Let Sleeping Vets Lie Read online

  Let Sleeping Vets Lie [112-066-4.8]

  By: JAMES herriot

  Synopsis:

  To my Wife with love

  Chapter One.

  As the faint rumbling growl rolled up from the rib cage into the ear

  pieces of my stethoscope the realisation burst upon me with

  uncomfortable clarity that this was probably the biggest dog I had ever

  seen. In my limited past experience some Irish Wolfhounds had

  undoubtedly been taller and a certain number of Bull Mastiffs had

  possibly been broader, but for sheer gross poundage this one had it. His

  name was Clancy.

  It was a good name for an Irishman's dog and Joe Mulligan was very Irish

  despite his many years in Yorkshire. Joe had brought him in to the

  afternoon surgery and as the huge hairy form ambled along, almost

  filling the passage, I was reminded of the times I had seen him out in

  the fields around Darrowby enduring the frisking attentions of smaller

  animals with massive benignity. He looked like a nice friendly dog.

  But now there was this ominous sound echoing round the great thorax like

  a distant drum roll in a subterranean cavern, and as the chest piece of

  the stethoscope bumped along the ribs the sound swelled in volume and

  the lips fluttered over the enormous teeth as though a gentle breeze had

  stirred them. It was then that I became aware not only that Clancy was

  very big indeed but that my position, kneeling on the floor with my

  right ear a few inches from his mouth, was infinitely vulnerable.

  I got to my feet and as I dropped the stethoscope into my pocket the dog

  gave me a cold look - a sideways glance without moving his head; and

  there was a chilling menace in his very immobility. I didn't mind my

  patients snapping at me but this one, I felt sure, wouldn't snap. If he

  started something it would be on a spectacular scale.

  I stepped back a pace. "Now what did you say his symptoms were, Mr.

  Mulligan ?"

  "Phwaat's that?" Joe cupped his ear with his hand. I took a deep breath.

  "What's the trouble with him?" I shouted.

  The old man looked at me with total incomprehension from beneath the

  straightly adjusted cloth cap. He fingered the muffler knotted

  immediately over his larynx and the pipe which grew from the dead centre

  of his mouth puffed blue wisps of puzzlement.

  Then, remembering something of Clancy's past history, I moved close to

  Mr. Mulligan and bawled with all my power into his face. "Is he

  vomiting?"

  The response was immediate. Joe smiled in great relief and removed his

  pipe. "Oh aye, he's womitin" sorr. He's womitin" bad." Clearly he was on

  familiar ground.

  Over the years Clancy's treatment had all been at long range. My young

  boss, Siegfried Farnon, had told me on the first day I had arrived in

  Darrowby two years ago that there was nothing wrong with the dog which

  he had described as a cross between an Airedale and a donkey, but his

  penchant for eating every bit of rubbish in his path had the inevitable

  result. A large bottle of bismuth, mag carte mixture had been dispensed

  at regular intervals. He had also told me that Clancy, when bored, used

  occasionally to throw Joe to the ground and worry him like a rat just

  for a bit of light relief. But his master still adored him.

  Prickings of conscience told me I should carry out a full examination.

  Take his temperature, for instance. All I had to do was to grab hold of

  that tail, lift it and push a thermometer into his rectum. The dog

  turned his head and met my eye with a blank stare; again I heard the low

  booming drum roll and the upper lip lifted a fraction to show a quick

  gleam of white.

  "Yes, yes, right, Mr. Mulligan," I said briskly. "I'll get you a bottle

  of the usual."

  In the dispensary, under the rows of bottles with their Latin names and

  glass stoppers I shook up the mixture in a ten ounce bottle, corked it,

  stuck on a label and wrote the directions. Joe seemed well satisfied as

  he pocketed the familiar white medicine but as he turned to go my

  conscience smote me again. The dog did look perfectly fit but maybe he

  ought to be seen again.

  "Bring him back again on Thursday afternoon at two o'clock," I yelled

  into the old man's ear. "And please come on time if you can. You were a

  bit late today."

  I watched Mr. Mulligan going down the street, preceded by his pipe from

  which regular puffs rose upwards as though from a departing railway

  engine. Behind him ambled Clancy, a picture of massive calm. With his

  all-over covering of tight brown curls he did indeed look like a

  gigantic Airedale.

  Thursday afternoon, I ruminated. That was my half day and at two o'clock

  I'd probably be watching the afternoon cinema show in Brawton.

  The following Friday morning Siegfried was sitting behind his desk,

  working out the morning rounds. He scribbled a list of visits on a pad,

  tore out the sheet and handed it to me.

  "Here you are, James, I think that'll just about keep you out of

  mischief till lunch time." Then something in the previous day's entries

  caught his eye and he turned to his younger brother who was at his

  morning task of stoking the fire.

  "Tristan, I see Joe Mulligan was in yesterday afternoon with his dog and

  you saw it. What did you make of it?"

  Tristan put down his bucket. "Oh, I gave him some of the bismuth

  mixture."

  "Yes, but what did your examination of the patient disclose?"

  "Well now, let's see." Tristan rubbed his chin. "He looked pretty

  lively. really."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes ... yes ... I think so."

  Siegfried turned back to me. "And how about you, James? You saw the dog

  the day before. What were your findings?"

  "Well it was a bit difficult," I said. "That dog's as big as an elephant

  and; there's something creepy about him. He seemed to me to be just

  waiting his chance and there was only old Joe to hold him. I'm afraid I

  wasn't able to make a close examination but I must say I thought the

  same as Tristan - he did look pretty lively."

  Siegfried put down his pen wearily. On the previous night, fate had

  dealt him one of the shattering blows which it occasionally reserves for

  vets - a call at each end of his sleeping time. He had been dragged from

  his bed at 1 a.m. and again at 6 a.m. and the fires of his personality

  were temporarily damped.

  He passed a hand across his eyes. "Well God help us. You, James, a

  veterinary surgeon of two years experience and you, Tristan, a final

  year student can't come up with anything better between you than the

  phrase "pretty lively". It's a bloody poor thing! Hardly a worthy

  description of clinical findings is it? When an animal comes in here I

  expect you to record pulse, temperature and respiratory rate. To

  auscultate the chest and thoroughly palpate the abdomen. To open