Lord God Made Them All (45 page)

I stowed the loops of bowel in my car boot, then went round the piggery making notes of the different grades of pigs. Because another little purgatory lay ahead of me—the filling up of the forms. I have a blind spot where forms are concerned, and the swine fever form was a horrendous pink thing about two feet long, with closely packed questions on each side about how many sows and boars and un weaned pigs and weaned pigs and fattening pigs, and heaven help you if you got any of the numbers wrong.

That evening at Skeldale House I wrestled with this pink thing for a long time, then turned to the real horror—the packing of the sample of bowel. The Ministry provided a special little outfit for this purpose. At first sight it looked just like a flat square of corrugated cardboard, some pieces of grease-proof paper, several lengths of hairy string and a sheet of brown paper. However, on closer examination you found that the cardboard folded into a small square box. The instructions were very explicit. You didn’t just bung a piece of bowel into the box; you had to lay a three-feet portion lengthwise on the grease-proof paper, then fold the ends of the paper inwards and tie the whole thing up in one of the pieces of string.

However, there was a catch here, because among the swine fever kit were two stridently printed red and black cards saying, “Pathological Specimen. Urgent.” With spaces for the address of the infected premises and all kinds of things. These cards had holes in each end, and the string containing the bowel had to be threaded through these holes before the box was closed. The other card went on the outside.

I painstakingly went through the ritual, and as I finally fumbled the string through the holes in the outside card and tied the box in the brown paper, I fell back exhausted because this sort of thing took more out of me than calving cows.

It was then, just as I was staring with glazed eyes at the envelopes containing the form for Head Office and the one for Divisional Office, the cardboard creation packed at last, that I saw the other card lying on the table. I had forgotten to include it with the contents.

“Damn and blast it to hell!” I yelled. “I always do that! I bloody well always do that!”

Helen must have thought I might have had some kind of seizure because she hurried through to the dispensary where I was working.

“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

I hung my head and nodded weakly. “Yes, sorry. It’s just this damned swine fever.”

“Well, all right, Jim.” She looked at me doubtfully. “But try to keep your voice down. You’ll wake the children.”

In grim silence I dismantled the box, threaded in the card and reconstructed the outfit once more. I had done this so often, and, oh, how I hated it. I thought bitterly that if ever I wanted something to kill a quiet evening, I had only to do an S.F. report.

I took the thing to the station and sent it off, and in an attempt to ease my mind I turned to one of my veterinary bibles, Udall’s
Practice of Veterinary Medicine.
Even among those hallowed pages I found little comfort. The great man’s pronouncements only reconfirmed my suspicions. He was an American and he called it hog cholera, but everything he described reminded me of what I had seen on Lionel’s place. He talked about injection of serum to protect the healthy pigs, but I had tried that, and it just didn’t work. It would be more expense for Lionel, with nothing to show for it.

Within a few days I got the result. The Ministry was unable to confirm the presence of swine fever on these premises. On that day I also heard from the roadman.

“Them pigs is worse. Your powders have done no good, and I ‘ave another dead ’un.”

Again the dash out to the piggery and the postmortem examination, and this time, as I slit the intestine along its length, I really thought I had found something definite. Surely those ulcers were slightly raised and concentric. The Ministry must confirm it this time, and then, at least, we would know where we were.

I had another evening of form filling and another struggle with the cardboard box and the papers, but as I sent off the samples, I was very hopeful that my doubts would be resolved.

When the word came back that the Ministry was once more unable to confirm the disease, I could have cried.

I appealed to Siegfried. “What the hell are they playing at? Can you tell me how they ever do diagnose S.F. from these samples at the lab?”

“Oh, yes.” My partner looked at me gravely. “They take the length of bowel from the paper and throw it against the ceiling. If it sticks there it’s a positive, if it falls off it’s negative.”

I gave a hollow laugh. “I’ve heard that one before, and sometimes I feel like believing it.”

“But don’t be too hard on the Ministry boys,” Siegfried said. “Remember, they have to be dead sure before they confirm, and they’d look damn silly if they were wrong. Lots of things can look like S.F. You find necrotic ulcers in worm infestations, for instance. It’s not easy.”

I groaned. “Oh, I know, I know. I’m not blaming them, really. It’s just that poor old Lionel Brough is sitting on the edge of a precipice, and I can’t do anything to help him.”

“Yes, James, it’s a hell of a situation. I’ve been there and I know.”

Two days later Lionel rang to say he had another dead pig. This time I found more typical ulcers, and though I still had no idea what the Ministry would say, I knew exactly what I had to do. My brain seemed to have worked it out during the night hours because my decision was crystal clear.

“Lionel,” I said, “you’ve got to slaughter every healthy pig on the place.”

His eyes widened. “But there’s hardly any of ’em ready for killin’ yet. And there’s in-pig sows and all sorts.”

“Yes, I know, but if the disease had been confirmed, I would have advised you to get rid of them all. You are under restrictions, as you know, and you can’t send any pigs to the market, but I can give you a licence for all the healthy pigs to go to the bacon factory.”

“Aye, but …”

“I can understand how you feel, Lionel. It’s tragic, but if once the disease gets among your other pigs, I won’t be able to give you a licence then, and you’ll just have to watch them die. This way I can save you about a couple of thousand pounds.”

“But the bacon pigs … the porkers … ah’d get a lot more in two months from now.”

“Yes, but you’d get something for them now and nothing if they get swine fever. And apart from the money, wouldn’t you rather have your pigs humanely slaughtered than see them waste away like this sick lot?”

My words brought home to me the fundamental sadness of a country vet’s work—that so many of our patients are ultimately destined for the butcher’s hook, and no matter how attractive farm animals may be, all our activities have a commercial foundation.

“Well, ah don’t know. It’s a big thing.” He looked again over the new piggery and the animals he had tended so carefully, then he turned and gave me a level stare. “And what if it isn’t swine fever?”

He had me there. Under those steady eyes I could only give him an honest answer. “If it isn’t, Lionel, I’ll be costing you thousands instead of saving you thousands.”

“Aye … aye … I see that. But you think it is?”

“As I told you before, I am not allowed to make an official diagnosis, but in my own mind I’m bloody sure it is.”

He nodded quickly. “Right, Mr. Herriot. Start makin’ out your licences. I’ve got a bit o’ faith in you.”

A “bit o’ faith” was a tremendous compliment from a plain Yorkshireman, and I hoped fervently that it was not misplaced. I got out my blue forms and started to write.

It wasn’t long before the new piggery was an empty, silent place. There remained only the pen or affected animals, and they died off rapidly. With all its terrors I was sure that swine fever was not a painful disease, and the one gleam of light in the little tragedy was that the diseased pigs quietly faded away and the others had a humane end. There was no real suffering.

Towards the end of the episode I heard from the Ministry that they had confirmed the disease. I showed the letter to Lionel, and he put his spectacles on and read it through carefully.

“You were right, then,” he said. “So it were a good job we did what we did.” He folded the paper and handed it back to me. “I got a nice bit from the factory for them pigs we sent in, and if we’d hung on I’d have got nowt. Ah’m grateful to ye.”

So that was what I got from that simple roadman after he had seen his dream collapse and melt away—no moaning, no complaints, only gratitude.

Different people reacted in different ways when they were ravaged by this terrible thing, but thank heaven it is all in the past now. A Crystal Violet vaccine was introduced and this helped to control the disease, but finally the Ministry started a compulsory slaughter policy, as in foot-and-mouth, and that was the end of swine fever. It must be nearly thirty years since I had to witness these disasters and wrestle with the forms and boxes and greaseproof papers, but the memory still lingers.

In the meantime, I wondered what Lionel would do with his new buildings. When the last pig had gone, he meticulously cleaned out and disinfected the place, but he didn’t say anything about his intentions. When the place had stood empty for four months, I concluded that he had had enough of large-scale farming, but I was wrong.

One evening when I had finished seeing a few dogs and cats, I found him sitting in a corner of the waiting room.

“Mr. Herriot,” he said without preamble, “I want to start again.”

“You mean, with pigs?”

“Aye, ah want to fill that place up again. Can’t bear seein’ it standin’ empty.”

I looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you absolutely sure? You took a nasty knock last time. I thought it might have put you off.”

“Nay, nay—ah still have this feelin’. I want to be in pigs. There’s just one thing, and that’s what I’ve come to ask ye. Could there be any of them germs left from t’last do?”

It was the sort of question I don’t like being asked. In theory, the infection should have died out on that place long ago, but I had heard some funny things about the swine fever virus surviving for long periods. But four months … the place had to be safe by now.

Anyway, it’s not much help when a vet says he doesn’t know. This man wanted an answer.

“I’m sure it would be safe to bring more pigs on now—if you’ve quite made up your mind.”

“Right, right, ah’ll get started again.” He turned and left me as though he couldn’t begin quickly enough.

And, indeed, it wasn’t long before the piggery echoed once more to the grunts, snorts and squeals of a new colony. And it wasn’t long, either, before trouble struck.

Lionel’s voice on the phone was more agitated than I had ever heard it. “I’ve just got back from me work, and me pigs are in a ‘ell of a state. Laid out all over t’place.”

My heart gave one mighty wallop against my ribs. “What do you mean … laid out?”

“Well, it’s like they were takin’ fits.”

“Fits!”

“Aye, they’re on their sides, kickin’ and slaverin’, and when they get up they stagger around and fall down again.”

“I’ll be right out.” The receiver rattled on its rest as I replaced it. I felt suddenly drained. I had advised this poor man that it was safe to restock, and there was no doubt swine fever could display nervous symptoms. I rushed for Udall and whipped through the pages. Yes, by God, there it was. “Motor irritation may be noted in the beginning in the form of circling, muscular twitchings and even convulsions.”

I didn’t see a thing as I threw my car at full speed along the narrow road. I never even noticed the trees speeding past the windows or the green fell rising beyond. I had only a horrid mental picture of what was waiting for me at the other end.

And it was worse than I expected. Much worse. The yard was littered with pigs of all sizes, from young stores to big pregnant sows. Some of them were reeling and toppling in the straw, but most were on their sides, foaming at the mouth, trembling and pedalling frantically with their feet at the empty air. Udall had talked about convulsions, and, dear God, I had never seen worse convulsions than these.

Pale-faced and wordless, Lionel led me round the pens. Suckling sows lay twitching as their litters fought at their udders for milk. The boar paced around his area like a blind thing, bumping into the walls, then sitting down, doglike, in a stupor. There was hardly a normal animal on the place.

The roadman turned to me with an attempt at a smile. “Well, we can’t licence off the healthy ’uns this time. There aren’t any.”

I shook my head dumbly. I was utterly bewildered. I found my voice at last. “When did this start?”

“They were all right as ninepence this momin’, t’whole lot of ’em. Bawlin’ for their grub like they allus do. Then when I came ’ome, they were like this.”

“But dammit, Lionel,” I said almost in a shout, “it’s too sudden! It doesn’t make sense!”

He nodded. “Aye, that’s what t’plumber said when ‘e saw them. Cot a bit of a shock, did t’feller.”

“Plumber?”

“Aye, the missus noticed at dinnertime that t’pigs had no water. She sent for Fred Buller, and ‘e came out this afternoon. Said there was a blockage in the pipes somewhere. He’s put it right now.”

“Then they’ve been without water most of the day?”

“Ah reckon so. They must ‘ave.”

Oh, glory be, now I knew. I was still full of apprehension, but the weight of guilt was suddenly lifted from me. Whatever happened now, it wasn’t my fault.

“So that’s it!” I gasped.

Lionel looked at me questioningly. “What d’ye mean? The water? That ’ud only make ’em a bit thirsty.”

“They’re not thirsty, they’ve got salt poisoning.”

“Salt poisoning? But they haven’t ‘ad no salt.”

“Yes, they have. There’s salt in nearly all pig meal.” My mind was racing. What was the first thing to do? I grabbed his arm and hustled him into the yard. “Come on, let’s get some of these pigs onto their feet.”

“But they’ve allus had the same meal. What’s happened today?” He looked mystified as we trotted through the straw.

I selected a big sow that was lying quiet between convulsions and started to push at her shoulder. “They’ve been without water. That’s what happened. And that causes a higher concentration of salt in the brain. Gives them fits. Push, Lionel, push! We’ve got to get her over to that trough. There’s plenty of water in there now.”