The Yorkshire Vet: Sharing stories of vet tales of old by the frozen peas in the supermarket...

I should add, this isn’t his real name, because I don’t want the scouts from Britain’s Got Talent or The X Factor to come searching North Yorkshire for the next Tony Hancock.

As Poppy pulled on the lead to leave the room, Mr Pallister beckoned me closer, before unleashing his latest joke, delivered in his characteristic dead-pan style. It went like this:

“I saw a man in the park the other day, walking along with a cabbage on a lead. I said to him, ‘what do you think you’re doing walking along with a cabbage on a lead?’

“The man replied, ‘my wife told me it was a collie.’”

This was one of his better jokes, and I laughed loudly. “Where do you get them all from?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know really,” mused Mr Pallister, “I don’t have a joke book or anything, I just pick them up.”

I made sure he had booked Poppy in for another appointment before Christmas and waved him off, before bustling around the practice, repeating the joke to everyone I could find.

The following day, I had another interesting meeting and a similarly funny conversation. This time it was in the supermarket, where I bumped into an old friend by the frozen peas. I’ve known John for many years. He used to bring his Norfolk Terriers to see me at the practice for treatment, always tucked under his arm in the same way that a determined centre might hold a rugby ball. John’s father had been a veterinary surgeon in Newmarket, and both father and son were very pally with the world renowned equine grand master, Peter Rossdale, who was one of my veterinary heroes. John has as many amusing veterinary anecdotes from those times as Poppy’s owner has jokes.

We exchanged brief pleasantries, before John bellowed: “did Peter Rossdale ever tell you the story about the yearling that went totally mad and charged straight into the wall?” I shook my head. I had met Peter on several occasions but, in his dotage, he rarely shared anecdotes like that.

“This yearling was totally bonkers,” John continued, “and one day it charged at a wall and knocked itself out. Everyone thought it was dead, and the trainer sent for my father- he was a vet in Newmarket, you know. Anyway, the horse hadn’t moved and the trainer got the gun ready. Then, when my father arrived, he started rummaging around for his equipment and the trainer said, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’

My father said, ‘I’m going to geld him, whilst he’s out stone cold! We’ll not get a chance like this again!’

I could imagine the scene and chuckled in amazement. This vet sounded like a great guy, a pragmatist and a quick-thinker, and was clearly well respected for all these traits. As I made my way around the aisles and down the shopping list, the halcyon days of old gave me pause for thought. Would you get away with castrating a comatose or concussed horse nowadays? There was no intravenous catheter, no attendant anaesthetist and no multi-parameter monitoring, let alone a signed form of consent. John didn’t conclude the story with the outcome, but his cheerful tone suggested that, sixty years ago, everything had gone well with the horse. Happy days.