Vet on the Loose (18 page)

G
ratefully, I collapsed into the ancient couch by the open fire in O’Neill’s kitchen and then settled back to allow the blissful warmth to seep into my chilled bones. It was a bitterly cold December day and, perhaps in part due to a chronic lack of sleep, my body was refusing to adapt to the winter weather. As we were approaching Christmas, Donal was busy preparing the home-cured hams for which his family is famed. He worked from early morning and I worked late into the evening, so it seemed that we only ever met each other in passing.

It had been a long day, starting with a herd test of a hundred and eighty cattle, the majority of which were cows and so needed blood tests along with the routine TB test. By lunchtime, my arms ached from the effort of lifting up close to a hundred and fifty mucky tails as they lashed indignantly around my face. More than once, my frozen fingers lost their grip on the blood bottle and I watched in dismay as it disappeared into what was by then a well-filled dung channel, from which there was little hope of retrieving it. The book in which I painstakingly recorded the tag-number, sex, breed, skin measurements and blood bottle number of each animal became less and less legible as the morning progressed and, by the twelfth page, my pen had frozen solid and I had to resort to the pencil stub kept for such emergencies.

It didn’t help that Martin, the farmer I was dealing with, was not one of the friendliest examples of a Wicklow farmer I had ever come across. I soon gave up on the light-hearted chat that usually helped pass such a morning. Worse still, when we finished, instead of the usual: ‘You’ll have a bite to eat,’ the only comment was, ‘I suppose you’ll be a bit quicker reading them on Monday.’ He then shoved a sheaf of tattered cards into my hand, which by that stage was so numb it felt as though it belonged to another body. I silently watched him as he tramped off to the house, and resolved to be late, in fact very late, on Monday morning.

Unused to having to fend for myself in such situations, I reluctantly made my way to the local café and wearily demolished a plate of beef stew. Before I had even managed to finish the cup of tea which followed, my mobile rang.

‘Fergal Kennedy here. I’ve a cow calving this last few hours and I don’t think she’s making any progress. I reckon you might have to section her.’

‘Well, you’re usually right about that,’ I answered, recalling the last two calls I had had from him. ‘I’ll be out to you within the half-hour.’ Reluctantly, I pushed away the teapot.

Fergal was one of the new breed of young, progressive farmers who combined an agricultural background with an academic qualification and I knew from previous experience that he knew his stuff – I’d never yet had an easy calving in his yard.

It took an hour and a half of sustained effort before I was finally placing the last few sutures in his remarkably placid little Charolais heifer. She roughly licked the wet, leggy bull-calf as he struggled to stand beside her. At least the job had gone smoothly, with Fergal and his brother Eamon as able assistants. Better still, Eamon had gone to boil the kettle for a cup of tea while we finished up.

But it was not to be my day. Just as I was pulling off my gloves, the mobile rang. I had to concentrate to decipher the frantic flow of panic-sticken words from the other end.

‘He’s down and I don’t know how long and he did this before and can you get the vet to come out quickly?’

With a bit of patience and calm talking, I managed to extract the vital details. The call was from the head groom in a horse-yard which I had often driven by, but never yet attended. One of the riding school ponies was ‘rolling around in agony’ and was definitely ‘not going to last much longer!’

‘Don’t worry, I know where you are. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

For the first time in the conversation there was a silence. ‘Oh, are you a vet?’ began the voice at the other end.

‘Yes, I am. I’ve been with the practice for the last six months,’ I replied.

‘Well, are you any good with horses?’ the voice asked suspiciously; the previous sense of urgency seeming to have suddenly abated.

‘Well, I don’t usually kill too many of them,’ I replied smilingly, ignoring the bemused look on Fergal’s face.

Another silence. A sense of humour was obviously not this person’s strong point.

‘I think maybe I might hold off until one of the real vets gets in.’

‘That’s fine. They’re both off now for the weekend,’ I replied blithely. ‘You should catch them on Monday morning.’ I pressed the end button, grinning at Fergal who by now had picked up the gist of the conversation.

‘Right,’ I said as I started scrubbing my instruments in the steaming hot water Eamon had left for me, ‘I reckon about two minutes before they ring back.’ It took only thirty seconds. I slowly and meticulously dried my hands, before finally picking up the phone. A quarter of an hour later, I was pulling into the stables.

Thankfully, the pony didn’t seem to be too bad as I listened to the spasmodic rumbling in his gut. A quick history revealed that this particular pony was prone to colic and the three or four previous bouts had always occurred on a Friday evening. I knew the local girls’ boarding school held a weekly ‘camp’ on Friday mornings so it was possibly a case of too many treats for this particularly handsome Palomino with his long, blond mane.

‘Well, Starlight,’ I said to him as I rooted through his rapidly thickening winter coat for a vein; I was confident that a mild anti-spasmodic was all that was required. ‘For all your bimbo looks, you’re smarter than I thought. I’m sure this will get you out of Saturday’s riding lessons at least.’ His gentle neighing gave nothing away.

I seemed to spend the rest of the day catching up. I was called out to attend another horse yard where a show-jumper had jumped out over a wire fence and suffered a gash the entire length of his cannon bone. The wound needed immediate stitching to have him right for a jumping qualifier less than three weeks away. It was a neat, fresh, wound that should have taken less than half an hour to treat, but Fireball was an excitable type. Despite the usual sedative and local anaesthetic and the soft whisperings of his owner, he fidgeted restlessly throughout, demanding a lot more patience than I felt I had left. By the time I was finished, it was after seven o’ clock and when I got back to the surgery there was a fair-sized queue waiting outside for the evening clinic.

Luckily, most of my patients required nothing more demanding than a routine booster, with the exception of one miserable little Boxer pup who had been unfortunate enough to attend a birthday party for a five-year-old. He had spent the afternoon devouring rice-crispie cakes, jellies and birthday cake and was now suffering as a result.

By 8.30pm I was finally ready to wash the floors, turn off the lights and head home. I briefly contemplated stopping off for a takeaway but by now the day was beginning to take its toll on me. Despite Slug’s hopeful face as we approached the local chipper, I just couldn’t face getting out of the car and back into the icy wind. My mind switched off as I travelled the long road home. Then, just as I was almost there, the phone rang.

‘Are you still at the surgery?’ the caller inquired. I recognised the hearty tones of Barry O’Neill, a sheep farmer client of the practice.

‘No, I’m actually at home now,’ I answered cautiously. Please God, I thought to myself, let it be something that can wait until tomorrow. But no such luck.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ he replied sincerely. ‘I was hoping we would catch you before you left.’

‘No problem. Don’t worry about it,’ I said, trying unsuccessfully to match his breezy tone. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well, the sheep were all fine when I checked them before tea but I’ve just been up to the shed and one of my Cheviot ewes is in trouble. Her bag is out a while but she isn’t getting on with the job so I had a quick feel and all I can feel is a massive big head and no legs. I’ve lambed a few in my day,’ he added, ‘but this is definitely one for you lads.’

Without having ever hit home, I reversed the car into one of the neighbour’s driveways and headed back down the hill. Barry had offered to bring the ewe into the surgery and, although I usually preferred that option, this time I decided against it, as his yard was nearer. By now, Donal had long since given up believing me when I would ring to say I was on my way home. He wasn’t long in himself and he didn’t sound surprised when I rang to tell him I would be at least another hour.

I have often been pleasantly surprised at being able to deliver what appeared to be a hopeless case, but I knew the minute I felt the head that this lamb was going nowhere. He was well and truly stuck. Barry opted for a caesarean and, while I was glad of the chance to do it, as up to now I had only done one on a sheep, I just wished that it could have been tomorrow morning instead.

Once I had the ewe set up on a few bales of straw that were to serve as my operating table, with Barry and his son Peter restraining her, I warmed to the job. I was relieved to remember how much easier it was to section a ewe than a cow. Before long, the sheep lay resting on her side, displaying a neat row of sutures, with two thriving lambs by her side.

‘Well, that’s a job well done anyway,’ said Barry’s wife Eithne, who had joined us to check on progress.

‘It surely is,’ said Barry, ‘and would you believe that Gillian hasn’t even finished her lunch yet, never mind her dinner? We’d better rustle up something to keep the bill down!’

While I injected some antibiotic into the ewe, Barry started to rinse my instruments in a fresh bucket of hot water. By now, I was so exhausted that I didn’t try to stop him. Half an hour crouched over a sheep in a shed had allowed the cold to penetrate deep into my body and I was suddenly ravenous.

Once I had washed and removed my overalls, I sank thankfully into a comfortable armchair, to gaze trance-like into the dancing flames of the open fire as its radiant warmth gradually penetrated me. I wondered how I would find the energy to drive home again.

By the time I had polished off the ‘quick snack’ that Eithne had miraculously put together, I was feeling decidedly mellow and the quiet contentment of a successful day was beginning to make me feel at one with the world again. Just as I was beginning to luxuriate in this comfortable state of affairs, my phone rang again. I laughed resignedly as my hosts commiserated.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of the chair and headed back to the cold jeep. Oh well, at least it’s only a cow with an uncomplicated milk fever. In and out in fifteen minutes, I told myself.

Fitzpatricks in Annacurragh. I hadn’t been to them before, but Barry had given me directions. I should find it easily enough and it was only ten minutes away, heading in the right direction for home.

The crisp cold of the winter’s night quickly woke me up and, with a full stomach, my spirits were rejuvenated. As I drove along the rapidly freezing roads, I replayed the events of the day in my mind. Despite all the ups and downs of my first year, I was beginning to feel like a real vet. Look at today, I reminded myself. A difficult herd test, a cow caesarean, a colic, a horse stitch-up, a sheep caesarean, difficult clients – not a bother to you! I congratulated myself. Finally, I felt I was beginning to make my mark on the veterinary world – a fully-fledged veterinary surgeon had emerged!

By the time I reached Annacurragh, I was brimming with confidence and the warm glow of contentment in which I was basking seemed to dispel even the icy chill of the winter’s night. Up ahead, I saw a yard entrance with a five-bar gate and then a shed up on the hill as described by Tom Fitzpatrick over the phone.

I strode confidently up to the shed. Not for me, anymore, the apprehension of meeting new clients; sure, why wouldn’t they be impressed by so exemplary a representative of the veterinary profession as myself?

A few hollers around the yard produced no results and I was slightly surprised to have to knock on the kitchen door.

I had to knock a second time before an elderly man appeared and pulled open the heavy door.

‘Gillian, the vet,’ I informed him as I grasped his hand and forcefully pumped it up and down. I waited. ‘Right so,’ I said, ‘I’ll head on up to the shed, if you want to follow when you’re ready.’

Not a very talkative type, I thought to myself, as I pulled open the double doors of the two-span shed and felt around for the light switch. I drew out the bottle of calcium and attached it to the flutter-valve. Most of the cattle were looking around, blinking painfully against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. Although there were only twenty or so cows, I couldn’t readily pick out my patient. I stamped around impatiently until the old man poked his head around the door.

‘Can I help you at all?’ he asked, looking at me a bit strangely.

‘No, I’m all set up here. If you could just point out the cow, I’ll be out of your way in no time.’

‘The cow?’ he repeated stupidly, a blank expression on his wizened face.

‘Yes, yes, the one with the milk fever,’ I explained impatiently, as I squeezed the rubber base of the flutter valve to start the sticky liquid flowing.

‘A cow with milk fever? We don’t have a cow with milk fever,’ he replied, beginning to look slightly worried as he eyed my loaded pockets suspiciously.

‘Tom Fitzpatrick. Annacurragh. You were on to me not twenty minutes ago. You have a cow with milk fever,’ I repeated slowly and patiently, beginning to wonder if the elderly man was suffering from amnesia.

There was a pause as he stared at me, then gradually the worried look was replaced by a slow twitch of his mouth and a twinkling in his eye and I got the impression that he was about to laugh. ‘Tom Fitzpatrick. Annacurragh,’ he repeated as he slowly took me by the arm and led me out to the door of the shed before pointing towards a large dairy, barely discernible by its glowing lights, further down the valley. ‘That’s his yard down there.’

It took a few seconds for what he was saying to sink in; much less for the deep red flush to start rising from my neck and over my face.