All Things Wise and Wonderful Read online

  The thing that amazed me was that none of them ever became angry at the others butting in. Nobody ever said, “I’m speaking, do you mind?” or “Don’t interrupt!” or “For Pete’s sake, shut up!” They lived together in perfect harmony with all of them talking at once and none paying the slightest heed to what the other was saying.

  When I saw the cow during the following week she was worse. Mr. Birtwhistle had followed my instructions faithfully but Nellie could scarcely hobble as he brought her in from the field.

  Len was there to lift the foot and I gloomily surveyed the increased swelling. It ran right round the coronet from the heel to the interdigital cleft in front, and the slightest touch from my finger caused the big cow to jerk her leg in pain.

  I didn’t say much, because I knew what was in store for Nellie, and I knew too that Mr. Birtwhistle wasn’t going to like it when I told him.

  When I visited again at the end of the week I had only to look at the farmer’s face to realise that everything had turned out as I feared. For once he was on his own and he led me silently into the byre.

  Nellie was on three legs now, not daring even to bring the infected foot into momentary contact with the cobble flooring. And worse, she was in an advanced state of emaciation, the sleek healthy animal of two weeks ago reduced to little more than bone and hide.

  “I doubt she’s ’ad it,” Mr. Birtwhistle muttered.

  Cows’ hind feet are difficult to lift, but today I didn’t need any help because Nellie had stopped caring. I examined the swollen digit. It was now vast—a great ugly club of tissue with a trickle of pus discharging down the wall.

  “I see it’s bust there,” the farmer poked a finger at the ragged opening. “But it hasn’t given ’er no relief.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t expect it to,” I said. “Remember I told you the trouble is all inside the joint.”

  “Well, these things ’appen,” he replied. “Ah might as well telephone for Mallock. She’s hardly givin’ a drop o’ milk, poor awd lass, she’s nowt but a screw now.”

  I always had to wait for the threat of the knacker man’s humane killer before I said what I had to say now. Right from the start this had been a case for surgery, but it would have been a waste of time to suggest it at the beginning. Amputation of the bovine digit has always filled farmers with horror and even now I knew I would have trouble convincing Mr. Birtwhistle.

  There’s no need to slaughter her,” I said. “There’s another way of curing this.”

  “Another way? We’ve tried ’ard enough, surely.”

  I bent and lifted the foot again. “Look at this.” I seized the inner cleat and moved it freely around. “This side is perfectly healthy. There’s nothing wrong with it. It would bear Nellie’s full weight.”

  “Aye, but … how about t’other ’orrible thing?”

  “I could remove it”

  “You mean … cut it off?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Nay, nay, I’m not havin that. She’s suffered enough. Far better send for Jeff Mallock and get the job over.”

  Here it was again. Farmers are anything but shrinking violets, but there was something about this business which appalled them.

  “But Mr. Birtwhistle,” I said. “Don’t you see—the pain is immediately relieved. The pressure is off and all the weight rests on the good side.”

  “Ah said no, Mr. Herriot, and ah mean no. You’ve done your best and I thank ye, but I’m not havin’ her foot cut off and that’s all about it.” He turned and began to walk away.

  I looked after him helplessly. One thing I hate to do is talk a man into an operation on one of his beasts for the simple reason that if anything goes wrong I get the blame. But I was just about certain that an hour’s work could restore this good cow to her former state. I couldn’t let it go at this.

  I trotted from the byre. The farmer was already half way across the yard on his way to the ’phone.

  I panted up to him as he reached the farmhouse door. “Mr. Birtwhistle, listen to me for a minute. I never said anything about cutting off her foot. Just one cleat.”

  “Well that’s half a foot isn’t it?” he looked down at his boots. “And it’s ower much for me.”

  “But she wouldn’t know a thing,” I pleaded. “She’d be under a general anaesthetic. And I’m nearly sure it would be a success.”

  “Mr. Herriot, I just don’t fancy it. I don’t like t’idea. And even if it did work it would be like havin’ a crippled cow walkin’ about.”

  “Not at all. She would grow a little stump of horn there and I’d like to bet you’d never notice a thing.”

  He gave me a long sideways look and I could see he was weakening.

  “Mr. Birtwhistle,” I said, pressing home the attack. “Within a month Nellie could be a fat cow again, giving five gallons of milk a day.”

  This was silly talk, not to be recommended to any veterinary surgeon, but I was seized by a kind of madness. I couldn’t bear the thought of that cow being cut up for dog food when I was convinced I could put her right. And there was another thing; I was already savouring the pleasure, childish perhaps, of instantly relieving an animal’s pain, of bringing off a spectacular cure. There aren’t many operations in the field of bovine surgery where you can do this but digit amputation is one of them.

  Something of my fervour must have been communicated to the farmer because he looked at me steadily for a few moments then shrugged.

  “When do you want to do it?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Right. Will you need a lot o’ fellers to help?”

  “No, just you and Len. I’ll see you at ten o’clock.”

  Next day the sun was warm on my back as I laid out my equipment on a small field near the house. It was a typical setting for many large animal operations I have carried out over the years; the sweet stretch of green, the grey stone buildings and the peaceful bulk of the fells rising calm and unheeding into the white scattering of clouds.

  It took a long time for them to lead Nellie out though she didn’t have far to go, and as the bony scarecrow hopped painfully towards me, dangling her useless limb, the brave words of yesterday seemed foolhardy.

  “All right” I said. “Stop there. That’s a good spot.” On the grass, nearby, lay my tray with the saw, chloroform, bandages, cotton wool and iodoform. I had my long casting rope too, which we used to pull cattle down, but I had a feeling Nellie wouldn’t need it.

  I was right. I buckled on the muzzle, poured some chloroform on to the sponge and the big white cow sank almost thankfully on to the cool green herbage.

  “Kestrels had a smashin’ match on Wednesday night,” Len chuckled happily. “Johnnie Nudd didn’t score but Len Bottomley …”

  “I ’ope we’re doin’ t’right thing,” muttered Mr. Birtwhistle. “The way she staggered out ’ere I’d say it was a waste of time to …”

  “… cracked in a couple o’ beauties.” Len’s face lit up at the memory. “Kestrels is lucky to ’ave two fellers like …”

  “Get hold of that bad foot, Len!” I barked, playing them at their own game. “And keep it steady on that block of wood. And you, Mr. Birtwhistle, hold her head down. I don’t suppose she’ll move, but if she does we’ll have to give her more chloroform.”

  Cows are good subjects for chloroform anaesthesia but I don’t like to keep them laid out too long in case of regurgitation of food. I was in a hurry.

  I quickly tied a bandage above the hoof, pulling it tight to serve as a tourniquet, then I reached back to the tray for the saw. The books are full of sophisticated methods of digit amputation with much talk of curved incisions, reflections of skin to expose the region of the articulations, and the like. But I have whipped off hundreds of cleats with a few brisk strokes of the saw below the coronary band with complete success.

  I took a long breath. “Hold tight, Len.” And set to work.

  For a few moments there was silence except