Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  * * *

  By now, the grounding that we had been given over the previous three years was beginning to gel, so that the structure and function of animals, bacteria and parasites, and their inter-relationships, were becoming clearer. The effects of the available medicines and the value of correct diets had been investigated, but still we had not been let loose on real live animals and indeed, before we were, there was one other important part of the veterinary education that had to be undertaken.

  Seeing animals in specially designed veterinary teaching hospitals is an admirable way of demonstrating how disease should be diagnosed and prevented or treated. But applying the art and science of veterinary medicine under more natural conditions, such as windswept fields, dimly lit barns, kitchen tables or small surgeries, can be vastly different. In order, therefore, to obtain the correct balance, the vacations now had to be spent with a veterinary surgeon in what is termed ‘Seeing Practice’.

  It was my extreme good fortune to be taken as a student by Christopher John Pink, MRCVS, who practised from his residence at Barrow Hill in Newpool, about twelve miles from Abergranog.

  Christopher John Pink, or C.J. as he was more commonly known, was a bustling, jovial Welshman, greyhaired and balding, with a bushy moustache that stretched an extra two inches whenever he smiled.

  In his fifties, C.J. always dressed in the manner of a country squire, even though not all his clients were on the estates and large farms of the Usk valley. His practice extended well up into the mining valleys, where at the windswept hill farms and smallholdings, he was a great favourite and highly respected.

  Immaculate, in sharp-fitting cavalry twill trousers and three-quarter length hacking jacket in a loud check, he was always on the move. The only feature that detracted from his complete sartorial elegance was the fact that, whatever he picked up, in the nature of small bottles, bits of bandage, pencils, string or messages on pieces of paper, he stuffed into his jacket pockets so that they bulged like saddlebags.

  Occasionally, when his wife cornered him and demanded he sort them out, he would empty the contents onto the surgery table and, after reforming them in small matching piles, put three-quarters of them back into his pockets.

  ‘You’re a proper jackdaw,’ Mrs Pink would say, shaking her head. At which remark, C.J. would flap his elbows at his sides like wings and kiss her on the cheek. ‘And that’s a quick peck,’ he’d say, with a cheeky grin, his moustache lengthening considerably.

  Another distinctive feature of that warmhearted Welshman was the way he would rub his hands together, gleefully, as if constantly excited by the prospect of whatever was to come. And indeed he was, for C.J. enjoyed his veterinary work to the full and had a wealth of practical experience to offer. Much of his sound advice was contained in what he termed ‘Pink’s Law’, the quoting of which was always accompanied by the raising of the right index finger, as if to call attention, followed by a gentle tapping of the nose with the same finger and a closing of the left eye.

  ‘Communication is the key to success,’ he would expound, finger raised. Then the tapping and the closed eye. ‘Whether it be man or animal!’

  And C.J. was an artist in communication, treating all his clients with an equivalent degree of respect and good humour, such that in his company they relaxed and were completely confident in his expertise, whether it was Widow Evans and her mangy mongrel or Lord Bogan and his hunter.

  But it was with animals that the man was in a class on his own, and though, during my future years, I was to see many vets in action, there was none to equal him in communicating with his patients.

  ‘Talk, touch and treat them as an equal,’ he told me, when I asked his secret. ‘They, too, have feelings, and they’re far more honest and direct about showing them.’

  When he handled animals, C.J. was gentle but firm. He talked and touched, but as he did so he was all the time observing and examining. This latter feature may well have escaped the notice of the casual onlooker, for one couldn’t help but believe, by his attitude, that the animal understood his every word.

  ‘Now m’dear,’ he’d say in a comforting tone to a fat old Friesian cow overdue with the birth of her calf. ‘You’ll be glad to get this load off your mind, no doubt.’ Then, he’d commence his examination, chatting away all the time to her, until finally he would say: ‘Nothing to worry about. Just keep your strength up and in a few days it will all be over.’

  Or there was the time he reprimanded a battle-scarred tom cat, as a doctor might his company director patient. ‘Slow it down a bit,’ he said, wagging his finger at the dishevelled creature, who hung it’s tattered head in disgrace. ‘If you don’t, you’ll pop off before your time.’

  But the classic example of C.J.’s art of communication was, for me, an experience I shall never forget.

  It concerned a dog called Prince.

  ‘We’re going to see Mrs Webster, the landlady at the Black Lion,’ announced C.J., one morning. ‘You’ll be interested in this case, it’s what you might call an excercise in communication. How well can you sing?’

  A little taken aback by his question, I smiled and shook my head.

  ‘Do you know “Sospan Fach”?’ he asked, grinning.

  ‘The first verse, but what’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Communication,’ said C.J. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’ With a chuckle he pressed the starter and the old Vauxhall rattled into life. As we set off down into Newpool, he explained.

  ‘Mrs Webster’s got a dog called Prince. An Alsatian, quite old, partly blind and not very sociable. But since her husband died three years ago, he’s helped her keep the pub in order; the Black Lion’s down near the Dock and the clientele can get a bit rough.’ We stopped at the lights and the engine cut out. C.J. cursed softly and pressed the starter.

  ‘When I first went to see him, shortly after she’d been widowed, I couldn’t get near the old rascal. Quite vicious he was. I was a little worried about giving him a sedative because of his age and was wondering what I should do, when Mrs Webster said, “Try singing.” Apparently Alf, her husband, used to sing to old Prince a lot and, according to Mrs Webster, the old dog would lie down and let Alf do what he liked with him.’ C.J. slammed on the brakes as a cyclist cut across the junction in front of us and cursed again.

  ‘What did you sing?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘she said Alf sang Rugby songs, but I didn’t think I could sing some of the ones I knew in front of Mrs Webster, so I tried “Sospan Fach”.’

  ‘And it worked?’ I asked.

  ‘Like a charm, boy. Must have hit the jackpot first time. The old dog stopped barking and lay down on the mat and I was able to treat him. He was suffering from bad ears and he let me clean and dress them, no bother at all.’

  ‘What’s the trouble this time?’

  ‘A bad paw. Won’t let anyone touch it. All I hope is, he’s still in a musical frame of mind.’

  C.J. swung the Vauxhall into a rather dingy street lined with terraced houses; at the far end the derricks of the dockyard and assorted funnels of berthed coasters blocked out the skyline. Halfway down the street we pulled up outside the Black Lion.

  The pub was no more than a double-fronted terraced house that had been painted with a heavy coat of black paint or pitch, giving it a rather sinister appearance.

  I followed C.J. through the half-open door into the bar; the sharp tang of scented smoke cut the back of my throat and made my eyes water slightly. There were several men of mixed nationality drinking, who took no notice of us until a blonde woman behind the bar called out:

  ‘Thank’s for coming, Mr Pink. He’s in the kitchen. Can you manage, I’m a bit busy for the moment?’

  ‘Leave it to us,’ said C.J.

  Then the blonde woman caught sight of me.

  ‘Does the young man know about Prince?’ she asked, slightly nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ said C.J. ‘Champion tenor from Abergranog. He’ll have ol
d Prince eating out of his hand.’

  ‘Or eatin’ ’is ’and!’ said one of the men leaning on the bar. ‘Rather ’ew than me, boyo.’

  I followed C.J. up a narrow passage beside the bar to a small hallway in which were three doors. He pointed to one, set down his bag and began to whisper.

  ‘When we start singing he’ll bark like hell. But as long as we don’t stop he’s all right. You take the bag and if I want anything, I’ll sing it to you. He doesn’t mind what the words are so long as you keep up the tune.’

  He must have seen the perplexed look on my face, because he added: ‘Don’t worry, boy. Not all my patients are like this. Now one, two, three …’

  And with that, he placed his hand on the door knob and burst into song.

  Instantly our singing triggered off a ferocious barking from behind the door. It sounded more like a pack of wolves, and when he opened the door I could see why.

  Prince was big, black and mean. ‘Fang’ should have been his name, for his gaping jaws showed a set of dentures that would have done a tiger proud.

  C.J. waved his palm upwards to indicate that increased volume was desirable, his rich tenor voice fighting against the savage barking.

  It was at that point that my mouth went dry, possibly from the smoke of the bar — or I forgot the words — or I was frightened.

  C.J. waved his hand more vigorously.

  My voice came back and I sang out loud.

  Prince came towards me, not casually, but with intention. C.J. waved his hand, and sang ‘Sospan Fach’ for all he was worth.

  ‘I think we’ve got him where we want him,

  He likes you, keep singing the same tune.

  I’m sure that he’ll lie down in a minute,

  Just move the bag and let me have more room.’

  As I picked up the medical bag, Prince turned away from me and, after taking a look at the kitchen mat, made a wide circle, yawned and lay down full length.

  To the tune of ‘Sospan Fach’, C.J. gave me further instructions.

  ‘Look now, the right paw is quite swollen,

  I’ll search it and see what I can find.

  Just keep an eye upon his head, now,

  In case he goes for my behind.’

  But Prince had been lulled into a trance; ‘Sospan Fach’ had done the trick. And as I stood in the Black Lion kitchen, medical bag in hand, watching C.J. tending to Prince and singing softly as he did so, I wondered if Glasgow University had ever considered singing an essential part of the veterinary curriculum.

  Still crooning, C.J. continued to examine Prince’s pad. Suddenly he plucked his hand backwards, and between his fingers I saw a small sliver of wood.

  ‘This is the cause of all the trouble,

  Splinter from the boards upon the floor.

  In the case you’ll find a tube of ointment

  And I’ll put some on the septic sore.’

  Still adding to the chorus, I opened the case and took out the ointment. C.J. dressed Prince’s pad and when he’d finished, stood up and sang:

  ‘Right, Hugh, now I think we’ve finished,

  Dressed it, I can’t do any more.

  You’re doing very well now, just keep singing,

  Then gently back out through the door.’

  Prince still lay stretched out upon the mat as C.J. eased away from him and drew back through the door behind me.

  ‘Communication,’ he said, as he turned the knob. ‘You can stop singing now, boy. Come on, I’ll buy you a pint.’

  On the way back to the surgery, I lay back in the seat, shattered by the experience.

  ‘Reminded me a bit of Androcles and the lion,’ I said.

  ‘Funny you should mention him,’ said C.J., wrestling with the windscreen wiper knob, for it had now started raining. ‘Always thought he must have had a bit of a trick going for him.’

  ‘Probably had some Welsh blood,’ I suggested.

  ‘Wonder what he was singing,’ said C.J. peering through the half cleaned screen.

  ‘“Onward Christian Soldiers”,’ I said.

  ‘Bound to be,’ said C.J., slapping the wheel. ‘I might even try that next time.’

  But I never knew whether he did.

  The veterinary surgeons of C.J.’s era were certainly not motivated by financial gain. ‘Veterinary surgery is a way of life and not a job,’ he would say. And for him, that was not a Law, but a belief — and so it had to be, for both animals and clients showed no concern for time or place and often the nights were as busy as the days.

  Only rarely did he show the strain. One of the few occasions was a Sunday night, just on eight o’clock, when, after a particularly hectic day the phone bell tinkled once again.

  C.J. wearily lifted up the instrument and took the call. After several minutes of conversation, during which time his only contribution was to say ‘Yes’ about six times, he eventually answered, ‘As soon as we can!’ and banged the receiver down.

  He covered his face with his hand, drawing it downwards, as if trying to wipe away his tiredness.

  ‘Elmer Morgan, Ty-Bran,’ he said, finally. ‘Hill farmer, bachelor, Baptist and skinflint, has a cow calving.’ He stood up, put his hands on his hips and bent his body backwards. ‘Been calving since daybreak, look you,’ he continued, with an exaggerated Welsh accent which I assumed was in the manner of Elmer Morgan. ‘And now, Elmer, bless his tight old pockets, wants some help immediately — and if not, sooner!’

  ‘Ty-Bran,’ I said. ‘That’s Nantygyll way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Go through Nantygyll and up the mountain until you think you’re in Heaven,’ explained C.J. ‘Then you’re about half way there. Although on a night like this it will be more like the Other Place!’

  ‘Bit late calling,’ I commented.

  ‘Been to Chapel, look you,’ he replied. ‘Twice every Sunday. Pity he isn’t so regular about paying his bills — owes me for twelve months. Prays on his knees on a Sunday and on everyone else during the week.’ Then C.J. rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘None shall sleep.’

  I smiled at his resilience and admired it too, for I knew he was very tired.

  ‘Do you know that one?’ he asked. ‘It’s from Turandot by Giacomo Puccini. I heard it at Covent Garden, in my twenties — pure magic!’ And with that, he launched into the aria with great gusto and led off to the car.

  It was nearly dark and spitting with rain as we drove through the narrow, shiny streets of the valley to Nantygyll. Once away from the monotonous rows of terraced houses that made up the small township, we took the mountain road where the track became rougher and more tortuous.

  The windscreen wipers wing-wanged away with a force and noise that suggested a determined effort on their part; alas, the result was but a scrawling disturbance of the wet screen, for they were well past their best.

  ‘Skin a flea for sixpence, then ask for expenses,’ said C.J., as he peered into the driving rain. ‘Twelve months overdue and calls me out on a filthy night like this. Who’d be a vet?’

  ‘I would,’ I replied.

  He gave me a sideways glance, then he returned his gaze to the windscreen. A minute later he looked sideways again, this time he winked and grinned, so that his moustache extended a good two inches.

  ‘Good,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’m glad of that. Let’s go and sort out Elmer!’

  With that he spurted the old Vauxhall forward and we rattled on up the track.

  When we drove into the yard, Elmer was standing waiting for us in the rain — and just as C.J. had described him, so did he look.

  Wind-blown, weathered, tall and slightly stooping, he had the appearance of a vulture. Over his shoulders he wore a corn sack, knotted at his chest, and around his waist, tied with string, was another one. A tall black hat topped his head and from the brim of it, thin streams of water ran down at intervals onto the saturated corn sack. Below the hat was the meanest face I had ever seen.

  The Vauxhall squelche
d to a halt alongside and C.J. opened the window.

  ‘Took ’ewer time, didn’ ’ew!’ squeaked Elmer sarcastically. Then he peered deeper into the car and his beady eye settled upon me. He raised a thin finger and poked it forward. ‘Who’s that?’ he questioned.

  ‘Hugh Lasgarn,’ replied C.J.

  ‘Student?’ asked Elmer, suspiciously. ‘Don’ want no one learning on my cows. Too valuable, they are!’

  ‘Hugh is my assistant,’ retorted C.J. firmly. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘On the bank,’ he replied, shaking a small torrent from his hat.

  ‘You could have got her in on a night like this,’ said C.J. sharply.

  ‘More natural out of doors,’ said Elmer, equally sharply. ‘Anyway, she’s down.’

  In the darkness of the car I contemplated the banter between farmer and vet. Elmer seemed to resent having to call C.J. for help — yet he needed him, or at least, his cow did. C.J., in turn, had responded to the call, on a filthy night, and a Sunday. He still had not been paid for his previous services over twelve months, but despite that was expected to co-operate. ‘Who’d be a vet?’ I asked myself, just as C.J. had, only minutes ago.

  ‘Calving bag, ropes and medical case,’ shouted C.J. as we emerged. ‘What about water, Elmer?’

  ‘Isn’t this enough for ’ew?’ Elmer Morgan lifted skywards the tilly lamp he was holding, illuminating shafts of Welsh Mountain rain, to which there is no equal for its wetting capacity. For a moment a suggestion of a smile crossed his sallow face, then his features froze again and he lowered the lamp.