Free animal stories by James Herriot Page A

see the final result of my work for another month.
    It was when I was again driving home through Copton from an evening call that the lighted doorway of the Fox and Hounds recalled me to the little operation which had been almost forgotten in the rush of new work. I went in and sat down among the familiar faces.
    Things were uncannily like before. Old Albert Close in his usual place, Mick stretched under the table, his twitching feet testifying to another vivid dream. I watched him closely until I could stand it no longer. As if drawn by a magnet I crossed the room and crouched by him.
    “Mick!” I said. “Hey, wake up, boy!”
    The quivering limbs stilled and there was a long moment when I held my breath as the shaggy head turned toward me. Then with a kind of blissful disbelief I found myself gazing into the wide, clear, bright eyes of a young dog.
    Warm wine flowed richly through my veins as he faced me, mouth open in a panting grin, tail swishing along the stone flags. There was no inflammation, no discharge, and the lashes, clean and dry, grew in a soft arc well clear of the corneal surface which they had chafed and rasped for so long. I stroked his head and as he began to look around him eagerly I felt a thrill of utter delight, at the sight of the old animal exulting in his freedom, savoring the new world which had opened to him. I could see Ted Dobson and the other men smiling conspiratorially as I stood up.
    “Mr. Close,” I shouted, “will you have a drink?”
    “Aye, you can put a drop i’ there, young man.”
    “Mick’s eyes are a lot better.”
    The old man raised his glass. “Good ‘ealth. Aye, it were nobbut a bit o’ caud.”
    “But Mr. Close …!”
    “Nasty thing, is caud in t’eyes. T’awd feller keeps lyin’ in that door’ole and ah reckon he’ll get it again. Ever since ‘e were a pup ‘e’s been subjeck …”

Blossom Comes Home
    After the rigors of lambing during March and April, my world became softer and warmer through May and early June. At Skeldale House the wisteria exploded into a riot of mauve blooms which thrust themselves through the open windows and each morning as I shaved I breathed in the heady fragrance from the long clusters drooping by the side of the mirror. Life was idyllic.
    At times it seemed unfair that I should be paid for my work; for driving out in the early morning with the fields glistening under the first pale sunshine and the wisps of mist still hanging on the high tops. The air, fresh as the sea, carried a faint breath of the thousands of wildflowers which speckled the pastures.
    It was on such a morning that I arrived at Mr. Dakin’s farm just outside Darrowby. I saw Mr. Dakin in the cow byre and went across to him. The farmer’s patient eyes in the long, drooping mustached face looked down at me from his stooping height.
    “It looks as though it’s over wi’ awd Blossom, then,” he said, and rested his hand briefly on the old cow’s back. It was an enormous, work-swollen hand. Mr. Dakin’s gaunt frame carried little flesh but the grossly thickened fingers bore testimony to a life of toil.
    I dried off the needle and dropped it into the metal box where I carried my suture materials, scalpels and blades. “Well, it’s up to you of course, Mr. Dakin, but this is the third time I’ve had to stitch her teats and I’m afraid it’s going to keep on happening.”
    “Aye, it’s just the shape she is.” The farmer bent and examined the row of knots along the four-inch scar. “By gaw, you wouldn’t believe it could mek such a mess—just another cow standin’ on it.”
    “A cow’s hoof is sharp,” I said. “It’s nearly like a knife coming down.”
    That was the worst of very old cows. Their udders dropped and their teats became larger and more pendulous so that when they lay down in their stalls the vital milk-producing organ was pushed away to one side into the path of the neighboring animals. If it wasn’t Mabel on the right standing