by Hugh Lasgarn
Still the man didn’t utter a word.
‘Can you help me?’ I pleaded.
Suddenly his expression altered and he smiled.
‘Help me! Help me!’ he said, nodding his head up and down.
‘You can?’ I asked, hopefully.
‘No, help me! I Polish. No English. Goodnight!’ And with that, he shut the door.
Despondently, I walked back to the car. Just my luck: the whole of Herefordshire in the middle of the night, only one bloke awake — and he had to be a foreigner!
I slammed the door and pulled the starter. The little Ford zipped into life, for which I was very grateful. It really would have been the last straw if the engine had failed. I drove on for about ten minutes until I came to a T-junction pointing in the direction in which I had come. It said, ‘Pendulas — 5 miles’. I had obviously come too far.
Turning about, I set off back, but this time carefully noting the mileage. Bob Hacker had said that I should turn left at the bottom of the slope about a mile from the village; now that I was going in the opposite direction, I would have to turn right at the beginning of a hill about three miles away. After just under three miles, I did meet a hill and, to my great relief, there was a turning sharp right.
It led into a lane, and at the head of it was an opening, beside which was a broken gate, leaning against a low wall. The lights of the little Ford panned across it, illuminating, in faded white lettering,
‘SUNNYBANK FARM.’
Foot down, I urged the car onwards and up the rough and rutted lane into a yard, which was in no better condition. But it didn’t matter; it was Sunnybank Farm and that was the main thing.
The farm cottage was at the far end of the buildings, and as I approached, I could see Amos Breeze standing with a tilly lamp in the porchway. Squelching to a halt in the mud, I got out and, as I did, he came forward to meet me.
‘Hullo, Mr Hacker. Good of you to come. Sorry to hear about your father.’
As Amos came nearer, he raised the lamp and screwed up his eyes. ‘T’ain’t Mr Hacker. Now who be you, then?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Hugh Lasgarn. Mr Hacker’s new assistant,’ I explained.
‘Mr Lasgarn. Mr Hacker’s assistant,’ Amos repeated vaguely.
‘Had a bit of a job finding you,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said Amos, somewhat mystified, ‘now why should that be? Hacker’s have been coming ’ere for years.’
‘I was told to look out for a barn by the roadside,’ I replied.
‘Burnt down last month.’
‘Then there was the telephone box.’
‘Moved it on Wednesday to the Cross.’
‘And I stopped at a cottage to ask and a Pole answered the door.’
‘That would be Jack Gibbon’s place — now he could have told you,’ said Amos. ‘But then he left ten days ago and a new feller come in.’ He turned his head and spat into the darkness. ‘You have had a run-a-round and no mistake. Anyway, you be ’ere now, so you’d better come on an’ see Ada.’
With that, he led off across the yard and, grabbing my case, I followed closely behind.
We passed through a narrow gate into a rather lumpy pasture.
‘Over ’ere,’ said Amos, shining his light. The glow picked up Ada, lying full-length on her side, stomach distended and udder full and swollen, her teats dribbling milk. The breathing was heavy and irregular, otherwise she was very still. Then, the light caught her eye and momentarily she gave a weak struggle and lay still once again. Standing alongside was her calf, looking very bewildered, and as I drew closer it pushed up against its mother’s body for protection.
‘Don’t worry, little fellow,’ called Amos. ‘We won’t hurt you. Just goin’ to make your mam better.’
‘Guernsey, is she?’ I asked.
‘Ay,’ replied Amos. ‘An’ he’s cross Hereford from the “Bull with the Bowler Hat”!’
‘“Bull with the Bowler Hat”?’ I questioned. ‘What’s that?’
‘H’artificial h’insemination,’ chuckled Amos. ‘I ain’t got no bull.’
‘When did she calve?’ I bent down to examine Ada’s head.
‘Friday, dinner time,’ he answered.
‘How many has she had, Mr Breeze?’
‘This’ll be her third, an’ you call me Amos!’
‘Right, Amos,’ I replied and continued my examination.
Ada’s muzzle was very dry and her pupils dilated. She was sweating, even though it was cold, and her coat from head to tail was damp. I drew each of her teats in turn, but the milk was good and there was no sign of clots that would indicate mastitis. Then I checked her temperature and the thermometer registered 99°F, which was one and a half degrees below normal.
‘Milk fever,’ I announced, as I concluded my examination.
‘Thought it was,’ said Amos. ‘Years since I seen it, but I thought it was.’
‘She’s a Channel Island breed and they’re particularly susceptible, due to the richness of their milk,’ I commented. ‘And now I would like some hot water to warm the injection.’
‘Ain’t you going to pump ’er?’ asked Amos.
‘Pump her!’ I exclaimed.
‘Ay, pump up the tits and tie them off.’
I smiled. ‘No, we’ve advanced a bit since those days. Let’s get the hot water and I’ll tell you.’
On the way back to the house I explained to Amos how ‘Milk Fever’ was really an out of date term for the condition which was caused by a calcium deficiency due to the drain at calving, all the minerals going into the calf’s bones and the milk supply. ‘It’s not a fever at all,’ I told him. ‘In fact the temperature drops. When calcium is short it upsets the muscle action and the cow becomes weak and collapses.’
‘Well, I’ve seen ’em pump the udder up for it,’ said Amos.
‘The old idea was to try to push back the milk into the blood stream and replace the calcium,’ I said, ‘but it wasn’t very successful. Now-a-days we inject it directly into the vein, but it’s got to be blood heat and that’s why I want the hot water.’
I warmed the bottle of calcium solution in the bucket that Amos provided and we returned to the paddock and poor old Ada.
With a rope around her neck to bring up the jugular vein, I prepared the flutter valve and injection equipment.
The little calf became very inquisitive, nuzzling under my arm, and Amos had to hold it back so that I could work.
‘You can’t have no tea for a bit,’ he told the little mite. ‘You just hang on.’
Taking a large needle, by the light of the tilly I chose my spot and swiftly stabbed into the vein.
‘Good shot!’ exclaimed Amos, as a fine stream of blood spurted out. Quickly I connected the injection apparatus, inverted the bottle and slackened the neck rope. Holding it aloft, I allowed the liquid to trickle slowly into Ada’s blood stream.
It took all of five minutes, during which time Amos and I stood silently. The calf stopped struggling, Ada’s breathing eased and, save for a soft gurgling in the bottle and a shivering of wind in the trees, there was no sound.
When the solution had gone I withdrew the needle from the vein.
‘How long will it take?’ asked Amos, letting the calf go.
‘Minutes,’ I replied. ‘It’s very rapid. We’ll sit her up shortly. Shine the lamp on her nose.’
As I watched, tiny beads of moisture began to appear on Ada’s dry muzzle and increased in number until her nose was quite wet.
‘There!’ I said, beckoning to Amos. ‘It’s beginning to work.’
‘How can you tell that?’ he said, peering over my shoulder.
‘See those drops of moisture on her nose? Well, they come from little glands controlled by small muscles. Shortage of calcium stops them working, but once it’s replaced, they open up and the nose becomes wet again — it’s the first sign.’
The response was good and, with a bit of a heave, we got Ada sitting up.
‘
Don’t want her to stand too quickly,’ I told Amos. ‘Let her take it steadily.’
As soon as Ada got her bearings, she looked around anxiously for her calf. The little chap bawled, as if to say, ‘Here I am, Mum!’ and struggled to her.
‘I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to feed for a bit,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, if he takes too much milk from her, she’ll go down again.’
‘I’ll put him in a pen for tonight and give him a drop off Blossom,’ Amos decided. ‘She’s only calved a day or so.’
‘She can feed him tomorrow night, it should be all right then.’ As we spoke, Ada shook herself and shakily and rather hesitantly straightened her hind legs. For a few seconds she rested on her knees, then, with a great effort, she stood upright.
‘Well done, Mr Lasgarn!’ said Amos. ‘You’ve cured her!’
‘It’s the calcium, not me,’ I replied, but I was feeling pretty pleased that Ada had not let me down. ‘She’ll be all right now.’ And I gave the old girl a grateful pat on the rump.
Over a steaming mug of tea, Amos apologised for having to call me out at such an unearthly hour, for it was now well past three o’clock on Sunday morning.
‘Did you expect her to have trouble?’ I asked. ‘I mean, she could have been down all night if you hadn’t seen her.’
Amos bowed his head and chuckled to himself, then he looked up and smiled.
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Mr Lasgarn,’ he said. ‘You see, Saturday night I goes down to the pub. Has a few with one an’ another and puts the world to rights, so you might say.’ He rubbed his stubbly chin with the palm of his hand. ‘Well, as I come up the lane, I looked over to Ada and ’er was staggering. Then I thought, “It could be you, me gel, an’ then it could be me.” So I come on in, an’ sat down for an hour, an’ when I went back out, ’er was still staggering — so I said, “It’s you this time, my gel.” An’ that’s when I sent for you!’
It was well past four when I finally crawled into my bed, still grinning to myself at Amos Breeze’s interpretation of clinical observation.
Four
The ‘small animal’ consulting room in the Hacker’s practice resembled an exotic plant house. It consisted of a glass-constructed lean-to, at the back of the premises, with a small waiting room accessible from the reception area, where Miss Billings reigned supreme.
A solid white-painted examination table with a linoleum top acted as centre-piece and to one side a similarly painted chest of drawers held cotton wool, bandages, plaster of paris and various requirements for the treatment of pets. A wash-hand basin was fixed to the wall and, next to the door that led into the garden, stood an oldfashioned hatstand, on which hung a single white coat. But the feature that gave this consulting room such character, and one which I had never seen in such profusion, was the collection of potted plants that adorned the shelves. There were hart’s tongue ferns and geraniums, aspidistras small and large, and countless other unidentifiable creeping growths, that either hung low in knotted masses or spiralled to the roof, like hops gone mad.
Mr Hacker Senior had found great relaxation in tending his plants, and perhaps his intense involvement with animals during his working day needed such an antidote, as the soft green, slow-growing, silent, inoffensive forms provided. Miss Billings had voluntarily taken over their care and well-being, faithfully watering them and taking out the dead leaves, often with tears in her eyes.
Although the practice was mainly agricultural, it did cater for domestic pets on a regular basis, holding a surgery every evening from six o’clock until seven. The first veterinary surgeon back from farm visits attended to the clients and, during my first two weeks, it happened that I saw most of them.
Generally about four or five cases were patiently waiting, Miss Billings having already sorted them out in order of priority — based mainly on whom she liked and whom she didn’t.
Dealing with these ‘small animals’ and their owners was a complete contrast to the farm work, where the majority of treatments were based on economics. Of course, even in pet practice, the cost of consultations and drugs still had to be taken into consideration, but I soon realised that human emotions and sentiment were very much part of the picture.
When farmers discussed the symptoms of sick animals, they did it using everyday colloquialisms, without embarrassment or hesitation. ‘Straining’, ‘scouring’, ‘blowing’ and ‘bagging’ all denoted specific conditions. But when pet owners described symptoms it was different, and often the search for the right words could take quite a time. ‘How shall I put it then? Sort of a … well it’s a …’ Sometimes it was quite perplexing, especially when the symptoms of affected parts were related to the human, rather than the animal body — such as a large lady demonstrating on herself her bitch’s swollen mammary gland, or an old gentleman describing a sore patch on his dog’s left testicle.
But even in my brief encounter with the pet-owning public, I was beginning to realise the social link that animals had with humans. In the farming world dogs, cats, rabbits and cage birds were of little significance, but to the lonely, timid and unfulfilled, as well as to happy, complete and confident folk, pets were very important.
To say that people projected their own images onto their pets would have been far too sweeping a statement, but it was obvious to me, even in those early days, that a personality bond was very evident in many cases. Sometimes the personalities were so intertwined that it was difficult to tell clearly who was what!
This was my dilemma when, at my second Monday night surgery, a large red-faced man in a ragged woollen fisherman’s jersey, half-mast moleskin trousers and great, odd-shaped leather boots, tugged a reluctant, sad-faced Alsatian dog into the exotic plant consulting room for my attention.
‘Tom Blisset’s the name,’ he announced in a gruff voice, ‘and this ’ere is Shaun.’ The Alsatian sat down and looked away, as if trying to indicate his lack of interest in the proceedings.
‘What’s the problem, Mr Blisset?’ I asked.
‘Tom. You call me Tom!’ he replied, rather threateningly.
‘What’s the problem, Tom?’ I repeated, as the scruffy character leaned purposefully towards me.
‘’E’s a failed guard dog,’ he whispered confidentially.
At that Shaun turned round and looked up at me, as if to say, ‘I heard that.’
‘Stupid ’e is,’ continued Tom. ‘Don’ know why I took ’im.’ He glowered at the poor creature, who hung his head appropriately and gazed at the floor.
‘Well, what can I do for you?’ I enquired, thinking that the correction of failed guard dogs was more a training than a veterinary problem.
‘’E’s got a rash on ’is belly,’ explained Tom, rubbing his own ample stomach in circular motion with his hand. ‘Ad it about a week. I put some goose grease on ’im, but ’e kept a-lickin’ it and making ’imself sick. Stupid dog!’
Now, stupid Shaun may have been, but thick he certainly was, in the physical sense anyway. One hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and blood that would have taken a small crane to get up onto the table.
‘Will he roll over on the floor?’ I asked.
‘ROLL OVER, SHAUN!’ roared Tom, in such a deep voice that several of the plant pots rattled on the shelf.
But Shaun didn’t budge, he continued to gaze at the floor.
‘ROLL OVER, SHAUN!’ bellowed Tom.
The only effect of the second outburst was to make a notice about Distemper Vaccination, which had been stuck to the wall with tape, slide gently to the floor.
Shaun remained immobile.
Then, to my surprise, Tom’s voice rose two octaves and, bending on one knee, he softened his tone and made a plea.
‘Come on, Shaun. Roll over.’
He lowered himself to both knees and went up another octave.
‘Shaun. Roll over.’
With still no response from his animal, the ‘Master’ then laid his sixteen-stone bulk on the surgery floor, turned on his back,
raised his lumpy boots in the air, so that his trousers shuffled to his knees, and made one last, valiant attempt.
‘Come on, Shaun, for Christ’s sake. You stupid animal!’ he wheezed, his face becoming fiery red.
It was only then that Shaun moved. He raised his head slowly and looked at me. Then he looked down at the quivering body, legs waggling in the air. Then he looked back at me and his eyes said it all:
‘Stupid. Who? Me? That’s a laugh!’
Tom Blisset lay exhausted on his back, mumbling to himself, while Shaun and I looked on.
‘Come on,’ I said finally to the Alsatian. ‘Roll over, please.’
Without any further bidding the dog lay down alongside his master and turned onto his right side, giving me an ample view of his affected abdomen. It was obvious that he was suffering from a mild eczema and, as he lay quite still, I was able to make an adequate examination of the condition.
‘You can both get up now,’ I said, when I had finished.
Tom, with considerable puffing and blowing, eventually regained a standing position after three attempts, but Shaun still lay recumbent.
‘GET UP, SHAUN!’ he hollered.
There was no response.
‘Blast, if ’e won’t use ’is legs now!’ said Tom, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Get up, Shaun, please,’ I said.
And Shaun got to his feet.
Tom eyed me suspiciously.
‘It’s probably due to his feeding,’ I commented. ‘Eruptions of the skin often occur if it’s not balanced.’
‘Butcher’s offal, I gives ’im,’ said Tom, still looking at me thoughtfully.
‘Could be a bit rich. Some biscuits or biscuit meal would be advisable, to cut down on the protein.’
‘I’ll get some,’ said Tom.
‘And I’ll give you some tablets to ease the irritation. It should clear in a week or so.’
He never said another word as I counted out the tablets and wrote down the instructions on the packet, nor when he paid his fee. He just mumbled a ‘Goodbye’ when he opened the door.
‘Come on, Shaun,’ he said.
