CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

During the years of the 1950s, despite the small animal cases taking second place to farm work in the Sinclair and Wight practice, Alf became highly regarded as a sound small animal clinician. He realised that this branch of veterinary medicine could become increasingly important in the years ahead, and that a sympathetic approach to his patients would be of paramount importance.

The dictum, ‘It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it’ – one that he repeatedly drummed into every assistant – was something he carried out unfailingly himself. This quality of care and compassion towards a case is as important today as it was all those years ago. An article appeared in the newsletter of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons in March 1992:

‘James Herriot is the yardstick by which the whole profession is judged and while his veterinary science may be, by today’s standards, painfully out of date, his veterinary art is not. Alf Wight’s promotion of veterinary surgeons remains the envy of every other profession.’

He always thought carefully before he acted, and approached each case very thoroughly. Despite his sound clinical expertise, however, he never aspired to become a specialist in the field of small animal veterinary medicine. As new techniques came to the fore, he tended to leave this to the younger men in the practice; indeed, he remained suspicious of many of the modern anaesthetics, preferring to keep his patient conscious if at all possible.

He retained his deep respect for general anaesthesia well into the 1960s and 1970s, preferring to perform comparatively major operations on animals simply under local anaesthetic. He removed large mammary growths from bitches and operated many times on dogs with entropion – where the ingrowing eyelid undergoes corrective surgery – purely under local anaesthetic. He always derived especial pleasure after entropion operations merely from observing the dog’s tremendous relief from pain and irritation.

There was one procedure at which he regarded himself an expert – the ‘wrapping’ of cats. Using nothing more than an old blanket, he could reduce a savage, snarling cat to a trussed-up sausage in a matter of seconds. He was especially proud of his expertise in this ‘field of veterinary surgery’ and I remember him saying to me one day after completing one of these lightning performances, ‘I probably won’t be remembered for much after I’ve gone, Jim, but at least you’ll be able to say that your old man was good at one thing! He could sure wrap a cat!’

It was his sympathetic approach to his cases that, more than anything, won him so many fans amongst his clients, with no one appreciating this more than Miss Marjorie Warner and her little dog, Bambi. This lady and her appealing Pekingese, who lived in a fine big house in Sowerby, were immortalised in the early James Herriot books as ‘Mrs Pumphrey’ and ‘Trickie Woo’, and they were to become two of the most well known of all his characters.

Bambi Warner was a delightful dog who loved everyone – and how we loved him! Every time this thoughtful little animal took his holidays, which was frequently, magnificent hampers would arrive at our door, addressed simply to ‘Uncle Wight’. These contained foods we had previously only dreamed about: caviar, pâté de foie, honey-roast hams, exotic preserves and many other mouthwatering delicacies. Whenever Bambi visited the Yorkshire coast, large boxes of Whitby kippers were delivered to our door; it is hardly surprising that Alf, who loved kippers, wrote so affectionately about Bambi and Miss Warner in his books. He made the most of this situation, never forgetting to send prompt letters of appreciation.

Unfortunately, he made two fundamental mistakes that almost resulted in the termination of these wonderful gifts. He addressed his first letter to Miss Warner herself. After Bambi had expressed his displeasure, Alf promptly rescued the situation by dispatching a grovelling letter of apology to the little Peke. His second mistake was to address another one to ‘Master’ Bambi Warner when the correct mode of address should, of course, have read ‘Bambi Warner, Esq’. Writhing with guilt, he fired off another letter but this time received no response. These were worrying days for the family as weeks passed without the delivery of a single hamper! Happily, with the passage of time and several attentive visits to his little friend, Bambi forgave him and the stream of succulent hampers began again. Alf had learned his lesson; in future, Bambi would receive the deference his status deserved.

So vivid were the descriptions of Mrs Pumphrey and Trickie Woo in the James Herriot books, Miss Warner quickly realised that they were based upon her and Bambi, but she bore no resentment. Alf always had a genuine liking for the lady and her charming little dog, portraying her as a warm-hearted and passionate, if slightly ‘over-the-top’, dog lover.

Alf Wight, although a popular vet, was the first to admit that he could not please everyone. There were certain farms where, no matter how hard he tried, his efforts resulted in disaster. He called them his ‘bogey farms’ and would go to great lengths to avoid visiting them.

One day Donald said to him, ‘There’s a cow with a bad eye at Furness’s, Alfred. It’s in your direction so will you go there?’

‘No,’ he replied firmly, ‘I’m sorry but I’d rather not. Every time I visit that farm, something drops dead! Frank Furness is a lovely man and, despite my record of decimating his stock every time I set foot on his farm, I think he still likes me. I have no wish to stretch his good nature any further.’

‘But you are going past the door, Alfred. It’s pointless to send someone up there specially. It’s only a cow with a bad eye, and you’ve only to put some ointment onto it. Nothing can go wrong!’

Donald was right. It was nothing more than a mild case of New Forest Disease. Reluctantly, Alf agreed and visited the farm where he duly applied the ointment to the cow’s eye. It had been a simple and straightforward case.

He received a telephone call the following day. The cow was no better; in fact, she was worse, and her joints were beginning to swell. ‘What on earth have swollen joints to do with bad eyes?’ he thought, as he sped back towards the farm.

The cow was, indeed, much worse. Not only could she barely walk, but her breathing was laboured, with a profuse discharge pouring from her nose. With grim determination, Alf tried all he knew to save her. He injected her with antibiotics; he administered steroids and fluids intravenously; he shot high doses of vitamins into her and, before leaving the farm, he personally blanketed her up to keep her as comfortable as possible. He returned home with one thought drumming in his brain: ‘What has all this to do with a sore eye?’

Alfred Wight’s hand of doom had struck again. The following day saw a massive deterioration, with his patient recumbent and sunken-eyed. The knacker man arrived the same day to put her out of her suffering.

With this experience having served only to strengthen Alf’s conviction that genuine ‘bogey farms’ do exist, it was a long time before he set foot on that farm again. Frank Furness never blamed Alf and, years later, when the James Herriot books began to hit the headlines, he wrote a delightful letter of congratulations to him.

It was not only with the large animals that Alf realised a veterinary surgeon cannot win all the time. There was a lady in Sowerby who regarded him as an idiot – likeable, but nevertheless an idiot. Each time he treated her dog, something went wrong. In due course, the dog became terminally ill, suffering from renal failure, and she asked for it to be put painlessly to sleep. Realising that he was on delicate ground, he had elected to inject the barbiturate into the abdomen, rather than by the less easy-but more reliable – intravenous route of administration. To his dismay, the drug seemed to have no effect; thirty minutes later, the dog was still walking around the floor.