It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

  Anyway, it had all changed for me and my work consisted now of driving

  from farm to farm across the roof of England with a growing conviction

  that I was a privileged person.

  I got back into the car and looked at my list of visits; it was good to

  be back and the day passed quickly. It was about seven o'clock in the

  evening, when I thought I had finished, that I had a call from Terry

  Watson, a young farm worker who kept two cows of his own. One of them,

  he said, had summer mastitis. Mid-July was a bit early for this but in

  the later summer months we saw literally hundreds of these cases; in

  fact a lot of the farmers called it "August Bag'. It was an unpleasant

  condition because it was just about incurable and usually resulted in

  the cow losing a quarter (the area of the udder which supplies each teat

  with milk) and sometimes even her life.

  Terry Watson's cow looked very sick. She had limped in from the field at

  milking time, swinging her right hind leg wide to keep it away from the

  painful udder, and now she stood trembling in her stall, her eyes

  staring anxiously in front of her. I drew gently at the affected teat

  and, instead of milk, a stream of dark, foul-smelling serum spurted into

  the tin can I was holding.

  "No mistaking that stink, Terry," I said. "It's the real summer type all

  right." I felt my way over the hot, swollen quarter and the cow lifted

  her leg quickly as I touched the tender tissue. "Pretty hard, too. It

  looks bad, I'm afraid."

  Terry's face was grim as he ran his hand along the cow's back. He was in

  his early twenties, had a wife and a small baby and was one of the breed

  who was prepared to labour all day for somebody else and then come home

  and start work on his own few stock. His two cows, his few pigs and hens

  made a big difference to somebody who had to live on thirty shillings a

  week.

  "Ah can't understand it," he muttered. "It's usually dry cows that get

  it and this 'uns still giving two gallons a day. I'd have been on with

  tar if only she'd been dry." (The farmers used to dab the teats of the

  dry cows with Stockholm tar to keep off the flies which were blamed for

  carrying the infection.)

  "No, I'm afraid all cows can get it, especially the ones that are

  beginning to dry off." I pulled the thermometer from the rectum - it

  said a hundred and six.

  l i .:1 "What's going to happen, then? Can you do owl for her."

  "I'll do what I can, Terry. I'll give her an injection and you must

  strip the teat out as often as you can, but you know as well as I do

  that it's a poor outlook with these jobs."

  "Aye, ah know all about it." He watched me gloomily as I injected the

  Coryne pyogenes toxoid into the cow's neck. (Even now we are still doing

  this for summer mastitis because it is a sad fact none of the modern

  range of antibiotics has much effect on it.) "She'll lose her quarter,

  won't she, and maybe she'll even peg out."

  I tried to be cheerful. "Well, I don't think she'll die, and even if the

  quarter goes she'll make it up on the other three." But there was the

  feeling of helplessness I always had when I could do little about

  something which mattered a great deal. Because I knew what a blow this

  was to the young man; a three-teated cow has lost a lot of her market

  value and this was about the best outcome I could see. I didn't like to

  think about the possibility of the animal dying.

  "Look, is there nowt at all I can do myself? Is the job a bed 'un do you

  think?" Terry Watson's thin cheeks were pale and as I looked at the

  slender figure with the slightly stooping shoulders I thought, not for

  the first time, that he didn't look robust enough for his hard trade.

  "I can't guarantee anything," 1 said. "But the cases that do best are

  the ones that get the most stripping. So work away at it this evening

  every half hour if you can manage it. That rubbish in her quarter can't

  do any harm if you draw it out as soon as it is formed. And I think you

  ought to bathe the udder with warm water and massage it well."

  "What'll I rub it with."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter what you use. The main thing is to move the

  tissue about so that you can get more of that stinking stuff out.

  Vaseline would do nicely."

  "Ah've got a bowl of goose grease."

  "O.K. use that." I reflected that there must be a bowl of goose grease

  on most farms; it was the all-purpose lubricant and liniment for man and

  beast.

  Terry seemed relieved at the opportunity to do something. He fished out

  an old bucket, tucked the milking stool between his legs and crouched

  down against the cow. He looked up at me with a strangely defiant

  expression. "Right," he said. "I'm startin' now."

  As it happened, I was called out early the next morning to a milk fever

  and on the way home I decided to look in at the Watsons' cottage. It was

  about eight o'clock and when I entered the little two-stalled shed,

  Terry was in the same position as I had left him on the previous night.

  He was pulling at the infected teat, eyes closed, cheek resting against

  the cow's flank. He started as though roused from sleep when I spoke.

  "Hello, you're having another go, I see."

  The cow looked round, too, at my words and I saw immediately, with a

  thrill of pleasure that she was immeasurably improved. She had lost her

  blank stare and was looking at me with the casual interest of the

  healthy bovine and best of all, her jaws were moving with that slow,

  regular, lateral grind that every vet loves to see.

  "My God, Terry, she looks a lot better. She isn't like the same cow."

  The young man seemed to have difficulty in keeping his eyes open but he

  smiled. "Aye, and come and have a look at this end." He rose slowly from

  the stool, straightened his back a little bit at a time and leaned his

  elbow on the cow's rump.

  I bent down by the udder, feeling carefully for the painful swelling of

  last night, but my hand came up against a smooth, yielding surface and,

  in disbelief, I kneaded the tissue between my fingers. The animal showed

  no sign of discomfort. With a feeling of bewilderment I drew on the teat

  with thumb and forefinger; the quarter was nearly empty but I did manage

  to squeeze a single jet of pure white milk on to my palm.

  "What's going on here, Terry? You must have switched cows on me. You're

  having me on, aren't you."

  "Nay, guvnor," the young man said with his slow smile. "It's same cow

  all right - she's better, that's all."

  "But it's impossible! What the devil have you done to her."

  "Just what you told me to do. Rub and strip."

  I scratched my head. "But she's back to normal. I've never seen anything

  like it."

  "Aye, I know you haven't." It was a woman's voice and I turned and saw

  young Mrs. Watson standing at the door holding her baby. "You've never

  seen a man that would rub and strip a cow right round the clock, have

  you."

  "Round the clock?" I said.

  She looked at her husband with a mixture of concern and exasperation.

  "Yes, he's been there o