It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

shapeless blur. My stomach heaved and tossed.

  Then I heard somebody say "Good evening'. It was a woman's voice and

  very close. There were two figures looking at us with interest. They

  seemed to have just come through the door.

  I concentrated fiercely on them and they swam into focus for a few

  seconds. It was Helen and a man. His pink, scrubbed-looking face, the

  shining fair hair plastered sideways across the top of his head was in

  keeping with the spotless British warm overcoat. He was staring at me

  distastefully. They went out of focus again and there was only Helen's

  voice. "We thought we would just look in for a few moments to see how

  the dance was going. Are you enjoying it."

  Then, unexpectedly, I could see her clearly. She was smiling her kind

  smile but her eyes were strained as she looked from me to Connie and

  back again. I couldn't speak but stood gazing at her dully, seeing only

  her calm beauty in the crush and noise. It seemed, for a moment, that it

  would be the most natural thing in the world to throw my arms around her

  but I discarded the idea and, instead, just nodded stupidly.

  "Well then, we must be off," she said and smiled again. "Good night."

  The fair haired man gave me a cold nod and they went out.

  Chapter Twenty-seven.

  1

  .s 1 1

  1 l It looked as though I was going to make it back to the road all

  right. And I was thankful for it because seven o'clock in the morning

  with the wintry dawn only just beginning to lighten the eastern rim of

  the moor was no time to be digging my car out of the snow.

  This narrow, unfenced road skirted a high tableland and gave on to a few

  lonely farms at the end of even narrower tracks. It hadn't actually been

  snowing on my way out to this early call - a uterine haemorrhage in a

  cow - but the wind had been rising steadily and whipping the top surface

  from the white blanket which had covered the fell-tops for weeks. My

  headlights had picked _ _

  out the creeping drifts;`pretty, pointed fingers feeling their way inch

  by inch across the strip of tarmac.

  This was how all blocked roads began, and at the farm as I injected

  pituitrin and packed the bleeding cervix with a clean sheet I could hear

  the wind buffeting the byre door and wondered if I would win the race

  home.

  On the way back the drifts had stopped being pretty and lay across the

  road like white bolsters; but my little car had managed to cleave

  through them, veering crazily at times, wheels spinning, and now I could

  see the main road a few hundred yards ahead, reassuringly black in the

  pale light.

  But just over there on the left, a field away, was Cote House. I was

  treating a bullock there - he had eaten some frozen turnips - and a

  visit was fixed for today. I didn't fancy trailing back up here if I

  could avoid it and there was a light in the kitchen window. The family

  were up, anyway. I turned and drove down into the yard.

  The farmhouse door lay within a small porch and the wind had driven the

  snow inside forming a smooth, two-foot heap against the timbers. As I

  leaned across to knock:, the surface of the heap trembled a little, then

  began to heave. There was something in there, something quite big. It

  was eerie standing in the half light watching the snow parting to reveal

  a furry body. Some creature of the wild must have strayed in, searching

  for warmth - but it was bigger than a fox or anything else I could think

  of.

  Just then the door opened and the light from the kitchen streamed out.

  Peter Trenholm beckoned me inside and his wife smiled at me from the

  bright interior. They were a cheerful young couple.

  "What's that?" I gasped, pointing at the animal which was shaking the

  snow vigorously from its coat.

  "That?" Peter grinned, "That's awd Tip."

  "Tip? Your dog? But what's he doing under a pile of snow."

  "Just blew in on him, I reckon. That's where he sleeps, you know, just

  outside back door."

  I stared at the farmer. "You mean he sleeps there, out in the open,

  every night ."

  "Aye, allus. Summer and winter. But don't look at me like that Mr.

  Herriot - it's his own choice. The other dogs have a warm bed in the cow

  house but Tip won't entertain it. He's fifteen now and he's been

  sleeping out there since he were a pup. I remember when me father was

  alive he tried all ways to get t'awd feller to sleep inside but it was

  no good."

  I looked at the old dog in amazement. I could see him more clearly now;

  he wasn't the typical sheep dog type, he was bigger boned, longer in the

  hair, and he projected a bursting vitality that didn't go with his

  fifteen years. It was difficult to believe that any animal living in

  these bleak uplands should choose to sleep outside - and thrive on it. I

  had to look closely to see any sign of his great age. There was the

  slightest stiffness in his gait as he moved around, perhaps a fleshless

  look about his head and face and of course the tell-tale lens opacity in

  the depths of his eyes. But the general impression was of an

  unquenchable jauntiness.

  He shook the last of the snow from his coat, pranced jerkily up to the

  farmer and gave a couple of reedy barks. Peter Trenholm laughed. "You

  see he's ready to be off - he's a beggar for work is Tip." He led the

  way towards the buildings and I followed, stumbling over the frozen

  ruts, like iron under the snow, and bending my head against the

  knife-like wind. It was a relief to open the byre door and escape into

  the sweet bovine warmth.

  There was a fair mixture of animals in the long building. The dairy cows

  took up most of the length, then there were a few young heifers, some

  bullocks ..;

  ~,.

  l and finally, in an empty stall deeply bedded with straw, the other

  farm dogs. The cats were there too, so it had to be warm. No animal is a

  better judge of comfort than a cat and they were just visible as furry

  balls in the straw. They had the best place, up against the wooden

  partition where the warmth came through from the big animals.

  Tip strode confidently among his colleagues - a young dog and a bitch

  with three half-grown pups. You could see he was boss.

  One of the bullocks was my patient and he was looking a bit better. When

  I had seen him yesterday his rumen (the big first stomach) had been

  completely static and atonic following an over eager consumption of

  frozen turnips. He had been slightly bloated and groaning with

  discomfort. But today as I leaned with my ear against his left side I

  could hear the beginnings of the surge and rumble of the normal rumen

  instead of the deathly silence of yesterday. My gastric ravage had

  undoubtedly tickled things up and I felt that another of the same would

  just about put him right. Almost lovingly I got together the ingredients

  of one of my favourite treatments, long since washed away in the flood

  of progress; the ounce of formalin, the half pound of common salt, the

  can of black treacle from the barrel which you used to find in most cow

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