The Lord God Made Them All
By James Herriot

James Herriot grew up in Glasgow and qualified as a veterinary surgeon at Glasgow Veterinary College. Shortly afterwards he took up a position as an assistant in a North Yorkshire practice where he has remained, with the exception of his wartime service in the RAF.
James Herriot�s interests extend beyond writing and veterinary work to music and dog-walking in the Dales. He is married, with a son who is also a veterinary surgeon and a daughter who is a doctor.
James Herriot is a pseudonym.

If Only They Could Talk
It Shouldn�t Happen to a Vet
Let Sleeping Vets Lie
Vet in Harness
Vets Might Fly
Vet in a Spin and omnibus editions
All Creatures Great and Small comprising If Only They Could Talk
It Shouldn�t Happen to a Vet and three chapters from
Let Sleeping Vets Lie
All Things Bright and Beautiful comprising the majority of chapters
from Let Sleeping Vets Lie Vet in Harness
All hings Wise and Wonderful comprising Vets Might Fly and Vet in a Spin
James Harriot
The Lord God Made Them All

To ZOE
latest beautiful grandchild

When the gate fell on top of me I knew I was really back home.
My mind drifted effortlessly over my spell in the RAF to the last time I had visited the Ripleys. It was to �nip some calves� as Mr. Ripley said over the phone, or more correctly to emasculate them by means of the Burdizzo bloodless castrator and when the message came in I realised that a large part of my morning had gone.
It was always something of a safari to visit Anson Hall, because the old house lay at the end of a ridged and rutted track which twisted across the fields through no fewer than seven gates.
Gates are one of the curses of a country vet�s life and in the Yorkshire Dales, before the coming of cattle grids, we suffered more than most. We were resigned to opening two or three on many of the farms, but seven was a bit much. And at the Ripleys it wasn�t just the number but the character.
The first one which led off the narrow road was reasonably normal an ancient thing of rusty iron and as I unlatched it it did at least swing round groaning on its hinges. It was the only one which swung; the others were of wood and of the type known in the Dales as �shoulder gates�. I could see how they got their name as I hoisted each one up, balanced the top spar on my shoulder and dragged it round. These had no hinges but were tied at one end with binder twine top and bottom.
Even with an ordinary gate there is a fair amount of work involved. You have to stop the car, get out, open the gate, drive through, stop the car again, dismount and close the thing behind you. But the road to Anson Hall was hard labour. The gates deteriorated progressively as I approached the farm and I was puffing with my efforts as I bumped and rattled my way up to number seven.
This was the last and the most formidable a malignant entity with a personality of its own. Over decades it had been patched and repaired with so many old timbers that probably none of the original structure remained. But it was dangerous.
I got out of the car and advanced a few steps. We were old foes, this gate and I, and we faced each other for some moments in silence. We had fought several brisk rounds in the past and there was no doubt the gate was ahead on points.
The difficulty was that, apart from its wobbly, loosely-nailed eccentricity, it had only one string hinge, halfway down. This enabled it to pivot on its frail axis with deadly effect.
With the utmost care I approached the right-hand side and began to unfasten the binder twine. The string, I noticed bitterly, was, like all the others, neatly tied in a bow, and as it fell clear I grabbed hastily at the top spar. But I was too late. Like a live thing the bottom rail swung in and rapped me cruelly on the shins, and as I tried to correct the balance the top bashed my chest.
It was the same as all the other times. As I hauled it round an inch at a time, the gate buffeted me high and low. I was no match for it.
Another thing which didn�t help was that I could see Mr. Ripley watching me benevolently from the farmhouse doorway. While I wrestled the gate open, contented puffs rose from the farmer�s pipe and he did not stir from his position until I had hobbled over the last stretch of grass and stood before him.
�Now then, Mr. Herriot, you�ve come to nip me a few calves?� A smile of unaffected friendship creased the stub-bled cheeks. Mr. Ripley shaved once a week on market day -considering, with some logic, that since only his wife and his cattle saw him on the other six days there was no point in scraping away at his face every morning with a razor.