Vet on the Loose (11 page)

A
s always when confronted with a problem in my first year as a vet, my mind flashed back to my student experiences and what I had learned in the lab. It seemed like only the other day that we had stood over the dissection tables in our white coats, gulping slightly as the faint odour of not-so-fresh flesh assailed our nostrils. Not that the smell was in any way unusual to us at this stage of our training but, combined with the
after-effects
of the previous night’s drinking session, it was all just a bit too much. Our task for this practical was to first remove a section of intestine and then to surgically re-appose the cut ends, in preparation for the day when a real live patient might present with an obstruction in such an advanced state that the gut itself might have become necrotic and need to be removed. Sitting in the surgical lab, such a real-life
scenario
seemed a long, long way away.

Gingerly, my colleague and I, both looking equally ashen-faced and hungover, incised the smooth lining of the section of intestine lying on the table in front of us. We watched as the muscle layers below bulged out to meet us, neither of us either remembering or caring for their official titles, as the dog to whom they had once belonged had long since departed on his journey to the great doggy heaven in the sky. Trying hard to summon up some
enthusiasm
for the task, I methodically placed a pair of stay sutures at either side of the diameter of the gut, hands shaking slightly as I fiddled with the tiny round-bodied needle that the professor had reliably informed us would be less traumatic. Slowly, I began to reunite the gut with a series of minute sutures, no more than two millimetres apart. The aim was to apply the correct degree of tension to ensure an adequate seal without occluding what, in a live dog, would be the healing supply of blood vessels. Normally I enjoyed these practical surgery sessions but today, as waves of nausea swept over me and my head pounded, I wearily handed over the needle to my
colleague
who had long since lost interest.

‘Here, you have a go.’

Reluctantly, she pulled herself up from where she lay slumped over the table beside me. Gradually, as she stitched, the sutures became further and further apart as her enthusiasm waned.

‘Do you think that would do?’ she enquired as she held out the completed section of intestine before me.

‘Emmm, well, I suppose it might – as long as he hadn’t chewed his food too well,’ I giggled as I poked a forceps between the sutures that were supposedly rejoining the gut.

But today was no laughing matter.

Today, I was a fully-qualified veterinary surgeon and the section of necrotic gut belonged to a very affable and very much alive Springer Spaniel with an unfortunate liking for rubbish bins. Today my shaking hands and the waves of nausea were a million miles from a hangover: they were purely stress-induced.

*  *  *

It had all started late the night before as I lay in bed
assuring
myself that it was going to be a quiet night. I had
developed
a habit of staying awake until midnight when I was on call as this was the time when most calls seemed to come in. It somehow never seemed quite as bad to have to get up, even if you had gone to bed, once you were still awake. Normally, once you hit midnight, most of your
clients
were in bed too, although it didn’t always work out like that. Even so, your chances of getting a decent night’s sleep were better.

Just as I began to doze off, the phone rang.
Twelve-twenty
flashed the clock by the bedside.

Half an hour later, I was down in the surgery where a very dejected-looking Springer Spaniel, called Sidney, lay prostrate on the table in front of me.

‘Are you sure he was okay when you went out?’ I
questioned
Jacqui, his owner, whose hastily thrown-on raincoat couldn’t disguise the glamour beneath – much more suited to the night out on the town that she had come from.

‘Well, now that you mention it, he has been a bit quiet for the last few days, but I thought maybe he was just
starting
to get a bit of sense.’

I didn’t air my doubts, remembering the last time Sidney had visited the surgery when he had tried to jump out a four-foot high window, taking with him two cat baskets – complete with spitting felines – which, by some trick of nature understood only by a Springer Spaniel, had
managed
to become entangled in his lead.

‘Yes, I’m just thinking now … He hasn’t really eaten much for the past few days either.’

‘Any vomiting?’

‘Oh, of course,’ she groaned, ‘how could I have
forgotten
? You see, we’d just bought this new carpet for the living room and the very next day when I came home, well, I couldn’t even think about it now …’ she continued, hands clutched over her mouth as though she were going to repeat the actions of her luckless dog.

At this hour of the night my sympathy was at its lowest ebb and I tried to hurry her up a bit.

‘Right so,’ I carried on briskly, running my hands over Sidney’s swollen abdomen. ‘What colour was it?’

‘What colour? Of course. Yes, well it’s a lovely delicate shade of peach, with just the slightest tint of silver running through it.’

I stared at her incredulously for a few moments, until it struck me. ‘I meant the vomit, Jacqui, not the carpet,’ I replied wearily.

Having ascertained that it was ‘a nasty-looking colour’, a detail that I didn’t bother to write down in my clinical notes, and that she had no idea if he had vomited again since she had kept him outside to make amends for his misdemeanour, I carried on.

‘Is he passing his droppings normally?’

‘Oh,’ she gasped, as though I had asked her about some of the more intimate details of her own private life, ‘I’ve no idea. Derek deals with all that sort of thing.’

I felt a momentary pang of sympathy for her husband whom I had met on the previous occasion. He struck me as having a slightly henpecked air about him. Still, at least he appeared to be genuinely fond of the dog.

I didn’t know whether it was Jacqui’s fault or mine at this late hour of the night but, somehow, we just didn’t seem to be getting through to each other. I gave up all hope of taking any sort of a sensible history and carried on with a thorough clinical examination instead. I observed the dark, purple-tinged mucous membranes, the sunken eyes and inelastic coat and the bloated abdomen that flinched as I palpated a specific point. It was all too
obvious
what the problem was.

‘I’m afraid Sidney has a blockage. He’ll more than likely need surgery but he’s in no condition to be operated on tonight.’

Far from being distraught, Jacqui paid scant attention to my explanations and happily left him with me, clearly relieved that she did not have to take him home with her.

Grateful to be finally left on my own to get on with the job, I placed a bag of fluid in the microwave and clipped up Sidney’s forearm. He didn’t even flinch as I inserted the cannula into the vein. Then I attached the giving set through which the fluids would infuse overnight, in preparation for surgery the next day.

‘Now, you get a good night’s sleep, Sid,’ I told him as I injected a gut-relaxing drug and some antibiotics. ‘We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.’

Just how big a day it was going to be seemed to expand and enlarge in my mind as I slept fitfully through the night, frequently waking to find myself mid-op, gouging out never-ending lengths of rotted gut, which seemed to increase and multiply as I pulled. Luckily, I was still
dreaming
at that stage.

Sidney appeared a little brighter and cheerfully flopped his tail at me the next morning. In vain hope, I checked the day’s appointment book to find that both Seamus and Arthur, the other assistant, would be tied up testing cattle for the rest of the morning. I had half-hoped to fob Sidney off on one of them, although neither was particularly
interested
in small-animal work. There was nothing for it but to start scrubbing up the selection of instruments that I would need for the surgery. Niamh, the nurse, appeared not to notice my air of distractedness as she filled me in on her social plans for the weekend. My monosyllabic replies didn’t deter her in the least.

All too soon, I was incising into the carefully clipped and scrubbed abdomen and, as the stench of
decomposing
gut hit me, I was for a moment back in my surgical practical, except that this time the dog was alive – so far.

The blocked gut was immediately obvious as a bulging, blackened mass protruded from my tidy incision.
Hesitantly
, I clamped either end of the lesion and excised all the unhealthy looking tissue, trying as best I could to prevent any intestinal fluid from oozing into the depths of the abdomen. Having removed the piece of necrotic gut, I opened up the section which now lay on my surgical tray. I couldn’t help laughing as I discovered the offending object – a very well-chewed heel of a stiletto shoe.

‘Oh Sidney,’ I said to the sleeping dog. ‘I just hope they were very expensive!’

Just as I was trying to figure out which part of the blood supply I was trying to cut off and which part I was trying to maintain, Niamh decided to take an interest in the proceedings.

‘Oh vomit!’ she said, wrinkling up her nose at the mess sitting on the table. ‘You know her husband’s a solicitor, don’t you? Imagine if he dies!’

‘I’d rather not,’ I replied dryly, as yet another stitch pulled through the fragile intestine.

My eyes were beginning to boggle by the time I had inserted what I thought might be a sufficient number of tiny sutures to re-appose the gut. I tried not to think of our professor back in the practical, clamping either end of the re-attached gut into which he then injected water, and his disdainful face as the fluid seeped out through at least five gaps in the supposedly repaired intestine. Why, oh why hadn’t we tried a bit harder?

Gently, I pulled out a large fold of the glistening
omentum
in which the body organs are suspended and wrapped it around the section of gut, willing it to fulfil its healing role and soak up any leaks from my inexperienced repair.

I left Sidney comfortably tucked up in a large cage under a heat lamp and, by the time I got back from my morning rounds, he was sitting up. Considering that he’d had half his insides spread out on the operating table not two hours previously, I thought he looked well.

‘We’ll have to keep him on fluids for the first few days,’ I explained to Jacqui when I finally caught up with her that evening. She obviously wasn’t so concerned as to have been sitting by the phone awaiting my call all afternoon.

‘Could you not just keep him in for the week until he’s over it all?’ she begged, despite my protests that this really would not be necessary. ‘You see, I’ve such a busy
schedule
at the moment – it is regatta week you know.’

‘Well, if that’s what you want.’

In one way, I was glad to have Sid around over the next few days as I gradually reintroduced solid food and observed with relief the first few squirts of faeces which were at least a sign that things were moving in the right direction. But I knew that things could still go wrong. At night, my dreams were filled with images of leaking
intestines
and sludgy brown liquid insidiously oozing over a peach-coloured carpet. However, by day, Sidney improved dramatically and, by early the next week, he had deposited proof of his full recovery in the shape of a
perfectly
formed solid dump in the run outside. I rang Jacqui to tell her the good news.

‘He’s pulled through one hundred percent. Not a bother on him. You can take him home as soon as you’re ready.’

Although I wasn’t expecting the ecstatic reply with which one is occasionally rewarded by a grateful client, I couldn’t believe my ears when she dropped her bombshell.

‘Well, that’s lovely. You’re marvellous really,’ she gushed, ‘but, well, it’s a bit awkward really. To be honest, it’s been so peaceful without him around the house that really, I think it would be best if you could find a new home for him. We will fix up your bill, of course.’

‘What a waste, after all your work,’ declared Niamh as I relayed the gist of the conversation. ‘What a bloody waste.’

But no, I thought to myself, as I stroked the unfortunate Sidney’s silky ears. At least the important part had worked out. After all he had been through, there was no way I was putting Sid to sleep despite Jacqui’s interjection of ‘Well, whatever you feel you must do’ when I tried to play on her conscience by telling her that I might have to put him down.

Ten days later, as I waved off Mr and Mrs Jemison, newly arrived in the area having relocated from Wales, I was very glad for Sidney that Jacqui had got bored with his high spirits. The minute they came through the surgery door with a hesitant ‘We were wondering if you knew of any big dog looking for a good home …’ I knew they were perfect. Two boisterous lads tumbled in behind them and chimed in: ‘Yeah, we want a really big dog!’

Having discovered that they had bought a house in the next village on two acres and enjoyed long evening walks and trips to the mountains every weekend, I introduced them. It was love at first sight.

Sidney, back to his old self, managed to pull down an entire rack of information leaflets with him as he bounced out the door taking a flying leap over an elderly and bewildered-looking Westie that had been sitting quietly with his owner. Just this once, I decided I could forgive him.

I
t was one of those days when working with large
animals
seemed to be the best job in the world. Not for me being stuck in a musty office, staring with glazed eyes at a computer screen. Not for me the slow crawl through the snake-like rush-hour traffic to the crowded city centre. I grinned smugly to myself as the jeep made its way up the meandering roadways, high up into the snowy Wicklow mountains.

‘Mrs Trooper, Ballybreathnach – lame bullock’ read the note in my daybook.

I hadn’t been to this particular farm before but I knew that Mrs Trooper was an elderly widow whose husband had died the previous Christmas, leaving her to manage the smallholding with the help of an equally ancient brother-in-law. I contemplated how, sadly, in a few short years, this breed of hill farmer would have all but died out, to be substituted by the large, impersonal, intensive farms.

As I pulled into the lopsided driveway, Mrs Trooper came bustling out from the kitchen doorway, busily
brushing
down a floury apron. She dragged open the rickety gate before I could get to it.

‘Well, I’m that sorry to be dragging you out on a bitter day like this,’ she began as I stepped out of the car. ‘Sure, you’ll come in for a quick cup before we go up to look at Hubert,’ she continued, leading me into the kitchen. I gasped at the blast of heat that met me at the doorway and soon my toes began to tingle as I perched myself up against the big Aga in the corner. A warm glow enveloped me as the old lady fussed around, pouring out mugs of tea.

‘Sure, you must be worn out,’ she said, peering up at me, ‘a little thing like you doing a man’s job.’

I had long since given up trying to convert that
generation
of hill farmers to the concept of a female vet and couldn’t help smiling to myself as I thought of this
morning’s
jobs; a two-day-old calf with scour, a tom-cat neuter and a nanny-goat with a cough – no wonder I needed a strong cup of tea to brace myself after such demands.

Reluctantly, I drained the last of my cup, as Alfred, the brother-in-law, made his appearance, his robust frame in stark contrast to that of frail Mrs Trooper. He insisted on taking the durable box that contained my hoof instruments from me as I pulled it out of the back of the jeep.

As we made our way across the snow-covered yard, I was slightly alarmed to see the shed in the distance. It seemed to be far, far away, tucked into the side of a steep ditch. Although it looked very old and had been
well-weathered
over the years, it must have been a fine shed in its day. I was amazed at the speed with which Mrs Trooper made her way up the snowy banks, and I had to
concentrate
on keeping up with her without losing my balance. For a brief instant, she reminded me of a mountain goat as she deftly picked her way over the rough banks.

‘Hubert was the last calf we got out of Hilda. I remember well the night he was born – not long before George died, Lord rest his soul. That one never threw a calf but that we had a tough pull out of her. Never had need for a vet, though. Our George, Lord rest his soul, surely was a man to calve a cow.

‘“Franny,” he used say to me, “it’ll be a long night. You may as well leave the kettle on the stove.” I used to worry about him, so I did, as he got older. He had a bad cough there for a while, but wasting my time I was with him trying to get him to see a doctor.

‘There was a mighty wind the night Hubert was born,’ she continued as she hauled open the wooden gate that led into the shed. ‘I don’t know which was worse, the noise of the wind rattling through the roof or the coughing of George, Lord rest his soul. “Will I go down and ring the vet?” said I to him a second time. “Neither my father before me nor I ever had need of a vet to calve a cow and I won’t be starting now.” And that was the end of it. Well, he’s gone now and here you are!’ she finished and then paused for a moment, clearly remembering the years gone by. I was glad of this interlude as it allowed me to catch my breath before pulling up the overalls that were hanging around my waist.

Once my eyes had become accustomed to the subdued light in the shed after the glare of the bright, snowy fields, the sight that greeted me was a pleasant one. It was full of the sweet smell of hay-fed beasts, bedded on good wheaten straw, the silence punctuated only by a contented chewing of the cud as the animals stared quizzically at my unexpected entrance. For all the advances of science and modern agricultural methods, I thought to myself, there was a lot to be said for the old ways.

It was easy enough to pick out my patient for the day. In contrast to his comrades, he stood in obvious discomfort, holding a fore-limb just short of the ground.

‘He was right as rain yesterday when I threw them in their bit of fodder,’ cut in Alfred, anxious to have his say before his sister-in-law got going again, ‘but first thing this morning, I noticed he couldn’t put his claw down. I tried to have a look at it but the auld divil won’t stand still for me.’

‘George, Lord rest his soul, was a right man to repair a foot in his day,’ Mrs Trooper remarked wistfully.

She continued to regale me with stories of different
animals
they had nursed through a variety of ailments over the years. I tied my rope above Hubert’s knee and, after a quick investigation, found a nearby plank to tie it on to, in order to winch up his leg. It was a rare farm nowadays that didn’t have a crush but the bullock seemed quiet enough as I squeezed the claws with my hoof testers, until a sudden indignant bellow confirmed my suspicion. After a quick hunt through my hoof-box, I pulled out a glistening new hoof-knife and, despite my awkward handling of the unfamiliar instrument, was rewarded with a spurt of pus as I drained my first ever foot abscess.

‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs Trooper as the flow of infection slowed to a trickle.

‘How in the Lord’s name could that have happened and him on a good straw bed?’

‘Oh, sure, you know yourself what they’re like,’ I replied. ‘He must have got a prod one of the days and then the infection would have eventually built up in him.’

I couldn’t help noticing the obvious culprit – a worn plank that had broken loose and had a few rusty nails
sticking
out at the base, but I wasn’t going to mention it to the elderly pair. I was happy that Alfred would have no trouble bathing the foot in a hot solution of Epsom salts for a few days, ‘and then he’ll be right as rain,’ I reassured them.

When Mrs Trooper went ahead to heave open the heavy timber gate, I hastily turned over the loose plank and kicked it in under the divide where it could cause no
further
damage.

As I stood in the spotless little washroom off Mrs
Trooper’s
warm kitchen, scrubbing my hands with the well-used bar of soap, a mouth-watering smell began to waft in from the next room. Although it was still before noon, the fresh crispness of the morning was beginning to work on my appetite.

‘Take your time in there,’ she called out to me, ‘and I’ll have a few sausages on a plate for you in a minute.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied half-heartedly, ‘sure didn’t I just have a cup of tea!’

‘Now, they’re there on the pan for you, Gillian, and you couldn’t see them going to waste,’ she replied firmly.

I didn’t argue with her.

By the time I was respectable, the table had
miraculously
become laden with home-made brown bread, a slab of cheddar cheese and a pot of blackberry jam. In the middle of this spread was a plate piled high not only with the sausages but also rashers, fried eggs, black and white pudding, tomatoes and a home-made potato cake.

‘George, Lord rest his soul, did enjoy his bit of grub. Never lost his appetite until the day he died. The pan was still soaking in the sink when he passed away. Alfred takes a bite up in his own house now so there’s not much need for me to be cooking anymore.’

While I ate, Mrs Trooper reminisced about her farming days – about how she had married into the small-holding in her early twenties, through the years when the rearing of her two sons and her daughter occupied her time along with the hundred and one never-ending chores to be
carried
out on the farm.

‘They’ve all moved on now,’ she finished, topping up my mug with steaming, fresh tea. ‘Two in Dublin and one in Galway, all married with families of their own, thank God.’

‘Were you sorry none of them stayed on to farm?’ I
questioned
cautiously.

‘Lord no!’ she replied firmly, ‘although with the help of God I’ll live my days out in it. We loved the farm and the life that went with it, though it was always a struggle. We brought them up well on it but I’m happy to see them move on. Young people expect more from life now than what this farm could provide for.’

And yet, I thought to myself as I carefully drove back down the icy country roads, will they be any better off in their high-tech careers, working harder to meet the demands of living harder? And will their own children have the same contented upbringing?

The demands of my own job kept me busy for the next while and I had all but forgotten the call until I saw another entry in the book a month or so later.

‘Mrs Trooper, Ballybreathnach – blood test cows.’

That’s strange, I thought to myself. Cows were usually only tested on their annual herd test, which, in her case, was not due for another few months, or if they were going for sale, but surely she had nothing to sell at this time of year?

‘Are you sure that’s right?’ I enquired of Niamh who was busily sorting through a ream of cattle cards.

‘Yeah, did you not hear? The old lady had a stroke a few weeks ago. She’s gone to live in a nursing home. The family has put the house and farm on the market and are selling off the stock.’

All the way up, I felt a deep pang of sadness for a lady I had met only once but who, just a few short weeks before, had sat in her homely kitchen, calmly telling me that she would live out her days on the farm. I just couldn’t imagine her sitting in a room surrounded by strangers, a million miles away from the way of life she treasured. I thought of the meal she had prepared for me and wondered if it had been the last meal she had prepared for anyone.

The weather seemed to match my spirits: the bright
crispness
on the day of my previous visit was now replaced by squally winds and driving rain. This time I hauled open the rickety gate myself and, as I saw no sign of life in the house, made my way straight on up to the shed, coughing several times to catch my breath against the wind.

I couldn’t help noticing that a number of the cattle had empty water buckets in front of them and, in contrast to the last time, the concrete floors of the stalls had only a sparse sprinkling of sodden straw. Hubert, my old patient, now seemed to have fully recovered. He eyed me
watchfully
as I walked past him to where the cows stood. Within minutes, I had drawn blood from the few remaining
stall-tied
cattle and was packing up to leave when a voice called out.

‘Sorry I’m late. I was at an important meeting in Dublin and got delayed. I’m Brian – Mrs Trooper’s son,’ he added, holding out a hand, looking slightly conspicuous in his suit and gleaming wellies.

‘I’m so sorry to hear about your mother,’ I began
awkwardly
. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s doing just fine,’ he assured me in a smooth voice. ‘It was only a minor stroke. She’s recovered well, thank God. Maybe in the end it was just as well. We worried about her on her own all the time since my father died. She had this crazy notion that she would stay up here on her own but now that she’s had this stroke, we’ve made our minds up. She’s getting the best of care. A very nice
nursing
home in Dalkey. Costs an arm and a leg, of course, but still, it’s for the best.’

A few weeks later, I saw a death notice in
The Irish Times:
‘Trooper (née Foley), Frances, (Late of
Ballybreathnach
, Co. Wicklow). Died peacefully in the Convent Garden Rest Home, Dalkey. Sadly missed by her loving sons, daughter and grandchildren. May she rest in peace.’