All Things Bright and Beautiful Read online

  He didn’t say good morning but nodded briefly then jerked his head in the direction of the byre. “She’s in there” was all he said.

  He watched in silence as I gave the injections and it wasn’t until I was putting the empty bottles into my pocket that he spoke.

  “Don’t suppose I’ll have to milk her today?”

  “No,” I replied. “Better leave the bag full.”

  “Anything special about feedin’?”

  “No, she can have anything she likes when she wants it.” Mr. Brown was very efficient. Always wanted to know every detail.

  As we crossed the yard he halted suddenly and turned to face me. Could it be that he was going to ask me in for a nice hot cup of tea?

  “You know,” he said, as I stood ankle deep in the snow, the frosty air nipping at my ears. “I’ve had a few of these cases lately. Maybe there’s summat wrong with my routine. Do you think I’m steaming up my cows too much?”

  “It’s quite possible.” I hurried towards the car. One thing I wasn’t going to do was deliver a lecture on animal husbandry at this moment.

  My hand was on the door handle when he said “I’ll give you another ring if she’s not up by dinner time. And there’s one other thing—that was a hell of a bill I had from you fellers last month, so tell your boss not to be so savage with ’is pen.” Then he turned and walked quickly towards the house.

  Well that was nice, I thought as I drove away. Not even thanks or goodbye, just a complaint and a promise to haul me away from my roast goose if necessary. A sudden wave of anger surged in me. Bloody farmers! There were some miserable devils among them. Mr. Brown had doused my festive feeling as effectively as if he had thrown a bucket of water over me.

  As I mounted the steps of Skeldale House the darkness had paled to a shivery grey. Helen met me in the passage. She was carrying a tray.

  “I’m sorry, Jim,” she said. “There’s another urgent job. Siegfried’s had to go out, too. But I’ve got a cup of coffee and some fried bread for you. Come in and sit down—you’ve got time to eat it before you go.”

  I sighed. It was going to be just another day after all. “What’s this about, Helen?” I asked, sipping the coffee.

  “It’s old Mr. Kirby,” she replied. “He’s very worried about his nanny goat.”

  “Nanny goat!”

  “Yes, he says she’s choking.”

  “Choking! How the heck can she be choking?” I shouted.

  “I really don’t know. And I wish you wouldn’t shout at me, Jim. It’s not my fault.”

  In an instant I was engulfed by shame. Here I was, in a bad temper, taking it out on my wife. It is a common reaction for vets to blame the hapless person who passes on an unwanted message but I am not proud of it. I held out my hand and Helen took it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said and finished the coffee sheepishly. My feeling of goodwill was at a very low ebb.

  Mr. Kirby was a retired farmer, but he had sensibly taken a cottage with a bit of land where he kept enough stock to occupy his time—a cow, a few pigs and his beloved goats. He had always had goats, even when he was running his dairy herd; he had a thing about them.

  The cottage was in a village high up the Dale. Mr. Kirby met me at the gate.

  “Ee, lad,” he said. “I’m right sorry to be bothering you this early in the morning and Christmas an’ all, but I didn’t have no choice, Dorothy’s real bad.”

  He led the way to a stone shed which had been converted into a row of pens. Behind the wire of one of them a large white Saanen goat peered out at us anxiously and as I watched her she gulped, gave a series of retching coughs, then stood trembling, saliva drooling from her mouth.

  The farmer turned to me, wide-eyed. “You see, I had to get you out, didn’t I? If I left her till tomorrow she’d be a goner.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Kirby,” I replied. “You couldn’t leave her. There’s something in her throat.”

  We went into the pen and as the old man held the goat against the wall I tried to open her mouth. She didn’t like it very much and as I prised her jaws apart she startled me with a loud, long-drawn, human-sounding cry. It wasn’t a big mouth but I have a small hand and, as the sharp back teeth tried to nibble me, I poked a finger deep into the pharynx.

  There was something there all right I could just touch it but I couldn’t get hold of it. Then the animal began to throw her head about and. I had to come out; I stood there, saliva dripping from my hand, looking thoughtfully at Dorothy.

  After a few moments I turned to the farmer. “You know, this is a bit baffling. I can feel something in the back of her throat but it’s soft—like cloth. I’d been expecting to find a bit of twig, or something sharp sticking in there—it’s funny what a goat will pick up when she’s pottering around outside. But if it’s cloth, what the heck is holding it there? Why hasn’t she swallowed it down?”

  “Aye, it’s a rum ’un, isn’t it?” The old man ran a gentle hand along the animal’s back. “Do you think she’ll get rid of it herself? Maybe it’ll just slip down?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s stuck fast, God knows how, but it is. And I’ve got to get it out soon because she’s beginning to blow up. Look there.” I pointed to the goat’s left side, bulged by the tympanitic rumen, and as I did so, Dorothy began another paroxysm of coughs which seemed almost to tear her apart

  Mr. Kirby looked at me with a mute appeal, but just at that moment I didn’t see what I could do. Then I opened the door of the pen. “I’m going to get my torch from the car. Maybe I can see something to explain this.”

  The old man held the torch as I once more pulled the goat’s mouth open and again heard the curious child-like wailing. It was when the animal was in full cry that I noticed something under the tongue—a thin, dark band.

  “I can see what’s holding the thing now,” I cried. “It’s hooked round the tongue with string or something.” Carefully I pushed my forefinger under the band and began to pull.

  It wasn’t string. It began to stretch as I pulled carefully at it…like elastic. Then it stopped stretching and I felt a real resistance…whatever was in the throat was beginning to move. I kept up a gentle traction and very slowly the mysterious obstruction came sliding up over the back of the tongue and into the mouth, and when it came within reach I let go the elastic, grabbed the sodden mass and hauled it forth. It seemed as if there was no end to it—a long snake of dripping material nearly two feet long—but at last I had it out on to the straw of the pen.

  Mr. Kirby seized it and held it up and as he unravelled the mass wonderingly he gave a sudden cry.

  “God ’elp us, it’s me summer drawers!”

  “Your what?”

  “Me summer drawers. Ah don’t like them long john when weather gets warmer and I allus change into these little short ’uns. Missus was havin’ a clear-out afore the end of t’year and she didn’t know whether to wash ’em or mek them into dusters. She washed them at t’finish and Dorothy must have got ’em off the line.” He held up the tattered shorts and regarded them ruefully. “By gaw, they’ve seen better days, but I reckon Dorothy’s fettled them this time.”

  Then his body began to shake silently, a few low giggles escaped from him and finally he gave a great shout of laughter. It was an infectious laugh and I joined in as I watched him. He went on for quite a long time and when he had finished he was leaning weakly against the wire netting.

  “Me poor awd drawers,” he gasped, then leaned over and patted the goat’s head. “But as long as you’re all right, lass, I’m not worried.”

  “Oh, she’ll be O.K.” I pointed to her left flank. “You can see her stomach’s going down already.” As I spoke, Dorothy belched pleasurably and began to nose interestedly at her hay rack.

  The farmer gazed at her fondly. “Isn’t that grand to see! She’s ready for her grub again. And if she hadn’t got her tongue round the elastic that lot would have gone right down and killed her.”

  “I really don’t