William's Gift

by Helen Douglas

  One Saturday evening, I was paged by a woman concerned about a wild pigeon in her backyard. She claimed it was choking and making odd noises and wanted to bring it to the clinic. She told me she would have to first catch it, then hire a babysitter and take a taxi to the hospital. All this should take about an hour, as she lived on the other side of the city. I went to the clinic at nine, and at ten-thirty was still sitting there, frustrated and fuming. The taxi pulled up just as I was about to give up and go home. The pigeon, wrapped in a brightly coloured child’s blanket, was indeed making a strange spluttering noise, but it was bright-eyed and reluctant to be restrained. It and I shared the sentiment that it would have been happier left in the garden, especially since I had no idea whatsoever to do for it.

  It was obvious that the lady was genuinely concerned, so I muttered something about the possibility of impaction of the crop or esophagus. I found a tiny polyethylene tube and pushed a few drops of mineral oil into the bird’s crop. The woman was quite happy to see something done and didn’t bat an eyelash as I added up her bill. Despite the fact that it was a wild bird, I felt I had to receive some compensation for two hours out of my Saturday evening. Even with a discounted emergency fee, the bill came close to seventy-five dollars. With the babysitter and the taxi charges, she had probably spent close to twice that. As I drove home, I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking about the pigeon that would have been just as happy left alone and the soft-hearted lady with more money than common sense. To her credit, though, she cared more about the animal than her convenience or pocketbook. I was forced to go beyond that and consider that many people would have no idea how to judge the seriousness of a medical situation regarding an animal. I had a glimpse of how that would impact my whole life.

  During afternoon appointments one day, I fell victim to my own soft-heartedness. A dark-haired Scottish lady in her thirties arrived with a kitten that had been limping for two days. She looked worn out and ill herself, and when I told her that the kitten had a broken leg, she could barely hold back her tears. She and her husband had emigrated from Scotland, but he had since lost his job. They had lost another cat, hit by a car on their road. There was no question of having it repaired, as they just couldn’t afford it. After talking to her husband on the phone, she told me the kitten would have to be put to sleep. As she talked she became more and more distraught, until finally she broke down and told me that she was being treated for cancer herself. Everything seemed to have gone wrong for them, and the loss of another pet was the final straw.

  I was becoming quite upset listening to her and wished I could help her somehow. Impulsively, I told her to come back in the afternoon, and that I would give her my own kitten. LaHave had been suffering from a lack of attention since I started work and I had been feeling guilty knowing she was alone so much. Although I realized after they happily left with her that I might regret my hasty decision, I never did. They kept in touch for a long time, and both my cat and its new owners were very happy with the arrangement. I was, after all, her doctor, and several children doted on her. It was a “go with your gut” moment on my part and it was amazing how well it worked out!

  Dr. McKay’s interest in birds led to a steady stream of them to our door. I will never forget the day I learned the hard way how stressful it is for a budgie to be handled by a stranger. The consultation was to be a simple check-up and nail trim. Father and Mother had decided to bring along the whole family as an exercise in learning about the care of their bird. Three little children, all with red hair and blue eyes, peered at me trustingly over the stainless steel tabletop.

  I gently surrounded the small budgie with my hand and removed it from its cage. As part of a routine physical, we had been taught to listen to the bird’s heart and I was at this stage in my examination when the rapid beating stopped completely. It took me a split second to realize that the tiny creature had died of shock in my hand. I looked at the expectant, innocent upturned faces in alarm and then, feeling I had to act quickly, blurted out something about cardiac massage and ran in to the operating room. With one hand I turned on the oxygen and with the other I massaged the budgie’s chest between thumb and forefinger. I probably knew before I started that it would do no good but I couldn’t bring myself to callously hand back the bird without trying to resuscitate it. I returned to the room and shook my head from side to side slowly. Tears welled up in the three sets of eyes gazing up at me. At a loss for words, I left the parents to explain the death of the bird to their children. Certainly it was not the learning experience they had come prepared for.

  Anne had graduated from college the same spring I did and moved back to Ottawa later in the year. That first fall, we had decided to take up residence together on a dilapidated old horse farm out along the Ottawa River. It had not been occupied for some time, and the interior was a mess of peeling wallpaper and paint. What decorating had once been done was unbelievably gaudy, with every room a wilder hue. The mice had installed themselves in every drawer in the kitchen. The cheap carpets bore the evidence of too many doggie misdemeanours and would have to be pulled up. The owner of the farm had put his plans to renovate on hold and agreed to rent it to us for a nominal amount just to have it lived in. Anne and I were thrilled and believed with optimism we could see tremendous potential in the place. It was our first opportunity to have our own stable and look after our horses ourselves. We thought we could get along.

  The farm had been beautiful in its day and had been the scene of many horse shows. Along both sides of the long lane were overgrown cross-country fences in need of repair. There were two small barns of traditional Ottawa Valley dovetailed log construction. They were full of someone else’s old farm machinery and mouldy hay, but the stalls were still sturdy. All the fences needed work, as the wire was rusted and many of the poles were rotten and falling over. Looking at it, though, we could already picture horses grazing in the fields.

  We tackled the work with enthusiasm. The inside had to be made livable before we could start any of the more interesting outside work. We steamed, scrubbed, and chipped away for two weeks before redecoration could begin. The woodwork all had to be scraped and repainted, but the fact that it was our first farm made it all fun and exciting. We were racing winter and had to get on to the outside work quickly so that the barns would be ready before it became unbearably cold.

  The great rush to have our horses installed caused more than a few problems. If there are weaknesses in your systems, horses will always find them. I have never since tried to put animals in facilities that were not quite ready for them. The patched-up fences were soon pushed over and the lightweight water troughs lay overturned.

  We had been given a poor motley old pony named Bambi that needed a home and would be a good companion for my half-Clydesdale hunter, Lexbrook. We kept them in the paddock that surrounded the barns. In another paddock, with better fencing, we kept two horses belonging to boarders. Unfortunately, these latter beasts had to be transferred through the first paddock morning and night. In a David and Goliath scenario, Bambi created havoc protecting his friend if they were out when this occurred. Trying to get them in first was not always successful, as the pony would never come to us, and we spent hours chasing him around. On other occasions, he would kneel down, get onto his side, and shimmy under the rails, leaving Lexbrook frantic and alone in the enclosure.

  One evening, I went out to feed the horses just before dark and found the paddock empty. Bambi and Lexbrook had departed for greener pastures. Since the fence and gate stood untouched, I could only assume that the pony had crawled under and the hunter had jumped out to follow him. We alerted the neighbouring farms and drove around the country roads until well after dark, but they couldn’t be spotted. The police were notified. At dawn the next morning, I went out on one of the boarder’s horses armed with an extra halter and lead rope. I headed to the woods at the back of the property and was lucky enough to find hoofprints quite quic
kly. My dog was with me and seemed to be on the trail. It was nearly two hours later, though, that I found them seven miles away, grazing happily on a small golf course. I fully expected Bambi to be impossible to catch, but the night out had apparently satisfied his urge to wander. They both followed me back resignedly without needing to be led.

  After a few weeks of running the farm, Anne and I had sorted out many of the problems. The horses now seemed happy to stay at home, we had become more organized, and things were running smoothly. A Hereford heifer had joined the family and got on admirably with the pony, which made it less of an ordeal to separate him from my horse.

  We also discovered Bambi was excellent with small children, so he was finally earning part of his keep carting around little ones belonging to our frequent visitors from the city.

  That winter, I enjoyed one of the most beautiful rides I have ever had. It was a weekend, and an all-day storm had kept us inside by the fire. Almost a foot of fluffy, dry powder had fallen by the time the snow started to taper off. After supper, Anne and I decided we needed to get some fresh air. Slipping our bridles over our arms, we ploughed through the drifts out to the barn. There was enough light to ride safely, and a few flakes of snow were still falling. It was an enchanted evening, peaceful, with no one out on roads that were not yet ploughed.

  We rode out the lane to the country road bareback, the clouds created by the horses’ breath clearly visible. Their spirits were high and they were obviously enjoying being out under these strange circumstances. We rounded one corner to approach a long upward grade with a row of perfect maple trees silhouetted along the length of one side. The road was deep with snow, and not one vehicle had marred the perfect surface. Anne and I urged our horses into a canter, and we rode side by side up the mile-long hill. The snow sprayed up behind us. The horses seemed to feel the magic of the night and stayed together calmly despite their freshness. We were all moving in time to the rhythm of their hooves on the road. Of the many hours I have spent on horseback that is still one of the most memorable.

  At Christmas I was on call for the practice, a duty that usually falls to the junior veterinarian on staff. I got an emergency page from a local Doberman breeder of note. She was almost too breathless to speak, but managed to tell me that one of her champion males was convulsing. Would I meet her at the clinic as quickly as I could drive there? She was by herself and had to lift the unconscious ninety-pound dog into the car alone. We carried him into the hospital on a board, his eyes rolling and legs paddling. With extreme embarrassment, she told me that she had done this to the dog herself. Two of her breeding males had managed to get out at the same time and she had heard them fighting from the house. Running out the door, she had grabbed a length of two by four lumber from along the kennel wall. She knew better than to try to pull them apart with her hands. The fight was a fierce one and her shouts and attempts to push with the piece of wood were not deterring them. When she realized that one of the dogs was injured and bleeding she had frantically swung the two by four at the more aggressive dog and watched in shock as he fell to the ground. He had been imported at great expense from England and now lay in our hospital with a severe concussion.

  Over the next forty-eight hours, he continued to lie comatose, exhibiting no signs of voluntary movement or awareness of his surroundings. Sedatives had to be given to him to control the paddling movements, along with high doses of cortisone to try to control the inflammation in his brain. In all probability, he was experiencing an intracranial bleed. The petite woman was still shocked that she had been able to do this to such a large, strong animal. Unfortunately, as well as being mortified by guilt, she also had to suffer her husband’s wrath. In the end, the dog died without regaining consciousness. It left all of us with a sober respect for the strength that can be summoned out of panic. And, although it represented a serious loss to their breeding program, they decided never again to have two males who might compete for top dog.

  I was to leave my first job the following spring — a year after starting there. They were phasing out the infrequent horse work we did do, to become an exclusively small-animal practice. I was interested in doing a lot more work with horses, so I decided it was time to move farther out into the country. By the time I left, the disappointments were not as devastating, the successes not as uncommon or exhilarating. I was just beginning to put into perspective the events that take place in everyday veterinary practice. I was also left with a reinforced desire to have a thorough and a good foundation for small-animal medicine.

  I imagine Dr. McKay is breaking in new graduates with the same liberal doses of constructive criticism to this day.

  FOUR

  Udder in the Gutter

  I HOPED TO STAY IN the Ottawa Valley and anticipated some difficulty finding a job that involved more work with horses yet allowed me to remain in the area. It was to be a matter of good fortune and timing that led me to the next stage of my career. I had only six weeks left before my position with Dr. McKay ended and I still hadn’t been able to line up a new job. Then I heard through the veterinary grapevine that a six-month position was available in a small Lanark town, an hour’s drive from Ottawa. Though I had hoped for something more permanent than that, it was the first opportunity I’d had to apply for a job that came close to being what I wanted. As a true “mixed” practice, the combination of horses and cows, dogs and cats, pigs and sheep, might be fun to try for a while. It would doubtless be quite different from the year I’d just spent. I realized immediately how different when I walked in the door for my interview.

  Spring is a frantically busy season in country practice, and manure-stained coveralls lay everywhere, dropped in piles between calls done on the run. A sick calf was tied in the corner waiting to be given iv fluids and pasty, yellow diarrhea spread over the newspapers under him. A dog lay on the floor with a snout full of quills. The phones were ringing off the hook, and no one, it appeared, was going to pay the slightest notice to me.

  Jim Lewis was the veterinarian who was going to be staying behind while his partner took six months off to travel. As I would be working with him, he was the one who must approve of me. After he had been pointed out to me, I tried to introduce myself. On his third hasty pass by me, I planted myself in front of him and confidently said, “I’m here to see about the six-month job position.”

  “You’re happy to do most of the small animal and horse work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, you’re hired.” And with that he was off again. I stood there stunned. I had the job. That was the extent of my interview.

  The swinging door behind me opened again, and another man appeared. Unlike his partner, this man made a beeline toward me with his hand extended. “I’m Larry Farrell. I’m the one who’s going away.” He accompanied this statement with a very firm handshake and a penetrating look from dark brown eyes. A mutual acquaintance had warned me about Dr. Farrell’s reputation as a ladies’ man, and I felt slightly guilty having the unfair advantage of this advance knowledge. I returned his flirtatious, challenging look confidently and said, “I’ve just been hired to replace you while you’re away.”

  “Great. Why don’t you join all of us for a bite and a brew at the hotel after we close? I’m leaving in three weeks, and we should all get to know you before you start.”

  I immediately felt at home with all the staff, and we had a casual, fun-filled evening. Larry had everyone up on the dance floor, and there was lots of laughter and ribbing going around. This was going to work out well! I looked forward to starting my new job. It had been arranged that I would rent Dr. Farrell’s small house for the period of his absence, which was a great relief, as the hour’s drive from home would have been a problem when I was on call. I’d only need to move my clothes over from the farm. But the best news was the mention of the possibility that the job might become permanent. They’d been thinking of hiring a third vet for some ti
me and “well,” we’d see how things worked out …

  Even at that first meeting, it was easy to see how Larry Farrell had gained his reputation. He was tall and fit-looking, with a kind of rugged charm. The impression was that of a diamond in the rough — his casual, outdoorsy appearance at first belying his ability to draw you into engaging conversation. He was attentive and interesting. I wasn’t surprised to receive a phone call from him at the farm two nights after we had met.

  There was to be an oyster-eating contest at a seafood restaurant the next evening. Larry belonged to a club that met every two weeks to enjoy all-you-can-eat raw oysters. A contest, though, was different. I could tell he was looking forward to the competitive aspect. He couldn’t have found a better date, as perhaps not every woman would have welcomed the chance to down unlimited quantities of the raw shellfish as I did. We met several of his friends there, and again I immediately felt at home. We were all supplied with aprons, platters, and oyster knives and set free. When the evening ended, he had finished off eight dozen to my five, but neither of us had come close to the winner’s total of fourteen dozen oysters.

  I found myself feeling disappointed that Larry was leaving in less than three weeks. After he dropped me off at the farm, I felt really excited about seeing him again. I had forgotten all about the warning I had been given.

  Over the next two weeks, we managed to go out together half a dozen times. Each date was different, but they were all full of laughter. I felt I had known him for years, not days. One night we ended up doing the polka to a rollicking Ompah band until we were exhausted. But all these evenings involved what I considered to be refreshingly direct and thought-provoking conversations about life and love. Larry, I discovered, was opinionated and a bit of a devil’s advocate. And he professed to “just liking to get to know women well.” Our conversations were often quite animated. I hoped he was enjoying our time together as much as I was. I was saved in the nick of time from really falling for him — ironically enough, by his mother.