Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  ‘I’ve never tasted gypsy’s shaving water, but that must be a fair description,’ I agreed.

  ‘But three cups a piece is a bit too much,’ said C.J., flinging open the car door.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, getting out the other side.

  And laughing heartily, we fired two streams of filtered herbal tea down the mountainside towards the twinkling lights of Nantygyll.

  * * *

  Christopher John Pink qualified at the Royal Veterinary College in 1924 and spent his first two years as an assistant in one of the largest horse practices in East London at that time.

  C.J. must have made a most impressive sight as he drove his gig and high-stepper on his calls. Dressed immaculately in bowler hat, riding coat, breeches and leggings, with kid gloves and a silver stamped whip, he was very much the professional man.

  ‘The ladies never stood a chance, boy,’ he would say gleefully, when he talked of his early days. ‘But you had to be sharp and stay sharp; there were as many amateur horse doctors and rogues about in those days as there were horses — and that was a lot. All ready to take a young vet for a ride, in more ways than one. Some of those fellows could really try your education, and examination of horses for soundness was a trial for horse and veterinary surgeon. There’s many a way of leading a lame horse to make him look sound, or of settling his wind for a few hours. Thorough clinical examination was essential — and still is! Pink’s Law: “Never make a spot diagnosis”,’ he added.

  I remember showing some puzzlement when I first heard that remark.

  ‘If it’s got spots,’ he explained, ‘it could be a Dalmatian.’ Then he tapped his nose gently with his forefinger and added, ‘On the other hand, it could be a leopard!’ C.J. rubbed his hands together. ‘Always examine thoroughly and completely; never go on one factor alone, even if you are convinced you know the answer at first sight.’ And that piece of advice was to prove invaluable on several occasions during my later career.

  However, I did see C.J. hoisted by his own petard on one occasion, just at the end of his morning surgery, only about a week after he had imparted that particular section of Pink’s Law to me.

  It had been a busy surgery by Barrow Hill standards, with itchy dogs, lame cats, two budgerigars with overgrown beaks and a rabbit with a bad ear, when the last client walked through the door.

  The contrast between owner and animal could not have been more complete, for while the former was a dishevelled, down-at-heel Irish tinker wrapped in well-worn, illfitting overcoat, tied with string, his charge was a handsome, brindle greyhound, sharp, alert and a picture of fitness.

  ‘Cut ’is leg, so he did,’ said the Irishman, scraping a tattered cap from his head and crumpling it up in his right hand. ‘Bit o’ bottle glass, sir, I think.’

  ‘Been to a party, have you now?’ said C.J., kneeling down and addressing the dog, who nuzzled sociably into his jacket pocket. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, stroking the elegant head, as if expecting the animal to reply.

  ‘’Tis Brown Arrow, sir,’ the Irishman informed him.

  ‘That’s a posh name for a pal,’ said C.J., still apparently talking to the dog. ‘But he looks after you well, by the shine on you.’

  ‘Oh, I do, sir, I do,’ the Irishman confirmed enthusiastically. ‘He’s worth a lot to me, so he is, sir. An awful lot.’

  ‘Good companions are hard to find,’ said C.J., running his hands over Brown Arrow’s solid form. ‘Let’s have a look at this cut.’ Then, with a smooth, swift motion he rose and lifted the dog and gently placed him on the examination table.

  ‘’Tis that one, there.’ The Irishman pointed to the right foreleg.

  C.J. raised the limb to reveal a skin lesion of about an inch, just above the outer pad. Before he passed any comment, he gave Brown Arrow a quick general examination, just in case he had missed anything — Pink’s Law in practice.

  ‘Nasty little gash,’ he commented finally, ‘but a couple of stitches should soon put the job right. Don’t worry, old fellow,’ he said, turning to the Irishman. ‘We’ll soon have your pal as right as rain.’

  Out of the client’s ear-shot, I helped C.J. get the instruments and suture materials together.

  ‘Get a few of these tinker boyos in from time to time,’ said C.J. quietly. ‘Not bad old chaps, in the main. On the road usually, with just a dog for a companion. Poor but happy and think the world of their animals.’

  ‘Brown Arrow looks in good condition,’ I commented.

  ‘Probably goes without, himself, to feed it,’ said C.J., selecting a fine curved needle from his box.

  ‘Fancy name, though,’ I said. ‘Just for a pet.’

  ‘These boyos are romantics at heart,’ replied C.J., drawing the local anaesthetic into a syringe. ‘Come on, let’s start the embroidery.’

  Brown Arrow never flinched when the fine needle was inserted and the local spread around. C.J. expertly drew the wound edges together in fine, delicate sutures. Following a light dressing, the wound was bandaged and a small injection of penicillin given to ward off any infection.

  ‘Should heal in about seven days,’ he informed the Irishman, as he lifted the greyhound down from the table. ‘And I’ve put in sutures that will dissolve, so there will be no problem about taking them out.’

  ‘Appreciate it, I do, sir. Oh, indeed I do,’ said the Irishman, grabbing C.J.’s hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘That dog, sir, is worth a lot to me.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ said C.J. smiling benevolently. ‘I’m sure he is.’

  ‘Now, what would you want me to be paying you, sir?’ asked the Irishman.

  ‘Oh, a pound to you. Just to cover the drugs,’ C.J. replied, putting a hand on the old fellow’s shoulder.

  ‘Are ye sure, now?’ he replied, eyebrows raised.

  ‘If that’s all right,’ said C.J.

  ‘Sure an it is,’ said the Irishman, and with that he delved deeply into his greatcoat pocket and his hand emerged with a massive wad of notes.

  It was the most money I had ever seen in one lump and it must have been the same for C.J., for he gasped, fell back a little and had to put his hand behind him onto the examination table to steady himself.

  ‘Where did you get all that?’ he asked, when he had recovered from the shock.

  ‘Last night’s winnings at Pontyglyn track with me auld dog, sir,’ said the Irishman, gently waving the wad up and down and momentarily hypnotising C.J. ‘Third time we’ve cleaned up in Wales this month, sir. Told yer he was worth a lot to me, an’ so he is. Offered five hundred pounds for him only last night, so I was, but if I hang out I reckon I’ll get twice of that afore I’m finished.’ Then, with a great flourish, he peeled a pound note from the top of the pile. ‘Now there is your fee, sir, an’ a gen’lman ye are too.’ Then he peeled off another pound. ‘And I’d like you an’ your young man here to have a drink on me an’ Brown Arrow, for all yer kindness, sir, so I would.’

  He placed the two notes in C.J.’s limp hand and, pushing his cap untidily back onto his balding head, bid us both ‘Goodmornin’.

  When he had gone, C.J. shut the door behind him and leaned heavily against it.

  ‘A pound,’ he said. ‘Just a pound.’ And shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘You’re too softhearted,’ I said.

  ‘Pink’s Law,’ he said, looking me straight in the eye. ‘I forgot it, boy, didn’t I?’

  ‘It was a greyhound, not a Dalmatian or a leopard,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Not the dog, Hugh, the man! Pink’s Law can apply to people, too. Never make a diagnosis on one factor alone, remember?’

  I nodded several times.

  ‘But I did. I did!’ C.J. said, clasping his hands. ‘Now remember this, young man.’ C.J. tapped his nose gently with his forefinger. ‘If they are dirty and scruffy, they could be Micks, on the other hand — they could be millionaires!’ Then C.J. Pink threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  And for me, that was
another section of Pink’s Law that proved invaluable, as well.

  * * *

  I spent all my vacations ‘seeing practice’ at Barrow Hill. Some students moved about a lot and visited a great variety of practices, but I spent my time with C.J. Pink and never regretted one moment of it.

  His guidance and advice, together with abundant quotations from ‘Pink’s Law’, put a completely different interpretation upon the final terms at university.

  Now, the lectures, clinical demonstrations and surgical procedures were really beginning to mean something. The basic foundation of the first years was at last being built upon in real terms and I was beginning to feel and think like a vet.

  But, as the days flew by and the final examinations loomed, there was something nagging at me, that up until then I had successfully banished to the distant corners of my mind — National Service. Even if I qualified, obtained my degree and became a member of the prestigious Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, I would not be able to go into practice until I had completed two years in the Army. Most graduates took a commission in the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, which dealt with horses and dogs and was certainly no waste of time, but for me it was just an unnecessary delay in achieving my ambition of becoming a country vet.

  There are some great crossroads in life that one often fails to recognise at the time, because they do not appear as momentous occasions. Such was one of mine — nothing more dramatic than losing the top of my treasured Parker 51 fountain pen that my parents had given me when I started at university. I searched high and low, then decided to put a ‘Lost’ card on the notice board outside the student common room.

  The board was usually crowded with day-to-day information — everything from time-tables and team lists to club news, entertainments and other oddments of interest. As I scanned the board for a space, I noticed a directive stating that, due to a delay in recruitment, graduates due for National Service would not be called up for at least two months after qualifying. This I regarded as bad news, for as far as I could see, it only delayed the agony.

  There appeared to be no spare drawing pins, and as I was desperately hoping to obtain news of my lost pen top, I decided to pinch a pin from some less significant notice. I found one, almost completely obscured by a poster for the Friday Dance, at the bottom corner of the board. No one could see it anyway, so I felt quite justified in taking its pin and fixing my card in a prominent position.

  Standing back to admire my bold notice, I casually looked at the card I had just displaced. It was a vacancy for a job. Occasionally these cards appeared on the board, but as I was destined for the Army, I paid little attention to them: the one in my hand, however, captured my interest.

  A vacancy exists for a temporary assistant. The practice is mixed agricultural and the position, which would suit a new graduate, is for an approximate period of thirty days.

  Apply in the first instance to:

  G.R. HACKER MRCVS,

  ST MARK’S SQUARE,

  LEDINGFORD,

  HEREFORDSHIRE

  I put the card in my pocket and wrote that night.

  I got the job and, when I qualified, started practice in Ledingford. The advert was indeed true to its description, in that the practice was agricultural and very mixed. For thirty days at least, I would be able to satisfy my ambition.

  Three

  ‘Thirteen pounds a week and a Ford car, for use when off duty,’ was the agreement. But as ‘off duty’ was only to be one weekend from mid-day Saturday during my stay, it wasn’t that much of a perk.

  But, I should care! I had made it! I was going to be a country vet, and with youthful enthusiasm and boundless optimism, I stepped off the train at Ledingford station.

  Hacker’s surgery occupied a most prestigious position in St Mark’s Square, in the centre of the town. Ledingford’s great antiquity and considerable architectural variety was very evident as I surveyed my first place of employment.

  Number One, St Mark’s Square was at the centre of a row of stylish Georgian houses facing the Merchants’ Hall, the latter being an imposing stone building sporting a pillared façade in Grecian style. To the left stood the Town Hall, also imposing, but of brick and terracotta, with a Renaissance influence. By contrast, the Norman Church of St Mark, with its eleventh century adornments and high pointed spire, completed the surroundings.

  Even from across the street, a good hundred yards away, the glistening brass plate outside Number One shone like a beacon, and I homed in on it speedily.

  G. R. HACKER MRCVS

  VETERINARY SURGEON

  The solid oak door was open, revealing a small recess covered with a thick coconut mat, whose rugged texture defied anyone to enter with unclean footwear. To the right and leading off was another door, the upper part panelled with frosted glass.

  There were no instructions to ring or knock, but the highly polished brass knob invited to be turned.

  This I did, pushing the door at the same time.

  It stuck briefly and needed a second shove before it yielded, then it flew open sharply, accompanied by a fierce jangling from above as it triggered off a bell on a curved spring over my head.

  Distracted by the deafening alarm, I failed to notice the step and, catching my toe, plunged forward onto my knees. As I fell, the catch of my suitcase caught the big brass knob and snapped open, the contents cascading onto the floor about me. And so it was, on my knees, surrounded by shirts, pants, vests and pyjamas, an open toilet bag and two pairs of shoes, that I made my grand entry into veterinary practice.

  The jangling of the bell gradually subsided and, as I recovered from my shock, I became aware of someone standing before me. My gaze slowly ascended, taking in sensible brown lace-up shoes, thick woollen stockings, tweed skirt, long-sleeved brown ribbed jumper, horn-rimmed spectacles, tightly permed hair and a frosty female face.

  ‘Well!’ she exclaimed.

  Kneeling was never a good position from which to assert oneself, and with my belongings scattered about me I felt like an exploded commercial traveller. In an attempt to regain my composure I scrambled to my feet.

  The frosty woman looked me over, as if she was surveying something rather distasteful.

  ‘I’m Hugh Lasgarn, the new veterinary surgeon. I’ve spent five years at Glasgow where I have studied veterinary medicine and surgery. I have also seen practice with the highly esteemed C. J. Pink, MRCVS, of Newpool. I have been granted my degree of BVMS and I am also, by election, a Member of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons!’

  Well, that’s what I should have said; actually what I did say was:

  ‘I’m Hugh Lasgarn and I’ve come to h-help out,’ and I even said that rather weakly.

  The frosty woman sniffed.

  ‘You should have been here this morning,’ she snapped icily. ‘Mr Hacker Senior went into hospital last night. Both young Mr Hacker and Mr McBean are on farm visits.’ She breathed in deeply, so that the stitches of the ribbed jumper tensed uneasily, and then added curtly, ‘And I have an emergency!’ With that she turned on her heel and disappeared behind a partition that screened one corner of the room.

  For the first time I was able to take stock of my surroundings. The surgery was larger and more purposeful than C. J. Pink’s and reminded me rather of a museum. The fittings and furniture were very solid and highly polished. All the cupboards had bright brass catches and hinges, and between them the shelves were lined with a vast number of bottles and jars. Leading from the screened area ran a shining oak counter, on which stood an apothecary’s weighing scales and alongside it lay a large ledger. The counter separated the reception area from a small dispensary with white ceramic jars, carrying illuminated Latin inscriptions describing their contents: ‘Oleo Cetacei’, ‘Unguentum Cucumeris’, ‘Pulv Antimon’ and the like. Between these and the counter, and facing the front, was a show case containing instruments. Some, such as whelping forceps, tooth elevators and gags, I recognised, and catheters and dilators were al
so familiar, but others were models of engineering precision, with chains and wheels and variable screws, defeating even the most flexible imagination as to the reason for their use. Just to my right was a long bench seat and in the corner was fixed a large wash basin. From the wall above sprouted two fearsome taps, looking so powerful that one could easily believe that a jet from their dilated nozzles would quickly expel any debris, bacteria or substance of decay, swiftly down the nearest drain to Hell.

  The frosty woman re-appeared from behind the screen. Clasping her hands, she inhaled sharply, the jumper stitches again taking the strain.

  ‘I am Miss Billings,’ she announced. ‘Mr Hacker Senior’s secretary, receptionist and book-keeper. I also dispense medicines, order drugs and assist in the surgery. And you, Mr Lasgarn,’ she repeated again, ‘should have been here this morning!’

  ‘I said I would come up on Thursday,’ I replied. ‘I thought I could settle in today and start tomorrow.’

  ‘No time for that,’ retorted Miss Billings sharply. ‘Both Mr Hacker Junior and Mr McBean are miles away and I’ve got an emergency. So you’ll have to start now. Pick up your belongings and I’ll give you instructions.’ Then she swept behind the screen for a second time.

  Although I was a little peeved at being ordered about like a manservant, the excitement of the emergency had triggered off my adrenalin and I pushed my annoyance to the back of my mind. Here I was at last, qualified and in practice — about to tackle an emergency.

  Speedily I rammed my things back into my case, squeezed down the lid and placed it upon the counter.

  As if triggered by an invisible switch, as the case touched the wood Miss Billings shot from behind the screen.

  ‘Off!’ she shouted. ‘Off!’

  I looked at her in amazement.

  ‘Off to where?’ I asked.

  ‘Your case!’ she screeched. ‘Off the counter!’

  I quickly lifted it up as her head swooped down on the spot. She peered closely, searching for any abrasion on the shining surface. Satisfied that there was no damage, she raised her head and gave me a withering look.