Village Vets

by Anthony Bennett

  DEDICATION

  For Sidney, Ronnie and our children, and all the animals that have been entrusted to our care

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Up to Our Armpits

  The Running of the Bulls

  A Potentially Lovesick Puppy

  101 Deaf Dalmatians

  Zombie Sheep and Flying Cats

  A Three-Legged Animal with a Spare

  When Pigs Fly

  Lost in Spays

  A Bloody Fast Greyhound

  Inverell Caesarean

  Where Did I Come From?

  All Pigs Great . . .

  . . . and Small

  If I Could Talk to the Animals

  A Very Expensive 24-Carat Goldfish

  Rodeo Clowns

  One of the Family

  Who You Gunna Call?

  Where’s Wally?

  Parvovirus and Prolapses

  Rampaging Rambo

  A Welsh of Experience

  Holey Cow

  Surgical Conditions

  Breakfast Far From Tiffany’s

  Double Trouble

  Respiratory Rodents

  Nipple Cripple

  Dainty Hands Make Light Work

  A Good Judge of Character

  And Jill Came Tumbling After

  Fat Boy Slim

  Chavs and Chav-Nots

  Cushion’s Disease

  A Posh Paddlepop

  Manning the Fort

  In a Twist

  A Fiery Redhead

  Drinking on the Job

  The Berry Showgirl Ball

  Stitching Things Back Together

  Toast in the Past and Toast to the Future

  Practice Makes Perfect

  Up to Our Armpits Again

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  UP TO OUR ARMPITS

  James

  It is dusk and a storm threatens as we flap our arms about like we’re birds, whooping and urging the big black cow to go where we need her to go. We need to get her up the race and into the crush so we can save her life. She, however, is wise to our bluff. With head erect and nostrils pulsing, she wants to be far, far away. And, if she can’t get there, it looks like her next favoured option will be to tango on our heads. Lightning flashes, ever closer, across the deep green flats of the Shoalhaven River. If there is thunder, we can’t hear it for the wind.

  Barely half an hour earlier, my new veterinary partner, Anthony Bennett, and I had been warmly ensconced in our clinic performing a delicate procedure on a cat called Ginger Meadows. Ginger was the beloved moggy of an elderly gentleman, Peter Meadows, and it was with great sadness that I’d had to tell him that Ginger had a tumour. He’d given us the go-ahead to do a biopsy to discover what sort of lump it was.

  A steady hand and a high degree of coordination were required to guide a needle into the lump using an ultrasound as our navigational tool. I held the needle in place while Anthony pulled the plunger back to suck out a sample of Ginger’s cells.

  And then the phone rang. Trish Rosa, our dynamic veterinary nurse-cum-receptionist-cum-practice manager answered. I heard her close the call with, ‘Someone will be out soon.’ Not what you want to hear late on a cold August day with the wind starting to howl. ‘There’s a problem calving at Townsend’s,’ she said as she put the phone down.

  As I ran through my mental checklist of everything I might need, Anthony piped up. ‘I’ll come with you, mate. We can take my car.’ I was relieved. I’m sure it’s the last thing he felt like doing, but at least he knew where the farm was.

  Even though Anthony is my best mate from university, this is the first large-animal vet job we’ve done together in the twelve years we’ve known each other. For five years at uni we’d done everything in cahoots, but after that we’d gone our separate ways. I’d worked out bush in northern New South Wales, then in Wales, London and more recently in a wonderfully climate-controlled veterinary hospital in Sydney, performing delicate operations on kittens and guinea pigs, with every advanced piece of equipment imaginable on hand, and at never more than a few steps away from the tea room.

  But I’d moved to Berry, a little town two hours’ drive south of Sydney, to go into partnership with Anthony and now he’s showing me the ropes. I haven’t delivered a calf in more than four years. There isn’t much demand for this sort of work in south-east London or Sydney’s upper North Shore.

  The blackness is fast approaching as the farm caretaker, a gentle old soul and former dairy hand called Tom, eventually manages to shoo the grunting cow into the crush while keeping a wary distance from her. Anthony squeezes the crush onto her neck to hold her fast so I can examine her. There isn’t a moment to lose before this storm hits, so I go straight in – lifting the cow’s tail with my right hand and sticking my bare left hand through her vulva and into the birth canal.

  You might be surprised how calmly most cows accept such an indignity, but Our Girl isn’t most cows. She tenses and snorts and kicks as I gently feel my way in through the narrow opening. It takes a few moments to get my bearings while I guide my hand around the slimy protrusions of bone and limb inside the huge fleshy cavity of the cow’s uterus. There is a calf in there as expected.

  But prod and pry as I might, I can’t find the head. Or the feet.

  In a calving, the front feet should come out first, followed by the head, in what we call the Superman position. When you put your hand in, you want to feel the front hooves and the nose right there near the entrance, ready to do their ‘up, up and away’ thing. But all I can feel here is tail.

  ‘It’s trying to come out bum first,’ I say.

  Often backwards calves are not a big problem. If both back legs are leading the way out of the birth canal, you can just attach a rope to the legs and pull the calf out. It’s routine, with just a slightly higher risk of tearing on the way out. But bum first with the back legs pointing away from the birth canal is called a breech position. It adds a couple of degrees of difficulty.

  As the winter storm wraps itself around Coolangatta Mountain, full of malicious chill that makes you think it is snowing somewhere, I’ve got to say I question my judgement in returning to the business of treating large animals. Why don’t farmers have roofs over their crushes? And where is the tea room?

  Anthony and I race to the car to grab a bit more gear as the first drops of rain begin to splash. Back at the crush I draw up the local anaesthetic for the epidural through an 18-gauge needle. This needle is so huge just looking at it makes grown men faint. But not cranky black cows, unfortunately; she thrashes about something fierce. I lift her tail and run my hand up its base, feeling for the articulations of the vertebrae where the tail meets the body. I’ve got to get this big fat needle directly into the space around the spinal cord of the bucking cow.

  Here goes nothing.

  I plunge it in and hear a tiny hiss as the bleb of local anaesthetic that was left in the hub of the needle disappears into the cow. This is good. The space around the spinal cord is under negative pressure. It’s a vacuum, so it actually draws a little bit of the drug in from the needle without me pushing. Then, when I empty the contents of the syringe, I feel the tail go floppy, so I know I’ve hit the mark. It will deaden the back of the birth canal and vagina, but she’ll still be able to feel a lot of what’s going on. A more complete epidural would numb the whole area, but could cause her to lie down, and I need her to be standing.

  I give her another shot to stop her pushing. I’m going to have to do a lot of pushing and pulling myself to manipulate this calf around, and if she’s trying to shove the calf out, I’ll lose that battle of strength. Meanwhile, Anthony has sent Tom off to get us a bucket of water. Tom comes slowly back with it slowly across
the muddy yard, and Anthony pours iodine into it. I dip my arms into the dark yellow liquid right up past the elbows to sterilise them. There are no gloves for this job. My fingers will need all their feeling and dexterity for the elusive bits of calf I’ll be trying to grab. I pour a few blobs of green lubricant onto my hands so they are now an ugly yellowy, greenish brown.

  While the calf’s bum is at the birth canal, its back legs are pointing in the wrong direction – towards the cow’s head. My aim is to get hold of the back feet and pull them around 180 degrees so that they point out the birth canal instead. Before I can do that, however, I have to push the calf deeper into the uterus.

  By the time I am ready to put my yellowy, greenish brown arms back in to get this calf out, the rain is coming in sideways, driving into my back. Twilight has descended early. The cow bucks and bristles. She is trying to turn her head like she wants to get a good look at the person she needs to get her revenge on. ‘See you, Jimmy.’

  I can feel that her calf is a big one and it hasn’t left much room inside. I push hard on the calf, moving it back deeper into the uterus. I simultaneously pull at its feet, grunting and groaning with my neck pressed hard into the black butt of the cow. It takes all my strength, emotional and physical. These are not natural movements for me or the beast.

  It almost comes as a surprise when that first leg swings back around and I am able to pull it up and out. I quickly tie a strap to it, which I leave dangling out the back so that when I get the other leg around we can start to pull.

  I feel more than a bit pleased with myself. After four years away I still have it. I look over to the caretaker. Old Tom is standing off to the side and it is a bit hard to pick up the appreciative nods I am sure he wants to give me because he is battling to keep a big umbrella pointed into the horizontal rain.

  I glance over to Anthony to acknowledge his professional approval. While I’m sure he knows that I know what I am doing, I still feel a need to prove it. Anthony is standing right next to me, holding the cow’s tail to keep it out of my way. He is also performing another vital service: sheltering me from the south-westerly blast. My back is cold and wet but the rest of me is pretty snug. I’ve had my hand inside the nice warm cow with my cheek nuzzled into her angry steaming butt. Combined with the physical exertion I’ve been putting in, I’m relatively cosy. He’s been standing still – except for some teeth chattering – taking the icy bullets for me.

  So if he is giving the warm smile of professional admiration that I’m sure he wants to, I can’t see it for the shaking.

  ‘Do you want me to have a go?’ he asks through those chattering teeth.

  ‘Nah, I’ll be done in a minute,’ I say.

  The first leg is always the hardest. I expect that now I’ve created more space by bringing the leg back, the second one will be easy. But I’ve underestimated the physical demands of the job. Pushing and pulling against a big, difficult cow and gripping hard with my left arm at full stretch is using muscles that have rested undisturbed in city vet hospital tea rooms for four years.

  I soldier on but I can feel the strength leaving my limbs.

  Anthony is standing there, sheet-white, his full body shaking now.

  ‘Do you want me to have a go?’ he asks again. At least I think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell amid all those vibrating teeth.

  ‘No, I’ve almost got it, thanks, mate.’ I’m determined to get this thing out myself, but now I start to puff and snort like the cow.

  ‘Do you want me to have a go?’ I sense that his urgency is more to do with his hypothermia than his desire to help, so I push and pull and grunt and groan some more. But he is pretty keen on getting his hands inside this nice warm cow and eventually I have to surrender.

  ‘Yeah, you’d better take over,’ I say. ‘I’m knocked up. I’ve got nothing left.’

  We swap places and I step into the full brunt of the weather. Part of me wants him to whip the calf out quickly so we can get out of here. Another part doesn’t want him to do it too quickly. Maybe the calf knows what the weather is like out here and just doesn’t want to come, because Anthony struggles a bit too. Or maybe he just wants to warm his fingers up for a few minutes before he grabs that back leg.

  Either way, it doesn’t take long before all of me – every last shivering, numb little bit – wants that calf out. Eventually Anthony gets the leg around and we pull out a slimy black bovine. At first it is still. We fear that it has not survived the ordeal. Anthony slaps it around the ribs and clears its airway to stimulate breathing. ‘Come on, mate, wake up.’ Sure enough, the forlorn slick shape on the ground splutters to life, its slippery black chest rises and falls with its rattling breath.

  The clouds should have parted at this moment with a warm shaft of light cutting through to illuminate the miracle of this shiny black baby. It is the stuff of my boyhood dreams. There are few things more satisfying than bringing new life into the world, especially when the alternative is a dead calf, a dead cow and a grumbling farmer. So no matter how uncomfortable we might be, there is time to appreciate this wonder of life.

  But not much time. We drag the calf quite a distance from the crush. Sometimes we’ll put a new calf at the front of the crush so the mother can sniff and lick it while we clean her up, but the mum here is still too manic, snorting and dropping her head like she wants a piece of us. She doesn’t know we’ve just saved her life. She doesn’t see us as her beloved midwives who will forever share the bond of this moment.

  We need to give the mother some antibiotics, some anti-inflammatories and a shot of oxytocin to help start the uterus contracting and stimulate her milk to let down. My fingers are too numb to handle a syringe, but Anthony’s had his inside the cow so he manages to do it after a few fumbles. We get her ready then open up the side of the crush, making sure that we’re well away. She comes out like it’s the Mount Isa rodeo . . . and we’re the clowns. She’s crazy, snorting, with wide eyes and a head that’s erect and swivelling and mean. She has a go at us, even though we’re safely on the other side of the rails. She patrols the perimeter, looking for a way through to get us, but then something wonderful happens.

  She spots the little black lump off to the side and goes over and gives it a wary sniff. And as she realises that this is a calf, her calf, it’s like the aggro just washes away with the rain. She prods and licks at it, cleaning it and probably trying to erase all evidence that Anthony and I were ever there. She’s urging it to get up with her sniffs and snorts and gentle nudges of her nostrils.

  Maybe I even forget the cold for a moment or two of wonder. But it’s back now. The calf will soon be able to stand; however, we won’t be sticking around to see it. We clean ourselves up, by which I mean we towel off our arms, but there’s nowhere to change so we just throw dry towels on the ute’s seats, strip off and jump in, sitting there in our undies and deciding who gets to wear the one dry pair of overalls. The only fair way is to play scissors-paper-rock. I go paper; Anthony goes scissors and gets the overalls. Darn. So I just have to sit there, willing the engine to warm up so we can get some heat running through the cabin. The cold has gone so far into my marrow that it’s hard to imagine ever being warm again. As we drive out the gate, cold air still coming from the air-con vents, I realise that this is the life I’ve opted back into; a life of often physical labour in often miserable conditions with uncontrolled facilities and uncontrolled outcomes. Not all jobs end as happily as this one.

  But it’s what I want to do. I’m out here in the real world of life and death, experiencing Mother Nature in all her crazy moods. And now I’m doing it with my best mate. And it’s fun. Sitting there in my undies – maybe the heat is starting to come through now as we trundle around the north side of Coolangatta Mountain and back through the roller-coasting green fields of Far Meadow towards Berry – I start to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ says Anthony.

  ‘Look at us. Imagine if someone had shown you a picture of us now when w
e’d first met. You’d have a run a mile.’

  ‘I’d have run ten miles,’ he says. ‘I was very fit then.’

  We laugh, a little hysterically perhaps, all the way home.

  THE RUNNING OF THE BULLS

  Anthony

  Before the first day of university, all the new students were loaded onto a bus and taken to the university farm on Sydney’s southwest fringe. Everybody was on their best behaviour. The guys in particular. We had just learnt that there were only twenty-five of us in the course alongside about a hundred females. So we all tried to present ourselves as eminently desirable young men, which is to say we were all acting.

  By coincidence I sat near this skinny young bloke from North Sydney Boys High called James and we ended up chatting over the back of a seat for most of the drive. At lunchtime everyone went down to the cafeteria, all very earnest with our new clipboards and our air of academic solemnity. And here was this guy – a fourth-year student – with a plastic rubbish bin full of Lift mixed with white wine. He was scooping it out with a cup and trying to force it upon us.

  ‘What is this?’ we asked. He didn’t have many takers; our peers were a very focused lot. James and I, however, felt sorry for him and took a drink. He was still looking lonely, so we had another. We gathered a few compassionate supporters, yet it seemed that no matter how hard we tried we could not rid him of his inner orphan.

  In the afternoon, there was one of those group team-building exercises that everybody hates. We had to write a sign with our interests on it and then gravitate to other signs that appealed to us. I think I ended up under one about ‘SAVING THE PLANET’ and James ended up under ‘BEER’. He had a girlfriend at the time so he didn’t need to act eminently desirable.

  The bus was a lot rowdier on the way home. And the important lesson that I took away from the day was that we weren’t in high school any more. The lecturers hadn’t even looked twice at our lonely purveyor of jungle juice (now a well-respected vet in the NSW Southern Highlands) who was trying to corrupt us. Nor were we in the world of paid work and bills and responsibility. We were at university, and while we knew there was a lot of work ahead, I also sensed that there might be a lot of fun to be had if we wanted it. I sensed correctly.