Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  Like many immigrants we had taken that fateful mid-winter holiday. Winging back to England in late spring, seeing those hedge-rows frothing into life, Catching up with loved ones. Balmy outings through hazy sunlit landscapes. We hit one of those vintage summers: visits to ruined abbeys, stately homes. Holiday time, relaxation, no work, no after-hours calls: rose-tinted spectacles.

  For all these various reasons, real or imagined, we responded to a five-year itch and decided to return to England. We thought it would be for good.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Toy Repair Man

  The New Zealand Veterinary Club system was a remarkable institution. Groups of farmers had banded together throughout the country, each with the purpose of attracting vets to service farms in their area. The first New Zealand graduates didn’t escape the doors of Massey University till 1968, and there remained a shortage of farm vets for several years after that. To fill the gap the Veterinary Services Council (VSC) was set up which actively helped vets from overseas, such as me, to immigrate. They also laid down standard terms of service and award-rates which applied uniformly across the country to all vets working in ‘vet clubs’. It was a model system, and it discouraged the rampant exploitation of young vets that was so prevalent in Britain. For older vets it did have its drawbacks and the system has all but folded, but it served its purpose well, and most rural New Zealand townships now have a thriving veterinary clinic. When the club system was strong, and vets were scarce, private practices in New Zealand were obliged to compete with the clubs and employ vets on favourable terms, so it had a beneficial effect throughout the New Zealand.

  On our return to England, by contrast, I was about to find out what unthinking capitalism can do. The theory is to climb the ladder as fast as possible so that you are in a position to exploit the next generation of new graduates, as you yourself have been exploited. The suicide rate in vets in Britain is higher than for any other profession, mostly in younger vets who are unable to match their high expectations with the reality of the daily (and, all too frequently, nightly) grind.

  There was no shortage of jobs. I had excellent references and we had a good poke around various parts of England looking for a position in a mixed practice. Salaries for veterinary assistants were, however, abysmal. At that stage British lorry drivers were on strike for an increased pay award. I recall that they were already earning more than most practice principals were prepared to offer a vet with five years’ experience. I have no wish to detract from the lorry driver’s claim, but most veterinary positions then committed you to a ten- to twelve-hour day followed by a one-in-two to one-in-six (depending on the size of the practice) roster for weekends and night duty. It was preferred that you were married and that your wife would be around, unpaid, to answer the phone if you were out when on duty. These terms were usually accepted without question. I can even be ironic about this by suggesting that it was all part of the privilege of being a vet’s wife. But Viv and I drew the line at the flat above the clinic. The flat where you would be on duty even when you were not on duty, prey to any passing member of the public who noticed the vet sign and decided to drop in at any time of the day or night.

  Eventually we decided on a predominantly small-animal practice in Yorkshire, in a semi-rural area immediately adjacent to Ilkley Moor—as immortalised in that ghastly folk song. The moor itself is a grim, polluted upland, soured by acid rain and blackened by decades of soot from the hundreds of square miles of factory and domestic chimneys in the large towns swarming its southern edge. But this is a point of demarcation, to the north and west there is open country, a corridor to the less crowded fells and dales. Away to the east are the wonders of York, a city full of incredible historical and architectural associations. There was plenty to attract us to the area.

  Craig Harrison, the practice principal, was an extremely progressive veterinarian. Not only did he offer me a reasonable salary, but also—the main appeal—the opportunity to develop another set of professional skills. There were only three of us, so it was down to a one-in-three roster. I failed to realise that this would practically guarantee that I would be called from my bed every third night. Shift workers returning from their jobs in the dark, satanic mills of Leeds and Bradford were not averse to phoning at two or three in the morning because they had found ‘brown things’ crawling on their dog. They were fleas. Once you have swum and clawed your way to the surface of consciousness from the depths of sleep deprivation to respond to a question like that, it is extremely difficult to relax again.

  The public frequently fails to understand that vet’s hours on duty are not shifts. The vet who finishes his evening surgery at 7.25 pm, attends a pony with colic at 9.00 pm (with the expectation that he will be back to it again in the middle of the night) and performs a caesarean on a bitch at 4.00 am, is the same one who fronts up at 8.30 am for the start of another day. For the salaried vet there is no extra remuneration for the inconvenience. It has always been regarded as part-and-parcel of the job. No vet objects to a genuine emergency call out, but it is fielding the trivia from the inconsiderate that really grates. One tends to have an uncharitable disposition on such occasions.

  And now gentle reader, avid consumer of all those vet books, I will let you into a little secret: the results of a survey I have conducted amongst my colleagues. We are not all angels. When we tumble from our beds and get into our cars to attend your dog/cat/horse/cow we do not always think, ‘How blessed am I, for I have been presented with the opportunity to alleviate great pain and suffering’. Or even, ‘How selfish of me to have that pang of resentment. I will have to miss our Johnny’s prize-giving because it’s my duty to attend to Mr Pain-in-the-Arse’s constipated dog, which has been off colour for a week, but is in desperate need of attention NOW’.

  No, sad to relate, most of us (with the exception of James Herriot and Mr Rafferty), sit in the car and, in New Zealand parlance, ‘throw a wobbly’—scream, swear, maybe both. If we are really tired and haven’t the youth or energy for such hysterics, a depressed resignation assails our souls. Rest assured your veterinarian will, having let off the requisite amount of steam, attend your pet with full professional dignity in the former instance, and with monosyllabic competence in the latter.

  Occasionally from the warmth of our beds we will try and defer requests in order to attend animals at more civilised hours. Some calls are for advice only. The story—no, let me admit it, this is an off-colour joke, but it serves to illustrate my point—is told of the client who rang her vet around bedtime because her dog, Roger, had ‘got stuck to’ her neighbour’s bitch, Virginia. For anyone who knows about dogs and dog breeding, or has been brought up on the mongrel-strewn streets of Liverpool, this would obviously be recognised as a classic case of ‘tying’. During mating, a swelling at the base of the dog’s penis effectively locks into the vagina of the bitch preventing a dignified dismount and withdrawal. After dismounting the dog is still linked to his heart’s desire. The very act of dismounting puts the two of them back to back.

  Although this might appeal to the lyricists of country and western music, our two canine lovers have, by contrast, had a satisfying tryst and are now ‘tied’ like a ‘push-me-pull-you’ shunting train. It can take fifteen or twenty minutes for the dog’s tumescent penis to subside sufficiently for the pair to separate. How the course of history would have been altered if mankind were similarly endowed. Instances of couples caught in flagrante delicto would be common place. The whole pace and thrust of bedroom farces would be changed.

  When Mrs Innocentia phones Mr Hardoneby, her long-suffering vet, he explains to her briefly that what is happening between Roger and Virginia, is perfectly normal and that if she waits a little while all will be well. Perhaps he should have explained things a bit more fully, but, as you shall see, he has other things on his mind. Ten minutes later the phone rings again.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again Mr Hardoneby, but Roger’s still stuck to Virginia.’


  There is a pause at the end of the line, as Mr Hardoneby’s mind makes a quantum leap back into the real world.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Mrs Innocentia. You put the phone down now and when I ring back put me onto Roger.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s going to help.’

  ‘Well it’s just worked for me!’

  If you want to get the best out of your vet my recommendation is to lie. Psychologists have determined that even the most honest of us lie around a hundred times a day, perhaps starting with ‘Good morning’. It’s amazing how incredibly helpful it is if that midnight request is prefaced with, ‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but …’ Lies in these instances are important social lubricants. Civilisation would disintegrate without them. The person who interrupts your sleep with a blunt ‘I’ve got a dog I want you to look at’ is at grave risk of adding to his bill unless he is subsequently appreciative of your sacrifice, or due allowance can be made for his loss of manners owing to the stress of a genuine emergency. It therefore, literally, pays to be polite: in my book anyway. Being assertive is all very well, but I do try to do my part in ensuring that the meek shall inherit the earth.

  Vets have to balance conflicting moral pressures. The difference in approach required by farm-animal and small-animal clinicians is a prime example. A cynic once distilled this into a simple philosophy: as a farm vet you are helping your clients to make more money; in small-animal practice you are a toy repair man. In mixed practice you have the challenge of being both. At one minute you might have to sacrifice a sick lamb to establish the cause of a problem afflicting a flock, the next you are using refined surgical techniques on a budgie to remove a tumour. I think the only common thread is that in either instance the task is undertaken humanely. Economics do ultimately govern all farm-animal decisions, and the owners’ wishes underpin all pet-animal work. It is mostly about keeping the client happy. How is it otherwise possible to rationalise cutting a sick lamb’s throat at 4.00 pm, and splinting a sparrow’s broken leg at 5.00 pm? For most of us the interest and variety inherent in a veterinary career more than compensate for the burden of such philosophical dilemmas.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Image Is Everything

  Perhaps I had spent too long in the colonies and acquired bad habits, but it wasn’t long before Craig suggested that I wore a suit to work. A sports jacket and tie would be acceptable in large-animal practice, but he felt that presenting the right image to the public was paramount. In general I agree that cleanliness and tidiness are virtues, but wearing a suit seemed a bit over the top. I still had the suit I had purchased for my university interviews and I was not prepared to buy another. Accidents happen in vet clinics and emptying the impacted anal glands of a dog in a new suit smacked of sartorial overkill.

  This image thing was taken very seriously. One of Craig’s neighbouring practitioners had decorated the walls of his waiting room with thoughtfully posed photographs of himself in a white coat with a stethoscope draped casually around his neck. I was perhaps lucky that Craig did not hold the same proclivity toward showmanship. We donned snazzy blue dentist tops for our consultations, leaving our trousers exposed to all manner of animal detritus that projected, wept, exuded, discharged or splashed in our direction. It was therefore more practical if these were of dark colours, and we relied on the human nose being a thousand times less sensitive than its canine equivalent.

  Behind the scenes, standards were high. Craig employed qualified animal nurses and the latest equipment—ultrasonic dental scalers, electrocautery and an early blood analyser—so that we could get quick results rather than sending samples to a laboratory. Yet, at this time, some British practices didn’t even have a basic anaesthetic machine. I was pleased to be in a progressive practice, and I certainly gained valuable experience in the eighteen months that I worked there. I did not resent fitting in with the cultural ethos of the business and, indeed, I was happy to make readjustments to other colonial transgressions I may have been making. I quickly discovered that these were not merely sartorial. I required some social re-engineering.

  I had been educated in a school where all boys were addressed by surname only.

  ‘Hoffman! Can you tell me whether the word ‘orange’ in this sentence is a verb or a noun?’ Big pause—during which a clearly confused Hoffman, after a series of erratic answers, faces the terror of a caning if he gets this one wrong.

  ‘You haven’t done your homework, have you, boy?’ Pause. ‘Well is it a ‘doing’ word?’

  Hoffman falls into the trap with a tentative, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well Hoffman, come to the front of the class and show us all how to ‘orange’.’

  Hoffman deliberates. ‘I can’t, sir.’

  ‘All right, Hoffman. Report to me at the end of class.’

  We very quickly discovered how to learn from others’ mistakes. But sometimes we were pushed too hard. It was the same long-suffering Hoffman, an unathletic boy, who inadvertently managed to exact some revenge on our PE teacher. With great effort he had lumbered up the bars in the gymnasium and now hung precariously alongside others of us who had attained the same position by climbing the ropes. We weren’t exactly sympathetic to his cause because we had been made to hang from the top bar about five metres off the floor during his prolonged struggle. ‘Mong’, a master with distinctly Sinaean features (and woe betide you if he caught you using his nickname), decided that Hoffman could do with a taste of what we had been enduring. He casually paced up and down below us detailing—ever so slowly and deliberately—what we were to do when we had climbed back down the ropes. Hoffman, even though he had only recently joined our elevated position, seemed to be suffering more than the rest of us.

  ‘Please, sir, I’m going to fall.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Hoffman, your sense of self-preservation is too strong. Now…’ His leisurely dissertation was interrupted by a thud as Hoffers hit the deck.

  Subsequently, there was an enquiry into Hoffman’s broken ankle. It seemed no coincidence that Mong left soon afterwards and plagued us no more. Rumour had it that he became a sheep farmer in New Zealand. I have yet to meet him in Godzone.

  When leaving school, it came almost as a shock to be dignified with a respectful ‘Mister’. But Christian names were only used with caution. To be on ‘Christian name terms’ with someone was a status earned after close bonding and almost exclusively amongst friends, or by used-car salesmen shamefully unaware of social boundaries. After all, we were not that distant from Dickensian days when it was not uncommon for spouses to address each other as ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’. How strange to find a New Zealand where murderers and politicians enjoyed the sweet privilege of first name status and everyone seemed to be on first name terms. New Zealand is manifestly a friendlier society. Brits are definitely more reserved. There are pros and cons. Who wants to be tricked into feeling warm fuzzies about their Minister of Finance? On the other hand, relationships in the workplace are more relaxed if the boundaries are less formal.

  On returning to the land of my birth it felt distinctly odd to be addressed as ‘Mr Hicks’ by the nurses, although I could use their first names. The rules of an invisible hierarchy were rigidly upheld. I could address my veterinary colleagues by their Christian names in their presence, but in front of clients or the nurses I had to refer to them by surname.

  It took a while to adjust back to life in Britain, and it wasn’t just socially. We had selected an area where we could indulge in the England of our dreams. We were within an hour or two of our families, beautiful dales, wild fells and the ancient city of York. We had purchased a house. We intended to settle and make a go of our new life, but after a few months it was apparent that New Zealand had altered our horizons and expectations. Time and again I would return from my evening clinic mentally exhausted. My job was interesting, but demanding. I didn’t have the energy after a week at work to face the traffic jams and drive to York. We visited our parents, but it is always a
mistake to think that you can revisit your childhood. The relationship between independent, adult children and their parents should rightly be that of a respectful and loving friendship. Distance cannot dim it if the channels of communication are maintained, and in our case they always have been. The glories of the English countryside are undeniable, but we had also experienced and grown to appreciate something else.

  As far as my work was concerned I found myself increasingly out of sympathy with my role as a toy repair man. Treating a family pet is one thing, but small-animal veterinarians frequently have to deal with animal hobbyists, be they cat fanciers or dog breeders, and I must admit to being a trifle unnerved by some of their obsessions. The further we move from the original working purpose of the animals in our lives, the more unbalanced we become in our attitudes towards them. Vets frequently have to deal with raving nutcases; those people you read about with seventeen cats in their houses are not uncommon. The mentality of those who breed animals with gross anatomical deformities for the novelty of their appearance, and then devote weekends to primping them up and exhibiting them at shows, also disconcerts me. If I look objectively at the surgical and medical interventions required to keep some of these monstrosities alive in a world where such resources are in short supply, even for humanity, I only see the manifestations of a sick society. I was out of sympathy with Fru-Fru’s owners mincing along the city pavement, with him in his poodle trim and tartan coat. I wanted to get back to the real dogs: Fleur, Jake, Rak, Wag, Gin, Tug, Dart, Teak, Sky. Dogs that have a respectful working bond with their shepherds. Dogs eager, even joyful, at their work, as they drive streams of mustered sheep from their rocky ridges and through the tawny tussock.