Once they was covered over he was awright.”
“Yes … yes … I see.” I followed the bullock slowly through.
He was indeed suffering from foul of the foot, the mediaeval term given because of the stink of the necrotic tissue between the cleats, and I didn’t have any antibiotics or sulphonamides to treat it. It is so nice and easy these days to give an injection, knowing that the beast will be sound in a day or two. But all I could do was wrestle with the lunging hind foot, dressing the infected cleft with a crude mixture of copper sulphate and Stockholm tar and finishing with a pad of cotton wool held by a tight bandage. When I had finished I took off my coat and hung it on a nail. I didn’t need it any more.
Mr. Stokill looked approvingly at the finished job. “Capital, capital,” he murmured. “Now there’s some little pigs in this pen got a bit o’ scour. I want you give ’em a jab wi’ your needle.”
We had various E coli vaccines which sometimes did a bit of good in these cases and I entered the pen hopefully. But I left in a hurry because the piglets’ mother didn’t approve of a stranger wandering among her brood and she came at me open-mouthed, barking explosively. She looked as big as a donkey and when the cavernous jaws with the great yellowed teeth brushed my thigh I knew it was time to go. I hopped rapidly into the yard and crashed the door behind me.
I peered back ruminatively into the pen. “We’ll have to get her out of there before I can do anything, Mr. Stokill.”
“Aye, you’re right, young man, ah’ll shift ’er.” He began to shuffle away.
I held up a hand. “No, it’s all right, I‘ll do it.” I couldn’t let this frail old man go in there and maybe get knocked down and savaged, and I looked around for a means of protection. There was a battered shovel standing against a wall and I seized it.
“Open the door, please,” I said. ‘I’ll soon have her out.”
Once more inside the pen I held the shovel in front of me and tried to usher the huge sow towards the door. But my efforts at poking her rear end were fruitless; she faced me all the time, wide-mouthed and growling as I circled. When she got the blade of the shovel between her teeth and began to worry it I called a halt.
As I left the pen I saw Mr. Stokill dragging a large object over the cobbles.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Dustbin,” the old man grunted in reply.
“Dustbin! What on earth …?”
He gave no further explanation but entered the pen. As the sow came at him he allowed her to run her head into the bin then, bent double, he began to back her towards the open door. The animal was clearly baffled. Suddenly finding herself in this strange dark place she naturally tried to retreat from it and all the farmer did was guide her.
Before she knew what was happening she was out in the yard. The old man calmly removed the bin and beckoned to me. “Right you are, Mr. Herriot, you can get on now.”
It had taken about twenty seconds.
Well, that was a relief, and anyway I knew what to do next. Lifting a sheet of corrugated iron which the farmer had ready I rushed in among the little pigs. I would pen them in a corner and the job would be over in no time.
But their mother’s irritation had been communicated to the family. It was a big litter and there were sixteen of them hurtling around like little pink racehorses. I spent a long time diving frantically after them, jamming the sheet at a bunch only to see half of them streaking out the other end, and I might have gone on indefinitely had I not felt a gentle touch on my arm.
“Haud on, young man, haud on.” The old farmer looked at me kindly. “If you’ll nobbut stop runnin’ after ’em they’ll settle down. Just bide a minute.”
Slightly breathless, I stood by his side and listened as he addressed the little creatures.
“Giss-giss, giss-giss,” murmured Mr. Stokill without moving. “Giss-giss, giss-giss.”
The piglets slowed
“Yes … yes … I see.” I followed the bullock slowly through.
He was indeed suffering from foul of the foot, the mediaeval term given because of the stink of the necrotic tissue between the cleats, and I didn’t have any antibiotics or sulphonamides to treat it. It is so nice and easy these days to give an injection, knowing that the beast will be sound in a day or two. But all I could do was wrestle with the lunging hind foot, dressing the infected cleft with a crude mixture of copper sulphate and Stockholm tar and finishing with a pad of cotton wool held by a tight bandage. When I had finished I took off my coat and hung it on a nail. I didn’t need it any more.
Mr. Stokill looked approvingly at the finished job. “Capital, capital,” he murmured. “Now there’s some little pigs in this pen got a bit o’ scour. I want you give ’em a jab wi’ your needle.”
We had various E coli vaccines which sometimes did a bit of good in these cases and I entered the pen hopefully. But I left in a hurry because the piglets’ mother didn’t approve of a stranger wandering among her brood and she came at me open-mouthed, barking explosively. She looked as big as a donkey and when the cavernous jaws with the great yellowed teeth brushed my thigh I knew it was time to go. I hopped rapidly into the yard and crashed the door behind me.
I peered back ruminatively into the pen. “We’ll have to get her out of there before I can do anything, Mr. Stokill.”
“Aye, you’re right, young man, ah’ll shift ’er.” He began to shuffle away.
I held up a hand. “No, it’s all right, I‘ll do it.” I couldn’t let this frail old man go in there and maybe get knocked down and savaged, and I looked around for a means of protection. There was a battered shovel standing against a wall and I seized it.
“Open the door, please,” I said. ‘I’ll soon have her out.”
Once more inside the pen I held the shovel in front of me and tried to usher the huge sow towards the door. But my efforts at poking her rear end were fruitless; she faced me all the time, wide-mouthed and growling as I circled. When she got the blade of the shovel between her teeth and began to worry it I called a halt.
As I left the pen I saw Mr. Stokill dragging a large object over the cobbles.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Dustbin,” the old man grunted in reply.
“Dustbin! What on earth …?”
He gave no further explanation but entered the pen. As the sow came at him he allowed her to run her head into the bin then, bent double, he began to back her towards the open door. The animal was clearly baffled. Suddenly finding herself in this strange dark place she naturally tried to retreat from it and all the farmer did was guide her.
Before she knew what was happening she was out in the yard. The old man calmly removed the bin and beckoned to me. “Right you are, Mr. Herriot, you can get on now.”
It had taken about twenty seconds.
Well, that was a relief, and anyway I knew what to do next. Lifting a sheet of corrugated iron which the farmer had ready I rushed in among the little pigs. I would pen them in a corner and the job would be over in no time.
But their mother’s irritation had been communicated to the family. It was a big litter and there were sixteen of them hurtling around like little pink racehorses. I spent a long time diving frantically after them, jamming the sheet at a bunch only to see half of them streaking out the other end, and I might have gone on indefinitely had I not felt a gentle touch on my arm.
“Haud on, young man, haud on.” The old farmer looked at me kindly. “If you’ll nobbut stop runnin’ after ’em they’ll settle down. Just bide a minute.”
Slightly breathless, I stood by his side and listened as he addressed the little creatures.
“Giss-giss, giss-giss,” murmured Mr. Stokill without moving. “Giss-giss, giss-giss.”
The piglets slowed
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