William's Gift

by Helen Douglas

  The first real emergency I had was a severe laceration in a standard-bred mare. James and Lorraine Weeks had five or six older racehorses running together in their farmyard and had always had some equipment there as well. This time, the running herd had driven one of the horses into a space too narrow to get through and it had impaled itself on the dangerous, dirty blade of a manure spreader. The panicky phone call indicated to me that I should waste no time getting there.

  I had never seen a laceration like it. The large slanted blade had gone into the mare’s chest on the left side and angling to the outside. Even more, it had come dangerously close to removing her left front leg. I fanned my hand cautiously into the gaping wound. There was a lot of contamination, and yes, I could easily feel the throbbing pulse of the brachial artery in the deepest part. The blade had almost severed the main artery to her front leg! Shaking my head, I picked bits of debris and manure out of the wound.

  “This is bad, Mr. Weeks. It’s very deep and contaminated most of the way in,” I said. “It will be a long recovery; she’ll probably never race again.”

  “Well, she’ll make a good brood mare if we can save her,” he replied.

  I got on a bale of hay and sewed for well over an hour, starting deep in the wound and taking large bites through the muscle. I tried to close the space. Drains were laid in so that fluids could find a way out. I closed the upper half of the incision at the front, but left it open on the bottom.

  “The key will be keeping it clean so it can heal from the inside out,” I said.

  I left him with detailed instructions and departed, wishing them well. The mare had been incredibly lucky not to have bled-out. I could never have guessed that in less than two years the mare would win a race again.

  As a student, I had learned every nook and cranny of the south shore. Now, I had a totally new landscape to explore. The area around Grand Pré had a unique topography and history. Hundreds of acres of farmland had been created below sea level when the Acadians had built earthen dykes to keep out the tides. These dykes were wide enough to drive on and gave a spectacular view of the sea on one side while falling off gently to hayfields on the other. I boarded Kira at a small private barn very near these dykes and often headed off by myself, even in the winter cold, to trot along the top of the dyke walls. Large, brownish ice floes were transported in and out by the tide twice daily, and when the tide went out, there were ice mounds the size of cars littering the sand beaches. It was a sight one might see on another planet, stark and dramatic, quite unlike anything I had ever seen.

  The family who had sold me the schoolhouse became my first friends, and I felt lucky to have met them. As fate would have it, we were very like-minded, and in a short time Paul and Suzanne had adopted me, inviting me to supper several times weekly, providing me with a new, instant social life. Their eight-year-old son loved horses and showed an interest in riding, uncommon in young boys, so I began taking him with me on the dykes. As the spring weather came, the farm laneways softened, the wind off the sea lost its bite, and I rode often with him sitting in front of me on a small pad. We enjoyed the experience of seeing the landscape and exploring the beaches together, and I taught him to turn, stop, and move with the horse. Eventually, we would trot and canter together, and the big mare showed no sign that she minded her extra passenger.

  A particularly enjoyable tradition in the Wolfville area was the summer pastime of inner tubing down the Gaspereau River. The spectacular little river ran several miles from a dam to the sea complete with stretches of gentle rapids bordered by idyllic green fields. The usual drill was to drop a vehicle off at the bottom, drive all the people and tubes upstream in an open pickup, and launch at the dam. Sometimes there were scores of people, and vendors set up hot dog stands at the top on busy weekends. People even came to camp and tube the Gaspereau. It took over half an hour to go down and it was even more fun with several tubes rafted together. It was a highlight of the busy summer weekends.

  Anyone closely associated with a vet — especially one on call seven days a week — soon learns what it is like to live the life of a country practitioner. One Sunday, I was at Paul and Suzanne’s relaxing before a big turkey dinner was to be put on the table. A regular client with horses had an old Collie who was clearly on its last legs the last time I had visited the farm. They paged, desperately upset, late in the afternoon.

  “Laddie can’t get up. We know it’s the end. Could you please come out and put him to sleep?” the upset man asked.

  “I’ll come now and bring help,” I said.

  I knew that when the time to euthanize a beloved family pet had come, Sunday dinner would have to wait. Paul came with me for the half-hour drive and learned to hold up a vein then and there as I administered the fatal injection.

  “Could you take him with you?” the owner asked.

  “We’ll pay whatever it takes to have his ashes back,” they added.

  We loaded the big dog’s body in the back of the station wagon and drove off. I knew of a clinic with a crematorium and would deliver him there myself first thing in the morning. And then, both of us feeling sadness at their loss and an eerie awareness that we had just ended a life, had to go back and carry on with Sunday dinner. Paul and I were thinking of the call and the dog outside as we tried to maintain our normal routine. It was a first for him, but one of many he would experience through his friendship with me.

  There were a few humps in the road that first year. People were a little suspicious of me, being from away. And, of course, I had to prove myself again. The first time I pulled out my little alcohol wipes at Bruce’s, he laughed.

  “Do you charge more for using those fancy things?” he said.

  That sort of sentiment was expressed over and over, simply because I did things differently. It was a large leap from Dr. B’s clinic in Toronto to a backyard in Nova Scotia where many owners had never realized horses needed regular de-worming or dental care. Of course there were many educated clients as well, but I got used to the refrains I heard.

  “Old Doc Smith didn’t do it that way.”

  “Are you charging more for the surgical gloves?”

  “Can we cut any corners, Doc? I don’t want that expensive medication.”

  In Toronto, I had had the advantage of people’s assuming we provided top-notch service. Here, I wasn’t always sure people wanted it. Gradually, as I figured out who wanted what level of service or medical intervention and gained the trust of the horse community, I found most people welcomed my recommendations. It was very much a proving ground all over again. Introducing new ideas and ways often proved tough.

  The first Christmas approached. I had gotten into the rhythm of running my own practice, and business was brisk. It was all very encouraging. I had my first case of serious large-bowel impaction in quite a valuable young warmblood mare. The way the case turned out seemed to cement my reputation as a legitimate horse vet.

  Impactions usually occur in winter when a horse doesn’t drink or move around much. Such impactions of the large bowel in a horse can cause prolonged abdominal pain or “colic.” The pain must be controlled so that the animal does not roll incessantly, causing a worse problem, such as torsion of the bowel. With the pain controlled, one can work to relieve the impaction.

  The mare had not passed manure in days, and rectal examination revealed a hard fecal mass almost the size of a foal. I discussed the options with the owner. Her mare could be referred to the vet school in PEI, necessitating a long trailer ride in the winter and a journey by ferry.

  “We could try to treat her here,” I said cautiously. “It can be done with large volumes of intravenous fluids, but you’ll have to stay with her and monitor things round the clock.”

  “I’ll do it,” said the owner. “Let’s get started.”

  We moved the horse to a larger barn, as we needed the warmth and th
e indoor arena. I would set up an intravenous catheter and treatment chart. Large volumes of fluids would have to be administered to moisten the mass and get the bowel moving again. I visited all the neighbouring clinics, rounding up all the bags of fluids they could spare. The mare would have to be tubed with water and oil twice daily and also walked frequently round the clock. The owner could be taught to change the bags of fluids as they emptied. Painkillers would be given via the intravenous catheter as needed. We were set, the plan in place. I would visit twice daily and the owner would call if the catheter came out or she couldn’t control the pain.

  Two days went by, and we were up to forty litres of fluids. I called the vet school and they encouraged me to keep going. It may take twice that volume, they advised me. I sped up the drip, and soon the mare developed gurgling sounds in her abdomen. At first we got only a few handfuls of manure at a time, but when I examined the horse, I could feel the mass was getting softer. Finally, on day three and with sixty litres of fluids on board, the mare started to pass it all. Within hours, we had wheelbarrows full and laughed that so much joy could be derived from the sight of horse manure.

  The owner knew many horse people, and our success was a real feather in my cap. But storm clouds lurked on the horizon.

  There was a riding instructor in the area who had tremendous influence on people and had long played the role of a vet advisor to all her students. Unfortunately, she did not welcome my arrival. Slowly, the criticism and gossip she had started made its way back to me. It started off with a few idle comments to let me know there was trouble. It culminated with a client who particularly liked me, inviting me out to lunch to talk.

  “I think you should know what’s happening,” she said. “Someone has to tell you what’s being said about you …”

  Allegations ranged from my having sold expensive and unnecessary drugs to downright negligence — not knowing what I was doing, not treating horses the right way. The final straw for this decent client had come when she had heard something she knew to be patently untrue.

  “If I believed anything she told me about you or your work, I wouldn’t have you in my barn,” she said.

  “I can’t believe what I’m up against!” I said, knowing what influence the instructor wielded.

  “Don’t let it get you down — there are plenty of people here who can see right through it. It’s all based on insecurity,” she said.

  “I’ll try not to react,” I said thoughtfully. “Perhaps if I don’t fight back …”

  It was not to be that easy. However, as in Toronto, despite the ups and downs and challenges of practice, many more positive things were happening for me. There were horses to vaccinate, teeth to float, castrations to do, and skin conditions to treat. I travelled the province, seeing horses, meeting people, and going the extra mile whenever I could. Life was good, and my roster of clients and cases grew. I started doing a lot of teaching. There were 4H and pony club lectures and night courses on reproduction and nutrition. I was vetting for three-day events and long-distance rides. Slowly, I was carving a niche in the horse world in Nova Scotia. I tried to ignore the rumblings.

  I had been there a year and a half when a good client came to me and said “I think my farm would be perfect for you. We’re selling this spring.”

  It was just the right timing for me, as I had been considering looking for a small horse farm where I could hospitalize and treat patients and perhaps do minor surgery. There had been many occasions when I wished I could keep a horse for tumour removal, treatment of a bad cut, or artificial insemination. It might also save me many miles of driving if people could bring their horses in. This little farm didn’t have a lot of land, but it had a good, solid horse barn big enough to have a work area as well as some regular stalls. The heritage house was likewise sturdy and workable, with character, yet needed no major renovations. It was close to my little schoolhouse, and the move would be easy.

  The sale was easy to arrange, and I would move in early spring. I was moving closer to my dream. Designing the little hospital would be fun, and now I could provide a whole new level of service. With the confidence I had gained from moving my log house, travelling the world alone, and starting my own business, this next step seemed a breeze. I moved forward swiftly.

  Right around that time, Elizabeth called me to tell me that Lovie’s neck had started draining yellow pus again. The mare’s neck had been healed for a long time, and my heart sank. This was the call that I had hoped would never come. Her owner said she had been uncomfortable for some time, but she had not wanted to bother me. Elizabeth told me how the neck had healed then burst again and was draining a foul discharge on the opposite side in two places. All the scar tissue on the left side had made it difficult for the infection to find a way out, so it had slowly developed a new tract.

  “It means there were wood fragments still in there, probably between the vertebrae where we couldn’t get at them,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “Is there anything else we can do?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  “I can’t put her through this any longer. We must put her to sleep.” The feisty little lady was decisive. “The sooner, the better.”

  This is the kind of case that can really touch a veterinarian — not only had everyone tried so hard and for so long, but the little mare was sweet and stoic. It was hard to say goodbye. We buried her on Elizabeth’s farm right under an apple tree in full bloom. At least she wasn’t suffering anymore.

  THIRTEEN

  Snakes on a Bus

  WITH A CLINIC AT THE FARM, I started to get all manner of visitors seeking veterinary advice. The yellow school bus with the blacked-out windows that pulled up one day was most curious. It was crudely decorated with hand-painted green and black snakes from hood to taillights. Large gothic letters advertised “Rare Jungle Creatures,” with a smaller note below inviting one to “Book Your Appointment Now,” with the phone number. As I walked across the yard, two heavyset, middle-aged men emerged, their tattooed biceps and emblazoned black vests clearly identifying them as bikers. The oldest wore a red headscarf and sported a graying Hulk Hogan moustache.

  “Can you come in here?” he said. “Some of our snakes are sick.”

  I followed them up the steps into the dimly lit interior, completely transformed into a reptile den. Walls of terrariums lined the bus on both sides of the aisle. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw the snakes, many of them larger around than my upper arm. Fantastic creatures, the largest boa was well over eight feet long. It curled itself sluggishly around Hulk’s neck.

  “He’s definitely under the weather,” he said. “We’ve had this problem before and Old Doc Ainslie gave them chloramphenicol. Do you have any?”

  “Well, what are the symptoms?” I asked. “Did Doc Ainslie take their temperatures?”

  “They slow right down, seem to have a cold or the snuffles,” he said seriously.

  “Right, then, let’s check the dose in the manuals. If it worked before, it may work again.” I suppressed a smile. What the heck did I know about snake medicine? But I was game.

  “What do you think they weigh? So I can check their dose, that is.”

  We negotiated a dose for the several sick animals, and the burly man showed me the correct sites for intramuscular injection. It was a strange sensation poking through the tough scales into the soft muscle below. The snakes did not react to the needles, and the Hulk held them lovingly as they hung limply, wrapped around him.

  “See, that proves they’re sick,” he claimed. I nodded, equally serious.

  “The next thing we have to do is warm them up over eighty degrees,” he said.

  “Be sure to let me know how they do,” I said.

  “Thanks a bunch! You can get into the show for free any time, Doc.”

  With sev
eral loud backfire retorts, they started up the bus and left, never to be seen again. I walked back into the barn laughing, amused by the slice of life I had just witnessed and hoping I had helped the snakes. I wish I had seen their show.

  The renovations at the farm were simple enough, but I was more excited about them than any such projects in the past. My dream was within reach. The area I had gutted for the work and treatment room was the size of six box stalls. It was lined with white plywood and had lots of cupboards, a sink, a laboratory, and a multi-panel x-ray viewer. As well, there were the large, custom-made metal horse stocks that the animals would be placed in for procedures requiring restraint. The final touch was a double-sized stall that could be used, with padding, to drop and recover a horse if needed. The entire front could be rolled back so people and equipment could get in and out easily. The horses could be hand recovered from the outside, for safety, with a system of ropes.

  The first patients were literally arriving as the newly minted stall doors were being hung on their hinges. Hadn’t I vowed years ago not to do this again? With the proper hardware yet to be installed, we had to tie them in with lead shanks. A mare for a reproductive check and a colt with a bad cut were followed by my horse and a couple of boarders who had arranged to come that day. We had an instant herd of five animals, with more on the way. There was still much to do — fencing, organizing treatment charts, improving equipment — but I was pretty well on track.