[Peace-discuss] all elevenses - veterinarians day

[Carl G. Estabrook]

I read the first half of this thinking that it was you describing your  
experience - which I guess in fact it is the case, with Herriot's  
words.  He can write.

On Nov 10, 2011, at 5:03 PM, E. Wayne Johnson wrote:

> 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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