Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  ‘A female,’ I said, thinking that of the two, it was the safer choice, a case of hedging my bet. If it was female and laid eggs — fine. And if it did not, or was male, nothing of any consequence would happen anyway.

  After surgery, I popped along to the tiny newsagent’s shop across the square, bought a cheap paperback on tortoises and read it avidly.

  From then on, though the demand for my expertise in that field would be limited, at least I would be ready; but I often wondered how G. R. Hacker would have handled things.

  Sex and reproduction, of course, formed an integral part of livestock farming, in order to perpetuate the species that provided both milk and meat.

  But, as I found out a few weeks later, this natural event was causing quite a problem for one family who were clients of the practice.

  Amy and Elvira Pugh were spinsters in their fifties, both prim and very proper, who lived at Yew Tree Cottage with their father, Abe, a cantankerous, arthritic old man who at one time had been head chauffeur to Mr John Baraby at Great House. Service and respect had been Abe Pugh’s maxim and now, in his ninetieth year, he spent his days ordering his daughters about, criticising the progress of the farmers around him and, from his wheelchair seat in the sitting room window, watching Uncle Albert and his ancient harem in the paddock at the front of the cottage.

  For interest on retiring, Abe had bought the small flock of sheep, a mixture of Kerry and Halfbred ewes and a Clun ram always referred to as Uncle Albert, although on my occasional visits I had never had the temerity to ask why. But now that he was housebound, his aged pets were tended by his daughters under old Abe’s eagle eye.

  One Saturday morning, Amy and Elvira presented themselves at surgery, both weighed down with old-fashioned market baskets full of groceries.

  ‘Could we have a word, Mr Lasgarn?’ asked Elvira. ‘On a private matter.’

  ‘We’ve been shopping,’ added Amy, rather obviously.

  ‘Won’t keep you a minute,’ continued Elvira. ‘We know how busy you are.’

  I ushered the sisters into Bob Hacker’s office, as he was off for the day, and invited them to take a seat. They deposited their purchases in the middle of the floor and sat very upright, knees and feet together, on the two available chairs. Then they straightened their coat hems, adjusted their collars and generally preened themselves like two little bantam hens.

  ‘How’s your father?’ I asked.

  At that, they stopped preening and Elvira cleared her throat.

  ‘As difficult as ever,’ she replied. ‘In fact, that’s why we’ve come. Amy and I don’t think we can go through it again!’

  ‘Go through what?’ I enquired.

  ‘Lambing!’ she said, folding her arms and looking away with an air of disgust. ‘They’re too old for it. And anyway, it’s not fair on us.’

  ‘We were up every night for three weeks last time,’ chipped in Amy. ‘Father would have us go out every hour. Then, only three had lambs and when one of those died, he went wild and blamed us.’

  ‘How many have you got now?’ I asked.

  ‘Only five — and Uncle Albert,’ said Elvira. ‘And the two lambs.’

  ‘And he won’t sell?’

  ‘SELL!’ Elvira retorted, sharply. ‘We only mentioned that once.’

  Amy shook her head and I got the message.

  ‘How about isolating Albert?’ I suggested.

  ‘We thought of that, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Against “nature” he says and there’s no way he’ll have that. Even if we tried, he’d know, because he watches them all day from his chair.’

  I was about to broach the subject of radical surgical intervention, when Elvira stood up and, turning away from me, faced the wall.

  ‘Amy and I have been talking,’ she said, ‘and we wondered if Uncle Albert could have the “operation”.’

  There was a complete silence and Amy bowed her head and studied her boots.

  ‘Nothing too severe,’ continued Elvira haltingly, and still with her back to me. ‘But I’ve been reading that there is an operation that will let him … do what he has to do … and not give us any lambs.’

  ‘A vasectomy,’ I said, thoughtfully.

  Elvira turned and Amy looked up, both to stare appealingly into my face.

  ‘YES!’ they chorused.

  ‘It’s quite possible,’ I agreed, averting my eyes from their intense gaze. ‘It is being done on rams and the technique is quite straightforward.’

  In fact, vasectomised rams were being used experimentally, not just for birth control, but in work to assist the ‘synchronisation of oestrus’. This somewhat impersonal scientific term meant bringing all the flock to peak conception at the same time. One idea was to insert ‘sheep sponges’, which sounded like a Women’s Institute speciality, but were actually impregnated tampons that shut down the ovaries and, when removed, allowed them to start up again. A flock impregnated with the ‘sponges’ should all come into season at the same time after they were removed and, if fertilisation took place, all lamb within a week of each other.

  Another method was to introduce a vasectomised ram or ‘teaser’ into the flock a few weeks before conception was required. The presence of the male stimulated the ewes to become receptive and, once they were all active, the poor ‘teaser’ was removed and the ‘entire’ chaps took over.

  It all seemed slightly immoral, but that was the way things were going.

  Some of the research work was being done at Glasgow University and, for that reason, I was familiar with the operation; to my mind it seemed the ideal solution.

  ‘The only thing is,’ said Elvira who, by then, was seated again, ‘Father mustn’t know.’

  ‘How can we arrange that?’ I asked her. ‘You can’t bring Albert here, he’ll soon notice that.’

  ‘Could you come when Father’s in bed?’ asked Elvira.

  ‘Any time after ten,’ added Amy. ‘He wouldn’t know then.’

  It all sounded a bit clandestine, but I agreed to go the following Thursday night and, after receiving a multitude of thanks, saw the sisters and their shopping baskets on their way.

  It was pitch black as I turned into the lane the following Thursday night and I was surprised to find Amy waiting there with a light, for it was a good quarter of a mile from the cottage.

  ‘We thought you’d better leave your car here, just in case Father heard. He’s got ears like an elephant,’ she said, rubbing her hands nervously.

  Together we carried the equipment down the lane and up the paddock to a wooden barn in the far corner. Inside, illuminated by two tilly lamps, stood Elvira clad in a green rubber apron, Wellingtons, a mob cap and pink kitchen gloves. Beside her stood three buckets of steaming water and, on a small table, a pile of towels.

  I didn’t know what Elvira was expecting, but she was certainly well prepared. Uncle Albert was penned behind a gate in the corner and looked completely unconcerned.

  ‘Is there anything else you require, Mr Lasgarn?’ asked Elvira importantly, obviously having elected herself as theatre assistant.

  ‘A wheelbarrow,’ I replied. ‘I saw one down by the pump.’

  Elvira looked at me in disbelief. ‘A wheelbarrow?’ she repeated.

  ‘Turned up against the wall, it makes an ideal operating chair for this sort of thing,’ I explained. ‘We sit Uncle Albert in it, tie his hind legs to the handles and, with a rope around his middle, we’ll be finished in two shakes.’

  The operation went well. With a local anaesthetic, the old fellow didn’t feel a thing. After making my incisions into the scrotal wall, I parted out the spermatic cord, removed a section about one and a half inches long and ligated the free ends. Skin sutures, dressings, antibiotic injection and the job was completed.

  ‘Sorry we can’t ask you in for a cup of tea,’ apologised Amy. ‘Father.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Uncle Albert’s skin sutures will dissolve in due course, so I shan’t need to call again.’


  The sisters inundated me with thanks and I bade them goodnight, then made my way down the lane and back to my car.

  As I approached, I could discern someone standing beside it, and as I drew nearer discovered it to be PC Bob Packham, leaning on his bicycle.

  ‘Wondered where you were,’ he said. ‘Knew it was yours. Everything all right?’

  I thanked him and assured him that it was.

  ‘Working late,’ he commented, in a slightly suspicious tone.

  ‘Been doing a vasectomy on Uncle Albert for Amy and Elvira,’ I explained. ‘Had to do it at night, so that their father wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I see,’ said PC Packham, a trifle vaguely.

  He didn’t say another word after that, just shone his torch for me to put my kit in the boot and moved to one side as I turned the car.

  As I drove away, I could see through my mirror that he was still standing in the road, torch in hand, with a bemused look upon his face.

  He had given the impression that he understood, but to be quite honest, I didn’t think he really had.

  * * *

  The next time I met PC Packham I was again involved with sheep, but the circumstances were very different. Yet it enabled me, in one way, partly to repay a debt that I owed.

  Ringing Ledingford were several family farms that ran small dairy herds and raised pigs, hens, fat cattle and sheep and, because of their proximity to the town, found a ready sale for their produce. For the farmers so situated, being close to the built-up area thus had a very real advantage, but there were disadvantages, too. One of these was sheep-worrying by stray dogs.

  In fact, it was such a case that brought me one Monday morning to Holyoak Farm, set on the fringe of a council estate to the north of the town. Ivor Barret farmed it and had asked for confirmation that a lamb he had found dead was the victim of such an act; I had been called to conduct a post mortem examination on the unfortunate creature.

  I had visited Holyoak twice before to attend to Ivor’s cows, so Mrs Barret recognised me when I arrived. A worn, greyhaired woman, she emerged from a door at the side of the house, accompanied by a great issue of steam. Her wrap-around pinafore was wet and her bare arms reddened and soapy from the washing in which she was obviously engaged. Below, she wore large, oversize Wellingtons, which suggested that her work was not just confined indoors.

  ‘Oh, Mr Lasgarn,’ she called, wringing her arms to shake off the foam. ‘Ivor’s round the back of the barn looking at the lamb. Constable Packham’s there as well.’ Mrs Barret pointed to the sturdy, black Raleigh cycle with a black cape folded over the crossbar.

  ‘Worrying business,’ she continued. ‘Difficult enough to make a decent living without losing them like this. You’ll find them all right … round by the barn.’ With that information delivered, still wringing her arms but now shaking her head as well, she turned and disappeared back into the cloud of steam.

  Most of the sheds at Holyoak were black-tarred tin; the barn, a three-bay Dutch type, stood behind the farmhouse, and as I rounded the corner I found Ivor and PC Bob Packham standing by a wheelbarrow in which lay the mauled carcase of a lamb, apparently about two months old. It was a grisly sight, with most of the entrails lying to one side and one hind leg completely missing. Bob Packham had been taking notes on a folding pad and peered over his spectacles at me in an exceedingly serious fashion as I arrived. Amid silence, I stood and studied the remains, then PC Packham flipped back the pages of his pad, coughed and said:

  ‘Mr Lasgarn, sir. Perhaps you would like me to read you the statement of evidence that Ivor, here … Mr Barret, has just divulged to me?’

  Ivor Barret’s thin frame jerked nervously at the realisation that what he had said was now officially a ‘statement of evidence’.

  ‘It’s true!’ he blurted out. ‘It’s all true!’ As if he already anticipated some form of cross examination.

  ‘That would be a good idea,’ I replied, a response which the constable had anticipated; but no doubt he would have read it anyway, for he had already adjusted his glasses and assumed the upright posture expected of officers of the Law in the course of reading statements.

  Another cough, and he began: ‘At seven thirty o’clock this morning, Mr Ivor Barret of Holyoak Farm in the County of Herefordshire …’ He nodded towards Ivor who appeared to be further startled at this mention of his name in such an official manner. ‘… inspected his flock of Gun-Suffolk crossbred ewes and lambs, totalling fifty ewes and seventy lambs of mixed gender.’

  ‘There’s two Shropshire crosses in the ewes,’ Ivor corrected.

  PC Packham checked his notes, then peered over his glasses at me.

  ‘Significant?’ he questioned.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Good,’ he said, looking back intently at his pad. ‘Saves me alterin’ it.’ Then, following another clearing of his throat, he continued.

  The ‘statement of evidence’ took nearly ten minutes to deliver, the gist of it being that the lamb had been found, dead and mutilated, in the meadow, but the rest of the flock, fortunately, were unharmed. Ivor had suspected dogs, but there were none to be seen. However, just after nine o’clock, he was clearing a drain by the roadside gate, when a black and white collie with bloodstains on its chest came trotting by. Ivor, surprisingly enough, managed to catch the dog and shut it in the barn and, following apprehension of the suspect, had informed the police.

  ‘Pretty open and shut case, Mr Lasgarn,’ commented PC Packham, at the conclusion of his epistle. ‘You’ll certify the carcase?’

  ‘Looks fairly obvious,’ I agreed. ‘But I’d better open it up and take a closer look to be certain.’

  ‘Good lamb, too,’ said Ivor. ‘There’s too much of this goin’ on.’

  ‘How did you manage to catch the dog?’ I asked him.

  ‘Called and he come to me. Had a cord round his neck, looked as if he’d been tied up and broke away. Want to see him? He’s shut in that shed.’ Ivor motioned across the yard and led off towards the small building. ‘Look through there, an’ you can see him.’

  The door was not well fitting, and, through the gap, I saw a foxy little collie lying despondently on some sacks, a long piece of frayed cord trailing from his neck. Sensing my presence, he sat up and gave a sharp bark and, raising his black muzzle, sniffed the air nervously. I studied the roughcoated little dog more closely, for there was something about him that was familiar, but I just couldn’t place it.

  ‘Any idea who he belongs to?’ I asked Ivor, who was standing at my shoulder.

  ‘Might just ’ave,’ he said, thoughtfully. But before I was able to ask him, the answer was provided, as into the yard drove a rusty little red van with the wings loose and flapping.

  It juddered to a halt and the engine died, but the body went through a series of convulsions, and puffs of black smoke rose from behind, before it finally became motionless. The driving door creaked open and dropped on its hinges and, with a heave and a grunt, Sam Juggins emerged, red neck-a-chief and all.

  Eyeing our trio up and down, his red cheeks rose as a broad grin spread across his face.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Mr Vet Lasgarn and Mr Constable Packham. What ’ave you been up to, Ivor my lad? Caught up with you at last ’ave they?’ Chuckling away, he leaned on the bonnet of his dilapidated transport. ‘Don’ suppose you’ve seen my dog about? Gone off in the night, the little devil. Bitch in season about somewhere, I wouldn’ wonder. Don’ suppose you’ve seen ’im?’

  ‘Thought it might be,’ said Ivor Barret. ‘Ay, Sam. We got one here in this shed.’ With that, he unlatched the door and had only part opened it when a black flash shot through the gap onto the yard.

  ‘Snap!’ shouted Sam. ‘Sit!’

  The collie froze, then sank to the ground, ears pricked, eyes bright, mouth open, its pink tongue jerking with every urgent breath.

  ‘Come!’ Sam called, and the dog streaked to his side and sat, looking up at him expectantly. Sam glanced down
wards and pulled one of the collie’s ear flaps in gentle recogniton.

  ‘Aye. ’E’s mine,’ he said. ‘What’s ’e s’pose to have done?’

  After an embarrassed silence, PC Packham spoke:

  ‘We have reason to believe, Sam, that this here dog, what you claim to be yours, by name of …’

  ‘Snapper,’ said Sam.

  ‘By name of Snapper, was h’involved in an incident which resulted in the death of a good lamb owned by Ivor, here … Mr Ivor Barret of Holyoak Farm.’

  ‘Never in a hundred years,’ said Sam. ‘Not my Snapper.’

  ‘What about the blood on him?’ asked Ivor, pointing to Snapper’s chest. Sam Juggins bent down and ran his horny fingers through the dog’s ruff.

  ‘Blood all right,’ he admitted. ‘But who’s to say it’s from your lamb?’

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ said Ivor. ‘You and I be good neighbours and I’m sorry for your dog. But you knows as well as I do that once a dog takes to killing, there’s only one thing to do. Shoot ’im!’

  Sam Juggins’ countenance had lost all its jollity. He seemed suddenly drained of energy and looked aged and unsteady. Then he turned to me.

  ‘Now then, Mr Lasgarn. You be the vet, what have you got to say?’

  The look in Sam’s eyes was appealing, but not compromising. ‘You be the vet’. I’d heard that before, too. As I looked at him, his red neck-a-chief seemed to do all the talking. It said: ‘Remember me? Strip it out. Get ’im to strip it out.’

  ‘I haven’t completed my examination, yet,’ I said. ‘Might have died from something else and been got at afterwards.’

  Nobody commented and I knew why. It was because nobody believed it.

  However, I went to my car and took out my box with the knives and gloves and other bits and pieces used in the examination of carcases. They followed me in single file back to the wheelbarrow, Snapper coming as well. And watched in silence as I cut the carcase completely apart.