: The Life of a Yorkshire Vet

by Norton, Julian

  When I started my career, each market town had its own vet, treating the animals and farms surrounding it. But as farms disappeared, some veterinary surgeons sought to tempt clients away from neighbouring practices, and a new animosity between vets started to develop in many rural areas. The consequence of the growth and expansion of these ‘aggressive’ practices has resulted in the veterinary surgeons involved covering huge areas. Rather than being twenty minutes from an emergency, some vets will travel up to 50 miles to see a cow. This is hardly a local service and hardly the best for client care or for animal welfare.

  Our biggest beef unit went this way, enticed by the lure of ‘specialist’ veterinary services. It was the farm where, eighteen years ago, I had spent all day under a leaking gutter, and the same farm around which, later in my career, I would organize my summer schedule of work. They ran one hundred or so very strong bulls that would always need to be castrated some time in the middle of August. We would arrange to do about forty per session. The work was hard and hot and I would measure my exertion by the volume of sweat that I poured out of each of my wellies at the end of the day. One of these sessions had to be cut short when, flagging in the heat, I either lost concentration or the 400-kilogram bull kicked at the wrong moment. The scalpel missed its scrotal target and made a lovely three-inch long incision between my thumb and first finger, laying bare the bones and tendons of my hand. Luckily my suturing skills are good and, with the help of Sarah, our head nurse, I managed to repair the gaping wound. I was back the next day, with a clumsy and bandaged hand to finish the rest of the job.

  It was also the farm where, as a young vet, I would enter the ‘calving box of Calcutta’. The concrete-lined room had only one door, through which the cow would put her head and be restrained with a halter, while I delivered her calf. The system worked well until we had to release the cow and get out of the calving box. Once released, the cow would always be standing in front of the door, and we would be between her and her calf. Rather than seeing me as the saviour who had delivered her healthy calf into the world, she would invariably see me as an imposter, and would charge with the full intention of killing anyone in her way. On several occasions in this calving box, I am sure I saw my life flash before my eyes. But then, a new farm management team was brought in, and they were wooed by the marketing department of a self-proclaimed ‘excellent’ large animal practice on the other side of the county. Another farm was gone.

  All this gloom makes it sound as if the future of our practice hangs in the balance, but in fact we are busier than ever. As Thirsk has evolved, so have we. As the farm calls have declined, so the waiting room has filled with dogs and cats, rabbits and guinea pigs, and the day book still has horses, lambs, cows and alpacas enough to keep us at full tilt. That is the joy of mixed practice. More than ever before, pets are integral to family life, and owners expect their animals to receive veterinary care on a par with that offered by the medical profession. This provides us with some fantastic opportunities to push the boundaries of veterinary medicine and provide treatments that James Herriot would never have dreamt possible.

  And so, when Leeds-based TV company Daisybeck Studios, owned by the charismatic and dynamic Paul Stead, approached us in March 2015 with the idea of filming a TV series based around our practice, it gave us pause for thought. We had no marketing department and we had never entered the arena of advertising and promotion. Relying on word of mouth and a good reputation had always served us well. However, the veterinary landscape around us was changing rapidly. A large corporation had bought up a swathe of practices to the north of us, and an American investment company had swallowed up some large practices to the south and east. Simply sitting back and relying on doing what we had always done didn’t necessarily seem like the way to secure a solid future. We had been approached in the past by other TV companies – the lure of the old ‘Herriot’ practice was attractive to the media – but we had never been tempted. None of us really relished the idea of being centre stage, and we felt filming would get in the way of our busy practice. There was also the risk. We had visions of the preview to an episode along the lines of ‘A routine operation goes horribly wrong!’ or other such disastrous headlines, and we were not prepared to jeopardize our hard-earned reputation.

  This time, though, it was a proposition that we felt needed consideration. It could be a fantastic opportunity to champion the cause of mixed practice and promote the surgery, of which we were proud. I felt this more acutely than Peter and Tim who were both closer to retirement than I was. I reasoned that simply standing still was not an option in the ever-changing world of veterinary practice. While we all had strong reservations about the idea of letting the cameras and the whole world into our practice, and it would certainly have been easier not to agree, I had a niggling feeling that if we said no, six months later another veterinary surgery would be enjoying the limelight, and we would be grumbling and cross that we had missed an opportunity.

  Peter and I arranged a meeting with Daisybeck, and a lady called Sarah explained their ideas. They envisaged a six-part series, commissioned by Channel 5, to be aired in the autumn of 2015. It would be based around Skeldale, following the day-to-day work of the vets. More importantly, according to Sarah, it would showcase the area, our clients and their animals. Sarah outlined what they had in mind – a ‘warm’ programme, which would celebrate the beauty of the area and the character of the local people. I quickly realized that we, the vets, would only be one part of the process. This was a relief because although we would obviously feature heavily, there would be more interesting people (our colourful clients), more photogenic subjects (our patients) and the breathtaking scenery of this part of North Yorkshire to distract viewers.

  After the meeting, we discussed it at length. Tim was not at all keen, Peter was viewing both sides with equal merit and I was strongly veering towards a definite yes. I reasoned that it would be good for the practice. It would also be a boost for the local community and a real shot in the arm for Thirsk. The Herriot connection has done much for the town. Alf’s books and the subsequent television series have brought many visitors and have shaped its identity, but All Creatures Great and Small was a long time ago, and today’s budding vets have different inspirations. If we were to embrace this programme and if it were to be popular it might help invigorate Thirsk, and bring a new wave of readers to the gentle tales of James Herriot. The worse thing that could happen was that the series would be a flop and we would look stupid, but given the fast pace of the media, I figured that if this were to happen, our errors and embarrassment would quickly be forgotten when the next thing came along.

  We didn’t have much time to consider our options. Channel 5 was adamant that the programme needed to embrace the truly mixed nature of our work, and in particular, this meant that we would need plenty of sheep lambing. Since our discussions were at an early stage and we were already in March, we had to get a move on, otherwise lambing time would be over. Pete had a week’s holiday booked, and I was away for a week when he got back, followed by Tim the week after. As Pete headed out of the practice for his week off, he was very negative about the whole idea. Tim was still a resolute ‘no’. I was convinced that we were about to miss a brilliant opportunity. However, while I was away on my holiday in the French Alps, I got an email from Pete. We had to make a decision by the following Monday. I was very excited – Pete had had a change of heart and was back in the ‘maybe’ camp. Holidays are a great way of getting things into perspective, and he had obviously given it some serious thought. I quickly sent back a very vigorous email: ‘YES, let’s do it!’

  This was followed by panic. What had we agreed to? Everyone had different thoughts on the matter. Some of the staff were very excited, especially our head nurse Sarah who is endlessly positive and always finds the good in every situation. Others were extremely negative and didn’t want anything to do with the cameras. This was fair enough, and we resolved that if anybody did not want to be invol
ved, then that was fine. We were plunging into the unknown. Nobody really knew what would happen to our lives over the next six months, but we did know that it would be hard work, challenging, very different and hopefully fun. We were vets, nurses and receptionists, not television personalities, and we didn’t know what to expect. Anyway, it was now too late because the following day the cameras were coming …

  20

  The Yorkshire Vet

  And so, the cameras did arrive and we didn’t have a clue what to do.

  It all happened in quite a rush with plenty of excitement. Once we had agreed to put ourselves on public display, we felt we had to put all our energy into the filming process. If a job was worth doing it was worth doing properly. A couple of days in, I emailed Lou, the series producer, to explain that I had an operation to do on a cow. I thought it would make great television, because it involved two vets, one operating on each side of the animal, to pass the displaced stomach from where it had become trapped on one side of its abdomen to the correct position on the other side, where it would be sutured in place. We needed to head off early, because it was a busy day. As Ruth (the second vet) and I gathered our kit, Lou and her director and camerawoman, Izzy, tried to keep up. I was unaware until later that it was the first time Lou and Izzy had met, as they accompanied me to the farm and watched me strip off to the waist to perform the operation. Lou had set off in the early hours of the morning to drive over from Manchester, and Izzy had found her way from Leeds, having hastily collected a camera with which she wasn’t familiar. Still, I reasoned, it was an interesting op and a good one to capture on film. Everything went well with the operation, although it was clear that we all had plenty to learn about being in front of a camera.

  Izzy filmed with passion and enthusiasm and Lou watched quietly from a distance, taking it all in. At this point we didn’t know that while we had made our decision to let the cameras in, Daisybeck Studios hadn’t yet made up their minds whether or not they wanted us. They had been looking at various other practices in Yorkshire and, put off by our initial lukewarm response, had cast their net more widely. After this initial insight into the workings of Skeldale, they spent the next few days visiting other practices to assess them for ability and talent. But what we had that the other practices did not have was the fact that all our veterinary surgeons are mixed practitioners. Many mixed practices now have separate departments or vets who concentrate on small animals, cattle and sheep or horses, so while we were neither photogenic nor talented in front of the camera, we could at least all offer a very varied selection of work to the audience. We would literally treat ‘all creatures great and small’. Lou realized this and was quick to confirm with Paul, who was in charge of Daisybeck, that her conviction was, in her words, ‘Skeldale, Skeldale, Skeldale!’

  And so, by the following week, we were back in action. Izzy was swiftly drafted back in, to try and get shots of sheep lambing. Currently we have two camera teams, each of two people working all the time, but at that stage, Izzy was working alone, putting in massive amounts of energy and time. Much of the credit for the success of the series must go to her endless enthusiasm and drive during those early days. The momentum with which she started the filming was immense and her enthusiasm was infectious. This momentum continued all the way through the next six months. It was frenetic, hectic, tiring and very stressful all at the same time. It was like having to do two jobs at once – our own veterinary job and another one. One with which we were not at all familiar.

  One of the first cases I filmed with Izzy was the case of Lothario, the stud alpaca. The practice looks after a couple of herds of alpacas, and it is usually me who deals with them. They are fascinating, gentle creatures, and I have enjoyed gradually building up my knowledge of how to treat them. I had received a call from Jackie, who owned a beautiful herd of these curious animals. They were very well cared for and Jackie was very knowledgable and skilled in their husbandry and welfare. She asked if I could perform a fertility examination on Lothario, who wasn’t performing quite as expected. I agreed, with a large amount of trepidation. I had performed fertility tests on countless bulls and rams, but alpacas were altogether more sensitive creatures and I would be in unfamiliar territory. Having a camera crew following me only added to my anxiety. I was still on the steep part of my learning curve with alpacas, and the thought of my morning’s work being broadcast on television for the nation’s entertainment made it all the more pressured.

  I pulled on my wellies and retrieved my microscope from the car. I greeted Jackie as usual, but knowing that every moment of our conversation was being caught on film felt very odd. However, what was to follow was even more peculiar and very amusing. I assembled my equipment and set up the microscope, ready to examine the semen sample I was hoping to collect from Lothario. I had not quite worked out exactly how I was going to do this. In bulls and rams, a lubricated rectal probe is used to provide the necessary stimulation, but this was not appropriate in alpacas and our research had told us that we needed some ‘open’ females to tempt Lothario into action. Optimistically, Jackie was on standby with a plastic sandwich bag. The plan was tempt Lothario with the female, and then intervene at the correct moment to capture a sample of semen, which I would then analyse.

  On ‘open’ female was marched in to the large pen where the mating was to take place. Head held high and eyes wide open with excitement, she was obviously game, and up for action this morning. Lothario, on the other hand, was very much less enthusiastic. After several half-hearted attempts to mount the female, it became clear that he did not live up to his name. Jackie knew that some alpacas were more selective than others, so a second ‘open’ female was brought into the pen, closely followed by a third. Some casual flirting continued but, again, no real action. Glancing between Izzy, who was fastidiously capturing all this on film, Laura the associate producer and fluffy boom holder, and Jackie and her helpers, revealed a steadily rising level of mirth. We were barely able to contain our amusement at the ridiculousness of the situation. The final straw was when Jackie decided to introduce another male to the mix, declaring, ‘I’ll bring in another boy. Sometimes another boy gets things going.’

  Izzy was looking expectantly at me to make a comment on the situation. The first thing that popped into my head was, ‘This is turning into a proper alpaca orgy.’

  We all fell about laughing and the camera stopped rolling as it wobbled around on Izzy’s shoulder.

  The sampling of Lothario had, on this occasion, been a complete disaster. The morning’s work and one of my first introductions to the filming process, on the other hand, had been entertaining and great fun, and much more was to follow.

  The case of Monica the ferocious pig was just as funny to film and, since Monica’s picture appeared in the Radio Times, I am sure this came across on television. Monica is a Mangalitsa, which is an ancient breed of pig from Hungary. Unusually, Mangalitsa pigs are covered in thick, woolly hair. I had been to see her the previous Saturday afternoon when she was farrowing. She had produced three stripy and very cute piglets but Lisa, her owner, had been anxious. Monica was restless and Lisa thought there might be another piglet stuck inside. The sow was aggressively protective of her babies, so it took a very large dose of sedative before I could get close enough to examine her. There were no more piglets inside, and after carrying out as thorough an examination as possible under the circumstances, I gave her two injections to mitigate the risks of metritis, which is an infection of the womb. But three days later, Monica was still not quite right. She could not even be tempted by melons, which apparently were the treat of choice for Hungarian pigs. Izzy and Laura pricked up their ears as I arranged a visit for later that day. Izzy sat next to me in the passenger seat of the car, filming and asking questions. I did not need to exaggerate the possible dangers and challenges of handling this dangerous pig a second time. I didn’t want to sedate her again, as she was nursing young piglets, but I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to get
near her.

  I was soon standing beside Monica’s sty. The wall was about four feet high – just the right height to lean on as we peered in and discussed the best way to tackle the job. It also seemed the perfect, safe place from which to inspect the pig who, judging by the noises she was making, remembered me well from three days previously. I could see the perpetual smile on Laura’s face slowly disappear as Lisa recounted how one of the pigs had jumped straight over this wall and chased a member of staff right out of the building. Jack, my eldest son, who had come along to watch after school, decided that this was the time to wait in the car.

  A plan was hatched for me to inject Monica using an injection lance. This is a device that enables medication to be injected into large and dangerous animals from a safe distance. It is about six feet long and has a loaded syringe at one end and a vet at the other. As I approached the pig it became clear that she had definitely not forgotten what happened last time we met. While she was not hungry for melons, she was most certainly hungry for revenge. I crept into the pen and braced myself for a quick getaway, as soon as my medication had been injected into her woolly neck. Sows look heavy, lumbering and slow but this is all an illusion. Monica’s response was lightning quick and she leapt towards me, brandishing her enormous tusks, mouth wide open and saliva spraying. Laura, on the other side of the wall, jumped in the air and I screamed and ran, just managing to close the gate behind me as her tusks clattered against it, missing my leg by a whisker. Safely behind the gate, there was much laughter from everyone, for the second time in a week. I rather hoped that Laura might not have recorded me screaming, in her surprise at the pig’s reaction, but as I urged Izzy, ‘PLEASE don’t put that into the edit,’ I knew full well that it would make the cut.