Dogs have been known to bring dung into my car as well, though not necessarily their own. Once I was calving a cow on a cold rainy early spring evening at Mahakipawa, a dairying area near Havelock. At the time I had a Holden station wagon, which I found to be a good rugged vehicle and useful on wet days because I could shelter under the rear door when organising gear for a job. On this occasion, when I lifted the rear door after arriving, the cattle dog thought the boot looked like a nice cosy place to shelter and keep warm, so in he leaped. In seconds he’d deposited an annoying quantity of wet dairy muck all over my surgical equipment, drug bottles and clean overalls. Detecting instant and obvious anger from me he leaped forward onto the back seat rather than jumping out past me. I raced around to get him out of there — and you guessed it he leaped forward onto the front seat. I managed to grab him and in the process of hauling him out he dragged with him my now soiled diary and the various papers that always lay on the front passenger seat. These fell into the mud and rain and became even more soiled. Unbelievably he thought it was all a fun game. The dog raced around the back and leaped in again. We repeated the whole sequence, all the while with Jarred Jenkins, the farmer, thinking it a great joke. I couldn’t find anything to laugh about. My diary — an annual daily diary — was wet and muddy and would remain spoiled and tatty for the next four months. My diary is critical to how I work; as well as important telephone numbers, addresses and personal messages, it contains a daily to-do list and reminders of events in the future. I’m lost without it. Now I would be reminded of that bloody dog every day until the end of the year.
Then there was Roo, my old bull terrier, who used to travel with me a lot until one day he tried to walk on water. Well, dairy effluent actually. In the 1970s the standard of effluent disposal was not as good as it is now, and the wash often just accumulated in ponds next to the shed. These would with time develop a green growth on the surface, which to the uninitiated looked a little like a flat grassy area. However, if the surface was broken the contents underneath were usually black and sticky and very odoriferous.
I wasn’t aware until I returned to the car that Roo had had a near-death experience. I used to let him wander around while I was working and when he got tired of looking for things to eat or play with he would return to the car and jump in the driver’s window if I had left it open. The door bore witness to the fact that it was quite an effort for a bull terrier to jump up and pull himself through the window — the paintwork was well scratched. This time I could see the side of the door liberally smeared with black sludge and on looking in observed him curled up on my seat having made a half-hearted effort at cleaning himself on said seat and door and wherever he could find a bit of dry fabric. The stench that came out of the car was appalling although I sensed he was quite enjoying it. You could see where he had struggled across the effluent pond. He really was a miracle dog — walking on water … well, effluent.
Besides depositing faeces in or on vehicles, animals are also pretty good at damaging them. Every day when I get into my car I think of Charlie McLean’s horse Ted, a friendly beast, who, while I was checking his foot, took a liking to the fabric of my door. I can now rest my arm in permanent deep gouges in the door or admire the chunks out of the rubber seal around the window, and am reminded of the day when Ted tried to eat my Holden.
I told the tale in Cock and Bull Stories about a sheep running to meet me on an airstrip on Malcolm Taylor’s property in Ward, and tipping over my Piper Pawnee causing extensive damage to it as well as a little bit to myself. While a 70 kilogram animal could create a lot of grief for a 700 kilogram plane, a much smaller creature recently also contributed significant damage to the Pawnee. When I landed on a rough old lucerne paddock at Hunter Hills in the Hakataramea Valley, the tail wheel fell into the entrance to a rabbit burrow which caused it to snap off. Or perhaps it was a combination of an old crack in the tail wheel spring, a roughish strip and my technique.
One evening I was heading home from Mahakipawa, driving along the main road east towards Picton. It was the end of a long day and a pleasant evening, with the sun going down behind me. Ahead I could see a black and tan huntaway dog galloping along the middle of the road towards me. The dog was looking sideways into the paddock next to the road where Sid Mead, a local character and very keen dog trial man, was on his motorbike driving a group of heifers parallel to the road. Sid’s dog was keeping a good eye on the heifers and as I slowed down I became aware that he probably hadn’t yet seen me coming out of the setting sun. I slowed down further but still the dog kept up his steady onward pace, paying full attention to the heifers and little on where he was going. Eventually I stopped when I knew he definitely hadn’t seen me. He smacked into the car doing a little damage to the grille but much more to himself. Sid Mead was very angry. His top trial dog had a badly broken leg and he didn’t for one second believe that his prize huntaway had run into me and not me into his dog. I don’t think he ever accepted that it wasn’t my fault. I believe to appease him we repaired the leg at no cost.
Bigger animals can do even more damage. Over the years I had done quite a lot of work for James and Joy Jermyn. James has a wonderful dry sense of humour and Joy makes wonderful muffins. I always enjoyed the Jermyns’ company and my visits to their farm. And James was usually prepared to give things a go if you could convince him of their value. This day we were testing his bulls for the first time to see if they passed a mating ability challenge.
As discussed in the chapter on bull testing, ‘Veterinary Voyeurs’ (page 163), the most important reason for a cow not getting in calf is the bull’s inability to successfully mate with her. This may be due to a damaged penis, arthritis or poor libido. To test for the ability to mate we restrain a cow in a specially designed stall where the bull can mate her without too much stress on the cow. After we had set up the stall James wanted to move my ute and the trailer off the drive for some reason. I was a little uneasy because he wanted to place the ute in the large yard where the bulls were let out after testing. The sexual act can stir up testosterone levels and increase aggressive behaviour even in the most docile of males, but James assured me that the ute would be fine. His bulls were very quiet, he said.
After successfully passing their test, two bulls were let out into the yard, good mates until then, and got into a fine old scrap. The combined force of two bulls locked in combat is awe-inspiring. They become oblivious to anything that happens to be in their path — fences, gates, people and, in this instance, my ute. From my position on the rail I watched with mounting concern as these two gargantuan opponents wrestled their way around the yard. Accompanied by loud bellowing, and clouds of dust and stones flying in all directions, they bounced off the trunk of a large old gum tree, a post which made a loud cracking noise, and then my ute. It crumpled. Bonnet, front mudguard and driver’s door all seriously caved in.
Another year in which I lost my no-claims bonus.
I don’t get too emotionally involved with my vehicles but this was a smart new golden-coloured Holden ute which I actually quite liked. It was the same James who a few weeks earlier told me about the time he saw me arriving in the ute at a fundraising market day at Altimarloch, an Awatere Valley property. There was a good crowd there and I had my daughter Caroline with me. Anyway James was talking to a young lady there who was telling him she had just seen the most awesome car ever, a gold-coloured Holden with a really neat canopy. ‘Gosh, it looked so cool,’ she said. ‘It just glided over the grass and pulled up beside us and then this really cool chick gets out of the passenger side.’ And with obvious disappointment finished her story: ‘But then this really old man falls out of the driver’s side.’
Most rural vets do spend a lot of time in their vehicles and they are absolutely essential for the job. Sadly, but not surprisingly, a number of vets over the years have lost their lives in motor accidents. Tired, rushing to the next job, thinking about our last call or what we might be faced with at the next call can all di
stract us from the immediate driving job.
But to work as a large animal vet we have to get to where the animals are. The long hours in the vehicles, the distances, the terrain and the distractions, as well as the animals themselves, all conspire to have some impact on the state of our vehicles. We won’t, however, call the insurance companies’ attention to this fact.
ADMIRAL JERRAM — PJ
I think I’ve discussed my love of the sea in our first book. That love is deeply ingrained, from early days in dinghies at Waitati, north of Dunedin, where we had a crib, to sailing around the Marlborough Sounds and Cook Strait for several years. I even crewed with friends on a 44 foot yacht, Vendetta, on a 1700 mile trip from Hawaii to Tahiti in 1994, a wonderful experience.
There’s also a bit of genealogy to blame. A perusal of our family history finds quite a few Royal Navy sailors, including two admirals. One of them was the stuff of legend, family legend that is, and our father told us many times of the famous Admiral Sir Martyn Jerram, hero of the Battle of Jutland in World War One. Hero in Dad’s mind at least.
For the uninformed, Jutland was the only really major naval engagement of that sad conflict. The German Fleet, besieged in Kiev harbour by the Royal Navy for most of the war, ventured out into the North Sea. The subsequent battle was a bit of a stalemate, and although the Germans sank more ships, they never came out to fight again. A tactical draw, but a strategic victory for the RN.
I knew little about this as I grew up, just the name Jutland, and the family legend that our ancestor had made a big contribution to the battle.
So when I travelled up to the end of the Tetley Brook Road, south of Seddon, to Ian and Jenny Robertson’s place, I was in for a surprise. Ian, a pleasant smiling farmer, about my age, greeted me in the yard.
‘There’s a bull with a crook foot and 80 cows to preg test, Pete.’ It was my first few months in Marlborough and I hadn’t been to Kainui, the Robertson farm before, and while I always like fresh country, you have to be on your game with new clients. I had a look at the bull, decided it was a developing infection, and gave it a big injection of Penstrep, the antibiotic combination most used then. After that the 80 cows didn’t take long, and Ian and I yarned away as we worked.
‘Come and have some lunch,’ said Ian. ‘Jenny’s expecting you.’
It’s a privilege to be asked into a farmer’s house, and I rarely said no. One of our farm management lecturers at Lincoln College, Gerald Frengley, always said, ‘Never turn down a cup of tea. You always learn a lot about the farmer’ and he was right. The time inside, talking with a farming couple can reveal a huge amount about their aspirations, their understanding of their challenges, their attitudes to many things. I always enjoyed this part of the job, because the relationships PA and I had with our clients was hugely important to our business, but also to our lives in Marlborough. Many of these farmers became our good friends, the Robertsons among them.
I took off my overalls and boots at the car, donned my tidy clothes, and followed Ian inside. Jenny was preparing the lunch.
‘Take Pete through to the other room, I won’t be long,’ she instructed Ian, and we moved into the sitting room. By the door was a large bookcase, and I could see at a glance that all the books were war histories. What a collection! I’d never seen such a good one, and although I’ve now got a substantial library myself, Ian’s was a first for me.
Ian was pretty proud of it. ‘My uncle left it to me. Help yourself to a look.’
I did and it didn’t take long for my eyes to rest on a large heavy book, the spine of which had in bold letters ‘JUTLAND, DECISIVE BATTLE’.
This was it! I knew nothing about the battle, but I knew about Admiral Sir Martyn Jerram.
‘Could I have a look at this one?’ I asked Ian.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
Excitedly I pulled the heavy volume from the bookcase, and thumbed my way through the index. Here it was! P384 … Jerram, Admiral Sir M.
With keen anticipation I found the page, and began to read. It went something like this:
At 1800 hours, Admiral Jerram’s 2nd Battle Squadron sighted the masts of the enemy fleet. Signals were passed to Jerram’s flagship, King George V, that masts were in sight. An attack was urged by the sighting battleship at the rear of the squadron.
Unsure as to whether it was friend or foe, and demonstrating a staggering lack of initiative, Jerram gave the order to the squadron to turn away and retire for the night. The decisive moment to win the battle was lost.
Horror! Trying to look nonchalant, so Ian wouldn’t see my shock, I snapped the book shut, and pushed it back into its spot on the shelf.
‘Find anything interesting?’
‘Nah, nothing much. Good library though. I’m very envious.’
What a bummer. Thirty-two years of legend dashed.
There was nothing to do but head for the kitchen where lunch was ready.
TO CATCH A THIEF — PA
When I first started practising in Marlborough at the Graham Vet Club the cars were set up with radio-telephones (R/Ts). These were a very important means of communication, allowing us to keep in touch with the clinic and the other vets also out in the field. Directing to another call that might have just come in saved us much time and many kilometres of driving. R/Ts are still widely used in many practices although cell phones have superseded them in some areas, including ours.
In those early days the equipment was fairly primitive and prone to breaking down, in part possibly due to the shaking and dust they were exposed to along the many rough gravel roads we travelled. In Marlborough, with several farmed valleys lying between mountain ranges, reception could also be very poor. In those places we would stop at well-known spots where we knew we could ‘get through’ and actually understand what the other person was trying to tell us without countless requests to repeat themselves. While the areas for good reception with cell phones may not be much better, at least a message can be left when calls go unanswered.
Back then we shared a common R/T channel with Marlborough Transport and a couple of other businesses, and the conversations could be quite interesting. None more so than this story from John Smart, my classmate and good friend from South Otago who appeared in ‘Just Do It’ (page 41).
A sheep vet all his life and well-known identity in Balclutha, John worked for Clutha Vets. The practice shared a common R/T channel with quite a few other businesses in the greater South Otago area including Rosebank Davies, the local ready-mix concrete supplier, Milton Taxis and Brocks Transport (later Nyhons Transport) in Kaitangata. Nowadays most businesses have their own private R/T channel but in those days there were no secrets — everybody within earshot could hear what anybody on the channel was saying. This was at times a source of some entertainment and the practice being far and away the heaviest user of the R/T provided more than their fair share of amusing conversations.
In addition to the usual work matters — reporting on the completion of a call and receiving instructions on which farm to head to next — the R/T had other benefits. It was very useful for receiving updates on where traffic cops were hiding.
But the incident that John believes probably provided other users of the R/T channel with the most entertainment came one late spring day in 1988. The day had started off like any other and he had spent the morning out and about on farms doing his usual production animal work. When he got back to the clinic later in the morning the staff were in a bit of a flap. The clinic had been the victim of some shoplifting. It was in the fairly early days of Ivomec Injection, a newly released anthelmintic (wormer) for cattle which at the time was quite expensive at around $450–$500 for a 500 millilitre pack. We all had been made aware that a burglary ring interested in this product was operating throughout the country so most clinic staff were keeping an eye on things. John’s staff were on the ball, had noticed the theft almost straight away and had the good sense to note down the vehicle details as the offender was driving off. Anyw
ay, when John got back to the clinic Paul Winters, their merchandise manager, recounted the details — a scruffy-looking grey-haired bloke, unshaven, somewhat overweight, driving an early model dark green Mitsubishi Mirage, registration number such-and-such. The police had been duly notified.
John didn’t think too much more about it until later that afternoon. He had calls 30 to 40 kilometres to the west of Balclutha into the Tuapeka Mouth, Clydevale area. After attending to a cattle beast at Ken and Allan Rishworth’s and chatting about farming matters and having a pleasant lunch with them he headed back down the road towards Clydevale to the next call. John reckons that when he drove away that sunny afternoon in his comfortably warm vehicle he was in a very relaxed somnolent state and had to stop suddenly as he had slightly overshot the turn off to the next farm. Not only had he almost failed to turn right at the Clutha Valley School but he became conscious of the fact that there was a car approaching that he was meant to give way to. With the nose of his ute a foot or so across the centreline John, feeling slightly guilty, gave the driver an apologetic wave as he weaved past him.
Old Dogs New Tricks Page 9
