Vet Among the Pigeons

by Gillian Hick

  ‘Do you think they would attack?’ I asked Sean when we were safely inside.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but I sure as hell wasn’t hanging around to find out. Ah sure, we’ll get yer one in the Department down to inspect them and find out,’ and he broke out into a great roar of laughter.

  Meanwhile the pair were reunited and within a few seconds the buzzard had freed himself of the bag and the two rose high up above the forest before starting to circle, shrieking and screaming with what we, maybe romantically, ascribed to joy at being reunited.

  From then on, Sean kept me regularly updated as he often spotted the pair in the forest. Our bird was easily recognisable as the only buzzard with a large bald patch around the base of his neck! Despite my well-intentioned blunderings, the ‘bald eagle’ had survived.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PYJAMA PARTY

  If I had known what sort of a day it was going to be when the phone shrilled in my ear just before six in the morning, I probably wouldn’t have picked it up. In my stupefied state of semi-slumber, I reached over and grunted sleepily into the receiver. Seamus, the boss, always answered the calls at night himself and then passed them on to either myself or Arthur, depending on who was on duty. At least it meant that I didn’t have to bother pretending to be full of the joys of spring when I answered. At times, it amazed me how we communicated a comprehensible message with a series of grunts and monosyllables. It was no different this time.

  ‘Cow with a prolapse. Peter Jones. Ballinahinch. On the Wexford road just after The Coachman pub.’

  ‘Okay so. I’ll go on out.’

  I dropped the receiver without waiting for a reply, knowing that if I did, all I would hear would be the dead tone.

  I lay back and closed my eyes for just a couple of moments before hauling myself out and falling into my clothes. There is an art with night calls which, with practice, allows you to time accurately the moment at which you come out of automatic-pilot mode and actually wake up. When perfected, it allows you to dress and drive to the call while still feeling like you are in bed. It was probably because of this that it didn’t dawn on me immediately that Ballinahinch was well beyond the usual practice boundaries. It was going to take me over an hour to get there, at which stage I was going to be met by an irate farmer – Seamus had an unfortunate habit of telling the farmer to expect me in twenty minutes. Local geographics never seemed to offer any excuse.

  Slug eyed me balefully as I picked up the car keys and with a martyred look she slumped down the stairs and out to the car. When I opened the car door for her, instead of jumping in as she usually would, she just stood there. Obviously she was good at automatic-pilot mode too. I picked her up and deposited her on the passenger seat where she curled into a ball and never stirred for the rest of the journey.

  I’d got about five miles down the road when the phone rang again. I quickly calculated that if the call was from Seamus to say that the cow had calved, I could probably make it back to bed for another twenty minutes at least.

  ‘Yeah,’ I answered.

  ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘No. My private helicopter’s out of order this morning.’

  My sarcasm was lost as Seamus continued, ‘James Manus. Ewe lambing – says he’ll meet you in the surgery in half an hour.’

  ‘How the hell will I get there in half an hour?’ I yelled down the line. ‘I’m still on my way to the prolapse in Ballinahinch.’

  The line went dead.

  I mentally tried to calm myself in case the anger would interrupt my semi-conscious state.

  Before I knew it, I had travelled the long road all the way past the practice and some twenty miles further. When I finally reached The Coachman pub I had absolutely no recollection of how I had got there. Almost immediately after it, I was flashed down by two men and a young boy. I hadn’t even opened the door before the abuse hit me.

  ‘What sort of a bloody service is this? We’ve been waiting here nearly an hour for you. We put the call through before six. I suppose you thought you’d have a bit of breakfast as you weren’t in a rush. Well, I can tell you, we haven’t had our bloody breakfast yet.’

  I was stunned by the ferocity of the attack. Normally I found the farmers very easy going and I was used to retaliating to the good-natured slagging matches that often took place. The bit about the breakfast really got to me as the rumbling in my stomach was giving me some forceful reminders of my hunger.

  I stared coldly at what I assumed to be father and son, one a miniature version of the other. Beside them, the stockman stood, staring accusingly at me, arms folded, waiting to attack my reply. I raised myself to my full height and replied in a quiet, controlled voice. ‘I came immediately on getting the call. Your yard is well beyond the outskirts of the practice. Maybe you should think of using a vet closer to you.’

  ‘Don’t you get smart with me!’ the father replied furiously. ‘There’s no time to be getting other vets now.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should have thought of that first. Now if you could show me the cow, please? Unfortunately I don’t have time to stand around arguing. I have more calls to get to before I get my breakfast.’

  The usual reason for a client to use a practice far away was because they had been refused service from the local vets for non-payment or other reasons. In this case, I could clearly see why the local vets probably refused to deal with these particular clients, payment or not.

  The father’s face reddened in fury as he stomped off into the shed with the son indignantly marching behind. As I followed him, a knot of frustration settled in my stomach. An unpleasant job could be made so much worse if the farmer was unhelpful. I counted the minutes until I would be out of the yard and on the road to the next call, although my farmer with the ewe lambing would probably be equally furious by the time I got back to the surgery.

  My mood darkened when I saw my patient: a large, highly strung, Charolais cow, running loose with a bunch of her equally neurotic comrades. As she bucked and wheeled with the rest of them, her massively engorged prolapsed uterus was clearly visible as it bobbed up and down behind her.

  The father sneered at me from the far side of the shed. ‘Well now, what do you make of that one? Now we’ll see if female vets are all they’re cracked up to be.’

  ‘Yeah, now we’ll see,’ echoed his miniature.

  I glared coldly at him. I was well used to the typical ‘female vet’ slagging and normally joined in the crack, but whatever about hearing it from the openly aggressive father, I was not going to take it from his half-pint son.

  As I watched my patient’s upturned heels disappearing at speed past me, I raised my eyes to heaven and asked the father if it had occurred to him to have a pen prepared to separate her out for the job.

  ‘You did have a whole hour to get ready,’ I reminded him sweetly.

  I quickly assessed how and where we would enclose her in the shed and became increasingly irritated by the reluctance of any of them to do anything but moan at each request I made. I had become used to the helpful farmers in our area who would go out of their way to assist you, and was normally amused by the constant reminders of ‘Mind yourself now that you don’t get hurt’, or ‘Stand back there and I’ll do that for you.’ At times it frustrated me, but right now any sign of helpfulness wouldn’t have gone astray.

  With the cow finally penned in a corner, I hung precariously over the gate with a freshly made rope halter in an attempt to drop it over the angrily swishing head. Three sets of resentful eyes bored into my back, willing me to fail. I almost felt their intense disappointment when it dropped neatly over her head at the first attempt and I was able to tie her securely to the only beam in the shed that would have any hope of restraining the tonne of fuming flesh.

  I carefully drew up a calculated extra-strong dose of sedative, knowing full well that the usual dose would be like throwing saline into the angry Charolais. As I waited for the medication to take effect, the phone r
ang. I could have cried when I saw Seamus’s number on the screen, wondering what other calls he might have lined up for me. ‘I’m here in Jones’s. I’m going to be a while,’ I replied, in a neutral tone, indicating that the farmers were standing beside me listening to every word I said.

  ‘Oh lovely,’ he replied cheerfully, obviously the better for his leisurely breakfast. ‘Those cattle are absolutely stark raving mad. And, by the way, did I forget to tell you that those Joneses are a dangerous crew? They ended up taking one the vets from Edwardstown Veterinary Clinic to court over a calving – that’s why we have the pleasure of their business now. But, sure, you’ve probably worked that one out by now. Anyway, I’m in the factory for the morning so I’m absolutely no use to you, but sure if you’re still at it by midday, I’ll come out to give you a hand. Have a nice day now.’

  His loud, booming laugh was cut short as he hung up while I fought desperately to retain my self-control in front of the inquisitive farmers.

  ‘Was that the boss man, then?’ asked the father.

  ‘I suppose he has to come out to help you,’ added the son, arms folded, leaning haughtily up against the farm gate.

  ‘Seamus is in the factory today. Why would he be coming out here?’ I asked, wondering if they always expected two vets to do one job.

  ‘Sure, you’re fresh to the job,’ said the father. ‘You probably haven’t ever done one of these before.’

  ‘Yeah and sure you’re only a woman,’ added the half-pint, while the stockman grinned silently to himself in the corner.

  As I made my way out to the car to gather the equipment, my feeling of doom deepened. By the time I had positioned the cow and was started on the laborious task of carefully cleaning the fragile organ, the stockman had disappeared, obviously bored by the novelty of a female vet. I was reduced to a duet of continuous snide comments with son repeating father, answered by father’s uproarious laughter each time. Obviously the training process to produce such a creature was intensive.

  Replacing a prolapse is always slow and tedious, but in this case, compounded by the hostile environment, it seemed to drag on.

  ‘You’re obviously not in a rush, are you?’ began the father.

  ‘She’s not in a rush, Dad, is she?’

  My temper was beginning to fray. At the last assault, I stood up and made my way over to where the son stood, casually leaning over a bale of straw. He jumped in fright at my sudden speed.

  ‘Now listen here, you,’ I began, breathing deeply to retain the calm, controlled voice. ‘Sooner or later you’re going to get the stuffing knocked out of you and you’ll probably be a nicer child for it, but if you don’t get out of here quickly, it’s going to be sooner rather than later’.

  He took one look at his father, who stood gaping as though wounded, and turned and ran out the shed door. I didn’t see him again.

  ‘That’s no way to speak to a young chap,’ began the father, in a new-found subdued tone.

  ‘If he can’t take it, he shouldn’t give it and if you don’t like it, you should get another vet. Now, do you want the job done or don’t you?’

  ‘Well, you’d better finish your own mess,’ he replied lamely.

  The adrenaline rush gave me new strength and within minutes the prolapse was back in place. In peaceful silence I placed the strong vaginal sutures. After the sudden exertion I stood up, delighted with my improved status, feeling that I wouldn’t have to take any more verbal abuse from this man. He stood silently, staring at me with a mixture of respect and bewilderment painted across his face. The sweat dripped off me as I pulled off my waterproofs to go into the dairy to wash. I was feeling so smug that I didn’t notice his face lose the look of almost admiration and crumple into helpless laughter. As I splashed the cold water over myself I caught sight of what I thought was my shirt sleeves rolled up my arms. It was then that it struck me that in my hurry to get dressed that morning, I had forgotten to take off my pyjamas. Little red and blue bears bounced up and down across the furry material.

  I tried to ignore the endless mirth as I hurriedly scrawled out a bill and took my shattered dignity with me back into the car. The dirt thrown up from my skid marks hid the sight of the farmer, doubled up in laughter, as I drove furiously out of the yard and towards the surgery for my next flurry of abuse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SPECIAL INDULGENCES

  ‘Go on in,’ urged the oldest of the three lads, giving a good dig in the ribs to the one who was holding the dog. There was a bit of muttering and shuffling going on between the three of them before the middle one grabbed the dog and came towards me while the other two turned to sit in the waiting room.

  I noticed the oldest of the three cast an experienced eye over the shelves of expensive horse and cattle wormers at Riverside Clinic.

  ‘Right, lads. All of you in here together,’ I called to them.

  ‘No. Go on, Jock. You go in,’ gestured the oldest, sullenly avoiding my eye.

  ‘Lads,’ I said firmly, ‘either wait outside in the car park or come in here.’

  When I clearly heard the word ‘bitch’ in the mutterings that followed, I was quite sure they weren’t referring to any canine.

  In fact, the dog seemed to be the only enthusiastic member of the group. He swished his tail languidly as he approached me, his seemingly never-ending tongue hanging out as he raised a paw to me in greeting.

  ‘What’s the problem, so?’ I began, bending down to sink my hands in the long, glossy coat of the dog, noticing the expensive studded collar with the incongruous blue rope.

  ‘We want ye to put ’im down. Give ’im a needle or somethin’.’

  I looked up in alarm at the three faces that were studiously avoiding mine. ‘You what?’

  ‘Me ma said to have ’im put asleep,’ responded the young one eventually, without raising his eyes to mine.

  My mind was in turmoil as I tried to assess the situation.

  Unfortunately, it was all too common for either the parents or the children to become bored with even as handsome a pet as this one and demand the animal be euthanised; occasionally with the added ‘unless you can find someone for him yourself.’ And yet something didn’t add up. This was no ordinary pet that had gradually become neglected as a result of an owner’s waning interest. To buy myself time, I began to examine him and I couldn’t help but notice the sleek, glossy coat that could only have resulted from a good, balanced diet and hours of regular grooming. The nails were short, well worn from long, regular walks and as he sank his enormous head in my lap, I knew that this was a dog that was very much cherished and cared for.

  The lads shuffled around restlessly as I carried out my examination, offering no clues.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, addressing the oldest. ‘Why does she want him put down?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he shrugged, avoiding my eye. ‘Just does.’

  ‘Why?’ I said to the next one. He stared uncomfortably at the floor before the third one blurted out, ‘He bit me brudder,’ gesturing at the one holding the lead. All three nodded in unison, suddenly enthusiastic.

  Although biting a child is totally unforgivable, looking at this gentle giant, I just didn’t believe it as he stared at me with placid, trusting eyes; had he licked him to death, it might have been a different matter.

  ‘Well,’ I said finally, ‘you’ll have to get one of your parents down with you. I’ll need them to sign a consent form.’

  I might as well have dropped a bomb, and I knew by the disgusted expressions that my gut instinct was right.

  ‘But I’m eighteen,’ assured the biggest one, looking up for the first time but still avoiding my eye.

  ‘Sorry,’ I lied smoothly, ‘but you have to be twenty-one.’

  ‘I’m twenty one,’ squeaked the smallest of the three, but he was rapidly deflated as the other two turned on him: ‘Shut up, ye bleedin’ eejit, ye.’

  ‘Shut up yerselves, will ye,’ he replied, turning puce.

  ‘Listen,
lads, I don’t have time for this. Go off and get one of your parents and come back after lunch,’ I told them, fairly sure it would be the last I would see of the trio. ‘No way!’ I said as they made to go and pick up the rope. ‘I’ll hang on to him until you get back.’

  ‘But he’s my bleedin’ dog,’ retorted the little lad.

  ‘Lads. Out! Now!’ I said firmly, holding the door open for them.

  They took one look at me and realising that I was serious, they barrelled out the door amidst much elbowing and curses.

  ‘Ye’r a mad fecking bitch, ye are,’ roared the last over his shoulder as they raced up the street.

  ‘So, what’s your story, big fella?’ I asked the dog, gently stroking his silky ears as he gazed up trustingly at me.

  Quickly, I set up a kennel for him and having made sure that he had a comfortable bed and a dish of fresh water, I went off for a delayed lunch, resolving to start ringing around the local pounds and shelters before going out on my afternoon calls to see if he had been reported missing.

  I hardly managed to swallow my sandwich in the local deli as two people caught me, before I had even sat down, to ‘ask just a quick question’ which took up most of the remaining precious minutes.

  At two minutes to two, I was hurriedly unlocking the surgery door when I noticed a middle-aged man in clerical garb rushing towards me.