by Gillian Hick
I introduced myself and the name of the practice I worked for.
‘Riverside Veterinary Clinic. Mixed practice is it?’ he asked disdainfully. ‘A few calls to the local piebald, is it? I suppose they’d look the same as a Friesian cow!’
A great guffaw of laughter broke out among the ranks before he passed on to the next row.
The topic for the morning was respiratory disease, so I tried to concentrate on the lecture and ignore my sense of alienation. The basic anatomy was followed by physiology, with nothing new to add. Then the eminent equine specialist moved on to his pet topic of video endoscopy. Video endoscopy consists of putting a horse on a treadmill, not unlike what you would see in your local gym and passing an endoscope, with a tiny camera, up the nostril of the horse and then down to various levels of the airways. With the endoscope in place, the horse is then put through its paces while a picture of the airway is displayed on a screen. For the first twenty or so slides of some horse’s larynx, I was engrossed. Then my mind began to wander. What, I wondered, would Larry Byrne’s mare’s larynx look like – the one who had a history of grinding to a halt a half mile or so into strenuous exercise? Or better still, Pauline Thomson’s half-breed, who could jump anything put in front of her, but made a most peculiar noise while doing so. And then I realised that I would never know, as, to the best of my knowledge, at the time there wasn’t a single video endoscope facility in the entire country. As far as I knew, all the vets attending the course were Irish and yet they were all nodding knowingly at the slide show. It was starting to bug me, so that by the time the lecture came to an end, and questions were invited, I tentatively raised my hand.
Jason didn’t look too pleased to see my hand and he took every other question in the room before he came to me.
‘Sorry,’ I enquired, ‘but where is the nearest endoscope facility?’
‘Oh, don’t be bothering your head about it, dear,’ he replied blithely. ‘A stethoscope is the only sort of a scope you’ll ever get to use with your piebalds.’
Although amidst the laughter that followed, one or two of the delegates did throw me a sympathetic glance, I noticed that no one mentioned where the nearest facility was.
With the questions and answers over, a tea-break was announced. We all made our way down the carpeted stairway to a cosy lounge where three tables were placed around an open fire, each set for eight people.
At least, I though to myself, it would be some consolation to have a decent bit of food without singing nursery rhymes or having it slopped all over me. The homemade scones and Danish pastries justified themselves along with the steaming pots of tea and coffee that were laid out at the top of the room. In turn, we all filled a cup and loaded a plate from the woven baskets. The first few delegates sat down around the table nearest to the fire, filling the eight seats at that table. As I was ninth in line, I took the first seat at the next table and busied myself buttering a scone while wondering who I would be seated beside. I didn’t have long to wait as I saw the person after me turn towards my table and then, stopping in his tracks, turn away to go to a third table. I watched in silence as each vet that followed joined the previous one at that table, ignoring me where I sat alone. Finally, thankfully, Lucy, alias Emma, came over and smiled gratefully as she sat down beside me.
‘Friendly lot, aren’t they?’ I offered, after we had introduced ourselves.
‘You said it,’ she replied. ‘You should try working with them.’
Clearly, despite Lucy’s addition, we were no more attractive and the remaining delegates pulled the chairs from our table and squeezed them in around the others. It was certainly a closed club.
If I hadn’t been so stunned, I might almost have laughed at their ignorance as their loud, brash voices recounted their tales of wonder in the veterinary world, each more interested in their own story than anybody else’s. At any other courses that I had attended, the breaks usually found most people talking about the cases that had gone wrong and trying to pick up tips from others, so that a break almost became like a professional confessional, with mutual commiserations and sometimes advice to follow. It seemed, however, that in the equine world, there were no such misfortunes or bad days.
It wasn’t until the talk at the next table came around to the poor fertility rates that seemed to be plaguing horse breeders since the previous season that Lucy began to prick up her ears. Having spent two of her four seasons in New Zealand working exclusively in equine fertility, she obviously had an interest in and considerable knowledge of the topic. Although each member of the table outlined the success of their techniques, none could deny that it had been a poor season, with many of the top yards performing badly.
Although it was difficult to drown out the heated debates at the other tables, Lucy began to talk with increasing enthusiasm about her experience during her stud seasons as home and abroad. It turned out that the mini lecture in equine reproduction she gave me over all the breaks through the day became the most useful and practical thing I learnt during the entire course.
The second module the following month was purely surgical and, with no surgical faculties to speak of, nor the likelihood of there ever being any in Riverside, it was unlikely that I would get to use any of the knowledge sobegrudgingly offered during the day. The third module confined itself to dermatology, never a rewarding subject as skin cases are notoriously difficult to treat. I was frustrated on the long drive home, realising that I hadn’t learnt anything useful that I could put into practice and change what I had been doing up until now. The fourth and fifth modules were to be run as a two-day event over a weekend. On the Friday evening, when I arrived home from work, Molly greeted me with a thin, drawn-out wail, a high temperature and an unusual-looking rash, which, in Crumlin hospital in the early hours of the morning, was eventually declared to be an undiagnosed virus.
On the Sunday morning as were being discharged, thankfully with Molly back in full spirits, although I myself was still shattered, I vaguely wondered how the talk on foal medicine was going and ironically wondered if any one had missed me. It turned out that I need not have worried, as Lucy and myself kept in touch, and from then on I ended up ringing her for advice, which was always freely given, when presented with any unusual horse case.
I wasn’t surprised when, two years later, she left the hallowed ground of Mike O’Dee and set up her own highly successful practice, specialising solely in equine reproduction.
CHAPTER SIX
THE BALD EAGLE
I feel that birds get a rough deal when it comes to equality. I do remember going to one avian lecture in college given by some expert who ran a referral clinic solely dedicated to birds. I think they had to import him from somewhere in England, as there was no one available locally to do the lecture. I’m sure we must have had other lectures on avian medicine, though doubtfully in avian surgery, but, either way, whatever gems of wisdom were imparted to us in college, certainly they hadn’t left much of an impression on me.
One of my earlier locum jobs, in a mixed practice run by a larger-than-life character called Joe, typified the attitude of veterinary interest in birds. One quiet afternoon, while I was sitting in the office signing TB cards, a pleasant looking young lady arrived in. She was, she informed the receptionist, newly moved into the area and had three ‘rare and expensive parrots’, as she described them. Was the vet familiar with birds, she enquired? Sarah, the middle-aged mother of five children, who had worked in the practice since before they were all born, dismissed the flimsy-looking creature before her as she replied in her droll monotone, ‘Oh he’s familiar with birds, all right – but not the feathered ones!’
In one of the first clinics where I saw practice as a student, the four vets were discussing their early days after graduation and laughing at how they had handled their first consultations.
‘Mine,’ said the oldest, ‘was a bird. Can you imagine it? I might have managed to vaccinate a puppy, but there was this bird sitting in its
cage with blood bubbling out of its beak.’
‘What did you do?’ laughed another. ‘Take him in for a head X-ray?’
‘I told the owner that he probably fell off his perch and bumped his beak. I tried to pack it with some cotton wool, but the thing bit me and there was so much blood you couldn’t see who it was coming from. Worst thing was, as she was going out the door, I was trying to salvage myself and I told her not to worry, that nose bleeds were very common in canaries. Well, I nearly died when she told me it was a budgie!’
Luckily, when I myself qualified and began to work, I managed to escape the feathered patients for quite some time, but at Riverside Clinic one day, my luck ran out. On one of my first evening clinics, I opened the waiting-room door to see a spacious cage containing the dreaded avian. Other than knowing for sure that it was a budgie, I was stumped. The fact that the luckless creature was suffering from diarrhoea was clearly evident from the foul-smelling tail feathers. The owner had already rung the other neighbouring practice who claimed not to treat ‘exotics’. I had no option but to extrapolate from my knowledge of other species and treat the bird with an anti-parasite medication and the only antibiotic that I knew was licensed for birds. Luckily, the antibiotics came with an idiot-proof dosing guide for exotics, presumably designed for the client, but which, I suspected, many vets kept handy in their bottom drawers.
After issuing a grave prognosis, I didn’t expect to see the budgie again. I was delighted, initially, when the owner rang to say that Peter was doing well, and by the weekend he had made a miraculous recovery. Although the usefulness of my intervention was dubious, Peter’s owner was nonetheless very enthusiastic. The unfortunate result of this was that my reputation as a bird vet grew. From then on, a regular trickle of birds began to make their way into the surgery and despite the fact that my limited knowledge led only to limited success, Peter’s owner was obviously an important figure in the local bird world and my followers remained undeterred.
As my reputation looked set to last, I invested in some heavy-duty avian manuals, hoping they might enlighten me. Along with the trickle of cases, my research allowed me to add some credibility to my reputation.
Just as I was beginning to enjoy my status as bird vet (much to the amusement and relief of both Seamus and Arthur), things began to get out of hand. I wasn’t overly worried when Sean, the local forester, arrived in one day. We knew him well, as he kept his own horse and had a few working spaniels. But, apart from his own animals, he also had a great interest in wildlife and, in particular, birds. He was the nicest type of client: terribly knowledgeable but always open to advice. In all honesty, I’d say that I learnt as much from him as he did from me in the time we knew each other.
He was the type of person who was always in good form, but today his face was grim. The forest he managed had attracted a pair of nesting buzzards, which he watched with the care of a proud parent.
‘Wait till you see this,’ he said glumly as he hauled out a huge bird-bag, usually used for transporting swans. I was stunned to see not the graceful head of a swan, but that of a buzzard, flopping out of the bag.
‘Wow! It is a buzzard, isn’t it?’ I asked, unused to seeing one up close.
‘One of the pair nesting in the forest,’ he confirmed. ‘I heard the other one shrieking while I was down with the saplings and I thought maybe something was attacking the nest. I found this one collapsed below it.’
Between us, we examined the bird. Initially, I was enthralled to have access to such a beautiful creature at such close quarters. The wing span, at full stretch, was wider than the length of our generously-sized consulting table. The mottled brown breast was well-rounded, indicating that the bird had been healthy until whatever catastrophe had struck.
A detailed examination, with Sean keeping a firm hold of the powerful talons, didn’t reveal much, other than that the bird was severely weakened. I scanned through various forms of infectious diseases, poisonings, trauma, among other things, but I wasn’t convinced by any of my tentative diagnoses. Being the Friday evening of a bank holiday weekend, no other help was available.
‘All we can do,’ I said to Sean, ‘is treat the symptoms and see how he gets on.’
Adjusting the little bit of knowledge I did have, I gave him fluids infused with a carefully measured amount of glucose, some antibiotic and a steroid to combat his shocked state. Sean took the bird home with him, but the next day, although the buzzard seemed to be a bit stronger, he was still unable to rise. By the Sunday morning, I was becoming more concerned as there was no further improvement and his weight was dropping despite force-feeding him select cuts of natural prey. ‘Why don’t we radiograph him?’ I suggested. ‘It might just give us some clues.’
‘Whatever you think,’ replied Sean. ‘Sure, it can do no harm anyway.’
Although the buzzard was still very weak, the powerful beak and talons still worried me. Extrapolating from a sedation regime that I had used on other birds, I cautiously injected a lowered dose into the patient. Then I pulled out the largest cassette that we had in the practice, with the appropritate film. But the usual bags that we used to position the patient worried me due to their weight, which I felt might inhibit the bird’s delicate breathing. Ingeniously, I thought, I used some Sellotape to tape his neck in place as this plan had worked well with the few reptiles I’d previously needed to radiograph. Despite our efforts, the resultant radiograph, although spectacular, shed no further light on the mystery. Problems arose when the buzzard came around a bit quicker than expected, probably as a result of my overly-cautious anaesthetic dose. The Sellotape was by now firmly stuck to the bird’s feathers and in my haste to free him, the feathers came out with the tape, leaving a two-centimetre bald collar in the previously immaculate plumage.
‘He looks more like a bald eagle now,’ joked Sean.
I had mixed feelings on the Tuesday morning when I rang the Department of Agriculture to report the bird, as it is illegal to keep any bird of prey without a special permit. I wasn’t sure exactly who in the Department was responsible and I was put on hold a few times, and passed from one office to another. I was eventually put on to a severe-sounding woman who told me that the office in question could not be contacted at present and she was dealing with the enquiries.
I briefly explained the situation.
‘Well, if you have the appropriate licence for keeping a bird in captivity there should be no problem,’ she rapped back.
‘That’s exactly why I’m ringing you,’ I continued, patiently. ‘The bird was brought in over the weekend, after your offices were closed. I’m trying to find out how I can get a licence now or who I can pass the bird on to.’
‘Well, the Department rules clearly state that you need to have a permit to keep a bird of prey.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that,’ I explained, feeling slightly less patient. ‘That’s exactly why I’m ringing you.’
‘But that’s no good now. You have to get the permit before you get the bird,’ she continued in her official voice. ‘You could end up in deep water over this one,’ she advised me gravely.
‘Excuse me,’ I carried on, becoming increasingly exacerbated, ‘what was I supposed to do? Leave the bird in the forest for the long weekend and hope it wouldn’t die in the time it would take you to process the licence?’
‘Well, all I know is that the regulations state that –’
‘I know what the regulations state,’ I snapped. ‘Now, would you mind telling me how I can go about getting the appropriate licence?’
‘All I know,’ she repeated, ‘is that you can’t keep a bird of prey without a licence.’
‘Right! Fine so! I’ll dump it back out in the forest and let it die. At least that way we’ll all be happy that we haven’t breached any Department regulations,’ and I slammed down the phone.
‘Relax the head,’ laughed Sean, as I fumed at the stupidity of it all. ‘Sure, what are they going to do? Come out and take it off you? T
hey would be scared of their lives of a buzzard. Tell her to come and take it if she wants it,’ and we both burst out laughing at the image of her arriving out in an office suit and high heels to seize the patient!
That evening, I sent an e-mail to the Department of Agriculture informing them that we were treating a bird of prey and inviting them to take charge of it. We’re still waiting …
Meanwhile, the buzzard, while gaining strength, was still semi-paralysed and showed no inclination to eat without us force-feeding him. He clearly wasn’t impressed with our intervention, but we managed to stomach-tube him twice daily and over the next few days his weight levelled out. By the end of the week, he was able to lift himself up and I gladly left it to Sean to handle the powerful bird while I administered to it! On the following Sunday, he took his first mouse, gobbling it greedily, and on the Monday morning, Sean almost didn’t make it out of the pen after feeding him. The great bird stretched his wings to full span and, shrieking angrily, flew at the door just as Sean bolted it from the outside. For another two days we threw in his food, injected with his medication, and finally it was time to release him.
We met early on the Wednesday morning, and with a lot more skill than I would ever have, Sean managed to capture the bird while I ran in with the bag. Once he was firmly secured, we bundled him into the back of the van and drove to the woods. The dawn was just breaking on this magical morning and we were almost deafened by the volume of the dawn chorus as we unloaded our patient. He struggled violently as we carried him to the edge of the forest where he had been found. Quickly, Sean untied the strings and just as we were about to undo the final body string, a shrill shriek sounded out from above us. Through the dim light we saw the mate high up in the trees as she continued to scream in anger at us. By now, our patient was replying in full voice as his efforts to escape became more determined. Suddenly the mate began to swoop down towards us and with one look at the vast stature of the rapidly approaching wings, we abandoned our charge in unison and ran to the van.