Джеймс Хэрриот - All Creatures Great and Small

“When will he be back?”

“Not till late, I’m afraid. Can I do anything for you?”

“I don’t know whether you can do anything for me or not.” The voice took on a hectoring tone. “I am Mr. Soames, Lord Hulton’s farm manager. I have a valuable hunting horse with colic. Do you know anything about colic?”

I felt my hackles rising. “I am a veterinary surgeon, so I think I should know something about it.”

There was a long pause, and the voice barked again. “Well, I reckon you’ll have to do. In any case, I know the injection the horse wants. Bring some arecoline with you. Mr. Farnon uses it. And for God’s sake, don’t be all night getting here. How long will you be?”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Right.”

I heard the receiver bang down on to its rest. My face felt hot as I walked away from the phone. So my first case wasn’t going to be a formality. Colics were tricky things and I had an aggressive know-all called Soames thrown in for good measure.

On the eight-mile journey to the case, I re-read from memory that great classic, Caulton Reeks’ Common Colics of the Horse. I had gone through it so often in my final year that I could recite stretches of it like poetry. The well-thumbed pages hovered in front of me, phantom-like, as I drove.

This would probably be a mild impaction or a bit of spasm. Might have had a change of food or too much rich grass. Yes, that would be it; most colics were like that. A quick shot of arecoline and maybe some chlorodyne to relieve the discomfort and all would be well. My mind went back to the cases I had met while seeing practice. The horse standing quietly except that it occasionally eased a hind leg or looked round at its side. There was nothing to it, really.

I was elaborating this happy picture when I arrived. I drove into a spotless, gravelled yard surrounded on three sides by substantial loose boxes. A man was standing there, a broad-shouldered, thick-set figure, very trim in check cap and jacket, well-cut breeches and shiny leggings.

The car drew up about thirty yards away and, as I got out, the man slowly and deliberately turned his back on me. I walked across the yard, taking my time, waiting for the other to turn round, but he stood motionless, hands in pockets, looking in the other direction.

I stopped a few feet away but still the man did not turn. After a long time, and when I had got tired of looking at the back, I spoke.

“Mr. Soames?”

At first the man did not move, then he turned very slowly. He had a thick, red neck, a ruddy face and small, fiery eyes. He made no answer but looked me over carefully from head to foot, taking in the worn raincoat, my youth, my air of inexperience. When he had completed his examination he looked away again.

“Yes, I am Mr. Soames.” He stressed the “Mr.” as though it meant a lot to him. “I am a very great friend of Mr. Farnon.”

“My name is Herriot.”

Soames didn’t appear to have heard. “Yes, a clever man is Mr. Farnon. We are great friends.”

“I understand you have a horse with colic.” I wished my voice didn’t sound so high and unsteady.

Soames’ gaze was still directed somewhere into the sky. He whistled a little tune softly to himself before replying. “In there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of one of the boxes. “One of his lordship’s best hunters. In need of expert assistance, I think.” He put a bit of emphasis on the “expert.”

I opened the door and went inside. And I stopped as though I had walked into a wall. It was a very large box, deeply bedded with peat moss. A bay horse was staggering round and round the perimeter where he had worn a deep path in the peat. He was lathered in sweat from nose to tail, his nostrils were dilated and his eyes stared blankly in front of him. His head rolled about at every step and, through his clenched teeth, gobbets of foam dripped to the floor. A rank steam rose from his body as though he had been galloping.

My mouth had gone dry. I found it difficult to speak and when I did, it was almost in a whisper. “How long has he been like this?”

“Oh, he started with a bit of belly ache this morning. I’ve been giving him black draughts all day, or at least this fellow has. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s made a bloody mess of it like he does everything.”

I saw that there was somebody standing in the shadows in the corner; a large, fat man with a head collar in his hand.

“Oh, I got the draughts down him, right enough, Mr. Soames, but they haven’t done ’im no good.” The big man looked scared.

“You call yourself a horseman,” Soames said, “but I should have done the damn job myself. I reckon he’d have been better by now.”

“It would take more than a black draught to help him,” I said. “This is no ordinary colic.”

“What the hell is it, then?”

“Well, I can’t say till I’ve examined him, but severe, continuous pain like that could mean a torsion—a twisted bowel.”

“Twisted bowel, my foot! He’s got a bit of belly ache, that’s all. He hasn’t passed anything all day and he wants something to shift him. Have you got the arecoline with you?”

“If this is a torsion, arecoline would be the worst thing you could give him. He’s in agony now, but that would drive him mad. It acts by contracting the muscles of the intestines.”

“God dammit,” snarled Soames, “don’t start giving me a bloody lecture. Are you going to start doing something for the horse or aren’t you?”

I turned to the big man in the corner. “Slip on that head collar and I’ll examine him.”

With the collar on, the horse was brought to a halt. He stood there, trembling and groaning as I passed a hand between ribs and elbows, feeling for the pulse. It was as bad as it could be—a racing, thready beat. I everted an eyelid with my fingers; the mucous membrane was a dark, brick red. The thermometer showed a temperature of a hundred and three.

I looked across the box at Soames. “Could I have a bucket of hot water, soap and a towel, please?”

“What the devil for? You’ve done nothing yet and you want to have a wash?”

“I want to make a rectal examination. Will you please bring me the water?”

“God help us, I’ve never seen anything like this.” Soames passed a hand wearily over his eyes then swung round on the big man.

“Well, come on, don’t stand around there. Get him his water and we’ll maybe get something done.”

When the water came, I soaped my arm and gently inserted it into the animal’s rectum. I could feel plainly the displacement of the small intestine on the left side and a tense, tympanitic mass which should not have been there. As I touched it, the horse shuddered and groaned again.

As I washed and dried my arms, my heart pounded. What was I to do? What could I say?

Soames was stamping in and out of the box, muttering to himself as the pain-maddened animal writhed and twisted. “Hold the bloody thing,” he bellowed at the horseman who was gripping the head collar. “What the bloody hell are you playing at?”

The big man said nothing. He was in no way to blame but he just stared back stolidly at Soames.

I took a deep breath. “Everything points to the one thing. I’m convinced this horse has a torsion.”

“All right then, have it your own way. He’s got a torsion. Only for God’s sake do something, will you? Are we going to stand in here all night?”

“There’s nothing anybody can do. There is no cure for this. The important thing is to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible.”

Soames screwed up his face. “No cure? Put him out of his pain? What rubbish is this you’re talking? Just what are you getting at?”