Turning off my engine, I stepped out of my car to put on my wellington boots and waterproofs. Walking round to the boot, something caught my eye back down beyond the row of leylandii: a commotion of feathers flapping and jerking all over the place. To my horror, I instantly knew what it was, as my mind flashed back to an incident from my childhood, when I had raised and cared for my own flock of thirty chickens. Occasionally, with an ill chicken or an unwanted cockerel that was fit to eat, I had humanely dispatched them as my father had taught me to do from a young age. On one occasion, though, after I had killed a cockerel, and immediately placed it in the utility-room sink to pluck and gut it for the freezer, the decapitated bird had suddenly jumped out of the sink, over my head, and proceeded to shower the utility room’s cupboards, walls and freshly laundered clothes in blood. The neural networks in the bird’s spinal cord stimulated exaggerated muscle movements that were no longer being regulated by messages from the brain. My mother had been out at the time, so I had desperately attempted to clean up the devastation before her return.
So now, with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I knew the flapping and convulsing was not the dance of some sexually charged male in pursuit of an unsuspecting member of his harem, but rather the death throes of their large, ornate, handsome cockerel. I walked as swiftly and casually as I could back to where the deceased cockerel was calming down, praying that by some miracle it was stunned rather than dead, and desperately hoping not to attract the attention of anyone in the farmhouse. However, with its large windows facing down the drive, I was certain I could sense Mr and Mrs Howard observing me intently from the warmth of their kitchen.
Reaching the cockerel, my worst fears were realized. The motionless bird was unmistakably dead, and with tyre marks clearly discernible across his newly elongated neck, it would not require a forensic pathologist to identify the cause of his demise. I stood there frozen to the spot, numb with disbelief, replaying the last few minutes, cursing myself for not getting out of the car to chivvy the flock along to avert this very scenario. Looking down at the cockerel, I saw he was a young, stunning-looking Light Sussex–Maran cross. Or at least he had been. I cursed him for selecting me and my vehicle as his chosen method of extinction. It was a completely unintentional accident, but I felt wretched, and this was the worst possible start to a five-hour-plus farm visit for a client I had never met before. Jackie’s words rang in my ears: ‘He’s a lovely chap if he likes you, but can be quite a character if he doesn’t. I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.’
Somehow I wasn’t so sure, now. Even if I was escorted off the farm there and then, the best I could hope for would be the relentless gibes I would receive on every farm visit for the next month, since the story would certainly be retold at the Wednesday night skittle league, in which many of our clients participated. It would doubtless spread across the county and farming community like wildfire … I looked around surreptitiously. No one had come out of the farmhouse to greet me or to see what was going on. Maybe they weren’t in the kitchen, maybe they weren’t even in the house – maybe this whole event had passed them by completely, and they didn’t even know I had arrived? On the other hand maybe they were even now peering out of one of the windows, watching and waiting to see how I would react.
I was on the horns of a dilemma. Should I pick up the deceased cockerel or leave it where it was? Maybe I could throw it in among the trees, out of sight, where a fox would inevitably remove it in the night. Or should I present it to Mr and Mrs Howard and fess up to my accidental killing of their undoubtedly highly prized cockerel? I knew what I should do, but every fibre of my being wanted to absolve myself of the crime and when the cockerel’s absence was finally noted in a day or two, the blame would squarely be put at the feet of Mr Fox. Furthermore, the prospect of ringing their front door bell and greeting Mr or Mrs Howard for the first time, introducing myself as the new vet and then highlighting my skills at ending rather than saving life by handing over one of their stock that I had so efficiently assassinated, did not exactly fill me with joy.
Still undecided, I found myself bending down and picking the cockerel up. At the same moment, my quandary was independently resolved when a voice suddenly called out from behind me.
‘Good morning, young man. You must be the vet that’s come to do our TB test.’
I jumped up, startled, and turned around in the direction of the declaration, the deceased cockerel limply hanging in my left hand. Like a naughty little boy caught red-handed with something nefarious, I tried hiding the cockerel behind my back.
‘Yes,’ I replied somewhat sheepishly, struggling to find the words to explain why I was holding his dead cockerel.
‘What you got there?’ was the question that naturally followed as he walked across the gravel drive towards me.
‘Um … I’m afraid, that I, er … appear to have had a bit of an accident … with, um, your cockerel. It seems I accidentally ran him over as I was coming down the driveway. I’m – so – incredibly – sorry,’ I mumbled, preparing myself for the berating I knew I was about to receive.
‘Oh? Ha, well that was very skilled of you! Which one is it, let’s have a look at him.’ Shocked and unsure of this response, I dutifully obeyed. Reaching Mr Howard, I handed over my accidental quarry. Mr Howard studied the bird for a moment.
‘Oh, this fella! Don’t you trouble yourself at all about that. We’ve got too many of them. The missus keeps pestering me to knock a few on the head – this one in particular she’ll be delighted to see the back of, the savage little brute. He was probably attacking your wheels, which is why you ran him over. No, I reckon you’ve done us a favour there – but don’t you go charging us, mind!’
Reeling from this unexpected reaction, I didn’t quite get Mr Howard’s joke.
‘Charge you for what?’ I enquired, confused.
‘You know, for the humane dispatch of my killer cockerel,’ he said, laughing.
‘Absolutely, of course not,’ I said quickly, mustering a smile, hugely relieved that this whole unfortunate incident was not, after all, going to destroy my morning or my reputation across the county.
‘So you must be Jonathan. I’m Giles Howard, pleasure to meet you,’ he said, changing the subject as he switched the carcass into his left hand so he could hold out his right for me to shake.
‘Nice to meet you, Mr Howard. Sorry again about the cockerel. It’s not exactly how I like to meet a client for the first time!’ I responded, trying to match his good humour.
‘Honestly, don’t worry about it, it was going to happen sooner or later and, as I say, he was a vicious little thing. The wife will be thrilled, and I see you ran over his head and neck, so the rest of the carcass is fine.’ He walked over to the side door of the house, which opened into a large washroom. ‘Mabel,’ he shouted. ‘The vet’s here, and he’s done us a good turn.’
Moments later Mrs Howard appeared. ‘Morning,’ she said, greeting me and then turning to Giles. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said Jonathan’s done us a favour. He’s run over Sid Vicious for you.’ He held up the trophy. ‘Reckon he’s done a pretty professional job, too. We could have it for dinner.’
‘Glad someone can do your dirty work for you!’ Mabel said with a laugh, then turned to me. ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it, but thank you all the same. I’ve been trying to get Giles to sort him out for ages. He seemed to know when I hadn’t got my wellies on, and then came out of nowhere, attacking my ankles. I’ve taken to go outside with a broom to shoo him away!’
Tying some bailer twine around its neck, Giles hung the cockerel among the coats and jackets on the rack by the door out of the reach of the three dogs that had rushed to greet their master ahead of Mabel.
‘Fancy a coffee before we start, Jonathan?’ he asked.
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ I replied, still trying to process the emotional rollercoaster of the previous ten minutes.
As I followed them int
o the kitchen, Mabel chipped in: ‘Giles, how about some bacon and eggs for this young man? He seems like he needs fattening up. I bet he barely has time to feed himself, being so busy.’
‘Sounds like a great idea, and I’ll join him. We need to get our strength up for the job ahead.’
And there it was, I had somehow found myself in favour with this delightful couple, and their kind generosity was abounding. I certainly hadn’t earned it, and I would definitely have preferred not to have started the visit by running over their cockerel, regardless of how vicious it was, but what I had perceived as a terrible first impression was in fact the perfect icebreaker. Tucking into my bacon and eggs and supping on my coffee, complete with fresh Jersey milk, I gushed with gratitude at their kindness, confident the TB test would proceed routinely and without complication.
It did and when I returned on Thursday morning, three days later, to read the test, I was invited to stay for lunch afterwards. With a twinkle in his eye, Mr Howard informed me we would be having roast chicken. It was delicious, but as I devoured it gratefully, I decided not to enquire whether it was Sid Vicious.
Chickens: fast facts
Gallus gallus domesticus: The domesticated chicken
Distribution: Chickens are a sub-species of the red jungle-fowl, originally found in South-East Asia, from Nepal down to Indonesia, but now globally dispersed.
Names: A male aged less than a year is called a ‘cockerel’, over a year ‘cock’ or ‘rooster’. A young female is a ‘pullet’, then a ‘hen’. The young are ‘chicks’. Adult chickens produced for meat are called ‘broilers’, those produced for eggs ‘layers’. A group of hens is called a ‘brood’.
Life span: About 5–10 years.
Habitat: Originally the jungle, but now wherever humans inhabit.
Diet: Chickens are omnivores in the wild, or free ranging, scratching about in the soil for seeds or insects, or eating lizards, snakes and mice. In the broiler industry, their food is the most scientifically researched of any nutrition in the world.
Incubation: 21 days: a hen will lay a clutch of about 12 eggs, which won’t start developing until she starts incubating them, all 12 thus hatching together.
Weight: 30–50 grams at birth, growing up to 0.5–4.5 kg as adults.
Growth: Males and females are considered fully grown at 1 year.
Body temperature: 40.6–41.7 °C.
Chickens for food: More than 50 billion chickens are reared annually for meat and eggs (that’s 6.5 chickens per person). Of these, 74 per cent of broilers and 68 per cent of layers are produced intensively. In the commercial UK broiler industry it now takes just 30 days for a bird to reach its slaughter weight of 1.5 kg (in 1925 it took 120 days), and free-range or organic broilers will be slaughtered at 100 days. Commercial laying hens will produce up to 300 eggs in their first year, but after this the rate drops to below commercial viability, when they are slaughtered and used in processed foods. In some other countries, sadly, when laying drops off, flocks are sent into a forced moult by a complete withdrawal of food and often water for up to 14 days, which reinvigorates egg-laying: a major welfare concern.
Conservation: With a present conservative estimate of 19 billion chickens worldwide, they are certainly not a threatened species in terms of extinction – but in terms of their welfare the situation remains urgent. As the single largest source of human protein globally, a commercialized poultry industry is inevitable; but we have a duty to uphold the highest welfare standards in this, as in all meat industries. So if you have the time and the inclination, why not give an ex-commercial hen a happy retirement by visiting www.bhwt.org.uk/rehome-some-hens?.
8
MANED WOLF
‘A gentleman is simply a patient wolf.’
Lana Turner
The practice’s dart gun had recently been decommissioned after a rather unfortunate incident one Saturday afternoon at a local wildlife park. A heavily pregnant female wolf had just started showing signs of whelping, but despite several hours of restless pacing, panting, discernible contractions and straining, no cubs had yet been produced. The keepers were understandably concerned and so had rung the practice for veterinary assistance, suspecting she needed a caesarean section. Rob was on call so had grabbed the dart gun, some darts and all the other equipment he might require for the procedure and headed over to the park. The wolf had taken to her den, a manmade cave with a vantage point above it, so Rob could get close enough to safely dart her from about 10 metres away. She was in a confined space, and all the wolves were fairly used to interacting with humans, so not easily spooked by the presence of strangers. The conditions seemed perfect for making it as straightforward a job as possible.
Unfortunately, the one element Rob hadn’t factored into the equation was the state of the dart gun, which had been converted from an old .22 calibre rifle several years before and was now rarely used. Most of the animals we dealt with at the two wildlife parks were trained either to stand for injections or else to walk into the built-in cages in their enclosures. Rob’s first two attempts misfired, resulting in the dart rather pathetically falling out of the end of the dart gun, and his third attempt flew over the wolf’s back, embedding in the den wall. His fourth attempt landed 2 feet short of her, but finally with the fifth dart, much to his relief, having waited a further twenty minutes for the now agitated female to settle again, he landed a perfect rump shot. The rest of the procedure went smoothly: she went to sleep nicely, and it was found that a caesarean was indeed required because the first cub was dead and stuck, but the remaining five were delivered fine and healthy. Mum recovered without complication, and the keepers had quickly forgotten the initial problems encountered with the dart gun.
Rob, however, had not, and when Monday morning came, a rather irritated email was circulated advising, justifiably, that the dart gun was not considered safe for use and was going to be sent away for a service and assessment, so would be out of action till further notice. The cost of repair turned out to be prohibitively expensive, however, so a discussion followed as to whether the practice needed to replace it, given how infrequently it was required. The alternatives were to ask the two wildlife parks that we worked for if they wanted to purchase a weapon of their own, or else for us to call in a specialist if and when the situation arose.
Unfortunately, no solution had yet been found when, a few weeks later, we received a panicked phone call from the other wildlife park. One of their male maned wolves was struggling to urinate and seemed to be in a lot of discomfort. The scenario sounded urgent: a suspected blocked bladder or urethra. If he were showing obvious signs of discomfort, then his bladder would already be full, so if the blockage was not resolved soon he could end up with either kidney failure or a burst bladder, neither of which has a good prognosis.
Dave called me from the other surgery and outlined the problem, asking if I was free to assist him.
‘Sure, I’ll get Jackie to rearrange my morning visits so I can go straight away,’ I replied. ‘But what on earth is a maned wolf?’
‘Imagine a fox on steroids. They’re the same colour, look similar, but standing on their back feet they’re 8 feet tall.’
‘Wow! Interesting … Yeah, I’m on my way – but what’s the deal with the dart gun?’
‘Good question. I haven’t really figured that out yet. We might be able to get him into his night-quarters and inject him somehow, or maybe drug his food. There’s someone in Somerset with a dart gun, but they’ll be three hours away, even if they can come out, or there’s Paignton Zoo, but the same problem. So in all honesty I’m not sure … I figured we just need to get there, assess the situation and then decide. Any ideas?’
‘Remote injection pole? Do we have one?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Maybe we could make one?’
‘Not sure how, but if you can figure something out, then great. I’ve got a case I’m in the middle of dealing with now so I probably won’t be able to leave
for an hour, but can you get everything together to operate on her, and head over there to assess the situation as soon as you can? I’ll join you when I’m finished here.’
I headed to Jackie’s office and reported the situation. She kindly obliged in rearranging the three non-emergency large animal visits that were booked in for the morning, thus freeing me up to head out to the wolf. As I started collecting the equipment we might need in the prep room, I was racking my brain for a solution to our predicament. Calling in someone from outside to dart the wolf presented all sorts of problems. Firstly, it would be a minimum of three hours from now, even if they were able to come immediately. I should probably ring them, though, to ask after their availability, and have them on standby if they could come. Secondly, though, that delay would really foul up our day, since all the scheduled visits and appointments would need to be further rearranged, or else someone would be required to cover for us. Neither was ideal, but if necessary, both could be done.
Surely there had to be an alternative solution, though? I remembered a discussion at vet school on the use of remote injection pole sticks as a safe way to inject an animal through a cage or at a distance to avoid being kicked. We didn’t have one, but surely I could improvise something? My mind ticked over. How to inject something at a distance? Simply speaking, all that would be needed was a needle connected to one end of a long pipe, with a syringe at the other end. Problem one: how to reinforce the pipe and needle so that I could control where I injected it? Problem two: I needed a pipe to which I could securely connect a needle and a syringe to either end. Problem three: how to control the amount of drug I injected at a distance?
The Travelling Vet Page 12
