by JULIAN EARL
As a vet, it is not only one’s life and limbs that are in danger from one’s patients but sometimes it can be one’s hearing. Of all the animals we deal with, probably the most protective of their young are pigs. These are often looked after by specialists nowadays; vets who spend all of their time treating them. As veterinary students, we were expected to gain experience with a wide range of animals and I worked on a pig farm, having had minimal experience of pigs before this. I did gain the experience of examining the tonsils and throat of a sow far more closely than was comfortable, for me in any case.
On this occasion a sow and her one-week-old litter were being moved from a farrowing-crate, where piglets are born and protected from being rolled on or trodden on because the sow is confined in a metal crate. A short while later the sow was moved from the crate across the farm to a pen where she and her piglets had free movement; rather too free in this case! A couple of us moved the sow from the crate to her new pen and left her there, held inside by a metal barrier about a metre high. We then returned to the crate to collect the piglets and take them to the sow. Our big mistake was to move the sow first. What do piglets do when distressed – for example when being carried under people’s arms? They squeal – loudly. Ear-piercingly loudly, in fact, at the top of their little piggy voices, squealing for all they are worth. I think they were trying to warn the neighbourhood of an impending air raid. I was the first to arrive at the pen, carrying the very alarmed piglets. I walked up to the barrier, when at that moment, the sow ran to her squealing offspring and jumped up to rest her front feet on top of the barrier, grunting and groaning loudly, her mouth agape about fifty centimetres in front of my face. Now I might be daft, but I’m not stupid. I did the only sensible thing possible and threw – no – carefully placed the little piggy-sirens into the pen. They duly ran away to be greeted by their anxious, defensive mother. The second chap, behind me, also carrying two squealing pigs, approached. The sow, now very stressed by the separation from her litter of piglets, decided a different approach might be better. By now, I had moved back about ten metres, a safe distance from the pen, when I saw a pinkish blur as the sow ran at the barrier and, in a good impersonation of a showjumping horse, cleared the barrier without touching it. My piglet-carrying colleague jumped sideways out of her way and then had no choice but to drop the piglets and flee. The farm dog saw all of the excitement and ran towards the sow. Not a good idea. The sow, trying to protect her babies, simply swung her head sideways and upwards at the dog, sending the Border Collie about three metres up in the air, luckily without causing any lacerations with her tusks, which could be effective weapons. The dog was shocked but unhurt, but certainly never dared to approach the pigs again.
Some events can turn out to be, if not dangerous, then certainly painful when you least expect it.
When dealing with farm livestock it is not only the obvious dangers such as kicks from horses and cows that can hurt. Occasionally, there is a fairly routine job that you expect to be safe and relaxing, where nothing is supposed to go wrong, but there is always an exception. One sunny afternoon – sunny that is apart from the solar eclipse that was due to happen on this particular day – I was on a farm in order to castrate about twenty or thirty lambs that were several months old.
‘Can you hold him still for a second please? That’s it, perfect – okay, thanks.’
And off ran another lamb into the slight gloom at the start of this solar eclipse. It started out being one of those pleasantly relaxing summer jobs, seated on a comfy straw bale, castrating a large batch of male lambs, chatting about nothing in particular with the nice Mrs Farmer and her daughter as they careered around the pen grabbing the lambs one at a time for me. Being thoroughly professional, I had to let them do the dirty work grabbing the lambs while I kept my hands clean, so to speak. I was busy loading my syringes with the local anaesthetic as the two of them chased the, by now, suspicious lambs. The whole procedure went very smoothly. One lamb after the next, I injected each with a local anaesthetic then waited an appropriate time before the specialised clamp (called a Burdizzo) was applied to do the dastardly deed. The clamps are designed to crush the blood supply to the testicles but to cause negligible damage to the skin of the scrotum. Everything was going smoothly until a lamb appeared that was somewhat larger than average. In went the local anaesthetic while the lamb sat there patiently. I applied the clamps, and as the Burdizzo jaws closed, to my horror, the lamb jumped, despite the hefty dose of anaesthetic, and on the jump the skin of his scrotum tore quite badly. I stared in disbelief for a second or two, as you do, uttered the absolute truth, ‘Blimey, this has never happened before!’ and rushed to my car boot, for some suture material. After a frantic search, all I found was a surgical stapler, much easier to use than stitching on a struggling patient. I climbed back into the pen in order to repair this unexpected wound, while I muttered some embarrassing platitude. The lamb was safely held tight and I knelt down to effect the repair. Carefully holding the two edges of the wound together with my left fingertips I closed the wound in what looked a fairly neat manner. Neat that is, until I was applying the last staple and, just as I closed the stapler, the lamb jumped again and with that I managed to staple my index fingertip securely to the lamb’s scrotum. No doubt the lamb was uncomfortable but fingertips are pretty sensitive as well, particularly when one has a ten-kilogram lamb attached to said fingertip, bouncing up and down as though on a pogo stick as he tried to escape. I was now faced with a dilemma: should I explain my predicament to Mrs Farmer and her daughter, so losing all professional credibility, or remain painfully silent and look for a discreet way out?
Honesty is the best policy, correct? No chance! I took the only option of trying to white-lie my way out, saying that one staple wasn’t positioned quite right – true enough though, surely – and suggested that I reposition the staple. Much as I like sheep as a species, I didn’t want one permanently attached to my finger, so I bluffed my way through, by looking pointedly at the sky, saying ‘Looks as though the eclipse is about to complete.’ The farmers both obligingly looked away distracted, so I was able to search quickly around in my pile of instruments for my forceps to pry the staple open. The lamb continued pogo-dancing up, down, right, left, on and on – all while still surgically attached to my finger. Eventually, the lamb tired of his antics and I was able to prise my finger free, albeit the tip was somewhat more purple than an hour or so previously. I merely had to disguise my painful fingertip whilst we finished the remainder of the lambs.
‘Will there be any after-effects?’ Mrs Farmer asked.
‘I don’t think so, other than some discomfort, and the tetanus vaccination should be brought up to date’, I advised us both.
Using a Burdizzo can be hazardous in other ways as well. I had a colleague, Mr B – not a very tall chap, who was castrating a bull. Somewhat foolishly he had to crouch down to apply the Burdizzo to the bull. The bull was immediately suspicious and kicked out backwards with both feet at the same time. Kicking in this way is more typical of horses than of cattle. The bull managed to get one leg over both of Mr B’s shoulders, somehow missing the most valuable bit, Mr B’s head, by a matter of a few centimetres. I think Mr B learnt never to crouch anywhere near the back end of a cow or bull again. Farmers are killed by bulls on occasion and this was a very close call indeed.
Animals smaller than bulls, and even smaller than lambs, can also pose a threat. Hamsters can bite, but at least I have never done what one nurse did when she was the victim of a hamster bite. As a reflex, she flicked her hand to make the hamster release the grip on her finger. It worked and, as the hamster let go of her finger, the small creature flew upwards a metre or so, luckily missing the low ceiling. As the hamster fell to earth, the nurse bravely lunged to catch the perpetrator. The catch was successful and the nurse survived without a second bite. The smaller the hamster, the more keen they seem to be to embed their incisors in your flesh. Being a small herbivore, everything bigger must se
em to them like a predator out to eat them, especially if the danger approaches from above. At this point, attack seems to be their best defence. Guinea pigs are very different and rarely, if ever, try to bite. They merely squeal a high-pitched whistle if alarmed, but one’s fingers are usually safe.
Chapter 3
Inappropriate laughter
Never stand behind a coughing cow
When I was still a student, I spent some time at a North Yorkshire veterinary practice to gain experience. On one occasion, another student and I went with the vet to see a poorly cow because the farmer was complaining his cow had diarrhoea. On arrival in the barn, and on seeing the cow immediately pass faeces, the vet’s comment was, ‘Give over! That’s not diarrhoea, diarrhoea is when you have to duck when they cough!’
Can you see where this is going? No? Neither had the farmer, when at that precise moment, right on cue, the cow coughed with explosive force. If you can imagine a jet-washer firing liquid cow poo, then you can imagine the impact this made when it hit the poor dairy farmer. He was, unfortunately, standing about a metre away from the cow’s tail and he took the hit squarely in the chest.
The vet showed extreme self-control as he bit his tongue, clamped his jaws and fought to stop himself laughing, physically shaking with the effort. He decided to sprint for his Land Rover with the excuse that he needed to collect some treatment – a very large cork perhaps – and then struggled to unlock the car doors as his eyes watered profusely and his body continued to shake with suppressed mirth.
I don’t know whether the diarrhoea was infectious but the vet’s laughter certainly was. As soon as his control broke down so did that of myself and the other student. I don’t think that before or since I have ever laughed so much at such perfect comic timing shown by a patient.
Occasionally one wastes time chasing animals that sensibly should not run away. Lambs assembled for castration have a good excuse, but being called to an individual sheep requiring attention should not pose any problems. I have, however, spent excessive hours chasing sheep when they should have been caught well before I arrived. Once we were called by a passer-by who had spotted a single lamb which appeared to be lame in a field. I drove over and of course, the lamb was running loose in a large field, but no one was there to help. I am not sure I really had authority to treat the lamb without the owner present, but I did make a gallant, albeit pointless, effort of running after the lamb in the paddock, hoping I would be able to examine it properly. The lamb, being a timid creature, fled for its life and I had no chance of trapping it anywhere. I realised within five minutes that my energetic effort was unlikely to succeed and had to abandon the chase. At least I provided some entertainment for any neighbours watching.
Similarly, I was once called to a sheep running loose in a field. The pleasant lady owner was present, but sheep are not daft, and the ewe managed to dodge around bushes, around large holes in the ground as the lady and I both hurtled around trying to rugby-tackle the terrified animal. When I finally gathered my breath, I managed to ask, ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
The lady replied, ‘Oh didn’t you notice? She’s lame!’
‘Oh yes? Really? It’s a shame she’s not a bit more lame, then we might catch her!’
Sheep are not stupid, as is commonly believed, but have an all-powerful flocking instinct making it difficult to separate them from their flock-mates.
On another occasion, as a student I was working at a large sheep farm to help with the lambing. The ewes were running outside to give birth. Any ewes that seemed to be struggling had to be caught and assisted. I and another student worked a ‘pincer movement’ to catch one particular ewe that was running around the trees and ponds in the fields. This spring we were enduring torrential rain and this particular ewe had learnt to run around to the other side of a large and, by now, deep pond. My colleague Mr K went one way, I went the other, but the ewe stubbornly refused to be caught. Mr K decided to cut off the ewe’s escape by taking a short-cut. He decided to go across the pond, and leapt from the bank towards a small tree growing in the centre of the pond. He jumped, successfully cleared the water and frantically threw his arms around one of the trunks of a V-shaped tree. I heard an almighty crack and slowly the snapped trunk bent and Mr K started windmilling his arms as he toppled backwards into the water, flat on his back. An instant later all that was visible was his large mop of hair floating on top of the water and then, spluttering, he climbed out, removed his wellington boots and tipped out many litres of water.
I started laughing uncontrollably at which point Mr K shouted at me, ‘It’s not funny! It is really not that funny!’
I gasped in the most sympathetic voice I could manage, ‘No, it’s not, definitely not funny’, and proceeded to split my sides some more.
To his credit Mr K did not thump me at this point.
That night Mr K had to dry his boots on the radiators so he could work in relative comfort the next day. The following day, we had the usual task of feeding and watering the ewes, now in lambing pens inside the barn. The pens were made of hurdles. Mr K was inside a pen with a ewe and I passed the buckets to him. First, I handed over the bucket of concentrated pellets, then I lifted the bucket full of water to pass to him. As I did so, the bottom of the bucket hit the top rail of the hurdle barrier and, with that, poured ten litres of cold water straight down his wellington boots. Apparently, this wasn’t funny either.
I’m sorry Mr K. I have almost stopped laughing now and it is only thirty-eight years after the event.
Another occasion when sheep proved difficult to catch was the day I was called to blood-test about thirty ewes, housed in a barn. This time I had five farmworkers helping to catch the sheep for me. As usual, the sheep fled, but then bunched together at one end of the straw-filled yard.
‘Got you now!’ I thought.
A couple of the men went to the sheep to grab hold of one, but a ewe, with a body swerve of great skill, dodged around the man and ran ahead. The only obstacle in front of the ewe was me, and she did not plan to run straight to me, so instead at great speed she leapt over me. Luckily I ducked and bent double just in time as the seventy-five kilogram ewe flew over my head, which was now about one metre from the floor. She landed on the farmworker, standing just behind me. He had rather a surprised look on his face and hoofprints on his chest. I expect the bruises disappeared after a few weeks.
Chapter 4
Black eyes and embarrassment
Various ways to get injured
As a very new graduate I received a beauty of a black eye, from a Hereford cow with horns about twenty-five centimetres long. I was examining this cow in a small enclosed pen. She was suffering with fog fever, a life-threatening lung disease. The farmer was holding a rope halter around the head and neck of the cow, from which the cow was pulling away. I was standing back, or so I thought, reading the cow’s temperature on the thermometer. The cow was circling round the farmer and shaking her head to attempt to become free from the rope. And, as the cow ambled past me, she shook her head vigorously and one horn hit me hard just under my left eye and I instantly developed a huge black eye. In all seriousness, if I had been five centimetres shorter I would have lost my left eye. The next morning, I attended a new farm, and met for the first time a very friendly dairy farmer called John. He laughed his socks off at this new graduate with a huge shiner of a black eye.
Some six months or so later I went to castrate a horse. In those days, because we used the powerful anaesthetic called Immobilon, vets always went in pairs. This was in case one accidentally injected some Immobilon in oneself and needed reviving. I stood on the left side of the horse and held the rope attached to the headcollar; my boss, Barry, stood on the opposite side of the horse. He very gently injected the drug into the right jugular vein. What did the horse do? Jerk his head away from the prick – I don’t mean Barry, he was a good boss – I do mean the needle. The horse’s head cracked me hard on my right side of my face, giving me anot
her huge black eye. My very first farm visit the following morning was, of course, to John, the dairy farmer. For the next ten years he never allowed me forget my two black eyes. Rest in Peace John, my friend.
One thing about being a vet that they never teach in college is that this career gives one countless opportunities to make a fool of oneself. I attended a dairy cow that had a retained placenta (the afterbirth). This should be ejected a short time after giving birth but dairy cows frequently fail to achieve this. The afterbirth gradually rots inside the cow and is then removed by vets. We have to pull out these putrid, offensively smelling membranes, plus the many litres of foul liquid produced by the membranes slowly turning to a purple-grey mush inside the cow. This job is usually referred to as cleansing a cow, and for good reason. It is a foul, disgusting job, and there was one dairy farmer who would vomit whenever he watched us ‘cleanse’ one of his cows. Although I have never thrown up myself doing this job, I have sympathy for why someone could. Cleansing is such a horrible job and, despite the use of plastic gloves, the foul smell stays on one’s arms all day, even when the task is followed by vigorous scrubbing. Sandwiches tend to taste rather strange afterwards.
