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29.06.2019

James Harriot

From the memoirs of a rural veterinarian

In two volumes

Beautiful world of love

James Harriot is not a professional writer, he is a veterinarian. A writer cannot write such a book. Because this is not an essay, this is a story about your work. About what has accumulated over many years of work as a veterinarian. About hundreds of meetings, cases, about farmers, their cows, sheep, pigs, dogs, cats. Nevertheless, James Harriot is a writer, because his books in his homeland and in other countries have become bestsellers, they are read in such a way that any novelist can envy him. He is a writer, because this is not a biography, not a story of an experienced person, not a memoir. This is a very original book, talented, which, perhaps, has not yet been.

The animals that Harriot treated, despite their dumbness, have character, each has its own temper, their behavior is more interesting than that of their owners. It would seem that the work of a veterinarian in the rural wilderness of Yorkshire is monotonous, tedious and completely unattractive - barnyards, dung, calving, lambing; what are the diseases of these cattle, and rude farmers, their ignorance and exactingness. Calls at night and on holidays. Hard physical work, and all the same from year to year. Where can you find solace here? Even with observation, humor. And where to get patience in clashes with the stinginess of farmers, with their suspicion, arrogance. How much here you have to swallow and humiliation, and shame for your professional impotence, because all this happened in those days when there was no penicillin, there were no many modern drugs and equipment.

Feeling the monotony or burdensomeness of one's work would never allow one to keep in memory a mosaic of all kinds of episodes, all the details of the past years, down to the suit, the faces of horned patients - some kind of goat Tina or dog Rip. What is this wonderful property - the memory of the author? Whence all these details, details, these voices, mooing, kicking of creatures long gone from life, which he alone remembers? Where does this inexhaustible patience for both people and animals come from? Of course, first of all from love.

The author loves and sympathizes with all patients as a doctor. Let the bestial, but the doctor, and, of course, the ethics of the doctor is observed by him in full and permeates all his practice. So it is, but there is clearly something more involved. And his love, after all, it must also eat something, it has its origins. Which? What are they, what is the main secret of both the activities and the life of J. Harriot? It is probably that all living things with which he deals - be it the dog Brandy and his mistress Mrs. Westby, Jack Scott's heifer and Jack himself - they are all equally God's creations for him and in this sense, as if equal. No wonder one of his four large collections is called in the original "All of them are God's creations" (in the Russian edition "And they are all creations of nature"). Created by the Creator, having a spark of God, they are all a miracle, they are the crown of creation, worthy of reverence. This, perhaps, is the highest form of love, when Nature is deified, when there is no place for man's conceit as a higher creation. For Harriot, a man has no advantages, and a man is by no means superior to his cattle. The existence of Fred the cat ennobles the existence of his owner, the sullen Walt Barnett. The cat is the only creature that managed to awaken a feeling of affection and love in this callous soul. What are human rights in this world? Why consider him the king of nature, its ruler? Only the right of the strong. Man has no other right over other animals, over the entire harmony of Nature. But is this right?.. Family and personal events, the fate of farmers, their children, the relationship of husbands and wives, their illnesses - all this is densely mixed with the misadventures of their animals, with their troubles and joys. This is a single world, a common being - equally great, equally dependent and equally feeling.

For J. Harriot, "all of them" are God's creations. A truly religious, sublime attitude towards all living things nourishes his love. From here flows an inexhaustible source of his kindness and patience, sympathy for the suffering of any homeless dog.

All his books are filled with this love, as is his soul. There is no gap between the written and the experienced. Therefore, reading page after page, it is as if you are in contact with the loving soul of this person, and there is no literary beauties and finds between us and the author, there is no language, no style. Although all this is certainly present, but that is the happiness of our readers, and the talent of the author, that this is not realized in any way.

Love, care, sympathy for every suffering creature, to which he gave his whole soul, his strength, and gave rise to a personal relationship, or rather, relationships; that is why they were so imprinted in the memory - those saved by him and those whom he could not save.

Harriot treats animals, but through them he helps people, his horned, tailed, lowing, flying patients help to reveal human characters brightly and deeply from an unexpected side.

Almost never J. Harriot does not condemn, does not scold farmers, owners - those of them who humiliated him were cruel, angry. He does not allow himself to ridicule their ignorance or rudeness, to repay his offenders in this book. The persistence with which he looks for kindness in a person, and when he finds it, admires it, is perhaps the most amazing thing. After all, he has to deal with people not by choice, he is obliged to appear to a variety of people, to listen to everything - whims and tyranny, stupidity and rudeness. But people are also moral patients for him, and he treats them with his patience and love.

I keep saying "book" even though I'm talking about books that were written one after another by a no longer young author; he chose from his vast practice of history those closest to him, which reflect his life path and moral philosophy. In the author's homeland, in England, his books are almost surprisingly successful, considering that they have no sharp plot, no sex, no literary innovations. This book is old-fashioned and yet relevant, I would even say ahead of its time. Its success not only in England, but all over the world, if you think about it, is due to an acute shortage of kindness and sincerity in our world. People lack examples of moral beauty, life in the name of lofty ideals. Albert Schweitzer, Mother Teresa, Andrey Sakharov - there are too few such people. The present time is too fierce, insensitive to human suffering.

The life of J. Harriot does not claim to be a feat, in his book there are no appeals, no philosophical justifications, no didactics. He is not a moralist, he is not trying to convince us of anything. It amazes him that “all over the world people were interested in my personal life.” This is the beauty and strength of his book. She suddenly, almost inadvertently, reveals, without any intentions, the secret and eternal problem of the meaning of human life. Outback, hard, thankless, unnoticed work of a veterinarian. You read and see how much beauty there is in these Yorkshire hills, how unpredictably the animals behave, how peculiar the farmers are, how harsh their peasant life is. And how romantic the profession of a veterinarian is, how deeply satisfying it can be. He not only exalted his profession, he showed how to find happiness in the most seemingly invisible work. And besides, there is still the opportunity to see always cheerful and funny. This book is lit up with a smile, and even laughter. Great sense of humor, as kind and loving as so much else in this man. How good it is to be cheerful, gentle, to be able to forgive people. But if this is generously rewarded, then why are there so few such veterinarians, so few Herriots? The advantage of a modest, almost poor life, aspiring in depth, and not in breadth, becomes enviable in this book. Travel is a rarity, luxury is inaccessible, there are few holidays, clothes, food are all the simplest, the car is old, cheap, but it turns out that there are other everyday pleasures, and there are many of them, almost every visit is full of surprises and mysteries ... In his preface, Harriot writes about how his books were made. There was no super-task in his plan, he always only selected his favorite episodes from his practice, “those that my family and I laughed at for many years.” Probably so it was. It turns out that you just need to love all these beautiful and amazing creatures - this is the most important and necessary thing for everyone.

Daniil Granin

Books that a little more - and would have remained unwritten

I wrote my books out of a need to somehow capture the most interesting time in veterinary medicine. I wanted to tell people what it was like to treat animals before the advent of penicillin and about all the things that made me laugh during my visits to farms when we worked in conditions that now seem primitive.

James Harriot

From the memoirs of a rural veterinarian

In two volumes

Beautiful world of love

James Harriot

From the memoirs of a rural veterinarian

In two volumes

Beautiful world of love

Harriot treats animals, but through them he helps people, his horned, tailed, lowing, flying patients help to reveal human characters brightly and deeply from an unexpected side.

Daniil Granin

Books that a little more - and would have remained unwritten

This need, however, took a long time to translate into anything concrete. To some extent, I satisfied her by telling my wife about the events of the day, and at the end I invariably added: “I will definitely include this in my book.”

Undoubtedly, this would have continued to this day if the wife had not somehow said in response:

Jim, you won't write any book.

She said this without any ulterior motive, but I was horrified.

What did you get from?! I exclaimed.

You see, you've been talking about your book for twenty-five years now. We celebrated our silver wedding last week. Or did you forget?

I began to prove that I simply do not like to act on a hot head, but prefer to think a little and weigh it first. But you can't catch women with logic.

She smiled at me kindly.

Don't take it so personally, Jim. T...

I want to tell you about one of my favorite books. I have a tradition - every summer at the dacha I read this book.

James Harriot
From the memoirs of a rural veterinarian
in 2 volumes
Publishing house MIR
1993

Translation by I.G. Gurova
Under the editorship of Dr. Biology, prof. D.F.Osidze
440 pages
Hard cover
offset paper
Circulation 200,000 copies.
With illustrations

James Harriot is a veterinarian. And this book is a story about his work, about his love for animals, about his love for Yorkshire. And this book is biographical - in it, James Herriot talks about the very beginning of his work, about his courtship of his future wife, about their family life. He tells us about what it was like for veterinarians at the beginning of the last century to treat animals - without antibiotics, in "primitive" conditions. There are both funny cases and sad ones in it - where would we be without them?

In the preface, D. Harriot writes: "The drawings in the margins have a special nostalgic power over me, again and again pleasantly returning my memory to the realm of the past." So this book is with drawings in the margins. And that's great! Here, there is a mention in the text of a stove in a tavern. And in the margins is a drawing of a Yorkshire stove and comments. In these marginal notes, you can find recipes for puddings and pancakes, descriptions of breeds of cows, sheep, etc., descriptions of veterinary tools, farmers' tools, and many other interesting things.

And here are the marginal notes:

I remember I bought this book on the advice of a friend at a book market, where all books cost 30 rubles. Now, unfortunately, this book can be bought on

From the memoirs of a rural veterinarian Harriot James

1. Tact is the best medicine

This mastic, - said Mr. Pickersgill. - Well, I won’t save you from her!

I nodded in agreement that the stubborn mastitis in his cows was cause for alarm, and I myself thought that other farmers would get by with the local term "swelling", but Mr. Pickersgill remained true to himself and categorically, although not quite accurately, applied the scientific name .

Usually he missed his target quite a bit, and the fruits of his efforts either accurately reproduced the original, or their origin could be traced without much difficulty, but where the “mastic” came from, I could not comprehend, but I knew that, once forging a word, he would already won't change. Mastitis was “this mastic” for him and will remain mastic. And I knew that he would always stubbornly defend his case. And all because Mr. Pickersgill, in his opinion, received a scientific education. He was about sixty years old, and as a young man, almost a teenager, he attended a two-week practical course for farmers at the University of Leeds. This fleeting contact with the academic world left an indelible mark on his soul. He seemed to feel that something truly significant and important was hidden behind the usual worries of his everyday life, and this kindled a fire in him that illuminated his entire subsequent life.

No robed, venerable scholar recalled his long years in the shadows of Oxford spiers with such nostalgia as Mr. Pickersgill did those two weeks in Leeds, and his conversations were punctuated with references to the godlike Professor Malleson who apparently taught the course.

I just have no idea what it is! he continued. - In my university days, they only told me that the udder swells from mastic, and the milk comes out dirty. So, this mastic is somehow different. Little flakes in milk, and even when they are, and when they are not; only I'm fed up with this, let me tell you.

I took a sip of tea from the cup that Mrs. Pickersgill placed in front of me on the kitchen table.

Yes, mastitis has dragged on and you can’t not worry. I am convinced that some hidden factor is at work here, and I cannot find it.

But I pretended not to doubt that I had already discovered this factor. One day I arrived at the farm in the late afternoon and entered the little barn where Mr. Pickersgill and his daughter Olivia were milking their ten cows. I stood and watched them milking, crouched in a crouch among a row of silver and red backs. And I immediately noticed that Olivia only slightly fingered, even her wrists were motionless, but her father pulled on her nipples as if he were ringing all the church bells on New Year's Eve.

This observation, coupled with the fact that flakes only appeared in the milk of the cows that Mr. Pickersgill milked, convinced me of the traumatic origin of their chronic mastitis.

But how do you tell him that he's milking the wrong way and the only way out is to develop a softer manner or agree to have all the cows milked by Olivia?

This decision was all the more difficult because Mr. Pickersgill had an unusually imposing nature. He wouldn't have had a penny to spare, but even here in the kitchen, in a shabby collarless flannel shirt and suspenders, he looked like an industrial magnate. No one would be surprised to see this lion's head, plump cheeks, noble forehead and condescending eyes in another photograph in the financial department of The Times. If he put on a bowler hat and striped trousers, it would be impossible to distinguish him from the chairman of the board of some large bank.

I did not have the heart to encroach on this innate dignity, and besides, Mr. Pickersgill cherished and cherished his cows. Ten of his cows, like all animals belonging to a rapidly disappearing breed of small farmers, were plump and clean. And how not to look after your cattle if it feeds you? Mr. Pickersgill raised and raised all his children on the income from the sale of milk, sometimes supplemented by the proceeds of two or three pigs and the eggs of fifty hens, which his wife took care of.

How they made ends meet, I can't say. But they mixed and were quite satisfied with their lot. All the children, except Olivia, got their own families and lived separately, and yet the spirit of harmony still reigned in the house. And at these moments Mr. Pickersgill expounded his point of view in detail, and his wife, bustling in the background, listened to him with quiet pride. Olivia was happy too. Although she was over thirty-five, she had no fear of old girlhood, for for fifteen years she had been courted with the most serious intentions by Charlie Hudson of a fish shop in Darrowby. Although Charlie's love was not distinguished by excessive storminess, it was by no means possible to call him a frivolous moth, and no one doubted that it would not take even ten years for him to explain himself.

Mr. Pickersgill offered me another butter cake, and when I thanked him and declined, he coughed several times, as if searching for words.

Mr. Harriot,” he began at last, “I am not in the habit of teaching people their business, but we have tried all your medicines, and they don’t take this mastic in any way. And I, when I studied with Professor Malleson, wrote down all sorts of excellent recipes and would like to try this one. Would you like to take a look?

He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper, almost frayed at the folds.

Ointment for the udder. Maybe if you rub the purse well with it, everything will go away?

I read the recipe, written in clear, old-fashioned handwriting. Camphor, eucalyptus oil, zinc oxide - a long list of such familiar names! They aroused in me an involuntary tenderness, but it was tempered by ever-growing disappointment. I was about to open my mouth to say that, in my opinion, no amount of rubbing would bring the slightest benefit, when the farmer groaned loudly.

He strained too hard, thrusting his hand into his back pocket, and the old sciatica immediately made itself felt. The old man straightened up, grimacing in pain.

It entered the back, I will report to you! A bloody lumbago, and the doctor can't do anything about it. He swallowed the pills - he made a rattle out of me, but a little sense.

I am not distinguished by brilliant mental abilities, but sometimes it dawns on me.

Mr Pickersgill! I said with deep seriousness. - As far as I know you, you suffer from sciatica, and now a thought occurred to me. I think I know how you could get rid of it.

The farmer's eyes opened wide, revealing a childish trust without the slightest hint of irony. As expected. Since people rely more on the words of a flayer or a bone meal dealer than on the advice of a veterinarian when their animals are sick, it is only natural that they would prefer the advice of a veterinarian to a doctor when it comes to their own illnesses.

Do you know how to heal me? he asked in a weak voice.

Yes, I think so. And no treatment is required. Just stop milking!

Stop milking? What the hell?..

Exactly, exactly! Remember: every morning and every evening you sit bent over on a low stool. You are a tall man, and you bury your chin on your knees in order to reach the udder. Of course it's bad for you!

Mr. Pickersgill stared before him as if he had a wondrous vision.

Do you really think...

Undoubtedly. Anyway, check. For now, Olivia can milk. She always says she'll do great on her own.

Of course, dad! Olivia intervened. - I love to milk, you know, and you have to relax. You've been milking since childhood.

Damn, young man, but you, perhaps, hit the mark, I will report to you. And I won't try. From this moment I will finish, my decision is made. Mr. Pickersgill threw back his magnificent head, looked around the kitchen with authority, and slammed his fist on the table, as if he had just signed the documents on the merger of two oil companies.

Great, great. I will take the recipe with me and make an ointment. It will be ready in the evening, and if I were you, I would start the treatment without delay.

The next time I saw Mr. Pickersgill was about a month later. He rode his bicycle majestically through the marketplace, but he saw me and dismounted.

Ah, Mr Herriot! he said, puffing slightly. - I'm glad we met. I kept going to call on you and tell you that there are no more cereals in the milk. As we began to rub the ointment, so they began to decline, and then completely disappeared.

Perfectly! What about your sciatica?

Here you didn’t make a mistake, young man, I’ll tell you that thanks, then thanks! Since that day, I have never milked, so my back even stopped aching. He smiled kindly at me. - For her, you gave me good advice, but in order to cure this mastic, we had to return to the old Professor Malleson, huh?

My next conversation with Mr. Pickersgill was by telephone.

I’m talking about an autoclave,” he said stifledly.

By auto…

Well, yes. In the village, from the booth. By phone-autoclave.

Oh yes, yes, I said. So what can I do to help?

Would you come now? And then one of my calves had a greasy nose.

Sorry?

Greasy nose. At the calf.

Greasy nose?

Wow! There was just talking about him on the radio this morning.

Ah! Yes, yes, I understand. (I also had time to listen to this part of the program for farmers - a lecture on salmonellosis in calves.) But why do you think that he has this disease?

Just as they explained: his blood comes from the andus.

From… Ah, yes, yes, of course. It should be looked at. I will be soon.

The calf was undeniably very ill, and he really was bleeding from the anus. But not like with salmonella.

He doesn't have diarrhea, Mr. Pickersgill, you can see for yourself. On the contrary, the impression is that it is difficult for him to cross. The blood is almost pure. And the temperature is not very high.

Damn, I thought he was exactly the same as they explained. They also said that samples should be sent to Labrador.

In the investigator's Labrador. Yes, you know!

Yes, yes, absolutely right. But, I think, analyzes here will give nothing.

Well, what does he have then? Is there something wrong with Android?

No, no, I replied. - But somewhere his intestines are blocked, and this causes bleeding. - I looked at the dejected, hunched back calf. He was all focused on unpleasant internal sensations and from time to time he strained and groaned slightly.

Of course, of course, I should have immediately understood what was happening, because the picture was extremely clear. But, probably, each of us has our own blind spots, which do not allow us to distinguish what catches our eye, and for several days, as if in a fog, I stuffed the poor thing with this and that - I don’t even want to remember.

But I got lucky. He recovered despite my treatment. It was only when Mr. Pickersgill showed me the wad of necrotic tissue that came out with the excrement that I finally understood.

And ashamedly turned to the farmer.

It's a piece of dead gut that has retracted into itself. Intussusception. It usually results in the death of the animal, but fortunately your calf got rid of the obstruction naturally and should now be on the mend.

But how did you say? What did he have?

Intussusception.

Mr. Pickersgill's lips moved, and I expected him to repeat a new word at any moment. But the attempt appears to have failed.

BUT! - he said only. - That's what he had!

Yes, but what the reason was is difficult to determine.

The farmer snorted contemptuously.

If you want to bet, I'll tell you! From the very beginning, I will report to you, I said that he would grow weak. He was bleeding from his navel, because he was born in a percentage!

But Mr. Pickersgill hasn't finished with me yet. Less than a week later, I again heard his voice in the receiver:

Come soon! I got a bezique pig here.

Bezique? - I even blinked, driving away the vision of two pigs, who started playing cards. I'm afraid I'm not quite...

I gave her a medicine for worms, and she jumped up and rolled on her back. I tell you, the real bezique.

Ah… yes, yes, I… yes, yes. I'm coming.

When I arrived, the pig calmed down a little, but still suffered from pain: she lay down, jumped up, circled around the cubbyhole. I injected her with a gran of morphine hydrochloride, and after a few minutes her movements slowed down, and then she lay down on the straw and fell asleep.

Looks like it'll work out, I said. "But what potion did you give her?"

Mr. Pickersgill reluctantly handed me the bottle.

Then one stopped by - sold it. He said that he would destroy any worms that he had.

So your pig was almost destroyed too, right? I noticed, sniffing the liquid. - And no wonder. Judging by the smell, it's almost pure turpentine.

Turpentine? Oh shit, just something? And he swore that the tool was the newest. And he ripped off cardinal money from me.

I returned the bottle to him.

That is OK. It seems to me that there will be no bad consequences, but the place for this bottle in the trash can, believe me.

As I got into the car, I glanced at Mr. Pickersgill.

I must have bored you. First mastitis, then a calf, and now a pig. A whole streak of trouble.

Mr. Pickersgill squared his shoulders and looked at me with monumental calm.

Young man, he said, I'm just looking at it. You can't do without cattle. And I, let me tell you, I know from experience that the trouble is that it always goes in cyclones.

Forks for agricultural work

At one time, local blacksmiths forged iron tips for pitchforks of various shapes and mounted them on hewn handles. By the 1930s, factory-made pitchforks were already being sold. Forks equipped with a particularly long, up to two meters, handle (on the left) were intended for laying hay in a meadow in a wagon, and from it into haystacks or hayloft. Straw bedding for cattle was laid out with pitchforks on the right. The farmer could get by with one of these pitchforks, or use both types for a variety of jobs. Sometimes the teeth were blunted for safety. Forks with three tines (center) were used to spread manure across the field.

Peat cakes

Before there were ovens in kitchens, food was cooked over an open fire. Meat was fried on skewers or stewed in pots, oatmeal and butter cakes were baked on baking sheets. Peat cakes were baked in a large cast-iron skillet over burning peat, with smoldering chunks of peat placed on the lid of the pan for a more even heat. At the beginning of the century, they began to be sweetened with sugar and baked with dried fruit in ovens. To bake 24 peat cakes, add a pinch of salt to 250 g of pancake flour and grind it well with 120 g of baked lard. Then pour 100 g of sugar and 100 g of pitted raisins into the flour and, stirring constantly, add milk in half with water until a soft dough is obtained. Roll out a centimeter-thick layer from it and cut circles with a diameter of 5 cm. Bake on a greased baking sheet for 15 minutes at a temperature of 200 ° C.

Dairy milk

Wensleydale Dairy Products, one of the Yorkshire downs in the late 1930s, took over 2,000 liters of milk from small farmers every day. Farmers took the cans to the nearest highway and left them there on a high flat stone or a specially made wooden platform so that the truck driver could pick them up without lifting them into the back of the truck.

Cheese press

To make cheese, the milk is first fermented with an acidic extract from the abomasum of a dairy calf. The resulting clot is squeezed and crumbled into a vat for decanting, after which it is placed under a press. The Rydale press shown in the figure is a lid on a screw passed through a curved iron support. The vat, about 25 cm in diameter, was made of oak riveting tied with three iron hoops, in which holes were drilled to drain the whey.

HOW TO GIVE YOUR DOG MEDICINE The easiest and most convenient way is to give the medicine along with the food. To do this, the medicine is rolled into a ball of minced meat or placed in an incision in a small piece of meat or bread. Bitter medicines are pre-wrapped in thin

From the book Poodle author Melnikov Ilya

How to give a dog medicine Medicine is given to dogs with food. So you can give tablets, powders, liquid medicines in gelatin capsules, etc. The technique for performing this procedure is not difficult. In finely chopped pieces of meat, minced meat, cheese,

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