James Herriot’s Dog Stories by James Herriot

Author:James Herriot [Herriot, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781447230274
Publisher: Pan Books

25. The Bandaged Finger

I was castrating pigs and Rory was holding them. There were several litters to do and I was in a hurry and failed to notice the Irish farm worker’s mounting apprehension. His young boss was catching the little animals and handing them to Rory who held them upside down, gripped between his thighs with their legs apart, and as I quickly incised the scrotums and drew out the testicles my blade almost touched the rough material of his trouser crutch.

For God’s sake, have a care, Mr Herriot!’ he gasped at last.

I looked up from my work. ‘What’s wrong, Rory?’

‘Watch what you’re doin’ with that bloody knife! You’re whippin’ it round between me legs like a bloody Red Indian. You’ll do me a mischief afore you’ve finished!’

‘Aye, be careful, Mr Herriot,’ the young farmer cried. ‘Don’t geld Rory instead of the pig His missus ud never forgive ye.’ He burst into a loud peal of laughter, the Irishman grinned sheepishly and I giggled.

That was my undoing, because the momentary inattention sent the blade slicing across my left forefinger. The razor-sharp edge went deep and in an instant the entire neighbourhood seemed flooded with my blood. I thought I would never staunch the flow. The red ooze continued, despite a long session of self-doctoring from the car boot, and when I finally drove away my finger was swathed in the biggest, clumsiest dressing I had ever seen. I had finally been forced to apply a large pad of cotton wool held in place with an enormous length of three-inch bandage.

It was dark when I left the farm. About five o’clock on a late December day, the light gone early and the stars beginning to show in a frosty sky. I drove slowly, the enormous finger jutting upwards from the wheel, pointing the way between the headlights like a guiding beacon. I was within half a mile of Darrowby, with the lights of the little town beginning to wink between the bare roadside branches, when a car approached, went past, then I heard a squeal of brakes as it stopped and began to double back.

It passed me again, drew into the side and I saw a frantically waving arm. I pulled up and a young man jumped from the driving seat and ran towards me.

He pushed his head in at the window. ‘Are you the vet?’ His voice was breathless, panic-stricken.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Oh thank God! We ‘re passing through on the way to Manchester and we’ve been to your surgery . . . they said you were out this way . . . described your car. Please help us!’

‘What’s the trouble?’

‘It’s our dog . . . in the back of the car. He’s got a ball stuck in his throat. I . . . I think he might be dead.’

I was out of my seat and running along the road before he had finished. It was a big white saloon and in the darkness of the back seat a wailing chorus issued from several little heads silhouetted against the glass.

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