Vet on the Loose

by Gillian Hick

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I was at an important meeting in Dublin and got delayed. I’m Brian – Mrs Trooper’s son,’ he added, holding out a hand, looking slightly conspicuous in his suit and gleaming wellies.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your mother,’ I began awkwardly. ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s doing just fine,’ he assured me in a smooth voice. ‘It was only a minor stroke. She’s recovered well, thank God. Maybe in the end it was just as well. We worried about her on her own all the time since my father died. She had this crazy notion that she would stay up here on her own but now that she’s had this stroke, we’ve made our minds up. She’s getting the best of care. A very nice nursing home in Dalkey. Costs an arm and a leg, of course, but still, it’s for the best.’

  A few weeks later, I saw a death notice in The Irish Times: ‘Trooper (née Foley), Frances, (Late of Ballybreathnach, Co. Wicklow). Died peacefully in the Convent Garden Rest Home, Dalkey. Sadly missed by her loving sons, daughter and grandchildren. May she rest in peace.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A TALE OF TWO SHEEP

  If I ever had to make a choice between all the domestic animals, what I would least like to be is a sheep. Although there are some notable exceptions, in general sheep tend to fare much less favourably than their bovine counterparts due to their considerably lesser individual value. And whenever market prices fall, things only get worse.

  The first spring that I spent working in Riverdale Veterinary Clinic with Seamus and Arthur, things were particularly hard. Armed with an academic knowledge of sheep medicine and, to a lesser extent, of sheep surgery, I prepared myself for the onslaught of the lambing season – only to be disappointed. In a climate where the subsidy was worth more than the animal which, in turn, was worth less than the cost of a vet’s visit, I found that my sheep experience remained scanty. There has to be something wrong with any system where it is more economically viable to let an animal ‘take its chances’ rather than help it along the way. At times it was sickening, especially in some of the bigger yards, to see animals in need of attention that they were never going to get.

  Generally speaking, vets were only called in for flock health problems. Even in these cases, the problem often related back to economic issues. Basic husbandry tasks which previously would have been diligently carried out by any self-respecting stockman, were now being ignored in the hope of saving a few cent from the ever-narrowing margins. The wet winter that accompanied my arrival on the agricultural scene only exacerbated the problem.

  In one such case, I was faced with a flock of ewes which was due to lamb. The farmer had noticed that they were losing condition, but several had died before a visit was deemed necessary. As the farmer herded them in, I couldn’t help noticing what an unhealthy flock they were. Despite the short distance travelled, they were already quite out of breath by the time they made it to the holding pen. Even from my vantage point, I could clearly make out the classic jowl oedema in quite a few of them. I cornered one of the worst-looking ewes to examine the mucous membranes in her mouth which were pale, as I expected. The sunken eyes and the bony frame said it all.

  ‘They have fluke,’ I said to Brendan, the farmer, as he arrived with his last batch. ‘Have they been dosed for it this year?’

  ‘No, I didn’t do them at all, to be honest. With the bad prices last year, and the cost of the drenches, I let it go. I don’t see how it could be fluke all the same. My family are farming this spot for generations and we’ve never had an outbreak that I remember.’

  I had to carry out a post-mortem examination on one of the ewes to convince him. The tracts in the liver were indisputable, as were the leaf-like adult fluke.

  ‘Well, I’m amazed!’ he said. ‘I’ve never come across the likes of it before.’

  ‘You’re not the only one to be caught out this year,’ I assured him. ‘The combination of the wet weather and farmers having to cut back on dosing has done a lot of damage.’

  He gloomily reported to me the next time I saw him that he had lost a few more, despite the treatment. I wasn’t surprised – the advanced state of the disease in his flock was more than modern medicine could cure.

  As a student, I had spent a few Easter holidays working on sheep farms in preparation for the years ahead. I think I lambed more ewes as a student than I have done to this day as a qualified vet. I had really enjoyed the work while still in college but once I qualified, it all changed. Most farmers were fairly handy at the job themselves, so the cases we saw were the real no-hopers; the ones when all else had failed.

  After a while, it got so bad that I couldn’t face eating lamb anymore. The stench of dead, decomposing lambs has a tendency to cling to you no matter what attempts you make to remove it.

  The other problem with sheep was that they were so unpredictable. With my limited experience, I found it hard to say which ones would live and which would die. Obviously, the farmers could not afford to pay for treatment for a hopeless case, but on more than one occasion, the sheep had me well fooled. The only thing that was certain about them was that, despite their outward tough appearance, they didn’t tolerate rough handling.

  * * *

  On the way home for dinner one evening, I wasn’t overjoyed to get a call to Paul Richardson’s yard to lamb a pedigree ewe. I had attended calls in Paul’s yard on a couple of occasions and knew instantly that there was trouble ahead.

  When I arrived in the yard, one look at the collapsed, panting ewe in the corner confirmed my suspicion. I didn’t bother with the usual trivialities. I knew they would be wasted on this particular client.

  ‘How long had she been lambing, Paul?’ I asked, barely able to conceal my disgust.

  ‘Ah, not long now. Not long at all,’ he assured me.

  ‘Since early morning at least by the look of her,’ I retorted, cutting him off.

  ‘Ah, well now, I wouldn’t say that at all.’

  A quick feel inside the ewe confirmed it all: her cervix was tight, only just allowing me to place the tips of my fingers in through it. Ringwomb is a common condition where despite advanced labour the cervix doesn’t dilate, preventing any further progress. At the bottom of the cervix, I could feel the torn tissues where Paul had obviously forced a rough hand through the narrow passageway. Inside, the womb was dry and sticky, as all the fluids had long since drained away. By the look of the ewe, she had had about as much hardship as she could take. I knew that no matter what happened, Paul would blame me. It wouldn’t for one minute occur to him that his own fumbling around inside her, tearing her with his rough hands and leaving it until the last possible minute to call a vet, could have anything to do with it.

  Sadly, caesarean sections, so commonplace in cattle, are less frequently carried out in sheep as the cost of the surgery would often be greater than the value of the unfortunate ewe, especially in a case like this where her breeding potential would now be compromised.

  ‘She’s in a bad way, Paul. She’s torn inside and the lamb is long dead. I don’t know if she’ll even pull through herself. Maybe it would be better to put her to sleep now.’

  ‘Ah, now,’ he said dismissively, ‘there’s not that much astray with her. Sure, ’tis only a small little lamb in her. I had a quick feel myself, you know, and I’d have had it out in no time only I’d to go off to get a puncture fixed on the tractor.’

  ‘Right so, that’s fine then,’ I replied coldly as I stood up, pulled off my long lambing gloves and climbed out over the pen. I’d had enough of treating his animals, only ever being called in when he had messed around with them so much that the case was hopeless.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked, sounding a little bewildered as I made my way back to the jeep. ‘I have the bucket of water ready for you.’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t need anything here.’

  ‘But where are you going?’ He was beginning to look anxious as I opened the jeep door.

  ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘as you said, you’d ha
ve got the lamb out yourself anyway so there’s not much point in your wasting good money on me doing it, is there?’

  His face dropped in horror as I moved Slug off the driver’s seat to get in. ‘Ah, don’t be like that, Gillian. Sure, as you’re here now, you might as well finish the job off.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll leave it in your capable hands. I’m off to get my dinner.’

  ‘Well, to be honest I’d rather you did it yourself, you know,’ he said lamely, trying to avoid eye contact.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said you could do it yourself.’

  With the help of an epidural, I managed to remove the twin lambs through the cervix that Paul had already ripped open. The two lifeless forms were of no use to the ewe as she lay panting miserably in the straw bed. I administered the usual antibiotics and painkillers and left instructions for the next day.

  ‘You could have had two good pedigree lambs there and probably saved the ewe as well if you’d called us earlier,’ I reminded Paul as I left the yard, knowing that I was wasting my time.

  * * *

  My dinner never materialised that evening as I had to go straight back down to the small-animal surgery. A large queue had gathered by the time I arrived, comprising a selection of cats and dogs suffering from a variety of the usual ailments and a trailer with a ewe inside.

  I got through the small animals as quickly as I could, but it was still a fair while before I was able to attend to the ewe. From the surgery door I could smell a putrid, rotting lamb. I was suddenly glad that I hadn’t made it for dinner.

  ‘Well, Freddie, you can smell this one a mile off.’

  At least Freddie was one of our nicer farmers. ‘I know, I feel a bit bad about her. I was off spreading fertiliser for the day. I’d only one or two ewes left to lamb and I thought I’d get away with it but it looks like it’s too late for this one.’

  Freddie was far from being a wealthy farmer but he would never skimp on veterinary attention, no matter how much it ate into his slender pocket. As I looked at the ewe, I knew that he was one of the few that would have brought her in to be treated. She looked like it might be a complete waste of time. My initial reaction was to put her down but, looking at Freddie’s concerned face, I decided that if he could make the effort, so could I.

  I layered myself with a few gloves before putting a hand into her, knowing the smell would penetrate anyway. My stomach heaved as a trickle of putrid fluid was evacuated by my hand. I shook my head at him as I came up against yet another case of ringwomb. I could only get three fingers inside.

  ‘You’re out of luck, Freddie. It’s another ringwomb. You’ve been really plagued with them this year, haven’t you?’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. I think this is the seventh. Is there any chance you could do a caesarean on her?’

  ‘Not a hope! Those lambs are dead a long time and the infection from her womb would surely kill her.’

  With my three fingers, I could just about feel a tiny jaw bone. It came away in my hand as I pulled at it. ‘That’s how rotten the lambs are.’

  The ewe hung her head miserably as I stood up, ready to fill a syringe and put her out of her misery, but Freddie was reluctant. ‘She’s got this far. Is there nothing at all you can do?’

  ‘Well, I just might be able to remove the lambs in pieces as they’re so rotten, but she’s had a lot of hardship. Sheep really don’t tolerate too much.’

  ‘Don’t I know only too well. But can you try?’

  The smell was overpowering as I painstakingly extracted the tiny corpses, piece by piece, through the narrow opening. My hands were numb as I carefully pulled out the tiny bones, trying not to tear the ewe’s delicate passage. Eventually, I could feel no more and I ran a tube into her womb to irrigate it with an antiseptic solution. Thanks to the epidural injection I had given her at the start, the ewe felt nothing throughout. I injected antibiotics and painkillers but despite my efforts, I didn’t hold out much hope for her.

  The next morning, having slept with the windows open to try to dilute the noxious vapours, I woke, as usual, to the ringing of the phone.

  ‘Hope I didn’t get you out of bed,’ said a cocky voice that I instantly recognised.

  ‘Good morning, Paul. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Just thought you should know. That ewe died in the night. A good pedigree she was too.’

  ‘Well, if you remember, I told you she would die as you had left her so long before you called us. And, by the way, in future, please call the office number if you have to. My mobile is for emergencies only.’ I didn’t bother to wait for a reply.

  Seconds later it rang again. The ignorance of him, I thought indignantly.

  ‘What’s the problem now?’ I demanded.

  ‘Oh … em … sorry, Gillian. I know it’s a bit early to ring you.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I replied, embarrassed as I recognised Freddie’s contrite tone. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing at all, thanks. You’ve done enough already. It’s just that I thought you’d be interested to know that that ewe is up and looking bright as a button this morning. Cleared her bucket and everything. Thanks again for all your trouble.’

  Oh well, I thought to myself. Sometimes it’s nice to be wrong.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AS SICK AS A DOG

  I had always vowed that I would never work with a hangover. This resolution stemmed from a morning ‘seeing practice’ as a student after a particularly rough night. I had gone down to the practice feeling absolutely fine, though a little bit tired. It was only about two hours later that the hangover really started to kick in. Being driven around in a car over the rough country roads was doing nothing for me and when the vet stopped off at a small shop and returned with two ‘thirty percent extra free’ bottles of Lucozade, I realised that I must have looked as green as I felt. The Lucozade was quickly soaked up by my parched body and I began to feel a bit more human as we pulled into a well-known racing yard to vet a horse. My job as dogsbody was to trot the horse up and down along the level surface to allow the vet to examine the horse for any signs of lameness. It was only when I started to run alongside the highly-bred animal that I noticed that my legs didn’t seem to be in any way connected to my brain. It wasn’t until my head hit the hard surface that I realised I had managed to stumble over one of the thoroughbred’s hooves. He trotted on gaily without me.

  ‘He must be crooked!’ I exclaimed, before dragging myself off the ground. I made my way back to the car without another word and refused to get out of it again until we returned to the practice that evening. If I got slagged by my colleague, his humour was wasted on me as I lay slumped in the passenger seat, vowing never to go to work with a hangover again.

  However, despite sticking to this wise resolution, there came the day when I felt worse than I ever had with any hangover and without so much as a drink taken. In college, or while seeing practice, it was quite acceptable to miss the odd day if you were sick and crawl back in under the duvet until the world was a better place. However, when you were part of a busy mixed practice at the height of spring, that just wasn’t an option, except in the most extreme cases. The week had started with Seamus having a bad dose of flu. I felt sorry for him when he came into the surgery on the Monday morning, looking worse than any potential patient. The phones kept ringing though, and he slogged on through the day, only heading off to bed after seven that evening, when I offered to cover the night-calls for him. By Wednesday, it was Arthur’s turn and he coughed and spluttered but gallantly continued through the day too, treating sick calves and calving cows. By Thursday night, I was back on call again and feeling somewhat proud of myself that I had managed to avoid catching the dose.

  I had to admit that I felt a little tired and drained, but that was just from trying to cover the extra workload as Seamus and Arthur, being sick, weren’t up to their normal pace. Usually it was I who was the slow one.

&
nbsp; Donal poured me a hot whiskey going to bed and I felt quite sure that I would be fine in the morning. But nature had other plans for me.

  Three-thirty am saw me heading back down the road in the direction of Jack Duggan’s yard: ‘An old suckler cow calving with a head stuck out and making no progress,’ he informed me in his dour monotone when he rang.

  The case was hopeless. The calf was long dead and the only option was to cut up the calf inside the cow to remove it in pieces. Either that or put the cow down, there and then. Jack opted for the former: ‘Ye might as well do something useful now that ye’r here,’ he told me, as though I had nothing better to be doing at that hour of the night.

  It was after five by the time I was back in the jeep, headed for home. Every joint in my body ached with the desperate tiredness that comes with unexpected, unrewarding physical labour at that hour of the night.

  I shivered violently despite the car heater being on full blast, while Slug panted all the way home. I crept back into bed with my fleece over my pyjamas, hoping not to wake Donal as I knew he had an early start in the morning. Eventually, I nodded off to sleep, fully enveloped in two thick duvets.

  It seemed like only minutes had passed when I was rudely interrupted by the shrill ringing of the alarm clock. Donal had left for work over an hour before and I hadn’t even realised it. I lay there for a while, my body a leaden weight. With great difficulty I got up. My hands shook as I fiddled with my shirt buttons and, despite the heaviest fleece, I still felt frozen to the core. I tried to swallow a few mouthfuls of hot tea but gave up with the sharp, rasping pains that ripped at my throat with every gulp. I added two Panadol to the next mouthful and chucked the remainder down the sink. As I made my way out to the car, a racking cough took over my body and I doubled over, gasping for breath. I had got a few miles down the road before I noticed the pounding in my head and the waves of nausea that washed over me. I pulled in to check the day book. It hadn’t even occurred to me to look at it to see where I was supposed to go.