Vet On a Mission

by Gillian Hick

  It reminded me of the time a local horse man had lent us a horse on long loan. Although standing at sixteen-two, Humphrey was quiet enough for not only myself, but also for the kids to sit up on, as Robo, the diminutive pony, had way more attitude than size. It was on Humphrey, that Fiona, at the age of five, had invented what became known as ‘the giggling trot’, as she would break into squeals of delighted giggling every time he broke into a trot.

  Humphrey was retired from his hunting career, but still enjoyed leisurely hacks through the local woods and particularly enjoyed looking after the kids. His ability to look after his rider was remarkable and he seemed to sense when the kids (or more commonly myself) were veering to slip sideways; he would drop a shoulder or adjust himself in way to rebalance the most awkward of riders. When I asked his owner how old he was the reply was somewhat vague. One afternoon, as the kids were riding Humphrey around the front grass, an elderly lady and her grandchild were walking back with their dog, as our road was a common walking loop in the summer evenings.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried out in great delight. ‘Is that Humphrey? He was the first horse I learned to ride.’ I didn’t dare ask her how many decades ago that was not wanting to offend either herself or Humphrey. Even though Humphrey enjoyed his retirement with us to a ripe old age, he still came nowhere near Edward the donkey’s age. At one stage we worked out that he was well into his forties. At the time when all microchipping of equines, including donkeys, became compulsory, Karen asked me to make a passport for him and microchip him. Paper work was always my dreaded part of the day and although I did eventually insert his microchip one day when I was over with him, it as many months later before I finally got around to filling in the necessary documentation for her to pass on to the Horse Board for registration. A few days later I received a call from the same board and instantly wondered what I had filled in wrong or forgotten to fill in. ‘There seems to be a problem with an application for a passport you have sent in to us,’ came the efficient voice on the phone.

  ‘Really?’ I replied, trying to feign surprise.

  ‘Yes, you have sent us an application for a donkey, and from the date of birth you have listed, that would make him in his mid-forties. There must be some sort of a mistake.’

  ‘Ah, not at all,’ I replied, relieved that for once it wasn’t me that had messed up. ‘That’s Edward you’re talking about. Sure he’s probably older than I am. If there is a mistake,’ I continued, ‘it’s probably that we’ve underestimated his age!’

  Despite his years, Edward enjoyed remarkably good health apart from an intermittent skin condition and a bit of a tight back. Neither condition was in any way life threatening, so instead of waiting for a call, I would just drop in whenever I was passing to visit him. I nearly had the message saved on the phone. ‘Is Edward at home’, that I would send when I was on the way. His itchy skin always responded well to a mite injection, while his back responded well to a deep massage so that it became a habit that every time I called, he would be waiting, body quivering in anticipation as soon as he heard the car, for the lumbar muscle massage that would loosen out his left-hand side. As I pushed deep into the back muscles, his head would drop and his ears would flatten out horizontally so he almost looked like an old-fashioned bike with handlebars. His eyes would almost roll with relief as he felt the tight muscles release and he would stand with his lower lips twitching as though in a trance for a few minutes afterwards. To be honest there were a few late night call outs that responded so well to massage that I think half the time he feigned stiffness.

  But the most recent call did concern me. I was in the bath late one night and when I got out I saw three missed calls and four texts from Karen. Although it seemed that Edward would live forever, I always dreaded the call that would surely come someday.

  The phone picked up on the first ring.

  ‘He’s in a bad way,’ Karen told me in subdued tones. ‘He looked okay out in the field this afternoon. I only put him out for an hour or two because it’s so cold. He had his rug and seemed happy enough when I stabled him this evening, but when I went over to lock up for the night, he hadn’t touched his feed and he’s lying down and won’t get up.’

  I didn’t bother waste time replying, but got in the car and drove the few short miles to him. I was in the stable with him before I had had time to register what was going on. When I got to Edward, although he was lying down, he looked quite pleased to see me, his ears acknowledging my late night visit. I checked his gums, his heart rate and his gut – all seemed well. There were no fresh droppings in his stable, but I knew Karen was meticulous in picking them up and sure enough on questioning, she said that she had cleaned out a pile in his usual corner while waiting for me to arrive. I had to ask a few times before Edward shifted himself and stood up, but he was clearly able to stand and shuffled around the box reasonably well considering his age and the lateness of the cold winters night. Feeling bad, stripping him of his warm rug, I carefully felt along his back muscles and certainly those muscles on his left hand side were tight and he did his usual act of quivering and rolling his eye as I released them.

  I was so caught up in the examination that I hadn’t noticed Karen’s ashen face as she stood silently by, as though expecting the worst.

  ‘I can’t honestly find anything wrong with him,’ I said, breaking the silence.

  We threw ideas back and forth for a few minutes as we watched him, but nothing really jumped out at me. Karen was apologetic, but I assured her I would rather call out to Edward on a hundred false alarms than have anything wrong with him.

  We chatted for a few more minutes as I rugged him up again. He lay straight down, which was unusual, and despite my lack of clinical findings, we were both still concerned. Although I could find nothing wrong, he was clearly acting out of character and at his age the only certainty was that he couldn’t last forever.

  It was only on the way back out of his stable that I noticed something that I couldn’t believe I had walked straight past on the way in – clearly my semi-dreamlike state and my concern for Edward had blinkered my focus. Edward’s stable was part of an American-style barn. Years ago, Edward and his companions had been the stunt men, the business had evolved from renting animals for films to renting props for films. Part of the building was used for storing the props so you never knew what you would find when you walked in. If ever you were looking for some really random item that you had no idea where to source, all you had to do was ask Karen as she would disappear into the shed and invariably come back with it.

  On this occasion, I gasped as I opened the door of the stable – in the dim light and almost walked into a real, life-sized coffin parked outside his stable door.

  I deal with life and death in animals on a regular basis and I have no issues with any severity of illness in people, but I have a total aversion to dead people, ghosts, graveyard or anything of that nature. John often used to slag me when he would sense me getting anxious at the graveyard of a funeral saying, ‘It’s the live ones you want to watch, not the dead ones!’

  But no matter how you want to rationalise it, parking a coffin outside the door an ancient donkey was just going too far. Karen was semi-amused as I berated her in no uncertain terms about poor Edward’s trauma. Although I refused to help her move the offending article in the early hours of a dark night, not wanting to have nightmares for the rest of my life, she did promise to get it moved early the next morning as soon as the others were up.

  She still thinks I was joking about it causing his apparent collapse, but I wasn’t! The next morning, the coffin was moved to the neighbouring shed, and Edward got up and ate and went about his business as usual.

  Chapter 14

  Patient Relations

  It’s always good to be appreciated. Luckily, due to the nature of the job in veterinary medicine, our clients are generally grateful and appreciative for what we do, but as for the patients themselves, the response can be variable.

 
I can never understand why owners are surprised when their beloved pets are anxious or concerned coming into the clinic. Leaving the comforts of their own homes to go on an unfamiliar car journey is enough to render many pets, especially cats, nervous wrecks. In addition, they come into a waiting room full of the most bewildering array of smells and pheremones, which any self-respecting animal will pick up with way more accuracy than the more senseless owners.

  When the first patient of the day is stressed or anxious or aggressive, the sense of that anxiety lingers for the day and the patients that follow are more difficult to reassure.

  So I take absolutely no offense when my patients are reluctantly dragged through the door or have a quick piddle on the floor on the way in. At least they are honest and open about their feelings, unlike their human counterparts, who would probably do the same thing in the doctor or dentist’s waiting room if socially acceptable norms didn’t repress them from expressing their true emotions!

  To be honest, I am more surprised that many of the patients, despite years of only ever experiencing such indignities as injections and emptying of anal glands, still bounce in enthusiastically every time.

  Even more reassuring is the fact that most pets settle so well once admitted to the hospital facilities. Of course, we do our best, by keeping cats and dogs in separate rooms and making sure that the kennel is comfortable, in addition to the pheromone plug-ins that are constantly emitting calming vapour, but it is like they intuitively know that we are trying to help and once the overwrought owner has departed most animals are happy to surrender to our care. Often our most difficult patients in the consulting room become the easiest to deal with once hospitalised.

  I remember one Christmas Eve, just when the last of the presents had been exchanged and the door closed, the phone ringing. Knowing that nobody rings after lunch on Christmas Eve for some trivial matter, I instantly knew the afternoon’s plans were about to change.

  Lizzie, one of my most obstreperous terrier clients, had been hit by a car. My first thought was that handling Lizzie on my own was going to be, at best, challenging. Until now, the most detailed view I ever had of her was of her teeth. Even the simplest procedure required us to begin by muzzling her, much to the embarrassment of her owner.

  But on this occasion, my concerns were unfounded. Lizzie was collapsed when she arrived and barely conscious of my presence (which to her was usually so offensive). I admitted her at once, reassuring her distraught owner that I would update her as soon as I could stabilise Lizzie. I was quickly able to ascertain that although her pelvis was fractured, there appeared to be no other major internal injuries. By mid-afternoon the shock treatment, the heat lamp and the intravenous fluids that I had been able to set up while she was still stunned, were working wonders.

  What was even more remarkable was the fact that whether due to the mildly hallucinogenic effect of the strong pain-killers, or from some life-altering experience on Lizzie’s part, she now actually seemed to like me. As soon as she heard my voice, her tail started wagging, despite her continued discomfort. I hesitated before deciding to dispense with the muzzle and as I flushed her intravenous line, she gently licked me. Although I was still cautious I felt that warm feeling of satisfaction that I had made a difference and that Lizzie, with the typical intuition available only to animals, understood and was appreciative of my efforts. When Lizzie was discharged on Stephen’s Day, even her owner was stunned by my new best friend’s general demeanour.

  Although I normally had to gear myself up for a visit from Lizzie, when I saw her appointment two weeks later for a check-up, I was delighted. As she was carried in the door (she was still being confined to allow her pelvis to heal) I could see that Lizzie was in great order. She was clearly loving the extra pampering that her injury required. Glad that we had finally come to a mutual understanding, I reached out to pet her shaggy head and only from years of developing lightning reflexes managed to avoid the teeth that reflexively aimed to sink into me! Although over the following few weeks, Lizzie made a complete recovery, she had decided that our brief friendship was clearly a delusion, and now we were back on more familiar territory.

  Thankfully, some patients had no such issue with me. Hector was a larger-than-life Boxer cross who, from the first day we met, clearly adored me! It was only some months later that I met him down at the beach one afternoon and discovered that is was not only me but any human being that he adored as he ran from person to person as though each and every one of us was his long-lost best friend.

  But still, it was good to be loved and, despite an episode of a painful stich-up and multiple wound dressings after an exuberant attempt to jump a barbed-wire fence, nothing diminished his undying affection and on each visit he greeted me with no trace of resentment for any previous treatments. Being a Boxer, he couldn’t rest until he had licked every available inch of skin with the aid of his constant drool, which increased in volume with his excitement. There was just no way of avoiding the carwash-type greeting from Hector.

  I hadn’t seen him for a few months since his injury so I was delighted to hear his over-exuberant entry into the waiting room one morning.

  As though he too had missed me, he was even more enthusiastic in his greeting, and I pulled out a wad of paper towel to dry my face as soon as I could pry myself away from him. Despite having a sinus infection at the time, I couldn’t help but notice a particularly pungent odour from his mouth. I had a horrible feeling that the taste in my mouth was as a result of his getting just a little bit close and personal even for Hector.

  ‘So what have you done to yourself this time?’ I asked Hector as soon as I had dried my face.

  ‘Oh, Gillian, you just won’t believe what he’s done this time,’ answered Catherine. Hector was by now much more interested in the contents of the bin even though it had been emptied and disinfected since the previous clinic.

  ‘You know the kids are back to school next week,’ began Catherine, ‘so we’ve been trying to make the most of the last few days and getting down to Brittas every morning for a walk.’

  My mind began to wander, feeling slightly envious at the thoughts of a daily walk on the local beach that although only a fifteen-minute car drive away, seemed to be a distant memory.

  ‘Well, for the past few days there was this dead dogfish at the far end, down near the rocks,’ Catherine continued, as I pulled myself back from my reverie. ‘So you know what he’s like. I just put him on the lead in case he wanted to sniff at it or something.’

  ‘Ah yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it, Hector,’ I replied, fondling his ears and remembering back to some of his more notable dietary indiscretions over the years.

  ‘By this morning, the stink was horrendous and even he didn’t seem remotely interested when we passed by, so on the way back I didn’t bother to put him back on the lead.’

  I could almost imagine the putrid smell of the week-old dogfish rotting in the exceptionally warm late August heatwave.

  ‘The kids were paddling in the water and I was watching them and before I knew it he ran back and just as I was trying to call him back, he swallowed the thing whole,’ Catherine finished, almost gagging at the memory.

  ‘Ah, Hector, you couldn’t have, could you? Even you!’ I asked him, subconsciously withdrawing my hands from him and remembering the enthusiastic welcome I had received. My hands and face seem to have developed a tingling rash where he had licked me, although Hector himself was clearly unperturbed by the whole event.

  Catherine and I both agreed that it might be best to inject Hector with an emetic agent, forcing him to return the contents of his stomach. It was only after Catherine had left and as my sense of nausea was increasing that it occurred to me that our pristine kennels and white vet beds would soon be engulfed in the semi-digested remains of a well-rotted dogfish. Ignoring the queue, I quickly led the ever enthusiastic Hector out of the consulting room and, thankful that all the horses were out enjoying the sun, into one of the s
tables, full of a fresh, deep, straw bed.

  Within minutes, Hector’s face began to change as the injection took effect and soon he was forcibly ejecting the dogfish, which came out in one long piece followed quickly after by the remains of his pre-walk breakfast. Even Hector looked slightly stunned, as he dared to take a sniff at the offending object before quickly recoiling from the noxious smell. I stayed with him until he was recovered enough to have a drink and then led I him back to the comfort of the kennels, feeling sorry I couldn’t offer him a toothbrush and some strong-tasting toothpaste.

  That night, despite soaking in a hot bath with even my head submerged in the steaming soapy water while I held my breath as long as possible, I could still smell and almost taste the remains of the dogfish.

  So although some grateful patients are a mixed blessing, I think the best ever love/hate relationship I have had was with a small terrier, aptly named Banjax.

  Banjax first came to me late in life, but lived to such a ripe old age that we still had many years together. When he first came to us, he was in a bad way. He had been diagnosed with terminal liver failure by a large animal vet who understandably had neither the facilities or the time-commitment for such a tricky and intensive case. His diagnosis had been made solely on clinical grounds and, looking at the sickly form in front of me, I could only agree with the referring vet that he had both liver failure and a very guarded prognosis. His owners were understanding, but extremely anxious to do anything possible to save their only pet. It was late on a Friday night so I knew that the intensive therapy that would be required to give him any chance would be exhausting over a weekend without nurses, but as the couple were so keen to try anything I agreed to give it a go.