Free animal stories by James Herriot Page B

on it, it was Buttercup on the other side.
    There were only six cows in the little cobbled byre with its low roof and wooden partitions and they all had names. You don’t find cows with names anymore and there aren’t any farmers like Mr. Dakin who somehow scratched a living from a herd of six milkers plus a few calves, pigs and hens.
    “Aye, well,” he said, “ah reckon t’awd lass doesn’t owe me anythin’. Ah remember the night she was born, twelve years ago. She was out of awd Daisy and ah carried her out of this very byre on a sack and the snow was comin’ down hard. Since then ah wouldn’t like to count how many thousand gallons o’ milk she’s turned out—she’s still givin’ four a day. Naw, she doesn’t owe me a thing.”
    As if she knew she was the topic of conversation Blossom turned her head and looked at him. She was the classical picture of an ancient bovine; as fleshless as her owner, with jutting pelvic bones, splayed, over-grown feet, and horns with a multitude of rings along their curving length. Beneath her, the udder, once high and tight, drooped forlornly almost to the floor.
    She resembled her owner, too, in her quiet, patient demeanor. I had infiltrated her teat with a local anesthetic before stitching but I don’t think she would have moved if I hadn’t used any. Stitching teats puts a vet in the ideal position to be kicked, with his head low down in front of the hind feet, but there was no danger with Blossom. She had never kicked anybody in her life.
    Mr. Dakin blew out his cheeks. “Well there’s nowt else for it. She’ll have to go. I’ll tell Jack Dodson to pick ‘er up for the fatstock market on Thursday. She’ll be a bit tough for eatin’ but ah reckon she’ll make a few steak pies.”
    He was trying to joke but he was unable to smile as he looked at the old cow. Behind him, beyond the open door, the green hillside ran down to the river and the spring sunshine touched the broad sweep of the shallows with a million dancing lights. A beach of bleached stones gleamed bone-white against the long stretch of grassy bank which rolled up to the pastures lining the valley floor. I had often felt that this small holding would be an ideal place to live; only a mile outside Darrowby, but secluded and with this heart-lifting vista of river and fell. I remarked on this once to Mr. Dakin and the old man turned to me with a wry smile. “Aye, but the view’s not very susta*’,” he said.
    It happened that I was called back to the farm on the following Thursday to check over a cow and was in the byre when Dodson the drover called to pick up Blossom. He had collected a group of fat bullocks and cows from other farms and they stood, watched by one of his men, on the road high above.
    “Nah then, Mr. Dakin,” he cried as he bustled in, “it’s easy to see which one you want me to tek. It’s that awd screw over there.”
    He pointed at Blossom, and in truth the unkind description seemed to fit the bony creature standing between her sleek neighbors.
    The farmer did not reply for a moment, then he went up between the cows and gently rubbed Blossom’s forehead. “Aye, this is the one, Jack.” He hesitated, then undid the chain round her neck. “Off ye go, awd lass,” he murmured, and the old animal turned and made her way placidly from the stall.
    “Aye, come on with ye!” shouted the dealer, poking his stick against the cow’s rump.
    “Don’t hit ‘er!” barked Mr. Dakin.
    Dodson looked at him in surprise. “Ah never ‘it ‘em, you know that. Just send ‘em on, like.”
    “Ah knaw, ah knaw, Jack, but you won’t need your stick for this ‘un. She’ll go wherever ye want—allus has done.”
    Blossom confirmed his words as she ambled through the door and, at a gesture from the farmer, turned along the track.
    The old man and I stood watching as the cow made her way unhurriedly up the hill, Jack Dodson in his long khaki smock sauntering behind her. As the path wound