right. Well, I bought her in foal and I bought her in good faith, is she always going to be subject to this, eh, eh? I’ve heard about horses that are always getting it. Have I been sold a pup, d’ye think? D’you know enough about the job to tell me that, eh, eh?”
The young man, however, did not seem at all put out. He spoke soothingly. “Now, Major Sykes, I’ve told you the cause of the trouble. Your mare retained her afterbirth when she foaled and she developed metritis. Laminitis is a common complication of this, and what you have here is an isolated case. I’ve given her a shot of antibiotic and I’ll repeat it over the next day or two. That will clear the metritis.”
Still bristling, the little man stuck out his chin. “And how about the bloody laminitis, what’re you going to do about that, eh, eh?”
“Well, as you saw, she’s had an injection for that, too.” John gave him a serene smile. “And if you’ll keep her on bran for a few days and stand her in your pond to cool the feet as I directed, I’m sure she’ll soon be back to normal.”
“And d’you think she’s had it before?”
“No, no, no.”
“How the hell d’ye know that?”
“Well, now, she’s got no lines round her hooves, and look here.” He lifted one of the mare’s forefeet. “A lovely concave sole. She’s never had laminitis before.”
“And it won’t come back, eh?”
“No likelihood of a recurrence.”
“Just hope you’re right,” the Major grunted.
“I’m sure I am. You’ll see. You worry too much, you know.” I shuddered and closed my eyes as John reached out and gave the little man a comforting pat on the shoulder. For a moment I thought the Major would erupt, then, to my amazement, his face broke into something like a shy smile. “You think so, eh?”
“I do indeed. You really oughtn’t to let things upset you so much.”
This was something new in the little man’s experience and for a few seconds he looked up into John’s face, then he took off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re right, young man. Heh-heh-heh!”
I couldn’t believe it. He was laughing. John threw back his head and laughed, too. It was like a reunion between two old college chums. And suddenly I realised that that wasn’t little John Crooks, our student, in there, it was a tall, good-looking, self-assured veterinary surgeon with a fine big voice that lent authority to everything he said. I slunk away to my car and drove off with a resolution already formed in my mind. I wasn’t going to worry about John any more.
He had been with us for a few weeks when I answered the phone one morning. “Hello, is that Mr. Herriot?” a cheerful voice enquired. I recognised one of our farmer clients.
“Yes, Mr. Gates,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Nay, it’s awright. Ah want to speak to t’yoong man.”
A pang, unexpectedly deep and piercing, shot through me. What was this? I was the “yoong man,” always had been. That was how the clients had invariably referred to me even though I was only six years younger than Siegfried. There was some mistake here.
“Whom did you say you wanted?” I asked.
“T’yoong man—Mr. Crooks.”
Ah, well, there it was. I hadn’t realised that I had become attached to my title and, walking along the passage to fetch John, I felt strangely wistful as I faced the fact that, although I was still in my early thirties, I wasn’t the young man any more.
From then on, I had to live with an ever-increasing flood of requests for the services of a young man who wasn’t me. However, it was only depressing for a short time, because the compensations were enormous. As John settled in to the practice I found a miraculous easing of my life. It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o’clock in the morning and was able to pass it on
The young man, however, did not seem at all put out. He spoke soothingly. “Now, Major Sykes, I’ve told you the cause of the trouble. Your mare retained her afterbirth when she foaled and she developed metritis. Laminitis is a common complication of this, and what you have here is an isolated case. I’ve given her a shot of antibiotic and I’ll repeat it over the next day or two. That will clear the metritis.”
Still bristling, the little man stuck out his chin. “And how about the bloody laminitis, what’re you going to do about that, eh, eh?”
“Well, as you saw, she’s had an injection for that, too.” John gave him a serene smile. “And if you’ll keep her on bran for a few days and stand her in your pond to cool the feet as I directed, I’m sure she’ll soon be back to normal.”
“And d’you think she’s had it before?”
“No, no, no.”
“How the hell d’ye know that?”
“Well, now, she’s got no lines round her hooves, and look here.” He lifted one of the mare’s forefeet. “A lovely concave sole. She’s never had laminitis before.”
“And it won’t come back, eh?”
“No likelihood of a recurrence.”
“Just hope you’re right,” the Major grunted.
“I’m sure I am. You’ll see. You worry too much, you know.” I shuddered and closed my eyes as John reached out and gave the little man a comforting pat on the shoulder. For a moment I thought the Major would erupt, then, to my amazement, his face broke into something like a shy smile. “You think so, eh?”
“I do indeed. You really oughtn’t to let things upset you so much.”
This was something new in the little man’s experience and for a few seconds he looked up into John’s face, then he took off his cap and scratched his head. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re right, young man. Heh-heh-heh!”
I couldn’t believe it. He was laughing. John threw back his head and laughed, too. It was like a reunion between two old college chums. And suddenly I realised that that wasn’t little John Crooks, our student, in there, it was a tall, good-looking, self-assured veterinary surgeon with a fine big voice that lent authority to everything he said. I slunk away to my car and drove off with a resolution already formed in my mind. I wasn’t going to worry about John any more.
He had been with us for a few weeks when I answered the phone one morning. “Hello, is that Mr. Herriot?” a cheerful voice enquired. I recognised one of our farmer clients.
“Yes, Mr. Gates,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Nay, it’s awright. Ah want to speak to t’yoong man.”
A pang, unexpectedly deep and piercing, shot through me. What was this? I was the “yoong man,” always had been. That was how the clients had invariably referred to me even though I was only six years younger than Siegfried. There was some mistake here.
“Whom did you say you wanted?” I asked.
“T’yoong man—Mr. Crooks.”
Ah, well, there it was. I hadn’t realised that I had become attached to my title and, walking along the passage to fetch John, I felt strangely wistful as I faced the fact that, although I was still in my early thirties, I wasn’t the young man any more.
From then on, I had to live with an ever-increasing flood of requests for the services of a young man who wasn’t me. However, it was only depressing for a short time, because the compensations were enormous. As John settled in to the practice I found a miraculous easing of my life. It was rather wonderful to have an assistant, especially a good one like him. I had always liked him, but when I got a call to a calving heifer at three o’clock in the morning and was able to pass it on
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