VET IN HARNESS

 Author : James Herriot

Drawings by Larry

Publisher : Michael Joseph (London), 1974, Pages 253

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Excerpts :

(1)  It was one a.m, Sunday morning, a not unusual time for some farmers after a late Saturday night to have a look round their stock and decide to send for the vet. So, eyes closed, I tiptoed across the carpet and pulled on my working clothes. I effortlessly accomplished the journey down the long flights of stairs but when I opened the side door my system of remaining half asleep crumbled. Even in the shelter of the high-walled garden the wind struck at me with a savage force. As I backed out of the garage the high branches of the elms groaned in the darkness as they bent before the blast.

(2) It was usually when I was half way through my Saturday evening sumptuous high tea laid out by wife Helen, that the door bell rang and there, sure enough, was Mr Grainger glaring belligerently through the glass door. He would never come into the house. All he wanted was a ten minutes’ discussion on the doorstep. He was only interested in me as an object to talk to. He would start giving impersonations of his animals – once that of a horse having difficulty in passing urine. He strutted up and down the pavement in front of the house. There were quite a few people in the street, probably bound for the early show at the cinema, but for the moment they appeared to find Mr Grainger more entertaining.

(3) Then there was Mr Grimsdale. His attitude towards me was something I couldn’t quite make out, but I did know that he always had a depressing effect on me. He did this by the simple expedient of telling me that I didn’t look very well. His sallies bit especially deeply, because he always referred to me in agricultural terms as though I were one of his bullocks. “You’ve lost a bit o’ ground lately, young man,” he would say “Aye, you’re losin’ ground fast- it’s plain to see. There’s no doubt you’ve run off.” When I had driven away, I always stopped the car just round the corner where a high curve of trees hid me from the farm. Staring into the car mirror I put out my tongue, pulled down my eyelids to have a look at my mucous membranes to see whether I was fine or not.

 (4) The cottage door was open and as I ventured up the path a little brown missile hurtled out at me. It was Cindy, but a transformed Cindy. A snarling, barking little bundle of ferocity; and though I recoiled, she fastened her teeth in my trouser cuff and hung on grimly. I was hopping around on one leg trying to shake off the growling little creature when a peal of almost girlish laughter made me look round. Mrs Dooley, vastly amused, was watching me from the doorway, “My word, she’s different since she had them pups. Just shows what a good little mother she is, guarding them like that.”

(5) My undoing was that both my companions appeared to have a standing account here; they downed their drinks, tapped softly on the counter and said, “Yes please, Jack,” whereupon three more glasses appeared with magical speed. I never had a chance to buy a round. In fact no money ever changed hands. Albert and Granville carried on a conversation of the utmost good humour punctuated by the almost soundless taps on the bar. And as I fought to keep up with the two virtuosos, the taps came more and more frequently till I seemed to hear them every few seconds.

(6) Mr Wiggin had now got a long loop dangling from his hand and he began to whirl it round his head as he crept towards the nearest bullock. When he finally made his cast the result was as expected; the rope fell limply half way along the animal’s back and dropped on to the straw.Mr Wiggin started again. He was a man of deliberate movements and there was something maddening in the way he methodically assembled his rope again. It seemed an age before he once more advanced on a bullock with the rope whirring round his head and lashing a farmhand across his face.

(7) The big dairy men and pedigree breeders kept bulls, and inserting rings in their noses was a regular job. The rings were put in when they were about a year old and were necessary to restrain the big animals for leading them around… With the bulls chin resting on top of the half door and ropes on either side held by farmhands, I pushed my punch into the nose, gripped the handles and squeezed… The snorting bellowing creature was two thirds over the door, hanging grotesquely with the top of the door digging deep into his abdomen, then with a final plunge he was into the yard and I ran for cover. The bull thundered through the yard like an express train.

(8)  Their dog Timmy had polished off the poison mixed porridge kept out for rats. I seized the astonished Timmy, whisked him from the rug, shot through the door and dumped him on the cobbles. Holding his body clamped tightly between my knees and his jaws close together with my left hand I poured the liquid mustard into his mouth. There was nothing he could do about it, and when about a tablespoon had gone down I released him. He began to retch and within seconds he had deposited his stolen meal in a quiet corner. He coughed, snorted, pawed at his mouth, but he just couldn’t rid himself of that dreadful taste; and it was obvious that he had me firmly tagged as the cause of all the trouble. After that whenever I was going down Trengate, a white missile issued from Gimber’sYard, nipped me on the ankle and disappeared as silently as he had come…. Fancy his remembering ! But it happened again and again and I realized that the little dog was indeed lying in wait for me.

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My Take :

James Herriot as a veterinary surgeon introduces us to rural Yorkshire with all kinds of animals and their varied owners. These accounts, mostly funny, but sometimes touching, show the life of a country vet.

His writing style is such that you feel as if the action is going on before your eyes.

          A thoroughly enjoyable book.

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Subject Type - Reminiscences

Narrative Style – Excellent

Readability – Excellent

Maintaining Readers Interest – Excellent

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