Pizzles in Paradise

by John Hicks

  It was fortunate that both Daryl and I had trained to do laparoscopic AIs and had some prior experience, but I suspected that with my plodding twenty to thirty ewes an hour we would be struggling. I thought back to the difficulties I had had to begin with, when even ten an hour was an immense struggle, especially if the ewes were in good condition. The heavier a ewe is, the more difficult it is to find her uterus amongst the billowing folds of fat inside her plus, when you do, there is less space to manipulate other organs out of the way and line it up to inject the semen. Concentrating at this level for long periods of time can be exhausting.

  ‘How the hell are we going to do 16,000 ewes in less than a month at locations all over the lower half of the South Island?’ I asked, not unreasonably.

  ‘Yes, I was talking to the vets who have got the contract for the North Island. They reckon there’s no way in the world that just two of us could do it. They offered to send a team of their vets down to do some of the farms, because they’ll have finished their contract before us.’

  That, of course, was all the challenge Daryl needed. He continued, ‘I told them ‘no way’, we have two vets experienced in laparoscopic AI and an excellent back-up team.’

  Fortunately, the last statement turned out to be true and by the end of a month the former claim could justifiably be made. I wasn’t to know this before we began, but despite my reservations I admired Daryl’s ‘can do’ attitude. Besides which, the income was needed. The sheep industry and our business were facing a recession.

  We cleared it with our other partners. They too would be under pressure holding the fort and we employed a locum to help them out. Then we hit the trail. It was a month of hard work, but great enjoyment, as we set up in woolsheds around gloriously scenic parts of the country, and enjoyed the wonderful hospitality of the finest group of people you could wish to meet. Take a bow, New Zealand sheep farmers. In your sheds I have seen sweat and laughter, been plied with mouse-traps and the finest scones and, through the doors, refreshed my mind and spirit with the cool breezes drifting from snowy, sunlit peaks.

  After each session Daryl and I would tally up. I feigned to take no interest. Daryl had always done a few more than I had. One session I felt I’d had a particularly good run. Glenda, my assistant, counted my tally. 159. Not bad for two-and-a-half hours.

  ‘How many, Daryl?’ I asked confidently.

  ‘A hundred and sixty-one’, Daryl’s assistant, Jaqui, replied. That was as close as I ever got.

  In the evenings, back in the country pubs, we relaxed over the pool table. Funny, but Daryl always seemed to win there too. Since he has semi-retired I shall now publicly acknowledge that Daryl is a winner, always has been. I couldn’t have wished for a better partner. I didn’t mind losing.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Moon-Metal Madness

  Without selenium, livestock farming in many parts of New Zealand would be impossible. Selenium is a trace mineral required by all mammals as an essential component of an enzyme. Without it, immune systems fail and muscles seize up. The heart is a muscle, so the consequences can be drastic. As with other trace elements there are endlessly variable symptoms depending on the depth of the deficiency and steepness of decline into the deficient state. Paradoxically it is possible to give too much and the end result of excess can be just as severe as deficiency. Selenium is a cumulative poison and in some parts of the world poisoning of livestock by plants that have the ability to concentrate selenium in their leaves is common.

  At this stage I find it necessary to digress briefly into the realms of chemistry. Selenium is an element. It happens to be a metal. But, since it is not a carbon-containing compound, it is an inorganic chemical. Other inorganic chemicals essential to life include salt and water. Compounds that contain carbon chains are organic chemicals. Life on this planet is based on these organic, carbon-chain molecules. But there are many toxic organic chemicals ranging from naturally-produced poisons to artificially-synthesised pesticides. DDT is an organic chemical, but it is synthesised, not natural. Nicotine, caffeine and a host of other carbon chain toxins occur in plants and herbal remedies. They are natural. Natural is not necessarily safe! Organic is not necessarily safe!

  So called, ‘organic’ farmers are bound by certain rules, depending on the body to which they subscribe. Some organisations permit them to resort to inorganic remedies, many of them toxic (copper, arsenic, selenium), but will not permit organic treatments or preventatives (such as synthetic pyrethroids, which are based on the naturally-occurring insecticide pyrethrum). These days, before it can be registered for use, any synthesised drug has to be extensively trialled to prove efficacy and establish risks from side-effects and persistence of residues. Thus a conventional farmer with lousy sheep may decide to use a synthetic pyrethroid pesticide to treat them for lice. The consumer is protected in the knowledge that the decay rates for these compounds are known and any meat and wool from treated animals will have minimal residues because there is a withholding period before they can be sent for slaughter. This policed by spot checks for residues. The ‘organic’ farmer is limited to the natural product pyrethrum, derived from plants of the genus Chrysanthemum. This, natural product, has the disadvantage that it will vary in concentration and efficacy depending from where it is sourced, and there will be no accompanying residue persistence data. Natural remedies can be a punt in the dark.

  Much of the organic debate is founded on absurd misapprehension. Above these chemical foundations, the edifice is equally suspect. I would not wish to topple the general aim of those desiring so-called ‘organic’ produce if it minimises pesticide use (against external parasitic infestations) and conserves the use of antibiotics (against bacterial infections) and anthelminthics (against internal parasites). Ultimately, all those involved in arable or pastoral farming should be encouraged into sustainable practices. But, in my opinion, this should not preclude the use of synthetic pesticides in an informed manner with due cognisance of persistence and residues.

  It has to be acknowledged that the rantings of some in the green lobby are frighteningly ignorant. A few years ago a New Zealand member of parliament for the Green Party was persuaded to campaign against the widespread use of ‘dihydrogen monoxide’ (DHMO) in agriculture and in the production of food-stuffs. This chemical, she was tricked into claiming, was being fed to livestock, despite being a component of many poisons and of precancerous cells. The hoax went on to claim that DHMO causes erosion of natural landscapes and, furthermore, even after washing, produce remains contaminated with it. Even a novice chemist would recognise dihydrogen monoxide (H2 O) as water—essential to all life and a major component of all cells!

  On the other hand, the use and marketing of synthetic chemical compounds has often been irresponsible and even corrupt in the hands of large multinational companies. The environmental damage caused by widespread use of persistent organochlorides such as DDT in the fifties, sixties and seventies, the Thalidomide debacle, and the misuse of hormones in meat production have justifiably resulted in increased awareness and tighter controls. There will always be a place for informed green politics.

  You may have noticed that I have stopped bandaging dogs’ paws and dabbling with cows’ genitalia for a few paragraphs. There isn’t much to laugh about with deltamethrin, no romance in benzimidazoles, little excitement in oxytetracyclines; but these molecules are at the core of being a vet. The dog with fleas, the horse with bots, the fawn with lungworm, and the cow with pneumonia, all require a chemical treatment. Any vets dealing with farm animals these days have to be fully aware, not only of the curative or preventative properties of the drugs they prescribe, but also of residues and withholding periods. The penalties for farmers caught flouting the regulations are very severe. The consumer is well protected these days, even if the produce doesn’t bear an organic label.

  Let us dispense with logic, efficacy and safety, and hark back to the good old days, when there were none of these nasty chemicals around. T
here were no antibiotics before the Second World War; all hospitals had septic wards. Some infections could be treated with, for instance, mercury compounds. For a long time it was the only treatment for syphilis which gave any chance of success. But there were risks. It was mercury, a heavy metal, that made hatters mad. There were no anaesthetics till chloroform and ether came along—both dangerous till more effective replacements were synthesised. There were no effective anthelminthics: sheep were drenched with tobacco mixes and calves had turpentine injected into their wind-pipes to cure lungworm. No pesticides for lice: people messed about with butter and Stockholm tar ‘salving’ sheep until arsenical dips came along. They were very effective, but no one could describe arsenic as safe.

  And so we return to selenium, the moon metal. Named after the Greek moon-goddess, Selene. Essential trace element, yet toxic in excess. Nice name. If you’re an organic farmer, tip it on. You may not be permitted to use vaccines to prevent deaths in your sheep or cattle, for reasons that defy logic, but selenium is not an issue. I would put in a plea for monitoring tissue levels to ensure a correct and safe rate, but that would offend beliefs that are anti-science. Put it in cow horns and bury it at the right phase of the moon. There’s the romance. There’s the mystery. But I warrant you’ll rely on your trusty internal combustion engine to get you to your next organic producers’ meeting, you’ll promote your product on a website, and it will be wrapped in plastic on the supermarket shelves. The clock can only be turned back so far.

  I firmly believe that if we really want to save this planet, feed the teeming millions and promote sustainability, we need more science, not less. For the individual farmer that means more investment in monitoring stock performance so that chemical inputs can be reduced to an effective minimum. Biotechnology is already delivering tools that we can use to reduce our reliance on toxic chemicals. For instance, genetic markers identifying sheep that are more naturally resistant to diseases will, by a simple blood test, enable a farmer to know which rams to use over his ewes. If he can breed sheep that are more resistant to worms, he will use less drench. Rural vets have an increasingly important role at the interface between the farmer and some exciting new technologies and, ultimately, it is these that will truly help us to ‘green’ the livestock industries.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Redwater Reveries

  A fair part of the summer months in our practice was occupied by pregnancy-testing dairy cows. This seemingly unglamorous task involves inserting a gloved and lubricated arm into the cow’s rectum and palpating her uterus. Thousands of cows are tested over the course of a few months, and although the job has been made easier for large herds by the use of electronic scanners, vets are, essentially, what one of my colleagues refers to as ‘bum-hole technicians’. It is a seemingly thankless task, but it helps the bank balance. Manual pregnancy testing is one of those hard-won skills. It takes a lot of practice for a vet to acquire the ability to assess the stage of pregnancy, detect uterine infections and manipulate the ovaries to check for abnormalities that could be causing infertility. It is also physically demanding. The operator is doing a variation of one-armed push-ups many times over, often while balancing on a wobbly plank placed in the pit of the milking shed. The cow’s anal sphincter resents the intrusion and clamps down painfully on burning muscles. The bigger and more muscular the arm, the more effort required.

  We had competition for this unenviable job as enterprising laymen tooled up with ultrasound machines and, until relatively recently, the odd ‘colour therapist’ was around—diagnosing pregnancy in cattle by swinging a gold ring tied to a horse hair over the cow’s back. His task was a lot less demanding and, of course, he was right some of the time!

  Depending on the set-up, an experienced vet can manually pregnancy test around a hundred cows an hour. As herd sizes grew, Daryl and I were processing up to six- or seven-hundred cows at a time. Two- or three-hundred is a pleasant physical challenge, six- or seven-hundred, a long and painful ordeal. As our practice expanded we had more vets available and if there were more than two-hundred to do we sometimes sent out two vets. With electronic scanners, the boundaries have been pushed further and a thousand cows can be scanned in the four hours it takes to milk them. It is still very hard work: a game that advancing age has graciously enabled me to pass on to the fitter and more beautiful members of our practice.

  If you are right-handed it is supposedly easier to learn to palpate with the left. Since the fingers of my left hand had been severed in my skill-saw accident, I had had to relearn with my right hand but, as the sensory innervation returned, I eventually found I could use either hand. I enjoyed building on this basic defining skill, the very essence of being a respected large-animal vet.

  Share with me the day I was happily pregnancy testing the last of fifty heifers for Ego Centric. I was indulging my honed skills and Ego should have been happy with the result.

  ‘Gosh, you should be really pleased Ego. Every one in calf and only one a bit late. You’ve beaten the law of averages.’

  ‘Yeah, right. But I’d like to talk to you about that calf problem before you go.’

  By this stage I had cleaned up my gear and was seeking some sanctuary to escape and empty my bladder. Yes, even vets have to urinate at times and although farm animals, and some farmers, let fly anywhere within the farm boundaries, an inner modesty inclines me to be more inhibited.

  Daryl was fond of recounting the time he drove down a long driveway down a river terrace. As he started, he noticed the farmer way in the distance, hunched up against a fence, by the wool-shed, in a familiar posture. He was still there when Daryl drew up beside him. Not suspecting the farmer might have prostate trouble Daryl (tactfully?) remarked, ‘That was a bloody long piss!’

  The ‘Well I’ve got a bloody long cock!’ response, is one of those morning tea-time classics.

  The incident at Ego Centric’s was marginally less humorous for me.

  ‘Look Ego, excuse me a second while I have a leak.’

  I ducked behind a wall. Noting my aim I was at first surprised, then alarmed to see scarlet splashes on the wall. I was peeing blood. There were clots in it. This was more than the after-effects of a beetroot binge. Although the emissions of my bladder are not a topic I would regularly share in conversation, in this instance I felt impelled to express my alarm—perhaps to self-indulgently receive just a morsel of human sympathy in return.

  ‘By crikey, Ego, I’ve just pissed a whole heap of blood.’

  Haematuria wasn’t on Ego Centric’s agenda. ‘Yeah? … anyway, you look OK. What about these calves? I’ve got to be in town in half an hour.’

  And so I did the professional thing and saved my worries till I was in the car driving home.

  ~

  Over the next few years I was destined to become uncomfortably familiar with my urinary system and, in particular, my urethra. This tiny pipe connecting the bladder to the outside world plays a part in human affairs wholly incommensurate with its size. It is the urethra, pulsing at a frequency of zero point eight of a second, that is responsible for the rapture of orgasm. The human pizzle is, as I am sure you are aware, a highly sensitive and delicate organ. If your doctor, in the course of his investigations, thrusts a cottonwool swab down your urethra, he will elicit a response. I can vouch for it.

  The swab was negative. I had no earthly reason to suspect I had VD, but doctors are dealing with all sorts of people these days and I couldn’t begrudge mine the fun of eliminating this important differential diagnosis. X-rays and a CT scan followed, revealing the true culprit. A tumour growing in my bladder. This was the big C that everyone dreads. A transitional cell carcinoma. The last word snarls from the page for anyone with even a passing familiarity with pathology. This was a malignant cancer. It had to be removed forthwith. The prognosis—an eighty per cent chance of survival after five years. Rather worse than I would have anticipated in the normal course of events. Think of a number between one and five. Rather wors
e than Russian roulette. You mustn’t get negative, John.

  What had I done to deserve this? I asked not for reasons of self-pity, but out of pure interest. This was a disease pre-eminently of smokers. I didn’t smoke. It afflicts those in the printing industries, those working with dyes and rubber tyres and it could manifest many years after exposure to the initiating toxins. Blame it on a childhood cycling the streets of Liverpool—to and from school, to and from university—quaffing the leaden exhaust fumes from myriad diesel trucks and buses. Unlikely. There would be no bladders left in Merseyside if this theory was a starter. No one had an inkling, but in this strange little word lies a clue. We must go back to Junior school to understand my theorem.

  ~

  ‘All right children: pen, pencil, ruler, rubber, blotting paper.’ On Mrs Beattie’s command the whole class dutifully held up these items. Woe betide anyone who couldn’t display them. Who would want to stay back during morning break to write lines? Try writing ‘I must remember to bring my blotting paper’ fifty times in copperplate, using a scratchy steel dip-in nib on inferior-grade paper, and no splotches. Mrs Beattie meant what she said and her class was always well-behaved. For me, in hindsight, the unimaginative teaching methods were somewhat compensated by the romance of belonging to that last generation of schoolchildren to use the ancient paraphernalia of nibs and inkwells; but I was not aware of these sensitivities at the time.

  There were other traditions to uphold. Every master wore a gown. Black and crow-like they stalked the school in these mediaeval crimped smocks, mysterious assemblages of false sleeves and dangling be-knotted and be-buttoned ties: wafting down the corridors, congregating in the cloisters, lurking in the library, patrolling the playing-fields or caning in the classrooms—alliteratively alert to every minor schoolboy indiscretion.