That Christmas, my brother Bill, a scholarly and artistic city dweller, with no particular affinity for animals, decided to visit me in my new life as a country vet. I had moved into the first of many log houses that I would occupy in Lanark. My love affair with the dovetailed, square-logged, classic log homes so plentiful in the area had begun. I was so proud of how I had decorated it for a country Christmas, with the woodstove, pine boughs, and a Christmas tree exuding warmth. All was in readiness to have some of my family for the first big dinner in my new home. I made a last-minute trip to the grocery store, and the car was full of Christmas treats I knew my brother would enjoy, as well as the Christmas cake and turkey, when I met him at the bus. Then a call came in.
I picked Bill up at the bus station grinning because of the surprise I had in store. Throwing a pair of coveralls at him, I loaded the suitcases in the car. We had an emergency calving call.
“You’ll have to take off your city coat,” I said. “We’re going on a calving.”
It was late afternoon Christmas Eve, and I could tell he had no idea what to expect. This particular farm was run by a family from England, and they prided themselves on their well-bred Hereford cattle. To the locals, they were hobby farmers, as they both had jobs off the farm. But they were knowledgeable and very devoted to their cattle. They met me at the barn with a bucket of hot water and a stack of towels.
On entering the barn, we found a small first-calf heifer straining badly. Two feet were presented, her amnion had ruptured, and no progress had been made for some time. I washed her up well and examined her internally. I encountered hocks, which identified hind legs and a backward presentation. It was not a breech birth, but would still be a tight pull in such a small heifer, and the calf and birth canal were rapidly drying out.
I assembled the calf jack, an archaic-looking, T-shaped device that fits across the cow’s behind under the calf’s exposed legs and, once the legs are tied to it, is used to slowly winch the calf out. Applying downward pressure as the cow allowed me, I worked with her straining and used the natural birth arc to help her deliver, pulling the jack towards the ground as I winched. The owners pried back her vulva as she bawled, applying lubrication around the calf as far in as they could reach. Urine and manure sprayed in all directions as the cow’s pelvic organs were compressed by the labour. My brother went pale, but gamely helped me with the jack so it wouldn’t slip too low on the cow.
After some initial progress, we seemed to have reached a frustrating halt and I knew the cord could well be compressed, depriving the calf of oxygen. I decided to do an emergency episiotomy, to cut the cow cleanly so she did not tear into the rectum, in order to allow more room for delivery. Bill swooned and sat down.
Five minutes later, a bull calf lay blinking on the ground. We happily rubbed him with the clean straw bedding to dry him and treated his cord with iodine to prevent navel-ill — an infection that can travel into the body through the cord. It was a satisfying outcome, and the owners jokingly called him “ Bill,” a name that stuck. I sewed up the cow, and we cleaned up our gear, happy the delivery was successful.
We were invited in for strong coffee and sherry cakes. For me, it was a great beginning to our country Christmas, and I wondered if my brother was as thrilled as I was at the delivery of a live calf. When we returned to our car, several sad-looking barn cats jumped out of the wagon, having done a good job of destroying both the turkey and the Christmas cake. It was all part of the adventure for Bill, and we laughed as we made our way back to the store.
There were several farm communes in the North Lanark Highlands still associated with the hippie lifestyle and values, but they were becoming more and more difficult to sustain as members and wage earners gave up, times changed, and poverty threatened to overwhelm the spirit of the remaining few. I enjoyed driving up to one of them to treat their Clydesdale horses, a placid team of older geldings. Their handler was a slight man with carrot-red hair in a long braid to his waist, a wispy goatee, and a plaid lumber jacket. The commune needed the horses to draw firewood. Children ran everywhere, excited at my visit. Somehow I admired the members’ determination to try to stick it out and hold to their principles, but realized there was also an eerie feeling of loss and sadness … that it was only a matter of time before the farm and what it represented would cease to exist. The Clydes were thinner than I had ever seen them and both had terribly sharp, overgrown teeth. As well, they had not been de-wormed in years. I was sure I could improve their condition.
The gelding in the poorest condition was having trouble chewing, spitting out half-eaten bits of hay constantly and thus the reason for my call. On examination of his mouth I found prominent tall hooks on his lower back molars that were so sharp they cut into the gums above when he tried to eat. Without the benefit of modern-day dental power equipment or special training, I had to make a decision as to what to do to reduce the height of those molars so he could eat without pain. Long compound bolt cutters and a flashlight were all we came up with. I perched precariously on a stool as we slung his head rope up over a beam and pulled his tongue out sideways to force him to keep his mouth open. I cut each hook with trepidation — as molars on older horses are known to shatter when cut — then filed down all the rest of the uneven, sharp teeth so they were flat. After de-worming both Clydesdales and giving the owner some nutritional counselling, I left, hoping I had really helped the horses.
I did find out later that the poorest did well by my dentistry and gained weight steadily afterwards, never looking back. It is a common dilemma for a veterinarian to have to carry out a necessary procedure with a high risk attached, but we are never taught about how to deal with the negative repercussions of our unsuccessful gambles. Everything must be learned in the field and on the fly. One would be considered lucky to have a mentor who was patient enough to explain repeatedly what perils might be encountered on any call or with any client and their particular idiosyncrasies. Jim did his best.
Another backwoods call resulted in my unintentionally halter-breaking a rebellious weanling filly. I didn’t get many calls up to the Lanark Highlands anymore, but when I did, they usually had the “Herriot” factor and were good for a lark and a beautiful drive. This call seemed simple enough. It shouldn’t take an experienced equine vet to vaccinate and de-worm a foal. Why were these folks calling me rather than their regular farm vet? As I drove up, I got an inkling as to why.
The dishevelled farm was humble at best, and the cattle did not look healthy. Money was obviously a problem for this family. The heavy horse cross filly was five months old and solidly built. She stood in a barnyard full of deep muck and cow manure and her abdomen was stuck with manure beads. Ramshackle barns formed an L-shaped courtyard, but the only one that appeared useable had a five-foot door frame and looked like a pigsty.
“We haven’t been able to touch her yet,” the farmer explained, “but we can get her chased into that barn for you.” He pointed at the sty.
“Our neighbour shot a rabid fox, and we want to get her done right away,” said the son.
“All right, herd her in there, then,” I said. “Have you got a rope and halter?”
I should have left at that point and come back once she had been handled, but it had been a long drive.
The interior of the sty had a couple of low pig stalls on one wall and an open floor area of broken cement covered with a couple of inches of pig slime. It was dark and slippery inside, and there was nothing to wrap a rope around should we catch her. I had a feeling she would put up a good fight. After a few fumbling attempts by the owners to corner her and get a halter on, I could see the filly was getting the best of them. With the filly at about 400 pounds, I questioned whether I should tackle this problem. I put my chances of winning at about fifty-fifty.
I took the halter and rope from the farmer and, after a few moments of trying to corner her, got the rope over her neck. Miraculou
sly, she held still while I slipped the halter on and then we were off. She charged forward, then hitting the noseband hard, threw herself backwards. She zigged and zagged in the shed while my boots became coated with slime. I skied in a tightening circle, all the while afraid I would lose my balance. I was rapidly losing my breath. I put the rope around my waist and held on, leaning back. It was too late to give up, but I knew it could go either way.
In the flash of a mutual pause for breath, we made eye contact and negotiated a truce. The filly exhaled and stood. I stepped back and she followed.
“Hold on to the rope while I get my vaccine and wormer.” I passed the owner the rope, not able to tell if he was amused or angry that I had acted so boldly with his filly.
“I guess you won,” came the taciturn reply.
The next week, a package arrived at the clinic. The homemade soap and preserves were accompanied by an expensive bottle of wine, a card that read, “Thanks for breaking Ziggy,” and payment in full.
Spring was coming on and I had been at Brentwood almost a year. I now knew many of the clients and how to get around the Lanark back roads well. We had many regular small-animal clients whom I knew by name in town, and I felt very much at home at Brentwood and in the area. Gradually my social circle widened. Larry was not in the clinic much, but we all managed to close shop and make a regular event of Friday lunch. Every once in a while, I would be invited out to join a group of his friends for a bluegrass night or an impromptu get-together. He always came up with fun ideas, and I learned to make homemade sausages and joined in late-night jam sessions. Our friendship became more and more comfortable after I knew the score, and I often provided an ear for his wild theories and women problems.
Jim, on the other hand, was having problems at home and spending more and more time at the clinic and at the local pub. We didn’t know all the details, but we knew he was often sad or tense, and it hurt us to see him so stressed. He never got impatient or angry at work or took out his troubles on any one of us, and I felt an increasing amount of loyalty to him.
Spring brought lambing season and a whole new element to mixed practice in the Valley. Within weeks, many hundreds of lambs are born in the hills and small barns of Lanark. This is a very intense time for the farmer who has planned lambing times carefully around market demands and whose year-round financial success depends on the outcome of these few weeks.
I was called to a malpresentation one morning just after sunrise. The farm was remote. Mist still covered the fields as I sped up and down the twisting, narrow hills hoping to get there in time. The farmer had a small log house, such as the one I lived in, with various outbuildings — one specifically for lambing. They had been out with the ewe since five in the morning. They greeted me with the ever-present bucket of hot water and a mug of hot tea. Small pens constructed from wooden pallets contained other ewes with lambs. Mostly there were twin lambs and a few triplets, and all were bleating as they trailed after their mothers, bunting at their udders vigorously for milk. Older lambs scampered outside in larger pens.
“I see you’ve had a good year so far,” I said. “What do you think is the problem here?”
“We’ve tried to turn the lamb,” the farmer said, “but it really seems stuck. She may need a section …”
The ewe was large enough that I could examine her fairly easily, though sometimes even a woman’s hand is too large to deliver a lamb. The problem was obvious: we could feel just ribs, so the lamb was transverse. It was hard to feel which way it was facing across the birth canal, but I followed the little ribs and pulled on the wet skin with two fingers and found an elbow. With great difficulty and after what seemed like a long time, I managed to manipulate the front limb back and cup the knee and foot — one leg was coming! In the end, the lamb and its twin were delivered alive. You never really know the outcome until they breathe, blink, and bleat. And so it was with a mixture of relief and joy I drove out — just in time to clean up and get to work at the clinic.
My confidence was again building with my skills. It never ceased to amaze me that I could really help these people when they needed me, especially when so many had been farmers all their lives. I knew, profoundly and utterly, that I was on the right path.
Rabies clinics at the town hall were part of our summer duties, and this year Jim asked if I would do it with him.
“It’s a fun afternoon out of the clinic,” he said, “and we’ll see a lot of people we would never see otherwise.”
I soon learned what he meant. Cats arrived in boxes covered with string and tape, in potato and seed sacks, even pillowcases. We hastily prepared the numerous shots we would need as the animals piled in. Farm dogs covered with mats and tumours, cowering or biting, were presented to us hastily, hind ends first. Often untrained to walk on a lead, each had to be given a needle. We vaccinated the cats through the sacks and the dogs in whatever way we could get at them, sometimes pulling our fingers out of the way just in time.
These clinics were held all over Lanark for no charge. It was a really important service in an area where rabies was still seen regularly in foxes and skunks and it helped vets play a role in the overall health of both people and animals. As well as Mr. Neal’s horse, I had seen several dogs and a cow and many wild animals afflicted with the disease and felt committed to preventing it in whatever way possible. The “Wild West” aspect of the day did not, in any way, diminish the importance of our task. Jim took public health and our role in it as partners of the medical profession very seriously.
Neither he nor I probably realized how much I was following his lead, not only in learning commitment to our profession, but absorbing his compassion and open attitude to others. I remember well Jim’s remarks when a new vet set up across town, a happening that would usually create negativity and resentment. “There’s room for all of us,” he said. “Let’s have a barbeque and invite our new colleagues over to meet us.” It was a sentiment far different than what I had anticipated and another of life’s lessons well learned from a great mentor.
SEVEN
The Buck Stops Here
THE RHYTHM OF THE PRACTICE changed once again as we moved into summer, a time when the amount of small animal work skyrocketed. Most people do not know that veterinary work is highly seasonal. In the summer season, engaging puppies and cute kittens arrive at the clinic for their first checkups and vaccinations in droves, all winning our hearts. Unfortunately, it is also the time when we see the most parasite and skin problems and severe gastroenteritis cases. Skin conditions and allergies start in earnest in mid-July, sometimes as a response to flea infestation and will last almost until the first frost. Our telephone lines are swamped by calls from desperate owners about scratching dogs keeping them awake all night.
This particular summer, a new form of viral enteritis appeared in Canada with startling severity and speed. We had barely heard of “parvovirus” when the cases started coming in, first from shelters and then from kennels of hunting dogs; finally, everyone’s dogs were involved. The disease was spreading like wildfire. Lineups of concerned owners, waiting to have their dogs vaccinated with the newly available vaccine, spilled out the door of the clinic and over the lawn.
At one point, we had three puppies with parvovirus in the clinic, all at death’s door. We had set up a new isolation ward in the back area where calves usually were put on iv fluids. The pups came in quick succession on one day, each one looking more despondent than the one before. As they were all quite young, we knew them to be in a life-threatening situation, and yet it was frustrating, knowing how little we could do to stop the disease. Lisa set up ivs in each pup, and blood tests revealed a low white blood cell count typical of parvoviral infection. They lay pale and cold, nauseated and not able to eat, hooked up to the lifesaving electrolyte fluids. One by one, each developed a terrible, bloody, “tomato soup” diarrhea that seemed impossible to keep up with. The smell in
the clinic during those days, the never-ending work, the cleaning, the newspapers spread everywhere, was a phenomenon I never saw again. The work and the worry of those weeks almost overwhelmed us, but we pulled two of those puppies through and managed to keep the infection contained so our other patients were safe.
When I remember that summer, I’m aware that the vaccine must not be taken for granted and we should be careful to continue protecting dogs diligently. Thankfully we never had another summer like that, as the vaccine program did prove to be very effective and widely used, at least in North America. Dogs in other parts of the world are often not so lucky.
I had a series of very interesting cases in my first few years at Brentwood, and one of the most challenging came in that summer. A regal, kind, male Doberman about two years old was presented to me by people who had never been to see me before. “Tux” had not been eating well for three days and seemed to be having trouble breathing. His temperature was high, over 104 degrees, and his breathing very rapid.
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