Vet in Green Pastures

by Hugh Lasgarn

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ I asked.

  ‘Nearly a week,’ said Billy, sniffing hard. ‘Will he die?’

  It was a simple question, asked so openly and expectantly and without any intention of putting responsibility upon me. And yet it had. It was as bad as Paxton, yet so different.

  How did I know whether it would die or live? Who did he think I was? I’m a professional, I told myself grimly — I’m supposed to know — supposed to accept responsibility.

  So why didn’t I say: ‘I don’t know’? As I should have with Paxton. Then, I wouldn’t have been sweating on the top line about Warrior. Be cautious; hedge; don’t commit yourself. But how on earth could I help it?

  ‘What do you call him, Billy?’ I asked, looking down at the little chap.

  ‘Peter,’ he said, his voice quivering.

  ‘He won’t die, Billy,’ I said confidently. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  I managed to catch the frail creature without much effort and, holding it carefully, wings pinioned, in the palm of my hand, I turned it onto its back.

  Gently I probed the swelling, which was generally soft and pliable. It was obviously an impaction of the crop.

  When I questioned Billy about the feeding, he replied bluntly, ‘Seed and greens.’

  But there was no grit in the cage and I explained to the lad how budgies needed the sharp insoluble mixture to aid digestion.

  ‘Ask your Dad to get you some,’ I told him. ‘It’s quite cheap.’

  ‘Me Dad’s dead,’ he replied, stony-faced.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Billy,’ I apologised. ‘Your Mam, then.’

  ‘Mam’s in the General,’ he informed me matter-of-factly. ‘She’s got a growth.’ He put his hands in his trouser pockets and kicked an imaginary football across the surgery floor. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Look, Billy,’ I said. ‘You come back tonight and I’ll have some for you. In the meantime, we’ll give Peter a tiny dose of liquid paraffin to ease his stomach.’

  ‘He won’t die, will he?’ he asked again.

  I shook my head. ‘Bring him back tonight,’ I said. ‘There’s a good lad.’

  As Billy left, McBean came through to see how I was getting on.

  ‘There’s a call at Connelly’s, I’ll go round that way and see to it, then I’ll come over to Donhill. You take the gear and get things set up and I’ll join you as soon as I can. I expect Paxton will be champing at the bit, but don’t let him rattle you. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll check the instruments and see you there.’

  McBean was dead right, for even though I was a quarter of an hour early, the old man was impatient for action and bore down upon me before I could even get out of the car.

  ‘Mr McBean will be along shortly, to give a hand,’ I informed him, but it was more to give myself confidence than to appease Paxton.

  ‘Two vets!’ he exclaimed, irritably. ‘Huh!’

  I was about to explain how difficult the anaesthesia could be with a great bull like Warrior, but decided against it. I was committed to the operation and it was no good arguing the toss with him, in his evidently truculent mood.

  ‘I’ve had the big yard strawed down,’ he announced, rattling his cane on the concrete. ‘It’s partly covered, so there’s no draughts and nothing sharp to cause any problems. There’s four men, plenty of rope and gallons of hot water. Anything else?’

  Fair play to the man, he was organised, despite his manner.

  ‘Some straw bales to put the instruments on — and then I’d like to give Warrior a checkover before we start,’ I replied.

  ‘That bull’s as fit as a fiddle,’ retorted Paxton. ‘Apart from his back legs. But this operation puts them right, so I’m told,’ he continued. ‘Harper of Kesley in Warwickshire had his bull done last month and it’s walking perfectly. I want mine done the same!’

  By the time I had examined Warrior it was eleven o’clock, and still no sign of McBean. The bull was, indeed, as fit as a fiddle, though had I found some problem that would have genuinely prevented me carrying out the task, I had to admit, I would not have been unduly displeased. But the heartbeat was strong, the lungs clear and the temperature normal.

  ‘How long will it take?’ Paxton asked, as I folded up my stethoscope.

  I wasn’t really sure, but said ‘half an hour’, in as positive a manner as I could muster.

  By eleven fifteen I was ready, with everything laid out, the chloral warmed up and my hands sweating.

  ‘Where’s McBean?’ roared Paxton.

  ‘On his way, I hope,’ I affirmed, rearranging the order of the instruments for the fourth time.

  ‘I can’t have men hanging about like this,’ he bellowed, banging his cane on the gatepost. At that moment, a greyhaired woman came across the yard holding a piece of paper. ‘A message for Mr Lasgarn,’ she said, nervously, ‘from the surgery.’

  I didn’t have to read it — I knew: McBean wasn’t coming. When I looked at the note it confirmed my fears. He had been held up and wouldn’t be with me for an hour, at least. I would have to tackle it alone.

  Paxton was eyeing me closely and I knew that if I asked for a delay, there would be fireworks. So I crumpled up the note, swallowed deeply and said:

  ‘McBean will be late — we’ll make a start.’

  Anticipation of a demanding occasion is the most harrowing part of the ordeal. I’d heard of famous actors and opera stars, who appeared so confident and professional on stage, suffering similar agonies. Even the greatest had ‘butterflies’ and some even became physically ill. But once the performance commenced, such was the involvement that there was no time for fear or thought of failure — and the moment I gave myself the signal, miraculously my nervousness vanished.

  Warrior was a brick. It took me two stabs to get properly into his jugular which was up like a drainpipe, and yet he never budged. I had Mason and one other man at the head and one man either side of his body, to steady him if possible. As the chloral slowly narcotised the great hulk, Warrior closed his eyes and, in just over a minute, he sank gently to his knees, then lowered his powerful hindquarters and finally lay on his side in perfect position.

  I made sure that his air passages were clear and raised his head by packing wedges of straw beneath. Then, with ropes on his hind legs, I dragged them into a position where I could infiltrate the corns with local anaesthetic. When they were adequately frozen and Warrior snoring contentedly, I tied a rope tourniquet around his ankle, disinfected the site and made ready for the incision.

  ‘Corns’ are exuberant growths of tissue or ‘proud flesh’ which can recur if not completely excised. ‘Make the cut bold and deep,’ my notes had said, and so I did. The cavity left between the clees seemed massive, but the haemorrhage was not excessive and, certainly, there was no evidence of any ‘corn’ tissue remaining.

  I packed it tight with sulphonamide and strapped it firmly with a heavy bandage and tape. Throughout the whole procedure, I had kept a watchful eye on Warrior’s chest, always thankful to see it heaving gently up and down.

  Then I set to and worked on the other foot, which went equally well. My concentration had made me unaware of time, but as I gave the tape on the final dressing a last twist, Paxton, who had been standing but a yard away throughout the whole proceedings, said: ‘Just over half an hour.’

  It was then that I became aware of myself again, but this time I felt a degree of euphoria, as I thought with relief: So far — so good.

  We sat Warrior upon his brisket and propped him up with bales, then I gave him a large dose of crystalline penicillin directly into his muscle.

  ‘He should be up within an hour,’ I commented, feeling far more confident about things.

  ‘Feeding?’ interrupted Paxton.

  ‘Just a little hay, later on,’ I suggested.

  ‘Tell Mason,’ said Paxton gruffly. ‘You’ll check him tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ I affirmed. T
hen, without a word of thanks or criticism, the old man grunted, turned on his heels and, flourishing his silver-topped cane, tapped his way back across the yard to the house.

  I felt quite chatty as I cleared up and was conscious of myself wittering away to Mason and the other men. They had appeared quite impressed by the whole episode and, whilst saying nothing when their boss had been present, they now responded with the usual rural veterinary quips, such as; ‘I’ll bring the missus over for yer to have a go on.’

  ‘Don’t rush him to get up,’ I advised finally, as I prepared to leave. ‘But you’d best stay with him until he does.’

  It was only when I was well clear of Donhill that I pulled up at a quiet spot, closed my eyes and breathed a gargantuan sigh of relief.

  McBean had been called to a calving and was full of apologies at having to leave me to cope alone, but was extremely pleased and relieved that the job had gone satisfactorily.

  ‘The anaesthetic was the biggest hurdle,’ he admitted. ‘But you got the measure of that all right. I’ll buy you a pint tonight.’

  I thanked him for his offer, thinking that one would be hardly enough, and spent the rest of the afternoon going about the calls with a permanent grin on my face.

  * * *

  First in for evening surgery were Billy Bent and Peter.

  ‘’E’s still got the lump,’ he said forlornly. ‘And he won’t eat anything, ’e ain’t no better at all.’

  Peter was sitting in his usual position on the perch, right next to the wire — a picture of absolute dejection.

  ‘If the lump don’t go away, what can you do?’ asked Billy.

  I lifted the little bird from its cage; there was no resistance. On examination, it was obvious that the liquid paraffin had been ineffective. There was only one course — surgery. The crop would have to be opened and the contents released.

  ‘Peter is going to need a little operation,’ I told the young lad. ‘Just a small one to empty the “stomach”. Well, it isn’t really the stomach, it’s the part before it called the crop, all part of his digestive system. But it’s the only way.’ Billy’s eyes widened and his lip began to tremble. ‘Now look, Billy,’ I comforted, ‘you leave Peter with me for tonight and I’ll see if I can ease that lump. You come round in the morning.’

  ‘I can’t come till this time,’ he murmured. ‘I got papers in the morning.’

  I looked at him, standing there, less than four foot high and hardly big enough to keep a newspaper carrier clear of the floor.

  ‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘You come back tomorrow night.’ And I put Peter back inside his cage.

  Billy stretched up and passed his hand through the open door to stroke the frail bird’s dulled feathers.

  ‘I’ll be back for you tomorrow, Pete,’ he said, gently. ‘Now don’ you worry.’

  I left Peter until I had cleared the rest of the clients. It wasn’t going to be a big job — a whiff of ether, a small nick to remove the debris and a fine stitch would be all that was required. I remembered the miners in Abergranog doing it on their pigeons without much fuss, and they always seemed to make a good recovery.

  I checked the procedure in a reference book. There wasn’t much on birds, except to say that they were very sensitive and easily shocked. But, as with Warrior, risks had to be taken and my confidence in my abilities as a surgeon had risen considerably since the morning’s achievement.

  I got a bell jar from the dispensary and a swab of cotton wool. Then the instruments, a scalpel, forceps and fine needle and suture — it seemed quite odd that, although smaller, the needs for both bull and budgerigar were nearly the same.

  Carefully I removed Peter from the cage and placed him under the jar. Then quickly I moistened the cotton wool with ether and slipped it in after him.

  The bird made no move to panic or flutter about. He just stood there, head gently nodding. Then I noticed the third eyelid becoming more prominent — the ether was obviously having its effect. Peter opened his beak as if to yawn, then he shuddered and fell over on his side.

  I left him for a few seconds to ensure he was fully anaesthetised, then lifted the jar, withdrew the tiny feathered scrap and laid it on the table.

  He was indeed, very still — there was no movement of breast feathers or any part of the chest. I moved him gently with my finger, and as I did so he began to extend his legs, then his tiny claws clenched and relaxed again — and I knew that Peter was dead.

  Unpredictable death is a terrible thing, an almost unrealistic state of affairs, even when it’s only a budgerigar.

  It’s the awful finality and the realisation that things can never be the same again. Something that everyone, but vets in particular, must get used to — but at that moment, I just wasn’t used to it. ‘Shock’ covers it all — and I was shocked.

  Miss Billings was understanding and told me it was not my fault, which I had already tried to tell myself. In fact, it was not the budgie for which I was upset — it was for Billy. Billy, whose parting words, ‘I’ll be back for you tomorrow. Now don’ you worry,’ still rang in my ears.

  It was ironic that after all my worry about Warrior and the consequent success of the morning, instead of finishing work in a state of elation, I drove back to the digs depressed over the death of a budgerigar.

  Meeting Diana that evening cheered me up considerably, and probably I bored her by talking about people and pets, but she didn’t complain. I tried to keep telling myself that it was just one of those things and I shouldn’t get so involved, but despite all the reasoning, I still wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Billy the following evening.

  Warrior looked magnificent when I visited Donhill next morning.

  ‘Never worried him one bit,’ said Mason. ‘Give him some sweet hay last night an’ he cleared the lot. Bit tender behind, but nothing like as lame as he used to be. The boss ain’t half pleased and you’re to go to the house when you’ve finished.’

  I gave Warrior another large dose of penicillin and, after satisfying myself that the bandages were still good, I went for my audience with Paxton.

  I was ushered into his presence in a grand book-lined study by the greyhaired lady, who didn’t introduce herself, but who I assumed was the housekeeper.

  The atmosphere reminded me of a film I had recently seen about the President of the United States, for the old man was seated behind a vast oak desk on which were but four objects: a large open book (probably a diary), a pen and holder on a small marble plinth, a photograph in an ornate frame and a silver box. The rest of the room was heavily curtained and a glass-doored showcase crammed with silver cups and trophies stretched the length of the far wall. Every other available wall space was hung with photographs of Hereford cattle, while over an Adam fireplace was an oil painting, unmistakably of Warrior.

  ‘Sit down, Lasgarn,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen him, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and he’s doing very well.’

  He leaned across the desk, opened the silver box and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head and he snapped the lid shut.

  ‘I’m very pleased with you, that was a good piece of work,’ he continued, still fixing me with his usual steely glare. There was a silence as if he was waiting for a response. ‘Well!’ he barked impatiently. ‘You can at least smile. I don’t usually hand out compliments!’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ Paxton shouted. ‘You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence!’

  The analogy was so much the opposite that I had to smile. ‘No, Mr Paxton,’ I replied, ‘it’s the other way about.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ he roared.

  So I told him all about Billy Bent and his budgerigar.

  According to form, he should have leapt up from the desk and berated me for wasting his time, but he didn’t, and instead listened intently to everything that I said.

  When I had finished, he rubbed h
is chin rather roughly with his stubby fingers, then shook his head and the faintest of faint smiles ventured from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Come with me, Lasgarn,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘Come with me.’

  I followed him through the French windows and along a paved pathway to a door that led into a walled garden. Like everything else at Donhill, the vegetation was flourishing — raspberry canes laden, strawberries in abundance, lettuces, onions, peas and beans, all of the highest quality. Eventually we came to a long, low building where Paxton halted and, taking a key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the door.

  ‘Go on in!’ he ordered, motioning with his cane. ‘See what you think of that!’

  He stood back and I walked up the stone steps and into an aviary, the most exotic I could ever have imagined. My entry precipitated an explosion of noise, colour and activity, kaleidoscopic in the extreme. Large airy cages of glossy parakeets, twittering finches, apple-green love-birds, bronze-winged mannikins, sulphur-crested cockatoos and budgerigars by the hundred.

  I could do nothing but stand and absorb the fusion of sights and sounds that enveloped my whole person. As if replacing a cork in a bottle, when Paxton closed the door behind him, the cacophony gradually subsided until it was reduced to a melodic harmony and the birds settled on their perches or sank inside their nesting boxes again.

  ‘How about that, then?’ asked Paxton proudly.

  ‘Magnificent,’ I admitted. ‘Absolutely magnificent.’

  He leaned against the side of an enclosure which housed at least one hundred Java sparrows, each one immaculate in neat grey plumage, black head and white cheek patches. They fluttered up nervously, rearranging their positions several times until, finally, they calmed and sat, looking down their bulbous, rose-coloured beaks at Paxton and myself.

  ‘I rarely bring anyone in here,’ he said. ‘This is my place, a place to remind me …’ He straightened up, moving from the support of the enclosure, then leaned forward, both hands on his cane. ‘You think I’m an arrogant bastard, don’t you?’