It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

sure you won't lose much. I tell you what," with a ghastly attempt at

  heartiness, if I can come into the house I'll write you this chit now

  and we'll get the job over. There's really nothing else for it."

  I turned and headed across the fold yard for the farm kitchen. Mr.

  Sidlow followed wordlessly with the family. I wrote the certificate

  quickly, waves of disapproval washing around me in the silent room. As I

  folded the paper I had the sudden conviction that Mr. Sidlow wasn't

  going to pay the slightest attention to my advice. He was going to wait

  a day or two to see how things turned out. The picture of the big,

  uncomprehending animal trying vainly to swallow as his hunger and thirst

  increased was too strong for me. I walked over to the phone on the

  window sill.

  "I'll just give Harry Norman a ring at the abattoir. I know he'll come

  straight up if I ask him." I made the arrangements, hung up the receiver

  and started for the door, addressing Mr. Sidlow's profile as I left.

  "It's fixed. Harry will be along Within half-an hour Much better to get

  it done immediately."

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  Going across the yard, I had to fight the impulse to break into a

  gallop. As I got into the car I recalled Siegfried's advice: "In sticky

  situations always get your car backed round before you examine the

  animal. Leave the engine running if necessary. The quick getaway is

  essential." He was right, it took a long time reversing and manoeuvring

  under the battery of unseen eyes. I don't blush easily but my face was

  burning as I finally left the farm.

  That was my first visit to the Sidlows and I prayed that it might be my

  last. But my luck had run out. From then on, every time they sent for us

  it happened to be me on duty. I would rather not say anything about the

  cases I treated there except to record that something went wrong every

  time. The very name Sidlow became like a jinx. Try as I might I couldn't

  do a thing right on that farm so that within a short time I was firmly

  established with the family as the greatest menace to the animal

  population they had ever encountered. They didn't think much of vets as

  a whole and they'd met some real beauties in their time, but I was by

  far the worst. My position as the biggest nincompoop of them all was

  unassailable.

  It got so bad that if I saw any Sidlows in the town I would dive down an

  alley to avoid them and one day in the market place I had the unnerving

  experience of seeing the entire family, somehow jammed into a large old

  car, passing within a few feet of me. Every face looked rigidly to the

  front but every eye, I knew, was trained balefully on me. Fortunately I

  was just outside the Drovers' Arms, so I was able to reel inside and

  steady myself with a half-pint of Younger's Special Heavy.

  However, the Sidlows were far from my mind on the Saturday morning when

  Siegfried asked me if I would go through and officiate at Brawton faces.

  "They've asked me to do it as Grier is on holiday," he said. "But I'd

  already promised to go through to Casborough to help Dick Henley with a

  rig operation. I can't let him down. There's nothing much to the race

  job: the regular course vet will be there and he'll keep you right."

  He hadn't been gone more than a few minutes when there was a call from

  the racecourse. One of the horses had fallen while being unloaded from

  its box and had injured its knee. Would I come right away.

  Even now I am no expert on racehorses; they form a little branch of

  practice all by itself, with its own stresses, its own mystique. In my

  short spell in Darrowby I had had very little to do with them as

  Siegfried was fascinated by anything equine and usually gobbled up

  anything in that line which came along. So my practical experience was

  negligible.

  I wasn't at all reassured when I saw my patient. The knee was a terrible

  mess. He had tripped at the bottom of the ramp and come down with his

  full weight on the stony ground. The lacerated skin hung down in bloody

  ribbons exposing the joint capsule over an area of about six inches and

  the extensor tendons gleamed through a tattered layer of fascia. The

  beautiful three-year-old held the limb up, trembling, with the toe just

  touching the ground; the ravaged knee made a violent contrast with the

  sleek, carefully groomed coat.

  Examining the wound, gently feeling round the joint, I was immediately

  thankful for one thing - it was a quiet animal. Some light horses are so

  highly strung that the slightest touch sends them up in the air, but

  this one hardly moved as I tried to piece together the jigsaw of skin

  pieces. Another lucky break - there was nothing missing.

  I turned to the stable head lad, small, square, hands deep in his coat

  pockets who was standing watching. "I'll clean up the wound and stitch

  it but he'll need some expert care when you get him home. Can you tell

  me who will be treating him ."

  "Yes sir, Mr. Brayley-Reynolds.

  He'll have charge of 'im."

  I came bolt upright from my crouching position. The name was like a

  trumpet call echoing down from my student days. When you talked about

  horses you usually talked about Brayley-Reynolds sooner or later. I

  could imagine the great man inspecting my handiwork. "And who did you

  say treated this? Herriot .. ? Herriot ... ."

  I got down to the job again with my heart beating faster. Mercifully the

  joint capsule and tendon sheaths were undamaged - no escape of synovia.

  Using a solution of Chinosol, I swabbed out every last cranny of the

  wound till the ground around me was white with cotton wool pledgets,

  then I puffed in some iodoform powder and tacked down the loose shreds

  of fascia. Now the thing was to make a really good job of the skin to

  avoid disfigurement if possible. I chose some fine silk and a very small

  suture needle and squatted down again.

  I must have stayed there for nearly an hour, pulling the flaps of skin

  carefully into position and fastening them down with innumerable tiny

  sutures. There is a fascination in repairing a ragged wound and I always

  took pains over it even without an imaginary Brayley-Reynolds peering

  over my shoulder. When I finally straightened up I did so slowly, like

  an old man, easing the kinks from neck and back. With shaking knees I

  looked down at the head lad almost without recognition. He was smiling.

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  "You've made a proper job of that," he said. "It looks nearly as good as

  new. I want to thank you, sir - he's one of my favourites, not just

  because he's a good 'orse, but he's kind." He patted the

  three-year-old's flank.

  "Well, I hope he does all right." I got out a packet of ganze and a

  bandage. "I'm just going to cover up the knee with this and then you can

  put on a stable bandage. I'll give him a shot against tetanus and that's

  it."

  I was packing my gear away in the car when the head lad hovered again at

  my side. "Do you back 'orses."

  I laughed. "No, hardly ever. Don't know much about i