"Aye ... aye ..." The farmer thrust a finger against the tumefied area and Nellie flinched. "It's goin' up her leg on that side right enough. Ah thought it was nowt but a bit o' foul and I've been puttin' ... ."

"By gaw," Len interjected. "The lads 'ad a good win against Hellerby on Saturday. Johnnie Nudd got another couple o' goals and ..."

"... puttin' that caustic lotion between 'er cleats." Mr. Birtwhistle didn't appear to have heard his son, but it was always like that. "Done it regular night and mornin'. And ah'll tell ye the best way to do it. Get a hen feather an' ..."

"... ah wouldn't be surprised if 'e scores a few more this Saturday," continued Len unheedingly. "He's a right bobby dazzler when 'e ..."

"... ye just dip it in t'lotion and push the feather in between t'cleats. It works like a ..."

"... gets that ball on 'is right foot. He just whacks 'em in ..."

I raised a hand. "Wait a minute. You must realise this cow hasn't got foul. She has suppurative arthritis in this little joint just at the coronet here. I don't want to use a lot of big words but she has pus-matter-right inside the joint cavity, and it's a very nasty thing."

Mr. Birtwhistle nodded slowly. "Sort of a abscess, you mean? Well, maybe it 'ud be best to lance it. Once you let t'matter out it would ..."

"... just like a rocket," went on Len. "Ah'll tell ye, Johnnie could get a trial for Darlington one o' these days and then ..."

I always think it is polite to look at a person when they are talking to you, but it is difficult when they are both talking at once, especially when one of them is bent double and the other standing behind you.

"Thank you, Len," I said. "You can put her foot down now." I straightened up and directed my gaze somewhere between them. "The trouble with this condition is that you can't just stick a knife into it and relieve it. Very often the smooth surfaces of the joint are eaten away and it's terribly painful."

Nellie would agree with me. It was the outside cleat which was affected and she was standing with her leg splayed sideways in an attempt to take the weight on the healthy inner digit.

The farmer asked the inevitable question. "Well, what are we goin' to do?"

I had an uncomfortable conviction that it wasn't going to make much difference what we did, but I had to make an effort.

"We'll give her a course of sulphanilamide powders and I also want you to put a poultice on that foot three times daily."

"Poultice?" The farmer brightened. "Ah've been doin' that. Ah've been ..."

"If Darlington signed Johnnie Nudd I reckon ... ."

"Hold on, Len," I said. "What poultice have you been using, Mr. Birtwhistle?"

"Cow shit," the farmer replied confidently. "Ye can't beat a good cow shit poultice to bring t'bad out. Ah've used it for them bad cases o'..."

"... ah'd have to go through to Darlington now and then instead of watchin' the Kestrels," Len broke in. "Ah'd have to see how Johnnie was gettin' on wi' them professionals because ..."

I managed a twisted smile. I like football myself and I found it touching that Len ignored the great panorama of league football to concentrate on a village team who played in front of about twenty spectators. "Yes, yes, Len, I quite understand how you feel." Then I turned to his father. "I was thinking of a rather different type of poultice, Mr. Birtwhistle."

The farmer's face lengthened and the corners of his mouth drooped. "Well, ah've never found owt better than cow shit and ah've been among stock all me life."

I clenched my teeth. This earthy medicament was highly regarded among the Dales farmers of the thirties and the damnable thing was that it often achieved its objective. There was no doubt that a sackful of bovine faeces applied to an inflamed area set up a tremendous heat and counter-irritation. In those days I had to go along with many of the ancient cures and keep my tongue between my teeth but I had never prescribed cow shit and I wasn't going to start now.

"Maybe so," I said firmly, "but what I was thinking of was kaolin. You could call down at the surgery for some. You just heat the tin in a pan of hot water and apply the poultice to the foot. It keeps its heat for several hours."

Mr. Birtwhistle showed no great enthusiasm so I tried again. "Or you could use bran. I see you've got a sack over there."

He cheered up a little. "Aye ... that's right."

"Okay, put on some hot bran three times a day and give her the powders and I'll see her again in a few days." I knew the farmer would do as I said, because he was a conscientious stockman, but I had seen cases like this before and I wasn't happy. Nothing seems to pull a good cow down quicker than a painful foot. Big fat animals could be reduced to skeletons within weeks because of the agony of septic arthritis. I could only hope.

"Very good, Mr. Herriot" Mr. Birtwhistle said. "And now come into the house. T'missus has a cup o' tea ready for you."

I seldom refuse such an invitation but as I entered the kitchen I knew this was where the going got really tough.

"Now then, Mr. Herriot" the farmer's wife said, beaming as she handed me a steaming mug. "I was talkin' to your good lady in the market place yesterday, and she said ..."

"And ye think them powders o' yours might do the trick?" Her husband looked at me seriously. "I 'ope so, because Nellie's a right good milker. Ah reckon last lactation she gave ..."

"Kestrels is drawn agin Dibham in t'Hulton cup," Len chimed in. "It'll be some game. Last time ..."

Mrs. Birtwhistle continued without drawing breath, "... you were nicely settled in at top of Skeldale House. It must be right pleasant up there with the lovely view and ..."

"... five gallons when she fust calved and she kept it up for ..."

"... they nearly kicked us off t'pitch, but by gaw ah'll tell ye, we'll ..."

"... you can see right over Darrowby. But it wouldn't do for a fat body like me. I was sayin' to your missus that you 'ave to be young and slim to live up there. All them stairs and ..."

I took a long draught from my cup. It gave me a chance to focus my eyes and attention on just one thing as the conversation crackled unceasingly around me. I invariably found it wearing trying to listen to all three Birtwhistles in full cry and of course it was impossible to look at them all simultaneously and adjust my expression to their different remarks.

The thing that amazed me was that none of them ever became angry at the others butting in. Nobody ever said, "I'm speaking, do you mind?" or "Don't interrupt!" or "For Pete's sake, shut up!" They lived together in perfect harmony with all of them talking at once and none paying the slightest heed to what the other was saying.

When I saw the cow during the following week she was worse. Mr. Birtwhistle had followed my instructions faithfully but Nellie could scarcely hobble as he brought her in from the field.

Len was there to lift the foot and I gloomily surveyed the increased swelling. It ran right round the coronet from the heel to the interdigital cleft in front, and the slightest touch from my finger caused the big cow to jerk her leg in pain.

I didn't say much, because I knew what was in store for Nellie, and I knew too that Mr. Birtwhistle wasn't going to like it when I told him.

When I visited again at the end of the week I had only to look at the farmer's face to realise that everything had turned out as I feared. For once he was on his own and he led me silently into the byre.

Nellie was on three legs now, not daring even to bring the infected foot into momentary contact with the cobble flooring. And worse, she was in an advanced state of emaciation, the sleek healthy animal of two weeks ago reduced to little more than bone and hide.

"I doubt she's 'ad it," Mr. Birtwhistle muttered.

Cows' hind feet are difficult to lift, but today I didn't need any help because Nellie had stopped caring. I examined the swollen digit. It was now vast-a great ugly club of tissue with a trickle of pus discharging down the wall.

"I see it's bust there," the farmer poked a finger at the ragged opening. "But it hasn't given 'er no relief."

"Well, I wouldn't expect it to," I said. "Remember I told you the trouble is all inside the joint."

"Well, these things 'appen," he replied. "Ah might as well telephone for Mallock. She's hardly givin' a drop o' milk, poor awd lass, she's nowt but a screw now."

I always had to wait for the threat of the knacker man's humane killer before I said what I had to say now. Right from the start this had been a case for surgery, but it would have been a waste of time to suggest it at the beginning. Amputation of the bovine digit has always filled farmers with horror and even now I knew I would have trouble convincing Mr. Birtwhistle.

There's no need to slaughter her," I said. "There's another way of curing this."

"Another way? We've tried 'ard enough, surely."

I bent and lifted the foot again. "Look at this." I seized the inner cleat and moved it freely around. "This side is perfectly healthy. There's nothing wrong with it. It would bear Nellie's full weight."

"Aye, but ... how about t'other 'orrible thing?"

"I could remove it"

"You mean ... cut it off?"

"Yes."

He shook his head vigorously. "Nay, nay, I'm not havin that. She's suffered enough. Far better send for Jeff Mallock and get the job over."

Here it was again. Farmers are anything but shrinking violets, but there was something about this business which appalled them.

"But Mr. Birtwhistle," I said. "Don't you see-the pain is immediately relieved. The pressure is off and all the weight rests on the good side."

"Ah said no, Mr. Herriot, and ah mean no. You've done your best and I thank ye, but I'm not havin' her foot cut off and that's all about it." He turned and began to walk away.

I looked after him helplessly. One thing I hate to do is talk a man into an operation on one of his beasts for the simple reason that if anything goes wrong I get the blame. But I was just about certain that an hour's work could restore this good cow to her former state. I couldn't let it go at this.

I trotted from the byre. The farmer was already half way across the yard on his way to the 'phone.

I panted up to him as he reached the farmhouse door. "Mr. Birtwhistle, listen to me for a minute. I never said anything about cutting off her foot. Just one cleat."

"Well that's half a foot isn't it?" he looked down at his boots. "And it's ower much for me."

"But she wouldn't know a thing," I pleaded. "She'd be under a general anaesthetic. And I'm nearly sure it would be a success."

"Mr. Herriot, I just don't fancy it. I don't like t'idea. And even if it did work it would be like havin' a crippled cow walkin' about."

"Not at all. She would grow a little stump of horn there and I'd like to bet you'd never notice a thing."

He gave me a long sideways look and I could see he was weakening.

"Mr. Birtwhistle," I said, pressing home the attack. "Within a month Nellie could be a fat cow again, giving five gallons of milk a day."

This was silly talk, not to be recommended to any veterinary surgeon, but I was seized by a kind of madness. I couldn't bear the thought of that cow being cut up for dog food when I was convinced I could put her right. And there was another thing; I was already savouring the pleasure, childish perhaps, of instantly relieving an animal's pain, of bringing off a spectacular cure. There aren't many operations in the field of bovine surgery where you can do this but digit amputation is one of them.

Something of my fervour must have been communicated to the farmer because he looked at me steadily for a few moments then shrugged.

"When do you want to do it?" he asked.

"Tomorrow."

"Right. Will you need a lot o' fellers to help?"

"No, just you and Len. I'll see you at ten o'clock."

Next day the sun was warm on my back as I laid out my equipment on a small field near the house. It was a typical setting for many large animal operations I have carried out over the years; the sweet stretch of green, the grey stone buildings and the peaceful bulk of the fells rising calm and unheeding into the white scattering of clouds.

It took a long time for them to lead Nellie out though she didn't have far to go, and as the bony scarecrow hopped painfully towards me, dangling her useless limb, the brave words of yesterday seemed foolhardy.

"All right" I said. "Stop there. That's a good spot." On the grass, nearby, lay my tray with the saw, chloroform, bandages, cotton wool and iodoform. I had my long casting rope too, which we used to pull cattle down, but I had a feeling Nellie wouldn't need it.

I was right. I buckled on the muzzle, poured some chloroform on to the sponge and the big white cow sank almost thankfully on to the cool green herbage.

"Kestrels had a smashin' match on Wednesday night," Len chuckled happily. "Johnnie Nudd didn't score but Len Bottomley ..."

"I 'ope we're doin' t'right thing," muttered Mr. Birtwhistle. "The way she staggered out 'ere I'd say it was a waste of time to ..."

"... cracked in a couple o' beauties." Len's face lit up at the memory. "Kestrels is lucky to 'ave two fellers like ..."

"Get hold of that bad foot, Len!" I barked, playing them at their own game. "And keep it steady on that block of wood. And you, Mr. Birtwhistle, hold her head down. I don't suppose she'll move, but if she does we'll have to give her more chloroform."

Cows are good subjects for chloroform anaesthesia but I don't like to keep them laid out too long in case of regurgitation of food. I was in a hurry.

I quickly tied a bandage above the hoof, pulling it tight to serve as a tourniquet, then I reached back to the tray for the saw. The books are full of sophisticated methods of digit amputation with much talk of curved incisions, reflections of skin to expose the region of the articulations, and the like. But I have whipped off hundreds of cleats with a few brisk strokes of the saw below the coronary band with complete success.

I took a long breath. "Hold tight, Len." And set to work.

For a few moments there was silence except for the rhythmic grating of metal on bone, then the offending digit was lying on the grass, leaving a flat stump from which a few capillary vessels spurted. Using curved scissors I speedily disarticulated the remains of the pedal bone from the second phalanx and held it up.

"Look at that!" I cried. "Almost eaten away." I pointed to the necrotic tissue in and around the joint. "And d'you see all that rubbish? No wonder she was in pain." I did a bit of quick curetting, dusted the surface with iodoform, applied a thick pad of cotton wool and prepared to bandage.

And as I tore the paper from the white rolls I felt a stab of remorse. In my absorption I had been rather rude. I had never replied to Len's remark about his beloved team. Maybe I could pass the next few minutes with a little gentle banter.

"Hey, Len," I said. "When you're talking about the Kestrels you never mention the time Willerton beat them five nil. How is that?"

In reply the young man hurled himself unhesitatingly at me, butting me savagely on the forehead. The assault of the great coarse-haired head against my skin was like being attacked by a curlypolled bull, and the impact sent me flying backwards on to the grass. At first the inside of my cranium was illuminated by a firework display but as consciousness slipped away my last sensation was of astonishment and disbelief.

I loved football myself but never had I thought that Len's devotion to the Kestrels would lead him to physical violence. He had always seemed a most gentle and harmless boy.

I suppose I was out for only a few seconds but I fancy I might have spent a good deal longer lying on the cool turf but for the fact that something kept hammering out the message that I was in the middle of a surgical procedure. I blinked and sat up.

Nellie was still sleeping peacefully against the green background of hills. Mr. Birtwhistle, hands on her neck, was regarding me anxiously, and Len was lying unconscious face down across the cow's body.

"Has he hurt tha, Mr. Herriot?"

"No ... no ... not really. What happened?"

"I owt to have told ye. He can't stand the sight o' blood. Great daft beggar." The farmer directed an exasperated glare at his slumbering son. "But ah've never seen 'im go down as fast as that. Pitched right into you, 'e did!"

I rolled the young man's inert form to one side and began again. I bandaged slowly and carefully because of the danger of post operative haemorrhage. I finished with several layers of zinc oxide plaster then turned to the farmer.

"You can take her muzzle off now, Mr. Birtwhistle. The job's done."

I was starting to wash my instruments in the bucket when Len sat up almost as suddenly as he had slumped down. He was deathly pale but he looked at me with his usual friendly smile.