: The Life of a Yorkshire Vet

by Norton, Julian

  Late one summer evening, I was telephoned by Alison, our newest assistant vet. She had only been with us a week and it was her first night on duty. I could tell from the tone of her voice that it wasn’t the straightforward first night on call that I had enjoyed, twenty years previously. There was no simple sheep with orf or cow with mastitis. She had been asked to see a vomiting cat, but before getting started on this job, another call had come in. There was a cow stuck on a bridge. While this sounded like a line from one of the Mr Men books, it was very real, and Alison was worried about what to do. I knew that there would be a large gathering of onlookers, all offering advice: ‘Oh, you don’t want to do it like that! You want to put the rope there!’ and so on. This can be incredibly intimidating for a young vet, so I offered to go and deal with it. I gave her some quick advice about the cat, and left her with that job while I went off to extricate the bovine.

  The directions took me into the middle of a large grassy field, from where I could see, as predicted, a growing crowd of people, and some vehicles. The field was uneven, and as I bumped over the grass I was glad of my four-wheel drive. Four-wheel drive is not always necessary for the work that we do around Thirsk, but on occasions such as these, a car with off-road capability becomes essential. I arrived at a narrow footbridge, which crossed a muddy stream feeding into Cod Beck. The bridge was about a metre wide at its concrete base, and had metal railings along the sides for walkers to hold on to. The railings were further apart at the top than at the bottom, giving the bridge a ‘V’ shape.

  There were two policemen, several walkers with their dogs, the local land owner, a handful of youths who had been drinking lager on the grassy river bank, and a fire engine with three firemen hovering nearby, awaiting a plan. One of the firemen was Gary, who I knew well because I had been treating his dog with chemotherapy for its aggressive cancer. I chatted to him about his dog, which, Gary reported, was doing well. This evening’s patient, however, was not in quite such a good way. The cow was completely wedged in the middle of the bridge. She looked comfortable and seemed oblivious to her situation, and unperturbed by the spectators. Her feet had slipped off the sides of the narrow walkway, leaving her resting on her chest and udder, jammed between the railings, with her legs dangling down towards the stream below. She was completely stuck and there was no way she could get free without some human intervention.

  I could hear various conversations amongst the onlookers about the best way to extricate her. Some spoke of pulling her out forwards, by her head, using a rope. Others speculated the answer was to pull her backwards. Some just didn’t know what was to be done, and all eyes turned to the expert.

  ‘F***ing hell!’ was the assessment of the situation, from Steve, the plain-speaking local electrician. Steve is a neighbour and friend of mine and I was glad to see him this evening. He works hard and has a thriving business in Thirsk. He and his staff put up the Christmas lights around the town in December and he erects and decorates the tree in the village. He is always ready to help and, crucially, he has a collection of heavy vehicles that can put things in high places and lift heavy objects.

  ‘How the f*** are we gonna get it out?’

  ‘F***ing hell’ – again.

  ‘F*** me, we’ll have to cut the bars off.’

  I managed to stop Steve before he rushed off to get a generator and cutting equipment. I think his plan was to cut off the bars and roll the cow sideways into the ditch below, from where he expected she would happily walk away to join her herd-mates. This would not be the case though, in my opinion, as it would result in her becoming stuck in the tenacious mud and weeds at the bottom of the ditch.

  ‘Steve, we’ll need your Matbro and some long lorry straps. We’ll have to lift her out.’

  I had a plan and within minutes Steve returned, trundling slowly but purposefully across the field in his yellow vehicle. I set about shuffling along the bars of the bridge, trying to thread the thick, heavy-duty lorry straps under the cow and to pull them through, so that we could hook the ends onto the long metal forks of Steve’s impressive yellow front loader. I clung on with one hand and just about managed to push one end of a strap under the chest of the animal, behind her elbows. I climbed back to the other side and pulled it through. Success.

  The second strap wasn’t so easy, because it needed to go under her body in front of her udder. Almost her full weight seemed to be concentrated here, and there was no room to push the band through.

  Everyone was watching intently now, but the excitement was turning towards despair and there was beginning to be some shaking of heads from the crowd on the grass. She couldn’t be lifted by just one strap and so we needed a plan B. They don’t teach this at vet school. I asked Steve to get into place with his loader and he could just about extend the front arm so the one strap could hook over its spike. With some straining from the hydraulics, the front part of the cow was lifted slightly – not enough to get her off, but just enough to allow me to push the second strap underneath her body. Once under, I could pull it through and then, with help from the firemen, we managed to heave the second strap backwards so it was somewhere near the right place. Steve lowered the front end of his loader so I could loop the second strap onto his spike and, with gasps from the crowd, the cow started to rise. Had the area been shrouded in mist, the scene would have looked like something from an Arthurian legend. The cow did not seem to register that it was dangling several metres above the ground, and calmly gazed down at the grass and spectators below. Had I been a cow under these circumstances I would like to think I would have expressed some reaction. It must have been the same feeling that I had experienced when I was rescued by helicopter from the tiny shelter on the north-east ridge of the Matterhorn. But this is not the way of a bovine and, judging by the expression on her face as she hovered on high, there was not a great deal of thought going on. She must, at least, have been enjoying the view?

  The human element of the crowd (which now comprised not only about thirty people, but forty other cattle, who had come to watch as well) started clapping and there was much excitement. The bovines were not so impressed. One or two sniffed the miscreant, as if to say, ‘Are you all right? What were you thinking of? I know, let’s go and eat some grass.’ And so they did.

  It was at this point that the police stepped into action. They tied some special plastic tape across the entrance to the footbridge. I do not think it was to identify the area as a crime scene, but more to deter the cow and its herd-mates from getting stuck a second time. Somehow I didn’t think that this was particularly necessary.

  19

  Changing Times

  I recently read an amazing book. I usually read only when I am relaxing on holiday. In the normal course of my life, I do not spend much time relaxing, so I don’t read many books. But, during one of our long, rambling but invariably enthusiastic conversations after evening surgery, Tim and I got onto the topic of Laurie Lee, as it was the centenary of his birth. Tim said he would lend me his copy of Cider with Rosie and it quickly became one of my favourite books. It describes with skill and beauty the passing of an era after the First World War, in a sleepy Cotswold village. I read it over a weekend in April last year, while I was in Holland competing for Team GB in the European Duathlon Championships. The cameras from Daisybeck Studios had just arrived at the practice to start filming The Yorkshire Vet, giving me cause to look upon my life with an outsider’s view; but more of that later. Lee’s book describes his childhood and the village where he grew up. The character of the village shifts slowly, as motor vehicles take over from horse and cart, and it perfectly captures the passing of an era. It struck me, as I read this book, that the changes documented by Lee in Cider with Rosie are, in many ways, similar to changes I have seen, and still see, over my last twenty years as a veterinary surgeon in rural North Yorkshire. Those parallels have become even more marked as I have started compiling my thoughts and recollections for this book.

  Nearly all the farms
to which I have referred in these pages are no longer rearing livestock. There are many reasons for this. It is not just about the economics, although this has been an important factor. In the post-war period, when it was important to be self-sufficient in food, and when Mr Kellogg was encouraging milk to be consumed at levels never previously seen, farmers were given incentives to abandon the old, low-intensity systems and to adopt new, intensive, highly productive methods. Farming, and particularly dairy farming, boomed. Since then there has been a slow but steady decline in the agricultural industry, and a drift away from the traditional farming way of life. Sons and daughters do not want to commit to working three hundred and sixty-five days of the year on the farm, with little reward. So when elderly farmers get to the age of retirement, the next generation is no longer there to take over. After the two most serious disease crises in memory, the foot-and-mouth outbreak and the BSE epidemic, who can blame them? It is surprising that livestock farming managed to continue at all after these episodes.

  Evolution is a slow process, and the changes in Thirsk and its surroundings have been subtle, but steady. This is evident whenever I go into the middle of town. Thirsk is a market town, with a cobbled square accessed by only four roads. This was originally to allow cattle and other livestock to be gathered easily in the square, with only limited options for escape if anything got loose. There is an enormous metal ring attached to the ground in the area where taxis now park. It goes unnoticed by most visitors, but it was used in days gone by to fasten bulls prior to sale.

  The days of cattle, sheep, pigs and chickens being sold in the market place are long gone, but not lost from the town altogether. Now the weekly sales are held at the purpose-built auction mart, on the outskirts of Thirsk, where the huge wagons can park, and there is easy access to the main roads. There are still cows, sheep and pigs to sell, and hens, rabbits and all other creatures small and furry or feathered can be seen at the regular ‘Fur and Feathers’ sales. The evolution of the town and its economy has continued, over the last quarter of a century, probably more rapidly than at any other time in its history. It is easy to overlook this while in the middle of it, but having read Lee’s book it has become evident to me that we are in the midst of a period of the most dramatic change in the fabric of rural North Yorkshire.

  The decline of farming in the UK has had profound effects on the veterinary industry. The effect most immediately obvious to me, as a senior vet in a rural mixed practice, is the challenge it poses to new veterinary surgeons, starting out in this type of practice. Twenty years ago I would have gone on several farm visits every day, so I could quickly hone my skills, which, once acquired, like riding a bike, would never be lost. Now, with so few farms left, these visits are much less frequent. For young assistants it is like trying to learn to ride a bike but only practising once a week, instead of ten times a day. Without this volume of experience, it is hard for them to become confident. Young veterinary surgeons at Skeldale might get more sleep when on duty than we did twenty years ago, but I am sure every one of the new graduates who come to work with us would swap this for the action-packed nights and weekends of the past. To start a new career in mixed practice now is very challenging, and this is not being helped by the approach taken at many of the vet schools. Teaching is provided by specialists in each field and while this is clearly how it should be, these experts may have had very little experience out in the world of general practice. They are quick to offer opinions on the failings of first opinion veterinary surgeons, while forgetting that if it were not for those of us who see all the normal day-to-day cases, referral centres such as the vet schools would have no custom. One leading equine expert has referred to mixed practitioners as ‘Jacks of all trades and masters of none’. This type of attitude is unhelpful and misinformed and does little to inspire the next generation of James Herriots. New graduates are advised to use mixed practice as a stepping-stone to specialization, rather than as a career path in its own right. The result is that there is a poor retention of veterinary surgeons within the profession, so that despite ever-greater numbers being admitted to vet school, there is a shortfall of vets currently in the UK, and particularly in the area of mixed practice.

  I spoke with a friend recently, who is a veterinary surgeon. She had visited a small mixed practice high up in the Yorkshire Dales. It could hardly have been more ‘Herriot’ and Jo said it would have been her ideal job when she was starting her career. This practice had been advertising for a new assistant, unsuccessfully, for over a year. While this is an extreme situation, it gives weight to the concept of the decline of mixed practice.

  This should not be the case. I firmly believe that it is perfectly possible to be a good, mixed practice vet, equally able to lamb a ewe, investigate a lame horse, spay a bitch, treat a cat with cystitis, or perform a caesarean on a heifer. You do not need to be a specialist dairy vet to be able to deliver a calf or to pregnancy test the herd. Equally, you do not need to be an orthopaedic supremo to repair the fractured femur of a cat hit by a car, nor an expert in emergency medicine to handle its erratic breathing when you attend to it in the middle of the night. You need to be a good vet, a capable vet and one who works with a passion to treat the patients under your care, but you do not need to be a specialist in every discipline. Sadly, at the current rate, the profession is destined to become top heavy with so-called experts. Generalists, and more particularly good generalists, are becoming increasingly thin on the ground.

  I had a case recently that illustrated the point well. We received a phone call one morning from a lady with a sick Border collie called Floss. Floss had eaten a lamb bone, which had become wedged in her oesophagus, below her heart but just above her stomach. The veterinary surgeon who had eventually identified this quickly pronounced that the bone was in a terrible place, and that its removal would require a specialist. The specialist was intending to charge between £2–3,000 for the procedure. This was an impossible amount for Floss’s owner – could we do it instead?

  ‘Of course, can you bring her in for ten past eleven?’

  I knew it would not be easy. It wasn’t easy at all. The irregular-shaped bone was wedged in a difficult place, and the tissues around it were badly damaged. Eventually, and with extreme care, we got it out, and after three days in the hospital, Floss was back home. Ten days later she came in to have her sutures removed, back to full health. It was immensely satisfying for us and we had a great result – a happy and healthy dog and a delighted owner who had saved around £2,000 in fees. As I predicted, it was a tricky procedure, but didn’t require an expensive specialist, just an enthusiastic and experienced generalist.

  You are a better vet if you are capable of handling all species. Treating all creatures makes for endless variety and no two days in our mixed practice are ever the same. To me it is an obvious career choice. But, sadly, for many mixed practices, the decline in farming has made it neither economically nor practically possible to continue working in this traditional way.

  Another nail in the coffin for many small mixed practices in rural England came recently, when the rules for the handling of the statutory testing for tuberculosis in cattle were changed. All cows have to be tested regularly for TB. The test was developed after the Second World War and was an important step at that time, to control the spread of bovine tuberculosis. The drinking of unpasteurized milk was risky if it was affected by the disease. In post-war Britain, the introduction of TB testing was the reason why Donald Sinclair employed Alf Wight and it was the start of their famous relationship.

  Until recently, vets would undertake the statutory testing of cattle on the farms for which they provided normal veterinary care, at the instruction of DEFRA (the new name for MAFF). While the work was fairly tedious and often very time-consuming, TB testing was always a good way to get out on farms and catch up with everything that was going on. For practices in the south west, where TB is rife, testing made up a large part of their daily routine. The policy of test and cul
l has not been a particularly effective one, and the relationship between badgers, cattle and TB has been widely and loudly debated, but DEFRA doggedly carries on testing, and it is a costly business. So, in part for reasons of cost saving, but for other reasons too, the government decided to put the work out to tender – rather than rethink the policy altogether, with advice from scientists, on what advances there had been since 1945. The country was split into ‘lots’, and each lot was opened up to bids. Our practice fell into the lot that extended from Cheshire to Scotland so it was pretty obvious that individual practices were not expected to tender. A large company won the contract for every area in the UK, and then invited local practices to work under sub-contract. It doesn’t take a genius to imagine what came next. We were offered just less than half the amount per cow than was paid previously. And we would have to re-train at our own expense. Decades of experience of TB testing counted for little and we would all need to be assessed to prove our competency. Needless to say, the meeting I attended in York to hear the details of these new proposals was a silent and depressing one. There was no hanging around afterwards for a coffee and gossip or a quick pint in the nearest pub. We used to do that in the past after local vet meetings, but not now.

  For us, at Skeldale, it was an easy decision. We declined the derisory offer. We fully expected that this would be the path that most other local mixed practices would take but, surprisingly, most have continued to undertake subcontracted testing at an hourly rate that is about one third of the national minimum wage. The need to accept these terms underlines the financial fragility of many mixed practices and it does not bode well for the future. The compulsion to continue this work is also fuelled by anxiety over the increasingly cut-throat (if not to say unprofessional) competition between farm vets. To have a veterinary surgeon from another practice turn up on a farm to do the TB test could be seen as inviting in the opposition.