Read Online Lord God Made Them All by James Herriot - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Herriot
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creature had a mean look in his eyes, and all our attempts to halter him were unavailing. He either whipped away from the rope or shook his head threateningly at us. Once, as he thundered past me I got my fingers into his nose, but he brushed me off like a fly and lashed out with a hind leg, catching me a glancing blow on the thigh.
“He’s like an elephant,” I gasped. “God only knows how we’re going to catch him.”
The sedative injections for such animals and the metal crushes to restrain them were still years in the future, and Siegfried and I were looking gloomily at the bullock when Luigi stepped forward.
He held up a hand and loosed off a burst of Italian at us. None of us could understand him, but we took his point as he ushered us back against the wall with great ceremony. Plainly he was going to do something, but what?
He advanced stealthily on the bullock, then with a lightning movement he seized one of the ears in both hands. The animal took off immediately but without its previous abandon. Luigi was screwing the ear round on its long axis, and it seemed to act as a brake because the beast slowed to a halt and stood there, head on one side, glancing almost plaintively up at the little man.
I was reminded irresistibly of pictures of Billy Bunter being held by a Greyfriars prefect, and I almost expected the bullock to cry, “Ouch! Yaroo! Leggo my ear!”
But I didn’t have much time for musing because Luigi, in full command of the situation, jerked his head towards the hanging tumour.
Siegfried and I leaped forward. We had never seen anybody catch a beast by the ear before, but we weren’t going to discuss it. This was our chance.
I cradled the growth in my hands while Siegfried injected the local into the neck. As the needle entered the skin the hairy leg twitched, and under ordinary circumstances we would have been kicked out of the box, but Luigi took another half-turn on the ear and rapped out a colourful reprimand. The animal subsided immediately and stood motionless as we worked.
Siegfried applied a strong ligature and severed the neck of the growth bloodlessly with an ecraseur. The tumour thudded onto the straw. The operation was over.
Luigi released the ear and received our congratulations with a half-smile and a gracious nod of his head. He really was a man of enormous presence.
Now, more than thirty years later, Siegfried and I still talk about him. We have both tried to catch large cattle by the ears without the slightest success; so was Luigi just an amateur with wrists of steel or was he a farmer, and do they do it that way in Italy after a lifetime of practice? We still don’t know.
One still summer evening I was returning from a call when I heard the sound of singing. It was a rich, swelling chorus of many voices, and it seemed to come from nowhere. I stopped the car and wound down the window. The fells rose around me, their summits glinting in the last sunshine, but the only living creatures were the cattle and sheep grazing on the walled slopes.
Then I saw Knowle Manor perched on a plateau high above, and I remembered that hundreds of Russian prisoners were billeted there.
These men were singing the songs of their homeland, but the sound drifting from the windows of the big house was not that of a casual party. There was a vast, drilled choir up there, deep voices blending in thrilling harmonies that hung and lingered on the soft air.
I sat entranced for a long time, till the light faded and the chill of nightfall made me close my window and drive away.
Years later I read that these Russians went home to death or captivity, and whenever I thought of their fate, I remembered that summer evening and the beautiful music they made in the peace of the Yorkshire hills.
Chapter
7
O CTOBER 29, 1961
“Breakfast, Mr. Herriot.”
I heard the mess boy’s call and his knock on my cabin door. It was the first of many during this day. “Lunch, Mr. Herriot.” “Dinner, Mr.
“He’s like an elephant,” I gasped. “God only knows how we’re going to catch him.”
The sedative injections for such animals and the metal crushes to restrain them were still years in the future, and Siegfried and I were looking gloomily at the bullock when Luigi stepped forward.
He held up a hand and loosed off a burst of Italian at us. None of us could understand him, but we took his point as he ushered us back against the wall with great ceremony. Plainly he was going to do something, but what?
He advanced stealthily on the bullock, then with a lightning movement he seized one of the ears in both hands. The animal took off immediately but without its previous abandon. Luigi was screwing the ear round on its long axis, and it seemed to act as a brake because the beast slowed to a halt and stood there, head on one side, glancing almost plaintively up at the little man.
I was reminded irresistibly of pictures of Billy Bunter being held by a Greyfriars prefect, and I almost expected the bullock to cry, “Ouch! Yaroo! Leggo my ear!”
But I didn’t have much time for musing because Luigi, in full command of the situation, jerked his head towards the hanging tumour.
Siegfried and I leaped forward. We had never seen anybody catch a beast by the ear before, but we weren’t going to discuss it. This was our chance.
I cradled the growth in my hands while Siegfried injected the local into the neck. As the needle entered the skin the hairy leg twitched, and under ordinary circumstances we would have been kicked out of the box, but Luigi took another half-turn on the ear and rapped out a colourful reprimand. The animal subsided immediately and stood motionless as we worked.
Siegfried applied a strong ligature and severed the neck of the growth bloodlessly with an ecraseur. The tumour thudded onto the straw. The operation was over.
Luigi released the ear and received our congratulations with a half-smile and a gracious nod of his head. He really was a man of enormous presence.
Now, more than thirty years later, Siegfried and I still talk about him. We have both tried to catch large cattle by the ears without the slightest success; so was Luigi just an amateur with wrists of steel or was he a farmer, and do they do it that way in Italy after a lifetime of practice? We still don’t know.
One still summer evening I was returning from a call when I heard the sound of singing. It was a rich, swelling chorus of many voices, and it seemed to come from nowhere. I stopped the car and wound down the window. The fells rose around me, their summits glinting in the last sunshine, but the only living creatures were the cattle and sheep grazing on the walled slopes.
Then I saw Knowle Manor perched on a plateau high above, and I remembered that hundreds of Russian prisoners were billeted there.
These men were singing the songs of their homeland, but the sound drifting from the windows of the big house was not that of a casual party. There was a vast, drilled choir up there, deep voices blending in thrilling harmonies that hung and lingered on the soft air.
I sat entranced for a long time, till the light faded and the chill of nightfall made me close my window and drive away.
Years later I read that these Russians went home to death or captivity, and whenever I thought of their fate, I remembered that summer evening and the beautiful music they made in the peace of the Yorkshire hills.
Chapter
7
O CTOBER 29, 1961
“Breakfast, Mr. Herriot.”
I heard the mess boy’s call and his knock on my cabin door. It was the first of many during this day. “Lunch, Mr. Herriot.” “Dinner, Mr.
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