The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  “Well, that’s a beggar.” The farmer tipped back his cap. “What’s goin’ to happen to this lot, then?”

  “Well, the ones that are just wobbly have a good chance of making fat lambs, but I haven’t much hope for those two.” I pointed to the pair lying on their sides. “They are already partially paralysed. I honestly think the kindest thing would be …”

  That was when the smile left Jack’s face. It always did at the merest suggestion of putting an animal down. It is a country vet’s duty to advise his clients when treatment is obviously unprofitable. He must always have the farmer’s commercial interest in mind.

  This system worked on most places, but not at Jack Scott’s. Tell him to get rid of a cow that had lost a couple of quarters with mastitis, and the curtain would come down over that smiling face. He had various animals on the farm that could not possibly be making him any money, but they were his friends and he was happy to see them pottering about.

  He dug his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at the prostrate lambs. “Are they sufferin’, Mr. Herriot?”

  “No, Jack, no. It doesn’t seem to be a painful disease.”

  “Awright, I’ll keep them two. If they can’t suck, I’ll feed ’em meself. Ah like to give things a chance.”

  He didn’t have to tell me. He gave everything a chance. No farmer likes to have the extra work of lamb feeding, especially when the little creatures are abnormal, but I knew it was no use arguing with Jack. It was his way.

  Out in the yard again, he leaned against the half-door of a loose box. “Any road, I’ll have to remember to do them ewes with copper next time.”

  As he spoke, an enormous head poked over the door. This was the bull box, and the great Shorthorn inside clearly wished to pay his respects.

  He began to lick the back of Jack’s neck, and as the rasping tongue repeatedly knocked his cap over his eyes, the farmer remonstrated gently. “Give over, George, ye daft thing. What d’you think you’re doin’?” But he reached back and tickled the animal’s chin at the same time.

  The expression on George’s face made him look more like a dog than a bull. Goofy-eyed and anxious to please, he licked and nuzzled faster than ever, despite the farmer’s protests. On many farms a bull that size would be a potential killer, but George was just another of Jack’s pets.

  As lambing time was left behind and the summer wore on, I was glad to see that Jack’s dedication had paid off. The two semi-paralysed lambs were surviving and doing well. They still flopped down after a few steps, but they were able to nibble the fast-growing grass and the demyelination of their brains had mercifully not progressed.

  It was in October, when the trees around the Scott farm were bursting into a blaze of warm colour, that Jack hailed me as I drove past his gate.

  “Will ye stop for a minute and see Rip?” His face was anxious.

  “Why, is he ill?”

  “Naw, naw, just lame, but I can’t mek it out.”

  I didn’t have to go far to find Rip—he was never far from his master—and I experienced a shock of surprise when I saw him because his right foreleg was trailing uselessly.

  “What’s happened to him?” I asked.

  “He was roundin’ up t’cows when one of ’em lashed out and got him on the chest. He’s been gettin’ lamer ever since. The funny thing is, ah can’t find a thing wrong with his leg. It’s a mystery.”

  Rip wagged vigorously as I felt my way up his leg from foot to shoulder. There was no pain in the limb, no wound or injury, but he winced as I passed my hand over his first rib. Diagnosis was not difficult.

  “It’s radial paralysis,” I said.

  “Radial. . . what’s that?”

  “The radial nerve passes over the first rib, and the kick must have damaged rib and nerve. This has put the extensor muscles out of action so that he can’t bring his leg forward.”

  “Well, that’s a rum ’un.” The farmer passed a hand over the shaggy head and down the fine white markings of the cheeks. “Will he get better?”

  “It’s usually a long job,” I replied. “Nervous tissue is slow to regenerate, and it could take weeks or months. Treatment doesn’t seem to make much difference.”

  The farmer nodded. “Awright, we’ll just have to wait. There’s one thing”—and again the bright smile flooded his face—“he can still get round them cows, lame or not. It ’ud break ’is heart if he couldn’t work. Loves ’is job, does Rip.”

  On the way back to the car, he nudged me and opened the door of a shed. In the corner, in a nest of straw, a cat was sitting with her family of tiny kittens. He lifted two out, holding one in each of his roughened hands. “Look at them little fellers, aren’t they lovely!” He held them against his cheeks and laughed.

  As I started the engine, I felt I ought to say something encouraging. “Don’t worry too much about Rip, Jack. These cases usually recover in time.”

  But Rip did not recover. After several months his leg was as useless as ever, and the muscles had wasted greatly. The nerve must have been irreparably damaged, and it was an unhappy thought that this attractive little animal was going to be three-legged for the rest of his life.

  Jack was undismayed and maintained stoutly that Rip was still a good working dog.

  The real blow fell one Sunday morning as Siegfried and I were arranging the rounds in the office. I answered the door bell and found Jack on the step with his dog in his arms.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is he worse?”

  “No, Mr. Herriot.” The farmer’s voice was husky. “It’s summat different. He’s been knocked down.”

  We examined the dog on the surgery table. “Fracture of the tibia,” Siegfried said. “But there’s no sign of internal damage. Do you know exactly what happened?”

  Jack shook his head. “Nay, Mr. Farnon. He ran onto the village street and a car caught ’im. He dragged ’imself back into t’yard.”

  “Dragged?” Siegfried was puzzled.

  “Aye, the broken leg’s on the same side as t’other thing.”

  My partner blew out his cheeks. “Ah, yes, the radial paralysis. I remember you told me about it, James.” He looked at me across the table, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I was. A fracture and a paralysis on the same side was a forbidding combination.

  “Right, let’s get on,” Siegfried murmured.

  We set the leg in plaster, and I held open the door of Jack’s old car as he laid Rip on the back seat.

  The farmer smiled out at me through the window. “I’m takin’ the family to church this mornin’, and I’ll say a little prayer for Rip while I’m there.”

  I watched until he drove round the corner of the street, and when I turned I found Siegfried at my elbow.

  “I just hope that job goes right,” he said thoughtfully. “Jack would take it hard if it didn’t.” He turned and carelessly dusted his old brass plate on its new place on the wall. “He’s a truly remarkable chap. He says he’s going to say a prayer for his dog, and there’s nobody better qualified. Remember what Coleridge said? ‘He prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small.’ “

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s Jack, all right.”

  The farmer brought his dog into the surgery six weeks later for the removal of the plaster.

  “Taking a cast off is a much longer job than putting it on,” I said as I worked away with my little saw.

  Jack laughed. “Aye, ah can see that. It’s hard stuff to get through.”

  I have never liked this job, and it seemed a long time before I splayed open the white roll with my fingers and eased it away from the hair of the leg.

  I felt at the site of the fracture and my spirits plummeted. Hardly any healing had taken place. There should have been a healthy callus by now but I could feel the loose ends of the broken bones moving against each other, almost like a hinge. We were no further forward.

  I could hear Siegfried pottering among the bottles in the dispensary, and I cal