’.”
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 to 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 sure—I 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 of 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 somethin’ 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 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 gettin’ right parched.” It was as though my last unhappy visit had never occurred.
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, starin
g 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 reticulitis. 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 don’t know why. She’s had nobbut the best of stuff to eat, but she’s lost condition fast over the last few days.”
Pulse, respiration and temperature were 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’ them?”
“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 usually fatal condition. I had a feeling of doom.
“I’m afraid so,” I replied. “It is very serious.”
“I had a feelin’ there was somethin’ far wrong. Can you do owt for her?”
“Yes,” I said. “I would like to try her with some mixed sulphonamides.”
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 sulphonamides are keeping her alive,” I said, “but we need something stronger.”
“Is there anythin’ stronger?”
“Yes, penicillin.”
Penicillin. The marvellous 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 into the teat canal and the contents squeezed up into 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 hypodermically.
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 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 had been.
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 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 have been occasions when I have suffered misfortunes due to the shortcomings of others, when I have 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.
Chapter
11
“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 blond 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 that 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 Billies’ eyes, the familiar tin appeared by my breakfast plate and I read, “James Herriot Esq., MRCVS,” on the label.