Read Online Lord God Made Them All by James Herriot - Free Book Online Page A

this was the moment, and I took a deep breath. “Pull!” I shouted, and the three men on the rope hauled away, while the brown corded arms on each side of me took the strain on the stake.
    No doubt an unedifying spectacle, this tug of war with the sleeping animal in the middle. Not much science in evidence, but country practice is often like that.
    However, I had no time for theorising—all my mind was concentrated on that jutting bone under my hands. “Pull!” I yelled again, and fresh grunts of effort came back in reply.
    I clenched my teeth. The thing wasn’t moving. I couldn’t believe it could resist the terrific traction, but it was like a rock.
    Then, when the feeling of defeat was rising, I felt a stirring beneath my fingers. It all happened in seconds after that—the lifting of the femoral head as I pushed frantically at it and the loud click as it flopped into its socket. We had won.
    I waved my arms in delight. “All right, let go!” I crawled to the cow’s head and whipped off the muzzle.
    We heaved her onto her chest, and she lay there, blinking and shaking her head as consciousness returned. I could hardly wait for what is one of the most rewarding moments in veterinary practice, and it came when the cow rose to her feet and strolled over the grass without the trace of a limp. The five faces, sweating in the hot sunshine, watched in happy amazement, and though I had seen it all before, I felt the warm flush of triumph that is always new.
    I handed cigarettes round the prisoners, and before I left I drew on my scanty store of German.
    “Danke schoen!” I said fervently, and I really meant it.
    “Bitte! Bitte!” they cried, all smiles. They had enjoyed the whole thing, and I had the feeling that this would be one of the tales they would tell when they returned to their homes.
    A few days later, Siegfried and I alighted at Village Farm, Harford. We had come together because we had been told that our patient, a Red Poll bullock, was of an uncooperative disposition, and we thought that a combined operation was indicated.
    The farmer led us to the fold yard where about twenty cattle were eating turnips. “That’s the one,” he said, pointing to an enormously fat beast, “and that’s the thing I was tellin’ ye about.” He indicated a growth as big as a football dangling from the animal’s belly.
    Siegfried gave him a hard look. “Really, Mr. Harrison, you should have called us out to this long ago. Why did you let it get so big?”
    The farmer took off his hat and scratched his balding head ruminatively. “Aye, well, you know how it is. Ah kept meanin’ to give you a ring, but it slipped me mind and time went on.”
    “It’s a hell of a size now,” Siegfried grunted.
    “Ah know, ah know. I allus had the hope that it might drop off because he’s a right wild sod. You can’t do much with ’im.”
    “All right, then.” Siegfried shrugged. “Bring a halter, and we’ll drive him into that box over there.”
    The farmer left, and my partner turned to me. “You know, James, that tumour isn’t as fearsome as it looks. It’s beautifully pedunculated, and if we can get a shot of local into that narrow neck we can ligate it and have it off in no time.”
    The farmer returned with the halter, and he was accompanied by a dark little man in denims.
    “This is Luigi,” he said. “Italian prisoner. Don’t speak no English, but ’e’s very handy at all sorts o’ jobs.”
    I could imagine Luigi being handy. He was short in stature, but his wide spread of shoulder and muscular arms suggested great strength.
    We said hello, and the Italian returned our greetings with an inclination of his head and a grave smile. He carried an aura of dignity and self-assurance.
    After a bit of galloping round the fold yard, we managed to get our patient into the box, but we soon realised that our troubles were only beginning.
    Red Polls are big cattle, and an ill-natured one can be a problem. This fat