animal stories by James Herriot Page A

paid no attention and the farmer laughed.
    “By gaw, he doesn’t mind, does ‘e?”
    I pocketed the syringe. “No, I wish all our patients were like him. He’s a grand sort.”
    This, I thought, was vetting at its best. An easy, trouble-free case, a nice farmer and a docile patient who was a picture of equine beauty, a picture I could have looked at all day. I didn’t want to go away although other calls were waiting. I just stood there, half listening to Mr. Kettlewell’s chatter about the imminent lambing season.
    “Ah well,” I said at length, “I must be on my way.” I was turning to go when I noticed that the farmer had fallen silent.
    The silence lasted for a few moments, then, “He’s dotherin’ a bit,” he said.
    I looked at the horse. There was the faintest tremor in the muscles of the limbs. It was hardly visible, but as I watched, it began to spread upward, bit by bit, until the skin over the neck, body and rump began to quiver. It was very slight, but there was no doubt it was gradually increasing in intensity.
    “What is it?” said Mr. Kettlewell.
    “Oh, just a little reaction. It’ll soon pass off.” I was trying to sound airy, but I wasn’t so sure.
    With agonizing slowness the trembling developed into a generalized shaking of the entire frame and this steadily increased in violence as the farmer and I stood there in silence. I seemed to have been there a long time, trying to look calm and unworried, but I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This sudden inexplicable transition—there was no reason for it. My heart began to thump and my mouth turned dry as the shaking was replaced by great shuddering spasms which racked the horse’s frame, and his eyes, so serene a short while ago, started from his head in terror, while foam began to drop from his lips. My mind raced. Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed those injections, but it couldn’t have this fearful effect. It was impossible.
    As the seconds passed, I felt I couldn’t stand much more of this. The blood hammered in my ears. Surely he would start to recover soon—he couldn’t get worse.
    I was wrong. Almost imperceptibly the huge animal began to sway. Only a little at first, then more and more until he was tilting from side to side like a mighty oak in a gale. Oh, dear God, he was going to go down and that would be the end. And that end had to come soon. Even the cobbles seemed to shake under my feet as the great horse crashed to the ground. For a few moments he lay there, stretched on his side, his feet pedaling convulsively, then he was still.
    Well, that was it. I had killed this magnificent horse. It was impossible, unbelievable that a few minutes ago that animal had been standing there in all his strength and beauty and I had come along with my clever new medicines and now there he was, dead.
    What was I going to say? I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Kettlewell, I just can’t understand how this happened. My mouth opened, but nothing came out, not even a croak. And, as though looking at a picture from the outside I became aware of the square of farm buildings with the dark, snow-streaked fells rising behind under a lowering sky, of the biting wind, the farmer and myself, and the motionless body of the horse.
    I felt chilled to the bone and miserable, but I had to say my piece. I took a long, quavering breath and was about to speak when the horse raised his head slightly. I said nothing, nor did Mr. Kettlewell, as the big animal eased himself onto his chest, looked around him for a few seconds, then got to his feet. He shook his head, then walked across to his master. The recovery was just as quick, just as incredible, as the devastating collapse, and he showed no ill effects from his crashing fall onto the cobbled yard.
    The farmer reached up and patted the horse’s neck. “You know, Mr. Herriot, them spots have nearly gone!”
    I went over and had a look. “That’s right. You can hardly see them now.”
    Mr. Kettlewell shook his