by Ivor Smith
‘Look, I do believe you, Mr Smith, when you say they found a bikini top in our dog’s stomach, but the thing that concerns me most is that neither I nor my daughter has ever owned a mauve bikini.’
It was unfortunate that a newspaper reporter lived close by. The next day both the local and national newspapers were urgently seeking the owner of the bottom half of a mauve bikini.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN THE PHYLLOSAN STOPS WORKING
Friendly gossip is a normal part of village life and I always enjoyed chatting to friends and neighbours I met in the street. Invariably the conversation turned to animals but it was good to feel that you were part of the community. Naturally, you sometimes talked about the pets’ owners too, but a strange event occurred at the beginning of the 1980s that got the villagers gossiping about me.
To set the scene I must tell you about a wonderful Irishman who often brought his animals to our surgery. He lived in Somerford Keynes, not far from Cirencester, but on his daily journey to work he passed through Churchdown on his way to Staverton Airport. His name was John F. McDonnell, but his friends knew him as Mac. During the war years he had piloted planes for the RAF but now he flew his planes commercially, and one of his clients was Ordnance Survey, the map makers. It was always fascinating to hear him relating his wartime stories − with his humorous anecdotes he could easily have written ’Allo ’Allo.
I cannot remember how he learned of my interest in fishing, but once he had, every time we met he would invite me out to fish the lake at his country home. Stupidly, I was always too busy to accept his kind invitation until one day, when a very subdued Mac came into surgery with his Border Collie for treatment. I had very recently put his German Shepherd to sleep following a visit to the Bristol Vet School, where it was confirmed that he was suffering from a cancerous illness for which there was no successful treatment. Tragically, Mac told me that his wife, Doreen, had also died in the last week from a cancer-related illness. He seemed so alone that when he mentioned fishing I felt obliged to accept his invitation.
The next free Saturday, son Ed, who was twelve at the time, and I zoomed off in our little red MG, armed with just a couple of fishing rods. We pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the large bungalow, where Mac was waiting to welcome us to Willow Pool. He escorted us through to his lounge, and, through the large patio windows, I cast my eyes for the first time upon the beautiful lake at the rear of the house. As a bonus there were two other lakes begging to be fished. I’ll refrain from further angling talk except to say that by the end of that afternoon we had landed a pike that weighed in excess of 20lb (and whose enormous jaws grabbed a simple famous lure, a Shakespeare ‘Little S’ plug), and cemented a warm Anglo-Irish friendship that would last for twenty years. Sadly, Mac died in 2005; by then we had come to look on him as one of the family.
We were keen to fit into village life, however, shortly after our arrival, we found ourselves making front page news.
It was not unusual for passing motorists to leave an injured animal on our doorstep, and it was often the early morning worker who was the first to encounter the unlucky creature that had come to grief with a speeding car in the night. Thus, when our postman, Colin Payne, arrived with our veterinary mail early one cold January morning he assumed a blanketed parcel left by the front door was just such an animal – he was therefore amazed to hear the cry of a newborn baby coming from the parcel.
That morning I was aware of Angela calling upstairs at about 7.45 as she left to drive the children to school. ‘We’re off now’ she shouted up, and, almost as an afterthought, ‘Someone has left a poor old accident cat on the doorstep for you to look after’. ‘Okay’ I mumbled into my pillow as I drifted back into a wonderful dream involving fishing.
I knew my wife was back when, an hour later, she yelled up the stairs, ‘Ive, you have to get up now!’ There was an unusual urgency in her voice.
‘Okay, I’m coming.’
‘Ive, there are police and detectives all over the place.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because it wasn’t a cat on the doorstep.’
‘What was it then?’
‘It was a baby!’
On discovery, Colin had taken the baby to the house next door where our neighbour, Viv Hawkes, nursed the baby – a little girl – until the ambulance arrived and rushed her to the maternity unit in Gloucester. It did not take long for the nurses there to give her a name, and ‘Joy’ was soon recovering from her ordeal.
By 1 p.m. the story was a major item on the BBC news. On arrival at the surery, I found it rather amusing to watch the pushing and jostling of two rival television crews keen to interview me and was thoroughly enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame until I realised why they were interested in me – they suspected that I was the father!
‘No, this has never actually happened here before.’ I replied to an eager journalist. (I felt like saying, ‘Well, only every other Thursday’.)
‘How old is your wife Mr Smith?’ That appeared to be a very important question.
‘Thirty-one going on thirty-two’, I replied. Well, she didn’t look any older.
‘Have you any idea why the baby was left on your doorstep?’ The questions were becoming increasingly personal.
‘None at all, pal’, I replied.
‘Have you any idea who the mother might be?’
‘None at all.’ I could sense their disappointment.
The questioning continued at intervals throughout the day and by 3 p.m. I’d had enough. The ITV reporter dropped a clapperboard, asked me another personal question, before finally realising I’d had a bad day and leaving.
As chance would have it, the monthly meeting of the Cotswold Veterinary Society was held that evening at the Cleeveway Hotel in Bishops Cleeve. By then it had become abundantly clear why everyone was so interested in me. I knew that I would have to run the gauntlet in the hotel’s restaurant confronted by most of my veterinary colleagues. The attendance of meetings at this venue was always excellent. Even if the speaker was rubbish, the buffet, armchairs, and the roaring log fire on a cold night were attractions not to be missed. On arrival, I found it more difficult than usual to find a parking space. For whatever reason there was a particularly full house tonight.
My considerate and ever-supportive professional colleagues behaved in the respectful manner I should have anticipated from them. I had hardly put my foot in the door when a local Irish vet shouted, ‘Evening, Ivor. Was it a nurse or one of the receptionists then?’
It had been a stressful few days and I looked forward to a few hours fishing at Willow Pool. Naturally I would have to face Mac’s humorous comments on my arrival but he was not to have the opportunity he had anticipated. During my journey to Somerford Keynes a young woman collapsed in Debenhams department store in Gloucester. She was cared for by the manageress and, after explaining that she was the missing mother, she was soon reunited with her baby daughter. By the time I arrived, Mac had heard the radio announcement of this news, but as you can imagine he was still determined to give his wonderful Irish comments on the week’s saga. At the end of that day, and a few pike later, I was ready for another week.
Not unexpectedly the surgery was the source of many of our children’s pets. They had begged for a cat and I had promised that they could have one from the next litter of unwanted kittens brought to the surgery ‘to be disposed of’. Litters of healthy kittens were never put to sleep and, not surprisingly, a litter appeared at surgery shortly before Christmas one year. They had received the usual nursing care and the chubby creatures were ready for new homes. I took Ed and Sally to the surgery and they chose Holly, a pretty tabby female that soon made it clear she wanted no affection from anyone. Within days there was not one hand in the family that did not bear her claw marks. The children were terrified of her and the Christmas morning catastrophe was the last straw.
The morning had been a quiet one and Sally was doing her best to befriend Holly
. A few friends had called in for a seasonal drink and chat, asked to see the latest addition to our family, and left with at least one good scratch for their interest. Angela was waist-deep in the cooking and preparation of the Christmas dinner when Dr Jimmy Caldwell, our local GP, called in for a glass of special malt and to wish us well. We needed it. He could have treated us all for cat-bite injuries.
Jimmy was standing next to the Christmas tree when Holly decided to take off. She leapt from Sally’s lap and made a bee-line for him. He hadn’t time to object to Holly’s unwelcome approaches as she climbed his suit trousers and, in a flash, was on his shoulder. He defended himself as the cat clawed at his head before it dived onto the Christmas tree. It became top-heavy and collapsed across the floor of the lounge. Pine needles, broken decorations and fused lights were everywhere. The cat appeared from the midst of the debris like the star of a Walt Disney cartoon. This was a commotion Angela declared she could do without on Christmas day morning. I fully understood her concerns.
Dr Caldwell left shortly after and so too did Holly. We all felt that she would be happier back with her siblings in the surgery. No doubt I should have heeded the advice of the animal societies and not taken on a new pet at Christmas-time. The scratching and biting could have been delayed until the New Year.
The children were told that they could select another kitten the following week. By then another litter had been brought to the surgery ‘to be dealt with’. They chose Fluffy, a black and white female who appeared to be a little more placid. Later that week, I was a little perturbed and embarrassed to learn that Holly had been chosen to go to a new home. I didn’t have the opportunity to fully warn the new owners that the little cat could be a bit of a handful. In our experience it was often a bleeding handful, and clearly she belonged to a litter of partly feral kittens. I cannot remember where Holly went, but if I was starting a search I would look for a house where no mouse, rat, dog or indeed visitors of any description set foot on the premises.
Out of the frying pan into the fire. That’s how it seemed with our children’s pets at the time. The new kitten, Fluffy, was placid, cuddly and quiet – a little too quiet. I had checked the health of the litter when they were left with us at the surgery and found no signs of a current infection. But clearly there was. Within days Fluffy developed an illness and was reluctant to drink, feed or play, and she started to sneeze. She was infected with one of the cat flu viruses, feline calicivirus, and numerous painful areas of her mouth and tongue soon became ulcerated. We were feeding her from a syringe just days later. Our efforts to save this patient had not gone unobserved. Dear old Ginny, the mum of two wonderful Labrador litters, had decided to give a helping hand. Astonishingly, within days she had come into milk. For whatever reason, Fluffy did not argue and she had the whole milk bar to herself. She suckled herself into contented sleep.
The daily dose of antibiotics no doubt helped, but Fluffy’s survival was in no small measure due to Ginny’s maternal instincts. It was a fascinating experience to watch and of course there could not have been stronger bonding behaviour between the two animals.
Ginny was a tremendous pal and had been part of the family for fifteen years. Nevertheless, the old dear was ageing, losing weight and, because of her arthritic joints, found getting around difficult. I kept a close eye on her and I knew that, as so often happens, a tumour like those I had felt a hundred times before in elderly cats and dogs was developing in her liver. Her weight loss eventually became rapid and her weakness suddenly profound, but she still waited at the front door to jump into the car whenever there was any suggestion that I was going fishing. Early one Saturday morning she had recognised the usual sounds of the filling of the thermos flask and the sandwich box lid and was determined not to be left behind. I lifted her into the MG at Churchdown and out of the car on arrival at Mac’s. I cannot remember whether I caught any fish that day. I do recall, however, that Ginny made an enormous effort to trot around the lakes as if it were just a normal weekend. I knew that it would be anything but that.
I made it easy for her to pinch a couple of my ham, cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches. When she looked up at me, questioning whether it was okay to do more than simply examine them on the grass, I spoke no words of objection and she gulped them down. A piece of cake followed. We had a wonderful last day together in the countryside we both loved. Ginny was unable to get back on to her feet after that happy day. Two days later Angela and I sat on the carpet with her in the back room of our home. It was the end of the road for Ginny, this beautiful dog who had given us so much love and pleasure in our lives.
How many times have I heard this expressed from other owners on this emotional occasion? Suddenly we were no different from the owners of the hundreds of pets I had put to sleep. The three of us sat on the carpet in silence. Knowing that within a very short time we would no longer enjoy her being with us was heartbreaking. I don’t know what triggered the precise time but at some poignant moment I simply looked at Angela and in the simplest possible way we agreed, ‘Okay?’ She raised the vein, I injected the painless barbiturate, and Ginny went to sleep for ever. The children arrived home from school later that afternoon. The events of the day had been discussed with them and they accepted the sad task, knowing that they would not be present.
Carrying out euthanasia of any animal is never easy, and always worse when children are present. Naturally I have always felt obliged to respect the owners’ wishes, but I nevertheless tried to persuade them that it was really not a good idea for their children to be there. On one occasion the owners of an elderly Collie dog insisted that putting to sleep their faithful old friend must be a family affair, and brought their two young children along to the surgery to say goodbye. As is often the case, many couples bring a four-legged friend ino their family before a two-legged baby arrives – the consequence being that the children grow up not knowing a time when Rover, Felix or Bugsy was not a part of the family. Thus when old Collie Rover had been lifted on to my table, the nurse had clipped and spirited his arm and I approached calmly with a syringe, it was all too much for them. The distressed parents were weeping uncontrollably and the two children were hopelessly bemused by the situation. The young boy suddenly developed a protective role and his shouts to his father, ‘Don’t let him do it, Dad, don’t let him do it!’ as he bravely attempted to stop me giving that final injection, still ring in my ears today.
Usually I could professionally switch off from these grief-stricken occasions and for those necessary few minutes just do my job, but it was hard not to let Ginny’s death affect me. Perhaps our children were aware of the effect the last few days had had on us, or perhaps they were simply trying to cheer us up when, later that week, they asked:
‘Can we have another puppy, Dad?’
‘Can we have a kitten?’
‘Dad, can we have a puppy and a kitten?’
Our unhappiness continued as we watched Ginny’s old feline pal, Fluffy, responding to the loss. For many days she explored every part of the house and garden – we often found her in cupboards and other unusual places – searching for her lost ‘mum’.
It had been thirty years since I had experienced the heartbreak of losing my first dog. It was on a wintry afternoon in 1953 – when my family lived in Kingsholm Square – that our Gloucester vet, Alasdair Macleod, had called to examine our elderly Collie, Nellie. By chance, that day, 20 November, also happened to be my thirteenth birthday when he put her to sleep.
Despite the setbacks and disappointments that every family suffers, life has to carry on. The decade was off to a demanding start. With a little share of good fortune, things would get much better. Nevertheless, as time goes by you start to accept that you aren’t quite the same person that you used to be. The Phyllosan tablets may well give a boost to the over-forties but you begin to appreciate that it will not be too long before you reach fifty! Gradually, you begin to realise that the discomfort you experienced in your back this week will still
be there next week.
Picking up the feet to examine a lame horse was no longer a pleasurable challenge and, as time went by, it started to become a problem. I started to fear the call-out to such horses. I knew that if I was really honest with myself, I probably could not do the job properly, not to my own satisfaction anyway. The back problems had started a few years before, following a routine calving at Churchdown’s Green Farm.
Farmer John Halford had telephoned early one afternoon to say that one of his cows was having a bit of trouble calving. ‘I think she just needs a bit of ’elp’, was John’s philosophical way of describing things. There seemed to be ample time to do the job and get back for the start of the evening surgery. At the time a young veterinary student was spending time with us gaining practical experience and learning all the things that they don’t teach you at college. He was eager to learn, and I was keen to inspire him. We bundled all the equipment we might need into the back of the car and were at the farm in minutes. In customary fashion Farmer John had provided the obligatory bucket of hot water, soap and towel, and soon the recumbent patient was prepared for her obstetrical examination. I was anxious for things to go smoothly and quickly, firstly to be back in surgery in good time, and secondly to impress our student of my competence and obstetrical skills. In hindsight it was a recipe for disaster.
Within minutes I realised this was not going to be my day. In the depths of her uterus the cow’s predicament was instantly apparent. Without describing the situation in technical terms, the oversized calf’s head was pointing in one direction and its four legs and tail were pointed in another. There was very little room to manoeuvre the calf into a delivery position but an exhausting hour later the front legs and the head were all pointing the right way. It had been an hour of veterinary masochism but I was chuffed at the result and hoped the student was duly impressed. I was clapped out, but I tried to act as if it was all just in a day’s work. John and the student hauled on the ropes attached to the head and legs and another calf slid into our world.
