learned what a silly feller I’ve been all these months.”
“How do you mean?”
He raised a forefinger and wagged it sagely. “Well, you’ve allus been tellin’ me that I got you out of your bed for nothing and I was imagining things when I thought me dog was ill.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”
“And I never believed you, did I? I wouldn’t be told. Well now I know you were right all the time. I’ve been nobbut a fool and I’m right sorry for botherin’ you all those nights.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, Humphrey.”
“Aye, but it’s not right.” He waved a hand toward his bright-faced, tail-wagging little dog. “Just look at her. Anybody can see there was never anythin’ wrong with Myrtle tonight.”
A Spot or Two of Bother
I am never at my best in the early morning, especially the cold mornings you get in Yorkshire when piercing wind sweeps down from the fells, finding its way inside clothing, nipping at noses and ears. It was a cheerless time, and a particularly bad time to be standing in this cobbled farmyard watching a beautiful horse dying because of my incompetence.
It had started at eight o’clock. Mr. Kettlewell telephoned as I was finishing my breakfast.
“I ‘ave a fine big cart ‘oss here and he’s come out in spots.”
“Really? What kind of spots?”
“Well, round and flat, and they’re all over ‘im.”
“And it started quite suddenly?”
“Aye, he were right as rain last night.”
“All right, I’ll have a look at him right away.” I nearly rubbed my hands. Urticaria. It usually cleared up spontaneously, but an injection hastened the process and I had a new antihistamine drug to try out—it was said to be specific for this sort of thing. Anyway, it was the kind of situation where it was easy for the vet to look good. A nice start to the day.
In the fifties, the tractor had taken over most of the work on the farms, but there was still a fair number of draft horses around, and when I arrived at Mr. Kettlewell’s place I realized that this one was something special.
The farmer was leading him from a loose box into the yard. A magnificent Shire, all of eighteen hands, with a noble head which he tossed proudly as he paced toward me. I appraised him with something like awe, taking in the swelling curve of the neck, the deep-chested body, the powerful limbs abundantly feathered above the massive feet.
“What a wonderful horse!” I gasped. “He’s enormous!”
Mr. Kettlewell smiled with quiet pride. “Aye, he’s a right smasher. I only bought ‘im last month. I do like to have a good ‘oss about.”
He was a tiny man, elderly but sprightly, and one of my favorite farmers. He had to reach high to pat the huge neck and was nuzzled in return. “He’s kind, too. Right quiet.”
“Ah well, it’s worth a lot when a horse is good-natured as well as good-looking.” I ran my hand over the typical plaques in the skin. “Yes, this is urticaria, all right.”
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes it’s called nettle rash. It’s an allergic condition. He may have eaten something unusual, but it’s often difficult to pinpoint the cause.”
“Is it serious?”
“Oh no. I have an injection that’ll soon put him right. He’s well enough in himself, isn’t he?”
“Aye, right as a bobbin.”
“Good. Sometimes it upsets an animal, but this fellow’s the picture of health.”
As I filled my syringe with the antihistamine I felt that I had never spoken truer words. The big horse radiated health and well-being.
He did not move as I gave the injection, and I was about to put my syringe away when I had another thought. I had always used a proprietary preparation for urticaria and it had invariably worked. Maybe it would be a good idea to supplement the antihistamine, just to make sure. I wanted a good, quick cure for this splendid horse.
I trotted back to my car to fetch the old standby and injected the usual dose. Again the big animal
“How do you mean?”
He raised a forefinger and wagged it sagely. “Well, you’ve allus been tellin’ me that I got you out of your bed for nothing and I was imagining things when I thought me dog was ill.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”
“And I never believed you, did I? I wouldn’t be told. Well now I know you were right all the time. I’ve been nobbut a fool and I’m right sorry for botherin’ you all those nights.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, Humphrey.”
“Aye, but it’s not right.” He waved a hand toward his bright-faced, tail-wagging little dog. “Just look at her. Anybody can see there was never anythin’ wrong with Myrtle tonight.”
A Spot or Two of Bother
I am never at my best in the early morning, especially the cold mornings you get in Yorkshire when piercing wind sweeps down from the fells, finding its way inside clothing, nipping at noses and ears. It was a cheerless time, and a particularly bad time to be standing in this cobbled farmyard watching a beautiful horse dying because of my incompetence.
It had started at eight o’clock. Mr. Kettlewell telephoned as I was finishing my breakfast.
“I ‘ave a fine big cart ‘oss here and he’s come out in spots.”
“Really? What kind of spots?”
“Well, round and flat, and they’re all over ‘im.”
“And it started quite suddenly?”
“Aye, he were right as rain last night.”
“All right, I’ll have a look at him right away.” I nearly rubbed my hands. Urticaria. It usually cleared up spontaneously, but an injection hastened the process and I had a new antihistamine drug to try out—it was said to be specific for this sort of thing. Anyway, it was the kind of situation where it was easy for the vet to look good. A nice start to the day.
In the fifties, the tractor had taken over most of the work on the farms, but there was still a fair number of draft horses around, and when I arrived at Mr. Kettlewell’s place I realized that this one was something special.
The farmer was leading him from a loose box into the yard. A magnificent Shire, all of eighteen hands, with a noble head which he tossed proudly as he paced toward me. I appraised him with something like awe, taking in the swelling curve of the neck, the deep-chested body, the powerful limbs abundantly feathered above the massive feet.
“What a wonderful horse!” I gasped. “He’s enormous!”
Mr. Kettlewell smiled with quiet pride. “Aye, he’s a right smasher. I only bought ‘im last month. I do like to have a good ‘oss about.”
He was a tiny man, elderly but sprightly, and one of my favorite farmers. He had to reach high to pat the huge neck and was nuzzled in return. “He’s kind, too. Right quiet.”
“Ah well, it’s worth a lot when a horse is good-natured as well as good-looking.” I ran my hand over the typical plaques in the skin. “Yes, this is urticaria, all right.”
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes it’s called nettle rash. It’s an allergic condition. He may have eaten something unusual, but it’s often difficult to pinpoint the cause.”
“Is it serious?”
“Oh no. I have an injection that’ll soon put him right. He’s well enough in himself, isn’t he?”
“Aye, right as a bobbin.”
“Good. Sometimes it upsets an animal, but this fellow’s the picture of health.”
As I filled my syringe with the antihistamine I felt that I had never spoken truer words. The big horse radiated health and well-being.
He did not move as I gave the injection, and I was about to put my syringe away when I had another thought. I had always used a proprietary preparation for urticaria and it had invariably worked. Maybe it would be a good idea to supplement the antihistamine, just to make sure. I wanted a good, quick cure for this splendid horse.
I trotted back to my car to fetch the old standby and injected the usual dose. Again the big animal
Similar Books
