Vet on the Loose (14 page)

I didn’t see Jill for quite some time as Kevin’s farm went through a relatively peaceful spell. Jill, in typical collie form, pulled her own stitches out. It must have been six months later when I pulled into the yard to ‘wash out’ a few cows. I laughed to myself, reflecting that if I hadn’t been able to get near Jill on my previous visits, I certainly wouldn’t get near her now. In her mind, I would be the one who had taken her from her rightful job, confined her in a kennel and carried out numerous unpleasant
procedures
on her. Still, I hoped to catch a glimpse of her – just to prove to my disbelieving mind that all was still well.

As I opened the car door, I was taken aback as a black and white form shot across the yard, straight to the car and deposited itself on my lap. I stared in disbelief at Jill. She in turn sat gazing devotedly at me, totally ignoring poor Slug who was quite put out by this rude invasion.

To this day, any time I go into that yard Jill repeats the performance and I can do nothing without having a gentle nose glued to my wellington boot. In fact, sometimes, on those bad days when everything I look at seems to die, I drive by Jill’s farm just to reassure myself that at least one animal in the whole of Wicklow really appreciates me.

I
remember once, as a student, being let out on a call on a busy spring evening to treat a cow with redwater. The farmers lived in a high-density tick area and they had observed the classic red urine caused by the
tick-borne
parasite which breaks down the cow’s red blood cells. The diagnosis was obvious over the phone and the treatment straightforward enough for me to administer even with my limited skills as a student. Nevertheless, I was walking on air as I made my way up to the small hill farm. Until now, I had always accompanied the vet but this time it was just me. However, despite managing to do the job efficiently, I thought, the two farmers eyed me
suspiciously
in stony silence for the duration of my visit and apparently I had no sooner left the yard than they were on the phone to the office to see what time the real vet was coming out.

It was the same eerie silence that reminded me of that day now. Although more than three years later and with a good six months of experience under my belt, it seemed that nothing had changed.

When I finally qualified, I was pleasantly surprised that the local farmers, unaccustomed and all as they were to having a real live female vet, seemed to warm quickly to the idea. After a couple of calls, they even dropped the ‘lady vit’ title and I became just an ordinary ‘vit’. But up in the mountainy highlands, in sparse patches where the hills rose above the clouds, it seemed that the revolution had never caught on.

‘Ballinacarraig, TB-test thirty sucklers’: it had seemed an innocent enough entry in the day-book that morning.

I was lost in another world as I headed up over the mountain, enjoying the tranquillity of the morning. The directions Niamh had given me that morning had guided me to a tiny, almost derelict cottage, tucked into the edge of a steep bank. Looking at it, I found it hard to believe that the three elderly brothers who owned the farm and had been born and reared there still lived in such conditions. As though from another era, the brothers were almost totally self-sufficient and only ventured down to the bright lights of Wicklow town once a month for essential
supplies
. While driving up the ever-narrowing roadway, I had noticed that the electricity and telephone wires had long since run out and, not for the first time, it amazed me to find people living no more than thirty miles from Dublin without such basic supplies.

My cogitations were cut short as I pulled into the yard. Up on the hill, I observed three bearded men, dressed in identical soiled overcoats and worn boots. They appeared to be quietly contemplating me from the makeshift cattle crush where the herd of sucklers was penned.

Opening the door of the jeep, I called out a greeting, but was a bit taken aback as the three men stared into the
distance
, seemingly oblivious to my very presence.

Oh well, I thought to myself, in and out, get it over with.

Loaded down with the familiar McClintock TB testing syringes hanging in my belt and the usual array of blood bottles, note-book, pen, scissors and the well-worn
callipers
, I headed up the hill. As I neared my clients, although by now slightly out of breath, I renewed my greeting. I began to feel a little bit unnerved when there was still no reply. Their silence was in stark contrast to the frenzied yelping of the farm collie as he snapped deliriously around my heels, and the constant roars and bawls of the corralled cows and calves.

‘Right, are we ready so?’ I tried again, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I could.

There was a long pause as the three shuffled
uncomfortably
, eyes cast to the ground.

Eventually, the middle man looked up out over my shoulder and with the half of the mouth that wasn’t
supporting
his pipe, growled out:

‘Where’s the vit?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘I’m new to the
practice
. I should have introduced myself! My name is Gillian and I’ve come to test the cattle.’

I thrust my hand forward to the spokesman but quickly withdrew it as I realised the only likely contact would be from the snapping teeth of the dog as he hurled himself ceaselessly up and down by my side. In hindsight, I
realised
that he too may have been upset by the rare sighting of the female of the species and trying to protect his
territory
from the unfamiliar invasion.

‘Well now, thim’s big cattle and I think the boss man should come up himself. ’Tisn’t a job for a wan like
yer-self
.’

His two siblings mutely assented with an almost
imperceptible
nod of the head.

The time for patience was over. I planned on spending as little time as possible here, and standing around
discussing
the merits of the boss was not the way forward.

‘Not at all!’ I cried happily. ‘We’ll manage grand. Now, if you could just start running the cattle into the crush, we’ll be done in no time.’

Loading the avian and bovine tuberculins into the respective syringes, I strode off towards the top of the crush and whipped out my notebook, ready for action, while all the time aware of the silence behind me.

Turning back, I noticed the three men still standing where I left them as though immobilised by fear of this unknown entity.

Desperate measures were clearly called for, so, carefully packing the syringes back into the belt, I hopped over the fence into the holding pen and began to herd the
bewildered
animals into the crush.

My action worked perfectly, as Mr Spokesman
immediately
followed me, flanked on either side by his comrades, with a speed I would never have suspected them capable of, as though they were anxious to protect the cattle from me. Satisfied, I hopped back out and began silently noting down breeds, sexes and tag numbers.

It wasn’t going to be as bad as I thought, I decided a while later, observing the rapidly dwindling number of cattle in the pen. Three more crush-loads and I would be on my way. Casually, I hummed to myself to lighten the ordeal, but hastily stopped when I observed the shocked expression on the wizened faces of my clients.

Before I knew it, the last three cattle were in the crush but, just as I was reloading the syringe full of tuberculin, the inevitable happened. The most skittish of the group, a wiry black whitehead, decided that enough was enough and suddenly plunged her way through the rotted planks of the makeshift pen. The splintering of wood alerted me just in time to see her bucking her way up the hill to rejoin her comrades with a triumphant bellow.

Why today? I thought to myself wearily, as I threw down my scissors and notepad to race back up the hill after the escapee. I turned briefly to see which way the men had headed to block the great escape and looked in
bewilderment
, realising that they hadn’t even budged from where they were standing.

‘Quick!’ I roared. ‘We’ll have to catch her before she gets out on the hill!’

Still they stood and stared.

With a frustrated glance at the fast-disappearing beast, I stopped. ‘We’ll have to get her back. She has to be tested on the same day as all the others.’

‘Ye won’t catch her today,’ was the grim response as they continued to gaze vacantly at the far horizon, now rapidly being approached by the fleeing Charolais.

‘Well, we’ll have to. It’s the Department’s rules, not mine,’ I said firmly, hoping that the reference to the payers of subsidies would help me out.

‘Ye won’t catch her today,’ the most talkative of the trio repeated as though reciting a mantra.

Hopelessly, I threw myself back on the remains of the crush, head spinning with the prospect of a day of irate clients, for whom I would now be considerably late.

On days like these, how I would love to call out the powers-that-be and enlist them in the battle to retrieve this one stubborn cow from the hilltops. Little would they know how one single entry in the testing book of skin measurements before and three days after the tuberculin injection could cause me such grief. What difference was this one escapee going to make to the health records of the national herd? As my conscience battled with my sanity, I raised my head and saw that the three, oblivious to my anguish, had begun the slow descent down the hill towards the ruin that served as their dwelling place. That decided me.

‘Come back!’ I roared after them, the first raised voice of the day. ‘She has to be done even if it means putting the whole lot of them through again!’

‘She won’t be caught in a hurry,’ came the gruff reply.

‘Well then,’ I said firmly, ‘I’ll wait until she is.’

The brothers paused and glared at me in unison as though wondering from what planet I had descended. Then, wordlessly, they made their way back up the steep incline. As I laid down my testing belt and made to follow, the spokesman half-turned and with a dismissive glance at me, growled, ‘Don’t ye follow, ye’ll only drive them wild!’

Fine so, I thought to myself, impervious to insult at this stage, as I slumped down on the nearest log. Eventually, I heard the roar of distant cattle, accompanied by the shrill yelping of the dog.

Relieved, I watched as they made steady progress down the hill, but just as they came over the hollow which would lead them back into the holding pen, the original culprit turned tail and broke rank, quickly to be followed by her increasingly nervous comrades. Silently cursing, I sank back on the log and watched the three again make their way back up the steep slopes with slow, even steps.

Apart from the time that was being eaten out of my already busy day, the delay was beginning to cause me another increasingly urgent problem. Since before I had got out of the car, I had needed to go to the toilet. Initially, I had ignored the problem, but as time ticked by, the need was becoming more and more pressing.

Of all the problems encountered by a female vet, this is one that can occasionally result in rather embarrassing situations. Despite the odd nudge and wink among the menfolk, nothing is thought of a male vet stepping into a dim corner of a dusty hay shed after a particularly long calving or long-drawn-out test. For the lady vet, however, it would be unthinkable, although on a few occasions one becomes desperate enough to attempt it. More than once, I have sent a surprised farmer off for a fresh bucket of water when there was already a perfectly good one on hand. One gentleman farmer whom I had to attend on a regular basis, seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the delicacy of the problem and on every occasion before I began the job would discreetly ask if I ‘would care to use the facilities’.

However, judging from my experience so far, I wasn’t holding out for any such consideration from today’s
clients
. Carefully throwing a glance around to pick out a suitable bush, I gave up all hope as the nearest solid item to the holding pen was the house itself. My only chance was to perform in the stark openness of the barren field and hope I didn’t cause heart failure if any of the three farmers should choose the wrong moment to reappear. Just I was beginning to plan my route, the sound of the approaching cattle put paid to my plans and I braced myself for another wait.

This time, the cattle broke in the opposite direction and headed down towards the house. The unfamiliar
surroundings
caused them to split and, with increasing frenzy, they careered around the rough slopes. Pulling myself together, I got up and started towards the end of the field, ignoring the cold stares of my fellow herdsmen. While I waved and roared at the bewildered cattle, they took one look at me and stampeded past the pen. Luckily, and by what seemed like divine intervention, half of them managed to run into it, so panic-stricken were they in their attempt to escape from me. Gleefully, I observed that my victim had managed to wedge herself between the stock bull and a particularly large cow. Seizing my moment, and regardless of the stares of the men and the indignant
yelping
which followed close on my heels, I leapt up on to the last remaining plank and, with lightning speed, clipped and injected the animal. I barely had time to jump down again before, with a sharp crack, the entire fence gave way. Luckily, I just managed to fall clear of the rail before it caught over the back of the enraged bull who proceeded to carry his harness at speed in the direction of the distant horizon.

‘Right so,’ I said as casually as I dared, while the men surveyed the ruins before them, ‘we’re all done.’

But as the adrenalin of my success faded, I realised that after my acrobatics, I wasn’t going to make it out of the place intact. Obviously, the jumping around had stretched my bladder wall so that now the pain was excruciating as I slowly walked cross-legged down the field. A sweat had begun to break out on my forehead by the time I made up my mind.

‘Sorry,’ I began hesitantly, in the general direction of my clients, ‘but could I use your toilet, please?’

If I thought the silence before was bad, I wasn’t
prepared
myself for what was to come. The three stopped as though frozen in their tracks and stared long and hard at me. Then the spokesman finally stepped forward and beckoned with a nod of his head for me to follow him, leaving the other two behind. My agony overcame my embarrassment as I followed meekly into the ancient dwelling with its bare stone floor, sparsely furnished with three chairs, a small table and a gas ring. Glancing around, I wondered where the toilet was and was about to follow my host through the low door into the only adjoining room when he reappeared. In the dim light, I could barely make out the rusted bucket which he unceremoniously dumped on the floor in front of me. He then disappeared back out the front door, firmly closing the latch. Such was my relief, that it might well have been the main toilet in the White House. As the pains began to subside, I cautiously straightened myself up again and, carefully picking up the bucket, glanced over at the filthy enamelled sink which stood in the corner, packed with dishes from the
morning’s
breakfast. No tap filled into the sink and the only exit was out an old rubber pipe which drained through the thick walls. Trying to move as noiselessly as possible, I took out all the dirty dishes before sloshing the
voluminous
quantities of straw-coloured liquid into the sink. Spying a similar bucket underneath, which after a quick smell I ascertained to be water, I poured a quantity down after my sample before reloading the dishes.