The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  I went into the box. “Let him in, Wally,” I said, and the farmer opened the half-door.

  The bull trotted inside, and the cow, fastened by a halter to a ring on the wall, submitted calmly as he sniffed around her. He seemed to like what he saw because he finally stationed himself behind her with eager anticipation.

  This was the moment. Take up position on the right side of the bull, the pamphlet had said, and the rest would be easy.

  With surprising speed the young animal threw his forelegs on the cow’s rump and surged forward. I had to move quickly, and as the penis emerged from the sheath I grabbed it and poised the A.V. for action.

  But I didn’t get the chance. The bull dismounted immediately and swung round on me with an affronted glare. He looked me carefully up and down as though he didn’t quite believe what he saw, and there was not an ounce of friendliness in his expression. Then he appeared to remember the rather pressing business on hand and turned his attention to the cow again.

  He leaped up, I grabbed and once more he suspended his activities abruptly and brought his forefeet thudding to the ground. This time there was more than outraged dignity in his eyes; there was anger. He snorted, shook the needle-sharp horns in my direction and dragged a little straw along the floor with a hoof before fixing me with a long, appraising stare. He didn’t have to speak; his message was unequivocal. Just try that once more, chum, and you’ve had it.

  As his eyes lingered on me, everything seemed to become silent and motionless as though I were part of a picture—the cow standing patiently, the churned straw beneath the animals and, beyond them, the farmer out in the yard, leaning over the half-door, waiting for the next move.

  I wasn’t particularly looking forward to that next move. I felt a little breathless and my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth.

  At length the bull, with a final warning glance at me, decided to resume his business and reared up on the cow once more. I gulped, bent quickly and as his slim red organ shot forth, I grasped it and tried to bring the A.V. down on it.

  This time the bull didn’t mess about. He sprang away from the cow, put his head down and came at me like a bullet.

  In that fleeting instant I realised what a fool I had been to stand with the animals between me and the door. Behind me was the dark corner of the box. I was trapped.

  Fortunately, the A.V. was dangling from my right hand, and as the bull charged I was able to catch him an upward blow on the snout. If I had hit him on the top of the head, he would never have felt it, and one or both of those nasty homs would inevitably have started to explore my interior. But as it was, the hard rubber cylinder thumping against his nose brought him to a slithering halt, and while he was blinking and making up his mind about having a second go, I rained blows on him with a frenzy born of terror.

  I have often wondered since that day if I am the only veterinary surgeon to have used an artificial vagina as a defensive weapon. It certainly was not built for the purpose because it soon began to disintegrate under my onslaught. First, the glass tube hurtled past the ear of the startled farmer who was watching, wide-eyed, from the doorway, then the cone spun away against the flank of the cow who had started to chew her cud placidly, oblivious of the drama being enacted by her side.

  I alternated my swipes with thrusts and lunges worthy of a fencing master, but still I couldn’t jockey my way out of that corner. However, although my puny cylinder couldn’t hurt the bull, I obviously had him puzzled. His instinct told him that right about now he should be having a good time, and yet all he was getting were raps on the nose. While he weighed this incongruity, apart from a lot of weaving and prodding with his horns he made no sign of repeating his first headlong charge and seemed content to keep me penned in the few feet of space.

  But I knew it was only a matter of time. He was out to get me, and I was wondering how it felt to receive a cornada when he took a step back and came in again full tilt, head down.

  I met him with a back-handed slash and that was what saved me, because the elastic holding the latex lining came off and the warm water from within fountained into the bull’s eyes.

  He stopped suddenly, and it was then I think he just decided to give up. In his experience of humans I was something new to him. I had taken intimate liberties with him in the pursuit of his lawful duty, I had belaboured him with a rubber instrument and finally squirted water in his face. He had plainly had enough of me.

  During his pause for thought I dodged past him, threw open the door and escaped into the yard.

  The farmer looked at me as I fought for breath. “By gaw, Mr. Herriot, it’s a ’ell of a job, this A.I., isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Wally,” I replied shakily. “It is, rather.”

  “Is it allus like that?”

  “No, Wally, no. …” I looked sadly at my bedraggled A.V. “This is an exceptional case. I … I think we’d better get a specialist in to collect a sample from this bull.”

  The farmer rubbed his ear where the tube had clipped it in passing. “Awright, then, Mr. Herriot. You’ll let me know when you’re comin’, I suppose. It’ll be another bit of excitement to look forward to.”

  His words did nothing to ease the feeling of abject failure as I crept away from the farm. Vets were taking semen samples every day now with no trouble at all. What was the matter with me?

  Back in the surgery I phoned the advisory service. Yes, they said, they would send out one of their sterility advisory officers. He would meet me on the farm at ten o’clock the next morning.

  When I arrived there on the following day, the officer was already in the yard, and I thought there was something familiar about the back of the jaunty figure strolling over the cobbles and blowing out clouds of cigarette smoke. When he turned round I saw with a gush of relief that it was Tristan. I hadn’t been looking forward to recounting my shameful performance to a stranger.

  His broad grin was like a tonic. “Hello, Jim, how are things?”

  “Fine,” I replied. “Except for this semen collection. I know you’re doing it all the time, but I had a shambolic experience yesterday.”

  “Really?” He pulled deeply at his Woodbine. “Tell me about it. Mr. Hartley’s just on his way in from the fields.”

  We stepped inside the loose box, the scene of the previous day’s debacle, and I began my tale.

  I hadn’t got far before Tristan’s jaw dropped. “You mean you just let the bull in here on his own, without any restraint?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You daft bugger, Jim. You’re lucky to be here. In the first place, this job should always be done out in the open, and secondly, the bull should always be held by a pole or a halter through the nose ring. I like to have two or three blokes helping me.” He shot me an incredulous glance as he lit another Woodbine. “Anyway, go on.”

  As I proceeded with my story, his expression began to change. His mouth twitched, his chin trembled and little giggles burst from him. “Are you trying to tell me that you grabbed him by his old man?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear!” Tristan leaned back against the wall and laughed immoderately for a long time. When he had recovered, he regarded me pityingly. “Jim, old lad, you are supposed to put your hand only on the sheath to do the directing.”

  I gave a wry smile. “Oh, I know that now. I had another read at the pamphlet last night and realised I had made a lot of mistakes.”

  “Well, never mind,” he said. “Carry on with your story. You’re beginning to interest me.”

  The next few minutes had a devastating effect on my colleague. As I described the bull’s attack on me, he slumped, shouting, against the door, and by the time I had finished, he was hanging limply with his arms dangling over the woodwork. Tears coursed down his cheeks and feeble little moans issued from his mouth.

  “You were… you were in that corner, fighting the bull off with the A.V. Clouting him over the nut with all that stuff … flying around.”