Vet Among the Pigeons

by Gillian Hick

  ‘Which do you want to do?’ I asked him, offering him either kit with a grin.

  By the time we returned to the halting site, I had filled him in on the story.

  He was doubtful. ‘Nasty place to get a wound; too much movement to allow for good healing,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, and she’s only about two weeks old, and it looks like it was barbed wire – probably good and rusty – and there isn’t a stable or anything like it,’ I continued cheerfully, now that I had back-up. ‘But sure, they want to try and referral isn’t an option, so what have we to lose?’ I implored him.

  ‘A lot of wasted time and money,’ he retorted grimly.

  Although by now I felt competent when anaesthetising small animals, a young foal was a different story. I was glad to hand over to Seamus and watched as he carefully drew from a vial of valium and mixed it with a minute amount of ketamine.

  My request for hot water was silently fulfilled with a ‘Right so,’ as Paddy nodded almost imperceptibly at John-Joe.

  ‘You ready to go?’ enquired Seamus.

  Within minutes, the little foal lay peacefully on the sparse grass that was to serve as the operating theatre.

  Happy that Seamus was there to supervise the even, deep breathing of the patient and look after crowd control, I was soon engrossed in the ravaged remains of the hind-limb. Having filled the large wound with almost a full tube of gel, I carefully clipped away what remained of the fine coat, most of which was caked in clotted blood. Methodically, I washed away any obvious dirt and debris from the exposed area. Only then did I begin to examine the extent of the damage to the leg. The large flap of skin that been pulled down in ragged strips by the barbed wire was obviously long since devoid of blood supply. ‘That’ll have to go,’ I muttered to myself, oblivious to the apprehension of my onlookers.

  Carefully, I trimmed away the large skin flap, pleased to see oozing of fresh blood from the edge where I cut away. Once the skin was trimmed of any dead tissue, I inspected the lower layers. One of the main muscles was torn, almost completely, exposing the main blood supply to the hind-limb, which was, thankfully, still intact. As the wound was so fresh, it was only a matter of some careful suturing to restore the muscle to normality. In an older horse, I would have been much more concerned that the weight of a mature animal might be enough to break down my careful repair, but in a foal such as this one, which I estimated to weigh no more than sixty or seventy kilograms, I was somewhat optimistic. It would have been best to cast the leg to prevent excessive movement, but due to the position of the injury, that wasn’t possible. At the very least, I would have liked to keep the foal confined, to limit the usual antics of an enthusiastic youngster. Looking around the bleak expanse of wasteland around the halting site, I knew this wasn’t going to happen either.

  With the muscle repaired, I turned my attention to the rest of the wound which by now was looking decidedly healthier.

  ‘Would one of you mind holding up the fluid bag for me?’ I enquired of my silent audience, nodding at the gallon of saline to which I had attached a giving set.

  There was a lot of mumbling and shuffling before Paddy himself came forward. ‘Just hold the bag up high and squeeze it as hard as you can to ensure an adequate flow,’ I added. He was an efficient assistant as he wordlessly directed the flow of sterile fluid over the damaged tissue, while I swabbed and trimmed away any dirt or damaged tissue.

  I prodded and probed with a forceps, carefully searching for any further damage. On a couple of occasions the forceps opened into a tiny dead end where a barb of wire had torn through the connective tissue surrounding the muscle body. At last I was satisfied that as much contamination as possible had been washed away.

  Engrossed as I was in the fiddly task, it wasn’t until I noticed the flow of saline slowing down that I looked back towards my assistant. Paddy, who looked to be a sturdy, well-built man, was red in the face with exertion as he struggled to hold the second gallon bag of saline up over his head.

  ‘Paddy, would you mind giving Seamus a hand now because we’re almost ready to let the foal come around. If you could stay at the head in case she tries to get up too quickly,’ I asked him. ‘You can give the bag to someone else,’ I added, relieving him of his burden without embarrassing him too much.

  Another person was silently pushed forward to continue the task.

  My suturing was limited to areas where I could pull enough tissue together to make some attempt to reduce the size of the wound. Painstakingly, I inserted row after row of tiny sutures at several different angles, hoping to draw together the sub-cutaneous tissue and even some skin.

  ‘Right, so. What do you think of that?’ I asked Seamus, indicating the damaged limb.

  ‘Well, it’s as much as can be done, but it still has a long way to go,’ he replied cautiously.

  I arched my back slowly, until the dull ache receded before straightening myself up off my knees into a standing position.

  ‘She won’t be long now,’ said Seamus, flicking at the corner of the foal’s eyelid, watching as the enormous black eyelashes flickered in response, an indication that the anaesthetic was starting to wear off.

  The usual banter that would accompany a moment like this was glaringly absent as my attempts to engage the Travellers in light conversation failed miserably.

  Covering the injury was impossible, but I applied a padded bandage to the lower limb to help prevent swelling from the inflammatory fluid which would inevitably build up below the wound. As an afterthought, I applied a similar bandage to the other hind limb to protect it from the extra weight it was going to have to bear for the duration of the recovery.

  ‘Well, that’s all we can do for the moment. Who’s going to be in charge of her now?’ I enquired, knowing that the aftercare for a wound like this was far more important than my own role.

  John-Joe came forward with a miniature version of himself a step behind. ‘Well, it’s John-Joe Junior’s foal, so I suppose we’ll be looking after her.’

  ‘Wow! A foal of your own,’ I replied in surprise to the young lad, half hidden behind his father’s coat.

  ‘Got it for me Confirmation,’ came the reply. He was obviously bursting with pride as his chest puffed up and he took a step forward.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to take extra good care of her, so. I would really like to confine her in a small paddock,’ I began, thinking of the carefully sutured muscle, ‘but on the other hand, walking around will help to keep the swelling down. Will she lead for you?’ I asked the young lad as he was by now brave enough to meet my eye.

  ‘Oh be God and she will, Miss, if I folly ’er on behind the mare,’ he confirmed, a determined look in his eye.

  ‘Well, the more you lead her around the better she’ll be,’ I told him.

  By the time I had finished going through the daily wound care, the foal was up, wobbling precariously as she tried to readjust herself. I was pleased to see that the offending limb was touching the ground with each faltering step.

  I had cleared the site of my temporary theatre and was packing up to go when I heard Seamus saying to John-Joe, ‘We’ll be needing a few bob, so.’

  Paddy was quick to reply. ‘Give the man there his money.’

  A figure was negotiated and a wad of twenty-euro notes, the thickness of a telephone directory, was pulled out.

  ‘I always knew we were in the wrong job,’ said Seamus to me as soon as I joined him in the car, having promised to call back in the morning.

  The next morning saw one of many calls that I made to the Murphys over the following weeks. Luckily, their road was one we passed frequently on our daily calls, so after a few days, I took to dropping in whenever I was in the area instead of sticking to pre-booked times. John-Joe junior, or JJ, as I soon found out he was called, became my permanent shadow, mysteriously showing up every time I arrived. Although I was always followed, at a distance, by a straggle of his young comrades, it was only ever JJ who spoke to me. F
or the first week, the wound continuously discharged a sticky yellow fluid as the body derided itself of remaining unhealthy tissue.

  ‘I don’t like the look of that there stuff, Missis,’ JJ would comment, nodding his head wisely.

  ‘Don’t be worrying about it,’ I would tell him and try to explain how the body was getting rid of all the bad bits. ‘As soon as all the bad stuff is gone, the wound will start to heal,’ I assured him, seeing the constant doubt in his eyes.

  ‘Smell it,’ I told him. ‘There’s no poison in the blood there,’ I continued, well aware of the Travellers’ aversion to the all-encompassing malady of ‘poison in the blood’.

  I showed him how to clean the wound, supervising the boiling of the kettle in the cluttered, yet tidy caravan into which I was hesitantly invited.

  ‘Stick your hand in there now,’ I invited him so that he would know the correct water temperature as the clean bucket of water cooled.

  The foal became accustomed to the repeated washing of the leg, as she stood obediently, tied to a tap at a discarded bath in the yard. JJ was a diligent student and became quite meticulous, waiting for the crusted discharge to soften before gently wiping it away. Before each cleaning, the hairless skin below the wound would be copiously covered with petroleum jelly to prevent scalding of the baby-soft tissue.

  When JJ had become proficient at cleaning the wound, I showed him how to change the supportive bandage on the leg, which he carried on doing at regular intervals.

  After the first week, I began to call less often as the wound had stopped discharging and was now, ever so slowly, beginning to heal. With each visit, I carefully studied the outlines of the wound and could see the pale, thin, hairless margin gradually beginning to close in over the large triangle of what looked like healthy granulation tissue. With the combination of JJ’s administrations, the healing powers of a young animal and the merciful absence of flies, we were beginning to win the battle.

  ‘What d’ye think of ’er now, Missis?’ became the opening question every time I called.

  Although I continued to remind JJ that complications could still arise, I myself was becoming quietly optimistic. With the skill of generations of folklore, Paddy confidently assured me that the warm weather would not come until late that season. I hoped he was right as it would give us the two months that I estimated it would take the wound to heal completely. Once the warm weather came, we would be plagued by the intrusion of flies who would gorge themselves on the feast of flesh and lay innocent-looking eggs which would hatch into maggots and burrow into the tender flesh, effectively putting an end to all our good work.

  By now, I reckoned that JJ had all the skills he needed to carry on with the foal with only occasional supervision. I noticed that the vet wraps had been changed to strips of cloth, which, although far from the ideal bandaging material, were always clean and carefully applied when I checked them.

  Often I drove by to see JJ, or very rarely one of the other lads, leading the foal around the field in lackadaisical, haphazard patterns as though they had spent the afternoon at the task. Only the slightest lameness gave any indication of her wound. Despite the severity of the injury, the foal continued to grow and thrive.

  I had almost stopped worrying about my patient when I got a call late one afternoon. One of the local welfare groups had received a complaint from a concerned member of the public about an ill-treated, injured foal.

  ‘The foal is out there in the halting site, the one up past the factory,’ said Kevin, the inspector on duty.

  Although most of the staff were genuine, well-intentioned people, Kevin was new to the group and seemed be trying too hard to prove himself – and to the wrong people. In my limited experience of him, I found him to be more interested in the accent of the owner than the condition of the animal under investigation, and his knowledge of animal matters often left much to be desired.

  ‘You mean Murphys’ place?’ I questioned, as in all my visits I hadn’t come across any other foal, though I didn’t for a minute associate the complaint with ‘the filly’ as she was always called.

  ‘Yes. I think that’s the place,’ replied Kevin. ‘Apparently there is a very badly injured piebald foal being dragged around the field all day by some kids. This lady said that they are at it every time she passes.’

  ‘A piebald filly foal?’ I questioned, despairing yet again at the ignorance that sometimes makes supposed do-gooders rush to the aid of an animal that was managing perfectly well without them. ‘If it’s the one I’m thinking about, it’s one that got badly cut as a young foal,’ I told Kevin, ‘but I’ve been treating her for the past two months. The young lad that owns her is an absolute cracker. All that “dragging her around the field” has probably saved her life.’

  ‘But this lady,’ continued Kevin, sounding slightly disappointed that the drama might be plucked from his hands, ‘was adamant that the animal in question is lame and needs to be taken away for proper care.’

  ‘Of course the foal is lame,’ I replied wearily. ‘So would the “lady” be if she had a deep, open wound on her leg. Listen, Kevin, those young lads are playing a blinder with that foal. Seamus and I were fairly cagey about treating her in the first place, she was so badly injured. With all the work the young lad has put into her, she is doing way better than I thought. The way she’s going, she’s going to make a complete recovery.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if you’re sure, we’ll let it go for the moment, but I’ll just pay a visit out to them to keep an eye on them anyway.’

  ‘Kevin,’ I replied in even, measured tones, ‘that foal is under my care and is being looked after one hundred percent. You don’t need to call out to her.’

  ‘Well, we’ll keep an eye on them, anyway. The lady who reported them was adamant that the foal was in distress. She has a very big yard on the far side of the hill.’

  I tried to get back out to the halting-site that evening, but the never-ending backlog of spring kept me away that day and the next. I wasn’t worried as I knew all was going well. It was just reaching twilight when I pulled in on the Friday evening. I was surprised that JJ didn’t join me on the driveway and the sketchy silhouette of the various families outlined by the light of the camp fire stayed put.

  My usual greeting was left unanswered and JJ stood, eyes cast down to the ground. ‘What’s up, JJ? Is the filly okay?’ I called out to him, as a knot grew in my stomach. If we were going to have a problem with the wound, I had thought it would have happened before now.

  I was surprised at the aggression in Paddy’s tone as he spat out at me. ‘You tell us how she is. Your friend that took her away should know.’

  ‘My friend? That took her away?’ I replied in genuine bewilderment.

  ‘Came with a box yesterday and told us he was taking her away to be looked after.’

  ‘He took the foal way!’ I repeated stupidly, conscious of the deep well of anger building up inside me. ‘Who took her away? What friend of mine?’ I demanded, noticing out of the side of my eye that young JJ was standing, fists clenched by his side, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘That Kevin what’s-his-name. Said he’d been talking te ye,’ shouted Paddy, not noticing my reaction.

  ‘Listen here, Paddy,’ I replied. ‘Kevin, whatever-his-name-is is no friend of mine and yes, he did talk to me and I told him the filly was being well looked after and that there was no need for him to get involved.’

  The silence that followed as Paddy, JJ and the rest of the clan struggled to believe me was broken only by the crackling and sparks of an old section of dried-out wood on the fire that seemed to match the tension between us.

  ‘Why’ I continued after a few moments ‘would I get them to take the foal away now? If I’d had any worries wouldn’t I have got them to take her six weeks ago?’

  The impasse was broken as JJ crossed over from behind the fire to where I stood.

  ‘They couldn’t even load her right, Missis,’ he informed me. ‘M
ade a right bollix of it they did, fussing at ’er and shoving ’er when all she needed was to let her folly in behind the mare. Let out a right kick at yer man, she did,’ he carried on, obviously proud of his charge.

  ‘Go on with ye,’ growled Paddy at JJ, but without the usual gruffness of tone.

  Despite the tension, I had to quell the bubble of laughter that rose within me at the thought of the little filly giving as good as she got.

  ‘Paddy, leave it with me. I’ll sort it out, I promise you,’ I assured him.

  He stared at me in the bright glow of the fire. ‘I’ll believe ye, boss. Ye’r always as good as yer word,’ he declared.

  As I turned away I hid a smile at the promotion in the eyes of the Travellers to being the ‘boss’.

  The next morning, I headed up to the office where Kevin worked before going to the surgery. What Seamus didn’t know about wasn’t going to worry him, I thought to myself, at least not until it was all over anyway.

  Kevin was skulking in behind the reception area when I arrived and quickly tried to make his way out the back door when he saw me coming.

  ‘Where is she?’ I demanded.

  ‘She? Who’s she? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You know well who I’m talking about. Where’s the piebald filly?’

  ‘Oh her,’ he replied airily. ‘You needn’t worry about her. We have had one of our other vets out to have a look at her already. She’s in good hands.’

  ‘Kevin,’ I said, through clenched teeth, taking one, two, and a few more deep breaths before continuing, ‘I am treating that foal. After this evening’s surgery, I’m going out to the halting-site to check on her, like I do a few days a week and have done for the past six weeks. You just make sure she’s there,’ I finished, not bothering to wait for his reply.

  On the way back to the office, I made a few calls to the other local vets. The first two knew nothing about it and I left a message for the third, who rang me back an hour later.

  ‘A little piebald foal,’ he confirmed when I asked if he was treating any animals for the welfare group. ‘I went up to one there yesterday, all right. Bad old wound on the hind leg, but it seemed to be doing nicely to me.’