It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

  It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet [112-066-4.8]

  By: James Herriot

  Synopsis:

  Here is the heartwarming true story of Dr.. James Herriot, an English

  country veterinarian, whose humor and natural storytelling ability have

  captured the hearts of American readers in a very special way. "Warm,

  joyous, often hilarious .. . "--New York Times Book Review.

  To DONALD and BRIAN SINCLAIR Still my friends

  Chapter One.

  I could see that Mr. Handshaw didn't believe a word I was saying. He

  looked down at his cow and his mouth tightened into a stubborn line.

  "Broken pelvis? You're trying to tell me she'll never get up n'more?

  Why, look at her chewing her cud. I'll tell you this, young man - me dad

  would've soon got her up if he'd been alive today."

  I had been a veterinary surgeon for a year now and I had learned a few

  things. One of them was that farmers weren't easy men to convince

  especially Yorkshire Dalesmen.

  And that bit about his dad. Mr. Handshaw was in his fifties and I

  suppose there was something touching about his faith in his late

  father's skill and judgement. But I could have done very nicely without

  it.

  It had acted as an additional irritant in a case in which I felt I had

  troubles enough. Because there are few things which get more deeply

  under a vet's skin than a cow which won't get up. To the layman it may

  seem strange that an animal can be apparently cured of its original

  ailment and yet be unable to rise from the floor, but it happens. And it

  can be appreciated that a completely recumbent milk cow has no future.

  The case had started when my boss, Siegfried Farnon, who owned the

  practice in the little Dales market town of Darrowby, sent me to a milk

  fever. This suddenly occurring calcium deficiency attacks high yielding

  animals just after calving and causes collapse and progressive coma.

  When I first saw Mr. Handshaw's cow she was stretched out motionless on

  her side, and I had to look carefully to make sure she wasn't dead.

  But I got out my bottles of calcium with an airy confidence because I

  had been lucky enough to qualify just about the time when the profession

  had finally got on top of this hitherto fatal condition. The

  breakthrough had come many years earlier with inflation of the udder and

  I still carried a little blowing-up outfit around with me (the farmers

  used bicycle pumps), but with the advent of calcium therapy one could

  bask in a cheap glory by jerking an animal back from imminent death

  within minutes. The skill required was minimal but it looked very very

  good.

  By the time I had injected the two bottles - one into the vein, the

  other under the skin - and Mr. Handshaw had helped me roll the cow on to

  her chest the improvement was already obvious; she was looking about her

  and shaking her head as if wondering where she had been for the last few

  hours. I felt sure that if I had the time to hang about for a bit I

  could see her on her feet. But other jobs were waiting.

  "Give me a ring if she isn't up by dinner time," I said, but it was a

  formality. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be seeing her again.

  When the farmer rang at midday to say she was still down it was just a

  pinprick. Some cases needed an extra bottle - it would be all right. I

  went out and injected her again.

  I wasn't really worried when I learned she hadn't got up the following

  day, but Mr. Handshaw, hands deep in pockets, shoulders hunched as he

  stood over his cow, was grievously disappointed at my lack of success.

  "It's time t'awd bitch was up. She's coin' no good laid there. Surely

  there's summat you can do. I poured a bottle of water into her lug this

  morning but even that hasn't shifted her."

  "You what."

  "Poured some cold water down her lug 'ore. Me dad used to get 'em up

  that way and he was a very clever man with stock was me dad."

  "I've no doubt he was," I said primly. "But I really think another

  injection is more likely to help her."

  The farmer watched glumly as I ran yet another bottle of calcium under

  the skin. The procedure had lost its magic for him.

  As I put the apparatus away I did my best to be hearty. "I shouldn't

  worry. A lot of them stay down for a day or two - you'll probably find

  her walking about in the morning."

  The phone rang just before breakfast and my stomach contracted sharply

  as I heard Mr. Handshaw's voice. It was heavy with gloom. "Well, she's

  no different. Lyin' there eating her teed off, but never offers to rise.

  What are you going to do now."

  What indeed, I thought as I drove out to the farm. The cow had been down

  for forty-eight hours now - I didn't like it a bit.

  The farmer went into the attack immediately. "Me dad allus used to say

  they had a worm in the tail when they stayed down like this. He said if

  you cut tail end off it did the trick."

  My spirits sagged lower. I had had trouble with this myth before. The

  insidious thing was that the people who still practised this relic of

  barbarism could often claim that it worked because, after the end of the

  tail had been chopped off, the pain of the stump touching the ground

  forced many a sulky cow to scramble to her feet.

  "There's no such thing as worm in the tail, Mr. Handshaw,"I said. "And

  don't you think it's a cruel business, cuttihg off a cow's tail? I hear

  the RSPCA had a man in court last week over a job like that."

  The farmer narrowed his eyes. Clearly he thought I was hedging. "Well,

  if you won't do that, what the hangmen" are you going to do? We've got

  to get this cow up somehow."

  I took a deep breath. "Well, I'm sure she's got over the milk fever

  because she's eating well and looks quite happy. It must be a touch of

  posterior paralysis that's keeping her down. There's no point in giving

  her any more calcium so I'm going to try this stimulant injection." I

  filled the syringe with a feeling of doom. I hadn't a scrap of faith in

  the stimulant injection but I just couldn't do nothing. I was scraping

  the barrel out now.

  I was turning to go when Mr. Handshaw called after me. "Hey, Mister, I

  remember summat else me dad used to do. Shout in their lugs. He got many

  a cow up that way. I'm not very strong in the voice - how about you

  having a go."

  It was a bit late to stand on my dignity. I went over to the animal and

  seized her by the ear. Inflating my lungs to the utmost I bent down and

  bawled wildly into the hairy depths. The cow stopped chewing for a

  moment and looked at me enquiringly, then her eyes drooped and she

  returned contentedly to her cudding. "We'll give her another day," I

  said wearily. "And if she's still down tomorrow we'll have a go at

  lifting her. Could you get a few of your neighbours to give us a hand?

  Driving round my other cases that day I felt tied