After lecturing him again on the importance of having faith, I told him to bring her and the kittens into the clinic at 10 the next morning and let me check her. I didn’t think about it when he replied that that would be really good because he had an early morning start but would be free by then.
It was only when he came into the clinic that morning with the cat happily nursing half a dozen kittens that I realised I had been lecturing the local Anglican minister on having faith.
A few weeks after PJ and I set up on our own in our renovated house, now a very basic clinic, it was broken into. I was woken by a phone call from the police, who had noticed a door open and realised we had been burgled. The burglars had had plenty of time because they had been through all the drugs in the cupboards, helped themselves to potential useful ones for themselves, stolen our dart gun and then obviously sat around and drunk a couple of bottles of beer we had stored in the fridge. The police were very interested to know what was taken but a lot of the stuff we only found was missing when we wanted to use it and found it wasn’t there.
This applied to a drug called apomorphine. This is a very useful drug for inducing a dog to vomit if it has, for example, swallowed a poison. It is a derivative of morphine but has very different effects. It is also a very effective emetic for humans but one of its main medical uses is to treat erectile dysfunction.
Word must have got out among the criminal fraternity that the Anderson and Jerram Veterinary Clinic in Blenheim had some really useful drugs and was a breeze to raid. We didn’t have a safe nor did we have an alarm, and it was very easy to jimmy any window or door open in the old house. This was very irresponsible on our part but the budget was tight and security wasn’t high on the priority list in those early days. After being robbed it became so. We got a safe and put in an alarm system within a week of being robbed. Two days after the new alarm went in, it went off. We again received a late night call from the police telling us that we had been robbed. On getting to the clinic we found that after they had forced the back door open, they must have been startled by the alarm. They made a hasty retreat and didn’t have time to steal anything.
We slept better knowing we had an alarm system in and didn’t think too much about the initial robbery until some weeks later, when a local inspector rang and said he wanted to talk to us about a death we had something to do with. He told us someone in Christchurch had overdosed on something they had stolen from us. The doctors needed to know what it was he had taken, but no one really knew other than it was ‘stuff they had stolen from vets in Blenheim’. I’m not sure that overdosing on apomorphine in combination with a horse tranquilliser or two would have been a pleasant way to go, but then again, perhaps there could have been worse ways. While we didn’t get any of our drugs back, the police did recover our dart gun, which had been converted to fire live ammunition. Thankfully we never had another break-in.
MOLESWORTH — PJ
Molesworth: the very name is romantic to anyone interested in New Zealand farming.
Molesworth is the biggest farm property in the country, nearly half a million acres of high country at the head of the Awatere, Clarence and Wairau Valleys. The property runs only cattle from the homestead in the head of the Awatere almost through to Hanmer Springs in Canterbury. They have about 2500 mostly Angus cows, roughly 700 heifers and around 1100 steers, although in those days the cattle were mostly Herefords. It’s a vast operation in delicate, erodible country with the high altitude meaning long winters and a relatively short growing season. The homestead is at 1000 metres above sea level, and most of the property is higher than that.
The property originally ran thousands of sheep, but a combination of rabbits and the harsh environment saw the last private landowners walk off in the 1930s. The government took over and the iconic Bill Chisholm managed the great run, with cattle only, for the next 40 years, gradually restoring the eroded land. Over those years, hundreds of young musterers from all over New Zealand spent one or more seasons at Molesworth, always a point of interest on their curriculum vitae, although they never called it that.
Run by Lands and Survey, then Landcorp, until about 2000, the property is now owned by the Department of Conservation, who lease it to Landcorp, the government-owned corporate farming company.
Because of my time spent on farms, my Agricultural Science degree from Lincoln College, and my professional interest in soil conservation, when I arrived in Marlborough in 1979 I was well aware of Molesworth and its history. Best of all, it was in the Graham Vet Club’s area, and I knew that sooner or later I would get there.
As an aside, one of the vets I worked with at the Vet Club was hard-working, but at times vague and distracted. Dave was once taking a call from Molesworth. They wished to book in pregnancy testing for 600 cows. The call book for farm work always sat on the front counter, and at the same time a client came to the counter and wanted to discuss her sick cat. Dave, interrupted, talked patiently to the woman, then as she left wrote in the day book ‘pregnancy test 600 cats’. It caused much hilarity in the practice, not least at the imaginary scene as he tried to hold and rectally examine each cat.
I apologise for the digression.
I had been at the Graham Vet Club for about three months when my chance to visit the famous cattle station arrived. Molesworth had had a problem with fertility in their cows for some time, and in particular, low calving percentages in their heifers, the maiden three-year-old cows. After a lot of diagnostic work, the vets who preceded me at the Vet Club had discovered vibriosis, a disease of the genital tract of bulls and cows. At thetime I believe (although I’m open to contradiction) this was the only property in New Zealand with vibriosis, a bacterial condition caused by Campylobacter fetus fetus.
A programme of total vaccination of heifers against the disease had been initiated after discussion with the management and with Lands and Survey staff. It was our job to do the vaccinations.
I believe that date was 8 February 1980. In New Zealand, this is the time for the best weather. It is nearly always settled, with large, stationary high pressure zones sitting over the country for days on end.
Marlborough is in a rain shadow, surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges which take the rainfall before the dry winds sweep over the province. Every second year is a drought year here and at times these droughts are serious, going on for several years. As a result, our farmers are careful, conservative people who have learned from hard experience to keep stocking rates down and conserve what feed they have in autumn. With the droughts can come extreme temperatures. Indeed, the hottest temperature ever recorded in New Zealand is still listed as 42.4°C at the Jordan, a property halfway to Molesworth, up the Awatere Valley.
On the day in question, it was going to be hot. A big high pressure system was sitting fair on top of the province as I drove to Marlborough’s small Omaka aerodrome. I was being flown to Molesworth by pilot Dave Bishop, in the station’s own beautiful red Piper Cub, the best bush strip aircraft for many years.
We took off in lovely conditions and headed up the Waihopai and Avon Valleys, and then through the saddle at the head of the Avon into the upper Awatere. As we went, Dave laconically told me about the properties we were flying over. He knew them all and the people who farmed them and it was a fantastic education on Marlborough for me. Twenty minutes up the Awatere, we flew over the Molesworth homestead, but we were heading westward to Tarndale, a major outpost of Molesworth.
As we came in towards the strip, I could see the cattle yards, full of hundreds of heifers milling around. Men on horses were bringing the last mobs in and then tying the horses up in the shade of some willows. It was very, very hot as I climbed down from the little aeroplane. It was my first meeting with Don Reid, who was in his first full season as manager. Don had worked on the property for some years and had married the boss’s daughter, Anne Chisholm. Whether that had been influential in his new appointment, I wouldn’t know, but Don was stepping into the very big boots of Bill Chisholm, and it
was seen as a signal honour for a young man of 32 to be only the second manager since the government took over the property 45 years earlier. Don subsequently became something of an icon himself on the property, and remains a friend of mine.
He was a very good, disciplined and highly organised manager, who ran a tight ship. He also has an excellent sense of humour, something I only uncovered in later years as I came to know him. But on that first meeting, he seemed stern and serious, and was clearly going to be watching the new vet closely. I got the impression mistakes would be pointed out quickly, and not tolerated.
Also at Tarndale that day was Bill Chisholm himself, along with an old friend, a retired judge from Wellington, but they were up at the cookhouse and were in charge of food.
As I slipped my overalls over my shorts and shirt, I could feel the mid-morning heat already burning on my back. It was going to be a screamer. Don and his men all had big hats, Aussie Akubras, standard stuff on Molesworth, but I hadn’t brought a hat at all.
I unpacked my first vaccine pack from the chilly bin and loaded the multidose syringe. From memory, you could get 20 doses in the syringe. The job wasn’t difficult. The men pushed eight or 10 heifers into a long race and I walked alongside, vaccinating under the skin in front of the shoulder. It was important to be precise and accurate as the vaccine was expensive, and the station needed their cows to be protected from the disease. You couldn’t afford to miss one.
After two hours in the heat, I was panting. It really was hot, the noon sun beating mercilessly on my unprotected head.
‘Dinner time,’ said Don, and after emptying the vaccinated cows from the race, I joined the seven or eight men in the walk up to the large hut at Tarndale. A welcome surprise followed. Two flagons of cold beer were produced, and we all sat outside the cookhouse, yarning and rehydrating for 15 or 20 minutes.
Suddenly there came a call from inside. ‘Lunch is up’ yelled old Bill, and immediately disappeared back inside. In an instant the staff, including Don, were up and racing inside. I followed carefully, not wanting to be pushy on my first day on a new property.
The scene inside was Dante’s Inferno. The cookhouse, a hundred years old, and built of the original cob — a mixture of mud and straw — was well insulated. It could be hot or cool as you wished. The problem was the roaring open fire in the old fireplace at the end of the building. On the fire, hanging from big billy hooks were a large camp oven and another great and ancient pot. It was very hot anywhere near the fire. A long table ran the length of the cookhouse towards the fire.
And where was the only spare seat? Right at the end of the table, right beside the fire. Two rows of grinning faces welcomed me into the building.
‘You sit there, Mr Pete,’ growled Bill, and there was no choice.
Tradition dies hard in the back country and Molesworth is no exception. Lunch consisted of boiled mutton — ram, I believe — boiled spud and boiled cauliflower, all piping hot from the fire.
I sweated my way through that meal, making polite conversation when talked to, and listening to the high country men talking their own lingo.
It must have been 50°C in there, and by the time it was time to go back to work, I was wringing wet and whacked. It was a relief to get outside, where the mid-thirties seemed positively cool, and I discarded my overalls for the afternoon session. Later, as I packed up and climbed back into the Cub for the trip home, Don shook my hand.
‘Nice to meet you. Hope you’ve enjoyed your first trip to Molesworth.’
Was there a faint glint of humour in the eyes? I never found out but some years later when I was fishing with Don, he well remembered that day. ‘Bloody hot, wasn’t it?’ he said.
THE WORST DAY OF MY CAREER — PA
It seems on some farms, and for some farmers, you can sometimes never get it right. No matter what you do, how you do it, or what advice you give, it is wrong, badly done, or doesn’t work. On others, no matter how difficult the situation, how complex the issues, or how critical to the farmer it is that you give the right advice, you get it right every time. You just seem to know that when you return to the property next time you will be warmly greeted and all will go well. I would like to think that more of my clients fall into the latter category. What a pleasure and how rewarding it can be just working with them.
However, when working with animals, always expect the unexpected. You try to cover all contingencies, and the car boot or back of the ute can become loaded with equipment and drugs that are there ‘just in case’. Because I often flew myself to jobs, I had to develop a compact and comprehensive surgical kit with appropriate anaesthetics and antibiotics and other drugs for the different species and which covered all basic surgery done on farms — caesareans, castrations, vasectomies, stitch-up jobs, etc. A few painful experiences, such as a full day manually pregnancy testing cows without gloves or lubricant because I had forgotten to put them in the plane, taught me to run through a check list before I was airborne. Flying in Marlborough’s sometimes difficult and windy terrain can, at the best of times, be demanding enough without the extra stress of wondering what you might have left behind. But no matter how prepared you are, something can always go wrong, as on this one tough day on Molesworth Station.
Molesworth Station breed their own replacement hacks and for many years they would do their own stallion castrations — the old-fashioned way, with ropes, knife and no anaesthetic. It had become a bit of a macho thing and each shepherd would get a stallion and castrate and break it in himself. One of the problems was that after weaning, all the colts were run in a group and not handled at all until they were at least three years old when they were then ‘broken in’. The other problem was they were big beasts. The manager liked big horses and there was a fair sprinkling of Clydesdale genetics through the group.
The manager, Don Reid, a man for whom I have always had the utmost respect and who had become a really good friend, agreed that it was perhaps time to do it the more humane way and anaesthetise the stallions first. It might pose one or two problems with the yard set-up they had but I had always enjoyed my visits there. If things went as usual, there shouldn’t be too many problems that we couldn’t sort out. Unfortunately he had to be elsewhere the day we were to castrate the stallions.
Today we have some wonderful new intravenous anaesthetics for large animals, and it is not uncommon for us to use combinations to get a nice even induction, time to do the surgery and ensure a gentle and smooth recovery. The animal lift s his head, stands up and more often than not wanders off for a graze. The total combination dose required for a large horse can often be given via intravenous injection from a single 20 ml syringe.
However, drug costs are always a consideration and back on this bad day I was using the latest in horse anaesthetics — glyceryl guaiacolate or GG. Although new it was still relatively cheap. It allowed a good deep sedation before the animal was given a bolus of thiopentone to drop it onto the ground. This new sedative’s big drawback, however, was the volume of drug required. A packet of powder was mixed with 500 ml of saline and the sedative then given by flutter valve from the bottle and practically given to ‘effect’. When the horse calmed down and his head dropped, you could usually stop administering it and push or pull him, even what was a dangerous unhandled stallion minutes before, to a spot where we could give him the magic lie-down brew of thiopentone.
We were to castrate six stallions (they were not colts anymore) in the cattle yards, which really only consisted of a long race, a couple of smallish backing yards and then a large yard further back. To get anywhere near the snorting, extremely wild unhandled stallions to start the job involved encouraging them up the race, getting a 14-gauge needle into the jugular vein in the neck, attaching the connecting tube from the bottle of sedative and then letting it run in. This would take a few minutes and keeping the needle in the jugular vein of a rearing, struggling stallion confined in a cattle race and with a bottle of sedative gurgling in his face had its challenge
s. Nevertheless we managed the first three with some difficulty.
With the fourth one, the day started to go wrong. He was a big dun stallion and of course the one Don liked the look of most. In the race he was uncontrollable but with the three shepherds helping we managed to restrain him enough to get the needle in and start administering the sedative. By this time I had found that it was quicker to pre-fill half a dozen 60 ml syringes and administer the sedative rapidly (not the best way of administering the drug but at least it was working). In goes the needle, blood flows back out — we are therefore in the vein. Rapidly pump in the first syringe full of GG, reach into hip pocket for the second, horse falls down in the race — dead. Bugger.
Running alongside veins (the blood vessels returning blood to the heart and lungs) are arteries — the higher pressure system taking re-oxygenated blood back to the body, including the brain. All intravenous drugs are given into a vein and in horses it is usually the jugular. By the time the drug, in this case the sedative, has reached the brain via the heart and lungs it has been somewhat diluted. It still doesn’t take long to do the circuit and start working. However, if the drug goes directly into the arterial system, especially one that is under extreme pressure from excitement, we flood the brain with a very concentrated lethal bolus of the drug instead of giving it a gentle bathing with diluted sedative. I had missed the jugular and got the carotid artery alongside it. Brains don’t like that sort of insult. They stop sending out important impulses such as those that keep the heart beating and the lungs breathing. A brain-dead horse equals a dead horse. Things were not looking too good. The horse was big and dead and wedged halfway down the long race and getting him out posed some problems — and we still had two to go.
All this time I was constantly being niggled by the head shepherd, who kept saying — in what he thought was an amusing way — ‘the boss won’t be pleased’, ‘we knew we should have done it the proper way with just ropes’, and ‘this wouldn’t have happened if Dave Sim was doing it’. I was not a happy operator. Somehow we managed the fifth without too much trauma but while preparing to restrain the final colt, my good friend the head shepherd yelled out, ‘Ha ha, mate — look what’s happened to the last one. His guts are hanging out. What you gonna do now? Never see this when Dave Sim is operating.’
Cock and Bull Stories Page 3