I wrote my books
because of a compulsion to make some record of a fascinating era in veterinary
practice. I wanted to tell people what it was like to be an animal doctor in
the days before penicillin and about the things which made me laugh on my daily
rounds, working in conditions which now seem primitive.

This compulsion,
however, took a long time to assume any practical form. I seemed to sublimate
it by recounting the daily happenings to my wife, finishing invariably with
the remark, “I’ll put that in my book.”

There is no doubt
this situation would have gone on forever if my wife, at the end of one of my
recitals, had not remarked, “Jim, you are never going to write a book”.
She said it kindly but, nevertheless, I was aghast.

“Whatever
do you mean?” I said

“Well,”
she replied, “You have been talking about this book for twenty-five years.
Remember we celebrated our silver wedding last week?”

I tried to point
out that I was not an impulsive type and always like to take a little time to
think things over, but women can be very unreasonable.

She smiled at me.
“Don’t take it to heart, Jim. You are only one of thousands of people who
think they are going to write a book, but they never do it.”

“But I will,
I will,” I protested indignantly.

She smiled again
with a touch of sadness. “You must realize that it is impossible. Old vets
of fifty don’t suddenly start writing books.”

That did it. I
went straight out, bought a lot of paper and got down to the job.