Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  ‘You’re making progress, lad.’

  But that was about all the progress I was going to make. There really is no easy solution in some of these cases. A caesarean is usually out of the question. Most cows with rotten calves in them die of peritonitis within a day or two of the operation. Occasionally a foetotomy can be performed and the calf sectioned with special cutting wire, or finger blades, and removed in pieces. In selected cases the cow is put on a stiff course of antibiotics and revisited a few days later. Autolysis will by then have progressed further and a broth of stinking bones, skin, teeth and miscellaneous unrecognisable organs can be raked out. Cows are tough and many will survive. However, for cow 73 there was no choice.

  ‘I’m afraid her uterus has ruptured, George. She hasn’t got a hope. All this rotten gloop is going into her abdominal cavity. She’s going to die of toxic shock and peritonitis. It would be kinder to shoot her now.’ I felt a failure, even though it was no fault of mine.

  George understood the situation at once. ‘You’ve tried your best lad. She’ll be right.’

  There: another expression never heard these days, but harking right back to the pioneering past. You had to make do. As long as you’d done your best what was the point of stressing out, looking to blame and even seeking legal redress—the modern solution? I found George’s attitude comforting. It didn’t help old 73, though. The outcome was unsatisfactory for everyone, but we had done what we could. In later years there was widespread castigation of the ‘she’ll be right’ mentality, perhaps more in the context of poor standards of workmanship, but to me, at this stage in my career, they were words of comfort.

  I was warming to the New Zealand farmers. In the main they were pragmatic, honest, resourceful and, above all, friendly. As many were only first, second or third generation immigrants they had some understanding of the difficulties of leaving ‘home’ and they were generally appreciative that vets would want to come out to New Zealand and work with them.

  Taranaki had experienced a severe drought in 1973 and that spring was very hard on stock, with feed deficits on many farms. I was to hear ‘she’ll be right’ and ‘where there’s live ones there’s dead ones’ rather a lot in my first few months as a vet.

  Chapter Seventeen

  What do You Think about New Zealand?

  Into my heart an air that kills

  From yon far country blows:

  What are those blue remembered hills,

  What spires, what farms are those?

  That is the land of lost content,

  I see it shining plain,

  The happy highways where I went,

  And cannot come again.

  A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

  Almost the first request of any visitor to New Zealand was for an opinion of the place. Before a celebrity even had a chance to collect his/her bags from the airport terminal, a TVNZ microphone would be thrust at them with the standard:

  ‘So what do you think about New Zealand?’

  They could be tetchy, ‘Look, I’ve had a twenty-four hour flight and, to be honest, I can’t tell just at the moment’.

  Sarcastic, ‘Our landing was delayed by fog, but you have some of the finest tarmac in the world’.

  Or fawning, ‘This is a wonderful little country, you have such pretty scenery and smiling, friendly people—no wonder you folks here call it Godzone’.

  Even if the latter was the response elicited, it didn’t seem to register. The same question would be paraded out to each new visitor.

  Can you imagine the average Parisian asking what you think of Paris? He doesn’t give a merde what you think. As long as it suits him, your opinion is immaterial. This enquiry is seldom heard these days, thank goodness. New Zealanders have more self-belief and confidence in their own identity. Some of this change in attitude was brought about by the shock of having these national insecurities dissected and exposed by British author Austin Mitchell in The Half-gallon, Quarter-acre, Pavlova Paradise which was published around the time of our arrival in New Zealand. As a left wing academic Mitchell was not in touch with the rural New Zealand that I was to know. There were no pizzles in his paradise. The book created quite a stir, by which time Mitchell had scuttled back ‘home’ to be the Labour MP for Grimsby. No one enjoys having their weaknesses lampooned, and there was a fair amount of anti-British resentment as a result.

  But the Kiwi of thirty years ago needed that little bit of reassurance. Though Viv and I weren’t exactly celebrity status, affirmative opinions about this paradise were still sought from us. It wasn’t always easy to be sufficiently positive—comparable with enquiries into your health. Like: ‘Gidday, John, and how’re you doing?’ No one really wants to know the answer unless it’s ‘wonderful’, ‘box of birds’ or some similar enormously enthusiastic reply. What did we think of New Zealand? True, the people were smiling and friendly, the scenery was not exactly pretty—a word I would reserve for roses round the porch of a thatched cottage—but often majestic and spectacular. It was not easy for us to answer because we were wrestling with an affliction that has plagued immigrants down the ages: homesickness. How can you be homesick in paradise?

  Homesickness is like cancer. No one wants to know you’ve got it and even the most sympathetic person can’t help. It’s something you have to fight yourself, or endure till the worst symptoms have passed. Unlike cancer, time tends to heal, although there will always be some scars. Immigration is a trade-off. You are not going to find that your new country has the best of everything. You may have superb countryside, but your freedom to roam it is restricted by a lack of footpaths. There may be easy parking, but the streets are wide and lack the quaintness and character of a town that has evolved before the requirements of motor vehicles. You may have left your mother-in-law 12,000 miles away, but you miss your Mum’s cooking; your wife may be glad to have escaped your Mum’s cooking, but she can’t forgive you for dragging her away from her Mum. Immigration is a true test of character.

  Since my dear mother-in-law may well read this, I have to emphasise that these are examples only. The immigrant may have gained a new country, but there is the fear that an old one has been lost. One that on reflection may not have been as undesirable as imagined.

  ‘Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro–

  And what should they know of England who only England know?’

  Rudyard Kipling knew his stuff. Immigration is an opportunity to grow: not merely to branch into a new country, but explore the roots of your own culture and let them grow deeper. The cultural bonds between New Zealand and Britain are strong because generations of British immigrants have nurtured them. New Zealanders avidly consume English literature, absorb BBC-sourced television, understand and share British humour. In an area of minority taste, dear to both Viv and me, British music receives an airing on the New Zealand Concert programme at least equal to the equivalent station in Britain. Why would New Zealanders be interested in the exquisite music of Elgar, Vaughan Williams, Holst, Bax and others? Why is there a statue of Robbie Burns in the centre of Dunedin and the haggis still ritually addressed in traditional style? Why are book club mailings seemingly obsessed with Celtic and Anglo-Saxon history? We all have a deep fascination with our origins, but immigration adds poignancy to the search. Hordes of New Zealanders, Australians and Americans scour the graveyards of Britain each year, probing for their origins.

  In one defining moment I recall driving around a road in the back-blocks of Taranaki. In a distance of hazy spring air the bright snow cone of its mountain floated above the intervening ridges. On the radio a piece of music I had never previously heard: the superb mezzo of Janet Baker and her meltingly lovely rendition of Elgar’s Sea Pictures. To the musical purist this may be a flawed work but, for me, since that moment, it has been arrestingly moving. I sat in my car trying to comprehend this extreme juxtaposition. The tree ferns and snow-clad volcano were a beautiful visual contrast to the waves of very English music
that washed through my mind. The scene became alien. The music called me to acknowledge my own heritage.

  In reality, good music has universal appeal. The emotions that well up are as much about time as place. For me Elgar evokes a fantasy of Edwardian England that no longer exists: something that perished on the Somme and in the mud of Passchendaele. For me such music may trigger a poignant fantasy, whereas another may be prompted to recall a jaunty summer picnic by the bandstand: a memorable bratwurst washed down by a cheeky Pinot Noir. I am saddened that, for the vast majority of people, music of such all-consuming elegance, beauty and passion means absolutely nothing at all.

  First generation immigrants have to accept that they may always feel torn but, as with any of life’s trials, they will be the richer for meeting the challenge and overcoming it or deflecting it to their advantage. As you will see, we, like many immigrants, had to physically return to our roots before we knew that our initial instinct to move had been right for us.

  So, what do I think of New Zealand? It’s difficult to say, but on the whole emigrating was painful and immigrating has been immeasurably enriching. With time the pangs of homesickness disappear. We have learned to revere our roots and embrace the excitement of discovering the new. New Zealand has been a wonderful place in which to raise our children.

  ~

  A faint echoing voice, perhaps the spirit of Sir Edward Elgar, speaks to me:

  ‘Ah, the Great War! It really touched you, my son. Don’t hold back.’

  ‘I will never get those images out of my mind, it smashed our heritage. You and your fellow artists did your job almost too well. The collective consciences of the millions who were never even there will be forever fired by your inspiration.’

  ‘Not if you don’t work at it. Your English master imbued you with your love of Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke. He planted the seed. Great television programming made you aware of our holocaust; sepia images stutter in your mind; strains of Holst touched your heart and sent you on your journeys of musical discovery. The Great War was a furnace where new talent was forged. For some of us the trauma and disillusionment were so profound that our creative skills were prematurely stilled: the final elegiac utterances among our finest works. Without that overwhelming tragedy we may, as preceding generations of artists, have bared our souls, but the message might not have reached you. The pathos of war magnified our talent.’

  ‘How can you say that? Alfred Housman was writing about an idyllic and unattainable past even before the Great War. Nostalgia has ever been part of our culture.’

  ‘But for you The Shropshire Lad only came alive through the music of George Butterworth. You discovered the rare musical jewels he bequeathed us all before he was cut down in his prime on the Somme. That war added a sublime piquancy to our art. Similarly, your young New Zealanders are inspired by the catastrophe of Gallipoli. It matters not whence this feeling comes, but it is important that you feel and retain those links with the past. It is important that generations to come have the capacity to be moved by literature and music: for they are the outlets for great sorrow and joy. We must remove from this present spiritual desert of commercialism, for there is no beauty here. Nobleness, elegance, love, beauty. Revere them. Without them life is dull and brutish. Bring up your children to enjoy the fruits of civilisation that they themselves might perpetuate it. Plant the seed, plant the seed, plant the seed…’

  Chapter Eighteen

  What’s in a Word?

  Apart from calving cows, a large portion of that first spring in Taranaki was spent treating cows for ‘milk fever’. Milk fever mostly affects cows as they come into milk after calving, so the first part of the name is apt. The ‘fever’ refers to the brief period of incoordination, compulsive chewing and frothing at the mouth that may accompany the onset of the illness. However, in most cases, the affected cow is not observed till she has collapsed and is unable to get up, or has even become unconscious. A raised temperature is never a feature of this ‘fever’. In fact, most cows rapidly become hypothermic once they have gone down. The reason for this complex of symptoms is a lack of circulating blood calcium.

  As everyone knows, milk is rich in calcium. As soon as the cow calves and starts producing milk, her system has to cope with a massive output of calcium. She can only do this by mobilising calcium reserves from her bones. As modern cows have been bred for maximum milk production the fine balance can be easily disturbed, particularly in older and more productive cows. The blood calcium deficiency results in generalised muscular weakness. Even the involuntary muscles in the intestines, bladder and uterus are affected. A uterine prolapse can accompany milk fever, because the uterus loses tone, becomes flaccid, and flops out. Replacing a prolapsed uterus is a supreme physical challenge requiring veterinary savvy, and a strong back and arms. Fortunately, cows are inordinately tough and success is helped, in good measure, by their legendary resilience to injury and infection.

  Reversing milk fever with a bottle of calcium borogluconate in the vein is one of the ‘miracles’ of veterinary science. It ranks close to reviving the dead. I never tired of this trick, and some cases were more miraculous than others. I will always remember the thin wee Jersey cow I attended one morning. She had calved on a clear, frosty night and was not found by the farmer till daylight. She was flat out, on her side, with a prolapsed uterus extending a couple of feet behind her and a dead calf beside her. Her uterus, still wrapped with placental membranes, was frozen to the ground. I removed the protective placenta and replaced the prolapse while the farmer ran the calcium solution I had set up into her jugular vein. Within the space of a few minutes she sat up, belched, defecated (her bowels starting to move under the influence of the calcium), urinated and stood up. She was a bit wobbly on her feet to start with, but an hour later she was eating and, apart from a mud stain along her side, indistinguishable from the rest of her mob.

  Before the discovery that calcium deficiency was the cause of milk fever, empirical treatments were used. James Herriot’s ‘worm in t’ tail’ story is a good example. By cutting the end off the tail, it was believed that the causative worm had been removed and the cow would recover. It is true that mild cases do sometimes recover spontaneously, because the milk (calcium) output from a sick cow ceases, but in the case of tail amputation cause and effect are being confused; although the raw stump banging against a concrete floor may have been a powerful inducement to stand if at all possible! Another, more successful, treatment was to inflate the teats with air using a special pump, and then seal the teat ends with tape. This often worked, albeit slowly, because it stopped the flow of milk, but it was not nearly as dramatic as the response seen from rapidly restoring those levels with intravenous calcium borogluconate.

  For every success there is a downside. For vets the problem with the milk fever and calcium story is the expectation that a miracle can be wrought for every downer cow. There are other reasons for cows to ‘go down’. Cows which have liver damage from facial eczema (a liver disease caused by fungal toxins) or are just too thin from a difficult winter, will not respond to calcium no matter how much is put in. This is a problem for the new vet. It takes a while to gain farmers’ trust.

  ‘But Hank was here only yesterday to one exactly the same and it got up straight after he gave it a bottle of calcium.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think that this one is milk fever, Mark. You’ve already given her three bottles under the skin and she hasn’t responded. If you look at her membranes—here— you can see she’s a bit yellow. In fact—look—she’s got a yellow tinge even on the skin of her udder. That’s jaundice and the most likely reason is liver damage, probably from facial eczema. I think the kindest thing would be to put her out of her misery. She’s too weak to pull through now.’

  Sometimes I felt more like a public executioner that spring, but I was gaining a lot of basic experience. I never squatted beside a downer cow, but rolled her onto her side and sat on her as I trickled the cal
cium in. It paid to keep your bum warm on a chill, and often wet, Taranaki dawn and you could monitor her strengthening heart beat through the seat of your pants.

  ~

  Milk fever, grass staggers, bloat, circling disease, woody tongue, red water, scours, ill-thrift are all descriptive terms for the conditions commonly encountered on farms. Names that have the ring of stockmanship about them; words associated with the similarly quaint-sounding occupation of animal husbandry. As veterinary medicine advanced, appellations became more scientific and lost their romance. Diseases like toxoplasmosis, leptospirosis, or campylobacteriosis belong to this next tier. But there is farmer resistance. ‘Hypocalcaemia’ will never replace ‘milk fever’ and ‘uterine prolapse’ will always struggle against ‘bearings’. Campylobacteriosis (a major cause of abortion in sheep) has, just a few years after being upgraded from vibriosis, become known to farmers as ‘campy’.

  Salmonella Brandenburg recently became a major scourge of livestock in the lower South Island. The name Brandenburg, to lovers of baroque music, conveys ideas of fluent rhythm but, with Salmonella Brandenburg, the reality owes more to flowing bowels, unwelcome borborygmi and abortion. This is one disease whose bite is worse than its Bach. Within a few months of the isolation of this vicious bacterium from aborting ewes we were fielding calls for information about ‘this ’ere Thunderbird’. It was rather a shame that this local variant never caught on, ‘Thunderbird’ being far more portentous than Brandenburg; but that is the price we pay for improving educational standards.

  The rich veterinary lexicon is ripe for the evolution of similar malapropisms. New Zealand was the first country in the world to embrace women’s suffrage, but a few years ago I was given to understand that it had extended further.