by Gillian Hick
Vet on the Loose
Gillian Hick was born in Dublin and has practised as a vet both in Dublin and in Wicklow. She also works for the Irish Blue Cross. She lives in Co. Wicklow, where she has her own practice, with her husband, three children, and a large assortment of four-legged companions. She has also written Vet Among the Pigeons, a sequel to Vet on the Loose.
Acknowledgements
Thanks must go, first of all, to the animals who unwittingly surrendered themselves to the ministrations of a novice vet. Without them this story could never have been told. To Slug, my faithful companion on the journey through veterinary medicine. Many thanks to the owners of Jill, the collie; they allowed her story to be told as it actually happened – all the other animals, though drawn from experience, are fictitious, and are amalgams formed from my experience.
To Joe and Claire Kelly, my parents, for proof-reading – and much, much more. Thanks to the many veterinary colleagues and readers who contributed to the overall final outcome; especially to Vanessa. Thanks to the staff of O’Brien Press for working deadlines around three pre-school children and a veterinary practice.
A special thanks must go to Tom Kelly, veterinary colleague, editor and friend, for many, many phone-calls, e-mails and moral support. Any inaccuracies, bad grammar or worse still remaining in the text are there only because I was too stubborn to change them. (At least, I left out the snow scenes!)
Finally, to Donal, my husband, and Molly, Fiona and Jack – thanks for putting up with me writing when I could have been – and probably should have been – doing a hundred and one other things.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE
THE STUDENT VET
CHAPTER 1: SEEING PRACTICE
CHAPTER 2: COLLEGE DAYS
CHAPTER 3: HORSE PRACTICE
INNER-CITY PRACTICE
CHAPTER 4: MY FIRST PATIENT
CHAPTER 5: GETTING STUCK IN
CHAPTER 6: BRUNO’S LAST HOURS
CHAPTER 7: LEARNING ON THE JOB
CHAPTER 8: A HELPING HAND
CHAPTER 9: PRACTISE WHAT YOU PREACH
CHAPTER 10: THE CAT-HUNT
LOCUM
CHAPTER 11: THE CHRISTMAS CAT
MIXED-ANIMAL PRACTICE IN WICKLOW
CHAPTER 12: A DESPERATE CASE
CHAPTER 13: SIDNEY GOES HOME
CHAPTER 14: A DYING BREED
CHAPTER 15: A TALE OF TWO SHEEP
CHAPTER 16: AS SICK AS A DOG
CHAPTER 17: JILL
CHAPTER 18: THE BACHELOR PAD
CHAPTER 19: FOND FAREWELL
CHAPTER 20: A JOB WELL DONE
CHAPTER 21: DOCTORS AND VETS
CHAPTER 22: MENFOLK
CHAPTER 23: AN UNUSUAL CASE
CHAPTER 24: THE MATCHMAKER
CHAPTER 25: A BUSY DAY
EPILOGUE
Copyright
PROLOGUE
The very first horse castration I ever performed as a veterinary surgeon was in the depths of Dublin’s inner city. But as I drove around the urban jungle on the appointed morning, I was convinced that I must have been given the wrong address. When I finally found 53, Primrose Villas it was an ordinary, terraced house located on a narrow street, and a most unlikely looking setting in which to find a horse.
Where could the horse be? I wondered, looking warily around the tiny front garden that wouldn’t even have been big enough to contain a car, had there been one. All seemed to be deserted and there was no reply when I hammered on the front door, after a futile search for a doorbell.
I was about to leave when a child’s voice yelled out through the open window above me: ‘Are you the vet?’
‘That’s right!’ I called back up. ‘Are your parents home?’
‘What’s it to you? I haven’t done nuttin’,’ he replied, before disappearing behind the shabby net curtain.
I waited for him to reappear at the front door but had to hammer again before I heard a shuffling inside and the door opened a crack.
‘Are ye here for de horse or wha’?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I replied as pleasantly as I could. ‘Where do you keep him?’
‘Come ’ere,’ he answered, gesturing over his shoulder for me to follow him through the kitchen and on out through the back door to a patch of muck no bigger than the front garden.
In these unpromising surroundings it was incongruous to see the tiny stallion, in all his piebald glory, happily relaxing in the sun, surrounded by old bikes, torn rubbish sacks and the battered remains of a long-abandoned television set.
‘Right, so,’ I managed, trying to hide my amazement. ‘Are your parents around so we can get started?’
‘It’s my bleedin’ horse. Wha’ d’ye wan’ me aul’ ones for? It’s nuttin’ to do with dem.’
‘Well, we’ll need them to give us a hand.’
‘Are ye jokin’? Me Ma’s terrified of ’im and she’s out anyways.’
‘What about your Dad? Where’s he?’
‘As if I’d bleedin’ know!’ came the scornful reply. ‘Haven’t seen that geezer in years.’ The boy stared at me balefully as though challenging me to reply.
I was beginning to feel a vague sense of disbelief. I had always imagined that my first horse castration would be performed in a fancy yard, full of competent handlers, the magnificent stallion skilfully restrained as I carried out the routine surgery in serene silence, broken only by the occasional ripple of approving murmurs from the impressed onlookers. But it looked like it was to be just myself, young Eddie, and Anto the piebald.
I hesitated for a moment and then decided we might as well get on with it.
‘Right, so. Could you get me a big basin full of hot water, please, and we’ll need a rope to hold him with.’
‘Okay, Doctor,’ replied young Eddie, clearly pleased that the show was under way.
While he was gone, I carefully filled my syringes with anaesthetic, anti-tetanus, antibiotic and the local anaesthetic to inject into the testicles.
Eddie was chuffed with himself as he staggered back under the weight of the washing-up basin, the water sloshing all over the place so that by the time he got to me, it was half-empty. I carefully fished a few baked beans and a piece of soggy toast out of the water that was supposedly going to sterilise my equipment. I added a dash of iodine and hoped that might do the trick.
‘What about a head-collar, Eddie?’ I asked. ‘You’ll need something to hold him with.’
His face briefly deepened into a frown and then, without a further thought, he carelessly pulled a Stanley knife out of his back pocket and with one practised slash, cut the rope that had served as a washing line to make a halter.
‘Won’t your mother kill you for doing that?’ I inquired curiously, as he piled the half-dry washing in a heap on the edge of the rubbish pile that was threatening to overtake the entire garden.
He shrugged nonchalantly, with the air of one who was well used to being in trouble. ‘Sure, Jaysus, she’s always moanin’ about somethin’.’
‘All right, Eddie, you get a good hold of him now and I’ll give him his first injection.’
Thankfully, Anto was a placid type and he didn’t object as I rooted through the shaggy coat until I found the jugular vein and inserted the needle. I drew back the plunger on the syringe and as a gush of fresh blood mixed through the clear liquid in the syringe, my assistant smiled for the first time. ‘Ah Jaysus, yer puttin’ de stuff in ’is blood. Dat’s fuckin’ cool, dat is, Doc.’
Well, I thought to myself, at least I have an appreciative audience.
Within minutes, the little stallion was well sedated and soon he was wobbling slightly precariously due to the effect
s of my generous dose of anaesthetic.
Eddie was disappointed when I tried to explain to him that this was a new type of anaesthetic and that Anto would remain standing for the duration of the surgery.
‘Ye mean I won’t have te sit on ’is head like I did wit me last horse?’
‘No, he’ll stay standing up the whole time,’ I repeated, wishing I felt as confident as I sounded, watching the little stallion as he staggered drunkenly from side to side, legs threatening to buckle under him with each movement.
Quickly, I disinfected the area and injected the local anaesthetic into the testicles, starting to feel a bit dizzy myself now as I swayed in unison with his hindquarters and hoping that if he did fall, he wouldn’t take me with him.
As I waited for the anaesthetic to take effect, I tried to engage in some light-hearted banter, but I didn’t really know where to begin.
‘You’re not at school today, Eddie?’
Sullen looks. ‘It’s a load o’ crap.’
I tried again. ‘How long have you had Anto?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Where did you get him from?’
He glared at me suspiciously. ‘From a man.’
I gave up. Obviously adults asking questions was not to be tolerated.
At last the horse was ready and as I pulled out the sharp scalpel blade, Eddie perked up again. ‘Jaysus, dat looks real sharp. Can I ’ave it when yer finished?’
‘Ah no, I’d need it again for another horse,’ I replied quickly, despite the fact that they are strictly single-use, disposable ones.
I grasped the far testicle and incised deep into the tissue, watching with satisfaction as the glistening organ dropped out of the sack, suspended by an array of ligaments and blood vessels.
‘They’re bleeding massive!’ came the envious sigh.
Carefully, I placed the jaws of my shiny new emasculators around the vasculature and squeezed hard until the handles met and the slow crunching sound was replaced by a quiet thud as the testicle dropped to the ground.
Eddie was ecstatic. ‘Ah massive! If I put dat in me sister’s bed tonight it’ll scare de shite outa her!’
He was no less enthusiastic as I repeated the procedure on the other side and was now beginning to look at me with renewed respect.
Before I knew it, my first horse castration was completed. I looked contentedly at the still-staggering gelding that stood before me and even if the surroundings were not quite what I had anticipated, no audience could have been more enthusiastic than Eddie, who was now carefully examining the testicles, one in each hand.
A busy day beckoned and, sadly, I had to bring the show to an end.
‘Right so,’ I said to my new admirer. ‘Keep an eye on him and check that there are no more than just drops of blood. Call me if you have any problem.’
‘No bother so, Doc. Now, wha’ do I owe ye?’ he asked with the expression of a hardened dealer.
‘Ninety-five euro to yourself,’ I replied.
Without hesitation, he sank his blood-stained hand into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of fivers. He carefully counted out nineteen of them, pausing to lick his counting finger between each note.
‘Ninety-five, so,’ he said, slapping the wad into my palm and completing the deal. He hesitated for a moment and then decisively grabbed another note and stuffed it into my hand. ‘And dat’s for yourself, luv.’
I tried not to insult his magnanimous gesture by laughing, but the sight of the serious expression on the spiky-haired, freckle-faced youngster was too much and I had to turn away as I pocketed the notes.
This time he led me out through the side passage and watched admiringly as I packed my equipment into the boot of the car.
‘Well, good luck so, Eddie, see you again,’ I called out.
‘D’ye know wha’ it is, Doc?’ he said, and paused as I awaited the verdict from my young client. ‘Yer a mad feckin’ bitch, that’s what ye are!’ he affirmed, with deep admiration glistening in the depths of his young eyes.
THE STUDENT VET
CHAPTER ONE
SEEING PRACTICE
I spent my first week in a veterinary practice as an innocent fourteen year-old when I was both honoured and thrilled to be allowed to clean out the cattery in a local small-animal practice. To handle an animal that was under the care of a vet seemed such a wonder and even an afternoon spent folding and enveloping invoices left me deliriously happy that at last I was on my way.
Watching my first cat spay from a sterile distance, I was so chuffed you could well believe I had done the surgery myself. So awed was I by the experience that I was totally dumbstruck when the vet asked me if I would like a cup of coffee and I nodded my assent even though I hated coffee at the time.
Much and all as I would have loved to go back, I didn’t want to tempt fate by preparing myself for a career that might never be mine. It wasn’t until my third time repeating the Leaving Certificate in search of those elusive points, that one of the teachers in the school, probably sensing my end-stage frustration as I ploughed my way through yet another Shakespearean play, put me in touch with Finbar McCarthy, her brother-in-law, a vet who had a large animal practice up in the northernmost tip of Louth.
As it was too far to travel, I was to stay with the family for a week – the week I should have been preparing for my third set of mock Leaving Cert exams.
Arriving at the red-brick house for the first time, I wondered if this was the surgery, but was soon shown the purpose-built shed that served as a clinic for the local animal population.
‘It may not be as fancy as some places, but it does the job all right,’ said Finbar, obviously pleased with his set-up.
He brushed away my halting thanks. ‘No, it’s I should be thanking you,’ he assured me kindly. ‘It’s not everyone who wants to help out at this time of year. My own kids saw sense years ago,’ he laughed, obviously well reconciled to the fact that they were not going to be following in his footsteps.
Our first call was to a ramshackle farmyard, inhabited by a weather-beaten old farmer and his herd of forty or so sucklers. It was the first time I had come into such close contact with cattle and I kept a low profile as I watched Finbar and the experienced stockman pick out the sick cow from the herd and pen her up against the shed with an old gate. One of the older cows, obviously noticing my inexperience, frisked up to me and then scampered off with an indignant bellow as Finbar shooed her away. I tried to look busy inspecting the back of the shed door that I had dived behind for cover.
‘Take her temperature there,’ Finbar asked me, once the patient was confined. I thanked God that I had watched enough James Herriot films to know where to put the thermometer, but it wasn’t as easy as it looked to pull up the heavy tail which seemed to be welded to the cow’s rear end. I reached further down to grab the bit that was swishing violently, generously christening my spotless wet-gear with a liberal spattering of farmyard manure, and worked my way up, pausing briefly before cautiously inserting the thermometer. So far so good, I thought.
Finbar concentrated as he to listened to the cow’s enormous chest with his stethoscope, and I watched expectantly, hoping he might offer to let me listen too.
A noise from behind alerted me and I watched in horror as the cow lifted her tail and squirted a stream of greeny-brown faeces in an arc behind her, expelling the thermometer along with it. There it lay, in a pile below her, just the tip of the glass sticking out. Tom let out a roar of laughter.
‘Well, that’s one trick ye’ve learnt today anyway!’ he declared. ‘At least, it was well protected.’
Sure enough, it was still intact as I gingerly retrieved it from where it had fallen. Thankfully, Finbar hadn’t noticed my blunder as by now he was busily milking out the udder.
‘Have you ever milked a cow, Gillian?’ he called out from underneath.
Feeling a bit foolish, I had to admit that I hadn’t.
‘Well, isn’t now the very time to learn? Su
re, maybe Tom could give you a demonstration while I go to the car for some antibiotics.’
Tom proceeded to explain, with surprising patience, how to close off the top of the teat between the thumb and first finger while squeezing the lower part with the remaining fingers. Although my first few attempts were awkward and clumsy, by the time Finbar returned, I was happily spraying away, delighted to have mastered this new skill so swiftly.
‘Go aisy on her there, or there’ll be none left for the calf,’ teased Tom.
‘Well, have you come to a diagnosis yet there, Doctor?’ Finbar inquired of me, winking at the stockman as he did so. Observing my blank face, he continued: ‘Try milking the other teat.’
I grasped it in my hand and noticed that it seemed a lot warmer than the first one. I attempted to follow the same procedure only to find that, try as I might, I couldn’t get any milk out. After a few attempts, a clot burst out followed by some foul-smelling watery fluid. I jumped back as the cow kicked indignantly.
‘Well, there you are now,’ Tom announced triumphantly, ‘your first diagnosis of mastitis!’ I was glad that he had clarified the matter for me!
The next case, Tom informed me, was a heifer who had held her cleanings. I nodded sagely at this piece of information, although I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
As the skittish young beast ran up to us, I saw a long trail of what looked like half her intestine hanging out behind her. I was astonished that Finbar didn’t appear to be overly concerned by what surely must be a hopeless case. He pulled on a large plastic glove and then another and having lubricated his gloved arm, inserted it into the heifer’s rear end. I watched in disbelief as he gently manipulated the putrefied mass and slowly, it stretched to the ground before dropping altogether from the cow. The smell was overpowering and I had to move away and take a few deep breaths before I could be sure I wouldn’t start to retch.
