Let Sleeping Vets Lie

by James Herriot

  efforts but Helen smiled encouragingly as she caught my eye. I did my

  best to smile back at her through my bloody mask but I don't suppose it

  showed.

  I gave it up when the heifer gave a particularly brisk toss which sent

  my forceps Rying on to the grass. I did what I should probably have done

  at the ~ l ~a beginning - clapped a pad of cotton wool and antiseptic

  powder on to the stump and secured it with a figure of eight bandage

  round the other horn.

  "That's it, then," I said to the farmer as I tried to blink the blood

  out of my eyes. "The bleeding's stopped, anyway. I'd advise you to have

  her properly dehorned soon or she's going to look a bit odd."

  Just then Tristan appeared from among the spectators.

  "What's got you out of the beer tent?" I enquired with a touch of

  bitterness.

  "It's lunch time, old lad," Tristan replied equably. "But we'll have to

  get you cleaned up a bit first. I can't be seen with you in that

  condition. Hang on, I'll get a bucket of water."

  The show luncheon was so excellent that it greatly restored me. Although

  it was taken in a marquee the committee men's wives had somehow managed

  to conjure up a memorable cold spread. There was fresh salmon and home

  fed ham and slices of prime beef with mixed salads and apple pie and the

  big brimming jugs of cream you only see at farming functions. One of the

  ladies was a noted cheese maker and we finished with some delicious goat

  cheese and coffee. The liquid side was catered for too with a bottle of

  Magnet Pale Ale and a glass at every place.

  I didn't have the pleasure of Tristan's company at lunch because he had

  strategically placed himself well down the table between two strict

  Methodists so that his intake of Magnet was trebled.

  I had hardly emerged into the sunshine when a man touched me on the

  shoulder.

  "One of the dog show judges wants you to examine a dog. He doesn't like

  the look of it."

  He led me to where a thin man of about forty with a small dark mustache

  was standing by his car. He held a wire-haired fox terrier on a leash

  and he met me with an ingratiating smile.

  "There's nothing whatever the matter with my dog," he declared, 'but the

  chap in there seems very fussy."

  I looked down at the terrier. "I see he has some matter in the corner of

  his eyes."

  The man shook his head vigorously. "Oh no, that's not matter. I've been

  using some white powder on him and a bit's got into his eyes, that's

  all."

  "Hmm, well let's see what his temperature says, shall we?"

  The little animal stood uncomplaining as I inserted the thermometer.

  When I took the reading my eyebrows went up.

  "It's a hundred and four. I'm afraid he's not fit to go into the show."

  "Wait a minute." The man thrust out his jaw. "You're talking like that

  chap in there. I've come a long way to show this dog and I'm going to

  show him."

  "I'm sorry but you can't show him with a temperature of a hundred and

  four."

  "But he's had a car journey. That could put up his temperature."

  I shook my head. "Not as high as that it couldn't. Anyway he looks sick

  to me. Do you see how he's half closing his eyes as though he's

  frightened of the light?

  It's possible he could have distemper."

  "What? That's rubbish and you know it. He's never been fitter!" The

  man's mouth trembled with anger.

  I looked down at the little dog. He was crouching on the grass

  miserably. Occasionally he shivered, he had a definite photophobia and

  there was that creamy blob of pus in the corner of each eye. "Has he

  been inoculated against distemper ?"

  "Well no, he hasn't, but why do you keep on about it?"

  "Because I think he's got it now and for his sake and for the sake of

  the other dogs here you ought to take him straight home and see your own

  vet."

  he glared at me. so you won't let me take him into the show tent?"

  "That's right. I'm very sorry, but it's out of the question." I turned

  and walked away.

  I had gone only a few yards when the loudspeaker boomed again. "Will Mr.

  Herriot please go to the measuring stand where the ponies are ready for

  him."

  I collected my stick and trotted over to a corner of the field where a

  group of ponies had assembled; Welsh, Dales, Exmoor, Dartmoor - all

  kinds of breeds were represented.

  For the uninitiated, horses are measured in hands which consist of four

  inches and a graduated stick is used with a cross piece and a spirit

  level which rests on the withers, the highest point of the shoulders. I

  had done a fair bit of it in individual animals but this was the first

  time I had done the job at a show. With my stick at the ready I stood by

  the two wide boards which had been placed on the turf to give the

  animals a reasonably level standing surface.

  A smiling young woman led the first pony, a smart chestnut, on to the

  boards.

  "Which class?" I asked.

  "Thirteen hands."

  I tried the stick on him. He was well under.

  "Fine, next please."

  A few more came through without incident then there was a lull before

  the next group came up. The ponies were arriving on the field all the

  time in their boxes and being led over to me, some by their young

  riders, others by the parents. It looked as though I could be here quite

  a long time.

  During one of the lulls a little man who had been standing near me spoke

  up.

  "No trouble yet?" he asked.

  "No, everything's in order," I replied.

  He nodded expressionlessly and as I took a closer look at him his slight

  body, dark, leathery features and high shoulders seemed to give him the

  appearance of a little brown gnome. At the same time there was something

  undeniably horsy about him.

  "You'll 'ave some awkward 'uns," he grunted. "And they allus say the

  same thing. They allus tell you the vet at some other show passed their

  pony." His swarthy cheeks crinkled in a wry smile.

  "Is that so?"

  "Aye, you'll see."

  Another candidate, led by a beautiful blonde, was led on to the

  platform. She gave me the full blast of two big greenish eyes and

  flashed a mouthful of sparkling teeth at me.

  "Twelve two," she murmured seductively.

  I tried the stick on the pony and worked it around, but try as I might I

  couldn't get it down to that.

  "I'm afraid he's a bit big," I said.

  The blonde's smile vanished. "Have you allowed half an inch for his

  shoes?"

  "I have indeed, but you can see for yourself, he's well over."

  "But he passed the vet without any trouble at Hickley." She snapped and

  out of the corner of my eye I saw the gnome nodding sagely.

  "I can't help that," I said. "I'm afraid you'll have to put him into the

  next class.

  For a moment two green pebbles from the cold sea bed fixed me with a

  frigid glare then the blonde was gone taking her pony with her.

  Next, a little bay animal was led on to the stand by a hard faced

 
; gentleman in a check suit and I must say I was baffled by its behaviour.

  Whenever the stick i touched the withers it sank at the knees so that I

  couldn't be sure whether I was getting the right reading or not. Finally

  I gave up and passed him through.

  .

  The gnome coughed. "I know that feller."

  "You do?"

  "Aye, he's pricked that pony's withers with a pin so many times that it

  drops down whenever you try to measure 'im."

  "Never!"

  "Sure as I'm standing here."

  I was staggered, but the arrival of another batch took-up my attention

  for a few minutes. Some I passed, others I had to banish to another

  class and the owners took it in different ways - some philosophically, a

  few with obvious annoyance. One or two of the ponies just didn't like

  the look of the stick at all and I had to dance around them as they

  backed away and reared.

  The last pony in this group was a nice grey led by a bouncy man wearing

  a great big matey smile.

  "How are you, all right?"he enquired courteously. "This 'un's thirteen

  two."

  The animal went under the stick without trouble but after he had trotted

  away the gnome spoke up again.

  "I know that feller, too."

  "Really ?"

  "Not 'elf. Weighs down 'is ponies before they're measured. That grey's

  been standing in 'is box for the last hour with a twelve stone sack of

  corn on 'is back. Knocks an inch off."

  "Good God! Are you sure?"

  "Don't worry, I've seen 'im at it."

  My mind was beginning to reel just a little. Was the man making it all

  up or were there really these malign forces at work behind all this

  innocent fun?

  "That same feller," continued the gnome. "I've seen 'im bring a pony to

  a show and get half an inch knocked off for shoes when it never 'ad no

  shoes on."

  I wished he'd stop. And just then there was an interruption. It was the

  man with the mustache. He sidled up to me and whispered confidentially

  in my ear.

  "Now I've just been thinking. My dog must have got over his journey by

  now and I expect his temperature will be normal. I wonder if you'd just

  try him again. I've still got time to show him."

  I turned wearily. "Honestly, it'll be a waste of time. I've told you,

  he's ill."

  "Please! Just as a favour." He had a desperate look and a fanatical

  light flickered in his eye.

  "All right." I went over to the car with him and produced my

  thermometer. The temperature was still a hundred and four.

  "Now I wish you'd take this poor little dog home," I said. "He shouldn't

  be here."

  For a moment I thought the man was going to strike me. "There's nothing

  wrong with him!" he hissed, his whole face working with emotion.

  "I'm sorry," I said, and went back to the measuring stand.

  A boy of about fifteen was waiting for me with his pony. It was supposed

  to be in the thirteen two class but was nearly one and a half inches

  over.

  "Much too big, I'm afraid," I said. "He can't go in that class."

  The boy didn't answer. He put his hand inside his jacket and produced a

  sheet of paper. "This is a veterinary certificate to say he's under

  thirteen two."

  "No good, I'm sorry," I replied. "The stewards have told me not to

  accept any certificates I've turned down two others today. Everything

  has to go under the stick. It's a pity, but there it is."

  His manner changed abruptly. "But you've GOT to accept it!" he shouted

  in my face. "There doesn't have to be any measurements.when you have a

  certificate."

  "You'd better see the stewards. Those are my instructions."

  "I'll see my father about this, that's what!" he shouted and led the

  animal i, away.

  Father was quickly on the scene. Big, fat, prosperous-looking,

  confident. He obviously wasn't going to stand any nonsense from me.

  "Now look here, I don't know what this is all about but you have no

  option in this matter. You have to accept the certificate."

  "I don't, I assure you," I answered. "And anyway, it's not as though

  your pony was slightly over the mark. He's miles over - nowhere near the

  height."

  Father flushed dark red. "Well let me tell you he was passed through by

  the : vet at ... '

  "I know, I know," I said, and I heard the gnome give a short laugh. "But

  he's :

  not going through here." :;

  There was a brief silence then both father and son began to scream at

  me. And as they continued to hurl abuse I felt a hand on my arm. It was

  the man with the mustache again.

  "I'm going to ask you just once more to take my dog's temperature," he

  whispered with a ghastly attempt at a smile. "I'm sure he'll be all

  right this time. Will you try him again?"

  I'd had enough. "No, I bloody well won't!" I barked. "Will you kindly

  stop bothering me and take that poor animal home."

  It's funny how the most unlikely things motivate certain people. It

  didn't seem a life and death matter whether a dog got into a show or not

  but it was to the man with the mustache. He started to rave at me.

  "You don't know your job, that's the trouble with you! I've come all

  this way and you've played a dirty trick on me. I've got a friend who's

  a vet, a proper vet, and I'm going to tell him about you, yes I am. I'm

  going to tell him about you!"

  At the same time the father and son were still in full cry, snarling and

  mouthing at me and I became suddenly aware that I was in the centre of a

  hostile circle. The blonde was there too, and some of the others whose

  ponies I had outed and they were all staring at me belligerently, making

  angry gestures.

  I felt very much alone because the gnome, who had seemed an ally, was

  nowhere to be seen. I was disappointed in the gnome; he was a big talker

  but had vanished at the first whiff of danger. As I surveyed the

  threatening crowd I moved my measuring stick round in front of me; it

  wasn't much of a weapon but it might serve to fend them off if they

  rushed me.

  And just at that moment, as the unkind words were thick upon the air, I

  saw Helen and Richard Edmundson on the fringe of the circle, taking it

  all in. I wasn't worried about him but again it struck me as strange

  that it should be my destiny always to be looking a bit of a clown when

  Helen was around.

  Anyway, the measuring was over and I felt in need of sustenance. I

  retreated and went to find Tristan.

  Chapter Nine.

  The atmosphere in the beer tent was just what I needed. The hot weather

  had made the place even more popular than usual and it was crowded; many

  of the inhabitants had been there since early morning and the air was

  thick with earthy witticisms, immoderate laughter, cries of joy; and the

  nice thing was that nobody in there cared a damn about the heights of

  ponies or the temperatures of dogs.

  I had to fight my way through the crush to reach Tristan who was leaning

  across the counter in earnest conversation with a comely young barmaid.

  The other serving
ladies were middle-aged but his practised eye had

  picked this one out; glossy red hair, a puckish face and an inviting

  smile. I had been hoping for a soothing chat with him but he was unable

  to give me his undivided attention, so after juggling with a glass among

  the throng for a few minutes I left.

  Out on the field the sun still blazed, the scent of the trampled grass

  rose into the warm air, the band was playing a selection from Rose Marie

  and peace began to steal into my soul. Maybe I could begin to enjoy the

  show now the pinpricks were over; there was only the Family Pets to

  judge and I was looking forward to that.

  For about an hour I wandered among the pens of mountainous pigs and

  haughty sheep; the rows of Shorthorn cows with their classical

  wedge-shaped grace, their level udders and dainty feet.

  I watched in fascination a contest which was new to me; shirt-sleeved

  young men sticking a fork into a straw bale and hurling it high over a

  bar with a jerk of their thick brown arms. ~

  Old Steve Bramley, a local farmer, was judging the heavy horses and I