It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet Read online

Siegfried's veterinary friend who always took a pint sample from the

  healthiest udder he could find to go with his lunchtime sandwiches.

  I labelled the bottle and put it into the car. We had a little electric

  centrifuge at Skeldale House and tonight I would spin this milk and

  examine the sediment on a slide after staining by Zichl-Neelsen.

  Probably I would find nothing but at times there was the strange

  excitement of peering down the microscope at a clump of bright red,

  iridescent TB bacilli. When that happened the cow was immediately

  slaughtered and there was always the thought that I might have lifted

  the death sentence from some child - the meningitis, the spinal and lung

  infections which were so common in those days.

  Returning to the byre I finished the inspection by examining the wall in

  front of each cow.

  !

  The farmer watched me dourly. "What you on with now."

  "Well, if a cow has a cough you can often find some spit on the wall." I

  had, in truth, found more tuberculous cows this way than any other - by

  scraping a little sputum on to a glass slide and then staining it as for

  the milk.

  The modern young vet just about never sees a TB cow, thank heavens, but

  'screws' were all too common thirty years ago. There were very few in

  the high Pennines but in the low country on the plain you found them;

  the cows that 'weren't doing right', the ones with the soft, careful

  cough and slightly accelerated breathing. Often they were good milkers

  and ate well, but they were killers and I was learning to spot them. And

  there were the others, the big, fat, sleek animals which could still be

  riddled with the disease. They were killers of a more insidious kind and

  nobody could pick them out. It took the tuberculin test to do that.

  At the next four places I visited, the farmers had got tired of waiting

  for me and had turned their cows out. They had all to be brought in from

  the field and they came slowly and reluctantly; there was nothing like

  the rodeo I had had with Mr. Kay's heifers but a lot more time was lost.

  The animals kept trying to turn back to the field while I sped around

  their flanks like a demented sheep dog; and as I panted to and fro each

  farmer told me the same thing - that cows only liked to come in at

  milking time.

  Milking time did eventually come and I caught three of my herds while

  they were being milked, but it was after six when I came tired and

  hungry to my second last inspection. A hush hung over the place and

  after shouting my way round the buildings without finding anybody I

  walked over to the house.

  "Is your husband in, Mrs. Bell?" I asked.

  "No, he's had to go into "'village to get the horse shod but he won't be

  long before he's back. He's left cows in for you," the farmer's wife

  replied.

  That was fine. I'd soon get through this lot. I almost ran into the byre

  and started the old routine, feeling sick to death of the sight and

  smell of cows and fed up with pawing at their udders. I was working

  along almost automatically when I came to a thin, rangy cow with a

  narrow red and white face; she could be a crossed Shorthorn-Ayrshire. I

  had barely touched her udder when she lashed out with the speed of light

  and caught me just above the kneecap.

  I hopped round the byre on one leg, groaning and swearing in my agony.

  It was some time before I was able to limp back to have another try and

  this time I scratched her back and cush-cushed her in a wheedling tone

  before sliding my hand gingerly between her legs. The same thing

  happened again only this time the sharp-edged cloven foot smacked

  slightly higher up my leg.

  Crashing back against the wall, I huddled there, almost weeping with

  pain and rage. After a few minutes I reached a decision. To hell with

  her. If she didn't want to be examined she could take her luck. I had

  had enough for one day - I was in no mood for heroics.

  Ignoring her, I proceeded down the byre till I had inspected the others.

  But I had to pass her on my way back and paused to have another look;

  and whether it was sheer stubbornness or whether I imagined she was

  laughing at me, I don't know, but I decided to have just one more go.

  Maybe she didn't like me coming from behind. Perhaps if I worked from

  the side she wouldn't mind so much.

  Carefully I squeezed my way between her and her neighbour, gasping as

  the craggy pelvic bones dug into my ribs. Once in the space beyond, I

  thought, I would be free to do my job; and that was my big mistake.

  Because as soon as I had got there the cow went to work on me in

  earnest. Switching her back end round quickly to cut off my way of

  escape, she began to kick me systematically from head to foot. She

  kicked forward, reaching at times high on my chest as I strained back

  against the wall.

  Since then I have been kicked by an endless variety of cows in all sorts

  of situations but never by such an expert as this one. There must be

  very few really venomous bovines and when one of them uses her feet it

  is usually an instinctive reaction to being hurt or frightened; and they

  kick blindly. But this cow measured me up before each blow and her

  judgement of distance was beautiful. And as she drove me further towards

  her head she was able to hook me in the back with her horns by way of

  variety. I am convinced she hated the human race.

  My plight was desperate. I was completely trapped and it didn't help

  when the apparently docile cow next door began to get into the act by

  prodding me off with her horns as I pressed against her.

  I don't know what made me look up, but there, in the thick wall of the

  byre was a hole about two feet square where some of the crumbling stone

  had fallen out. I pulled myself up with an agility that amazed me and as

  I crawled through head first a sweet fragrance came up to me. I was

  looking into a hay barn and seeing a deep bed of finest clover just

  below I launched myself into space and did a very creditable roll in the

  air before landing safely on my back.

  Lying there, bruised and breathless, with the front of my coat thickly

  patterned with claw marks I finally abandoned any lingering illusions I

  had had that Ministry work was a soft touch.

  I was rising painfully to my feet when Mr. Bell strolled in. "Sorry ah

  had to go out," he said, looking me over with interest, "But I'd just

  about given you up. You're 'ellish late."

  I dusted myself down and picked a few strands of hay from my hair. "Yes

  sorry about that. But never mind, I managed to get the job done."

  "But ... were you havin' a bit of a kip, then."

  "No, not exactly. I had some trouble with one of your cows." There

  wasn't much point in standing on my dignity. I told him the story.

  Even the friendliest farmer seems to derive pleasure from a vet's

  discomfiture and Mr. Bell listened with an ever-widening grin of

  delight. By the time I had finished he was doubled up, beating his

  breeches knees with his hands.

  "I can just imagine it. That Ayrshire cross! She's a right bitch. Picked