Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  ‘Lady Octavia?’ I spoke as firmly as I could.

  She nodded condescendingly, and a small cloud of powder drifted onto her shoulders.

  ‘Hugh Lasgarn, veterinary surgeon. I’ve just had a look at your goat.’

  She raised a lorgnette that had been dangling on a black cord at her side and scrutinized me closely. Then, having satisfied herself that I merited her attention, but still peering through her glasses, she drew herself up to her full height, which was at least three inches taller than myself, and boomed:

  ‘So you’ve seen Bertie. What do you think of him?’

  I put my case down, cleared my throat and began:

  ‘Bertie’s got a bit of a problem.’

  ‘A problem!’ she echoed.

  ‘Well, he’s a shade abnormal.’

  ‘Abnormal!’ she boomed, with such volume that everyone in the vicinity froze. ‘Tell me more!’ she continued. ‘Tell me more!’ And with that, everyone nearby instantly unfroze and gathered round.

  ‘By a quirk of nature,’ I explained cautiously, ‘Bertie has developed hermaphroditic tendencies. He has vestiges of female reproductive organs as well as being equipped with normal male genitalia.’ I felt I was making little impression as she stood before me like Boadicea, eyeing me through the glasses and not saying a word. ‘It’s usually a hormonal imbalance due to circulation of oestrogens in excess of normal, and quite often …’ But I got no further, for she stirred, raised her hand and, dropping the lorgnette to her side, roared in a stentorian tone that filled the tent:

  ‘You’re telling me that Bertie’s a bloody will-jill!’

  The silence was deafening, broken only by a low moan that came from behind me, which I assumed was Mr Bevan, Steward of the Goats, breathing his last.

  Lady Octavia clasped her heavily jewelled hands in front of her and raised her eyes to the tent roof.

  I was racking my brains for something to say when she suddenly dropped her hands, threw back her head and burst into a gale of laughter.

  The effect of this unpredicted reaction was highly contagious, and the onlookers all fell about with uncontrolled mirth, which I suspected was more through relief than humour.

  ‘Mr Lasgarn,’ Lady Octavia exclaimed, tears running down her face, ‘you’ve made my day. Just wait until I tell my brother.’

  Mr Bevan, now recovered, came up to us and started to explain why he couldn’t enter Bertie for judging, but her Ladyship ignored him and turned again to me.

  ‘You’re new, Mr Lasgarn. I assume you are helping young Mr Hacker, now that his dear father is dead. Well, you really have bucked me up, you know. Every Show night my brother gives a dinner party — stuffy old affair usually, awfully boring. But tonight I shall set the conversation alight when I tell them all about Bertie. You obviously haven’t been to Granstone, yet. But if you do come to see the animals, call on me, my apartment is in the west wing. I’ll show you the rest of my family, I breed Maltese, you know.’

  ‘How many have you?’ I enquired.

  ‘Fifty-six,’ she said. ‘Do call.’

  And with that, she swept away between the hurdles, obviously intent on consoling poor Bertie.

  Over lunch, I explained the commotion to Diana who had watched the whole episode from a safe distance.

  ‘Sounds as if you made quite a hit there,’ she observed. ‘Come out with you for a day and already I’ve got competition.’

  ‘Not really my type,’ I assured her. ‘Come on, let’s go and see the cattle.’

  The cattle lines were in an area shaded by oaks on the south side of the showground. There were graceful Ayrshires, solid Shorthorns and widebodied Friesians, but by far the largest entry were the Herefords.

  They inhabited what seemed like an endless avenue of stalls, stretching as far as one could see. Magnificent, deep red-coated bulls, the older ones standing patiently while their coats were brushed and tails combed, the younger, more inexperienced ones frisky and keen to get on the move, charged with all the excitement of the occasion. Further down, placid, dreamy-eyed, white-faced cows looked on tolerantly as their calves, like kids out of school, leaped and bawled, tugged on their ropes or eyed the onlookers mischievously.

  As in the goat section, much space was taken up with all the paraphernalia of showing. Great wooden travelling boxes proclaimed the owner’s name or herd title in bold letters painted on the lids: ‘Merryhill Herefords’, ‘The Eaton Herd’, and other descriptive information that conjured up rich pastoral scenes of fertile, grazing herds. When a lid was opened it revealed a chest full of secrets, guarded jealously by animal-wise stockmen, with salves and ointments, potions and lotions, each one to put some special finishing touch to the final presentation. There were curry combs and brushes, snow-white cotton halters and leather head collars adorned with eyebright brassware. And on the inside of the lid, fluttering in the breeze, were the rosettes — red, white, blue and tricolour — in row upon gaudy row, the trophies of past success. And well earned, too, for the art of cattle showmanship was a country talent that took years of experience to perfect; many were the tricks of the trade, not only in preparation but in presentation, when a hardly perceptible movement of a leading rope, a quiet word or nearly inaudible low whistle (which passed unnoticed by the onlooker), could make all the difference between a bull standing up proudly or missing the opportunity to catch the judge’s eagle eye.

  There was a large crowd ranged around the judging ring, where a group of some twenty maiden Hereford heifers were parading.

  ‘Just like a beauty competition,’ said Diana, rising up on her toes to see them.

  ‘Well, they are the girls of the family,’ I agreed. ‘Go on. Pick the winner.’

  A few people moved away in front of us, and we were able to get to the rope that separated the spectators from the action.

  ‘They all seem the same to me,’ Diana remarked, shaking her head. ‘What is the judge looking for?’

  ‘Poise, balance, a good figure,’ I replied. ‘Just like bathing beauties.’

  The judge, a portly gentleman in a dark suit and bowler, had his back to us. He had drawn out five heifers to stand in line before him, obviously his final selection, and was about to decide upon the order. Moving up and down the line, he prodded rumps, probed flanks and moved one animal up a place, then put one down. Eventually, satisfied with his selection, he tapped the winner on the back with a silver-topped cane — and when he turned round I could see it was none other than Paxton of Donhill.

  As the heifers left the ring, he surveyed the crowd, and when his eyes fell upon me, he bounced his cane several times on the ground and then came across.

  ‘Well, Lasgarn,’ he barked, glaring at me as if I had criticised his judgement. ‘Agree with that?’

  ‘You’re the judge, Mr Paxton,’ I replied diplomatically.

  ‘Correct!’ he boomed. ‘There’s only one person in this ring I’ve got to please. That’s myself!’

  Then his eye strayed to Diana and, as if by magic, his frosty glare melted into a benevolent smile, the like of which I would never have imagined him capable.

  ‘Mr …’ I nearly got it wrong, but corrected myself in the nick of time. ‘Diana. This is Mr Paxton of Donhill. Mr Paxton — Diana …’

  The old tyrant held the brim of his immaculate bowler and raised it elegantly.

  ‘My pleasure, young lady,’ he beamed. ‘My pleasure.’

  Diana responded with a delectable smile, then Paxton again rounded on me.

  ‘Don’t know what you’ve done to deserve company like this, Lasgarn — you’re a very fortunate fellow, d’y hear!’ He caught sight of the next Class entering the ring. ‘Excuse me, but I must get back to work,’ he said softly to Diana.

  He was on the point of leaving when, once again, he fixed me with his steely glare.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I want you to cut the corns out of Warrior. I want it done soon. Ring me tomorrow.’ Then he stalked back to the judging.

 
It was like a knife in the back. ‘Cut the corns out of Warrior — soon.’ For the second time in hours I felt in a state of shock; the first had been having to break the truth to Lady Octavia, which had fortunately gone all right. But now Warrior, this was a different affair. My mind flashed back to McBean’s relief when I told him Paxton didn’t consider my suggestion. What did he say? ‘If that Warrior should snuff it while you’re cutting away at his corns … it’s “Boom! Boom! Goodbye Hugh”!’ And with Bob Hacker away — oh, my God, this was trouble.

  ‘What a nice man,’ said Diana, running her fingers through her hair. ‘D’you know, I think he liked me. You can have your old Lady Octavia Grimes.’

  ‘Of the two, I would much prefer her at this minute,’ I said. ‘I just wish we hadn’t met him this afternoon.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ asked Diana.

  I explained about my precipitous advice on Warrior’s condition when I had visited Donhill some months previously, and the responsibility that I had unwittingly let myself in for.

  ‘Why did I open my big mouth?’ I droned. ‘A mad flight of fancy, and now the bird is coming home to roost.’

  ‘Surely it can’t be that dangerous,’ comforted Diana. ‘And it can’t be that difficult. You should see my grandmother, she’s terrific at it. Does all her old friends quite regularly.’

  ‘Oh, Diana,’ I said, chuckling, ‘I’m sure she does, but her “old friends” don’t weigh over a ton, like mine does.’

  I tried to put the prospect of the operation to the back of my mind during the rest of the afternoon as we enjoyed all the Show had to offer.

  I attended the victims of a fight at the Dog Show, where two Jack Russells had a difference of opinion which resulted in one losing a chunk from his right ear. The owner enquired, quite innocently, if I could stitch it back on, which I explained was not possible. Then some wag standing nearby suggested I cut a piece out of the other ear to match, and that nearly started another fight.

  About five o’clock, I was called to the horse boxes, where a hunter had been cut at the back of a hind fetlock.

  ‘Don’t think you can do much,’ the chap in charge informed me. ‘But I just want you to check that it hasn’t damaged the tendon.’

  It was a horizontal wound, but not gaping and quite clean. Fortunately it was only the skin that was broken and none of the underlying tissues were affected. I cleansed and disinfected the area and packed it with sulphonamide powder.

  ‘What’s the tetanus status?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s been vaccinated recently, so he should be all right,’ came the reply.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Diana enquired.

  ‘That mule over there,’ said the groom aggressively, pointing to a classy looking bay mare tied beneath a tree. ‘It isn’t fair on unsuspecting folks. With a kick like that, she ought to be wearing a red ribbon!’

  ‘Red ribbon!’ Diana flashed an indignant glance in my direction. ‘Why a red ribbon?’

  ‘Approach with caution, miss,’ explained the groom. ‘That is, unless you wants yer head kicked off!’

  My vision rounded upon me, hands on hips.

  ‘Carven “Ma Griffe”,’ I said defensively.

  ‘No, his name’s Sailor,’ said the groom.

  ‘You wait till I get you alone,’ said Diana, and even Sailor looked round enviously, while the groom made a ‘clicking’ sound with his mouth and gave me a broad wink.

  And wishing both man and horse ‘Goodbye’, I beat a hasty retreat to the car.

  But Diana’s pique was shortlived and we spent the evening at a quaint riverside pub called The Sallies, to end a most eventful day. As I lay in bed that night, I thought to myself what wonderful company she had been and how I was fully in agreement with old Paxton that I was a most fortunate fellow.

  But when I closed my eyes all I could see was Warrior, hobbling up and down before me, complaining bitterly about his wretched corns.

  As I drove to the surgery the following morning, I deliberated how I might avoid operating upon the great bull; perhaps Paxton might change his mind. But my chances of reprieve diminished when, on arrival, Miss Billings informed me that he had already rung twice, in order to speak to me.

  When I got through, Paxton was in his usual, arrogant form.

  ‘I want it done tomorrow, Lasgarn,’ he roared.

  ‘But Mr Hacker is away and I haven’t been able to speak to Mr McBean,’ I explained — which was quite true as McBean had already taken two early calls.

  ‘What in hell’s name has that got to do with it!’ he almost screamed. ‘I asked you! Not anybody else!’

  ‘Yes, but — it’s a big job and there are risks.’

  My reply was greeted with a hollow silence, as if the line had gone dead, but I surmised from previous experience, that it was but the lull before a very violent storm. Yet, when he did respond, Paxton’s voice was uncannily controlled.

  ‘Now look, young fellow,’ he began, in a threateningly sinister tone. ‘Don’t you talk to me of risks.’ Then his voice rose gradually in a crescendo. ‘Don’t you talk to me of bloody risks. I know about risks — and you are a professional and professionals have to take risks. You’ve trained, God knows how many years, at that university …’

  ‘Five,’ I interjected, amazed that I was able to get a word in, in spite of his tirade. But Paxton was only drawing breath, for immediately he bore on:

  ‘You’re supposed to know — otherwise I’d do the bloody job myself, d’y hear! Now I want you here tomorrow morning at ten-thirty — and no buts!’ I heard him draw breath again. ‘Any instructions?’ he asked finally.

  That was an invitation to be very rude if I had had the courage, but that would probably have inflamed the situation irreparably.

  ‘Starve him,’ I said, quite involuntarily, as if my body had accepted the commitment even if my mind had not.

  ‘Any water?’ he asked.

  ‘Not after five o’clock,’ I advised.

  ‘Right, Lasgarn. Tomorrow!’ And with that, he slammed down the phone.

  For a few minutes, I sat quite still, just meditating.

  ‘You all right, Mr Lasgarn?’ asked Miss Billings.

  ‘Yes, thanks, just fine,’ I lied. ‘Just fine.’

  McBean’s face was a picture when I told him what had been arranged.

  ‘Mother Mary and all the Saints be blessed,’ he said, and gave a low whistle.

  ‘Sorry Mac,’ I apologised. ‘But somehow I feel I got pushed into it.’

  ‘Now that’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘That divil would push his grandmother’s tits through a mangle, just for the laugh!’ He looked straight at me, and I had to smile — there was no doubt about it, McBean could certainly put things in perspective, regardless of the intensity of the problem. ‘You told him the risks?’ I gave a confirmatory nod. ‘It’ll have to be done, an’ that’s for sure,’ he affirmed, slapping his thigh. ‘So, Hugh, me laddo. Let’s get it organised.’

  ‘You’ll help me?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure an’ I will,’ he replied. ‘Now, Bob has anaesthetised several bulls with chloral and mag sulph. It’s as safe as you’ll get and fairly gentle. Bit of a swine if it gets outside the vein.’

  ‘Like what?’ I enquired.

  ‘Irritant. Causes a slough and half the neck drops off!’

  ‘Oh, Mac,’ I said, ‘what did I let us in for? You must think I’m the perfect idiot.’

  Mac scrutinized me closely, then shook his head and said with a grin, ‘No I don’t, Hugh. None of us is perfect!’

  For an hour we discussed the operation step by step. How much anaesthetic, how long it would last. How to prevent inhalation of rumenal contents and how to prevent bloat. What to do in case of haemorrhage, how deep to incise, and care during the recovery stage. At the end, I felt more confident and, knowing I would have McBean’s assistance, I was reassured and even mildly looking forward to the challenge.

  I
prepared all the equipment before leaving surgery that night and read through my lecture notes several times before I turned in.

  Come what might, I was as ready as I could be.

  * * *

  I had started doing morning surgeries, and the following day, before I was able to get off to Donhill, I had to deal with a dog that had a sore paw and one with an ulcerated eye, and I had to castrate a cat. At five past nine, Miss Billings, who had taken well to my innovation, shepherded in the last client.

  ‘Billy Bent and his budgerigar,’ she announced, sounding as if it was a Music Hall act. But it was no spectacle of gaiety and joy that met my eyes as Billy, cap in hand, struggled into the exotic plant consulting room carrying a cage covered with a piece of drab curtain material.

  On the contrary, it was a sad little combination, for Billy was about eight years old, pale and red eyed as if he had been crying. His pullover was typical of the joke about holes being held together with wool and his short trousers, well above his nobbly, scabby knees, were extensively patched. From the top of his basin-cut hairstyle to his oversize, uncomfortable looking boots, he was barely more than three foot six and hardly high enough to put his cage on the table. I took it from him and removed the cover.

  Sitting forlornly at the edge of the perch and leaning against the wire, was a blue budgerigar whose physical appearance matched its tiny owner’s pathetic state. The bird’s plumage was drab and lack-lustre, its eyes half closed as if dozing, but occasionally, it jerked itself awake, only just in time to avoid toppling from its perch.

  ‘It’s his stomach,’ said Billy. ‘It’s all swollen up. My sister said I fed him too much, but I never,’ the little boy rubbed his eyes and looked away.

  Without even handling it, I could see the protrusion at its front, which was no doubt the cause of the imbalance.