Village Vets

by Anthony Bennett

  I had honestly thought it was an innocent catch-up. But what had Sidney been thinking? She must have thought it was a date. And yet she had accepted. I had actually asked a stunningly beautiful girl out on a date without experiencing any of the nerves usually associated with such a task.

  I took Sidney back to her parents’ farm and we ended up chatting for hours. When I got home I couldn’t get her or the whole misconception thing out of my head. It churned away between my belly and my brain. I couldn’t sleep for hours. It rumbled along all day Saturday as I worked through what was going on and what everybody was going to think was going on. But when I woke up on Sunday morning there was a certain clarity. If that wasn’t a date yet everybody thinks it was, I might as well try to have one. I picked up the phone with a distinct lack of adrenalin. Even though I might fret over a problem for a long time, once I’ve decided that a course of action is the correct way to go, I tend to follow it through without further ado. Be it surgery or a touch-footy grand final, I tend to dive in and get on with it.

  So I asked Sidney out to dinner again. And again she said yes. There was just the matter of where to have it.

  ‘I know it’s not kosher to have someone over to your house on a second date,’ I continued, ‘but it’s probably better to go to your place or mine to avoid any unhelpful scrutiny.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

  ‘How about I cook tea for you?’ I offered.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said a third time.

  I made zucchini conchiglie – a dish of little sea-shell pastas with a lot of oil, parmesan and zucchini. I broke open a flash bottle of red and a pack of candles that I had in reserve in case the power went off. I knew they weren’t the little romantic tea-light ones, but I figured a candle was a candle.

  Anyway, it all went well. That’s where the romance started. And I realised that if that kick back at Barry Alexander’s place had connected it might have changed my destiny. She might not have liked a punch-drunk bloke with a hoof print in his face.

  My luck had continued to hold.

  STITCHING THINGS BACK TOGETHER

  James

  After two and a half years in London having a great time, Ronnie and I both had a feeling that it was time to go home, grow up and get a haircut and a real job. Before we did that though, we bought a campervan, Trevor the Transit Van, and headed off for a big European adventure. We got as far east as the Czech Republic and Croatia and then did a bit of ferry hopping along the Mediterranean.

  Secreted inside some camera equipment in the van’s safe was a diamond ring. When we got to Sardinia we hired a boat for a day. I think Ronnie knew something was afoot when I didn’t baulk at the €200 rental fee. We motored through crystal-clear blue waters to a deserted cove and swam ashore to a sandy white beach. I made her sit atop a beautiful rock before pulling the ring from my boardies and popping the question.

  She said yes.

  And so it was that we returned to Australia engaged. I’d been away for three and a half years and Ronnie just a little less. We’d had the adventure and now it was time to get on with the next stage of life. For me, that meant owning my own business. It was just a matter of saving money and awaiting the right opportunity. In the meantime I began a master’s degree in small-animal practice and got a job at the Ku-Ring-Gai Veterinary Hospital. It was very high-end, with nine vets, visiting specialists and human-grade operating facilities. It had a CT machine in the basement. The caseload was enormous, and they worked us hard.

  When I was on the 7 a.m. shift, I’d arrive in the morning and there’d be up to forty animals that needed to be examined before 8 a.m. Two nurses would walk the animals out to me and I’d look at them and tweak their treatment plans. It was more like a human hospital in that doctors dispensed instructions and nurses carried them out. Then the day would really crank up with new patients rolling in. You had the facilities to manage cases much more intensively and thoroughly. It was tremendously busy and the hours were long, but it was great exposure to that type of care.

  Among the many cases I handled at Ku-Ring-Gai, one stood out. A lovely German shepherd cross called Foster was brought in by a mother and her young-adult son. They explained that Foster had been vomiting a couple of days earlier and they’d taken him to an emergency vet who’d wanted to run some tests but they hadn’t thought it necessary. So they’d gone home and Foster had initially improved. But now he was vomiting again.

  I had a look at Foster and he seemed like a bright-eyed, friendly dog. A skin pinch revealed he was a little dehydrated. I pressed into his abdomen and he flinched, indicating pain, but he instantly reverted to being a tongue-out happy feller when I took the pressure off. He wasn’t going to let a bit of pain ruin his chance to enjoy all this attention.

  He was eight years old, so I thought a tumour was a possibility. I rearranged my schedule and told the owners to come back in a couple of hours. I gave Foster some pain relief, then shaved his abdomen from his sternum up to his spinal muscles and back down his belly. I rubbed off the last of his hair and prepped the skin with metho to improve the contact with the ultrasound machine before applying the gel and gently running the probe over his belly.

  I couldn’t find any lumps, but what I did see was a lot of fluid and a ‘plicated’ intestine. That means the sausage-like intestine has folded up on itself; it typically looks like a collapsed fan. I had a strong suspicion of what was wrong.

  When the owners returned, I asked, ‘Is he the sort of dog that’ll eat anything in sight?’

  ‘No, not that we’re aware of. He’s usually pretty good like that.’

  ‘Has he been playing with string or something similar?’

  ‘No. Don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, from what I’m seeing in the ultrasound, it’s looking like he might have swallowed a piece of string.’ I saw their faces brighten and nod with hope. Surely something so simple could easily be fixed?

  But I had to explain that Foster was in trouble. ‘It’s what we vets call a linear foreign body, and I’m afraid I’ve got to tell you that linear foreign bodies are particularly awful. When a length of string lodges in the stomach and some of it goes down the intestine, that’s when you get into real strife. I think that’s what we’ve got here.’ They nodded in silence, but I knew they didn’t quite get how it could be so dangerous.

  ‘The intestine is a long tube designed to steadily move things along its length,’ I continued. ‘When the string lodges in the stomach, the intestine tries to push it along but it can’t. So the intestine bunches up like when you’re trying to thread a cord into your swimming cossies. Then, because it can’t move the string along, it remains in that folded position with the string running straight through it. Eventually the string saws through the intestine and perforates it.’

  ‘So what are our options?’ the mother asked.

  ‘Basically, we need to open this dog up to assess what’s going on. If it is a linear foreign body stuck in there, it needs prompt attention because left untreated it will kill him.’

  ‘And what guarantee is there that the operation will work?’

  ‘There’s no guarantee that it will save him. Foster is in a lot of trouble, but, if he does survive, he will make a full recovery. He’s only eight, so he’s got a lot of good years ahead of him.’

  We discussed costs and the mother and son talked briefly before the mother came back to me. ‘I’ve got to call my ex-husband. It’s his dog too and I think we all need to be in on this.’

  The son got on the phone to his sister and they had a big four-way conference before coming back to me. ‘We want you to do whatever you need to do to save Foster.’

  It was mid-afternoon and luckily it was a day when my colleague Jill was working. Jill had done a surgery residency and her role in the clinic was to perform very difficult operations, just like this one. She looked at the ultrasound with me.

  ‘He’s been vomiting for a few days?’ she asked.

&nb
sp; I nodded.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this at all. I can’t believe this dog isn’t sicker.’

  We opened Foster up. The first thing we saw was raging peritonitis – infection of the abdomen. We pushed on, down to the suspected root of the problem, where the stomach meets the intestine. I cut into the stomach, revealing a mat of brown string-like material, stained heavily with bile, plugging the stomach’s exit hole. I snipped the mat away and instantly we saw the tension come off the concertinaed intestine. But as the bends softened out, they revealed a line of dashes along the intestine wall where the string had cut through. And we knew there’d be a corresponding line of dashes on the underside that we couldn’t see.

  So we set about the laborious task of cutting out the bits of intestine that were worst affected, some of which were rotting away. We couldn’t take out all of the diseased sections, otherwise the dog would have been left with almost no small intestine, but we nevertheless took out an enormous amount. The surgery lasted hours, and we did all that we could. Suturing, suturing, suturing, making sure that nothing was leaking. It was a marathon, and there were several moments when Jill and I thought we couldn’t go on, but we kept at it and got everything back together. By the time we finished, the gut was a lot shorter, and then we stitched the rest of poor old Foster back together. I woke him up and for all the world he was a new dog. Bright and alert and even more friendly than before. I allowed myself to hope that we’d done enough.

  At first, Foster recovered well. He began to eat a little and keep it down. But a few days later a nurse walked him in to me on the 7 a.m. round. His tail wagged and his head lifted when he saw me, but that couldn’t hide a general flatness in his demeanour. ‘He hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours and his temperature is up,’ the nurse said.

  It was likely that at least one of the surgery sites was breaking down, releasing infection and digestive material into the cavity of the abdomen. So I ultrasounded him again on his still-shaven belly and the infection was plain to see. This was a massive problem, and one that could only be fixed with more surgery.

  I rang the owners and more four-way conferencing ensued. I explained that we had to do another operation to remove the failed section of gut. When Jill and I opened the abdomen we were again up against a massive amount of peritonitis and infection, but now we could see that there was only one area that was causing the problem. We cut it out and stitched the ever-decreasing intestine back together. The operation was a success and the intestine held.

  Foster again showed an immediate improvement, but he was still sick. He remained flat and we could tell the infection was still in there. By this stage it was a massive inflammatory and infectious process in his abdomen. We had fixed the problem, but the dog was being consumed by the peritonitis.

  Foster stayed in the hospital. While we fought to save this beautiful, brave dog, he never gave a hint that he was unhappy. During the weeks he was with us, his complete obliviousness to his own misfortune won over all those who came into his orbit. For all his problems he seemed to possess a saintly glow. We did plasma transfusions and blood transfusions. We gave him antibiotics then more antibiotics, even as the infection continued to consume him. Drains protruded from his belly to draw the infected fluid away. And all the while his tail wagged and his eyes sparkled.

  As our treatment regime ballooned, so too did the family’s bill. We informed them of the costs all the way. They kept liaising with each other and they kept telling us to keep going. They poured their hearts into this dog. They were always in there visiting him, usually separately because the parents were divorced and the kids were off leading their own lives, but they’d often bump into each other by his side. The dog was their touchstone.

  The bill ticked up over $8000 and, after another of their family conferences, the father rang in to tell me they just couldn’t keep going. They couldn’t afford any more.

  I knew how they felt. I’d had my own financial limitations when I’d needed to treat Toby the Wonder Dog, and I’d really fallen for Foster too. I explained the situation to my bosses, who had also been won over by this happy dog who seemed so impervious to pain and misery. So they gave me the go-ahead to keep fighting free of charge.

  Foster continued to wag his tail when he saw me and he continued to perk up and get that spark in his eye, but he never quite recovered. One morning I came in on my 7 a.m. rounds and saw that Foster’s belly seemed more swollen than before. The fluids produced by the infection were getting out of hand. Later in the morning, when I found a minute, I ultrasounded the wound and saw the inflammation was even worse.

  The father had rung in the morning and said that he was coming in for a visit, so I waited for his arrival to deliver the bad news. I had Foster up on a table, where his belly bulged like a pregnant sow.

  ‘I think we’re at a stage where we’re not going to win here. We need to think about putting Foster to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, I think the same, but I’d better call my children and my ex-wife.’

  So I left him to it and went back to type up my notes. Then I saw the father waving me over. I walked up to the table, and Foster was dead. The father told me that he had slipped away while the family were all agreeing to end his pain. ‘I was patting him when he looked up, wagged his tail and went to sleep.’ Dogs usually die gasping for air or struggling to hold onto that last glimmer of life. They don’t die connected and peaceful, as humans often do. Foster remains the only dog I’ve ever heard of that went like that.

  The family all came in and they cried. It was the culmination of a huge amount of effort and stress.

  ‘Oh, James, thank you so much for all your efforts,’ the mother said, barely containing her tears.

  ‘I only wish there was something more we could have done,’ I said, grateful to receive their thanks but acutely aware of that hollow feeling you get when you’re standing over the body of a dead pet. Particularly one as special as Foster. Pets are always special to their owners, but it doesn’t always cut through to the vet. Foster, however, had cut through. And here he was in death bringing this family, who had gone their separate ways, back together.

  They lingered with him for a long time, not saying much. I went off and busied myself nearby. I overheard the man talking to his ex-wife and all the kids.

  ‘How ’bout we get something to eat?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ said the ex-wife, and the children chorused in agreement.

  TOAST IN THE PAST AND TOAST TO THE FUTURE

  Anthony

  At uni, our group of friends had spent every day moving from class to class with each other. Then in fourth year we’d all lived together at Camden as well as going to all the same classes. We played sport, partied, mucked up and ate Toasted Bread Sandwiches together. It got to the point where we didn’t even wash alone. You’d hear someone coming past your room. ‘I’m going for a shower, you coming?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  You’d knock on the next door. ‘You been for a shower yet?’

  ‘Nah, you got the drinks?’ We’d all be in the cubicles chatting away through the steam.

  Suddenly it was all over and everybody went their separate ways. I found it quite tough. In those early years, we’d reconvene in Sydney every month or two, driving from all over the place. It was still a tight group. Over time, however, the catch-ups became less frequent. We clung to one tradition, though – spending a day or two each summer at a cricket Test.

  We tried to go to a different city every year. In 2010, Australia was playing England and we’d all gathered in Brisbane for the first Test. Australia had bundled England out on the first day for 280 but, like us vets, was looking a little patchy in reply on the second day. I was sitting next to James in the sun, a plastic cup of light beer in hand, when I asked him, ‘What are your plans down the track? What do you think you’re gunna do?’

  ‘We’re staying in Australia but, yeah, I don’t know. I don’t really want to stay in Sydney. Ultimate
ly I want my own practice.’

  ‘You should think about coming to Berry. Geoff’s going to be retiring soon. It’s a great work–life balance and a great mixture of work, if you want to go back into mixed practice, that is.’

  ‘Mate, if it was up to me I’d be there tomorrow. But it’s Ronnie’s call too. She’s grown up in the city and never lived in the country. I’m not sure how she’d handle it.’

  Towards the end of that summer, I was hosting a party at Dad’s place in the city, when James pulled me aside. ‘Mate, can I have a word with you outside on the balcony?’ The party was really happening, there were people everywhere. He had a bottle of champagne in his hand. Ronnie followed us out. ‘We’ve talked about it and decided we would like to come to Berry if we can make it work,’ James said, wrestling with the champagne cork.

  ‘Oh, mate, that’s fantastic,’ I said, as the cork popped and flew into the darkness.

  ‘So let’s make this happen,’ he said, pouring. ‘Let’s make it work. Here’s to our lives together.’

  The three of us toasted the future.

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  James

  Every year the University of Sydney puts on a free conference for all the vet clinics that take students for prac work. In 2006, when I was working at Barraba, I got to go along for some continuing education.

  A lot of the vets there were quite a bit older than me, so I gravitated towards Peter Alexander, a vet from Bega who’d taken me in for prac work. I was chatting with him when he introduced me to his mate from Berry, Geoff Manning. I knew Geoff was Anthony’s boss so we had a good old chat.

  As with any such educational gathering, we went out for a few beers, and then a few more. If there was one thing that stood out about Geoff it was how good he was at convincing the drug company sales reps that it was in their interest to buy us beers, dinner and just about anything. So I ended up at the Nag’s Head in Glebe with Geoff, the drug reps, Peter Alexander and Kym Hagon, the vet who later replaced me at Manilla. The drug rep was getting tired and Geoff foresaw a financial crisis. But he managed to persuade the rep to foot the bill for the rest of the night even if he didn’t stay. Of course, we didn’t abuse the privilege and we felt fine for the next day of the conference. Up and at ’em.