9 May 1947 was a memorable day for Alf and Joan. It was the day they became parents for the second time as their daughter, Rosie, came into the world. Alf, Donald, Alex and several other friends decided to celebrate the birth in style. This they did in the Black Horse in Thirsk (a public house, like many others in the town, that no longer exists) and Alf was later to write about the riotous evening in his seventh book, The Lord God Made Them All.

With drinking after hours being strictly forbidden, the carousing was brought rudely to a halt when the local policeman suddenly burst into the room, threatening everyone with an appearance in front of the magistrate in the morning. The officer of the law, however, after a period of gentle diplomacy on the part of Alf and his friends, decided to share in the celebrations and was still in the pub hours later. Dawn was breaking when Alf’s car eventually wound its unsteady way through Thirsk market place. Alex was in the back seat, desperately attempting to quieten the obscene chants of the intoxicated policeman who was hurling abuse at the police inspector’s car parked near to the town clock.

Rosie’s birth marked the beginning of a period during which Alf spent increasing amounts of time with his family. Despite his high work rate, he always found time to spend with us, especially during the summer months when the practice was not so busy. As well as taking us to the seaside, or on trips into the hills around Thirsk, we both travelled miles with him in his car around the farms. This was a time of his life he would repeatedly recall as ‘one of the happiest of my life’. Alf Wight was not only a dedicated veterinary surgeon but a truly devoted family man.

The years 1945–50, however, were ones dominated by work. Having gained his full share in the partnership, he dedicated everything towards the prosperity of the practice. They were not only years of hard work, but ones of tremendous change within his profession as new technology and drugs began to sweep away the old techniques. Although this made the veterinary surgeon’s life just a little less physically demanding, it was still no job for a weakling.

One day, in the years when I was still at primary school, my father was seated opposite me at the table. His face was drawn and weary. He had been up half the night at a calving case and he looked even more tired than usual.

‘You look exhausted, Alf,’ my mother said.

He laid his head back, looked up and took a deep breath. ‘I am,’ he replied. ‘What a bloody awful shambles we had this morning!’

It was not surprising that he was tired. Following an exhausting night in a cow byre, he and Donald had endured another of the stress-packed episodes that so typified the veterinary surgeon’s life. They had visited a farm near Bedale to castrate a big horse. In those days, Donald and Alf did the job ‘standing’ – operating on the animal solely under local anaesthesia. This method required great care and expertise; many a veterinary surgeon suffered serious injury, and even death, after receiving fearsome kicks from their patient.

Not surprisingly, the loss of his testicles had not figured in this animal’s plans, and he had proved to be a difficult patient. Donald had hardly begun when he felt what he thought was a gentle rush of air past his face. The knife that had been poised in his hand was nowhere to be seen; the lightning kick that had removed it from his grasp had missed his head by inches. It was after this that the show had really begun.

With Donald thankful to be still alive, the horse had been led into a field, at which point a chloroform muzzle had been applied to its nose, the idea being to perform the operation under full anaesthetic. This had sparked a dramatic response and the horse had taken off like a bullet across the field, with Alf hanging on grimly to the head rope. It must have been an entertaining sight but the animal had soon dispensed with his services. As the chloroform took effect, the big horse had crashed through a fence into a garden, flattening an ornamental flower bed in the process. The operation had been finally completed with Alf sitting on the horse’s head while Donald operated speedily among the flowers at the other end.

This spectacular variation to his daily routine had been observed by the unsmiling owner of the garden; legal proceedings could well be on the agenda.

I remember my father saying to me when I was very young, It’s dead easy to remove the testicles from a horse. The real skill lies in persuading him to part with them!’ He thought for a few seconds before he spoke again. ‘One day – I don’t know when, but one day – someone will invent an injection given in a small syringe and the horse will collapse quietly to the ground. The vet will walk up and do the job – no shouting, no flying hooves, just a calm, professional procedure!’

Prophetic words! Nowadays, in our practice, we inject a small volume of anaesthetic into the patient before performing our task safely and quietly; very different from the tumultuous days that Alf ‘enjoyed’ in his heyday. He was quoted as saying in 1992: ‘I enjoy writing about my job because I loved it and it was a particularly interesting one when I was a young man. It was like a holiday with pay to me. The whole thing added up to a lot of laughs. There’s more science now, but not so many laughs.’ As the many readers of the James Herriot books have learned, there were a lot of laughs – and numerous events were amusing to recall – but they were not quite so funny at the time. As a small boy, I remember laughing loudly on being told of that escapade with the horse, but I do not remember my father sharing in my delight.

Alf Wight experienced more than half a century of enormous transformation within his profession. As a full-time working vet for more than forty years, no one could write with more authority about the changing face of veterinary practice than he. In those days, it was a much more physical job. It was a man’s job and the tougher you were, the better. As well as the rough obstetrical work with cows and horses, the vet’s day was occupied with jobs such as foot trimming, TB Testing and dehorning and, while the veterinary surgeons of today still have many hard physical tasks to perform, they have more effective drugs and modern equipment to assist them.

In the 1950s, the farming industry decided that cattle would be better without horns and Alf spent many an hour sawing or guillotining them off. It was hard work. The horns were often the consistency of concrete, with the work more akin to butchery than surgery. It was, however, a task that had to be done properly, and many veterinary surgeons took great pride in executing a good, professional job. Alf used to purr with satisfaction upon seeing the fruits of his labours six or eight weeks later – a smooth even slant on each side of the head where once there had been a pair of wicked-looking horns.

Whilst dehorning work was rough, some of the calvings and foalings of these big animals were worse. Farm animals – never having been noted for their cooperation when receiving veterinary attention – seem, most unreasonably, to exhibit a preference for giving birth during the hours of darkness. This meant that Alf’s early days as a veterinary surgeon were characterised by many hours of work when most of the country was asleep. To add to the discomfort, stripping off to the waist was frequently a necessity. This harsh existence, with rasping winds playing around the naked torso, took its toll. His respiratory system went through a regular cycle each year; he began coughing every November before finally stopping the following May.

It is more than coincidence that the opening chapter in his very first book describes a calving case. Some of his experiences struggling in cold cow byres remained his most vivid recollections of the hard old days.