Vets Might Fly Read online

  The incident came back to me as I sat in my room in St John's Wood

  reading Black's Veterinary Dictionary. It was a bulky volume to carry

  around and my RAF friends used to rib me about my 'vest pocket

  edition', but I had resolved to keep reading it in spare moments to

  remind me of my real life.

  I had reached the letter

  "C' and as the word

  "Castration' looked up at me from the page I was jerked back to Rory.

  I was castrating pigs. There were several litters to do and I was in a

  hurry and failed to notice the Irish farm worker's mounting

  apprehension. His young boss was catching the little animals and

  handing them to Rory who held them upside down, gripped between his

  thighs with their legs apart, and as I quickly incised the scrotums and

  drew out the testicles my blade almost touched the rough material of

  his trouser crutch.

  "For God's sake, have a care, Mr Herriot!" he gasped at last.

  I looked up from my work.

  "What's wrong, Rory?"

  "Watch what you're doin' with that bloody knife! You're whip pin' it

  round between me legs like a bloody Red Indian. You'll do me a

  mischief afore you've finished!"

  "Aye, be careful, Mr Herriot," the young farmer cried.

  "Don't geld Rory instead of the pig. His missus ud never forgive ye."

  He burst into a loud peal of laughter, the Irishman grinned sheepishly

  and I giggled.

  That was my undoing because the momentary inattention sent the blade

  slicing across my left forefinger. The razor-sharp edge went deep and

  in an instant the entire neighbour hood seemed flooded with my blood.

  I thought I would never staunch the flow. The red ooze continued,

  despite a long session of self-doctoring from the car boot, and when I

  finally drove away my finger was swathed in the biggest, clumsiest

  dressing I have ever seen. I had finally been forced to apply a large

  pad of cotton wool held in place with an enormous length of three-inch

  bandage.

  It was dark when I left the farm. About five o'clock on a late

  December day, the light gone early and the stars beginning to show in a

  frosty sky. I drove slowly, the enormous finger jutting upwards from

  the wheel, pointing the way between the headlights like a guiding

  beacon. I was within half a mile of Darrow by with the lights of the

  little town beginning to wink between the bare roadside branches when a

  car approached, went past, then I heard a squeal of brakes as it

  stopped and began to double back.

  It passed me again, drew into the side and I saw a frantically waving

  arm.

  I pulled up and a young man jumped from the driving seat and ran

  towards me.

  He pushed his head in at the window.

  "Are you the vet?" His voice was breathless, panic-stricken.

  "Yes, I am."

  "Oh thank God! We're passing through on the way to Manchester and

  we've been to your surgery . . . they said you were out this way . .

  . described your car.

  Please help us!"

  "What's the trouble?"

  "It's our dog . . . in the back of the car. He's got a ball stuck in

  his throat. I ... I think he might be dead."

  I was out of my seat and running along the road before he had finished.

  It was a big white saloon and in the darkness of the back seat a

  wailing chorus issued from several little heads silhouetted against the

  glass.

  I tore open the door and the wailing took on words.

  "Oh Benny, Benny, Benny...!"

  I dimly discerned a large dog spread over the knees of four small

  children.

  "Oh Daddy, he's dead, he's dead!"

  "Let's have him out," I gasped, and as the young man pulled on the

  forelegs I supported the body, which slid and toppled on to the tarmac

  with a horrible limpness.

  I pawed at the hairy form.

  "I can't see a bloody thing! Help me pull him round."

  We dragged the unresisting bulk into the headlights' glare and I could

  see it all. A huge, beautiful collie in his luxuriant prime, mouth

  gaping, tongue lolling, eyes staring lifelessly at nothing. He wasn't

  breathing.

  The young father took one look then gripped his head with both hands.

  "Oh God, oh God...." From within the car I heard the quiet sobbing of

  his wife and the piercing cries from the back.

  "Benny ... Benny...."

  I grabbed the man's shoulder and shouted at him.

  "What did you say about a ball?"

  "It's in his throat . . . I've had my fingers in his mouth for ages

  but I couldn't move it." The words came mumbling up from beneath the

  bent head.

  I pushed my hand into the mouth and I could feel it all right. A

  sphere of hard solid rubber not much bigger than a golf ball and jammed

  like a cork in the pharynx, effectively blocking the trachea. I

  scrabbled feverishly at the wet smoothness but there was nothing to get

  hold of. It took me about three seconds to realise that no human

  agency would ever get the ball out that way and without thinking I

  withdrew my hands, braced both thumbs behind the angle of the lower jaw

  and pushed.

  The ball shot forth, bounced on the frosty road and rolled sadly on to

  the grass verge. I touched the corneal surface of the eye. No reflex.

  I slumped to my knees, burdened by the hopeless regret that I hadn't

  had the chance to do this just a bit sooner. The only function I could

  perform now was to take the body back to Skeldale House for disposal. I

  couldn't allow the family to drive to Manchester with a dead dog. But I

  wished fervently that I had been able to do more, and as I passed my

  hand along the richly coloured coat over the ribs the vast bandaged

  finger stood out like a symbol of my helplessness.

  It was when I was gazing dully at the finger, the heel of my hand

  resting in an intercostal space, that I felt the faintest flutter from

  below.

  I jerked upright with a hoarse cry.

  "His heart's still beating! He's not gone yet!" I began to work on

  the dog with all I had. And out there in the darkness of that lonely

  country road it wasn't much. No stimulant injections, no oxygen

  cylinders or intratracheal tubes. But I depressed his chest with my

  palms every three seconds in the old-fashioned way, willing the dog to

  breathe as the eyes still stared at nothing. Every now and then I blew

  desperately down the throat or probed between the ribs for that almost

  imperceptible beat.

  I don't know which I noticed first, the slight twitch of an eyelid or

  the small lift of the ribs which pulled the icy Yorkshire air into his

  lungs. Maybe they both happened at once but from that moment

  everything was dreamlike and wonderful. I lost count of time as I sat

  there while the breathing became deep and regular and the animal began

  to be aware of his surroundings; and by the time he started to look

  around him and twitch his tail tentatively I realised suddenly that I

  was stiff jointed and almost frozen to the spot.

  With some difficulty I got up and watched in disbelief as the collie

  staggered to his feet.