A Yorkshire Vet Through the Seasons

by Julian Norton

  I gave Cinderella an epidural so she would relax from her incessant but unproductive and unhelpful straining. This was critical, as it allowed me to push the cria back a little, giving me space to manipulate the back feet into position. With extreme caution, I managed to turn the feet to where they needed to be, thankfully without inflicting any damage. Finally I could start to pull. At this point it is important to be quick, because once the umbilical cord breaks, the newborn takes its first gasp. This is fine if it is coming forwards, but if it is coming out backwards, it could breathe in a lungful of amniotic fluid rather than air. As I pulled the cria out, back legs first, the enormous length of its limbs became greatly exaggerated, partly because I was pulling quite hard and partly because the slimy mucous covering its entire body slicked down its woolly fleece and made it appear even more lengthy. The baby just kept coming and all I could hear myself saying, rather ridiculously, was, ‘Blimey! Look how long it is!’

  The cria was a female, and was quickly christened Florence – Jackie already knew what she would call it. She was always prepared, but it was relief that was her overriding emotion as I gathered my kit. She gave Cinderella a hug and then looked at me saying, ‘I don’t know how you did that, Julian!’ I expected a hug too, but it didn’t happen. I think I was too slimy!

  * * *

  ‘Kneepads’ the goat was a regular patient and typical of the changing demographic of our large animal patients. His previous owners had sold their farmhouse between Thirsk and Ripon in the summer of 2001 to a couple from London. The solicitors had done their bit and the move was going smoothly. The same could not be said for the workings of the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (MAFF). The countryside was ravaged by foot and mouth disease. Movement restrictions, aimed at reducing the spread of the highly virulent virus around the country, meant that ruminants could only be moved under licence from MAFF. Kneepads could not leave the farm. So, when Hannah and her husband made their move from London to their new house in the country, they also inherited a goat. They didn’t really know much about goats.

  One Saturday visit read succinctly: ‘Visit goat – completely tangled in wire.’ Whilst this was not really a veterinary emergency, the untangling of a goat in the middle of a sunny field with Kneepad’s new owners was an entertaining way to spend an hour. And it was by no means the first of such visits. Kneepad’s recent clinical notes painted a picture:

  Visit goat to trim feet. Unable to catch.

  Visit goat: check horns. They are fine.

  Visit goat: milk coming out of udder for no apparent reason.

  Visit goat: eaten gardening gloves.

  These jobs were not particularly technical, but they made for a pleasant (if slightly frustrating) pastime. Luckily, on this occasion, I managed to unravel the goat from the wire without too many problems.

  The height of Kneepad’s notoriety at Skeldale, however, came the following summer. The naughty goat had broken into the shed where the sheep nuts were kept (Hannah also kept two sheep, to keep the grass down in the paddock and as company for the goat). Kneepads had greedily eaten as much as he could manage and he now had terrible stomachache followed by bad diarrhoea. He was suffering from a condition called ruminal acidosis. This is the result of concentrated food, like sheep nuts, being fermented rapidly in the rumen, and the symptoms can range from being very mild – like indigestion – to very serious or even life-threatening. Hannah phoned the surgery for advice and spoke to Sue. I didn’t know what had happened, but I could hear the vet end of the conversation, which went a bit like this:

  ‘I see. That is a very greedy goat, then. He sounds like he has developed something called ruminal acidosis. Have you got any bicarbonate of soda in your kitchen cupboard?’

  I knew exactly what Sue had in mind, but I also knew that Hannah would be baffled. Was baking the solution to Kneepads’ tummy ache? Did he need cake? Luckily, Sue was quick to explain. The plan was not to make buns for Kneepads, but to mix a tonic for the goat, using the bicarbonate of soda. This alkaline solution would then counteract the acidity in the rumen, caused by the excessive fermentation of the sheep food. Sue continued to give clear instructions.

  ‘Right, that’s good.’ There had obviously been a positive response to the request for bicarb. ‘You need to mix about two teaspoons with water in an empty wine bottle. Shake it up until it has dissolved and then use it to drench the goat.’

  There was clearly a surprised silence at the other end of the phone.

  Sue continued, as she rolled her eyes, ‘Trust me. It’s what you need to do. It will help. I’m just about to start evening surgery, but give me a ring in an hour or so if he’s no better and I can come and have a look. It’s easy to do, but drench him now. It’s sure to help. You can’t go wrong. As long as you pour it nice and slowly.’

  Sure enough, when evening surgery had finished and a few of us were getting ready to go for a quick pint in our favourite pub, the Blacksmith’s Arms, Sue was heading out to see the goat.

  ‘I’m off to see this blooming goat. It’s got acidosis and the owners haven’t got a clue. They’ve asked me to go out – it’s no better.’

  ‘Never mind, Sue,’ I commiserated. ‘Call in at the Blacksmith’s after you’re done. We’re off for a quick drink. We’ll be sitting out the back – it’s a lovely evening for it. I’ll get you a gin – you look like you’ll need it!’

  Forty-five minutes later, Sue appeared in the beer garden with a massive grin all over her face and an amusing story to tell.

  ‘The goat lady met me as I got out of my car and I could tell she wasn’t very happy. She said, “I’ve done as you said, but it has made absolutely no difference. Come and have a look.” So I followed her around the corner and into the shed. The goat was standing there, looking at me with his head on one side. His abdomen was still bloated and he was soaking wet! She’d poured the whole mixture all over him! He looked quite confused and his ears were drooping. I shouldn’t have, but I just burst out laughing there and then!’

  Sue had failed to explain that ‘drenching’ a goat (or any other farm animal, for that matter) is the process of tipping the mixture, remedy or tonic down its throat, rather than drenching it in the manner one would become drenched by standing out in the rain. No wonder Kneepads was not feeling better after his drenching – it was more of a soaking! Hannah had learnt another lesson in farming, and Sue had realized that some of our newer large animal customers needed more guidance than others.

  The Great Yorkshire Show

  The summer of 2015 was proving to be one full of hurdles for Martin and his herd of Dairy Shorthorn cattle. He had all his hopes pinned on ‘Empress’, his best cow, to win ‘Best in Class’ in the Junior Cow category at the Great Yorkshire Show. He had shown her to me proudly earlier in the year, when I had visited to scan some of his heifers for pregnancy.

  He explained how critical her calving date was in relation to the timing of the show.

  ‘If she calves at just the right time, she’ll have the right amount of nature in her bag. It’s all about the nature, you see. If it comes right, she’s got a chance of winning.’

  I had never heard the term ‘nature’ in this context before, but I assumed it described the amount of filling or swelling of the udder. He went on, ‘So, Julian, what you tell me with your scanner today is of critical importance to me.’

  Martin was almost hopping from foot to foot as he ushered the heifers into position, so I could scan each one in turn. I worked my way down the byre, ticking each one off as I checked it for pregnancy. They were all pregnant. Finally, it was the turn of Empress, a lovely-looking golden brown and white cow, fastened up by halter at the end of the row.

  I had encountered Empress for the first time shortly after the Great Yorkshire Show a year earlier. Martin’s hopes for her were dashed when the veterinary surgeon on duty at the show diagnosed that she was suffering from a displaced abomasum. This is a condition whereby the fourth chamber of the stomach
floats up into the wrong position and becomes trapped between the rumen and the body wall. It can go unnoticed for a while, but eventually causes the cow to go off her food and lose condition. Empress wasn’t particularly poorly, but Martin was forced to take her home without so much as setting foot in the show ring. He called me in straight away to operate to correct the problem. The procedure went smoothly. I repositioned her displaced stomach back where it was supposed to be, in the lower right-hand part of her abdomen, and stitched it securely in place. Before long, she was eating and ruminating normally and – critically for her chances in the show ring – her wounds had healed up perfectly, with no trace of a scar.

  Martin could hardly watch while I carried out Empress’s pregnancy test. I inserted my lubricated probe, found the uterus and peered at the image on the screen of the scanner.

  ‘Good news, Martin!’ I announced. ‘She’s in calf and about ten weeks. That means she should calve at the end of June.’

  As I looked up from the screen, I could see Martin jumping up and down with excitement and delight. He punched the air and high-fived Vladik, his Latvian assistant. It is normal for farmers to be pleased to hear the news that a cow is pregnant, but Martin’s excitement was on another level. Vladik was a loyal helper, but often struggled to understand exactly what Martin was saying and I was not convinced that he knew the reason for Martin’s ecstatic joy.

  Once he had stopped jumping up and down, Martin confirmed that this calving date meant that Empress’s perfect udder would be at just the right tightness (or ‘nature’, as Martin referred to it) to impress the judges at Harrogate. It would put her at a significant advantage in the ring. The odds of winning were now stacked in her favour, provided she stayed healthy, calved without any problems and reached peak condition in time for the important date at the beginning of July. It was Martin’s dream to follow in his uncle’s footsteps and win the title of Dairy Shorthorn Champion at the Great Yorkshire Show. It had taken him nearly twenty years to get to this point and he sensed that the fulfilment of his dream was now within his grasp.

  Needless to say, I visited Empress many times throughout the rest of the year, keeping a close eye on her health, in the run-up to the prestigious show. She calved uneventfully, although Martin had many sleepless nights, constantly checking to ensure she was not in trouble. Four days after she had calved, though, I received a frantic telephone call.

  ‘Julian, I’m worried. It’s Empress. She’s not cleansed,’ said Martin. After calving, Empress had not passed the afterbirth. This can lead to serious illness and Martin knew this all too well. ‘Now she’s gone right off her cake. Her milk’s dropping right off too. Can you come and have a look? I’m worried she has got another twisted stomach. Can you come now?’

  I tried to reassure him. ‘I’ll be right there, Martin. Don’t worry. I’m sure we can sort her out.’

  I could hear the worry in his voice but I knew that it was very unlikely that her stomach had displaced again. I had sutured it in position securely and I was sure it could not have come undone. I’d never known this happen before and I had done the procedure many times.

  Martin met me halfway down the drive of the farm and talked constantly as we walked into the dark byre where Empress was penned with her calf. I could see immediately that she was not well. Her eyes were dull and her sides were hollow rather than showing the healthy roundness that accompanies a full rumen.

  ‘Can we get her in the crush, Martin?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course we can.’ Martin sprang into action. ‘Vladik, Vladik! Come here! Help me get Empress into the crush! Come on, Vladik, let’s get a move on. You push and I’ll pull!’

  Within minutes, Empress found herself standing in the cattle crush, the same one that she had been standing in nearly a year ago as I rummaged around her insides. We all hoped I would not need to do the same today, as this would put an end to her chances of becoming a champion.

  Luckily for Empress and for Martin, the abomasum was exactly where it should have been (and exactly where I left it). There was not a trace of the telltale ‘pinging’ sound that all large animals vets know so well, and is a sure sign of a displaced stomach. We all (including Vladik, even though he still didn’t really know what was going on) breathed a sigh of relief. I checked her temperature. It was high but not dangerously so. Then I felt inside her vagina with my gloved hand. Sure enough, her cleansing – the remains of the placenta, which had attached her calf to the inside of her womb during pregnancy – was still partially attached. It was smelly and beginning to decompose. This was the cause of her ill health and needed to be removed. With a gentle pull, it slid out easily and I placed a handful of antibiotic pessaries inside, to treat the infection. A couple of injections later and with the rotting membranes on the floor of the barn rather than sitting inside her uterus, I was confident that Empress would be fine. Martin was relieved, but I knew that, even with the enhanced feeding regime that would now be put in place, his hopes of winning the top prize had been severely dented. The show was only two weeks away. His beloved cow would be safe, which was the most important thing to him, but would she pick up enough condition and would her udder recover the required ‘nature’ to clinch the red rosette? Only time would tell.

  As I left the farm, I promised Martin I would be at the ringside to see Empress in all her glory in two weeks’ time at the Great Yorkshire Show, but as a spectator rather than a vet.

  Two weeks later, even in the middle of a heaving Harrogate show ground, Martin was not difficult to find. I followed the signs to the area designated for dairy cattle. Normally, my first instinct would have been to head straight to the beef section. I always think that beef cattle are much more handsome and impressive to look at than the skinny, catwalk types of dairy cow, which often give the impression that they would be blown over by a strong gust of wind. I skirted past these dainty black and white size zeros and, when I found the Dairy Shorthorn area, there was no missing Martin and his entourage. Deck chairs had been arranged in a long phalanx down the middle of the building for all of Martin’s friends and helpers. Wendy, the cow beautician from West Yorkshire, had been busy during the small hours and Empress looked a picture. Her hair was neatly trimmed, her topline was immaculate and her udder looked full of nature. I could see, though, that despite the extra food she had been given over the last fortnight her recent illness had taken its toll – the bones on her back and around her tail-head protruded just a hint more than they should. But, despite this, Martin was standing next to her like a proud father.

  I negotiated my way around the other groups of farmers, still trimming and brushing their cows, and made my way over to Martin and his group. He was fastidiously fluffing up Empress’s tail using a special tool for the job.

  ‘Morning, Martin. How are you feeling today?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Julian, I’m nervous. Confident but nervous.’ Martin’s tone told me exactly how anxious he was. ‘She looks well, and she’s healthy and happy, her bag’s full of nature – but whether she’ll win, Julian, who knows? We’ve done our best, but once we go into that ring, it’s down to the judges.’

  Martin turned back to Empress, and threw up his hands in horror.

  ‘Oh, shit! Vladik, pass me that paper towel. Empress has crapped all down herself!’

  The immaculate cow had raised her tail and relieved her bowels, yet again. Maybe she was feeling the nerves, too?

  Vladik put down the broom that he had been using to tidy up the straw in the cow’s bed, and came to help clean the cow’s bottom. Vladik’s sister, Veronika, had also come along to give moral support, and she sat on one of the deck chairs, eating an ice cream. Her filmstar good looks were partly hidden by an enormous pair of round, black sunglasses and it was an incongruous sight – the juxtaposed images of a model on a fashionable beach in the South of France mixed with a holidaymaker on Scarborough seafront, with the donkey that might have been standing by having been replaced by an immaculately presented Da
iry Shorthorn!

  I had met Veronika before, when I had treated her cat Lucy, who had been suffering from a severe form of cancer. Veronika was emotionally traumatised by Lucy’s illness, not only because of her devotion to her pet, but also because she believed that a pet’s illness foretold of similar misfortunes that were in store for its owner. It had been a difficult time. I went over to talk to her, hoping that I would not rekindle sad memories of her cat.

  ‘Good morning, Veronika. Empress looks very well today. Fingers crossed!’ I offered.

  ‘Empress very pretty cow. They all very pretty cow,’ she replied in her flat, heavy Latvian accent, between licks of her ice cream.

  ‘Yes, you are right. They are all very pretty cows.’ And with this I knew our conversation had come to an end.

  I said goodbye to Martin and his gang, wishing him the very best of luck before heading off to explore the show. I made sure I was back in time to watch the class being judged.

  I know quite a lot about cows, but I am always flummoxed by the criteria used by the judges, as they stare silently from under their bowler hats at the magnificent cattle processing round and round the show ring. Today, I knew that the preference of the judge would make or break my friend. I also suspected that Martin had secretly resigned himself to the fact that any rosette would be a victory, under the circumstances of Empress’s recent illness.