Vet on the Loose (3 page)

B
ut I had learned one thing already: the type of practice where I definitely did
not
want to work. One experience of horse practice was to influence my future choice of career options. In my final year at college, the thrill of seeing practice had become almost routine and, in common with my fellow students, I was torn between the desire to move on and get out on my own, and the worry of how I would actually perform once I was left to my own devices.

While out on calls with Finbar, he would let me do quite a bit of the practical work and I was beginning to feel that there was hope for me, not realising just how comfortable it was to have the safety net of an experienced vet on hand.

Although there were a lot of horses in his area, the work we did was confined to the basic, everyday jobs and any surgical cases would be referred to one of the specialist equine hospitals.

When a couple of flashy brochures appeared in the student common-room before the Easter holidays I was impressed. The glossy pictures of padded knock-down boxes and spacious stables, all occupied by impeccably groomed horses, looked appealing and gave us a taste for the posher end of things. One of the lecturers had a connection with a first-rate surgical referral hospital in Newmarket, in England, and promised to set me up there for a fortnight.

When I arrived at The Livingston Foundation Hospital, as the sign over the wrought-iron gates proudly proclaimed the place to be, I congratulated myself on my decision to go there. Such a grand-looking place must indeed be a veterinary hospital of academic excellence. I was equally impressed by the immaculate reception area where I announced my presence.

‘You’re who?’ asked the haughty-looking woman behind the desk, peering at me over her spectacles.

‘My name is Gillian Hick,’ I repeated, slightly taken aback that nobody seemed to have heard of me. ‘I’m here to see practice with Mr Livingston.’

‘Oh, not another one!’ she said dismissively. ‘Well, go on over to the yard and just keep out of everyone’s way until the vets arrive.’

Off I headed in my new Aigle boots and Gortex overalls, feeling somewhat crestfallen, but when I saw the magnificent red-bricked yard, filled with a collection of horses in varying stages of recovery from surgery, my spirits lifted. In the far corner was the surgical area and I looked in awe at the purpose-built, padded knock-down box, and separate theatre, filled with all sorts of sophisticated equipment that I had heard of, but never seen. As I wandered around the gleaming surgery, my experiences of rolling around mucky fields in pursuit of irate cattle with a few bales of straw serving as an operating table began to fade to a distant memory. I was just beginning to fancy myself working in a place like this when I heard a shout; ‘Oi, you, what the hell do you think you’re doing in there?’

I turned around to see a burly man, in jodhpurs embroidered with the hospital logo, and looked behind me to see who he was talking to.

‘You!’ he roared.

‘Me?’ I said, incredulously. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m the new veterinary student. My name is …’

My voice trailed off lamely as he roared ‘I don’t give a damn who you are! Just get out of there!’

Mortified, I came out of the surgery and stood in the middle of the yard, well aware that the small army of stable lads were having a good laugh at me. About half an hour passed as I stood there, trying to look engrossed at the pattern on the stable doors, until I finally got fed-up and cautiously made my way over to one of the more friendly-looking grooms who was busy mucking out.

‘Can I give you a hand?’ I enquired.

‘Ta very much, love, but my life’s worth more than that. The boss would kill me if I let you,’ he said nodding over towards the man who had threatened to burst my eardrums.

‘What time will the vets be along?’ I enquired, wondering how long I could manage to stand around trying to look occupied.

‘There’s no surgery on today,’ he replied. ‘They’ve all gone off to the big race meeting. Mr Jeffers is on call but it would take something serious to bring him back. He’s fond of the old you-know-what.’

‘So what am I meant to do all day?’ I asked him in despair.

‘Beats me, luv!’ He shrugged and turned away before the boss’s beady eyes picked up on the conversation.

The day lasted a lifetime as I wandered around the yard afraid to look at, let alone touch, anything. At lunch time, the yard lads went off to their private quarters and left me standing there with the packed lunch that I had hurriedly bought at a local shop that morning. By six o’clock I was just about to leave, to make my way back to the tiny room in the B&B that I was staying in, when an impressive-looking Jaguar pulled into the car-park reserved for members of staff. One of the lads nudged me: ‘That’s Mr Livingston himself.’

Right, I thought to myself. I’ve had enough of this.

‘Good evening, Mr Livingston,’ I began, marching confidently across the yard. ‘My name is Gillian Hick. I’m a veterinary student from Ireland and I wonder would it be possible for me to work with you tomorrow?’

Mr Livingston was a portly man, in late middle-age, with a brisk demeanour. He eyeballed me over his heavy spectacles and, looking disdainfully at the hand I held out to him, he muttered, ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll be leaving the yard at 6.30am. I’ve a call to attend to on the far side of town.’

‘That’s perfect,’ I replied, determined not to give up. ‘I’ll see you here at 6.30am so.’

I was aware of a silence behind me as the group of lads stood watching in anticipation.

‘Don’t be late, then,’ he said testily, before he marched off to his office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

‘Good for you!’ said the only one of the lads who had talked to me yet.

By 6.25am the next morning, I was waiting at the yard entrance for Mr Livingston; 6.30am came and went and then 7.30 and then 7.45. Had it not been for the well-meaning lecturer in college who had organised the job for me, I would have packed up and caught the next flight home.

At exactly 7.48, I heard the smooth roar of the approaching Jag. Mr Livingston looked surprised to see me as I approached the car.

‘Yes, well, I’m a few minutes late,’ he said, without looking at me.

‘Not to worry,’ I replied sweetly. ‘I’m sure you’re a very busy man.’

He was so engrossed in his own self-importance that he failed to notice my sarcasm.

‘That’s right, indeed. Very busy,’ he affirmed.

I had barely shut the car door before Mr Livingston had taken off and, with the radio blaring at full blast, I was left in no doubt that having to make polite conversation was not going to be an issue. Four years of seeing practice with an assortment of vets had left me accustomed to dealing with all types of characters. I sat back and allowed my mind to wander as the car shot along the motorway to the town where the first call was to be. After a while though, my reveries were interrupted by hunger pangs. Vets in general seem to be a hungry lot and part of the ritual of seeing practice usually involved regularly stopping off for supplies at the local shops or pubs, so much so that my metabolism became accustomed to the increased food intake during these regular ‘working holidays’. By the time ten o’clock approached, I was ravenous. The two packets of Hula-Hoops that I had eaten for breakfast were now a distant memory and I knew I wouldn’t survive much longer. The only thing that gave me hope was the sight of the gut protruding over Mr Livingston’s belt; judging by its ample size, I figured that he wouldn’t last long either. I was right.

Not long after, he pulled into one of the roadside cafés and as I watched him pile up a bag from the hot-food counter, I felt relieved at the prospect of food, at last.

But I was in for a rude awakening. When he returned to the car, he got back into his seat and carefully pulled out a breakfast roll, two hot doughnuts and settled a steaming cup of coffee on the dashboard. He then proceeded to wolf it all down without even a sideways glance at me. My total sense of outrage was subdued only by the fact that I was almost weak with hunger at this stage. As we travelled the last few miles to the yard where the lame horse awaited, I fumed at his ignorance. Never in all my years of seeing practice had I encountered a vet as rude as this. It was an unwritten rule among colleagues to look after students – after all, they had all been students themselves once.

I have little memory of the actual call itself. All I could think about was that my feet were going numb while the feisty little yearling trotted up and down as Mr Livingston tried to make up his mind what was wrong with her.

When we finally got back to the hospital, my only thought was for the humble sandwich that I had packed in case of emergency. By the time I had finished it, Mr Livingston had gone and so another day had ended.

Soon, I was actually beginning to wonder about my career choice. My experiences since arriving at this place had been so disheartening that, for the first time ever, I felt I was beginning to hate the veterinary world. In any other practice that I had worked in, the vets were delighted if you showed an interest in a case, once you didn’t pester them too much about it. Here, there was an air of secrecy over everything and I soon found that the case-files that I normally enjoyed poring over in my spare moments, were jealously guarded. I wasn’t allowed to handle any of the animals and the vets’ meeting that took place twice a week was held behind closed doors. When the vets went to the staff-room for a cup of coffee, the door was kept firmly shut so I was left in no doubt that my presence was not welcome. My sole form of refreshment was from the water-hose out in the yard.

*  *  *

One day, one of the vets finally took pity on me and allowed me to watch a colic surgery from such a distance that all I could see was the sterile, green drape. Another day, he took me out to X-ray a horse in one of the top racing yards – I was supposed to be suitably impressed by the name of the yard, but in truth I had never heard of it, owing to my ignorance of the racing scene.

The yard itself was more interesting than the X-ray procedure. I had never before seen so many rows of boxes with so many sleek racehorses. I arrived just as what was known as a changeover was taking place; the first string of horses was being unloaded from one fleet of lorries while the next were getting ready to go. The lorries were headed for the gallops where twenty or so apprentice jockeys would put the horses through their paces, under the supervision of the head jockey. What amazed me was the average age of these jockeys; some of them didn’t look old enough to be out of national school.

‘Stop snivelling and get your horse loaded!’ shrilled the trainer.

The poor kid to whom she referred was a tiny little spotty-faced lad, no more than four feet tall, who had apparently taken a bad fall that morning and was trying to swap his somewhat excitable mount for one of the others.

All my romantic views of working in a racing yard faded in the half hour I spent there in an increasingly tense atmosphere while the trainer stalked around, barking out orders to each jockey in relation to their mount. They were all clearly terrified of her although, as soon as she left, the camaraderie between them became evident.

I only saw Mr Livingston once more, on the Thursday morning when he came in to do a fairly routine surgery list. One bay mare was written up to be pin-fired – an old fashioned treatment for tendon injuries in which red hot needles are inserted at regular intervals along the damaged tendon in an attempt to set up a counter-irritation to promote better healing of the affected area. Although the procedure is carried out under local anaesthetic, the after-effects are quite painful and the benefit of the treatment doubtful. I was surprised to see such an old-fashioned treatment still in use in a modern hospital but even more surprised when I managed to sneak a look at the horse when no one was looking. I ran my hand down along the mare’s leg and could easily identify the deep and superficial flexor tendons but, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find even the slightest blemish in either. When Mr Livingston arrived to examine her, despite being strongly discouraged by the vets from asking questions, I decided to risk it.

‘What are you planning on doing with her?’ I asked him, feigning innocence.

‘Pin-firing,’ came the abrupt reply.

‘And why are you doing that?’ I continued, despite his discouraging manner.

‘Well now,’ he said, in the longest sentence he had yet spoken to me, ‘if you can’t see why she needs to be pin-fired, it only confirms that you’re in the wrong job.’

Despite several more examinations, I still couldn’t figure out why she needed to be pin-fired.

By Friday morning, I couldn’t believe that I was only halfway through my stay. While on the phone to Donal the previous night, he had encouraged me to come home early. ‘By the sounds of things, they won’t even notice over there,’ he pointed out. But I just couldn’t face leaving early to hear the slagging I’d get back home about the abrupt ending to my high-flying career plans as a horse vet. If this was equine veterinary, I didn’t want to know about it.

The day passed as usual, hanging around hoping to catch a glimpse of something vaguely interesting, and at the same time, trying to keep a low profile, since any effort I made to lend a hand or get involved was always rebuffed.

As usual, lunchtime found me sitting on a bale of straw, having a sandwich with the yard dog for company. My peaceful daydreams were interrupted by the roar of a lorry careering around the corner. I quickly recognised it as belonging to the trainer in the yard where we had gone to X-ray a horse. Apparently, she would often get it into her head that a particular horse needed to be endoscoped after the morning training session and she would arrive without appointment and expect the job to be done instantly. Although no other client would have been let away with this, as she was such a prestigious trainer the vets would fawn over her in a way that made me want to cringe every time she came into the yard. Within seconds of the lorry screeching to a halt, a flurry of jockeys piled out of the back and began unloading horses. As I made my way across the yard to see if I could give a hand, she caught sight of me.