It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

rough stones, his head slumped forward and his great long arms hanging

  loosely, the poor fellow still didn't look so good.

  I couldn't help feeling a bit responsible. "Don't you think we might

  give him a drink."

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  But Mr. Bennison had had enough. "Nay, nay, he'll be right," he muttered

  testily "Let's get on with t'job." Evidently he felt he had pampered

  George too much already.

  The incident started me thinking about this question of people's

  reactions to the sight of blood and other disturbing realities. Even

  though it was only my second year of practice I had already formulated

  certain rules about this and one was that it was always the biggest men

  who went down. (I had, by this time, worked out a few other, perhaps

  unscientific theories, e.g. big dogs were kept by people who lived in

  little houses and vice versa. Clients who said 'spare no expense' never

  paid their bills, ever. When I asked my way in the Dales and was told

  'you can't miss it', I knew I'd soon be hopelessly lost.)

  I had begun to wonder if perhaps country folk, despite their closer

  contact with fundamental things, were perhaps more susceptible than city

  people. Ever since Sid Blenkhorn had staggered into Skeldale House one

  evening. His face was ghastly white and he had obviously passed through

  a shattering experience. "Have you got a drop o' whisky handy, Jim?" he

  quavered, and when I had guided him to a chair and Siegfried had put a

  glass in his hand he told us he had been at a first aid lecture given by

  Dr. Allinson, a few doors down the street. "He was talking about veins

  and arteries and things," groaned Sid, passing a hand across his

  forehead. "God, it was awful!" Apparently Fred Ellison the fishmonger

  had been carried out unconscious after only ten minutes and Sid himself

  had only just made it to the door. It had been a shambles.

  I was interested because this sort of thing, I had found, was always

  just round the corner. I suppose we must have more trouble in this way

  than the doctors because in most cases when our medical colleagues have

  any cutting or carving to do they send their patients to hospital while

  the vets just have to get their jackets off and operate on the spot. It

  means that the owners and attendants of the animals are pulled in as

  helpers and are subjected to some unusual sights.

  So, even in my short experience, I had become a fair authority on the

  various manifestations of 'coming over queer'. I suppose it was a bit

  early to start compiling statistics but I had never seen a woman or a

  little man pass out even though they might exhibit various shadings of

  the squeamish spectrum. The big chap was the best bet every time,

  especially the boisterous, super-confident type.

  I have a vivid recollection of a summer evening when I had to carry out

  a rumenotomy on a cow. As a rule I was inclined to play for time when I

  suspected a foreign body - there were so many other conditions with

  similar symptoms that I was never in a hurry to make a hole in the

  animal's side. But this time diagnosis was easy; the sudden fall in milk

  yield, loss of cudding; grunting, and the rigid, sunken-eyed appearance

  of the cow. And to clinch it the farmer told me he had been repairing a

  hen house in the cow pasture - nailing up loose boards. I knew where one

  of the nails had gone.

  The farm, right on the main street of the village, was a favourite

  meeting place for the local lads. As I laid out my instruments on a

  clean towel draped over a straw bale a row of grinning faces watched

  from above the half door of the box; not only watched but encouraged me

  with ribald shouts. When I was about ready to start it occurred to me

  that an extra pair of hands would be helpful and I turned to the door.

  "How would one of you lads like to be my assistant?" There was even more

  shouting for a minute or two, then the door was opened and a huge young

  man with a shock of red hair ambled into the box; he was a magnificent

  sight with his vast shoulders and the column of sunburned neck rising

  from the open shirt. It needed only the bright blue eyes and the ruddy,

  high-cheekboned face to remind me that the Norsemen had been around the

  Dales a thousand years ago. This was a Viking.

  I had him roll up his sleeves and scrub his hands in a bucket of warm

  water (

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  k f Cl W rc fr, and antiseptic while I infiltrated the cow's flank with

  local anaesthetic. When I gave him artery forceps and scissors to hold

  he pranced around, making stabbing motions at the cow and roaring with

  laughter.

  "Maybe you'd like to do the job yourself?" I asked. The Viking squared

  his great shoulders. "Aye, I'll 'ave a go," and the heads above the door

  cheered lustily.

  As I finally poised my Bard Parker scalpel with its new razor-sharp

  blade over the cow, the air was thick with earthy witticisms. I had

  decided that this time I really would make the bold incision recommended

  in the surgery books; it was about time I advanced beyond the stage of

  pecking nervously at the skin. "A veritable blow," was how one learned

  author had described it. Well, that was how it was going to be.

  I touched the blade down on the clipped area of the flank and with a

  quick motion of the wrist laid open a ten-inch wound. I stood back for a

  few seconds admiring the clean-cut edges of the skin with only a few

  capillaries spurting on to the glistening, twitching abdominal muscles.

  At the same time I noticed that the laughter and shouting from the heads

  had been switched off and was replaced by an eerie silence broken only

  by a heavy, thudding sound from behind me.

  "Forceps please," I said, extending my hand back. But nothing happened.

  I looked round; the top of the half door was bare - not a head in sight.

  There was only the Viking spreadeagled in the middle of the floor, arms

  and legs flung wide, chin pointing to the roof. The attitude was so

  theatrical that I thought he was still acting the fool, but a closer

  examination erased all doubts: the Viking was out cold. He must have

  gone straight over backwards like a stricken oak.

  The farmer, a bent little man who couldn't have scaled much more than

  eight stones, had been steadying the cow's head. He looked at me with

  the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Looks like you and me

  for it, then, guvnor." He tied the halter to a ring on the wall, washed

  his hands methodically and took up his place at my side. Throughout the

  operation, he passed me my instruments, swabbed away the seeping blood

  and clipped the sutures, whistling tunelessly through his teeth in a

  bored manner; the only time he showed any real emotion was when I

  produced the offending nail from the depths of the reticulum. He raised

  his eyebrows slightly, said "ello, 'ello," then started whistling again.

  We were too busy to do anything for the Viking. Halfway through, he sat

  up, shook himself a few times then got to his feet and strolled with

  elaborate nonchalance out of the box. The poor fellow seemed to be