Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  ‘There, there,’ she crooned, stopping to whisper in the horse’s ear. ‘The vet’s here to make you better.’

  ‘I jolly well hope so,’ said her husband, slamming the bolt back and ushering me in. ‘Even if it’s not Dr Sharpe.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside until you need me,’ whispered Lucy.

  Hilary’s free hand shot out and clutched my arm in a vice-like grip. ‘What is it? You look so worried. What’s wrong with Clementine?’

  I made a mental note to practise a reassuring smile in the mirror until I had it down pat. It seemed the Richardsons were in need of great dollops of reassurance. I had to exude confidence, and show my ability to deal with any problem foaling as if it was second nature to me, as if I’d dealt with hundreds of such cases even though this was my first.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, Mrs Richardson. Clementine looks fine.’ I smiled in what I hoped was a more confident manner.

  ‘How can you tell?’ said George gruffly. ‘You haven’t examined her yet.’

  ‘He’s just saying that to reassure us,’ said his wife, letting go of me to reach across and claw her husband’s arm.

  I felt my smile falter. Oh dear. Seems I was overdoing the reassurance bit. But I meant what I’d said; Clementine did look fine. Despite my lack of experience, it was easy to see that the horse was in no sort of distress. There was no fidgeting, no tail swishing or stamping of feet. She looked completely relaxed. Which was more than could be said of the Richardsons – their twitchy movements, sweaty faces and wild eyes made them look as if they were the ones about to foal down at any minute.

  Hilary turned to the mare and stroked her muzzle. ‘She’s got a pained look in her eyes. I can tell, you know. Look. Can’t you see?’ She yanked the horse’s head round to me. Startled, the mare rolled her eyes, showing the whites, and then gave a loud snort and pulled away.

  George stepped forward and ran a hand down Clementine’s flank. ‘Thought so. She feels warm. Shouldn’t be surprised if she’s running a temperature.’

  ‘It’s more likely to be the heat,’ I murmured. It was the middle of the summer, a warm, balmy night and there were two electric fires strapped to the rafters, three bars glowing in each. ‘It’s really too hot in here. You should turn those off.’ I pointed up at the fires.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ said Hilary, her white face cut sharply by the questioning line of her bright-red lips. ‘It’s just that we didn’t want the foal catching cold.’

  ‘He won’t, I assure you.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘If you’re quite sure,’ intervened George.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I guess you should know what you’re talking about.’ George rubbed his bony hands together in time to his seesawing shoulders. ‘No doubt you’ve attended plenty of foalings like this, eh?’

  I forced my reassuring smile and uttered ‘Of course’ just at the moment Clementine turned, looked at me and gave a loud snort. They say horses have finely tuned senses. Thank goodness they can’t talk. ‘Now I’m sure Clementine would like us to leave her in peace for a while. Allow her to get on with things quietly.’

  There was a joint intake of breath and simultaneous explosive gasps from both of the Richardsons. ‘What, leave her without help?’ queried George, jiggling his shoulders again.

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ said Hilary.

  Oh dear. We were off again. This time my look said it all.

  ‘Very well.’ Reluctantly, Hilary unclipped the halter rope and allowed herself to be propelled out of the loose-box with George close behind while I stayed with Clementine.

  I heard Hilary address Lucy. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘He’s very competent,’ she replied.

  Good on you, Luce, I thought.

  The Richardsons remained just outside the stable door, fidgeting on the spot. I racked my brains for a means to get them away so as to give the mare a better chance of settling down.

  ‘I think we might need some buckets of warm water,’ I heard Lucy say.

  ‘Do you?’ asked George, peering in at me.

  ‘Er … yes … it might be useful.’

  ‘You go then,’ said George looking at his wife. ‘I’ll stay in case I’m needed.’ Hilary’s face contorted with doubt but, after a few seconds’ hesitation, she finally backed away and disappeared into the darkness.

  I had another idea. ‘It would be a great help if I could have some strong bits of wood to use as handles on the foaling ropes.’

  Like his wife, doubt creased George’s face, his winged eyebrows quivering. It was then that Clementine chose to neigh and swing her head round at her abdomen.

  George pointed. ‘There … look … something’s wrong.’

  ‘Please Mr Richardson … the handles.’

  ‘What if something happens while I’m away?’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘But you never know …’

  ‘The handles, please.’

  Clementine emitted another soft, deep neigh. George alternately jerked each shoulder up and down, a finger and thumb constantly running back and forth across his lips. ‘Well … OK,’ he mumbled and, with a final shrug of his shoulders, he gradually edged back.

  With a sigh of relief, I let myself out of the loose-box and switched off one of the two blinding fluorescent lights. ‘That’s better,’ I murmured. ‘Now come on, girl. Hurry up and get on with it. You’re giving all of us the heebie-jeebies.’

  Clementine blinked. Her eyes, enormous indigo pools, stared briefly at me.

  ‘Do you think she’s due then?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘By the way she’s beginning to behave … yes … see?’

  Clementine had started to circle slowly round the box, shuffling methodically through the paper bedding while dark patches of sweat pricked through the hair over her flanks and under her shoulders. After five circuits, she slowly sank into the bedding with a rattling sigh. As if from nowhere, the Richardsons appeared. A bucket crashed in the yard as Hilary came rushing across crying, ‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ closely followed by George waving a couple of short lengths of wood in the air. The commotion brought Clementine scrabbling to her feet. We were back to square one.

  I looked at Lucy. ‘We need to keep them away,’ I seethed. But how?

  ‘What about a cup of tea?’ Lucy suggested as George and Hilary ground to a halt in front of us.

  Tut, tut. Bad idea, Lucy.

  ‘Tea?’ they chorused, looking at each other in amazement. ‘How could we possibly think of tea at a time like this?’ remonstrated Hilary, her voice shrill with anxiety.

  ‘Well, Clementine won’t settle down with us all here,’ I said bluntly. ‘She needs peace and quiet. So maybe a cup of tea is not such a bad idea.’

  George’s shoulders began to twitch again. He suddenly squared them and turned to his wife. ‘Seems we aren’t wanted,’ he said with a sniff. ‘Best have that cuppa after all.’ With a curt nod in our direction he pulled his wife towards the house.

  ‘Sorry about that, Paul,’ said Lucy, her freckled face full of concern.

  ‘Don’t be,’ I said. ‘It’s done the trick. Got them out of our hair for a bit. Now let’s hope Clementine gets on with things.’

  We turned to watch the mare. She snatched a mouthful of hay from her hay-net and nervously chewed it, her teeth grinding. Then she emitted another groan and dropped to the ground. This time she stayed there; and with legs stretched out, she began to strain.

  ‘Hooray. At last,’ I muttered as I rolled up my sleeves, donned my smock and slipped quietly into the loose-box. Lucy followed and knelt down by the mare’s head and gently stroked her neck.

  Liberally smearing my right arm with lubricating jelly, I began a gentle examination of the mare’s inside. Clementine gave a little grunt, raised her head and crossed and uncrossed her fetlocks. ‘There … there …’ I said. ‘Steady on.’ The words were as much for my benefit as
they were for hers, but they seemed to steady her as she sank back with a sigh.

  I gingerly probed deeper. The relief was enormous when I felt first one tiny fetlock, then another. My hand slid past them, waiting any minute to feel the foal’s head in its natural position between the feet. Instead, I felt two more hooves slip through my fingers. I checked. Yes. Two more hooves. A wave of panic flooded me.

  ‘Damn,’ I said.

  ‘Problem?’ whispered Lucy.

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Everything OK?’ George was back, leaning over the door, his wife’s ghostly pale face alongside.

  I cautiously slid my arm out and stood up, my guts churning and pinging, my legs shaking. ‘Well, actually there is a problem.’

  ‘Problem?’ exclaimed Hilary, her mouth dropping open.

  ‘What do you mean … problem?’ added George, his salami cheeks blanching, his shoulders going into free fall. ‘The foal’s not dead is it?’

  ‘No … no … it’s not that bad.’ I hesitated before saying the word. ‘But it is a breech.’ The word hung momentarily silent in the air between us before its meaning imploded on the Richardsons with predictable consequences.

  ‘Oh my God,’ screamed Hilary. She wrenched open the door, rushed in and pushing Lucy aside, flung herself down to cradle the mare’s head in her lap. ‘My poor, poor Clementine,’ she moaned, tears streaming down her face. The mare was now beginning to strain more frequently; her flanks were black, darkly drenched with sweat; she groaned, clearly in pain.

  George had followed Hilary in and was now standing right next to her all of a quiver, bristling with agitation. ‘So what are you going to do about it? Call in an expert?’

  Fighting to control my own jumpiness and keep my voice from sounding like an untuned banjo, I answered, ‘I’m going to give Clementine a sedative and then try a spinal anaesthetic.’ Too late I realised I’d used the wrong words.

  George pounced on them. ‘Try? What do you mean try?’ The wings on his eyebrows seemed to arch even higher as he spoke. ‘I would assume you’ve done this sort of thing before.’ He swung round to Lucy, eyes blazing. ‘Well, hasn’t he?’

  She squared up to him as best she could. ‘He’ll be doing his best for Clementine. I assure you.’

  I tried to put on a brave face but my confidence was oozing out of my boots as fast as the fluids that were now seeping from the mare’s hindquarters as a result of the water bag having burst. I had administered a spinal anaesthetic before – once, and only once. And then that was under the watchful eye of our Professor of Surgery at Veterinary School. Here, with Clementine, I had no choice but to try. She had a foal facing the wrong way. That foal had to be turned round inside her womb before it could be delivered. And I couldn’t turn the foal round with her straining. That had to be stopped; and the only way possible was by anaesthetising the lower part of Clementine’s body – blocking off the nerves to that area by giving an epidural.

  By the look in Lucy’s eyes, I realised she knew exactly how I felt. Petrified. It was pointless trying to persuade the Richardsons to leave me to it. They were far too concerned, to the extent they were almost shell-shocked. Numbed. It at least allowed Lucy to shunt them into one corner without any objections being made while we got on with it.

  ‘Lucy. You hold on to Clementine’s head, please. Make sure she doesn’t move,’ I instructed.

  With the sedative given and time allowed for it to take effect, I drew up a syringeful of anaesthetic. Now came the task of locating the exact spot where I had to inject it. Under the hawk-eyed gaze of the Richardsons, I began pumping Clementine’s tail up and down like I was attempting to draw water from a well. I felt her vertebra crack beneath my probing fingers. In my mind’s eye, I tried to recall the college lectures, those countless anatomical diagrams, the pony skeleton with arrows pointing to where, at what angle and at what depth the needle had to be inserted without risk of it puncturing the spinal cord. The pumping of the tail was to help locate the exact spot. I kept on … pumping … pumping … pumping.

  Finally, realising I couldn’t delay things any longer, I sank the needle through the skin at what I thought was the correct place. Imagine my relief when a trickle of yellow fluid oozed out. Spinal fluid. Yippee! I’d hit the right spot. Attaching the syringe, I pushed down on the plunger and watched the dose of anaesthetic disappear.

  ‘Phew,’ I gasped as I whipped out the needle and got to my feet. ‘At least that’s done.’ I looked along Clementine’s flanks now steaming with sweat and smiled at Lucy before turning to the Richardsons, still transfixed in the corner. ‘Maybe a cup of tea while we wait for the anaesthetic to take effect?’

  They obeyed without a murmur.

  A fine drizzle had begun to sweep across the yard as the four of us returned from the house. Whether due to the trickle of water that ran down my neck or the thought of what still lay ahead, I began to shiver.

  Clementine lay stretched out, quiet, motionless.

  Hilary gasped, one hand flying to her mouth, the other catching at the sleeve of my smock. ‘She’s … she’s … not dead is she?’

  Clementine lifted her head and whinnied.

  Hilary let go of my sleeve with a sheepish look.

  This time I allowed the Richardsons to cradle Clementine’s head, while Lucy and I knelt down behind the mare where two tiny hooves were poking out. I tied a rope round each of them and handed the ends to Lucy. No mention had been made of the need for wooden handles, or buckets of warm water for that matter. Best keep quiet about it, I reasoned.

  ‘Keep some tension on those ropes, Lucy,’ I said as I once again slid my arm inside the mare’s womb in an attempt to turn the foal round. As before, the other set of hooves were just inside; and now that Clementine was no longer straining, I was able to push them back. As I did so, I felt them float away from me. Hey. This was easier than expected. Then suddenly the floating stopped. I pushed on the legs. Nope. No movement. I pushed again. They didn’t budge. Another push. Still they didn’t shift. What on earth was stopping them? My heart thundered against my chest and I could feel trickles of sweat course down my cheeks, leaving a warm trail as they coalesced to drip from my chin.

  ‘Not more problems, surely?’ said an anxious voice as George looked over at me.

  I grunted. ‘The foal’s quite large. Proving a little difficult to turn.’ I was now right up to my armpit and felt as if I was trapped inside, the folds of the womb like those of a collapsed tent, enveloping and hindering every movement of my arm.

  Hilary suddenly yelled, ‘Clementine’s suffocating.’ Her cry made the mare jerk. My arm was violently squeezed, pinned to the wall of her pelvis, rotated and pulled until I thought it would be wrenched from its socket. I opened my mouth but forced back the scream that threatened to explode from my lungs. Lucy winced, grimacing in sympathy.

  ‘Quiet woman,’ hissed George. ‘It’s just Clementine snoring.’

  As the horse relaxed, the pressure on my arm subsided. But it was several minutes, with me stretched out in the bedding taking deep breaths, before I had sufficient strength and feeling in the arm to resume my attempt to swing the foal round. My fingers swam through the warm fluids, membranes yielding, sliding from me like layers of overcooked lasagne. Imagine the relief when my fingers finally bumped into the foal’s melon-sized head. It was now just a matter of easing it towards me. Yeah. Right.

  ‘Pull a little on the ropes, Lucy.’

  She pulled. ‘Enough?’

  ‘A bit more.’ I felt the foal’s head float nearer. ‘Bit more.’ The back legs started to dip out of reach. Then they were gone. ‘Done it,’ I declared triumphantly. ‘The foal’s turned round.’ I pulled my arm out and took one of the ropes from Lucy.

  ‘We’re going to start pulling quite hard,’ I warned the Richardsons who, though still at Clementine’s head, were both straining to see what was going on.

  ‘Don’t get too alarmed.’

  ‘We should be so lucky,�
� murmured Lucy, wrapping her rope tightly round her palm.

  ‘Right. Here we go. Heave!’

  We both pulled together.

  Clementine emitted a long, deep groan.

  ‘You’re hurting her,’ cried Hilary.

  ‘No we’re not,’ I called out. ‘She can’t feel a thing.’ In fact, with the epidural, Clementine couldn’t even contract. Lucy and I were her labour. If we didn’t pull, the foal wouldn’t come out. So pull we did … pull … pull … pull. Slowly, the forelegs emerged, gleaming, steaming, covered in mucus. Then the head popped out, large, domed … to be rapidly followed by the long, brown, sticky body of the colt. He plopped on to the bedding in a pool of yellow fluids.

  Hilary jumped to her feet. ‘Oh clever, Clementine,’ she cooed. ‘You’ve produced a wonderful baby.’

  ‘Yes, well done,’ exclaimed George, echoing his wife’s sentiments.

  As for our part in the proceedings … Lucy and I just looked at each other and shrugged. At least Clementine seemed appreciative of our efforts. She gave a whicker of motherly concern and stretched round to give her son his first wash.

  ‘Well,’ said George as we cleaned ourselves up in the kitchen. ‘It seems congratulations are in order.’ His shoulders smartly jigged up and down.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ added Hilary, her white face glowing, her thin lips curled back in a smile. ‘We can’t wait to tell Dr Sharpe.’

  I squirmed with pleasure. It’s not every day one receives compliments. So it’s nice to get them when they come. ‘Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,’ I murmured, hoping I said it with the right touch of modesty.

  Hilary cut in. ‘She’ll be so pleased to hear how well behaved Clementine was. Such a model patient. It made your task so much easier, I’m sure.’ Her bland, milky eyes blinked at me. Soulless. What a put down.

  Dawn was breaking as we drove back over the Downs. The belt of rain had passed to leave a pencil of cloud scoring the pale eastern sky in a ribbon of pink. Below it, the orb of the sun had began to edge up with the promise of another hot day. It looked spectacular from the top of the Downs. So much so that, despite my tiredness, I impulsively swerved into a lay-by overlooking the undulating fields which stretched down towards Westcott and the silver line of the sea beyond.