Příběhy Jamese Herriota jsou proslavené a kouzelné svou bezprostředností.
Pokusme se tedy projednou přeložit text bez dalších analýz a uvažování, jen na základě porozumění, představy (vizualizace)a požitku z četby originálu!
P.S.
Věnujte větší pozornost interpunkci a eliminujte překlepy a přehlédnutí, která degradují vaši práci!
Chapter Fifteen.
The longer I worked in Darrowby the more the charms of the Dales
beguiled me. And there was one solid advantage of which I became more
aware every day - the Dales farmers were all stocksmen. They really knew
how to handle animals, and to a vet whose patients are constantly trying
to thwart him or injure him it was a particular blessing.
So this morning I looked with satisfaction at the two men holding the
cow. It wasn't a difficult job - just an intravenous injection of
magnesium lactate but still it was reassuring to have two such sturdy
fellows to help me. Maurice Bennison, medium sized but as tough as one
of his own hill beasts, had a horn in his right hand while the fingers
of his left gripped the nose; I had the comfortable impression that the
cow wouldn't jump very far when I pushed the needle in. His brother
George whose job it was to raise the vein, held the choke rope limply in
his enormous hands like bunches of carrots. He grinned down at me
amiably from his six feet four inches.
"Right, George," I said. "Tighten up that rope and lean against the cow
to stop her coming round on me." I pushed my way between the cow and her
neighbour, past George's unyielding bulk and bent over the jugular vein.
It was standing out very nicely. I poised the needle, feeling the big
man's elbow on me as he peered over my shoulder, and thrust quickly into
the vein.
"Lovely!" I cried as the dark blood fountained out and spattered thickly
on the straw bedding beneath. "Slacken your rope, George." I fumbled in
my pocket for the flutter valve. "And for God's sake, get your weight
off me."
Because George had apparently decided to rest his full fourteen stones
on me instead of the cow, and as I tried desperately to connect the tube
to the needle I felt my knees giving way. I shouted again, despairingly,
but he was inert, his chin resting on my shoulder, his breathing
stertorous in my ear.
There could only be one end to it. I fell flat on my face and lay there
writhing under the motionless body. My cries went unheeded; George was
unconscious.
The incident started me thinking about this question of people's
reactions to the sight of blood and other disturbing realities. Even
though it was only my second year of practice I had already formulated
certain rules about this and one was that it was always the biggest men
who went down. (I had, by this time, worked out a few other, perhaps
unscientific theories, e.g. big dogs were kept by people who lived in
little houses and vice versa. Clients who said 'spare no expense' never
paid their bills, ever. When I asked my way in the Dales and was told
'you can't miss it', I knew I'd soon be hopelessly lost.)
