Memoirs of a Cotswold Vet

by Ivor Smith

  Diane, John’s wife, produced a welcome tray of tea and biscuits and as we supped and chatted I began to load the soiled equipment into the car. I had spent an hour doing a gym routine inside my patient and so lifting things into the car should have been no problem. I had given the tired cow a large beneficial injection of intravenous calcium fluids and I shall never forget reaching forward in the car with the empty bottle. There was a twinge in my lower back, spasm in my lumbar muscles and a sudden excruciating pain that every true back sufferer will have experienced at some time. I tried to shrug it off, without realising that for me it was the start of an ongoing problem.

  I somehow managed to drive us back, hobbled into surgery and began the evening session of consultations, pretending that all was well. Two hours or so later, I was for once pleased to see the end of the day and be home enjoying another cup of tea with a large dose of aspirin.

  One evening, as I sat reading the Citizen, I answered the telephone to Mark Hicks-Beach of Witcombe Park Estates. I expected him to apologise for disturbing me at night as he normally did and then to ask if I would mind going out to look at an animal that he was not happy with. I was therefore greatly surprised when he asked me if I would be interested in doing a parachute jump. Without hesitating I told him I would love to do it, before giving any thought to the implications of what I had just agreed to do. I was, of course, now on the wrong side of forty, but only just. It was to be a charity event and it would take place one Sunday morning over Staverton Airport, on the edge of Cheltenham. I believe that in order to participate in the jump, being under the age of forty was a condition, which meant that the rules were bent or, at the very least, a number of lies were told.

  The rules also stated that it was compulsory to have a minimum of six hours of tuition before parachuting. There were about forty volunteer jumpers in all, and the money we raised was to be distributed to Tewkesbury Hospital and other local good causes. My clients responded generously to my request for sponsorship and the sponsor forms on the waiting room noticeboard were filled rapidly. There was no opportunity to back out now. The large sums of money promised spurred me on and I hoped that every one of my sponsors wished me a safe landing. We were in good hands; our instructors were the Parachute Regiment and, as the team’s captain stated on many occasions, the only time you can get injured parachuting is when you land on the ground.

  I took his words of wisdom and the preparation seriously. Surprisingly, until the day before the jump we had no training at all. The Paras must have had more confidence in us than we had in ourselves. We met up early one Saturday morning at Brockworth School to be instructed in the techniques of leaving the aircraft and controlling the canopy (the proper name for the parachute), and the all-important art of landing. Our six hours of instruction were packed into one day and the afternoon was spent in the school’s gym jumping off wooden horses on to a padded mat, landing flat-footed and feet together before pitching into the parachute roll. I had seen the roll done so many times at the cinema it was difficult to understand why it did not come naturally.

  I retired to bed that evening with a thumping headache, slept for about two and a half hours and was ready to get up at four o’clock the following morning. I skipped breakfast and was raring to go by seven. I reported for duty at Staverton Airport and fell in. We were lined up and had our photographs taken. I turned to Keith Bawden, my fellow-jumper, and whispered, ‘I hope these are not for identification purposes.’ We had been divided into groups of eight. I was a member of Drop No. 1 group and we were instructed to board the plane. The weather was awful that Sunday morning and I could not recall having been given instructions on how to control the parachute during adverse conditions.

  Paul Quarry was another of my companion jumpers. His questioning observations were apt but a little too late for anything that could influence our destiny.

  ‘They didn’t tell us what to do in the middle of a chucking gale, did they?’ he commented. At least that’s what I think he said, but it was difficult to be sure above the howling wind. It was the first time I had met Paul, but it would not be the last. There were to be many more amusing events ahead of us, and not all of them on English soil. There would be momentous occasions from Dublin to Rome via Paris when we would be patriotic supporters of England Rugby and could say in the future, ‘We were there.’

  As the plane flew higher I could not help thinking to myself, ‘Don’t you get yourself into some silly situations Ivor?’ But this was something I had always wanted to do. I had seen many war films and had always wondered how the chaps must have felt jumping out of a plane. I was soon to find out. Thank heavens we did not have to worry about somebody shooting at us on the way down. Mark Hicks-Beach was to be first out. He was ordered to move to the exit point. The plane flew over the target area, a large cross unmistakably marked out on the fields below us. He was told to jump. He didn’t exactly refuse, but he gave the burly Para sergeant the impression that he would like a bit more time to think about it. The plane circled a second time and when it reached the drop zone again Mark was given some extra encouragement from the sergeant’s helping hand.

  As my turn approached I was aware of my heart rate and blood pressure rising. ‘Now’s your time to discover what it does feel like to jump out of a plane’, I thought to myself for the final time. The sergeant said something I could not hear, but he winked at me and I dived out into the clouds in crucifix fashion the way I had seen John Wayne do it several times in the movies. Once out the instructors stressed that you should look over your shoulder and count – a thousand and one – a thousand and two – a thousand and check. At that point if your canopy had not opened it was advantageous to release the reserve parachute strapped to your body. For some reason as I dived out over the Gloucestershire terrain the counting routine became superfluous.

  My spectacular swallow dive, aided by a blast of air from below, became an upside-down dive and I watched with relief as the canopy opened above me. For several minutes I seemed to hang suspended in a silent world as the noise of the plane’s engines retreated into the distance. It was a magical experience, but I was aware that I had to do something to improve my chances of surviving the fall. I recalled that if I pulled on the left rope I would go in one direction and if I pulled on the right rope I might go in the other, and that was how I was going to hit the target, which was somewhere in the vicinity of Staverton Airport. I wish they didn’t keep referring to the target as a cross on the tarmac. It was a short but very exciting experience, as the little matchboxes and specks on the ground started to look like factory roofs, vehicles and trees. And Lord, was that a motorway or just a dual carriageway over there? I then started to worry about the ‘only time you can get hurt’ scenario.

  It was so gusty it became a mammoth task trying to control the parachute. Within seconds I knew I would be back on terra firma, and as the ground rushed up to greet me I knew I had failed to keep both feet together as one ankle complained of the ordeal. As for the parachute roll, the strength of the wind dragging both the parachute and me across the field prevented one of any description being attempted. Better luck next time. But sadly there will not be a next time. There is no doubt how exhilarating this sport is, but it is sensibly left for the youngsters to enjoy.

  We were not without our walking wounded on this occasion. Our team leader Mark suffered an ankle fracture and there were more serious injuries. Following our initial Sunday drop a decision was made to postpone further jumps until weather conditions improved. It was a sensible move but there is no doubt in my mind that the rest of that plucky gang of Brits would have done their jump that day regardless of the awful weather. It was a bonding occasion and two fellows who were distant acquaintances to me at the beginning of that day, Keith, an antique furniture restorer, and Paul, a local businessman, became lifelong friends.

  Back at home we were still suffering the loss of Ginny. She had always been with us wherever we went, whether it was holidays, shopping, fishi
ng trips or the regular scrambles over Chosen Hill. We were resigned to the fact that we would never have another dog. Nothing could possibly replace her. How many times have I heard this statement from my clients? That individual companion, be it dog, cat, rabbit or gerbil, cannot be replaced. But there is always room for the company of another infuriating, demanding, house disrupting, beloved animal. In our case, for better or for worse, it was to be Jimmy.

  I was a bit late for surgery one morning having spent at least twenty minutes on the telephone advising a worried client on the care and management of rearing a one-month-old puppy. Apparently this little dog had reached her via the local rugby club. How this puppy had been passed from pillar to post to her husband is another story, but by 9 o’clock the puppy was at the practice. I walked into the kennel room and asked, ‘Who’s this little chap?’ I was first astounded and then a little amused to find that it was the very same puppy I had been discussing for the last half-hour.

  ‘Well, that was a good way to start the day’, I thought to myself. ‘Things will no doubt get better.’ Many days began like this anyway.

  I finished morning surgery and wandered into the animal room to check on the patients relaxing in their kennels, awaiting their moment to be transferred to the operating theatre. I passed along a line of animals until I reached an end kennel where I found the unexpected patient, the abandoned black-and-tan puppy. Already it had been examined by one of the vets, and the nurses had fed and wormed it and given the sort of TLC treatment that they do so much better than me. It was now on four regular feeds a day and would grow rapidly. I dislike referring to people’s pets as ‘it’ but there was a specific reason in this case.

  The puppy was with us for a second week and during that time our son, Ed, had begun routinely visiting it after school. When we left the surgery he would turn to the end kennel and call to the pup, ‘We’ll see you, Jimmy.’ At this time, in 1983, one of the most popular comedians of the day was Russ Abbot and the ‘Jimmy’ reference was one of his catchphrases. By the third weekend with us son Ed’s Sunday request was, ‘Can we have him at home this afternoon, Dad?’ That was the last day Jimmy spent in the surgery. That afternoon was spent on the lawn. The little dog that I had taken scant interest in other than its health and welfare was to become a family member and would be very much part of our life for the next thirteen years. All I had to do now was explain to everyone why our dog was given a boy’s name. Jimmy was a girl.

  As a result of her poor start she was weak on her legs and walked with difficulty, but she gained weight rapidly and became stronger by the day. At three months old she was a healthy, normal puppy. We had no idea who or what her parents were. She could have been related to just about any of the popular breeds in our area, and probably was. At about a year old I began to suspect that she had inherited mainly the features of a Doberman and a German Shepherd, definitely a Collie, and some Labrador. Out walking, folks were complimentary and often remarked, ‘Oh, what a lovely dog, what breed is she?’

  Depending on the enquirer I would often reply, ‘She’s a Gloucester Terrier.’ ‘Oh really? I haven’t seen one of those before’ was a frequent response.

  Jimmy had much to live up to and she did not let us down. She was a lovable dog, but as a result of her unusual pedigree gave the impression to some that she could be ferocious. For a relatively small dog she was disproportionately strong. Like Ginny before her, she became a regular fishing companion and was a remarkable swimmer. She loved to retrieve sticks thrown into the lake and at times I was quite stunned by the size of fallen branches she would haul around in the hope that they would be thrown for her to bring back.

  Unwisely, I never got round to carrying out the operation of spaying her. I strongly recommended the operation to my clients but for some reason, either I never found the time or perhaps because of a subconscious reluctance to operate on my own dog, a hysterectomy was not performed at the appropriate time. The obvious advantages of spaying the young bitch are to avoid unwanted pregnancies and to prevent the development of diseases of the reproductive system in later life. Pyometra is one of the common conditions where the uterus fills with pathological secretions and often develops after the bitch has been in season.

  Jimmy had turned eight and had recently been in season when we noticed that she had started to become a little lethargic and uncharacteristically indifferent towards her food. She seemed more interested in her water bowl. The signs of a possible uterine disease were beginning and I felt that the writing was on the wall for surgery in the very near future. Late one evening, when the family had turned in for the night, I found myself sitting in our back room snug watching the television news. Jimmy was curled up in her bed on the opposite side of the room, her head resting on her paws and one eye fixed on me. This was her usual behaviour, watching and anticipating my next move, just in case it was her cue to accompany me on a stroll around our large garden, or a trip in the car on a night-time call-out.

  ‘You don’t look very ill to me’, I muttered to her. She lay there almost with a glint in her eye. The penny suddenly dropped. ‘I don’t believe this’, I murmured to myself. ‘You’re not ill, you’re flipping pregnant!’ I dived towards her and it took less than twenty seconds to confirm my suspicions. Deep in her abdomen I could feel with certainty the developing foetuses, which were at the palpable golf ball stage, an immensely diagnostically rewarding stage when you feel them in the abdomen of someone else’s dog.

  How could this have happened? Jimmy rarely left our company and definitely had not disappeared recently, even for a few minutes. Clearly, if she had not been out of our garden, some dog had been in (excuse the pun). I felt like a Victorian father about to charge around the village looking for the scoundrel with my blunderbuss, but in this instance with a scalpel in hand. After the initial shock I felt more than a little embarrassed. How was I going to live this one down? The options were to allow her to have the puppies or to carry out a hysterectomy at this late stage. The latter was associated with unnecessary surgical risks, and was over-ruled anyway by the other members of the family.

  Unsportingly, Jimmy chose my weekend off duty to go into labour. On the Friday evening she became increasingly restless and it was apparent things were about to happen. First stage labour had commenced and the pups were moving into the correct position for a natural birth, before the second stage commenced and a few good strains would pop the puppies out one by one. I am sure she was intent on going for the first stage labour record. At midnight I injected her with a mild sedative and she pretended to sleep. I accompanied her on the other side of the room and also pretended to sleep. Every fifteen minutes we eyeballed each other.

  Angela was up shortly before 6 o’clock. Jimmy, however, seemed unaware that there was an important job to be done. Perhaps she knew that this was our fishing weekend and wanted to cause no unnecessary inconvenience. She had at last started to make more of an effort when Angela asked, ‘What are you going to do then?’ All thoughts of that day’s mighty pike about to engulf my lure disappeared. Jimmy had decided I would not go fishing without her. It was time for serious action. I topped up her sedation and enjoyed my usual working breakfast: two half-pint mugs of tea followed by a half-pint mug of coffee.

  At 9 o’clock I gave Jimmy her intravenous anaesthetic and looked into her eyes as it took effect. I am sure that she trusted me implicitly as she fell asleep. It was an odd feeling, but I was reluctant to pass on the job to one of my vet colleagues and once she was prepared for surgery and draped up, it suddenly and strangely once more became just another job to be done. Making the initial abdominal incision was no different from the hundreds of others I had carried out. I continued incising the abdominal muscles, the peritoneum and exposed the uterus and the first protruding glimpse of Jimmy’s new family. I incised the body of the uterus and gently squeezed a puppy towards the incision, lifted it from its foetal membranes and said hello to the first of Jimmy’s pups. It was a large black and white Colli
e-type dog and my mind started to wonder about the black and white Romeo collies that wandered around our village. The intriguing part of the operation was quickly over and a further five puppies joined the first. Surgical closure of the uterine incision and the repair of the abdomen were straightforward.

  Jimmy’s mammary glands were beginning to enlarge and as she came round from the anaesthetic Angela had already introduced a lively litter to the canine milk bar. Four of the puppies were black and white and two were a dark chocolate brown. One of the brown ones was destined to become another close member of our family for a very long time. Naming that puppy was not too difficult; daughter Sally called her Coco. Regardless of the animal species, the caesarean was the operation that always gave me the most enjoyment and satisfaction. Operating on Jimmy was routine surgery once I had started and it was not until I looked at her through the stainless-steel bars of her hospital kennel that I suddenly realised that this was no ordinary patient. But I am sure that every single animal I ever had on the operating table was not an ordinary patient to someone.

  This trepidation must have been the feeling my clients experienced as they walked to the surgery entrance along the tarmac drive. Often they would be greeted by the chirping of birds from the large aviary next door. They belonged to our neighbours, Tony and Jacqui Rumney, who had bravely moved into their house in the ’80s. It must take courage to live next door to a veterinary surgery, but they admit the experience often provided them with some unexpected entertainment. It was common practice for farmers to bring calves, sheep and occasionally goats to the surgery in trailers and horseboxes where they were examined and treated. Ewes that were experiencing lambing difficulties were dealt with on the drive and, if necessary, a caesarean operation was carried out with the patient resting on straw bales. I would have thought that this was enough drama for any family, but obviously this was not the case.