by Gillian Hick
I could barely hear him as he whispered, ‘Is there nothing at all we can do?’
I hesitated. My initial reaction was to put Jill to sleep but I was repulsed by the thought of being responsible for the demise of such a wonderful dog.
‘I could try opening her up to see exactly what has happened, but I doubt she’d survive the anaesthetic.’
‘Please try anyway, Gillian!’ he begged.
I ushered Kevin out the door with no more assurance than, ‘I’ll let you know – either way.’
I checked my watch: it was ten past one. I was suddenly acutely aware of my limited surgical skills but at this hour of night I was reluctant to ring for help, especially as I knew that Seamus had worked through until after four the previous morning, while Arthur was off on a week’s leave. The necessity for speed didn’t allow me to think as I set up the warm intravenous drip, infused with steroids to counteract the shock. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I worried about the potential side-effects such as gastric ulceration, delayed tissue healing and increased risk of infection, but I dismissed them just as quickly as I felt that Jill was too far gone to worry about such things.
Cautiously, I administered half the calculated dose of anaesthetic and thanked God for my habit, born of inexperience, of always under-dosing through lack of confidence; within seconds Jill was deeply anaesthetised – any more and the night’s work would have been over.
Having clipped and prepped my sleeping patient, I stood, with scalpel in hand, poised over her still form draped in surgical green. I rapidly incised the thin skin and the fibrous muscle midline. A stream of curses erupted to match the gush of putrid, green-black fluid that sprayed from my neat incision. I was sure I hadn’t incised the uterus and yet how else could I have released all this fluid? I tried to reassure myself that the dog would have died anyway and it wasn’t purely due to my incompetence, as I enlarged the opening and eased out the rotting womb.
With a surge of mixed relief and shock, I noticed a large tear in the cranial horn that couldn’t possibly have been caused by my scalpel. The shrivelled edges indicated that it had been torn for some time, thus explaining the large blood clots. I glanced anxiously at Jill’s chest and was relieved to notice a faint yet perceptible movement. As I groped the stodgy mass, I could feel several afterbirths and one lifeless pup swilling around in the ruptured uterus. There had to be more than one.
As I tried to extract the mass from the abdomen I could feel something hard, just out of reach, under the loops of intestine. Quickly, I fished out another pup. With increasing disbelief, I recovered two more – one from deep down beside the bladder and one tucked neatly under the liver. No textbook could ever have prepared me for this freakish occurrence. I wondered just how long these pups had been floating around, suffocated in their own fluid, as Jill continued to work. I felt a twinge of pity for the four lifeless forms lying on the stainless steel tray among the debris of afterbirths and placental fluid but, right now, my thoughts were more for Jill.
I couldn’t believe that any animal could survive so much. Should I call a halt now? And yet, we had come this far and it seemed a shame not to give her a chance.
I swabbed out as much of the mucky fluid as I could, in order to allow me to see what I was operating on. By now the floor was littered with dozens of soiled swabs as the clinical waste bucket was literally overflowing. It didn’t worry me that I hadn’t obtained Kevin’s permission to remove Jill’s womb beforehand: I was quite sure that under the circumstances he would understand.
The stretched ligament of the heavily pregnant uterus made it easy to pull up the ovaries and ligate them. When it came to tying off the neck of the womb, I laughed grimly to myself, thinking of the tidy diagrams of fancy suture patterns that we had so painstakingly learnt in college, for situations less dire than this. I did my best to imitate the picture as I worked on the rotting tissue and wasn’t surprised when it just didn’t look the same. With dismay I examined the remaining contents of the abdomen, awash with rotted tissue fragments bathed in the green-black fluid.
By now, my back ached with tension and it seemed a long time since I had been asleep in bed. I thought with envy of the veterinary programmes on TV, where a fresh team of surgeons, aided by a horde of trained nurses, would take over at this stage. I shivered as the coldness that comes only with exhaustion penetrated deep into my bones. Tonight, it was only myself and Slug, sitting patiently at my feet, wrinkling her nose slightly when the smell got too much even for her.
By the time I had flushed four litres of warmed fluids through the abdomen, it was starting to look a bit healthier and, taking a last reluctant look, I began the final stitch-up. Jill’s shallow and irregular breathing penetrated my consciousness as I wearily placed the last few sutures.
I seemed to be working in slow motion as I dried as much of her soaked coat as possible. I then wrapped her up in some heavy blankets and propped her up with a row of hot water bottles in the heated kennel. I suspended the remainder of her drip from the hook that served as a drip stand. The rest was up to Jill.
I roughly hosed down the worst of the mess and decided to leave the final clean-up until the next morning, too tired to worry about incurring Niamh’s wrath. It was by now after two o’clock, and I was surprised when Kevin answered the phone on the first ring. I explained as briefly as I could and told him that, although Jill had come this far, I still didn’t think that she could possibly make it. His voice was subdued as he thanked me for trying.
It was almost three o’clock in the morning by the time I got home for the second time that day. Spook and Judy were eagerly waiting at the door, having heard the approaching car. After a quick sniff, Slug jumped up on to the recently vacated couch, worn out by the day’s events.
Wearily, I gave Donal a brief outline of what had happened.
‘Sounds like a nightmare. Will she live?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know,’ I replied gloomily.
I tossed and turned in the bed, trying to relieve my aching back. I slept fitfully, interrupted by nightmarish scenes of drowning pups and dying dogs.
By six o’clock, I could bear it no longer and I got up, not bothering to shower, and drove back to the surgery. I unlocked the door and felt sick thinking of the sight of the dead dog that might await me.
I stared in disbelief as I looked at a thin, but alert, figure sitting upright in her kennel, still attached to the drip, glancing upwards occasionally with interest at the cat who was boarded on the top row. With growing amazement, I checked over the docile patient. Temperature, normal; colour, still pale but with a decidedly pinkish hue; abdomen, no pain or tenseness; wound, looking good.
Over the next few days, Jill improved with a speed that I didn’t think possible. Soon she was home with her delighted owner. I felt overjoyed that, finally, I had, without doubt, saved the life of an animal. So many days are spent administering treatments and wondering what, if any, real effect they will have on the final outcome. On that day, I basked in the knowledge that, without me, Jill would most certainly have died.
I didn’t see Jill for quite some time as Kevin’s farm went through a relatively peaceful spell. Jill, in typical collie form, pulled her own stitches out. It must have been six months later when I pulled into the yard to ‘wash out’ a few cows. I laughed to myself, reflecting that if I hadn’t been able to get near Jill on my previous visits, I certainly wouldn’t get near her now. In her mind, I would be the one who had taken her from her rightful job, confined her in a kennel and carried out numerous unpleasant procedures on her. Still, I hoped to catch a glimpse of her – just to prove to my disbelieving mind that all was still well.
As I opened the car door, I was taken aback as a black and white form shot across the yard, straight to the car and deposited itself on my lap. I stared in disbelief at Jill. She in turn sat gazing devotedly at me, totally ignoring poor Slug who was quite put out by this rude invasion.
To this day, an
y time I go into that yard Jill repeats the performance and I can do nothing without having a gentle nose glued to my wellington boot. In fact, sometimes, on those bad days when everything I look at seems to die, I drive by Jill’s farm just to reassure myself that at least one animal in the whole of Wicklow really appreciates me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE BACHELOR PAD
I remember once, as a student, being let out on a call on a busy spring evening to treat a cow with redwater. The farmers lived in a high-density tick area and they had observed the classic red urine caused by the tick-borne parasite which breaks down the cow’s red blood cells. The diagnosis was obvious over the phone and the treatment straightforward enough for me to administer even with my limited skills as a student. Nevertheless, I was walking on air as I made my way up to the small hill farm. Until now, I had always accompanied the vet but this time it was just me. However, despite managing to do the job efficiently, I thought, the two farmers eyed me suspiciously in stony silence for the duration of my visit and apparently I had no sooner left the yard than they were on the phone to the office to see what time the real vet was coming out.
It was the same eerie silence that reminded me of that day now. Although more than three years later and with a good six months of experience under my belt, it seemed that nothing had changed.
When I finally qualified, I was pleasantly surprised that the local farmers, unaccustomed and all as they were to having a real live female vet, seemed to warm quickly to the idea. After a couple of calls, they even dropped the ‘lady vit’ title and I became just an ordinary ‘vit’. But up in the mountainy highlands, in sparse patches where the hills rose above the clouds, it seemed that the revolution had never caught on.
‘Ballinacarraig, TB-test thirty sucklers’: it had seemed an innocent enough entry in the day-book that morning.
I was lost in another world as I headed up over the mountain, enjoying the tranquillity of the morning. The directions Niamh had given me that morning had guided me to a tiny, almost derelict cottage, tucked into the edge of a steep bank. Looking at it, I found it hard to believe that the three elderly brothers who owned the farm and had been born and reared there still lived in such conditions. As though from another era, the brothers were almost totally self-sufficient and only ventured down to the bright lights of Wicklow town once a month for essential supplies. While driving up the ever-narrowing roadway, I had noticed that the electricity and telephone wires had long since run out and, not for the first time, it amazed me to find people living no more than thirty miles from Dublin without such basic supplies.
My cogitations were cut short as I pulled into the yard. Up on the hill, I observed three bearded men, dressed in identical soiled overcoats and worn boots. They appeared to be quietly contemplating me from the makeshift cattle crush where the herd of sucklers was penned.
Opening the door of the jeep, I called out a greeting, but was a bit taken aback as the three men stared into the distance, seemingly oblivious to my very presence.
Oh well, I thought to myself, in and out, get it over with.
Loaded down with the familiar McClintock TB testing syringes hanging in my belt and the usual array of blood bottles, note-book, pen, scissors and the well-worn callipers, I headed up the hill. As I neared my clients, although by now slightly out of breath, I renewed my greeting. I began to feel a little bit unnerved when there was still no reply. Their silence was in stark contrast to the frenzied yelping of the farm collie as he snapped deliriously around my heels, and the constant roars and bawls of the corralled cows and calves.
‘Right, are we ready so?’ I tried again, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I could.
There was a long pause as the three shuffled uncomfortably, eyes cast to the ground.
Eventually, the middle man looked up out over my shoulder and with the half of the mouth that wasn’t supporting his pipe, growled out:
‘Where’s the vit?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘I’m new to the practice. I should have introduced myself! My name is Gillian and I’ve come to test the cattle.’
I thrust my hand forward to the spokesman but quickly withdrew it as I realised the only likely contact would be from the snapping teeth of the dog as he hurled himself ceaselessly up and down by my side. In hindsight, I realised that he too may have been upset by the rare sighting of the female of the species and trying to protect his territory from the unfamiliar invasion.
‘Well now, thim’s big cattle and I think the boss man should come up himself. ’Tisn’t a job for a wan like yer-self.’
His two siblings mutely assented with an almost imperceptible nod of the head.
The time for patience was over. I planned on spending as little time as possible here, and standing around discussing the merits of the boss was not the way forward.
‘Not at all!’ I cried happily. ‘We’ll manage grand. Now, if you could just start running the cattle into the crush, we’ll be done in no time.’
Loading the avian and bovine tuberculins into the respective syringes, I strode off towards the top of the crush and whipped out my notebook, ready for action, while all the time aware of the silence behind me.
Turning back, I noticed the three men still standing where I left them as though immobilised by fear of this unknown entity.
Desperate measures were clearly called for, so, carefully packing the syringes back into the belt, I hopped over the fence into the holding pen and began to herd the bewildered animals into the crush.
My action worked perfectly, as Mr Spokesman immediately followed me, flanked on either side by his comrades, with a speed I would never have suspected them capable of, as though they were anxious to protect the cattle from me. Satisfied, I hopped back out and began silently noting down breeds, sexes and tag numbers.
It wasn’t going to be as bad as I thought, I decided a while later, observing the rapidly dwindling number of cattle in the pen. Three more crush-loads and I would be on my way. Casually, I hummed to myself to lighten the ordeal, but hastily stopped when I observed the shocked expression on the wizened faces of my clients.
Before I knew it, the last three cattle were in the crush but, just as I was reloading the syringe full of tuberculin, the inevitable happened. The most skittish of the group, a wiry black whitehead, decided that enough was enough and suddenly plunged her way through the rotted planks of the makeshift pen. The splintering of wood alerted me just in time to see her bucking her way up the hill to rejoin her comrades with a triumphant bellow.
Why today? I thought to myself wearily, as I threw down my scissors and notepad to race back up the hill after the escapee. I turned briefly to see which way the men had headed to block the great escape and looked in bewilderment, realising that they hadn’t even budged from where they were standing.
‘Quick!’ I roared. ‘We’ll have to catch her before she gets out on the hill!’
Still they stood and stared.
With a frustrated glance at the fast-disappearing beast, I stopped. ‘We’ll have to get her back. She has to be tested on the same day as all the others.’
‘Ye won’t catch her today,’ was the grim response as they continued to gaze vacantly at the far horizon, now rapidly being approached by the fleeing Charolais.
‘Well, we’ll have to. It’s the Department’s rules, not mine,’ I said firmly, hoping that the reference to the payers of subsidies would help me out.
‘Ye won’t catch her today,’ the most talkative of the trio repeated as though reciting a mantra.
Hopelessly, I threw myself back on the remains of the crush, head spinning with the prospect of a day of irate clients, for whom I would now be considerably late.
On days like these, how I would love to call out the powers-that-be and enlist them in the battle to retrieve this one stubborn cow from the hilltops. Little would they know how one single entry in the testing book of skin measurements before and three days after the tuberculin
injection could cause me such grief. What difference was this one escapee going to make to the health records of the national herd? As my conscience battled with my sanity, I raised my head and saw that the three, oblivious to my anguish, had begun the slow descent down the hill towards the ruin that served as their dwelling place. That decided me.
‘Come back!’ I roared after them, the first raised voice of the day. ‘She has to be done even if it means putting the whole lot of them through again!’
‘She won’t be caught in a hurry,’ came the gruff reply.
‘Well then,’ I said firmly, ‘I’ll wait until she is.’
The brothers paused and glared at me in unison as though wondering from what planet I had descended. Then, wordlessly, they made their way back up the steep incline. As I laid down my testing belt and made to follow, the spokesman half-turned and with a dismissive glance at me, growled, ‘Don’t ye follow, ye’ll only drive them wild!’
Fine so, I thought to myself, impervious to insult at this stage, as I slumped down on the nearest log. Eventually, I heard the roar of distant cattle, accompanied by the shrill yelping of the dog.
Relieved, I watched as they made steady progress down the hill, but just as they came over the hollow which would lead them back into the holding pen, the original culprit turned tail and broke rank, quickly to be followed by her increasingly nervous comrades. Silently cursing, I sank back on the log and watched the three again make their way back up the steep slopes with slow, even steps.
Apart from the time that was being eaten out of my already busy day, the delay was beginning to cause me another increasingly urgent problem. Since before I had got out of the car, I had needed to go to the toilet. Initially, I had ignored the problem, but as time ticked by, the need was becoming more and more pressing.
Of all the problems encountered by a female vet, this is one that can occasionally result in rather embarrassing situations. Despite the odd nudge and wink among the menfolk, nothing is thought of a male vet stepping into a dim corner of a dusty hay shed after a particularly long calving or long-drawn-out test. For the lady vet, however, it would be unthinkable, although on a few occasions one becomes desperate enough to attempt it. More than once, I have sent a surprised farmer off for a fresh bucket of water when there was already a perfectly good one on hand. One gentleman farmer whom I had to attend on a regular basis, seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the delicacy of the problem and on every occasion before I began the job would discreetly ask if I ‘would care to use the facilities’.
