Read Online Lord God Made Them All by James Herriot - Free Book Online
Authors: James Herriot
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when I saw hundreds of men who looked like Chinese in German uniforms disembarking at Darrowby railway station. I learned later that they were Mongolian Russians who had been pressed into fighting for the Germans and later were captured by the British. Igor was one of these.
I know of farming families who to this day spend their holidays at the homes of the Germans and Italians whom they befriended at this time.
I was still laughing after the Igor incident and the farmer was still receiving a tongue lashing from his wife when I climbed into my car and consulted the list of calls.
“Preston, Scarth Lodge, lame cow,” I read. It was twenty minutes’ drive away and, as always, I idly turned over the possibilities in my mind. Probably foul, maybe pus in the foot, which would entail some hacking with my hoof knife. Or it could be a strain. I’d soon see.
Hal Preston was bringing my patient in from the field as I arrived, and I didn’t even have to get out of the car to make my diagnosis. It was one which gave me no joy.
The cow was hobbling slowly, her right hind foot barely touching the ground. The limb was shortened and carried underneath the body, while a bulge in the pelvic region showed where the great trochanter of the femur pushed against the skin. Upward displacement. Absolutely typical.
“Just happened this mornin’,” the farmer said. “She was as right as rain last night. Ah can’t think …”
“Say no more, Mr. Preston,” I said. “I know what it is. She’s got a dislocated hip.”
“Is that serious?”
“Yes, it is. You see, it takes tremendous force to pull the head of the displaced bone back into its socket. Even in a dog it is a difficult job, but in cattle it’s sometimes impossible.”
The farmer looked glum. “That’s a beggar. This is a right good cow, smashin’ milker. What ’appens if you can’t get it back?”
“I’m afraid she’d always be a bit of a cripple,” I replied. “Dogs usually form a very good false joint, but it’s different with a cow. In fact, many farmers decide to slaughter the animal.”
“Oh, ’ell, I don’t want that!” Hal Preston rubbed his chin vigorously. “We’ll have to have a go.”
“Good, that’s what I want.” I turned towards my car. “I’m going back to the surgery for the chloroform muzzle, and, in the meantime, will you go round your neighbours and get a few strong chaps? We’ll need all the manpower we can find.”
The farmer looked round the rolling green miles with not another dwelling in sight. “Me neighbours are a long way away, but I don’t need ’em today. Look ’ere.”
He led the way into the farm kitchen where the savoury aroma of roast bacon was heavy in the air. Four burly Germans were seated at the table. In front of each lay a plate mounded high with potatoes, cabbage, bacon and sausage.
“They’ve sent me these fellers to help with haytime,” Mr. Preston explained. “I reckon they look pretty useful.”
“They do indeed.” I smiled at the men and waved my hand in greeting. They jumped to their feet and bowed. “Right,” I said to the farmer, “you can be having your dinners while I’m gone. I’ll be back in about half an hour.”
When I returned, we led the cow to a patch of soft grass. Her progress was painfully slow as she trailed her almost useless hind leg.
I buckled the muzzle to her head and dribbled the chloroform onto the sponge. As she inhaled the strange vapour her eyes widened in surprise, then she stumbled forward and sank to the turf.
I slipped a round stake into the animal’s groin and stationed the two biggest men at either end of it, then I fastened a rope above the fetlock and gave the other end to Mr. Preston and the remaining two Germans.
The stage was set. I crouched over the pelvis and placed both hands on the bulging head of the femur. Would it stay obstinately still or would I feel it riding up the side of the acetabulum on the way to its proper home?
Anyway,
I know of farming families who to this day spend their holidays at the homes of the Germans and Italians whom they befriended at this time.
I was still laughing after the Igor incident and the farmer was still receiving a tongue lashing from his wife when I climbed into my car and consulted the list of calls.
“Preston, Scarth Lodge, lame cow,” I read. It was twenty minutes’ drive away and, as always, I idly turned over the possibilities in my mind. Probably foul, maybe pus in the foot, which would entail some hacking with my hoof knife. Or it could be a strain. I’d soon see.
Hal Preston was bringing my patient in from the field as I arrived, and I didn’t even have to get out of the car to make my diagnosis. It was one which gave me no joy.
The cow was hobbling slowly, her right hind foot barely touching the ground. The limb was shortened and carried underneath the body, while a bulge in the pelvic region showed where the great trochanter of the femur pushed against the skin. Upward displacement. Absolutely typical.
“Just happened this mornin’,” the farmer said. “She was as right as rain last night. Ah can’t think …”
“Say no more, Mr. Preston,” I said. “I know what it is. She’s got a dislocated hip.”
“Is that serious?”
“Yes, it is. You see, it takes tremendous force to pull the head of the displaced bone back into its socket. Even in a dog it is a difficult job, but in cattle it’s sometimes impossible.”
The farmer looked glum. “That’s a beggar. This is a right good cow, smashin’ milker. What ’appens if you can’t get it back?”
“I’m afraid she’d always be a bit of a cripple,” I replied. “Dogs usually form a very good false joint, but it’s different with a cow. In fact, many farmers decide to slaughter the animal.”
“Oh, ’ell, I don’t want that!” Hal Preston rubbed his chin vigorously. “We’ll have to have a go.”
“Good, that’s what I want.” I turned towards my car. “I’m going back to the surgery for the chloroform muzzle, and, in the meantime, will you go round your neighbours and get a few strong chaps? We’ll need all the manpower we can find.”
The farmer looked round the rolling green miles with not another dwelling in sight. “Me neighbours are a long way away, but I don’t need ’em today. Look ’ere.”
He led the way into the farm kitchen where the savoury aroma of roast bacon was heavy in the air. Four burly Germans were seated at the table. In front of each lay a plate mounded high with potatoes, cabbage, bacon and sausage.
“They’ve sent me these fellers to help with haytime,” Mr. Preston explained. “I reckon they look pretty useful.”
“They do indeed.” I smiled at the men and waved my hand in greeting. They jumped to their feet and bowed. “Right,” I said to the farmer, “you can be having your dinners while I’m gone. I’ll be back in about half an hour.”
When I returned, we led the cow to a patch of soft grass. Her progress was painfully slow as she trailed her almost useless hind leg.
I buckled the muzzle to her head and dribbled the chloroform onto the sponge. As she inhaled the strange vapour her eyes widened in surprise, then she stumbled forward and sank to the turf.
I slipped a round stake into the animal’s groin and stationed the two biggest men at either end of it, then I fastened a rope above the fetlock and gave the other end to Mr. Preston and the remaining two Germans.
The stage was set. I crouched over the pelvis and placed both hands on the bulging head of the femur. Would it stay obstinately still or would I feel it riding up the side of the acetabulum on the way to its proper home?
Anyway,
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