Vet Among the Pigeons

by Gillian Hick

  Eventually, still trying to appear calm and in control, I jumped down off the crush and had to stand on one handle and pull with all my might to open up the blade until the handles were at a one hundred and eighty degree angle. With the instrument locked open at full stretch, I just about managed to pull the blades down to the base of the over-sized horn at an angle that I hoped would do the job.

  By this stage, Declan was looking totally bored with the whole process and glanced repeatedly at his watch while muttering to himself and shuffling his feet in the mucky gravel.

  Grasping the handles of the crange in my hands with my arms at full stretch, I attempted to close the enormous jaws as the bullock stood, happily ignorant of the entire proceedings. But with the handles locked open, try and try as I did, nothing happened. No matter what angle I pulled from, nothing budged and I came to the realisation that, yet again, I was making a total mess of the job. Declan’s bored expression did nothing to encourage me, but I knew that without help I was going nowhere.

  ‘Would you mind,’ I began as humbly as I could under the circumstances, ‘giving me a bit of a hand closing this?’

  ‘You want me to help?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind,’ I laughed, as casually as I could. ‘You see, the horns are really very big and it’s perfectly normal to need a bit of help with this sort of thing …’

  I stopped abruptly, looking at the disbelief in his face.

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ he asked ungraciously.

  ‘Well, if you could just help me close the handles,’ I replied, hopping down from my perch and deftly tying a rope halter over the bullock’s head and attaching it to the crush before Declan could change his mind.

  ‘You want me to cut them off, you mean?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly,’ I replied as he raised his eyes to heaven. ‘If you just pull one handle and I’ll pull the other.’

  ‘Oh, get down out of there and I’ll do it,’ he told me, sighing deeply.

  Burning with shame, I stepped down, balancing the crange on the horn until he was ready to take it.

  ‘Just push it down a bit further,’ I called to him as he readied himself to cut, trying to restore some control to the situation.

  ‘Do it yourself if you want to,’ he retorted, silencing me.

  I said nothing as he grasped both handles, one in either hand and tried to close the vast jaws. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his muscled and heaved and heaved, but nothing happened.

  I had mixed feelings as I was secretly delighted that he couldn’t do it either, but on the other hand I would gladly have been humiliated if it would have put an end to the job.

  ‘Are you sure this is how you’re meant to do it? Have you ever even done this before?’ he asked as he stopped to catch his breath.

  ‘Oh course!’ I replied hastily. ‘It’s just that James has left them go on too long. In fact, you’re really meant to do them at a few weeks old,’ I replied, but stopped myself from launching into my usual lecture, which I felt would be wasted under the circumstances.

  ‘Well, they’re not going to budge,’ he said, puffing slightly after another failed attempt.

  ‘We’ll just have to try together,’ I decided, jumping up on the crush and grabbing the near handle from Declan, ignoring his obvious misgivings.

  ‘Right now, pull,’ I roared as, shoulder to shoulder, we jostled above the thankfully placid bullock who must have been wondering what exactly we were up to.

  ‘Okay, once more,’ I pleaded, after a few vain attempts. This time, just as I felt my eyes were about to pop out and my lungs explode, I could feel a budge and with a dull creaking sound the handles began to creep together.

  ‘Yes, we’re getting there!’ I cried in triumph to Declan, who returned a withering gaze.

  ‘Go again!’ I said with renewed enthusiasm and this time the blades, with a last heave, crashed together with a mighty creak. As the giant horn fell to the ground, so did myself and Declan, unbalanced by the sudden lack of resistance.

  As I lay sprawled in his arms in the mucky yard, the laughter that threatened to bubble out at the absurdity of the situation was quickly quelled by the horrified look on my companion’s face. I jumped up and calmly continued as though nothing untoward had happened. The fact that half a dozen jets of bright red blood shot out over us did nothing to help the situation, and I fumbled with the forceps, trying desperately to seal off the vessels before we literally painted the shed red.

  ‘Right so, let’s get on with the next one,’ I encouraged him, having satisfied myself with the first horn.

  With difficulty, we repeated the double act, but this time when the horn finally submitted, he jumped clear of the crush just in time to avoid a repeat performance.

  The second bullock, although not quite as bad, still required our double force and each time the horn gave, Declan jumped well clear of me as though hit by an electric fence.

  The third one, although a hefty animal, I managed on my own, finding an unknown energy force in an attempt to restore even a small fragment of my shattered dignity.

  The sheer effort of the work dimmed my embarrassment and by the time I was finishing the last bullock, I was beginning to see the funny side of the situation. Declan, however, still seemed to be in shock.

  As I liberally dusted powder on the last horn stump, I heard a jeep pulling up and a man, whom I assumed to be James, stopped beside us. He stared wordless at the three powdered cattle, the vast splashes of red and the stunned look on Declan’s face before turning to me.

  ‘You must be James,’ I said, extending my bloodstained hand, cheerful now that the job was over.

  ‘And you must be Gillian,’ he answered slowly, carefully surveying the scene. ‘I’d heard that you are a dab hand at skulling, all right!’

  I decided that a rapid exit was the best approach and so I packed away my gear and left the bewildered Declan as he hosed down the walls to rid the shed of the worst of the evidence. As I made my goodbyes, he studiously avoided me, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

  ‘Thanks so, Declan,’ I called out to him as I left. ‘If I ever need a hand again, I’ll know where to find you,’ and off I went not bothering to wait for a reply that I knew would not be forthcoming.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  OUT OF THE HORSE’S MOUTH

  Yet again, it was the fancy brochures that attracted my attention. In my early student days, I had been lured by a glossy equivalent to spend two weeks ‘seeing practice’ in a renowned equine hospital. That fortnight almost put me off the equine side of veterinary practice for life. In both the mixed and small-animal clinics where I had seen practice as a student vet, I had become an integral part of the practice. During my equine practice, however, I was launched into an atmosphere where I competed only with the yard rat in terms of general lowliness. It was a bit of an eye-opener. When I finally qualified, I stayed well away from the equine end of things but, once out in general practice, I was thrown a good measure of horse work, nonetheless. To my delight, I found that despite my lowly status, these equines responded, generally, in the same manner to the usual array of treatment and medications as their bovine and ovine counterparts. Despite not having the appropriate accent, clothing or string of ponies and display of rosettes, it seemed as though the horses themselves, as yet, had not discovered that I was a fraud.

  At Riverside Veterinary Clinic we dealt with the usual mix of coughs and colics, vettings and lameness and otherwise routine work. Anything more exciting tended to be referred to the bigger equine hospitals, most of which were centred around Kildare and the hallowed lands of the Curragh.

  The glossy brochure that arrived in the office one Friday morning, almost three years into my stay in Riverside, caught my eye almost immediately. It seemed that, despite myself, I still had a vague, if foolish, hope that I could aspire to becoming a competent equine practitioner.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ I
asked Seamus, my boss, casually, as he came through the office door that morning.

  ‘Well, if I knew what it was I’d have a better idea,’ came his cautious reply, obviously sensing that I had a plan on board.

  ‘Equine CPD,’ I announced – the CPD standing for Continued Practice Development or, more simply, a course to keep up to date with the latest procedures and treatments. ‘An equine course consisting of five modules, to be held over three days and one weekend, encompassing the most popular aspects of equine medicine and surgery,’ I quoted towards his retreating back.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ I asked again as he returned, brandishing a burdizzo.

  ‘I think you’d be better off spending your time doing a bit of work than hobnobbing with that crowd,’ he replied, promptly ending my daydreams of a newly renovated practice, complete with theatre facilities and knock-down boxes and …

  By lunchtime, I had tested two hundred cattle, delivered a few lambs and had all but forgotten my noble aspirations. My downfall came in the afternoon when I got a call to a newborn foal. The picture was perfect. A pristine mare, up to her hocks in fresh, golden straw, nuzzling gently at her newborn foal … until I took a closer look. The oversized ears appeared comically long and the almost jelly-like hooves added to the impression that the foal was premature.

  ‘We had her down as being covered on the twelfth of May, but then maybe that was Dancer,’ said Darragh, the mare’s owner when I enquire as to the foal’s due date. ‘If that was Dancer,’ she continued, that would mean Muffin shouldn’t be due for another two weeks.’

  Looking at the foal’s gaunt body and the deep hollow in her abdomen, I found it hard to believe that she had sucked normally at birth. The ears, sticking out like handlebars, flopped uselessly to one side when I tried to raise the delicate body to a sternal position.

  A blood sample would confirm whether the foal had consumed sufficient colostrums, or first milk, to give her a chance to fight the infections that she would encounter over the next few days. As I watched the deep red blood squirting into the sample bottle, I knew that by the time I got the results back from the laboratory, the foal would probably be beyond hope. Regardless, I headed back to the jeep to get the flaskful of colostrum that I had taken from the freezer back at the surgery. It was only with difficulty that I was able to pass a stomach tube down the left nostril and into the foal’s empty stomach. It took a couple of attempts and lots of lubricant gel before I was successful. Half an hour later, although now with a full stomach, propped up nicely with a bale of straw, with her long limbs warmly bandaged and under a heat lamp for extra warmth, the foal’s chances were realistically not much brighter. The listless eye and drooping head worried me, along with my limited knowledge and equipment to deal with a seriously ill foal. My frustration brought me back to the brochure still lying on office desk.

  Back at the surgery later that evening, I rummaged through the pile of papers and, yes, there it was – module five: a detailed review of the common foal illnesses, to include the premature foal, the septic foal and critical care management of the neonate.

  I toyed with the idea over the weekend, discussing it with Donal, my husband, who, in fairness, was a lot more enthusiastic than Seamus had been. ‘Sure, it’s not that far away – you could commute for the weekend if you wanted to. We’d be fine on our own for a bit, wouldn’t we, Molly?’ he asked her, looking over to where she sat, absorbed in the glossy brochure. ‘Robo,’ she declared, pointing at the bay horse in the brochure, who to her must have looked like her own bay pony that she had first ‘ridden’ in her Babygros, although the relative price difference might have involved quite a few decimal points. ‘Horsey broken,’ she observed on the next page as a flashy-looking chestnut lay, mid-operation, on a snazzy-looking theatre table. ‘Mammy fix’m?’ she enquired, looking up at me with the absolute faith of a two-year-old.

  I weighed up the pros and cons over the weekend, but by Monday morning I still hadn’t come to a decision. It wasn’t just the cost that deterred me or even the time away from the practice, as, hopefully, the practice would ultimately benefit. Deep in my subconscious was the memory of those appalling two weeks I had spent in the company of some of the most highly-esteemed equine surgeons. What chance would I have with people like that? Or maybe there would be a couple of ordinary vets like myself there too? But what if I made a show of myself with my basic knowledge and equipment? Our stocks of equine medicines weren’t exactly state of the art either. Would I end up just displaying my total ignorance?

  While I continued to agonise, I was interrupted by the arrival of Arthur, my fellow assistant, who had four years’ more experience than I had. His usual jaunty step was noticeably absent.

  ‘Bad weekend?’ I enquired sympathetically. He had been on duty.

  ‘One the worst,’ he groaned. ‘Two caesareans on Saturday night, a cow with a torsion on Sunday and I was up and down to the Delaney foal all weekend.’

  ‘So, how is the foal, then?’ I asked as soon as I could break into his litany of disasters.

  ‘She died last night. I was dripping her and stomach-tubing her all weekend, but she was just a non-runner.’

  He carried on with the outcome of a second caesarian but I wasn’t listening anymore. Although the foal had died while I was off-duty, I still felt as though it was my case and therefore my fault.

  ‘That’s it. I’m doing it,’ I decided and before I could change my mind, I filled out the form and hurriedly signed the cheque, trying not to think of the consequences on my monthly bank statement.

  Spring passed with a variety of cases – some good, some bad, some downright disastrous. With every equine case I treated, I became increasingly hopeful. Next spring, I’ll be ready, I thought to myself.

  The first module of the course wasn’t until the start of September but it seemed no time at all before the day dawned. The event was to be held in one of the most prestigious hotels in County Kildare – a country manor, steeped in the tradition of all things equine.

  Registration and coffee were scheduled for eight-thirty the next morning, so I planned to leave before seven. The night before, as though knowing that something unusual was going on, Molly’s normally peaceful bedtime routine ended in tears and I ended up lying crouched in the corner of her cot for over an hour before she reluctantly fell into a restless sleep. She woke several times during the night as though to check if I had left.

  The next morning, I was up early and having quickly showered, I dressed myself in what I felt was suitable for the occasion. I strapped Molly into her highchair to feed her with her usual favourite of porridge and apple, but she was having none of it. What didn’t hit the far wall or slop down the side of her tray managed to make its way into my still damp hair and (uniquely) ironed top. Even Slug was soon sporting several spoonfuls, which she did her best to lick greedily off her shaggy coat.

  Not having time to change, I brushed out my hair and wiped my top clean as best I could with a damp cloth. Despite the promising-looking September morning, I hoped it would be cold enough to leave my jacket on to hide the stains. I finally left just after seven, with both Molly and Slug sulking in the kitchen, while Donal resigned himself to what was going to be a troublesome day off.

  It was after half-eight by the time I arrived at my destination. I pulled into the long, railed driveway, and admired the array of mares and foals grazing lazily in the last rays of the summer sun.

  I was almost feeling optimistic until I got to the delegates’ parking lot and wedged my grubby Opel Corsa in between a brand new BMW on one side and an equally gleaming Land Cruiser on the other. The whole parking area was taken up with similar vehicles, one or two of which were sign-written with logos of exclusive equine hospitals.

  The reception itself was intimidating to an impostor like myself, with rows and rows of framed photographs of winning horses hung along the lengthy entrance hall, many of which were bred by the owners of the hotel.

  It didn’
t help when I arrived into the foyer to find that the expensively clad delegates were almost exclusively male. I quickly detoured to the toilets to give myself time to mentally regroup. Reappearing back out, I slid in behind a coffee table and busied myself pouring a coffee, frantically trying to look like part of the group.

  ‘Excuse me!’ a cry came towards me from one of the suits.

  Maybe they’re not as bad as I’m making them out to be, I thought to myself, making my way over to join the group at the table.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he continued, ‘four coffees over here and more milk.’

  ‘What?’ I replied, stupidly.

  ‘Four coffees, please. And another jug of milk,’ he repeated and he looked away before I could reply.

  Fuming, I picked up one of the sets of lecture notes and made my way into the conference hall where the lectures were to be held. The scattering of colleagues ignored me as I tried to pick out a friendly eye. Eventually, I sat down in the middle of a row and waited as the others filed in. The meeting was well attended and by nine o’ clock every seat in the house was full – apart from one on either side of me and a couple in the front row.

  Although I knew that equine veterinary practice was at that time primarily a male-dominated area, I was still surprised to see that of the twenty-four delegates, only three were female. One, not much older than me, I later discovered had been sent to take notes for her boss. The other was a hardened-looking horsey type who seemed to be well in with the rest of the delegates.

  The usual format for such meetings, that would carry on over a number of days, was that everyone would have to introduce themselves to the group. However, in this case, Jason, the lecturer, having introduced himself and his seemingly endless lifetime achievements, simply glanced quickly up and down the lines, as everyone seemed to know everyone else already. When he came to one of the other women, he didn’t give her a chance to say a word. ‘Emma,’ he informed the crowd, ‘has the privilege of having joined ranks with Mike O’Dee and she’s here to take notes’, and he continued on, obviously not deeming her worthy of any further attention. I later discover that her name was, in fact, Lucy, and that she had qualified four years previously and, having spent several stud seasons in both hemispheres of the world, had then gone on to do a master’s in equine reproduction. When he came to me, Jason peered at his notes before looking up to ask, ‘And who are you here for?’