Darrowby Blues (stagnation o' t'lungs)

As a young veterinarian,
I was quite the outdoorsman:
out and about in all weathers.

In summer
I'd be stripped to the waist,
the honest sweat from my brow
splashing on some poor cow.
My hair would glisten
like flakes of golden corn
(the ones with frosting on).

In winter
I'd strut around in high-end
bellington woots (Hunters,
not the sort worn by peasant munters).

Animal psychiatry
was in its infancy
and prevention better than cure.

The happy days I spent in the field:
trying to make horses feel good about themselves;
encouraging sheep to be individuals;
glowing with pride and crying happy tears
as agoraphobic cats went outside
for the first time in many years.

But the modern world is difficult
and animals feel pressured.
The Yorkshire Dales are full
of failed farmhands and
flocks of depressed shepherds.

Some of the dogs in Skeldale House
are absolutely barking.
The guinea pigs go on suicide watch
but we can't stop them carking.

Today
I will become the first vet
to give electric shock treatment
to a catatonic stick insect.
For months it's been
as listless and as lifeless
as a twig...

Oh... it IS a twig...
Where in bloody hell has Simon gone?

MRS HALL! DON'T TURN THAT HOOVER ON!


B.R. 23/01/2017