by Gillian Hick
He commiserated when I told him the story. ‘Listen, whatever you want to do just let me know and I’ll back you on it. Whoever is looking after her is doing a good job.’
There was no need to ring him back. That evening, I pulled in to the halting-site again. From the entrance, the scene was the same – the outline of silhouettes in the bright glow of the campfire, but this time, a small figure came running out to meet me.
‘She’s back, boss! She’s back!’ he roared at me from half-way down the drive.
The filly foal never looked back. Before the first of the flies started, the wound had fully closed over. I didn’t see her after that for a long time until one autumn evening when I called by to look at one of the other horses. The little filly was, by then, quite a substantial filly and as I made my way over to her, she turned her hind-quarters to me and lashed out in high-spiritedness before taking off at a gallop, without the slightest trace of a limp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A CASE OF BUMBLE FOOT
‘Base to bald eagle,’ came the familiar tones over the phone. ‘Bald eagle to base,’ I replied automatically. ‘What’s the crack, Sean?’
‘I have another one for you,’ he replied.
‘Another buzzard … or a real bald eagle?’ I enquired, suspending my disbelief.
‘No. Nothing as fancy as that,’ he laughed. ‘It’s a turkey cock.’
‘A turkey cock! What do you want to do with a turkey cock? How about a barbecue?’ I asked. ‘I could manage that all right.’
‘This is a serious stud turkey that a mate of mine owns. Problem is, he’s gone lame – looks like a case of bumble foot to me.’
‘Bumble foot?’ repeated Donal incredulously when I told him that night. ‘He’s having you on. What the hell is bumble foot?’
‘It’s an infection in the foot. Apparently his friend is very knowledgeable about his poultry and has been treating it for weeks, but it’s getting worse. He needs surgery.’
‘So you’re going to operate on a lame turkey cock?’ Donal stated. ‘With bumble foot! What does Seamus think of that?’
When I told him the next morning, Seamus was equally unimpressed. ‘What did you plan on charging for it?’ he asked, already having a fair idea.
‘Well, it’s a turkey. I can’t really go to town on him.’
‘Oh, great! Is he a cousin of the buzzard? Are they going to give us a load of repeat business or bring in new clients or something?’
‘Well, I’ll do it in my own time, so you won’t even see it here. Unless, of course, you’d like to do the anaesthetic …’ I trailed off, noting the lack of enthusiasm in his face.
So, Sunday morning saw just myself, Sean and Roger the turkey cock preparing for my maiden venture into turkey surgery. Molly’s biggest plastic toy box served as a ‘knock-down’ box into which I had drilled a hole for the anaesthetic tube to be placed. Roger wasn’t overly impressed as we bundled him in, but soon his broad neck flopped to one side as the anaesthetic overcame him. Before he knew it, he was plucked and prepped on the surgery table and I have to admit that he did look slightly incongruous, draped in surgical green instead the usual oven bag. However, it was no laughing matter when I turned my attention to the infected foot which had led him here. Although Sean’s friend was a dedicated bird man and had methodically cleaned the foot and dosed him with antibiotics, the necrotic, angry-looking tissue seemed to have won out. As I cut through the worst of it, I noticed that my scalpel blade induced no haemorrhage, indicating that the tissue was dead. I trimmed away the devitalised flesh further and further and couldn’t help thinking of the old advice: ‘First, do no harm’ that had been drilled into us.
‘I don’t know if this is going anywhere,’ I said to Sean as I trimmed away still more tissue.
‘Ah, that’s what you said about the bald eagle and look at him,’ he replied. ‘Go on! He’ll be grand,’ he assured me with the confidence of one who wasn’t holding the knife.
‘Well, if he can’t get around when he wakes up, I’m putting him down,’ I said as much to myself as to Sean, knowing that the owner had already signed the appropriate consent form.
Eventually, I came to oozing blood, although the tissue still looked very angry. Having flushed the whole area with two litres of heated saline, I packed it carefully with the antibiotic beads I had prepared that morning. Finally, I sutured together what remained of the web as best I could.
When he came around, Roger gobbled away to himself, and to my surprise didn’t seem too put out by the whole affair. I made a note to myself to add to the growing anecdotal evidence list in relation to the use of the anaesthetic and anti-inflammatory medications in turkey cocks.
I laughed to myself as I filled out the discharge instructions and it took every ounce of my self-control not to write ‘twenty minutes to the pound’ on his aftercare sheet.
Despite my misgivings, Roger, after numerous repeat visits to dress the wound, eventually returned to his former glory and bore his scars proudly without any obvious signs of pain or lameness. Seamus wasn’t overly impressed when we eventually did get payment in the form of an oven-ready offspring the following Christmas.
Sadly, it seemed that that was to be the zenith of my avian career. From then on things went downhill.
By coincidence, we went through a phase of getting a lot of bird clients in the Blue Cross. I assumed this was less to do with my brilliance as a turkey surgeon some forty-odd miles away and more to do with the fact that no-one else in north Dublin was interested in treating them! Although the Blue Cross was, by its nature, limited in many respects, we generally managed to do what was needed for the multitude of dogs, cats and other furries that came our way. Feathered patients, however, are a lot more susceptible to stress, which meant that the Blue Cross mobile clinic wasn’t really ideal.
In an attempt to limit death from the sheer stress of queuing on the side of a roundabout alongside an array of natural predators, we included a ‘birds first’ policy in our general triage system. Despite the protest from the rest of the queue, Eamon took to ushering the birds first into the dubious safety of the clinic where we could get them treated, and hopefully home, before they died of shock.
One Wednesday evening, having muddled my way through a couple of canaries with mites, a budgie with an overgrown beak and a magpie fledgling that had fallen out of a nest, Eamon gave a shout through the door, ‘One more for you out here!’ A collection of assorted mutts and moggies had piled up inside the tiny waiting room at the end of the van so we opened the other door to allow the last bird through. Out of a poky cage, covered in a child’s furry blanket, came a spectacular-looking African Grey Parrot.
‘It’s only ’is travelling cage,’ the owner assured me.
‘What’s up with him?’ I asked. ‘He looks the picture of health to me.’
‘Ah, sure, he’s in great form, so ’e is. It’s just dat ’is nails need clippin’.’
‘That’s no problem,’ I assured him, relieved that it was nothing too demanding or complicated for such a valuable bird. As I hunted in the drawer for the nail clippers, I told him, ‘You know, you really should bring a bird like this to a private vet – this clinic is for welfare cases only and we’re not really set up for birds.’ I knew that the cost of the bird could well have paid for the entire clinic for at least a month. Ideally, I would have sent him away, but then the parrot would have had to go through the stress of yet another veterinary visit. ‘I’ll clip his nails for you this time, as he is here now, but in future a private clinic would be better if you can afford it.’
‘Nah! Hector won’t mind dis,’ he said, indicating the crowd outside with a jerk of his head. ‘Anyway, I did bring ’im to some posh place out dere in de village bu’ dey told me not te bring ’im back no more.’
‘Oh, is that right?’ I questioned, wondering what I had let myself in for. Parrots are notorious for biting, although this guy did seem to be well handled. ‘And why was that?’
‘Dunno,’ he replied and let the matter drop.
Reluctantly, I picked up the clippers and took a firm hold of the claw while Hector waited, innocently perched on his owner’s arm. It was only when I raised the clippers towards him that he emitted a high-pitched shriek like a child in mortal danger. As I jumped, I dropped his leg and at that moment, he took off and sailed over my head, landing with a crash on the ledge containing our supply of tablets and injectables. Immediately he took off again, this time landing on the bandages which he promptly began to pick up with his beak and hurl with ferocity at the far wall. All the time, the child-like shriek continued. I could hear a mutter of discontent emerging from the waiting room – I was sure they were wondering who, or what, was being murdered. When the racket continued for a few more minutes, some brave soul decided to see what was going on. I watched in horror as Hector caught sight of the door being opened – and his route to freedom. In a flash, while Hector’s attention was nailed to his escape route, Eamon managed to throw a large towel over him, just before the man opening the door slammed it in his face, obviously not brave enough to face an enraged parrot.
I thought that with our patient trapped we’d be able to do the job and get him home to relative safety, but as soon as I began to clip the nails, he started to hurl a rally of abuse at me with a selection of language that considerably broadened my English vocabulary. The faster I clipped, the more and the louder he shrieked at me, while his owner got increasingly red-faced.
‘I got ’im offa me mate,’ he assured me. ‘I wudn’t ’ave learned him dat!’
By the time the ordeal was over, the roars of verbal abuse of the parrot were almost drowned out by the convulsions of laughter erupting from the crowded waiting room next door. I was sweating by the time he left and oblivious to the sense of mirth and gaiety around the clinic. All I could see was the queue stretching almost as far as the roundabout.
With a sigh, I braced myself to open the door to the now rowdy waiting room as I let out a faint-hearted, ‘Next, please.’
The next few weeks were mercifully bird-free, but one particularly wet and windy night we were half-way through the clinic when someone started beating down the doors. At first we ignored it, assuming that whoever it was would take their place in the queue. As the racket continued, however, Gordon glanced out the window and quickly turned back to me saying, ‘You might want to let these ones in.’ I assumed Gordon had good reason and readily agreed. A young couple, no more than twenty years old or so, stood before me holding a canary. Much and all as I worried about birds getting stressed at the clinic, this one was to set new standards. Although our avians usually arrived in a wide spectrum of pet-carriers, ranging from posh cages to old shoe boxes, this unfortunate canary came securely enclosed in no more than the hand of its loving owner.
I quickly subdued my outrage as I realised that the longer we delayed, the less the unfortunate canary’s chances were. I didn’t even bother to comment, but noticed Eamon rummaging among the presses for a box.
It got worse. The young owners launched into a detailed description of the bird’s history. Bewildered as I was at their ignorance, it took a few moments for me to realise that the canary was, far from being in prime health, in fact, dead! As the girl waved her arms around, vividly gesticulating while she told their story, the tiny yellow head flopped feebly from side to side. I glanced over at Eamon and Gordon to find that the only ones who hadn’t noticed were the owners. It was then that I saw the slightly glazed eyes and intense concentration of both the girl and her partner. I had to break her off, mid-flight, to explain that far from being fit and well, the bird was actually dead. It took a few moments for the stark reality to dawn and then, pausing as though to gather breath, she wailed at me: ‘Ye’v killed me bleedin’ bird. Some bloody vet you are. Der wasn’t a bother on ’im till you gotta hold of ’im.’
At that point I had had enough and told her in no uncertain terms that I had never had a hold of him and that it was the hold she had on him that had killed him. A flash of argument followed during which neither myself nor Gordon nor Eamon could convince her of anything other than I had killed her bird. She stomped out of the clinic, still clutching the lifeless form and shouted out at the expectant crowd, ‘Yez might as well go home. Dat bleedin’ eejit of a vet just killed me bird.’
That seemed to put a halt to my bird cases for a while as I was then deemed to be ‘bleedin’ useless’ with birds, but, strangely, the one group of bird people who until then had stayed away, suddenly began to appear. The pigeon fanciers started to come, although I regularly assured them that I really knew little to nothing about pigeons. Most of them I managed to dispatch on the basis that our limited range of drugs did not include many pigeon products, but one guy got cute. He had already been to his local pet shop, where the owner had given him a non-prescription, oral supplement to dose his birds. The problem was, he assured me, that the pigeons didn’t like the taste of it and would I mind dosing them for him? I was inclined to refuse, but when he offered what I thought was a considerable donation for the clinic, I reluctantly agreed. In he arrived with a wicker basket containing some forty pigeons of varying colours. ‘Which one,’ I asked him, ‘is to be dosed?’
‘The whole bleedin’ lota dem, luv,’ came his reply as he thrust the first one towards me.
I decided it would be quicker to do it than argue with him, but ten minutes later I was beginning to wonder as one after another the pigeons gagged and gasped as I dosed them. Finally, I got to the last one and stopped to do a quick tidy-up of feathers and pigeon droppings when the door opened and in he arrived with another basketful.
It was only when I was half-way through the third batch that I noticed a bit of a commotion going on outside. The usual flow of traffic seemed to be interrupted and the crowd outside, although usually boisterous, seemed to be in uniquely high spirits. I glanced out and noticed a pigeon fly by and then another, and then another.
I took one look at my wayward client, who stared back at me with open arms and said, ‘Well, they are homin’ birds, luv. Sure, they’ll make their own way home. I promised te meet a mate in de pub before nine o’clock.’
When the clinic finally ended almost an hour late, the homing pigeons, whether confused by the local geography or still stunned by the dose they had got, were no further towards their intended destination. As I packed the car, a flock of pigeons circled around me and both Eamon and Gordon fell about the place laughing at my face as a variety of fantails, white tips and piebalds perched on the car and deposited their droppings around me.
‘Would you look, Eamon,’ said Gordon. ‘Doesn’t she look just like St Francis of Assisi there?’
‘She does, all right,’ agreed Eamon, ignoring my murderous looks. ‘I suppose you could call her the vet among the pigeons!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A NASTY FRACTURE
After my disastrous first effort at continued practice development courses in the equine world, I had resigned myself to the fact that I just really wasn’t the academic type. A few courses of interest came and went, but I didn’t avail of any of them. I carried on to the best of my ability, learning only from my own experience, with an inevitable amount of trial and error.
As time went on, though, I became increasingly aware of my limitations. For all the things I could now do with a little bit of competence, there were a hundred and one others that were still beyond my grasp.
Some days it bothered me. Others, it didn’t. At the Blue Cross clinic in Ballyfermot one night, one of the regulars berated me as I prescribed a course of steroid tablets for her cat that was suffering from a neurological disorder. It was, by a coincidence, the same medication I had prescribed three months previously for a skin condition in her little Westie, and likely to be equally effective.
‘Is that all yiz can do for me?’ she questioned, looking disdainfully at the medication envelope. ‘I was watchin’ de vets on de TV the udder evening. Doin’ cat sc
ans and tings like dat, dey were. Bleedin’ real vets dey have over der, not like yous lot,’ she ended, casting a disparaging look over the crew. With that she stomped out of the clinic, carelessly throwing a two-euro coin in the box as she went – the sum total of her donation towards the treatment.
While working in Ballyfermot, I was more than happy to refer clients to the referral practices that worked with the Blue Cross, as only basic medical treatments were carried out at the clinic. But back at the practice in Wicklow, referrals seemed to me to epitomise failure. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that recognising your limitations and knowing when and where to send a patient was a skill in itself.
My main interest was in surgery and I had already studied, in some depth, the various techniques for a wide range of surgical procedures and, more specifically, orthopaedic procedures. With some knowledge, but very little practical experience, I itched to get my hands on each new fracture that presented, and became increasingly frustrated when I would have to refer a case to the veterinary college or, worse still, simply amputate the limb as the owner could not, or would not, pay for the cost of a referral to a specialist hospital.
When the brochure for an orthopaedic course, consisting of five weekends over a two-year period, arrived in the office, I booked immediately, despite my misgivings. As I went on my daily calls, every three-legged dog I passed on the road seemed to mock me, regardless of whether I or one of my predecessors had been responsible.
The course itself, although exhausting, was a revelation. The first Friday evening began with each delegate having to introduce themselves to the group and recount the story of their worst orthopaedic disaster. To my embarrassment, I had nothing to say as I had never carried out any orthopaedic procedures other than a few salvage amputations! Nonetheless, the mood was set for the course as we all knew each other’s worst. Intensive lectures followed, alternating between two surgeons, both of whom, unlike their equine counterparts, skimmed quickly over their own impressive qualifications before carrying on with the lectures. Despite their obviously vast experience, neither seemed to take himself too seriously and spent a lot of time showing cases that had gone wrong, allowing us to learn by their experiences so we wouldn’t have to learn from our own mistakes. Although intensive, the sessions were well lightened by the slagging and banter that took place between both lecturers and delegates. Unlike my previous experience, all the information was very specific and totally geared towards enabling you to do the job when back in practice.