by Ivor Smith
Most of us watch the news on television and I’m sure some can remember the interest in recent times of the whale, a huge Northern Bottlenose, which became stranded in the River Thames in London. At some point it became obvious to the vets monitoring the situation that the whale was dying and when he began to convulse it was decided on humane grounds that it was time for euthanasia. How do you put to sleep an animal of such huge proportions? It is frighteningly easy with just a small bottle of Immobilon. The appropriate dose is calculated by estimating the length of the animal and injecting 4ml of the substance for each 1½ metres through a 25cm needle. Sadly, there was no need to administer it, and the Prince of Whales, as one newspaper christened him, died after one final episode of convulsing.
With such a potent weapon available, it was only a matter of time before misuse of the drug would be involved in a story that could have come straight from the pen of Agatha Christie. If you desire to murder your wife, and you are a vet who has easy access to the poison, what a wonderful storyline this would make. If the vet is deeply in debt and stands to collect £180,000 of his wife’s life insurance money, then the story gets more intriguing. This actually happened in 1994, when the wife of a Staffordshire vet was found dead in suspicious circumstances. Traces of Immobilon were found in her body and her husband soon became the chief suspect. Although unexplained needle puncture marks were found on her feet, her husband was accused of murdering her by spiking her orange juice with Immobilon. With evidence like this stacked against you, you cannot possibly be innocent. That is what the jury believed when they found him guilty, and clearly the judge did not like the vet too much, referring to him as ‘the most evil, selfish and criminally callous man’ he had ever sentenced. Unsurprisingly, the vet was handed down a life sentence in 1995.
Well, he was guilty, wasn’t he? No, actually he was not. Everyone seemed to believe so until a hand-written note, signed by the deceased, was found between the pages of a copy of the faithful old Veterinary Record. It read, ‘I leave you absolutely nothing but this note – if you find it in time.’ In 1998 the Court of Appeal quashed the conviction and the vet was freed. The case was summed up by a QC who aptly described it thus, ‘The prosecution say this was murder made to look like suicide. We say it was most likely suicide made to look like murder.’ Tragically, this sad case would not be an isolated suicide brought about by the administration of a tiny dose of Immobilon. The deaths of numerous vets would be recorded over the following years.
CHAPTER NINE
NEVER WORK WITH CHILDREN OR ANIMALS
Media performers, whether they are related to television, radio, the cinema or theatre, strongly advise that it is best to steer clear of animals and children. Both are guaranteed to embarrass you and to expose your weaknesses. This is excellent advice, but naturally in my case it was only possible to try and stay clear of the youngsters for a little while. Nevertheless, talking to large groups of children in classrooms and halls at Cub and Brownie meetings was always enjoyable. I soon learned to treat the children as mini-adults and I expected that respect to be reciprocated. They definitely seemed to resent being told childish jokes. This one did not go down well:
Have you heard the story about the dog that had to go to the vet’s hospital because he became ill after eating some daffodil bulbs? The worried owner asked the vet if his dog would get better. ‘Yes’, said the vet, ‘but he’s very poorly and will have to stay in my hospital for a long time.’ ‘Oh dear’, said the owner, ‘When can he come home?’ The vet thought for a moment before replying, ‘Oh, he should be out in the spring!’
It is a wonderful feeling when your audience is amused by the punchline and have difficulty staying on their seats, and nothing more deflating when the joke falls flat. There is nothing worse than looking at a sea of expressionless children’s faces, and wondering what they are thinking. Children are gifted with a natural desire for learning, and at times I have been inwardly embarrassed by the simplest of questions relating to such things as the animals’ senses and the behaviour of our pets that seem too mundane for the professional, myself included, to give a second thought to.
‘Why do dogs bury bones?’
‘Why doesn’t our dog bury bones?’
‘Can cats and dogs see colours?’
‘What about the horse, cow, guinea pig, mouse, snake? What colours can they see?’
‘You came to our house and put our cat to sleep. Did he go to heaven?’
At the time I probably thought, ‘Ask me about the need for vitamin A and its biological role in the animal body and I’ll blind you with science.’ One thing I learned was to listen to the children. They are too young to be anyone’s fool.
By the time I retired, the youngsters I had met in the 1960s had become the mums and dads bringing their own children to the surgery, and in some cases their grandchildren too. It is astonishing to believe that the little girl whose mice disappeared under the Crudwell surgery floorboards in 1966 is now in her forties. Time really does go by very quickly. With luck she will have forgotten that whole tragic occasion. I remember it well.
Vet School training in the 1960s concentrated on the surgery, medicine and husbandry of, in descending size, the horse, cow, sheep, pig, dog, cat and poultry. That was ample for me. Rabbits were given some consideration, but it was expected that the ones we were being taught to care for would eventually end up on a plate. How things have changed. The practising veterinary surgeon today is also expected to deal competently with the cuddly bunnies, guinea pigs, chinchillas, hamsters, rats, gerbils, mice, cold-water fish, tropical fish, tortoises, terrapins, budgerigars, canaries, parrots, the Vietnamese pot-bellied pig and the back yard fowl. Today, any creature we dare to share our homes with is referred to as a companion animal. When I qualified, these latter animals were considered exotic pets. ‘Bugsy’, the house rabbit, is an exotic pet? Not any more. These days he’s part of the family and his medicine and surgery is expected to be high on the vet’s list of priority matters. Not surprisingly there has been both a need and a trend towards veterinary practitioner specialisation. Having said that, I don’t think the previous generations of vets fared too badly using our knowledge of basic medicine and a modicum of common sense, even if at times it did land us in some sticky situations.
I have yet to mention our third group of exotic pets; the wildlife patients. One Saturday afternoon, I was watching a Wales v. England rugby contest on television. Nearing the end of a nail-biting second half the telephone rang. The desperate lady on the end of the line, whose husband I bet was watching the rugby, was adamant that a frightened blackbird she had rescued was in need of immediate veterinary attention. I left the game with Wales creeping ahead thanks to a disputed penalty goal and headed for the surgery. To appear professional – even on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of a rugby game – I donned a clean white coat.
The lady thanked me for seeing the bird so swiftly and deposited the bird-containing wicker basket on to the examination table. I carefully opened the top and the frantic patient made the most of its opportunity to escape. What the lady had failed to tell me was that her husband had retrieved the bird from a pool of sump oil in their garage. This became pretty obvious when the bird hit the recently decorated Persil-white ceiling, struck a wall, splattered against another wall, and then another. By the time I caught him, my consulting room looked like a scene from the Black and White Minstrel Show and I looked like one of the singers.
While my Saturday afternoon nurse cleansed the bird in detergent and prepared it for release the next day, I queried, not for the first time, if the public ever asked themselves how this free service was financed. My nurse told me to stop being stingey, cheer up and go home and watch the rest of the rugby. An hour or so later I went home and Angela gave me more bad news: the final score of the international game. I didn’t think about the event again until I signed a cheque a week or so later for the decorator, ‘for removing oil before applying three coats of brilliant white emu
lsion’.
In the Gloucester area, it was difficult to escape for long the presence of the city’s famous rugby club. Gloucester has produced more than its fair share of superstars, but for some mysterious and inexplicable reason it is the usual practice for the England management to overlook them for selection for international duties. Mike Burton, however, was a player the selectors could not ignore. He was a frequent visitor to the surgery in the ’70s with his young family and their pets. One evening he came in with a lame guinea pig. The upper part of one hind leg was very swollen and painful. Through the swelling the broken ends of a fractured femur were easily palpated. Mike, at this time in the pre-professional rugby era, had still to earn his fortune and was pleased to opt for the most economical treatment I suggested. Actually what I advised was perfectly suitable, and where a limb can be immobilised for a couple of weeks, the bones of a healthy guinea pig will heal rapidly. A state-of-the-art material that was claimed to be a spin-off from the space research industry was a plastic gauze material that had the strange property of being malleable in very hot water but when cooled to room temperature it stiffened and seemed to have the strength of steel. It was a welcome opportunity to use it for the first time, and it worked well. Removing it, however, was a problem as each mesh had to be snipped through individually before the cast could be removed, but at least it prevented the patient gnawing through it and removing it prematurely.
Mike enjoyed his animals and probably still does. I wouldn’t refer to him as a frustrated farmer but he took pride in a large group of calves that he cared for on a small farm at Shurdington, a few miles outside Cheltenham. I often went there to treat the usual problems of young cattle: scouring, respiratory disease and the odd lameness. I suppose you could liken many of their ailments to those of young local rugby players on a Sunday morning. But Mike was no longer a local player.
One cold, wet winter evening I turned off the main road and approached his farm buildings along a newly laid concrete drive. It was the sort of surface Lewis Hamilton might have had problems with, and within minutes I failed to negotiate a slippery bend that had been treated with copious amounts of storm water and cattle slurry, and the rear wheels of the little MG slid off the track. I emerged reluctantly from the cockpit and in no time at all was welcomed by farmer Burton appearing from the gloom by torchlight. I was greeted with, ‘Evening Ivor! Sorry about this, don’t get out.’ I was expecting a helpful tractor with a tow rope to appear, but I was very soon aware of things happening at the rear of the car, and a lot of grunting. The back end lifted and the MG moved sideways a little, enough for the wheels to be back on solid concrete. ‘Lord’, I prayed, as one does in an extreme emergency. ‘Please don’t let him be ruptured, well not on this occasion.’
Mike was destined to collect his first England cap within hours. Alone, he had lifted the car from the mire: an astonishing feat of strength. Bravo, but what if he had acquired a scrotal hernia? I could imagine the headlines in the Cheltenham Echo, ‘Vet and Rugby star both in the slurry’, or words to that effect. He survived unblemished and turned out at Twickenham the following Saturday afternoon and I avoided being one of the most unpopular Gloucester rugby supporters ever. I cannot imagine how the Shed would have responded. They probably would have conjured up something like, ‘Thanks to vet, Burton needs more support.’
Mike has a wicked sense of humour and one of the funniest books I have ever read is his imaginary autobiography, Have Balls Will Travel. It was a relief to know that they did not travel far that awful night. Mike was a powerful chap, but he was not the largest rugby star to squeeze into my surgery. That honour must go to our Welsh international forward Ben Edwards, who also lived in Shurdington for many years. When he brought his Dachshund dog to surgery, the little fellow trotted in while his owner barely managed to manoeuvre his vast frame through the doorway after him. He was one of rugby’s many gentle giants.
It would be easy to digress into tales concerning other Gloucestershire sporting characters and their antics with their animals, but I shan’t do so here. In the days before professionalism, so many talented local sportspersons were denied the opportunity of a career in sport, assuming of course that that was what they wanted. Old Richian Michael (Mick) Sparey was one of them. His Saturday winters were spent tenaciously on local muddy rugby fields, but his summer cricketing skills were generally well acknowledged as being exceptional.
Mick’s wife, Jacqui, was a Denmark Grammar School old girl and a teacher at Gloucester’s Tredworth Road junior school. Her teaching enthusiasm extended to after-school activities and the school’s Natural History Society was one of her interests. I was pleased to accept her invitation to give an animal-orientated talk to the youngsters. They had been asked to bring along their pets to the meeting where ‘Mr Smith will spend an hour or so giving advice to the young members on their care and management.’
At 4.10 p.m. one dark winter’s afternoon, I arrived at the school and met my audience and their furry friends. Actually, one of them wasn’t that furry. In fact he looked quite smooth, exceptionally smooth. It was a snake, and in the confines of his 5lb jam jar, there seemed an awful lot of him. For some reason it crossed my mind that it could be a particularly lethal species, but he was safe enough while he remained in his jar. My lecture started and the hour that followed was immensely enjoyable.
I had demonstrated my small-animal handling skills and had given the appropriate advice on feeding and breeding them, and managed to avoid the usual unimaginable questions that only children could ask. Jacqui rose and thanked me for my attendance, but before I departed she begged me to answer the question that all the children were dying to ask: ‘How does a vet handle a snake?’ She failed to add, ‘a snake of unknown origin and venom.’
I wished that the owner had by now left to attend his martial arts class. But he hadn’t. As my blood pressure began to rise I could see the onlookers leaning forward in anticipation, and there seemed no alternative but to grapple with the creature. I picked up the jar and began to release the lid. The inhabitant knew something was happening and a spotted head peered over the rim. He had probably just received the first scent of human perspiration. I hoped he would not get too excited but within seconds he was everywhere. As he rose up there seemed to be yards of him still in the jar, and suddenly it occurred to me that if he got on to the floor there could be pandemonium as he wriggled across the classroom, and at that moment there was a fair chance of that happening. I definitely didn’t want that to happen, so I grasped him just below his head as he emerged, which seemed to help him out of his jar, and suddenly I was holding a huge writhing snake. I yelled to the excited children that this was how you handled a lively snake, at the same time forcing his tail end back into the jar and vigorously encouraging the rest of the reluctant squirming body to follow. I finally slammed the lid on and screwed it tightly shut. I tried to smile and look composed. The amused owner grinned and explained to everyone that his metres of reptile was a harmless garter snake. Well, it did not look harmless to me.
I totally understand why we share our homes with dogs and cats, cuddly rabbits and guinea pigs, and occasionally a pony or donkey in the garden. I know that it takes all sorts and our world is a more interesting place as a result, but I have never really understood why anyone should choose to keep a snake or allow rats to wander around their lounge. But beauty lies in the eye of the beholder and I cannot deny the popularity of the pet rat.
One evening I heard screams coming from the waiting room. It was our receptionist and it sounded as though she were being attacked. We dashed to her aid and found her propped against a wall, her face the same colour as her white smock. A nurse passed her a glass of water and explained what had happened to us. It was the evening receptionist’s first week and she had not yet grown accustomed to some of the unusual visitors to a vet’s waiting room. After taking a particular client’s particulars she asked for details of the pet brought in in a shoe box. She helpfully lifted the lid a
nd was greeted by the inquisitive head of the biggest black rat she had ever seen in her life.
A shoe box, shopping bag, wicker fishing basket or wooden toolbox were often the customary ways of transporting pets to the surgery before the development of the strong plastic box in the ’70s. The new type of plastic carrier was secure and hygienic and most could be easily cleaned and disinfected. One disadvantage to the vet could be the length of time it took to actually get the animal out of the box to examine it. I am certain that some surgery times were extended by at least half an hour as a result of owners struggling to open the box and persuade their pets to come out. Usually this was because a parent had brought the pet to surgery on an occasion when they were not accompanied by their smart child, who could release the lid in seconds. To be fair, some of the contraptions were designed so that unless you had a degree in Lego you would never succeed in releasing the animal. After one embarrassing occasion I was always reluctant to be too helpful in opening the carrier. Regrettably, they were not all made of high quality rigid unbreakable plastic, as I discovered one Sunday morning.
A sweet young girl had brought her bunny to surgery on her own, and with great determination lifted the plastic box and rabbit on to the examination table. She began to undo the first of the four clips that secured the lid but her fingers lacked the required strength. ‘Shall I help?’ I volunteered, as I gripped the clip nearest me. It was certainly tough to open, and when it unclipped, it snapped off and was left in my hand. The young owner looked a little puzzled but I thought she would burst into tears when the second clip snapped off too. I really did not know what to say, so I shouted the first thing I could think of: ‘Nurse!’ My nurse raided the animal room, where she found and donated another plastic carrier to the youngster. It was an easy-for-the-vet-to-open-without-breaking-it type carrier. I said as little as possible and the young client went home happy with her pal in a smart new carrier.
