Vet in a Spin Read online

  Again I seized the head and pushed my torch into the mouth and I shall

  al ways be thankful that at that very instant the dog coughed again,

  opening the cartilages of the larynx and giving me a glimpse of the

  cause of all the trouble.

  There, beyond the drooping epiglottis I saw for a fleeting moment a

  smooth round object no bigger than a pea.

  "I think it's a pebble," I gasped.

  "Right inside his larynx."

  "You mean, in 'is Adam's apple?"

  "That's right, and it's acting like a ball valve, blocking his windpipe

  every now and then." I shook the dog's head.

  "You see, look, I've dislodged it for the moment. He's coming round

  again."

  Once more Jake was reviving and breathing~ steadily.

  Roddy ran his hand over the head, along the back and down the great

  muscles of the hind limbs.

  "But . . . but . . . it'll happen again, won't it?"

  I nodded.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "And one of these times it isn't goin' to shift and that'll be the end

  of 'im?"

  He had gone very pale.

  "That's about it, Roddy, I'll have to get that pebble out."

  "But how ...?"

  "Cut into the larynx. And right now it's the only way."

  "All right." He swallowed.

  "Let's get on. I don't think ah could stand it if he went down

  again."

  I knew what he meant. My knees had begun to shake, and I had a strong

  conviction that if Jake collapsed once more then so would I.

  I seized a pair of scissors and clipped away the hair from the ventral

  surface of the larynx. I dared not use a general anaesthetic and

  infiltrated the area with local before swabbing with antiseptic.

  Mercifully there was a freshly boiled set of instruments Iying in the

  steriliser and I lifted out the tray and set it on thc trolley by the

  side of the table.

  "Hold his head steady," I said hoarsely, and gripped a scalpel.

  I cut down through skin, fascia and the thin layers of the sterno-hyoid

  and omo-hyoid muscles till the ventral surface of the larynx was

  revealed. This was something I had never done to a live dog before,

  but desperation abolished any hesitancy and it took me only another few

  seconds to incise the thin membrane and peer into the interior.

  And there it was. A pebble right enough big enough to kill.

  I had to fish it out quickly and cleanly without pushing it into the

  trachea.

  I leaned back and rummaged in the tray till I found some broad-bladed

  forceps then I poised them over the wound. Great surgeons' hands, I

  felt sure, didn't shake like this, nor did such men pant as I was

  doing. But I clenched my teeth, introduced the forceps and my hand

  magically steadied as I clamped them over the pebble.

  I stopped panting, too. In fact I didn't breathe at all as I bore the

  shining little object slowly and tenderly through the opening and

  dropped it with a gentle rat-tat on the table.

  "Is that it?" asked Roddy, almost in a whisper.

  "That's it." I reached for needle and suture silk.

  "All is well now."

  The stitching took only a few minutes and by the end of it Jake was

  bright-eyed and alert, paws shifting impatiently, ready for anything.

  He seemed to know his troubles were over.

  - grey and glistening and tiny, but Roddy brought him back in ten days

  to have the stitches removed. It was, in fact, the very morning he was

  leaving the Darrow by district, and after I had picked the few loops of

  silk from the nicely healed wound I walked with him to the front door

  while Jake capered round our feet.

  On the pavement outside Skeldale House the ancient pram stood in all

  its high, rusted dignity. Roddy pulled back the cover.

  "Up, boy," he murmured, and the big dog leaped effortlessly into his

  accustomed place.

  Roddy took hold of the handle with both hands and as the autumn

  sunshine broke suddenly through the clouds it lit up a picture which

  had grown familiar and part of the daily scene. The golf jacket, the

  open shirt and brown chest, the handsome animal sit ting up, loo king

  around him with natural grace.

  "Well, so long, Roddy," I said.

  "I suppose you'll be round these parts again."

  He turned and I saw that smile again.

  "Aye, reckon ah'll be back."

  He gave a push and they were off, the st range vehicle creaking, Jake

  swaying gently as they went down the street. The memory came back to

  me of what I had seen under the cover that night in the surgery. The

  haversack, which would contain his razor, towel, soap and a few other

  things. The packet of tea and the thermos. And something else a tiny

  dog collar. Could it have belonged to Jake as a pup or to another

  loved animal? It added a little more mystery to the man . . . and

  explained other things, too. That farmer had been right all Roddy

  possessed was in that pram.

  And it seemed it was all he desired, too, because as he turned the

  corner and disappeared from my view I could hear him whistling.

  Chapter Twenty-one They had sent me to East church on the Isle of

  Sheppey and I knew it was the last stop.

  As I looked along the disorderly line of men I realised I wouldn't be

  taking part in many more parades. And it came to me with a pang that

  at the Scar borough Initial Training Wing this would not have been

  classed as a parade at all. I could remember the ranks of blue outside

  the Grand Hotel, straight as the Grenadier Guards and every man stan

  ding stiffly, loo king neither to left nor right. Our boots gleaming,

  buttons shining like gold and not a movement anywhere as the flight

  sergeant led the officer round on morning inspection.

  I had moaned as loudly as anybody at the rigid discipline, the 'bull',

  the scrubbing and polishing, marching and drilling, but now that it had

  all gone it seemed good and meaningful and I missed it.

  Here the files of airmen lounged, chatted among themselves and

  occasionally took a surreptitious drag at a cigarette as a sergeant out

  in front called the names from a list and gave us our leisurely

  instructions for the day.

  This particular morning he was taking a long time over it, consulting

  sheaves of papers and ma king laboured notes with a pencil. A big

  Irishman on my right was becoming increasingly restive and finally he

  shouted testily: "For sake, sergeant, get us oflf this square. Me

  feet's kill in ' me!"

  The sergeant didn't even look up.

  "Shut your mouth, Brady," he replied.

  "You'll get off the square when I say so and not before."

  It was like that at East church, the great filter tank of the RAF,

  where what I had heard described as the 'odds and sods' were finally

  sorted out. It was a big sprawling camp filled with a widely varied

  mixture of airmen who had one thing in common; they were all waiting

  some of them for re muster, but most for discharge from the service.

  There was a resigned air about the whole place, an acceptance of the

  fact that we were all just put ting in time. There was a token