[Peace-discuss] all elevenses - veterinarians day

[E. Wayne Johnson]

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.

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.

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.

There was no mention anywhere of the gradual exhaustion, the feeling of 
futility and the little far-off voice of panic.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

'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.'

I put down my equipment and nodded. 'How do you do? My name is Herriot.'

The old man looked me over, piercingly.

'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.'

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.

'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.'

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.'

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.

'And how long have you been qualified, may I ask?' 'Oh, about seven months.'

'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.'

I tipped some antiseptic into the bucket and lathered my arms carefully. 
I knelt behind the cow.

'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.'

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.

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.

'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'

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.

'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.'

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.'

The Dinsdales narrowed their eyes. Clearly they thought I was hedging in 
the face of Uncle's superior knowledge.

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.

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.'

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.

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.

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.'

'What if the rope comes off?' asked Uncle hopefully.

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.'

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.

Quickly I extended the noose till it reached behind the ears. 'Now pull 
on the head as she strains.'

'Nay, you should pull on the legs now,' cried Uncle.

'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.

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.

'It'll be dead. Bound to be,' grunted Uncle, returning to the attack.

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.

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.

'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.

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.

A long, sad figure hovered near. 'How about a drink?' asked Mr Dinsdale.

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.'

     * 'Nay,' said Mr Dinsdale looking at me steadily, 'I meant for the 
cow.'

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.'

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.

     * 'Mr. Broomfield doesn't believe in giving a drink after calving. 
Says it chills the stomach.'

***** (from James Herriot)

- your results may vary...







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