Herriot - Let Sleeping Vets Lie

LET SLEEPING VETS LIE

James Herriot grew up in Glasgow and qualified as a veterinary surgeon at Glasgow Veterinary College. Shortly afterwards, he took up a position as an assistant in a North Yorkshire practice where he remained, with the exception of his wartime service in the RAF, until his death in 1995.

To my Wife

with love

CHAPTER ONE

As the faint rumbling growl rolled up from the rib cage into the ear pieces of my stethoscope the realization burst upon me with uncomfortable clarity that this was probably the biggest dog I had ever seen. In my limited past experience some Irish Wolfhounds had undoubtedly been taller and a certain number of Bull Mastiffs had possibly been broader, but for sheer gross poundage this one had it. His name was Clancy.

It was a good name for an Irishmans dog and Joe Mulligan was very Irish despite his many years in Yorkshire. Joe had brought him into the afternoon surgery and as the huge hairy form ambled along, almost filling the passage, I was reminded of the times I had seen him out in the fields around Darrowby enduring the frisking attentions of smaller animals with massive benignity. He looked like a nice friendly dog.

But now there was this ominous sound echoing round the great thorax like a distant drum roll in a subterranean cavern, and as the chest piece of the stethoscope bumped along the ribs the sound swelled in volume and the lips fluttered over the enormous teeth as though a gentle breeze had stirred them. It was then that I became aware not only that Clancy was very big indeed but that my position, kneeling on the floor with my right ear a few inches from his mouth, was infinitely vulnerable.

I got to my feet and as I dropped the stethoscope into my pocket the dog gave me a cold look a sideways glance without moving his head; and there was a chilling menace in his very immobility. I didnt mind my patients snapping at me but this one, I felt sure, wouldnt snap. If he started something it would be on a spectacular scale.

I stepped back a pace. Now what did you say his symptoms were, Mr Mulligan?

Phwaats that? Joe cupped his ear with his hand, I took a deep breath. Whats the trouble with him? I shouted.

The old man looked at me with total incomprehension from beneath the straightly adjusted cloth cap. He fingered the muffler knotted immediately over his larynx and the pipe which grew from the dead centre of his mouth puffed blue wisps of puzzlement.

Then, remembering something of Clancys past history, I moved close to Mr Mulligan and bawled with all my power into his face. Is he vomiting?

The response was immediate. Joe smiled in great relief and removed his pipe. Oh aye, hes womitin sorr. Hes womitin bad. Clearly he was on familiar ground.

Over the years Clancys treatment had all been at long range. My young boss, Siegfried Farnon, had told me on the first day I had arrived in Darrowby two years ago that there was nothing wrong with the dog, which he had described as a cross between an Airedale and a donkey, but his penchant for eating every bit of rubbish in his path had the inevitable result. A large bottle of bismuth, mag carb mixture had been dispensed at regular intervals. He had also told me that Clancy, when bored, used occasionally to throw Joe to the ground and worry him like a rat just for a bit of light relief. But his master still adored him.

Prickings of conscience told me I should carry out a full examination. Take his temperature, for instance. All I had to do was to grab hold of that tail, lift it and push a thermometer into his rectum. The dog turned his head and met my eye with a blank stare; again I heard the low booming drum roll and the upper lip lifted a fraction to show a quick gleam of white.

Yes, yes, right, Mr Mulligan, I said briskly. Ill get you a bottle of the usual.

In the dispensary, under the rows of bottles with their Latin names and glass stoppers I shook up the mixture in a ten ounce bottle, corked it, stuck on a label and wrote the directions. Joe seemed well satisfied as he pocketed the familiar white medicine but as he turned to go my conscience smote me again. The dog did look perfectly fit but maybe he ought to be seen again.

Bring him back again on Thursday afternoon at two oclock, I yelled into the old mans ear. And please come on time if you can. You were a bit late today.

I watched Mr Mulligan going down the street, preceded by his pipe from which regular puffs rose upwards as though from a departing railway engine. Behind him ambled Clancy, a picture of massive calm. With his all-over covering of tight brown curls he did indeed look like a gigantic Airedale.

Thursday afternoon, I ruminated. That was my half day and at two oclock Id probably be watching the afternoon cinema show in Brawton.

The following Friday morning Siegfried was sitting behind his desk, working out the morning rounds. He scribbled a list of visits on a pad, tore out the sheet and handed it to me.

Here you are, James, I think thatll just about keep you out of mischief till lunch time. Then something in the previous days entries caught his eye and he turned to his younger brother who was at his morning task of stoking the fire.

Tristan, I see Joe Mulligan was in yesterday afternoon with his dog and you saw it. What did you make of it?

Tristan put down his bucket. Oh, I gave him some of the bismuth mixture.

Yes, but what did your examination of the patient disclose?

Well now, lets see. Tristan rubbed his chin. He looked pretty lively, really.

Is that all?

Yes... yes... I think so.

Siegfried turned back to me. And how about you, James? You saw the dog the day before. What were your findings?

Well it was a bit difficult, I said. That dogs as big as an elephant and theres something creepy about him. He seemed to me to be just waiting his chance and there was only old Joe to hold him. Im afraid I wasnt able to make a close examination but I must say I thought the same as Tristan he did look pretty lively.

Siegfried put down his pen wearily. On the previous night, fate had dealt him one of the shattering blows which it occasionally reserves for vets a call at each end of his sleeping time. He had been dragged from his bed at 1 AM and again at 6 AM and the fires of his personality were temporarily damped.

He passed a hand across his eyes. Well God help us. You, James, a veterinary surgeon of two years experience and you, Tristan, a final year student cant come up with anything better between you than the phrase pretty lively. Its a bloody poor thing! Hardly a worthy description of clinical findings is it? When an animal comes in here I expect you to record pulse, temperature and respiratory rate. To auscultate the chest and thoroughly palpate the abdomen. To open his mouth and examine teeth, gums and pharynx. To check the condition of the skin. To catheterize him and examine the urine if necessary,

Right, I said.

OK, said Tristan.

My employer rose from his seat. Have you fixed another appointment?

I have, yes. Tristan drew his packet of Woodbines from his pocket. For Monday. And since Mr Mulligans always late for the surgery I said wed visit the dog at his home in the evening.

I see. Siegfried made a note on the pad, then he looked up suddenly. Thats when you and James are going to the young farmers meeting, isnt it?

The young man drew on his cigarette. Thats right. Good for the practice for us to mix with the young clients.

Very well, Siegfried said as he walked to the door. Ill see the dog myself.

On the following Tuesday I was fairly confident that Siegfried would have something to say about Mulligans dog, if only to point out the benefits of a thorough clinical examination. But he was silent on the subject.