Let Sleeping Vets Lie Read online

  wisteria climbed high over the old bricks of the tall Georgian house. In

  the cobbled yard at the foot of the garden he looked up at the rooks

  making their din high in the overhanging elms and he gazed for a few

  moments through the trees to where you could see the bare ribs of the

  fells still showing the last white runners of winter.

  "Charming," he murmured. "Charming."

  I was glad enough to see him to his lodgings that evening. I felt I

  needed time to readjust my thinking.

  When we started out next morning I saw he had discarded his check suit

  but was still very smart in a hacking jacket and flannels.

  "Haven't you any protective clothing?" I asked.

  "I've got these." He indicated a spotless pair of Wellingtons in the

  back of the car.

  "Yes, but I mean an oilskin or a coat of some kind. Some of our jobs are

  pretty dirty."

  He smiled indulgently. "Oh, I'm sure I'll be all right. I've been round

  the farms before, you know."

  I shrugged my shoulders and left it at that.

  Our first visit was to a lame calf. The little animal was limping round

  its pen holding up a fore leg and looking very woebegone. The knee was

  visibly swollen and as I palpated it there seemed to be a lumpiness in

  the fluid within as if there might be a flocculus of pus among it. The

  temperature was a hundred and four.

  I looked up at the farmer. "This is joint ill. He probably got ah

  infection through his navel soon after birth and it's settled in his

  knee. We'll have to take care of him because his internal organs such as

  the liver and lungs can be affected. I'll give him an injection and

  leave you some tablets for him."

  I went out to the car and when I came back Carmody was bending over the

  calf, feeling at the distended knee and inspecting the navel closely. I

  gave my injection and we left.

  "You know," Carmody said as we drove out of the yard, 'that wasn't joint

  ill."

  "Really?" I was a bit taken aback. I didn't mind students discussing the

  pros and cons of my diagnoses as long as they didn't do it in front of

  the farmer, but I had never had one tell me bluntly that I was wrong. I

  made a mental note to try to keep this fellow away from Siegfried; one

  remark like that and Siegfried would hurl him unhesitatingly out of the

  car, big as he was.

  "How do you make that out, then?" I asked him.

  "Well there was only the one joint involved and the navel was perfectly

  dry. No pain or swelling there. I should say he just sprained that

  knee."

  "You may be right, but wouldn't you say the temperature was a bit high

  for a sprain?"

  Carmody grunted and shook his head slightly. Apparently he had no

  doubts.

  A few gates cropped up in the course of our next batch of calls and

  Carmody got out and opened them just like any ordinary being except that

  he did it with a certain leisurely elegance. Watching his tall figure as

  he paced across, his head held high, the smart hat set at just the right

  angle, I had to admit again that he had enormous presence. It was

  remarkable at his age.

  Shortly before lunch I saw a cow that the farmer had said on the phone

  might have To. "She's gone down t'nick ever since she calved, guvnor. I

  doubt she's a screw, but you'd better have a look at her, anyroad."

  As soon as I walked into the byre I knew what the trouble was. I have

  been blessed with an unusually sensitive nose and the sickly sweet smell

  of ketone hit me right away. It has always afforded me a childish

  pleasure to be able to say suddenly in the middle of a tuberculin test

  "There's a cow in here about three weeks calved that isn't doing very

  well," and watch the farmer scratch his head and ask me how I knew.

  I had another little triumph today. "Started going off her cake first

  didn't she?" and the farmer nodded assent. "And the flesh has just

  melted off her since then ?"

  "That's right," the farmer said, "I've never seen a cow go down as

  quick."

  "Well you can stop worrying, Mr. Smith. She hasn't got TB, she's got

  slow fever and we'll be able to put her right for you."

  Slow fever is the local term for acetonaemia and the farmer smiled in

  relief. "Damn. I'm glad! I thowt she was dog meat. I nearly rang Mallock

  this morning."

  I couldn't reach for the steroids which we use today, but I injected six

  ounces of glucose and 100 units of insulin intravenously - it was one of

  my pet remedies and might make modern vets laugh. But it used to work.

  The cow, dead-eyed and gaunt, was too weak to struggle as the farmer

  held her nose.

  When I had finished I ran my hand over the jutting bones, covered, it

  seemed, only by skin.

  "She'll soon fatten up now," I said. "But cut her down to once a day

  milking - that's half the battle. And if that doesn't work, stop milking

  her entirely for two or three days."

  "Yes, I reckon she's putting it in "'bucket instead of on her back."

  "That's it exactly, Mr. Smith."

  Carmody didn't seem to appreciate this interchange of home-spun wisdom

  and fidgeted impatiently. I took my cue and headed for the car.

  "I'll see her in a couple of days," I cried as we drove away, and waved

  to Mrs. Smith who was looking out from the farmhouse doorway. Carmody

  however raised his hat gravely and held it a few inches above his head

  till we had left the yard, wh:eh was definitely better. I had noticed

  him doing this at every place we had visited and it looked so good that

  I was playing with the idea of starting to wear a hat so that I could

  try it too.

  I glanced sideways at my companion. Most of a morning's work done and I

  hadn't asked him any questions. I cleared my throat.

  "By the way, talking about that cow we've just seen, can you tell me

  something about the causes of acetonaemia?"

  Carmody regarded me impassively. "As a matter of fact I can't make up my

  mind which theory I endorse at the moment. Stevens maintains it is the

  incomplete oxidation of fatty acids, Sjollema leans towards liver

  intoxication and Janssen implicates one of the centres of the autonomic

  nervous system. My own view is that if we could only pin-point the exact

  cause of the production of diacetic acid and beta-oxybutyric acid in the

  metabolism we'd be well on the way to understanding the problem. Don't

  you agree?"

  I closed my mouth which had begun to hang open.

  "Oh yes, I do indeed ... it's that oxy ... that old beta-oxy ... yes,

  that's what it is, without a doubt." I slumped lower in my seat and

  decided not to ask Carmody any more questions; and as the stone walls

  flipped past the w.indows I began to face up to the gradually filtering

  perception that this was a superior befog next to me. It was depressing

  to ponder on the fact that not only was he big, good-looking" completely

  sure of himself but brilliant as well. Also, I thought bitterly, he had

  every appearance of being rich.

  We rounded the corner of a lane and came up to a low huddle of stone

  buildings It was the last call befo