: The Life of a Yorkshire Vet

by Norton, Julian

  I donned my wellies and, as always, gave them a scrub to make sure they were clean and that I was not transferring any diseases from farm to farm (I was in the habit of scrubbing my boots before I left each farm and also as soon as I arrived on another). I met the farmer and we wandered around the corner of the shed to see the handling arrangement. This was the moment I would get the first clue as to how long the morning’s work would take. A good system could save a couple of hours. A bad system might mean the job would take all day. In this case, my heart sank as I saw the creaking cattle crush, tilted against a wall for support. To make matters worse it was surrounded by thick mud. It was the type of mud that was very hard to move around in and made it almost impossible to make a quick getaway from a fast-moving cow. Thick mud that worked its way up the inside of your waterproof trousers all the way to your crotch. It was slow and laborious work and it did indeed, as predicted, take most of the day.

  Sweaty and muddy, I finished the job and headed into the farmhouse to complete my paperwork. Work for the ministry always required copious amounts of form-filling. I could not believe my eyes when I saw the farmhouse kitchen, with its stone-flagged floor and roaring fire. The enormous table was covered in food of all types and descriptions, like a medieval banquet. Tongue sandwiches, fruitcake, biscuits, apple pies, cheese, tea in a pot with a knitted tea cosy. I had never met these folks before, but they invited me into their home as if I were a long-lost cousin. As I made my way back to the practice after lunch (or what was now half way between lunch and tea), I had forgotten all about the tenacity of the mud, or the stubborn refusal of the cows to enter the crush, and I felt sure I would be signing up to do their next test.

  Not all farms were as accommodating to our needs. I can recall one particular day (actually two days, because it took so long) when I was castrating young bulls. This was the job that nobody rushed to do. It was very physical and required either removing the testicles using a sharp scalpel blade, or ‘nipping’ them, by using a set of clamps called Burdizzos. These are applied to the spermatic cord and crush the blood vessels supplying the testicles. Without their blood supply, the testicles quickly shrivel, so male cattle do not act as bulls. The castrated animals are much safer to handle than bulls, and are more amenable to being farmed. While the procedure is not particularly painful to the cattle, it nearly always results in kicks and bruises to the veterinary surgeon, for whom the procedure is, therefore, often very painful. Consequently, there was never a queue of vets waiting to sign up to this job. On this occasion, I had about eighty to do. They were around ten months old and each one weighed at least 400 kilograms. Oh, and they weren’t used to being handled because they had spent the whole of their life, so far, in a field.

  My job for the day was to capture these wild animals, usher them into a pen then persuade them into a long race – a sort of fenced corridor – along the side of an enormous cattle shed, where I could castrate them. It was raining, and the guttering along the edge of the shed was broken, so there was a steady stream of water pouring onto the bulls and onto me. At the same time as I was castrating these bulls, the farmer, a strong rugby-playing chap called Steve, was putting slow-release mineral boluses down their throats. This was to provide minerals over a long period to ensure that they stayed healthy. It was a good opportunity to get both jobs done at once, as these cattle did not go into the race or the crush very often.

  We were slowly making our way through the large pen of robust cattle. At about midday, the farmer put down his bolusing gun and hopped onto his quad bike.

  ‘Right then, I’ll be off,’ he announced.

  All I could think to say was, ‘Oh!’ and then, ‘What, now?’ as I peered into the pen.

  We still had plenty to do.

  ‘I’ll be back after me dinner,’ he said and, before I could protest, he whizzed off and left me under a spout of rain.

  I plodded on for about an hour, working singlehandedly, castrating and administering the boluses, until he returned to help with the rest of the job.

  Eventually, we got to the end. This time, not with muddy trousers, but with soaking wet trousers and soaking wet everything else. There was no full table of food in a toasty farmhouse kitchen.

  I resolved, ‘Next time, this is Jon’s job.’

  5

  The Evil Salve

  The 1990s was a difficult time for the veterinary profession and the cattle industry. Not because I had been let loose on the veterinary world, but because it was struggling with the legacy of BSE (bovine spongiform encephalopathy), a terrible and frightening disease that had a devastating effect on everyone involved. Its colloquial name, ‘mad cow disease’, was perfectly apt.

  It was terrible and frightening because it was a new disease. Nothing like it had been seen before in cattle, and nobody could understand how it was spread or from where it came. Its effects on affected animals were dramatic and often dangerous. It had a rapid course and would strike down adult cattle, predominantly dairy cows, in their prime. The signs would progress quickly to severe neurological disease and cows would literally ‘go mad’ – become uncoordinated, kick out and behave with uncharacteristic aggression.

  It took everyone by surprise. An experienced veterinary surgeon called David Bee, working in Petersfield, Hampshire was one of the first people to suggest that the country might be dealing with a new disease. He was one of those endlessly enthusiastic vets with boundless energy and a career’s worth of knowledge. My wife, Anne, spent much of the formative part of her training under his expert tutorship.

  BSE had many similarities to a neurological disease called Scrapie, seen in sheep, and this was eventually identified as the original source of the new disease. The rules governing the way animal by-products were handled had been changed and the result was that contaminated sheep meat ended up in cattle food (a disturbing thought, even without its implications for disease). Since this was mainly used in the dairy sector, rather than in beef herds, it was dairy cows that bore the brunt of the epidemic.

  Even more alarming was the appearance, admittedly at a low level, of a human version of the same condition, called ‘new variant CJD’ (new variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease). This was a fatal and dramatic brain disease and there was no way of knowing how many people would contract it and if it was, indeed, transmitted from contaminated beef products. Quite rightly, massive restrictions were imposed on the sale of British beef. Looking back, it is astonishing that the cattle industry managed to survive such a monumental crisis. Calves were immediately worthless and it became routine to have dairy bull calves shot at birth, as they could not be used in any way. Beef exports were banned, as was beef on the bone, and all cattle over thirty months of age were banned from entering the food chain. These animals would be killed and incinerated. Everyone was paranoid about any cow that even so much as twitched her ears in an odd way. It was a depressing time for everyone.

  I remember, one afternoon, being called to see a heifer that was doing just that – twitching her ears in a peculiar way. It was not a classic clinical sign of BSE, but we were very tuned to subtle changes in the behaviour of cows that might intimate the disease. I was immediately suspicious and called the ministry, which was standard procedure in these cases. If the ministry vet then considered the animal likely to be infected with BSE, it would be euthanased by injection and the brain would be analysed. The ministry vet came and looked at the heifer, and quickly confirmed the condition, leaving me with a large bottle of blue pentobarbitone – a very strong barbiturate that we used for euthanasia. The farmer was clearly distraught at the loss of one of his best young animals, but worse, she was in calf and due to calve any day. We discussed the options and I decided to perform a ‘bush caesarean’. This is a caesarean section whereby the sole purpose is to save the life of the calf at the expense of the mother, usually because the mother is terminally ill. In this case, I would take the calf out and then inject the BSE-affected dam. I sought confirmation from the ministry vet, who
was reluctant to authorize it, but clearly would turn a blind eye for the sake of saving the calf.

  ‘Just be careful,’ were his parting words. ‘We don’t know anything about this bloody disease and you are about to delve your arms right into her abdomen and uterus. Make sure you wear some gloves!’ It had never occurred to me that there might be a reasonable risk of contracting the disease myself from the heifer. There was a much more obvious danger: infected animals would charge, kick and behave in a generally aggressive and unpredictable manner, so there was a real risk of being badly injured. It did, however, go as well as could be expected under the miserable circumstances. I removed a healthy female calf without injury or accident and, as far as I could tell, avoided ingesting any blood or other fluids. I glumly euthanased her mother and left, in the darkness, very dejected.

  By this time, some idea about the pathogenesis of the disease was developing. It was found to be transmitted not by a conventional infectious agent like a bacterium or a virus, but something much smaller and altogether more simple – a protein. The individual agent was called a ‘prion’, an infectious protein, and while it was not fully understood, the general consensus among the scientific community was that, in simple terms, cattle had been fed the brains of scrapie-infected sheep, exposing them to this infectious protein. This then crossed from one species to another to cause a new disease. In the farming community, however, without the benefit of laboratory tests and scientific papers, everyone had their own theories. A popular one revolved around the use of organophosphate insecticide treatments, used to prevent insect bites and other parasitic diseases. While these were very effective and used quite extensively, most farmers really disliked them and sensed that they were not very safe. Now, happily, these insecticides are banned; even if they weren’t responsible for BSE, they were fairly toxic compounds. It was a standing but not very funny joke among farmers that the people employed as crop sprayers did not enjoy a long life.

  One of the oldest clients of the practice, a Mr Norris, had his own theory about the origins of BSE. It is documented in a series of five short letters, which he addressed to ‘The Vets’ and delivered, by hand, to the surgery in the late 1980s. These letters still reside in a small and faded brown envelope on the bottom shelf of the cabinet, in an upstairs room in our current surgery at Skeldale Veterinary Centre. It is an old and ornate cabinet, with beautiful curved glass sides, and came from the old surgery, at 23 Kirkgate, where Donald Sinclair (Siegfried Farnon) and Alf Wight (James Herriot) worked for all of their famous working lives. According to Pete and Tim, my partners at Skeldale, who had the pleasure of working with these two, this cabinet housed the latest medicines and shampoos, tonics and injections, and took pride of place in the waiting room. To peruse it now is like looking through a veterinary museum and, on a difficult day when I need reminding of the great heritage of our practice, I often spend a few minutes peering through its curved sides at the veterinary miscellany that sits on its shelves.

  On the top shelf is an array of silver-coloured examination equipment, which would not look out of place in a museum of medieval torture: castrating tools that look barbaric to our modern eyes, a silver speculum with a spout (goodness knows what the spout was used for) and a fantastic thermocautery machine which I can remember using myself when I first arrived at Thirsk. It was affectionately referred to as ‘Ronald’ and in times of haemostatic crisis, when blood is leaking everywhere during an operation, a cry of ‘fetch Ronald!’ would instantly bring assistance running from all over the building. The machine consists of a thin metal probe or loop attached to a handpiece with a trigger. It is plugged into the mains and, when the trigger is depressed, a current flows through the metal probe to heat it up. It can then be used to cauterize, and thereby seal, bleeding vessels. This model was identical in design to a ray gun from a 1970s science fiction film, hence its pet name ‘Ronald Raygun’, and its comedy moniker often dispersed the anxiety that arose midway through an operation when leaking blood vessels could not be staunched. Sadly, it eventually became evident that, although Ronald was highly effective, he was a health and safety hazard, so he was put into retirement. His more youthful replacement was smaller, more nimble, easier to handle and not quite so gun-like but, in memory of his predecessor, was quickly christened ‘Ronaldinho’, a name which is still used today.

  On the middle shelves of this cabinet are bottles of medicine. Many have labels handwritten by Mr Sinclair himself. One label features a picture of a cow, and reads:

  OXYGAS

  (registered title)

  UDDER ILL

  CHILL-IN-THE-BAG

  MILK FEVER

  Fever and Trembling in Sheep, Stomach Staggers

  Its uses, method of administration and dosage seem obscure.

  Another bottle has clearer instructions and it seems miraculous the range of conditions and number of species that could be cured with just one single tonic:

  Tippers

  THE BEST DRINK FOR ALL ANIMALS

  ‘VITALIS’

  For the treatment and relief of

  CHILL, CATARRH, FEVER, COLIC, BLOWN, EXHAUSTION

  This stuff sounds good! A full description of its functions can be found on the reverse of the bottle:

  Vitalis is pre-eminently adapted to counteract chill, correct abnormal temperature and tone up the constitution; increase the skin secretions by eliminating injurious waste products where the action of the kidneys is impaired and to dissipate internal gases.

  DIRECTIONS FOR USE. Tippers’ Vitalis is to be given with cold water, linseed or beef tea.

  It explains the doses for horse, Shire horse, yearling, cow, bullock, ewe, pig or calf, dogs, goats, kids and rabbits. Notably not cats. I suppose that either cats did not suffer any of the terrible conditions on the list, or they were not regarded as worthy of treatment in those days.

  It goes on:

  N.B. If free perspiration is caused through the action of Vitalis, and the additional clothing, the rugs should be removed, the animal dried by hand-rubbing and comfortably re-clothed.

  CHILL – CATARRH – follow instructions under ‘Flu’:

  CHRONIC COUGH – THICK WIND – give doses of Vitalis twice daily and also give Tippers’ Smirtung

  It goes on further, to describe its uses in ‘COLIC’ in great and tedious detail, but concludes by advising that, if it doesn’t work after three or four hours, then expert assistance is required. More complicated conditions, such as

  ‘CONVALESCENCE FROM EXHAUSTION, DISTEMPER, FEVER, FLU, HOVEN, BLOWN, INFLAMMATION OF THE BOWELS, LAMBING AND CALVING, RED WATER and CATARRH IN GOATS’,

  all seem to require the marvellous ‘Smirtung’ as an adjunctive therapy, also made by Tippers. Sadly, I haven’t found any of the Smirtung remedy; it must all have been used up.

  My favourite medicine in the cabinet bears a handwritten label in Mr Sinclair’s hand and, without listing the ingredients or dose, simply states on the label: ‘For Stupefying Pigeons’.

  But it is the bottom shelf that holds the most fascination for me. The envelope containing the five letters from Mr Norris on the subject of the origins of BSE still rests on a large tub, if not to say bucket, of a greasy, dark and sticky substance called ‘UDDER SALVE’. This was an iodine-based ointment that was usually used for smearing on the udders of cows suffering from mastitis. If you read the letters, you would be very wary of opening the lid of this bucket for fear of the consequences.

  The first reads as follows:

  Dear Sir,

  For eighteen years I used cow salve to beat the pain of arthrithus in my hand successfully, several different brands. This salve I bring to you killed the pain but it made me burn all over – I think this salve was taken from sheep with a desease. I am sure this salve causes mad cow desease.

  Yours,

  R. Norris

  A second letter quickly followed:

  Dear Vets,

  When Mr Goodyear himself had mad cow desease he was so DIZZY
he could not stand up. He had put the evil salve on several cows for a long time with his hand.

  I hope you can beat this evil salve.

  I milked his cows for about a week till he got organized.

  Yours truly,

  R. Norris

  The next epistle was short but just as alarming, as the full implication of the salve on the health of cattle was becoming clear to Mr Norris:

  Dear Vets,

  Several cows of Mr Goodyear had mastutius, he used the evil salve. Mr Goodyear himself had mad cow disease.

  Yours Truly,

  R. Norris

  By letter number four, Mr Norris’ frustration was becoming evident; the vets were not pursuing his hypothesis with adequate vigour or enthusiasm.

  Dear VETS,

  I am still trying to get you to investigate the salve, which I believe causes mad cow desease. Most of the cows will be milk cows and if they were in-calf the calfs too could be affected. I believe the desease is slow acting. My brother goes to the lav every morning then he washes his bum and puts salve on. I think this salve is the deseased salve for the doctor told my brother he had lost the balance in his ears but I think he has mad cow desease.

  R. Norris

  P.S. This is my brother’s daily routine.

  The final note (I cannot find any further ones), is much more brief but now alludes to the dangers of this salve in other animals:

  Dear VET,

  I brought you the evil salve. What does it do to mares and foals?

  Yours truly,

  R. Norris

  6

  Monty Python