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I had been deceived by his almost delicate appearance into thinking that

  he wouldn't be up to the job," the pallid face, the large, sensitive

  eyes and slender frame didn't seem fitted far the seven days a week

  milking, feeding, mucking-out slog that was dairy farming. But I had

  been wrong.

  The fearless way he plunged in and grabbed at the hind feet of kicking

  cows for me to examine and his clenched-teeth determination as he hung

  on to the. noses of the big loose beasts at testing time made me change

  my mind in a hurry He worked endlessly and tirelessly and it was natural

  that his drive should have taken him to the south of Scotland to find a

  bull.

  Harry's was an Ayrshire herd - unusual among the almost universal short

  thorns in the Dales - and there was no doubt an injection of the famous

  Newton blood would be a sure way of improving his stock.

  "He's got prize winners on both his sire and dam's side," the young

  farmer said. "And a grand pedigree name, too. Newton Montmorency the

  Sixth -~ Monty for short."

  As though recognising his name, the calf raised his head from the bucket

  and looked at us. It was a comic little face - wet-muzzled, milk

  slobbered half way up his cheeks and dribbling freely from his mouth. I

  bent over into the pen and scratched the top of the hard little head,

  feeling the tiny horn buds no bigger than peas under my fingers.

  Limpid-eyed and unafraid, Monty submitted calmly to the caress for a few

  moments then sank his head again in the bucket.

  I saw quite a bit of Harry Sumner over the next few weeks and usually

  had a look at his expensive purchase. And as the calf grew you could see

  why he had cost 100. He was in a pen with three of Harry's own calves

  and his superiority was evident at a glance; the broad forehead and

  wide-set eyes; the deep chest and short straight legs; the beautifully

  even line of the back from shoulder to tail head. Monty had class; and

  small as he was he was all bull.

  He was about three months old when Harry rang to say he thought the calf

  had pneumonia. I was surprised because the weather was fine and warm and

  I knew Monty was in a draught-free building. But when I saw him I

  thought immediately that his owner's diagnosis was right. The heaving of

  the rib cage, the temperature of 105 degrees - it looked fairly

  straightforward. But when I got my stethoscope on his chest and listened

  for the pneumonic sounds I heard nothing. His lungs were perfectly

  clear. I went over him several times but there was not a squeak, not a

  rare, not the slightest sign of consolidation.

  This was a facer. I turned to the farmer. "It's a funny one, Harry. He's

  sick, all right, but his symptoms don't add up to anything

  recognisable."

  I was going against my early training because the first vet I ever saw

  practice with in my student days told me once: "If you don't know what's

  wrong with an animal for God's sake don't admit it. Give it a name call

  it McLuskie's Disease or Galloping Dandruff - anything you like, but

  give it a name." But no inspiration came to me as I looked at the

  panting, anxious-eyed little creature.~

  Treat the symptoms. That was the thing to do. He had a temperature so

  I'd: try to get that down for a start. I brought out my pathetic armoury

  of febrifuges; the injection of non-specific antiserum, the 'fever

  drink" of sweet spirit of nitre; but over the next two days it was

  obvious that the time-honoured remedies were, having no effect. ~

  On the fourth morning, Harry Sumner met me as I got out of my car. "He's

  walking funny, this morning, Mr. Herriot - and he seems to be blind."

  Blind! An unusual form of lead-poisoning - could that be it? I hurried

  into the calf pen and began to look round the walls, but there wasn't a

  scrap of paint anywhere and Monty had spent his entire life in there.

  And anyway, as I looked at him I realised that he wasn't really blind;

  his eyes were staring and slightly upturned and he blundered unseeingly

  around the pen, but he blinked as I passed my hand in front of his face.

  To complete my bewilderment he walked with a wooden, stiff-legged gait

  almost like a mechanical toy and my mind began to snatch at diagnostic

  straws - tetanus, no - meningitis - no, no; I always tried to maintain

  the calm, professional exterior but I had to fight an impulse to scratch

  my head and stand gaping.

  I got off the place as quickly as possible and settled down to serious

  thought as I drove away. My lack of experience didn't help, but I did

  have a knowledge of pathology and physiology and when stumped for a

  diagnosis I could usually work something out on rational grounds. But

  this thing didn't make sense.

  That night I got out my books, notes from college, back numbers of the

  Veterinary Record and anything else I could find on the subject of calf

  diseases. Somewhere here there would surely be a clue. But the volumes

  on medicine and surgery were barren of inspiration and I had about given

  up hope when I came upon the passage in a little pamphlet on calf

  diseases. "Peculiar, stilted gait, staring eyes with a tendency to gaze

  upwards, occasionally respiratory symptoms with high temperature." The

  words seemed to leap out at me from the printed page and it was as

  though the unknown author was patting me on the shoulder and murmuring

  reassuringly: "This is it, you see. It's all perfectly clear."

  I grabbed the phone and rang Harry Sumner. "Harry, have you ever noticed

  Monty and those other calves in the pen licking each other?"

  "Aye, they're allus at it, the little beggars. It's like a hobby with

  them. Why?"

  "Well I know what's wrong with your bull. He's got a hair ball."

  "A hair ball? Where?"

  "In the abomasum - the fourth stomach. That's what's ,setting up all

  those strange symptoms." , "Well I'll go to hell. What do we do about

  it, then?"

  "It'll probably mean an operation, but I'd like to try dosing him with

  liquid paraffin first. I'll put a pint bottle on the step for you if

  you'll come and collect it. Give him half a pint now and the same first

  thing in the morning. It might just grease the thing through. I'll see

  you tomorrow."

  I hadn't a lot of faith in the liquid paraffin. I suppose I suggested it

  for the sake of doing something while I played nervously with the idea

  of operating. And next morning the picture was as I expected; Monty was

  still rigid-limbed, still staring sightlessly ahead of him, and an

  oiliness round his rectum and down his tail showed that the paraffin had

  by-passed the obstruction.

  "He hasn't had a bite now for three days," Harry said. "I doubt he won't

  stick ~t much longer."

  I looked from his worried face to the little animal trembling in the

  pen. "You're right. We'll have to open him up straight away to have any

  hope of saving him. Are you willing to let me have a go?"

  "Oh, aye, let's be at t'job - sooner the better." He smiled at me. It

  was a confident smile and my stomach gave a lurch. His confidence could

  be badly misplaced because in those d