Free animal stories by James Herriot

“Nay, it’s nowt, we won’t miss a quid. We drink ower much on them do’s anyway.” He paused. “All t’lads want this job done—it’s been gettin’ on our bloody nerves ever since you told us about ‘im.”
    “Well, that’s great,” I said. “How will you get him down?”
    “Me boss is lendin’ me ‘is van. Wednesday night be all right?”
    “Fine.” I watched him ride away then turned back along the passage. It may seem to modern eyes that a lot of fuss had been made over a pound but in those days it was a very substantial sum, and some idea may be gained from the fact that four pounds a week was my commencing salary as a veterinary surgeon.
    When Wednesday night arrived it was clear that Mick’s operation had become something of a gala occasion. The little van was crammed with regulars from the Fox and Hounds and other rolled up on their bicycles.
    The old dog slunk fearfully down the passage to the operation room, nostrils twitching at the unfamiliar odors of ether and antiseptic. Behind him trooped the noisy throng of farm men, their heavy boots clattering on the tiles.
    Tristan, who was doing the anesthesia, hoisted the dog on the table and I looked around at the unusual spectacle of rows of faces regarding me with keen anticipation. Normally I am not in favor of lay people witnessing operations but since these men were sponsoring the whole thing they would have to stay.
    Under the lamp I got my first good look at Mick. He was a handsome, well-marked animal except for those dreadful eyes. As he sat there he opened them a fraction and peered at me for a painful moment before closing them against the bright light; that, I felt, was how he spent his life, squinting carefully and briefly at his surroundings.
    And when he was stretched unconscious on his side I was able to carry out my first examination. I parted the lids, wincing at the matted lashes, awash with tears and discharge; there was a longstanding keratitis and conjunctivitis but with a gush of relief I found that the cornea was not ulcerated.
    “You know,” I said, “this is a mess, but I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”
    The farm men didn’t exactly break into a cheer but they were enormously pleased. The carnival air was heightened as they chattered and laughed and when I poised my scalpel it struck me that I had never operated in such a noisy environment.
    But I felt almost gleeful as I made the first incision; I had been looking forward so much to this moment. Starting with the left eye I cut along the full length parallel to the margin of the lid, then made a semi-circular sweep of the knife to include half an inch of the tissue above the eye. Seizing the skin with forceps I stripped it away, and as I drew the lips of the bleeding wound together with stitches I noticed with intense gratification how the lashes were pulled high and away from the corneal surface they had irritated, perhaps for years.
    I cut away less skin from the lower lid—you never need to take so much there—then started on the right eye. I was slicing away happily when I realized that the noise had subsided; there were a few mutterings, but the chaff and laughter had died. Once the cutting was over, however, life slowly returned to the party.
    “What a lot of pale faces. I think you could all do with a drop of whiskey,” Tristan said after I had inserted the last stitch and we had begun to put away the instruments. He left the room and returned with a bottle which, with typical hospitality, he dispensed to all. Beakers, measuring glasses and test tubes were pressed into service and soon there was a boisterous throng around the sleeping dog. When the van finally roared off into the night the last thing I heard was the sound of singing from the packed interior.
    They brought Mick back in ten days for removal of the stitches. The wounds had healed well but the keratitis had still not cleared and the old dog was still blinking painfully. I didn’t