I looked at the printed page. There was a large picture at the top, a picture of a Dachshund exactly like Hermann. This dog, too, was paralysed, but its hind end was supported by a little four-wheeled bogie. On the picture it appeared to be sporting with its mistress. In fact it looked quite happy and normal except for those wheels.
Ron seemed to hear the rustle of the paper because his head came round quickly. ‘What d’ye think of that, Mr Herriot? D’ye agree with it?’
‘Well . . . I don’t really know, Ron. I don’t like the look of it, but I suppose the lady in the picture thought it was the only thing to do.’
‘Aye, maybe.’ The husky voice trembled. ‘But ah don’t want Hermann to finish up like that.’ The arm dropped by the side of the bed and his fingers felt around on the carpet, but the little dog was still splayed out near the door. ‘It’s ’opeless now, Mr Herriot, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it was a black lookout from the beginning,’ I said. ‘These cases are so difficult. I’m very sorry.’
‘Nay, I’m not blamin’ you,’ he said. ‘You’ve done what ye could, same as vet for that dog in the picture did what ’e could. But is was no good, was it? What do we do now – put ’im down?’
‘No, Ron, forget about that just now. Sometimes paralysis cases just recover on their own after many weeks. We must carry on. At this moment I honestly cannot say there is no hope.’
I paused for a moment, then turned to Mrs Cundall. ‘One of the problems is the dog’s natural functions. You’ll have to carry him out into the garden for that. If you gently squeeze each side of his abdomen you’ll encourage him to pass water. I’m sure you’ll soon learn how to do that.’
‘Oh, of course, of course,’ she replied. ‘I’ll do anything. As long as there’s some hope.’
‘There is, I assure you, there is.’
But on the way back to the surgery the thought hammered in my brain. That hope was very slight. Spontaneous recovery did sometimes occur, but Hermann’s condition was extreme. I repressed a groan as I thought of the nightmarish atmosphere which had begun to surround my dealings with the Cundalls. The paralysed man and the paralysed dog. And why did that picture have to appear in the paper just at this very time? Every veterinary surgeon knows the feeling that fate has loaded the scales against him, and it weighed on me despite the bright sunshine spreading into the car.
However, I kept going back every few days. Sometimes I took a couple of bottles of brown ale along in the evening and drank them with Ron. He and his wife were always cheerful but the little dog never showed the slightest sign of improvement. He still had to pull his useless hind limbs after him when he came to greet me, and though he always returned to his station by his master’s bed, nuzzling up into Ron’s hand, I was beginning to resign myself to the certainty that one day that arm would come down from the quilt and Hermann would not be there.
It was on one of these visits that I noticed an unpleasant smell as I entered the house. There was something familiar about it.
I sniffed and the Cundalls looked at each other guiltily. There was a silence and then Ron spoke.
‘It’s some medicine ah’ve been givin’ Hermann. Stinks like ’ell but it’s supposed to be good for dogs.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Aye, well . . .’ His fingers twitched uncomfortably on the bedclothes. ‘It was Bill Noakes put me on to it. He’s an old mate o’ mine – we used to work down t’pit together – and he came to visit me last weekend. Keeps a few Whippets, does Bill. Knows a lot about dogs and ’e sent me this stuff along for Hermann.’
Mrs Cundall went to the cupboard and sheepishly presented me with a plain bottle. I removed the cork and as the horrid stench rose up to me my memory became suddenly clear. Asafoetida, a common constituent of quack medicines before the war and still lingering on the shelves of occasional chemist shops and in the medicine chests of people who liked to doctor their own animals.
I had never prescribed the stuff myself but it was supposed to be beneficial in horses with colic and dogs with digestive troubles. My own feeling had always been that its popularity had been due solely to the assumption that anything which stank as badly as that must have some magical properties, but one thing I knew for sure was that it could not possibly do anything for Hermann.
I replaced the cork. ‘So you’re giving him this, eh?’
Ron nodded. ‘Aye, three times a day. He doesn’t like it much, but Bill Noakes has great faith in it. Cured hundreds o’ dogs with it, ’e says.’ The deep-sunk eyes looked at me with a silent appeal.
‘Well, fine, Ron,’ I said. ‘You carry on. Let’s hope it does the trick.’
I knew the asafoetida couldn’t do any harm and since my treatment had proved useless I was in no position to turn haughty. But my main concern was that these two nice people had been given a glimmer of hope, and I wasn’t going to blot it out.
Mrs Cundall smiled and Ron’s expression relaxed. ‘That’s grand, Mr Herriot,’ he said. ‘Ah’m glad ye don’t mind. I can dose the little feller myself. It’s summat for me to do.’
It was about a week after the commencement of the new treatment that I called in at the Cundalls as I was passing through Gilthorpe.
‘How are you today, Ron?’ I asked.
‘Champion, Mr Herriot, champion.’ He always said that, but today there was a new eagerness in his face. He reached down and lifted his dog on to the bed. ‘Look ’ere.’
He pinched the little paw between his fingers and there was a faint but definite retraction of the leg. I almost fell over in my haste to grab at the other foot. The result was the same.
‘My God, Ron,’ I gasped, ‘the reflexes are coming back.’
He laughed his soft husky laugh. ‘Bill Noakes’s stuff’s working, isn’t it?’
A gush of emotions, mainly professional shame and wounded pride, welled in me, but it was only for a moment. ‘Yes, Ron,’ I replied, ‘it’s working. No doubt about it.’
He stared up at me. ‘Then Hermann’s going to be all right?’
‘Well, it’s early days yet, but that’s the way it looks to me.’
It was several weeks more before the little Dachshund was back to normal and of course it was a fairly typical case of spontaneous recovery with nothing whatever to do with the asafoetida or indeed with my own efforts. Even now, thirty years later, when I treat these puzzling back conditions with steroids, broad spectrum antibiotics and sometimes colloidal calcium, I wonder how many of them would have recovered without my aid. Quite a number, I imagine.
Sadly, despite the modern drugs, we still have our failures and I always regard a successful termination with profound relief.
But that feeling of relief has never been stronger than it was with Hermann and I can recall vividly my final call at the cottage in Gilthorpe. As it happened it was around the same time as my first visit, eight o’clock in the evening, and when Mrs Cundall ushered me in, the little dog bounded joyously up to me before returning to his post by the bed.
‘Well, that’s a lovely sight,’ I said. ‘He can gallop like a racehorse now.’
Ron dropped his hand down and stroked the sleek head. ‘Aye, isn’t it grand. By heck, it’s been a worryin’ time.’
‘Well, I’ll be going.’ I gave Hermann a farewell pat. ‘I just looked in on my way home to make sure all was well. I don’t need to come any more now.’
‘Nay, nay,’ Ron said. ‘Don’t rush off. You’ve time to have a bottle o’ beer with me before ye go.’
I sat down by the bed and Mrs Cundall gave us our glasses before pulling up a chair for herself. It was exactly like that first night. I poured my beer and looked at the two of them. Their faces glowed with friendliness and I marvelled because my part in Hermann’s salvation had been anything but heroic.
In their eyes everything I had done must have seemed bumbling and ineffectual, and in fact they must be convinced that all would have been lost if Ron’s old chum from the coal-face had not stepped in and effortlessly put th
ings right.
At best they could only regard me as an amiable fathead and all the explanations and protestations in the world would not alter that. But though my ego had been bruised, I did not really care. I was witnessing a happy ending instead of a tragedy and that was more important than petty self-justification. I made a mental resolve never to say anything which might spoil their picture of this triumph.
I was about to take my first sip when Mrs Cundall spoke up. ‘This is your last visit, Mr Herriot, and all’s ended well. I think we ought to drink some sort o’ toast.’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Let’s see, what shall it be? Ah yes, I’ve got it.’ I raised my glass. ‘Here’s to Bill Noakes.’
The sight of a lepg-bodied dog losing the power in its hind limbs is another thing which can spoil a veterinary surgeon’s day. The outlook is always poor. It was especially worrying for me when it happened to Hermann who occupied such a vital place in the life of his brave master. I didn’t learn much from his recovery because it seemed to be mainly spontaneous, but I did learn a lesson in counting my blessings from Ron Cundall.
48. Rip
I winced as Jack Scott’s slender frame crashed against the cow’s ribs, but Jack himself didn’t seem unduly troubled. His eyes popped a little and his cap slid over one ear, but he took a fresh grip on the tail, braced his boots once more against the cobbles and prepared himself for further action.
I was trying to irrigate the cow’s uterus with Lugol’s iodine. This was the common post-war treatment for infertility in cattle caused by endometritis, but it involved the insertion of the long metal Nielsen catheter through the uterine cervix and this animal didn’t seem to appreciate it. Every time I attempted to work the catheter through the cervical folds she swung round violently, and since the farmer weighed only about eight stones he was whirled repeatedly against the neighbouring cow.
But this time I had the feeling I was winning. The tube was sliding nicely into the uterus and if only she would stand still for a few seconds the job would be over.
‘Hang on, Jack,’ I gasped as I began to pump in the Lugol’s. As soon as the cow felt the fluid trickling in she veered over again, and the farmer’s mouth fell open as he was squashed between the big creatures. And when a hoof descended on his toes a soft groan escaped him.
‘Lovely, that’s it.’ I withdrew the catheter and stepped back, thinking at the same time that this had been a singularly uncooperative patient.
Jack, however, didn’t seem to share my view. Hobbling on his bruised foot he went up to the front of the cow and put his arms round her neck.
‘Ah, you’re a grand awd lass,’ he murmured, resting his cheek against the craggy jaw.
I looked at him wonderingly. It was always like this with Jack. He had a deep affection for every creature, human and animal, on his farm and, with an occasional exception such as the cow I had just treated, the feeling seemed to be returned.
When he had concluded his embrace he pushed his way out and hopped over the dung channel. His face wore its usual smile. It was not the ruddy face of the typical farmer, in fact it was always pale and haggard as though its owner hadn’t slept for a few nights, and the deep wrinkles on the cheeks and forehead made Jack look older than his forty years. But the smile was radiant, like an inner light.
‘Ah’ve one or two other jobs for ye, Mr Herriot,’ he said. ‘First I want you to give a bullock a shot. He’s got a bit of a cough.’
We walked across the yard with Jack’s Sheepdog, Rip, gambolling around his master in delight. Often these farm dogs were slinking, furtive little creatures, but Rip behaved like a happy pet.
The farmer bent and patted him. ‘Hello, feller, are you comin’ too?’ As the dog went into further transports a little boy and girl, the two youngest of the Scott family, trotted along with us.
‘Dad, where are ye goin’?’ ‘Dad, what are ye doin’?’ they cried. There were usually children mixed up with the visits on this farm, getting in between the cows’ legs, often hindering the work, but it never worried Jack.
The bullock was lying in deep straw in a loose box. He was a huge animal and obviously not very ill because he was placidly chewing his cud as we entered.
‘There’s nowt much wrong with ’im,’ Jack said. ‘Maybe just a bit o’cold. But I’ve heard ’im cough a few times and I reckon he’d be better with an injection.’
The temperature was slightly elevated and I filled a syringe with the penicillin suspension which the veterinary profession had recently acquired. I leaned over, gave the hairy rump the usual quick thump with my hand and plunged the needle in.
On any farm an animal of this size could have been something of a problem to inject, perhaps involving a chase round the box, but this one did not even rise to his feet. Nobody was restraining him in any way but he continued to chew, merely looking round with mild interest as I drove the needle deep into his muscle.
‘Champion. Good lad, good lad.’ Jack scratched the hairy poll for a few moments before we left.
‘There’s some lambs ah want you to look at,’ he said, and led me into a Nissen hut. ‘Ah’ve never seen owt like them.’
There were a number of ewes and lambs in the hut but it was not difficult to see what the farmer meant. Several of the lambs were wobbling on their hind legs as they walked and two could take only a few faltering steps before collapsing on their sides.
Jack turned to me. ‘What’s matter wi’ them, Mr Herriot?’
‘They’ve got swayback,’ I replied.
‘Swayback. What’s that?’
‘Well, it’s a copper deficiency. Causes degeneration of the brain which makes them weak on their hindquarters. That’s the typical form, but sometimes they become paralysed or take fits. It’s a funny disease.’
‘That’s strange,’ the farmer said. ‘Them ewes have had copper licks to go at all the time.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not enough. If you get many cases you ought to inject the ewes with copper halfway through pregnancy to prevent it for next time.’
He sighed. ‘Ah well, now we know what it is you’ll be able to put these lambs right.’
‘Sorry, Jack,’ I replied. ‘There’s no cure. Only prevention.’
‘Well, that’s a beggar.’ The farmer tipped back his cap. ‘What’s goin’ to happen to this lot, then?’
‘Well, the ones that are just wobbly have a good chance of making fat lambs, but I haven’t much hope for those two.’ I pointed to the pair lying on their sides. ‘They are already partially paralysed. I honestly think the kindest thing would be . . .’
That was when the smile left Jack’s face. It always did at the merest suggestion of putting an animal down. It is a country vet’s duty to advise his clients when treatment is obviously unprofitable. He must always have the farmer’s commercial interest in mind.
This system worked at most places but not at Jack Scott’s. Tell him to get rid of a cow which had lost a couple of quarters with mastitis and the curtain would come down over that smiling face. He had various animals on the farm which could not possibly be making him any money, but they were his friends and he was happy to see them pottering about.
He dug his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at the prostrate lambs. ‘Are they sufferin’, Mr Herriot?’
‘No, Jack, no. It doesn’t seem to be a painful disease.’
‘Awright, I’ll keep them two. If they can’t suck, I’ll feed ’em meself. Ah like to give things a chance.’
He didn’t have to tell me. He gave everything a chance. No farmer likes to have the extra work of lamb feeding, especially when the little creatures are abnormal, but I knew it was no use arguing with Jack. It was his way.
Out in the yard again, he leaned against the half-door of a loose box. ‘Any road, I’ll have to remember to do them ewes with copper next time.’
As he spoke an enormous head poked over the door. This was the bull box and the great Shorthorn inside clearly wished to pay his respect
s.
He began to lick the back of Jack’s neck, and as the rasping tongue repeatedly knocked his cap over his eyes the farmer remonstrated gently. ‘Give over, George, ye daft thing. What d’you think you’re doing’?’ But he reached back and tickled the animal’s chin at the same time.
The expression on George’s face made him look more like a dog than a bull. Goofy-eyed and anxious to please, he licked and nuzzled faster than ever despite the farmer’s protests. On many farms a bull that size would be a potential killer, but George was just another of Jack’s pets.
As lambing time was left behind and the summer wore on, I was glad to see that Jack’s dedication had paid off. The two semi-paralysed lambs were surviving and doing well. They still flopped down after a few steps but they were able to nibble the fast-growing grass and the demyelination of their brains had mercifully not progressed.
It was in October, when the trees around the Scott farm were bursting into a blaze of warm colour, that he hailed me as I drove past his gate.
‘Will ye stop for a minute and see Rip?’ His face was anxious.
‘Why, is he ill?’
‘Naw, naw, just lame, but I can’t mek it out.’
I didn’t have to go far to find Rip – he was never far from his master – and I experienced a shock of surprise when I saw him because his right fore leg was trailing uselessly.
‘What’s happened to him?’ I asked.
‘He was roundin’ up t’cows when one of ’em lashed out and got him on the chest. He’s been gettin’ lamer ever since. The funny thing is, ah can’t find a thing wrong with his leg. It’s a mystery.’
Rip wagged vigorously as I felt my way up his leg from foot to shoulder. There was no pain in the limb, no wound or injury, but he winced as I passed my hand over his first rib. Diagnosis was not difficult.
It’s radial paralysis,’ I said.
‘Radial . . . what’s that?’
‘The radial nerve passes over the first rib and the kick must have damaged rib and nerve. This has put the extensor muscles out of action so that he can’t bring his leg forward.’