‘Well, you must be the new vet. I’m Mary, Arthur’s wife, very nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘Arthur tells me this is a tricky one, and something about rolling the cow?’
I set about explaining the situation to her and the object of the manoeuvre.
‘Well, what a job!’ she replied.
‘Is that OK? Will you and Arthur be able to roll her?’ I asked.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about us. We’ve been farming since long before you were born, and we’ve rolled a cow or two in that time. Haven’t we, Arthur? But never for this, mind.’
‘Indeed we have,’ Arthur agreed.
‘Great. Well, we need to roll her onto her left and then all the way over,’ I said, miming the action as I mentally checked I was right.
‘Right you are.’
Lying fully stretched out on the grass behind the cow, I gently reinserted my right arm. I felt the taut band and, following it in an anticlockwise direction as far as I could, I could just feel a hoof of the calf. It was tight, but I gently managed to insert my arm far enough to grab the leg. That was a good sign. If I was able to get my arm in that far, it meant the twist was probably only 180 degrees and we had a better chance of untwisting it.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’m ready for you to roll her.’ They gently rocked her onto her left flank. With the cow’s legs now exposed, I had to be careful not to be kicked. Arthur took some ropes and looped them around the front and back legs separately, then took hold of the front legs and head, while Mary took the back legs, and together they pulled on them, gradually rolling her onto her back and then onto her right side. Bending both hind and front legs up, they were then able to rock her back up into a sitting position.
The effect was miraculous: the taut band was gone, and I could now insert my arm much further and more easily I could feel the calf’s legs and the head, so it was presenting normally, and its mother was obviously feeling more comfortable. I felt a contraction, then another. On the third one, her waters broke. With my arm still inside her up to my shoulder, my head just inches away and my whole body stretched out behind me, I was on the receiving end of the entirety of her amniotic and allantoic fluid. About 12 litres of warm, slimy, pungent foetal fluid drenched my head, flooded down my back into my pants, and down my legs, filling the bottom couple of inches of my wellingtons. It was as though someone had just thrown a bathtub full of the stuff all over me. I could not have been any wetter. I realized why, on that wild and windy night in Ireland, Ian had taken his top off. Why hadn’t I thought that through? The result was, quite simply, disgusting.
‘Oh my! Well, I never!’ commented Mary. ‘I think you might be a little wet young man. But should I deduce from this that rolling her has worked?’
I desperately attempted to maintain my composure and professionalism and sound in complete control.
‘Yes, yes indeed, Mrs Watts. It worked perfectly. We … we should be able to calve her without too much difficulty now.’
I hadn’t moved at all since being drenched. There was no need for me to stay in that position now the uterus had untwisted; besides, the next job was to get the calf out. But I knew any movement I made would just reinforce how disgustingly drenched I was. There was nothing for it though, so taking a deep breath, while at the same time trying not to inhale, I got up and squelched over to the back of the Land Rover to retrieved my calving ropes.
Placing one of these around each of the calf’s forelegs, we then connected them up to the jack and slowly ratcheted him out: a large, healthy bull calf. All was well. It was a great result; the torsion must have been a recent event for it to have caused so little trauma to either the uterus or calf. I was delighted with the outcome – though couldn’t help being somewhat distracted by the warm, slimy fluid that was rapidly cooling and congealing against my body and, as it did so, becoming more viscose, sticking my hairs to my clothing. The result was that every movement I now made involved a painful plucking of my body hair. I tried to maintain a cool air of professionalism, but my movements must have resembled that of a possessed robot. Fortunately, Arthur and Mary were too delighted with the calf to notice me.
‘That ’ere Jackie was right – you are all right! Well done, Mr Vet, that there I think was a most impressive job.’ Arthur slapped me on the back. I tried to appear grateful – I was genuinely thrilled – but his slap had sent a jet of cold fluid down into my pants, reawakening that cold and slimy sensation that my body was desperately trying to forget.
Happy that the mother was attending her calf and all seemed well, Mary now turned her attention to me.
‘I think it’s time we got you a shower. Have you got a change of clothes?’
Still new to this way of life, I felt slightly uncomfortable taking a shower in a stranger’s house. Besides, I didn’t have anything else to change into so the thought of putting my cold, wet, slimy and pungent clothes back on after a warm shower did not appeal.
‘That’s very kind, Mrs Watts, but unfortunately I don’t have a change of clothes so I’ll probably just head home to clean up.’
‘You mean you won’t even stay for some tea and cake?’ she said, crestfallen. ‘I baked one specially … I’m sure we could find some old flannel trousers of Arthur’s for you to change into.’
I stole a subtle glance at Arthur. He was 6 foot tall, with at least a 36-inch waist. A pair of his trousers would drown me, I thought, but then it would be the height of rudeness to decline tea and cake.
‘You are so extremely kind,’ I stammered, ‘but I think it best to get off home to shower and change, and I wouldn’t want to come into you house like this, so maybe I could just have a cup of tea and cake outside …’
‘Oh don’t you worry about our house, dear, it’s seen far worse than the likes of you in that state, believe you me.’
And so, fifteen minutes later, against every instinct for normal manners, decorum and etiquette, I found myself precariously perched on a kitchen chair, a drenched, sticky, smelly mess, opposite a very relaxed Arthur, while Mary busied herself cutting into a delightful-looking sponge cake and then seeing to the kettle boiling away on the Rayburn behind me. The tea was quenching and the cake delicious so I made the best of my unpleasant state by having seconds of both. My external predicament was not improved, however, despite the satisfying tea break. Having exchanged thanks with them, I carefully lowered myself behind the steering wheel, started the engine and drove out of the farm.
Retracing my journey I passed the church, headed down the hill to cross the bridge over the river, but then pulled into the car park of the Rising Sun to call the practice to inform them of the successful calving and that I wouldn’t be needing any assistance.
It was Hazel who answered. ‘Hi, Jonathan. How are you getting on?’
‘Yeah, all done, I managed to calve her – a lovely healthy bull calf.’ Before I could add anything else, Hazel cut back in.
‘Well done, well done indeed. Now before you head back in, there’s a goat visit for you. It’s in Harracott, so not far from where you are now. A Mrs Parker, at Oak Tree Cottage, she has a billy-goat that’s gone lame, so if you could pop in there on your way back, that would be great.’
What I should have said was: ‘I’m covered in 12 litres of unbelievable disgustingness, a lame goat isn’t an emergency, so I’ll go tomorrow because I’m not in any sort of state to see someone on a professional basis.’
Instead, doubtless because of my new graduate eagerness to please, the words I heard coming out of my mouth were: ‘Sure! Do you have an address? I’m afraid I have no idea where that is in relation to where I am, but I can certainly head there now.’
‘Great,’ she replied. ‘Harracott is about ten minutes away from Umberleigh …’
I jotted down the grid reference.
‘Tell her I’m on my way.’
‘Will do. Thanks, Jonathan.’
You idiot, I thought to myself. What on earth were you thinking? You can’t go to see a client like th
is! I adjusted the rear-view mirror so I could survey the damage. I had globules of afterbirth stuck in my hair; my face had a tainted sheen to it from the dried foetal fluid; and I was still soaking wet. I thought through my options. They were limited: to go as I was, or to ring Hazel back and cancel. Neither seemed particularly appealing.
Then, in a flash of inspiration, I remembered the wetsuit I’d bought that morning, and which was still lying in its packaging in the back of the car. I remembered how snugly it had fitted when I’d tried it on, and imagined how warm it would keep me. I could put that on, with clean waterproof trousers and top over it so it would be invisible, and what’s more, I’d be dry, which would feel a hundred times better. It seemed like a perfect plan.
If anyone passing the Rising Sun on that late Thursday afternoon in September had glanced into the car park, they may have seen a green Ford Focus estate in the far corner, parked at an odd angle in an attempt to hide the dishevelled semi-naked figure behind it. After extracting myself from my sodden, odorous clothes, I made a moderate success of patting myself dry and cleaning my face with the roll of blue paper towel I always carried in the boot.
The first flaw in my plan came when I attempted to squeeze into the wetsuit. Forcing my bare left leg through the appropriate aperture, the unforgiving neoprene exfoliated most of my leg hairs, causing me to howl in pain. The dried amniotic fluid had stuck the hairs together in clumps, so any friction caused them to be ripped from their follicles. Knowing now what torture lay ahead for my right leg, I gritted my teeth and thrust it down as quickly and bravely as I could. The pain was so acute and intense I nearly collapsed.
With my legs in, I pulled the suit up to my waist, before realizing I now had to go through the whole ordeal again with both my arms. It was starting to dawn on me that maybe this wasn’t the most robust and foolproof plan in the world. Nevertheless I continued with a stubborn defiance drawn from the conviction that this was now my only option: Hazel would by now have called Mrs Parker, and she would be expecting me.
Wetsuit now on, I blanched at zipping it up, so instead hauled a clean pair of waterproofs over the top and slipped my bare feet into my saturated wellies. I looked at my reflection in the passenger window. The collar of my waterproof top did a good job of hiding the wetsuit at the neck, but the long sheaths of its rubberized arms could not be disguised, poking out weirdly from the short sleeves of the waterproof. It would have to do. Was it such a ludicrous idea, after all, that a professional vet would attire themselves in a wetsuit? And in any case, British politeness would surely save the day.
Ten minutes later, I was speeding towards Harracott to attend to Mrs Parker’s lame billy-goat. And it was now that I discovered the insulating benefits of the 5/3mm wetsuit that Martin had recommended. Within minutes I was sweating profusely and, despite turning the air-conditioning on full blast, I felt there was a distinct possibility that I could evaporate before making it to my destination. The chinks in this plan were rapidly turning into gapping chasms; perhaps I needed to re-evaluate my method of decision-making as a matter of priority.
Oak Tree Cottage was a quaint, whitewashed, nineteenth-century cottage, with black timber-framed windows and a slated tiled roof, and I easily found it. Parking outside, I wiped the sweat from my brow as I reviewed my appearance in the rear-view mirror. My face was flushed, my hair was a mess, and the combined aroma of sweat and foetal waters was overwhelmingly unpleasant. Poor Mrs Parker, I thought. I threw together a box of basic equipment that I might require: hoof knives, thermometer, gloves, stethoscope, needles, syringes and a choice selection of drugs. Here goes, I thought, as I shut the boot, headed for the front door and rang the doorbell.
Moments later the door was opened by a middle-aged lady in socks, jeans and a jumper, with a toddler crooked in her left arm.
‘Hi! I’m Jonathan the vet. I’ve come to see a lame goat I believe?’ She studied me for a moment. The initial and familiar facial expression of a client grateful at a vet’s arrival to sort out their ailing animal quickly turned to confusion as she tried to process the figure before her: a supposedly respectable professional with a very peculiar dress sense.
‘Are you … wearing a wetsuit underneath your waterproofs?’ she enquired after a moment. I couldn’t believe it. My attempt to disguise it hadn’t even survived ten seconds. Maybe in Camden it could have passed as a type of self-expression, but in Devon it was just pure weird.
‘It’s a long story,’ I began.
‘Interrupting your afternoon surfing?’ she guessed.
‘Not exactly.’ I could see I wasn’t going to get away with this lightly. ‘I got a bit wet from my last visit and this was all I had to wear …’
She laughed. ‘Well, I suppose I have to admire your dedication to the cause, but it wasn’t an urgent call. It could have waited till tomorrow.’
I was an idiot. Why hadn’t I asked Hazel to postpone the visit till tomorrow?
‘Well we can’t let pride get in the way of doing our job,’ I said, rather primly, as much to convince her of my professionalism as to justify the humiliation I felt.
‘Very admirable,’ she said, moving away from the door and beckoning me in. ‘I suppose you’d best come this way.’
‘Er … my boots are very wet. Could I go around the side of the house?’
‘Sure. Just head round there,’ she said, pointing. ‘I’ll just put on my boots and meet you around the back.’
As I sashayed round the side of the house, the constricting wetsuit lending my movements an oddly stilted gait, I was grateful for the few seconds to myself. There was a large garden behind the house, littered with children’s toys and paraphernalia, and beyond that was a small paddock containing three goats. Mrs Parker joined me, toddler still on her arm; in addition a little boy of around five was now accompanying her, wearing bright blue wellies and an oversized coat. He eyed me suspiciously.
‘Mummy, who’s that?’ he asked, pointing at me.
‘That’s the vet, Jamie. He’s come to look at Bertie. Remember I said Bertie had a sore leg? The vet has come to make him better.’ The answer seemed to satisfy him, but he continued to assess me warily.
‘They’re over this way, in the paddock,’ Mrs Parker said leading the way. ‘We have three. Two girls and a boy.’
The little boy followed close behind, and then, tugging on his mother’s jacket, piped up again.
‘Mummy, Mummy! Why is he wearing a wetsuit?’
Mrs Parker burst out laughing. Then, in a brave attempt to salvage my dignity from her five-year-old son, said, ‘Sometimes vets do jobs where they get wet or mucky so it’s useful to have something to stop their clothes getting wet.’ It was an admirable effort and I was grateful, but Jamie wasn’t so easily bought.
‘But a wetsuit is for going in the water and we are on land. It seems silly to me.’
‘You’re right, darling,’ Mrs Parker conceded, and with this confirmation that his logic had been faultless, Jamie proceeded to start repeatedly chanting, ‘Silly wetsuit man, silly wetsuit man, silly, silly wetsuit man!’ all the while oblivious to his mother’s whispered commands of ‘Jamie that’s enough.’
‘Bertie is that one over there,’ she said, pointing at the obvious male of the group as we reached the gate. ‘I put him on his chain earlier so he’d be easier to catch, but I’m afraid I can’t really hold him for you with this one on my arm –’ gesturing at the baby she was holding. ‘Can you manage on your own? They’re pretty tame, but you could always wait for my husband to get back if not.’
It wasn’t ideal, but I was keen to get the visit over and done with as quickly as possible, and with Jamie insisting on being such an angelic child, I preferred not to have the humiliation of meeting Mr Parker as well.
‘No problem,’ I said, and opened the gate to head into the paddock. Mrs Parker and Jamie stayed in the garden, Mrs Parker leaning against the fence, Jamie peering through it.
‘Don’t worry, Bertie,’ he shouted. ‘S
illy wetsuit man is going to make you better.’
Wetsuits and vets would probably now be synonymous for Jamie, seared into his consciousness forever.
The paddock was about an acre. An open-fronted shed was situated in the corner to the left of the gate, straw-bedding spilling out onto the grass. To the right of that, a large metal peg, connected to a 5-metre chain, was imbedded in the ground. At the end of the chain was a large white billy-goat, who after grazing contentedly moments before, now eyed me balefully as I approached. I could immediately see from his tentative movements that the problem was located in his left hind leg. Bertie’s initial suspicion did not develop into attempted flight. Instead he clearly assumed that my vet’s box bore some delicious delicacy, and he limped over to greet me. His interest in the box, which swiftly became an obsession, meant it would be impossible to put it down without him attempting to devour its contents. But it gave me an idea.
‘Do you have any feed you give them that I could use as a distraction?’ I asked Mrs Parker
‘I’ve got some hay, but otherwise they just graze the grass.’
‘Hay will do. Could you put some in a bucket?’
‘Sure.’ She disappeared off to the garden shed, returning moments later with a bucket of hay, full to overflowing.
‘Perfect, thanks,’ I said, taking it off her. Bertie was still intrigued by my box, and followed it as far as his chain would allow. I carefully left it by the fence, extracting a hoof knife, and returned to Bertie with the bucket of hay. He immediately descended on it, tucking into the hay with gusto. The distraction allowed me the chance to examine his foot. I bent down to pick it up – and immediately felt the embarrassing restriction of my ridiculous attire. I had voluntarily decided to wear this? I thought. What was I thinking? Examining Bertie’s foot, it was quite clear what the problem was (and I was grateful for the distraction). There was an ulcerated sore in between its two claws. I examined the rest of the leg, but there were no other problems, so some painkillers and a burst of Terramycin spray should do the trick. I put the foot down and wandered back to my box, Bertie remaining engrossed in his bucket of hay.
The Travelling Vet Page 8
