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They didn't say anything about this in the books, I thought, as the
snow blew in through the gaping doorway and settled on my naked back.<br>
<br>
I lay face down on the cobbled floor in a pool of nameless muck, my arm
deep inside the straining cow, my feet scrabbling for a wee hold
between the stones. I was stripped to the waist and the snow mingled
with the dirt and the dried blood on my body. I could see nothing
outside the circle of flickering light thrown by the smoky oil lamp
which the farmer held over me.<br>
<br>
No, there wasn't a word in the books about searching for your ropes and
instruments in the shadows; about trying to keep clean in a half bucket
of tepid water; about the cobbles digging into your chest. Nor about
the slow numbing of the arms, the creeping paralysis of the muscles as
the fingers tried to work against the cow's powerful expulsive efforts.<br>
<br>
There was no mention anywhere of the gradual exhaustion, the feeling of
futility and the little far-off voice of panic.<br>
<br>
My mind went back to that picture in the obstetrics book. A cow
standing in the middle of a gleaming floor while a sleek veterinary
surgeon in a spotless parturition overall inserted his arm to a polite
distance. He was relaxed and smiling, the farmer and his helpers were
smiling, even the cow was smiling. There was no dirt or blood or sweat
anywhere.<br>
<br>
That man in the picture had just finished an excellent lunch and had
moved next door to do a bit of calving just for the sheer pleasure of
it, as a kind of dessert. He hadn't crawled shivering from his bed at
two o'clock in the morning and bumped over twelve miles of frozen snow,
staring sleepily ahead till the lonely farm showed in the headlights.
He hadn't climbed half a mile of white fell-side to the doorless barn
where his patient lay.<br>
<br>
I tried to wriggle my way an extra inch inside the cow. The calf's head
was back and I was painfully pushing a thin, looped rope towards its
lower jaw with my finger tips. All the time my arm was being squeezed
between the calf and the bony pelvis. With every straining effort from
the cow the pressure became almost unbearable, then she would relax and
I would push the rope another inch. I wondered how long I would be able
to keep this up. If I didn't snare that jaw soon I would never get the
calf away. I groaned, set my teeth and reached forward again.<br>
<br>
Another little flurry of snow blew in and I could almost hear the
flakes sizzling on my sweating back. There was sweat on my forehead
too, and it trickled into my eyes as I pushed.<br>
<br>
There is always a time at a bad calving when you begin to wonder if you
will ever win the battle. I had reached this stage.<br>
<br>
Little speeches began to flit through my brain. "Perhaps it would be
better to slaughter this cow. Her pelvis is so small and narrow that I
can't see a calf coming through", or "She's a good fat animal and
really of the beef type, so don't you think it would pay you better to
get the butcher?" or perhaps "This is a very bad presentation. In a
roomy cow it would be simple enough to bring the head round but in this
case it is just about impossible."<br>
<br>
Of course, I could have delivered the calf by embryotomy -- by passing
a wire over the neck and sawing off the head. So many of these
occasions ended with the floor strewn with heads, legs, heaps of
intestines. There were thick textbooks devoted to the countless ways
you could cut up a calf.<br>
<br>
But none of it was any good here, because this calf was alive. At my
furthest stretch I had got my finger as far as the commissure of the
mouth and had been startled by a twitch of the little creature's
tongue. It was unexpected because calves in this position are usually
dead, asphyxiated by the acute flexion of the neck and the pressure of
the dam's powerful contractions. But this one had a spark of life in it
and if it came out it would have to be in one piece.<br>
<br>
I went over to my bucket of water, cold now and bloody, and silently
soaped my arms. Then I lay down again, feeling the cobbles harder than
ever against my chest. I worked my toes between the stones, shook the
sweat from my eyes and for the hundredth time thrust an arm that felt
like spaghetti into the cow; alongside the little dry legs of the calf,
like sandpaper tearing against my flesh, then to the bend in the neck
and so to the ear and then, agonisingly, along the side of the face
towards the lower jaw which had become my major goal in life.<br>
<br>
It was incredible that I had been doing this for nearly two hours;
fighting as my strength ebbed to push a little noose round that jaw. I
had tried everything else--repelling a leg, gentle traction with a
blunt hook in the eye socket, but I was back to the noose.<br>
<br>
It had been a miserable session all through. The farmer, Mr. Dinsdale,
was a long, sad, silent man of few words who always seemed to be
expecting the worst to happen. He had a long, sad, silent son with him
and the two of them had watched my efforts with deepening gloom.<br>
<br>
But worst of all had been Uncle. When I had first entered the hillside
barn I had been surprised to see a little bright-eyed old man in a pork
pie hat settling down comfortably on a bale of straw. He was filling
his pipe and clearly looking forward to the entertainment.<br>
<br>
'Now then, young man,' he cried in the nasal twang of the West Riding.
'I'm Mr. Dinsdale's brother. I farm over in Listondale.'<br>
<br>
I put down my equipment and nodded. 'How do you do? My name is Herriot.'<br>
<br>
The old man looked me over, piercingly.<br>
<br>
'My vet is Mr. Broomfield. Expect you'll have heard of him -- everybody
knows him, I reckon. Wonderful man, Mr. Broomfield, especially at
calving. Do you know, I've never seen 'im beat yet.'<br>
<br>
I managed a wan smile. Any other time I would have been delighted to
hear how good my colleague was, but somehow not now, not now. In fact,
the words set a mournful little bell tolling inside me.<br>
<br>
'No, I'm afraid I don't know Mr. Broomfield,' I said, taking off my
jacket and, more reluctantly, peeling my shirt over my head. 'But I
haven't been around these parts very long.'<br>
<br>
Uncle was aghast. 'You don't know him! Well, you're the only one as
doesn't. They think the world of him in Listondale, I can tell you.' He
lapsed into a shocked silence and applied a match to his pipe. Then he
shot a glance at my goose-pimpled torso. 'Strips like a boxer does Mr.
Broomfield. Never seen such muscles on a man.'<br>
<br>
A wave of weakness coursed sluggishly over me. I felt suddenly
leaden-footed and inadequate. As I began to lay out my ropes and
instruments on a clean towel the old man spoke again.<br>
<br>
'And how long have you been qualified, may I ask?' 'Oh, about seven
months.'<br>
<br>
'Seven months!' Uncle smiled indulgently, tamped down his tobacco and
blew out a cloud of rank, blue smoke. 'Well, there's nowt like a bit of
experience, I always says. Mr Broomfield's been doing my work now for
over ten years and he really knows what he's about. No, you can 'ave
your book learning. Give me experience every time.'<br>
<br>
I tipped some antiseptic into the bucket and lathered my arms
carefully. I knelt behind the cow.<br>
<br>
'Mr Broomfield always puts some special lubricating oils on his arms
first,' Uncle said, pulling contentedly on his pipe. 'He says you get
infection of the womb if you just use soap and water.'<br>
<br>
I made my first exploration. It was the burdened moment all vets go
through when they first put their hand into a cow. Within seconds I
would know whether I would be putting on my jacket in fifteen minutes
or whether I had hours of hard labour ahead of me.<br>
<br>
I was going to be unlucky this time; it was a nasty presentation. Head
back and no room at all; more like being inside an undeveloped heifer
than a second calver. And she was bone dry the 'waters' must have come
away from her hours ago. She had been running out on the high fields
and had started to calve a week before her time; that was why they had
had to bring her into this half-ruined barn. Anyway, it would be a long
time before I saw my bed again.<br>
<br>
'Well now, what have you found, young man?' Uncle's penetrating voice
cut through the silence. 'Head back, eh? You won't have much trouble,
then. I've seen Mr. Broomfield do 'em like that -- he turns calf right
round and brings it out back legs first'<br>
<br>
I had heard this sort of nonsense before. A short time in practice had
taught me that all farmers were experts with other farmers' livestock.
When their own animals were in trouble they tended to rush to the phone
for the vet, but with their neighbours' they were confident,
knowledgeable and full of helpful advice. And another phenomenon I had
observed was that their advice was usually regarded as more valuable
than the vet's. Like now, for instance; Uncle was obviously an accepted
sage and the Dinsdales listened with deference to everything he said.<br>
<br>
'Another way with a job like this,' continued Uncle, `is to get a few
strong chaps with ropes and pull the thing out, head back and all.'<br>
<br>
I gasped as I felt my way around. 'I'm afraid it's impossible to turn a
calf completely round in this small space. And to pull it out without
bringing the head round would certainly break the mother's pelvis.'<br>
<br>
The Dinsdales narrowed their eyes. Clearly they thought I was hedging
in the face of Uncle's superior knowledge.<br>
<br>
And now, two hours later, defeat was just round the comer. I was just
about whacked. I had rolled and grovelled on the filthy cobbles while
the Dinsdales watched me in morose silence and Uncle kept up a non-stop
stream of comment. Uncle, his ruddy face glowing with delight, his
little eyes sparkling, hadn't had such a happy night for years. His
long trek up the hillside had been repaid a hundredfold. His vitality
was undiminished; he had enjoyed every minute.<br>
<br>
As I lay there, eyes closed, face stiff with dirt, mouth hanging open,
Uncle took his pipe in his hand and leaned forward on his straw bale.
`You're about beat, young man,' he said with deep satisfaction. `Well,
I've never seen Mr. Broomfield beat but he's had a lot of experience.
And what's more, he's strong, really strong. That's one man you
couldn't tire.'<br>
<br>
Rage flooded through me like a draught of strong spirit. The right
thing to do, of course, would be to get up, tip the bucket of bloody
water over Uncle's head, run down the hill and drive away; away from
Yorkshire, from Uncle, from the Dinsdales, from this cow.<br>
<br>
Instead, I clenched my teeth, braced my legs and pushed with everything
I had; and with a sensation of disbelief I felt my noose slide over the
sharp little incisor teeth and into the calf's mouth. Gingerly,
muttering a prayer, I pulled on the thin rope with my left hand and
felt the slipknot tighten. I had hold of that lower jaw.<br>
<br>
At last I could start doing something. `Now hold this rope, Mr.
Dinsdale, and just keep a gentle tension on it. I'm going to repel the
calf and if you pull steadily at the same time, the head ought to come
round.'<br>
<br>
'What if the rope comes off?' asked Uncle hopefully.<br>
<br>
I didn't answer. I put my hand in against the calf's shoulder and began
to push against the cow's contractions. I felt the small body moving
away from me. 'Now a steady pull, Mr. Dinsdale, without jerking.' And
to myself, 'Oh God, don't let it slip off.'<br>
<br>
The head was coming round. I could feel the neck straightening against
my arm, then the ear touched my elbow. I let go the shoulder and
grabbed the little muzzle. Keeping the teeth away from the vaginal wall
with my hand, I guided the head till it was resting where it should be,
on the fore limbs.<br>
<br>
Quickly I extended the noose till it reached behind the ears. 'Now pull
on the head as she strains.'<br>
<br>
'Nay, you should pull on the legs now,' cried Uncle.<br>
<br>
'Pull on the bloody head rope, I tell you!' I bellowed at the top of my
voice and felt immediately better as Uncle retired, offended, to his
bale.<br>
<br>
With traction the head was brought out and the rest of the body
followed easily. The little animal lay motionless on the cobbles, eyes
glassy and unseeing, tongue blue and grossly swollen.<br>
<br>
'It'll be dead. Bound to be,' grunted Uncle, returning to the attack.<br>
<br>
I cleared the mucus from the mouth, blew hard down the throat and began
artificial respiration. After a few pressures on the ribs, the calf
gave a gasp and the eyelids flickered. Then it started to inhale and
one leg jerked.<br>
<br>
Uncle took off his hat and scratched his head in disbelief. 'By gaw,
it's alive. I'd have thot it'd sure to be dead after you'd messed about
all that time.' A lot of the fire had gone out of him and his pipe hung
down empty from his lips.<br>
<br>
'I know what this little fellow wants,' I said. I grasped the calf by
its fore legs and pulled it up to its mother's head. The cow was
stretched out on her side, her head extended wearily along the rough
floor. Her ribs heaved, her eyes were almost closed; she looked past
caring about anything. Then she felt the calf's body against her face
and there was a transformation; her eyes opened wide and her muzzle
began a snuffling exploration of the new object. Her interest grew with
every sniff and she struggled on to her chest, nosing and probing all
over the calf, rumbling deep in her chest. Then she began to lick him
methodically. Nature provides the perfect stimulant massage for a time
like this and the little creature arched his back as the coarse
papillae on the tongue dragged along his skin. Within a minute he was
shaking his head and trying to sit up.<br>
<br>
I grinned. This was the bit I liked. The little miracle. I felt it was
something that would never grow stale no matter how often I saw it. I
cleaned as much of the dried blood and filth from my body as I could,
but most of it had caked on my skin and not even my finger nails would
move it. It would have to wait for the hot bath at home. Pulling my
shirt over my head, I felt as though I had been beaten for a long time
with a thick stick. Every muscle ached. My mouth was dried out, my lips
almost sticking together.<br>
<br>
A long, sad figure hovered near. 'How about a drink?' asked Mr Dinsdale.<br>
<br>
I could feel my grimy face cracking into an incredulous smile. A vision
of hot tea well laced with whisky swam before me. 'That's very kind of
you, Mr Dinsdale, I'd love a drink. It's been a hard two hours.'<br>
<br>
* 'Nay,' said Mr Dinsdale looking at me steadily, 'I meant for the
cow.'<br>
<br>
I began to babble. 'Oh yes, of course, certainly, by all means give her
a drink. She must be very thirsty. It'll do her good. Certainly,
certainly, give her a drink.'<br>
<br>
I gathered up my tackle and stumbled out of the barn. On the moor it
was still dark and a bitter wind whipped over the snow, stinging my
eyes. As I plodded down the slope, Uncle's voice, strident and
undefeated, reached me for the last time.<br>
<br>
* 'Mr. Broomfield doesn't believe in giving a drink after calving.
Says it chills the stomach.'<br>
<br>
***** (from James Herriot)<br>
<br>
- your results may vary...<br>
<br>
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<img alt="" src="file://///Wayne/%E6%A1%8C%E9%9D%A2/DSCN1362.JPG"
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