Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [104]
I assumed the cow I’d come to see was in there. So donning wellingtons and grabbing my black bag, I hurried across, my mental list of diagnoses growing longer with each stride. I blamed that list for my lack of concentration as to where I was going. The cow pat, one of many in the yard, was avoidable, but I failed to see it. I put my foot squarely in it, slipped and just about managed to regain my balance before slithering to a halt in front of Madge Stockwell.
Her gnome-like face, with its hooked nose, remained impassive. ‘Doesn’t pay to be in a hurry,’ she said. ‘Nowt gained if vet breaks’s leg.’
Beryl had said this was typical of the Stockwells. I would always be referred to as ‘vet’, never ‘Mr Mitchell’. Just ‘vet’ – as if plucked reluctantly from the modern world. It was different, no doubt, for Eric, but then he had a way with them … or at least with their sheep, if Beryl was to be believed.
‘And you closed gate?’ Madge went on.
I nodded.
‘Needs to be kept closed. So nowt can get out.’
‘Yes … yes … now, this cow … ’ I said trying to inject a bit of urgency into the proceedings. Beryl had also primed me on this aspect of the Stockwells.
‘No use hurrying them,’ she’d said. ‘They live in a world of their own.’
‘Quick’ didn’t seem to exist in their vocabulary unless referring to the one in your nail bed. Everything had to be done at their pace, thank you very much.
Madge led the way – slowly – to where her sister was standing next to the collapsed Jersey.
‘She looks in a bad way,’ I said, rapidly stepping over the cow.
She was lying on her side, legs stretched out, her head back, lolling against the partition between her and the Jersey in the next stall.
‘Aye, she’s none too good,’ said Madge, grinding to a halt, her hands stuffed in her trousers. ‘Thought that when I first saw her lying there, didn’t I, Rosie?’
‘You did, Madge.’
‘How long’s she been like this?’ I asked.
Madge took a deep breath. ‘How long would you say, Rosie?’
‘Don’t know … you found her. What time was that?’
‘Don’t know. Haven’t got a watch on.’
‘Oh well, never mind,’ I seethed, edging round the incumbent cow. She was unconscious, her long, curling eyelashes firmly locked over her eyes.
‘Myrtle’s always been a problem cow,’ said Madge. ‘Haven’t I always said so, Rosie?’
‘You have, Madge. Always.’ Rosie shuffled up to her sister until they were almost shoulder to shoulder.
‘Mind you, she’s been a good milker,’ said Madge reflectively.
‘She has that,’ said Rosie.
‘Very good.’
‘Yes, very good.’
‘And still will be if we can save her. But we need to be quick about it. This is an emergency,’ I said, trying to instil some sense of how serious this all was. Here we had a cow that was blowing up before our eyes. Unable to belch and so release the gases building up inside, Myrtle’s stomach had started to inflate. Her sides were as taut as a drum, the hair on her hide sticking up in dull, brown tufts. She could die any moment.
‘Guess she’s blown,’ said Madge.
‘Guess you’re right,’ said Rosie.
‘Guess she is … yes, she is … YES – SHE – IS!’ I felt like hollering. Calamity Jane had nothing on these two. Whip crack away? You must be joking.
Both sisters continued to look as if the Deadwood Stage had passed them by years ago. Talk about slow coaches.
‘You’ll have to stick ’er,’ said Madge. ‘Like that sheep. Remember, Rosie?’
‘The one that Eric poked?’
‘The very one.’
‘He did a good job there.’
‘He did, Madge. A very good job.’
‘He’s good with sheep, is Eric.’
‘He does have a feel for them.’
‘He does … he does.’
‘Look, ladies,’ I intervened, not wishing to hear any more, ‘if we don’t do something right now we’ll lose her.’
‘If you’re thinking of propping her up, it won’t work,’ said Rosie. ‘We’ve already tried it.’
‘We have,’ said Madge. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘No it didn’t.’
‘Stick ’er, will you?’ they both chorused. Both sisters’ thick, bushy eyebrows seemed to take on a life of their own as they soared in query.
‘Look, I think it best if we try and get some calcium into her first,’ I said. From the state of