Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

In Glasgow, the cows had been given general anaesthesia by placing a chloroform mask over their heads. In a few minutes they would collapse and the horns were sawn off at the butt, any haemorrhage being stemmed with hot irons. They were soon coming round and standing up, appearing none the worse, and the wounds would heal well within a few weeks. It was quite amusing to watch them afterwards, still holding their heads very carefully when passing through narrow doorways, not realising that their horns were gone and that negotiating such obstacles was now much easier.

  There was one major snag with the general anaesthesia method: cattle are not, at any time, good subjects for complete sedation, due to the reaction of their large stomachs. These, when in a relaxed condition, can allow gas to accumulate to such an extent that the resultant tympany presses upon the chest cavity, impeding the action of heart and lungs, sometimes with fatal consequences.

  ‘You are liable to lose one cow in two hundred, with this method,’ the demonstrator had told us — which he thought was reasonably acceptable. I remember thinking at the time, how tough if it was the first one and how difficult it would be to retain the farmer’s confidence by proclaiming that the next one hundred and ninety-nine would be perfectly all right.

  The method used in the Hacker practice was harder but safer, for the cow, anyway. Local anaesthetic was used to block the nerves to the horns, and separation was achieved by the use of massive shears that had long iron handles connected to a rachet operating razor-sharp steel blades. The whole apparatus was extremely unwieldy and quite heavy, and with the cow still conscious and often very active, even though her horns were frozen, it was a very physical job, to say the least.

  The directions I had been given were that, after crossing the narrow brick bridge over the river at Redwarden, I was to take the road that led to the right of the Red Lion and follow it up the hill. As I rounded the sharp bend at the side of the pub, I was confronted with what appeared to be a vertical ascent, and such was the tightness of the curved approach that I lost momentum. The Ford had only three forward gears, the first necessitating momentary stoppage of the vehicle — not being ‘synchromesh’, as I was informed on receiving my transport. This, I had discovered, could be quite hair-raising when on a gradient, and the risk of running backwards very real, the brakes not being of any great efficiency, especially in reverse.

  Just at the point where I executed my change into first, I noticed, standing nearby, a roadman, old and bent, with battered trilby, rolled-up sleeves, waistcoat sporting a dangling Albert, moleskins tied below the knee and clumpy boots.

  ‘Steep, isn’t it!’ I called. He leaned on his spade, took his pipe from his mouth, nodded, then spat — but before he could speak, I was away, grinding up the hill.

  I sat perfectly still, just fingertips touching the steering and, as the pitch increased, I leaned forward, moving my bottom to the extreme edge of the seat in an attempt to give my mount every assistance. The road ahead appeared like a wall and was getting steeper by every yard, and the engine was labouring as I had never known it before. There was a smell, too, acrid and burning, and suddenly, with a groan of anguish, she died and I started to run back jerkily — the little Ford was beaten.

  I jammed on the brakes and realised that I would have to run down backwards, which I gradually did, my heart in my mouth.

  At the bottom, the old roadman was waiting.

  ‘She wouldn’t have it,’ I said. ‘I’ll have another run.’

  He nodded understandingly but made no comment, and I suspected that my type of predicament was nothing new to him.

  The next attempt got me just a few yards farther up the hill before defeat sent me running down again.

  This time, the old boy offered some advice.

  ‘Too much weight on!’ he shouted from the verge.

  He could well be right, I thought, for the dehorning shears were certainly heavy, but they had to stay, because they were essential to my visit.

  ‘Can I leave some boxes here until I come back?’ I asked.

  He nodded, so I off-loaded as much kit as I thought I wouldn’t need and left it at the roadside, asking the old man if he’d keep an eye on it. Then I set to and attacked for the third time.

  It was better by another ten yards, but still nowhere near the summit. I pulled the brake and rested precariously on the gradient, wondering if I dared get out and deposit the shears, then have a fresh run and, if I made it, walk back down and pick them up. The other alternative was first to carry them all the way up, then come back for the car — but I didn’t fancy that.

  Back to the bottom of the hill I went yet again, and this time the old roadman put down his spade and came across to the window.

  ‘I ’ad a mare once,’ he said. ‘Good looker and strong, but the mind of a woman. Could be sweet as a buttercup one day and a devil the next. Would never lead into the stable, no matter what I did. Coax ’er, put feed in the manger, beat ’er — she wouldn’ go.’ He paused and stood back from the window.

  ‘So, how did you get her in?’ I asked, knowing full well what was expected of me.

  He drew on his pipe, then spat and came closer again and, with a twinkle in his eye, said: ‘I backed ’er in. Now, you turn about, young fella, an’ back ’er up. ’Er’ll go!’

  And sure enough, I turned round and went up the hill backwards to the very top.

  When eventually I got onto the flat, I stopped. The lower reverse gear ratio and redistribution of weight had done it, but, despite my university degree, I had to admit that it had taken a little old countryman to tell me.

  The dehorning was rough, despite the fact that Seth Owen, the farmer, had two strong sons to help. The main problem was that the cows were not very accessible, being chained in stalls in three low, dark houses.

  Firstly, I went through them with the injection of local anaesthetic, putting a small dose under the skin along the ridge below each horn, to freeze the cornual nerves. The Owen boys were strong and held the cows’ heads firmly, one hand in the nose and the other on the horn — but I was hard put to see properly and twice injected my finger. To prevent haemorrhage, I tied binder twine in a figure of eight around the poll at the butt of the horns, as suggested by Bob Hacker. This had a tourniquet effect and could be removed in a few days when the wound was healing. A light dressing of sulphonamide powder on the cut stump was the only other requirement.

  It took about three-quarters of an hour and, after getting squeezed, kicked, trodden upon and self-injected, I was ready for the amputation.

  One Owen son steadied the first cow’s head whilst I raised the mighty choppers and placed the blades at the base of the horns. The handles of the infernal machine were so splayed that the younger Owen and I had to stretch our arms wide to reach. The confined space made the whole exercise extremely awkward and the contortions we were forced to assume were mind-boggling. When suitably positioned, we pulled the handles and, with a sickening crunch, the horn was severed.

  Younger horns came away easily because they were mostly hollow, but with age, they became solid and snapped through rather than cut. Several times I unfortunately placed the shears too low and cut the strings, so that the tourniquet was broken and thin streams of blood spurted everywhere, covering my face and arms so that I was bloody, sweaty, sore and getting progressively fed up.

  The last cow was an old, grey Shorthorn with wickedly inward-curving horns the colour of ivory. There was a country theory that, by counting the annular ridges on a horn and adding two, one could estimate the bearer’s age — but on Gert, for such was her title, the rings were so tightly knit and so numerous, that they were impossible to count.

  ‘This is the one we’ve been waiting for,’ voiced Seth, as we started on our final chop. And if he’d been waiting for her, considering that all he had done was to stand back and give advice, my delight at seeing the end to the gory task was unquantifiable.

  After placing the shears with some difficulty over the horn, the younger Owen and I took th
e strain. Previously, two heaves at the most had been sufficient, but four heaves later and the blades had hardly nibbled at Gert’s formidable antlers. Young Owen and I heaved and jerked in all postures until, finally, Seth said: ‘I’ll give yer a pound.’

  Coming behind us he grabbed the handles, but his weight caused the shears to twist so that the right metal handle on which we were pulling, came directly above my head.

  Suddenly, there was a mighty ‘CRACK’ and I felt the horn give, followed by a hollow ringing in my head and my knees collapsing.

  I was aware of a small waterfall cascading down my spine — there was music, too, and pain — shooting pain between my eyes. I found myself in a crouched position on the cobbles outside the cowhouse, whither the Owens had carried me. Seth had poured cold water over me — hence the cascading sensation — and as I opened my eyes I dimly glimpsed the three of them, standing together in a blue haze, looking down upon me.

  ‘You all right?’ enquired Seth, poised with half a bucket left in case I wasn’t.

  My hand strayed to my forehead.

  ‘Proper goose egg you got there,’ said the younger Owen. ‘Knocked you for six, it did.’

  ‘Knocked me for six, indeed.’ And as I slumped there, on the cobbles, my head thumping, clothes soaking wet, my body in a cold sweat and covered in blood, part mine, part Seth’s cows’, I decided that Army life would be a holiday compared to country practice.

  * * *

  Bob Hacker was disappointed when I told him I was not intending to stay on at Ledingford.

  ‘Think it over, Hugh. Don’t let a crack on the head distort your vision,’ he said, laughingly. ‘You’ve settled in well and we really could do with you. Anyway, you don’t have to let me know until Friday, so just say you’ll think it over, eh?’

  I agreed to do just that. The dehorning episode certainly wasn’t the main reason for my decision against staying, though it may just have tipped the balance. Neither was it any patriotic urge to join the Army. No, the real reason, which I knew lay deep inside my mind, was that I was coming to love the countryside, the farming, the livestock and the way of life, so much that, the deeper my roots went down, the less I should want to leave and the greater the final wrench when the time came — as, inevitably, it would.

  Work finished early and I was back in the digs by four o’clock. Brad was more than sympathetic over the lump on my head and insisted on making me submit to a witch hazel compress which, to my surprise and relief, worked wonders by taking much of the soreness from my head. Although the comfort that she bestowed was somewhat diminished by her relating to me how dangerous blows to the head could be, and how a man she once knew, after suffering a similar contusion, whilst appearing to recover well, died three days later from a ‘clot’ on the brain.

  Just after six, McBean rang.

  ‘Still alive, Hugh!’ he chuckled, which remark, coupled with Brad’s reminiscences, did not find immediate favour with me. ‘Fancy a party tonight?’ he continued. ‘Do you good. Just a casual get-together out at Stokley. Pam Sangston is giving it. London girl, but comes down to stay with her aunt quite a bit. You’ll meet some of the young blood and the talent is usually quite presentable. What d’ye say, now?’

  I had intended to feel ill and suffer that evening, as physically I was sore and mentally browned off.

  McBean sensed my indecision.

  ‘Come on, man. You don’t want to die a recluse, do ye now!’ he chided.

  ‘Oh, God! I thought, death again. And if, according to Brad, it could come in three days, I’d best enjoy what was left.

  ‘Thanks, Mac. I’d like to come,’ I answered.

  ‘Good for you,’ he replied heartily. ‘Pick ye up at eight!’

  After a bath, a shave, a change of clothes and a meal, I felt a great deal better and began looking forward to the evening. I would be meeting people of my own age group, which was something that I had missed from university life. It was going to be good.

  At ten to eight, McBean rang to say he couldn’t make it.

  ‘Well, now, not until much later, that is,’ he explained. ‘There’s a calving at Hecton. You go ahead, Pam knows that you’re coming. As a matter of fact,’ he added, ‘she asked me to bring you!’ He spilled out the directions to Stokley; about two miles beyond the village, I was to turn left at some white railings and the house would be the first that I came too.

  Suddenly, I didn’t feel so keen, but again McBean’s Irish intuition came into play. ‘Now, you will go, Hugh, won’t you!’ he insisted and I agreed that I would.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll be along as soon as I can, just tell Pam why I shall be late, there’s a good chap. See you, Hugh …’ and with that, he cleared the line.

  I arrived at my destination just on nine o’clock.

  It was an attractive half-timbered house set back a little way from the road, and might well have been a small farmhouse at one time, for there were several small but well-maintained buildings ranged around a gravelled yard. There were about seven cars in all, practically filling the free space, but I managed to squeeze in between a large Wolseley and a smart open-top MG.

  Leaving my duffle in the car, I approached the house. Heavily lined curtains covered all the windows, but the chinks of light filtering through the gaps indicated that practically every room was lit, even upstairs as well. An ancient porch led to a formidable, studded oak door with a black iron ring for the knocker, with which I announced my presence.

  Eventually the door was opened by a slim, dark-haired girl in a lime-green taffeta dress, whom I assumed was Pam Sangston. I explained who I was and why I had arrived alone, and presented McBean’s apologies. All the time I was talking, she looked at me very intently with her large brown eyes. When I had concluded my introduction, she stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘How super!’ she said, grabbing my arm. ‘Come and meet everybody.’

  But despite my attractive hostess’s invitation and enthusiasm, what happened next proved somewhat of an anticlimax.

  Pam led me into a long, lowbeamed room full of sombre, black oak furniture. A reasonably hospitable fire flickered in the hearth, but that appeared to be the only noticeably spontaneous movement. There must have been a dozen or so young people seated around the perimeter: large, roundfaced, solemn-looking lads on the right, grasping beer glasses; girls on the left, four of them squeezed together on a brown hide settee, one in an armchair and the other on a piano stool. The quartet on the settee were all gigglers, the one in the armchair, ginger with freckles; but the blonde on the piano stool looked rather nice.

  ‘This is Hugh Lasgarn — he’s a vet,’ announced Pam gaily, holding up my arm, rather like a referee at a boxing contest.

  ‘Isn’t Iggy McBean coming?’ asked one of the girls on the settee.

  ‘No, he’s gone to see a cow,’ I said, trying to sound as relaxed and casual as I felt able.

  ‘Gone to see a cow,’ repeated the girl in the armchair. ‘I wonder what her name is!’ With that, the four on the settee burst into fits of laughter and began slapping each other’s knees in their hilarity.

  Pam appeared slightly embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know everybody,’ she said, which was rather a kind way of expressing the fact that I didn’t know anybody. ‘I’ll go round this way,’ she announced, starting with the boys. There were a couple of Johns, a Dudley, a Graham, a Philip and a Frank, and a tall lad, the only one who got up and shook hands, called Raymond — the rest just nodded and drank their beer. Then, it was Polly in the armchair, a Jane, a Margaret, a Felicity and another Jane on the settee, who all said ‘Hullo’ together and then set off on another mass giggle. Diana on the piano stool gave me a gracious smile and said, ‘How do you do, Hugh,’ at which I marked her down as the most attractive bird there.

  ‘Get Hugh a beer, John,’ said Pam.

  The two Johns rose, then sat down again, each expecting the other to get it, then the tall youth, Raymond
, got up and fetched a bottle of Cheltenham and Gloucester Pale Ale from another room. Then there was a knock on the door and Pam went away to greet some other guests.

  I took a seat and started to chat, but it was tough going all the way. The conversation was of the simple question and answer type, but I learned about the price of lambs, why some tractors were difficult to start in the cold, who would win the Stock Judging Cup and why the pheasants were ‘thin on the ground’. Then Dudley went out and returned with a case of Cheltenham and Gloucester which he set on the floor before us and this thoughtful act seemed to ease the tension; the conversation turned to Rugby, and at last I began to enjoy the evening.

  Meanwhile, the girls had disappeared and strains of music wafted from another room — ‘The Saints Go Marching In’, ‘The Tender Trap’ and other pop tunes. Pam came through on two occasions ordering us to go and dance, but nobody seemed very keen. Then she called us to eat and the company rose as one man and made for the kitchen.

  The table took my breath away, for there was turkey, ham and a great cut of roast beef surrounded by pies, sausages, chutneys and cheese. The side table was laden with sweets and trifles and mouthwatering gâteaux — such a feast I hadn’t seen before. The atmosphere was now one of jollity and fun as plates were piled high, glasses filled and everyone set to and ate their fill.

  When all were suitably replete and rested, the dancing started again and I was collared by the ginger Polly. She was ‘comfortable’ to say the least, but when someone, by design or accident, put out the lights, she turned into a clockwork limpet and my body experienced degrees of compression that it had never known before. It made the morning’s rough-up at Seth Owen’s seem like light exercise; my opinion of the area as a rural backwater, and any preconceived ideas I had of the naivety of country girls, were stood firmly upon their heads.

  After that passionate encounter, I danced with Pam in a pleasant but more sedate fashion and then with one of the Janes, but I couldn’t seem to get near the blonde, who was persistently monopolised by one of the Johns.