It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

chin began to jerk and her whole face twitched uncontrollably. She

  didn't actually break down but her eyes brimmed and a couple of tears

  wandered among the network of wrinkles on her cheeks. I looked at her

  helplessly as she stood there, wisps of grey hair straggling untidily

  from under the incongruous black beret which she wore pulled tightly

  over her ears.

  "It's Topsy's kittens I'm worried about," she gasped out at length.

  "There's five of 'em and they're the best we've got."

  I rubbed my chin. I had heard a lot about Topsy, one of a strain of

  incomparable ratters and mousers. Her last family were only about ten

  weeks old and it would be a crushing blow to the Bramleys if anything

  happened to them. But what the devil could I do? There was, as yet, no

  protective vaccine against the disease - or wait a minute, was there? I

  remembered that I'd heard a rumour that Burroughs Wellcome were working

  on one.

  I pulled out a chair. "Just sit down a few minutes, Miss Bramley. I'm

  going to make a phone call." I was soon through to the Wellcome

  Laboratory and half expected a sarcastic reply. But they were kind and

  co-operative. They had had encouraging results with the new vaccine and

  would be glad to let me have five doses if I would inform them of the

  result.

  I hurried back to Miss Bramley. "I've ordered something for your

  kittens. I can't guarantee anything but there's nothing else to do. Have

  them down here on Tuesday morning.

  The vaccine arrived promptly and as I injected the tiny creatures Miss

  Bramley extolled the virtues of the Topsy line. "Look at the size of

  them ears! Did you ever see bigger 'uns on kittens."

  I had to admit that I hadn't. The ears were enormous, sail-like and they

  made the ravishingly pretty little faces look even smaller.

  Miss Bramley nodded and smiled with satisfaction. "Aye, you can allus

  tell. It's the sure sign of a good mouser."

  The injection was repeated a week later. The kittens were still looking

  well.

  "Well that's it," I said. "We'll just have to wait now. But remember I

  want to know the outcome of this, so please don't forget to let me

  know."

  I didn't hear from the Bramleys for several months and had almost

  forgotten about the little experiment when I came upon a grubby envelope

  which had apparently been pushed under the surgery door. It was the

  promised report and was, in its way, a model of conciseness. It

  communicated all the information I required without frills or verbiage.

  It was in a careful, spidery scrawl and said simply: "Dere Sir, Them

  kittens is now big cats. Yrs trly, R. Bramley."

  Chapter Twenty-eight.

  As I stopped my car by the group of gipsies I felt I was looking at

  something which should have been captured by a camera. The grass verge

  was wide on this loop of the road and there were five of them squatting

  round the fire, it seemed like the mother and father and three little

  girls. They sat very still, regarding me blankly through the drifting

  smoke while a few big snowflakes floated across the scene and settled

  lazily on the tangled hair of the children. Some unreal quality in the

  wild tableau kept me motionless in my seat, staring through the glass,

  forgetful of the reason for my being here. Then I wound down the window

  and spoke to the man.

  "Are you Mr. Myatt? I believe you have a sick pony." The man nodded.

  "Aye, that's right. He's over here." It was a strange accent with no

  trace of Yorkshire in it. He got up from the fire, a thin, dark-skinned

  unshaven little figure, and came over to the car holding out something

  in his hand. It was a ten shilling note and I recognised it as a gesture

  of good faith.

  The gipsies who occasionally wandered into Darrowby were always regarded

  with a certain amount of suspicion. They came, unlike the Myatts, mainly

  in the summer to camp down by the river and sell their horses and we had

  been caught out once or twice before. A lot of them seemed to be called

  Smith and it wasn't uncommon to go back on the second day and find that

  patient and owner had gone. In fact Siegfried had shouted to me as I

  left the house this morning: "Get the brass if you can." But he needn't

  have worried - Mr. Myatt was on the up and up.

  I got out of the car and followed him over the grass, past the shabby,

  ornate caravan and the lurcher dog tied to the wheel to where a few

  horses and ponies were tethered. My patient was easy to find; a handsome

  piebald of about thirteen hands with good, clean legs and a look of

  class about him. But he was in a sorry state. While the other animals

  moved around on their tethers, watching us with interest, the piebald

  stood as though carved from stone.

  Even from a distance I could tell what was wrong with him. Only acute

  laminitis could produce that crouching posture and as I moved nearer I

  could see that all four feet were probably affected because the pony had

  his hind feet right under his body in a desperate attempt to take his

  full weight on his heels.

  I pushed my thermometer into the rectum. "Has he been getting any extra

  food, Mr. Myatt."

  "Aye, he getten into a bag of oats last night." The little man showed me

  the big, half empty sack in the back of the caravan. It was difficult to

  understand him but he managed to convey that the pony had broken loose

  and gorged himself on the oats. And he had given him a dose of castor

  oil - he called it 'caste ire'.

  The thermometer read 104 and the pulse was rapid and bounding. I passed

  my hand over the smooth, trembling hooves, feeling the abnormal heat,

  then I looked at the taut face, the dilated nostrils and terrified eyes.

  Anybody who has had an infection under a finger-nail can have an inkling

  of the agony a horse goes through when the sensitive laminae of the foot

  are inflamed and throbbing against the unyielding wall of the hoof.

  "Can you get him to move?" I asked.

  The man caught hold of the head collar and pulled, but the pony refused

  to budge.

  I took the other side of the collar. "Come on, it's always better if

  they can get moving."

  We pulled together and Mrs. Myatt slapped the pony's rump. He took a

  couple of stumbling steps but it was as though the ground was red hot

  and he groaned as his feet came down. Within seconds he was crouching

  again with his weight on his heels.

  "It seems he just won't have it." I turned and went back to the car. I'd

  have to do what I could to give him relief and the first thing was to

  get rid of as much as possible of that bellyful of oats. I fished out

  the bottle of arecoline and gave an injection into the muscle of the

  neck, then I showed the little man how to tie cloths round the hooves so

  that he could keep soaking them with cold water.

  Afterwards I stood back and looked again at the pony. He was salivating

  freely from the arecoline and he had cocked his tail and evacuated his

  bowel; but his pain was undiminished and it would stay like that until

  the tremendous inflammation subsided - if it ever di