Vet On a Mission

by Gillian Hick

  ‘But we would keep them all,’ the next child in line would reassure me.

  ‘And I would love a puppy and I know my friend up the road wants one too,’ and within minutes the small handful of children would have successfully rehomed enough puppies to empty the busiest of animal shelters.

  The next year, I tried playing a game with them in an attempt to get the message across. I began by picking two children to stand up at the top of the class to be the ‘mammy and daddy cat’. Then I would ask three more children to join them, as their kittens. Then each girl kitten would get three new kittens, and this carried on until all the children had been assigned as kittens. The kids were loving it, despite a little bit of inter-sibling squabbling! The next phase of the game didn’t go down so well. I asked the first six children to sit down as the ones who had found loving homes with families that would care for them. That was fine. Then the next set of children I sent to one corner representing the ones who would become stray cats. Initially they had great fun hissing and spitting at each other, until I started to describe how some of them would become sick or injured and, with no owner to care for them, some would die. This group didn’t look quite so pleased. The next group I then sent to the pound and they were starting to look so tearful that I decided to abandon the whole game before we had to put most of them to sleep and have a total meltdown!

  To distract them from their distress, I quickly moved to what I had always found to be the most successful part of the talk. Over the early years, before the onset of digital radiography, I had accumulated several large boxes of radiographs. I also had a special file for the more extraordinary ones. One was of a full-sized red kite that, unusually, had been found dead at sea. As these birds are a protected species, the bird had been brought to me by the wildlife officer for post-mortem examination, which included a radiograph. In the end, the post mortem was not needed, as the radiograph itself was diagnostic. As soon as I raised the still-wet radiograph to the light viewer, the multiple pellets from a shotgun were clearly visible throughout the unfortunate bird’s body.

  This one was very successful, in particular with the younger kids, as they were so enthralled by the view of the bird, especially when I showed them full-colour pictures of red kites alongside it. Strangely, they seemed not to notice or ever ask about the pellets. With the older classes, however, I would point them out and explain that these birds were a protected species and have a chat about the breeding and reintroduction programme. However one class got ahead of me. As soon as I put up the colour pictures of the bird one of the fifth class boys immediately piped up.

  ‘It’s a red kite, Miss. We had two of those flying over the yard and my Dad shot one of them and then we never saw the other one after.’

  We never learned, in five years of intensive college lectures, practicals and tutorials how to deal with that one!

  Another radiograph that used to go down well, but with slightly less dramatic implications, was one of the knee of a horse. It was of a fifteen-two gelding, on whom I had been asked to carry out a pre-purchase examination. Although the horse was sound on a flexion test, one knee was considerably larger than the other, so I advised a radiograph to rule out any underlying pathology that might potentially cause lameness in time to come. The early history of the horse was unknown, as he had initially come from a dealer’s yard. The reason for the thickened joint soon became obvious with the radiograph as the tissue at the front of the knee was full of tiny pieces of stone. The bony structure of the knee is impressive in itself, especially to the uninitiated. This case clearly demonstrated the principle of always taking two radiographs from different angles. In the view taken from the front, or the cranio-caudal view as it is more grandly known, the tiny particles were barely visible as shadows against the bones on the now somewhat fading film. In the lateral view, or the view taken from the side, the stones in front of the bones were obvious. This pair of radiographs always made me feel like a squirming student as I flashed back to images of my college days, standing in front of the great Hester McAllister, our chief radiographer, who simultaneously inspired and terrified generations of veterinary students!

  Clearly, the horse had fallen and cut his knee at some stage, but had healed completely, most likely without any sort of veterinary attention and, being a grey horse, the wound had left no visible scarring. In the many years that my client owned the horse after he never showed any ill-effects.

  Over the years, I had collected many radiographs of unusual canine fractures. It was always fun to show the picture of the broken bones first – sometimes quite spectacular looking – and then the post-surgical repair, which could look especially dramatic if there were metal bone-plates or pins or wire involved. I have to admit that I did choose cases that I could follow up with a third radiograph of the fully repaired and functional limb – sometimes with the metal removed, sometimes not, depending on the situation. After seeing how the kids reacted to me making them homeless kittens, I had no intentions of admitting to amputating a leg if the surgical repair failed!

  Another radiograph that caused a bit of consternation was one of a mature terrapin, approximately one foot in diameter, who was brought in to me at the Blue Cross clinic in Ballyfermot one night in a large, inauspicious-looking plastic bucket. The unfortunate creature waited patiently in the bucket unknown to us until his turn came. The owners had lost interest as he had grown considerably in size. They had left him out in the garden with only an old dog kennel for shelter against the still-chilly April temperatures. Unsurprisingly, given the time of year, he had stopped eating. They dropped him on the table with the ominous phrase I had come to dread, ‘We want you to put him to sleep unless you can find a home for him.’

  Although the Blue Cross do not in any way involve themselves in rehoming animals, I decided to bring him home with me. Thankfully, Tommy had a happy ending as the malnutrition and secondary pneumonia that I diagnosed after his radiograph responded well to basic veterinary treatment in the form of antibiotics and rehydration fluids and supplements. Within weeks, he was back in his bucket and on his way to a new home to owners with considerably more reptile experience. His radiograph, however, stayed with us and was always a popular one, as the kids quickly guessed it was a tortoise or indeed a terrapin by of the more avid reptile fanciers. On this occasion, before anyone got a change to guess the correct answer, one guy clearly impressed by the well-rounded body shape yelled out in obvious delight, ‘It’s Miss Hartigan after eating too many burgers!’ The class exploded in eruptions of laughter much to my bewilderment. As there was no teacher present in the room at the time I had to wait until one of the classmates cheerfully informed me that ‘Miss Hartigan is the head mistress and she’s really fat!’

  Probably the most spectacular of my series of school radiographs was of the squirrel that Donal happened to drive past on his way home one bright spring afternoon. Being, in general, a very observant person, he happened to notice what he thought was the dead body of a red squirrel in the ditch. Having a keen interest in nature, he stopped to examine it only to notice that the tiny creature was still warm and breathing, but barely. He gently curled the little body into his woollen hat and brought him straight into the clinic. A rapid clinical examination confirmed that the squirrel was in shock, so I quickly brought him into the theatre and placed him on an oxygen mask. I was able to radiograph the barely conscious form without the sedation that is usually legally required.

  His radiographs revealed no abnormalities, or certainly none that were obvious to me with my incredibly limited experience of assessing squirrel radiographs. I began by placing him under a heat lamp, having given him fluid directly into his abdomen, rather than the usual intravenous route. Since he was a wild animal, I was afraid of how he might react if he were to regain consciousness in unfamiliar territory with a fluid line attached to his delicate body. By that evening he had regained consciousness, but clearly had some form of head injury as he was very disorientated.


  One fortunate side effect of this head injury was that he became very easy to handle, to the extent that he actually appeared to be tame. In the few days he was with us, he would quite happily climb onto my hand and make his way onto my shoulder, where he would sit contentedly as though I were some unusual species of tree. We filled his hospital unit with various leaves and branches and darkened it with a large towel covering the front, to reduce his stress levels in captivity.

  He had started to drink and eat by himself and then on the third morning, when I went in to feed him he was dead. Unfortunately this is an all-too-common outcome with wild animals, even those with apparently minimal injuries. It is often a difficult decision whether to even try treating them, as any human intervention, no matter how sensitively undertaken, is bound to be stressful. A quick and humane euthanasia is often the most realistic option and yet, over the years, a handful of successes have always made me reluctant to do so.

  So that’s how I acquired the radiograph of a squirrel! And though Barney passed on, he became immortal through his radiograph, which became famous among the primary schools of west Wicklow!

  I would usually save it until last, just as the kids were gaining confidence in their skills in identifying animals.

  Barney’s radiograph was usually greeted with stunned silence. Nine times out of ten the first child brave enough to venture an opinion would cautiously ask, ‘Is it a dinosaur?’ Nobody would laugh, because everyone was thinking the same thing! Incidentally, that was how Barney acquired his name in his short time with a household of preschool children immersed in Barney the dinosaur!

  The most obvious identifying features of a squirrel’s skeleton (and possibly also a dinosaur’s, I’m not sure!) is the remarkably long canines – very useful for breaking open nuts – and the incredibly long tail, which without being able to the see the bushy fur is very misleading. Nobody ever identified the radiograph as a squirrel, even when I would throw it open to the occasional teacher who would stay for the talk.

  In general, those sessions were the more entertaining part of my school talk, which was just as well as it often served me well to get out of a sticky corner. Probably my most traumatic moment of all the school talks was on a day with a very young group of probably five- to eight-year-olds. I had quickly run through the basics of responsible pet ownership, fully aware that realistically, the only bit that grabbed their attention was the fact that round worms looked like spaghetti, while tape worm segments more resemble grains of rice. As I dispensed these nuggets of information, I sent a silent apology to any of the parents who were hoping to serve either carbohydrate for dinner that evening!

  After that, things generally deteriorated. I had long since given up on my prepared talk, as I had found that the kids were much more interested in telling about their own pets, their friends’ pets, their neighbours’ pets, their grannies’ pets, even their teddy bear or any other random piece of information that temporarily grabbed their attention.

  I prepared myself to stand patiently and be bombarded for the next half hour. One child told me how her granny’s dog had run away; another immediately bettered her story with the fact that her granny had died and her dog now lived with them. The next child told me how her cat got ‘mashed’ – her words, not mine – by a car and broke his leg, and this led to the next child who triumphantly exclaimed that his brother had broken his leg. Another little girl bounced up to the front of the class to show me the new bracelet she had been given for her birthday while other random voices filled me in on all the minute details of their busy lives.

  I let it all run for a while, until I noticed one small girl over to the side of the room, looking very dejected, I assumed, because she was unable to have her say. At the next millisecond of a gap, I grabbed the moment and, smiling encouragingly at her, asked if she had anything she wanted to tell us. She stared at me silently for a few breaths and then with great big tears rolling down her cheeks told me, ‘You killed my dog!’

  The silence for which I had previously prayed was now overwhelming. I frantically racked my brains trying to recognise the child, knowing dismally that I had no hope of attaching her to one of many dogs that I had put to sleep over the last few years. Thankfully, having now started, little Jennie recounted to the whole class how Toby had got too old and wasn’t able to walk anymore. Through gasps and splutters, she told anyone who cared to listen how her mammy and daddy had rung me to come out to house and when she came back from her friend’s house that evening, ‘He was dead’ she wailed, collapsing into a final sob.

  And then I remembered the ancient sheepdog that I had put to sleep a couple of weeks previously. I remembered how peacefully he had drifted off, sleeping in front of the fire, with Brian and Ann, the parents, kneeling on the soft carpet beside him, secure in the knowledge that they were sparing Jenny of the ordeal, by allowing her to stay at a friend’s house until the deed was done.

  As I knelt on the hard school floor, with my arm around the weeping Jenny, it occurred to me, not for the first time, that final year in veterinary college might be more usefully engaged in studying counselling and psychology than medicine and surgery.

  Eventually, the tears ran dry as the rest of the class ran riot until one of the teachers came back and thankfully took control of the rioters. Before I left, Jenny did brighten up significantly as with a tentative smile she told me, ‘We’re getting another Toby next week,’ quickly adding, ‘but he won’t be the same as the old Toby,’ lest I be confused!

  That episode did scare me off somewhat from my school talks, so when the National School in Tinahely rang me a few weeks later to enquire whether I would be available, I hesitated.

  ‘We did ring last year, but you were booked up and you said if we rang early this year you would fit us in,’ the principal gently reminded me.

  Reluctantly I agreed, on condition that a teacher remain in the class with each group.

  Hence my sense of trepidation this morning, as I headed down the winding roads to Tinahely, having safely deposited Molly and Fiona at playschool while Jack, now getting hardy as he approached his ninth month, entertained my mother for the morning. Armed with my radiographs and some spot prizes of pens and stickers for responsible pet owners, I arrived in the tiny village, only to realise that though I had passed through on many occasions, I had never actually noticed the National School. After stopping at the local grocery shop for directions, I was soon on my way and within minutes I was pulling into the school grounds.

  For all their enthusiasm on the phone, the teachers didn’t seem so keen when I arrived. It took me a few minutes to locate a hassled-looking secretary who seemed vaguely put out when I explained that I would take junior infants up to second class in the hall for the first group and then third to sixth class in the second group.

  It took a while to assemble the groups and now I was feeling slightly put out as I started thinking of the multitude of other things I could, and probably should, be doing for the next hour and a half. The talks themselves were uneventful, with thankfully no references to obese teachers or discussion of life and death, but by the time I left, having cut the second half short because the hall was needed, I was feeling a bit annoyed. I declined the half-heartedly offered cup of tea.

  I was even more annoyed when I got back into the car to find four missed calls and two voicemails, all from the same number.

  Quickly I went to my voicemail, wondering what calamity awaited me.

  ‘Hi Gillian, Mary Murphy here, school principal here in Tinahely, just wondering if you are on your way, as the kids are all excitedly waiting for you. Thank you.’

  How rude, I thought. I had only been a few minutes late and the principal hadn’t even had the manners to greet me, never mind have the kids organised.

  The next message.

  ‘Hi there again, Gillian. Sorry to be bothering you. I know you are probably on an emergency call. Just the kids are all assembled here, and some them have even brought their dogs and
one little girl has brought her two rabbits and a neighbour’s parrot to show you. I think the animals are getting a little stressed, and I was just wondering if I should send them home in case you’re not going to make it today. So sorry to bother you,’ she ended ever so politely, but sounding a little bit stressed herself.

  Through my utter confusion arose the possibility, which sadly turned out to be the reality, that there might in fact be two primary schools in the tiny village of Tinahely and that I had barged in to the wrong one demanding to have the classes assembled into the correct groups, never having been invited in the first place.

  My first phone call was to Mary Murphy, to apologise profusely to her for the confusion and to suggest that, yes, the animals would be best returned to their rightful homes for another day, as I now had just less than half an hour to get to the playschool for my children.

  Then humbly I rang the second school, to again apologise profusely for the confusion, and thank them most graciously for their welcome and for accommodating my unexpected arrival.

  It was at that stage I decided that, with three children of my own to look after, my time for school talks was over!

  Chapter 6

  The Mission Expands

  Although the eight-foot-by-eight-foot utility room and the adjacent portacabin had been more than sufficient, though somewhat intrusive on family life, for the opening years of Clover Hill Veterinary Clinic, it was not long before it became apparent that we needed to expand. I had genuinely planned on setting up from home only until Jack was ready for school, and then, in my words, I was going to get a ‘real job’ in a mixed-animal practice. But of course life never reads the manual we write for ourselves, so, not long after Jack’s first birthday, it became apparent that I now had a ‘real job’ in a rapidly expanding dedicated small animal practice.