All Things Bright and Beautiful

by James Herriot

  I mumbled something. I had found it useless to argue this point. The knacker man’s amazing ability to tell at a glance the cause of an animal’s illness or death was a frequent source of embarrassment to me. No examination was necessary—he just knew, and of all his weird catalogue of diseases stagnation of t’lungs was the favourite.

  He turned to the farmer. “Well, ah’d better shift ’em now, Willie. Reckon they won’t last much longer.”

  I bent down and lifted the head of the nearest calf. They were all shorthorns, three roans, a red and this one which was pure white. I passed my fingers over the hard little skull, feeling the tiny horn buds under the rough hair. When I withdrew my hand the head dropped limply on to the straw and it seemed to me that there was something of finality and resignation in the movement.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the roar of Jeff’s engine. He was backing his wagon round to the door of the calf house and as the high unpainted boards darkened the entrance the atmosphere of gloom deepened. These little animals had suffered two traumatic journeys in their short lives. This was to be the last, the most fateful and the most sordid.

  When the knacker man came in he stood by the farmer, looking at me as I squatted in the straw among the prostrate creatures. They were both waiting for me to quit the place, leaving my failure behind me.

  “You know, Mr. Clark,” I said. “Even if we could save one of them it would help to reduce your loss.”

  The farmer regarded me expressionlessly. “But they’re all dyin’, lad. You said so yourself.”

  “Yes, I did, I know, but the circumstances could be a bit different today.”

  “Ah know what it is.” He laughed suddenly. “You’ve got your heart set on havin’ a go with them little tablets, haven’t you?”

  I didn’t answer but looked up at him with a mute appeal.

  He was silent for a few moments then he put a hand on Mallock’s shoulder. “Jeff, if this young feller is that concerned about ma stock I’ll ’ave to humour ’im. You’re not bothered, are you?”

  “Nay, Willie, nay,” replied Jeff, completely unruffled. “I can pick ’em up tomorrow, just as easy.”

  “Right,” I said. “Let’s have a look at the instructions.” I fished out the pamphlet from the tin and read rapidly, working out the dose for the weights of the calves. “We’ll have to give them a loading dose first. I think twelve tablets per calf then six every eight hours after that.”

  “How do you get ’em down their necks?” the farmer asked.

  “We’ll have to crush them and shake them up in water. Can we go into the house to do that?”

  In the farm kitchen we borrowed Mrs. Clark’s potato masher and pounded the tablets until we had five initial doses measured out. Then we returned to the shed and began to administer them to the calves. We had to go carefully as the little creatures were so weak they had difficulty in swallowing, but the farmer held each head while I trickled the medicine into the side of the mouth.

  Jeff enjoyed every minute of it. He showed no desire to leave but produced a pipe richly decorated with nameless tissues, leaned on the top of the half door and, puffing happily, watched us with tranquil eyes. He was quite unperturbed by his wasted journey and when we had finished he climbed into his wagon and waved to us cordially.

  “I’ll be back to pick ’em up in t’mornin, Willie,” he cried, quite without malice I’m sure. “There’s no cure for stagnation of t’lungs.”

  I thought of his words next day as I drove back to the farm. He was just stating the fact; his supply of dog meat was merely being postponed for another twenty four hours. But at least, I told myself, I had the satisfaction of having tried, and since I expected nothing I wasn’t going to be disappointed.

  As I pulled up in the yard Mr. Clark walked over and spoke through the window. “There’s no need for you to get out of the car.” His face was a grim mask.

  “Oh,” I said, the sudden lurch in my stomach belying my calm facade. “Like that, is it?”

  “Aye, come and look ’ere.” He turned and I followed him over to the shed. By the time the door creaked open a slow misery had begun to seep into me.

  Unwillingly I gazed into the interior.

  Four of the calves were standing in a row looking up at us with interest. Four shaggy, rough-jacketed figures, bright-eyed and alert. The fifth was resting on the straw, chewing absently at one of the strings which held his sack.

  The farmer’s weathered face split into a delighted grin, “Well ah told you there was no need to get out of your car, didn’t I? They don’t need no vitnery, they’re back to normal.”

  I didn’t say anything. This was something which my mind, as yet, could not comprehend. As I stared unbelievingly the fifth calf rose from the straw and stretched luxuriously.

  “He’s wraxin’, d’you see?” cried Mr. Clark. “There’s nowt much wrong wi’ them when they do that.”

  We went inside and I began to examine the little animals. Temperatures were normal, the diarrhoea had dried up, it was uncanny. As if in celebration the white calf which had been all but dead yesterday began to caper about the shed, kicking up his legs like a mustang.

  “Look at that little bugger!” burst out the farmer. “By gaw I wish I was as fit meself!”

  I put the thermometer back in its tube and dropped it into my side pocket. “Well, Mr. Clark,” I said slowly, “I’ve never seen anything like this. I still feel stunned.”

  “Beats hen-racin’, doesn’t it,” the farmer said, wide-eyed, then he turned towards the gate as a wagon appeared from the lane. It was the familiar doom-burdened vehicle of Jeff Mallock.

  The knacker man showed no emotion as he looked into the shed. In fact it was difficult to imagine anything disturbing those pink cheeks and placid eyes, but I fancied the puffs of blue smoke from his pipe came a little faster as he took in the scene. The pipe itself showed some fresh deposits on its bowl—some fragments of liver, I fancied, since yesterday.

  When he had looked his fill he turned and strolled towards his wagon. On the way he gazed expansively around him and then at the dark clouds piling in the western sky.

  “Ah think it’ll turn to rain afore t’day’s out, Willie,” he murmured.

  I didn’t know it at the time but I had witnessed the beginning of the revolution. It was my first glimpse of the tremendous therapeutic breakthrough which was to sweep the old remedies into oblivion. The long rows of ornate glass bottles with their carved stoppers and Latin inscriptions would not stand on the dispensary shelves much longer and their names, dearly familiar for many generations—Sweet Spirits of Nitre, Sal ammoniac, Tincture of Camphor—would be lost and vanish for ever.

  This was the beginning and just around the corner a new wonder was waiting—Penicillin and the other antibiotics. At last we had something to work with, at last we could use drugs which we knew were going to do something.

  All over the country, probably all over the world at that time, vets were having these first spectacular results, going through the same experience as myself; some with cows, some with dogs and cats, others with valuable racehorses, sheep, pigs in all kinds of environments. But for me it happened in that old converted railway wagon among the jumble of rusting junk on Willie Clark’s farm.

  Of course it didn’t last—not the miraculous part of it anyway. What I had seen at Willie Clark’s was the impact of something new on an entirely unsophisticated bacterial population, but it didn’t go on like that. In time the organisms developed a certain amount of resistance and new and stronger sulphonamides and antibiotics had to be produced. And so the battle has continued. We have good results now but no miracles, and I feel I was lucky to be one of the generation which was in at the beginning when the wonderful things did happen.

  Those five calves never looked behind them and the memory of them gives me a warm glow even now. Willie of course was overjoyed and even Jeff Mallock gave the occasion his particular accolade. As he drove away he called back at us: />
  “Them little blue tablets must have good stuff in ’em. They’re fust things I’ve ever seen could cure stagnation of t’lungs.”

  46

  THERE WAS ONE MARVELLOUS thing about the set-up in Darrowby. I had the inestimable advantage of being a large animal practitioner with a passion for dogs and cats. So that although I spent most of my time in the wide outdoors of Yorkshire there was always the captivating background of the household pets to make a contrast.

  I treated some of them every day and it made an extra interest in my life; interest of a different kind, based on sentiment instead of commerce and because of the way things were it was something I could linger over and enjoy. I suppose with a very intensive small animal practice it would be easy to regard the thing as a huge sausage machine, an endless procession of hairy forms to prod with hypodermic needles. But in Darrowby we got to know them all as individual entities.

  Driving through the town I was able to identify my ex-patients without difficulty; Rover Johnson, recovered from his ear canker, coming out of the ironmongers with his mistress, Patch Walker whose broken leg had healed beautifully, balanced happily on the back of his owner’s coal wagon, or Spot Briggs who was a bit of a rake anyway and would soon be tearing himself again on barbed wire, ambling all alone across the market place cobbles in search of adventure. I got quite a kick out of recalling their ailments and mulling over their characteristics. Because they all had their own personalities and they were manifested in different ways.

  One of these was their personal reaction to me and my treatment. Most dogs and cats appeared to bear me not the slightest ill will despite the fact that I usually had to do something disagreeable to them.

  But there were exceptions and one of these was Magnus, the Miniature Dachshund from the Drovers’ Arms.

  He was in my mind now as I leaned across the bar counter.

  “A pint of Smiths, please, Danny,” I whispered.

  The barman grinned. “Coming up, Mr. Herriot.” He pulled at the lever and the beer hissed gently into the glass and as he passed it over the froth stood high and firm on the surface.

  “That ale looks really fit tonight,” I breathed almost inaudibly.

  “Fit? It’s beautiful!” Danny looked fondly at the brimming glass. “In fact it’s a shame to sell it.”

  I laughed, but pianissimo. “Well it’s nice of you to spare me a drop.” I took a deep pull and turned to old Mr. Fairburn who was as always sitting at the far corner of the bar with his own fancy flower-painted glass in his hand.

  “It’s been a grand day, Mr. Fairburn,” I murmured sotto voce.

  The old man put his hand to his ear. “What’s that you say?”

  “Nice warm day it’s been.” My voice was like a soft breeze sighing over the marshes.

  I felt a violent dig at my back. “What the heck’s the matter with you, Jim? Have you got laryngitis?”

  I turned and saw the tall bald-headed figure of Dr. Allinson, my medical adviser and friend. “Hello, Harry,” I cried. “Nice to see you.” Then I put my hand to my mouth.

  But it was too late. A furious yapping issued from the manager’s office. It was loud and penetrating and it went on and on.

  “Damn, I forgot,” I said wearily. “There goes Magnus again.”

  “Magnus? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, it’s a long story.” I took another sip at my beer as the din continued from the office. It really shattered the peace of the comfortable bar and I could see the regulars fidgeting and looking out into the hallway.

  Would that little dog ever forget? It seemed a long time now since Mr. Beckwith, the new young manager at the Drovers, had brought Magnus in to the surgery. He had looked a little apprehensive.

  “You’ll have to watch him, Mr. Herriot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, be careful He’s very vicious.”

  I looked at the sleek little form, a mere brown dot on the table. He would probably turn the scale at around six pounds. And I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Vicious? He’s not big enough, surely.”

  “Don’t you worry!” Mr. Beckwith raised a warning finger. “I took him to the vet in Bradford where I used to manage the White Swan and he sank his teeth into the poor chap’s finger.”

  “He did?”

  “He certainly did! Right down to the bone! By God I’ve never heard such language but I couldn’t blame the man. There was blood all over the place. I had to help him to put a bandage on.”

  “Mm, I see.” It was nice to be told before you had been bitten and not after. “And what was he trying to do to the dog? Must have been something pretty major.”

  “It wasn’t you know. All I wanted was his nails clipped.”

  “Is that all? And why have you brought him today?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Well honestly, Mr. Beckwith,” I said. “I think we can manage to cut his nails without bloodshed. If he’d been a Bull Mastiff or an Alsatian we might have had a problem, but I think that you and I between us can control a Miniature Dachshund.”

  The manager shook his head. “Don’t bring me into it. I’m sorry, but I’d rather not hold him, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, he’d never forgive me. He’s a funny little dog.”

  I rubbed my chin. “But if he’s as difficult as you say and you can’t hold him, what do you expect me to do?”

  “I don’t know, really…maybe you could sort of dope him…knock him out?”

  “You mean a general anaesthetic? To cut his claws…?”

  “It’ll be the only way, I’m afraid.” Mr. Beckwith stared gloomily at the tiny animal. “You don’t know him.”

  It was difficult to believe but it seemed pretty obvious that this canine morsel was the boss in the Beckwith home. In my experience many dogs had occupied this position but none as small as this one. Anyway, I had no more time to waste on this nonsense.

  “Look,” I said “I’ll put a tape muzzle on his nose and I’ll have this job done in a couple of minutes.” I reached behind me for the nail clippers and laid them on the table, then I unrolled a length of bandage and tied it in a loop.

  “Good boy, Magnus,” I said ingratiatingly as I advanced towards him.

  The little dog eyed the bandage unwinkingly until it was almost touching his nose then, with a surprising outburst of ferocity, he made a snarling leap at my hand. I felt the draught on my fingers as a row of sparkling teeth snapped shut half an inch away, but as he turned to have another go my free hand clamped on the scruff of his neck.

  “Right, Mr. Beckwith,” I said calmly. “I have him now. Just pass me that bandage again and I won’t be long.”

  But the young man had had enough. “Not me!” he gasped. “I’m off!” He turned the door handle and I heard his feet scurrying along the passage.

  Ah well, I thought, it was probably best. With boss dogs my primary move was usually to get the owner out of the way. It was surprising how quickly these tough guys calmed down when they found themselves alone with a no-nonsense stranger who knew how to handle them. I could recite a list who were raving tearaways in their own homes but apologetic tail-waggers once they crossed the surgery threshold. And they were all bigger than Magnus.

  Retaining my firm grip on his neck I unwound another foot of bandage and as he fought furiously, mouth gaping, lips retracted like a scaled-down Siberian wolf, I slipped the loop over his nose, tightened it and tied the knot behind his ears. His mouth was now clamped shut and just to make sure, I applied a second bandage so that he was well and truly trussed.

  This was when they usually packed in and I looked confidently at the dog for signs of submission. But above the encircling white coils the eyes glared furiously and from within the little frame an enraged growling issued, rising and falling like the distant droning of a thousand bees.

  Sometimes a stern word or two had the effect of showing them who was boss.


  “Magnus!” I barked at him. “That’s enough! Behave yourself!” I gave his neck a shake to make it clear that I wasn’t kidding but the only response was a sidelong squint of pure defiance from the slightly bulging eyes.

  I lifted the clippers. “All right,” I said wearily. “If you won’t have it one way you’ll have it the other.” And I tucked him under one arm, seized a paw and began to clip.

  He couldn’t do a thing about it. He fought and wriggled but I had him as in a vice. And as I methodically trimmed the overgrown nails, wrathful bubbles escaped on either side of the bandage along with his splutterings. If dogs could swear I was getting the biggest cursing in history.

  I did my job with particular care, taking pains to keep well away from the sensitive core of the claw so that he felt nothing, but it made no difference. The indignity of being mastered for once in his life was insupportable.

  Towards the conclusion of the operation I began to change my tone. I had found in the past that once dominance has been established it is quite easy to work up a friendly relationship, so I started to introduce a wheedling note.

  “Good little chap,” I cooed. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  I laid down the clippers and stroked his head as a few more resentful bubbles forced their way round the bandage. “All right, Magnus, we’ll take your muzzle off now.” I began to loosen the knot. “You’ll feel a lot better then, won’t you?”

  So often it happened that when I finally removed the restraint the dog would apparently decide to let bygones be bygones and in some cases would even lick my hand. But not so with Magnus. As the last turn of bandage fell from his nose he made another very creditable attempt to bite me.

  “All right, Mr. Beckwith,” I called along the passage. “You can come and get him now.”

  My final memory of the visit was of the little dog turning at the top of the surgery steps and giving me a last dirty look before his master led him down the street.

  It said very clearly, “Right, mate, I won’t forget you.”