I sighed and didn’t answer. This would probably breathe new life into the unfortunate nickname. I didn’t want anything to decrease my professionalism further in his eyes. “I just get along with the students well,” I muttered sheepishly.
Early that spring, a couple that owned an older jumper mare approached me about artificial insemination for her. They had an Olympic-class stallion in mind, but his semen was available only in frozen straws. Frozen insemination was relatively new in Canada and quite difficult, but I was game to try it. We learned together how to get the import paperwork and transportation route worked out. The straws of frozen semen would have to arrive in a container of liquid nitrogen at –150º F and had to be used immediately. I followed the mare’s cycles well, and in March we decided to order semen to try the first breeding. The timing had to be impeccable, as the thawed semen is fragile and lacks vigour. The mare had to be checked daily by rectal exam to determine the optimal time for breeding, which has to be done as close to ovulation as possible.
I had set aside a half day to work on this case and got out to the farm at noon, just as the owner was arriving from the airport with the container. “We’ll set up in the kitchen,” I said. I had brought all the equipment needed for the procedure, including a microscope to assess the semen after thawing it. The mare had a nice, large, soft breeding follicle on her ovary when examined, and the timing was perfect. An injection could be given at the same time to encourage ovulation of the follicle and release of the ovum. I felt confident and well prepared.
We got ready a water bath at 37º in an insulated cooler as per the instructions sent by the stallion centre. Next we were to thaw the three straws for thirty seconds each and invert them gently so the air bubble would move to the top. Then there was the cutting of the one end of the straws, inversion into a syringe, and finally the cutting of the other end to allow the semen to drip into the waiting syringe barrel. The mare had been washed and bandaged and was awaiting us in the barn nearby.
All went well until the cutting stage. I held the first thawed straw up and, moving too quickly and without enough forethought, in front of the two anxious clients, I made the wrong cut in the straw. The precious semen ran out on the counter.
“It’s okay — there are still two more,” I choked out. And there were. I looked at their faces. They were okay.
We got the other two straws poured into one syringe and then injected into the waiting mare with no further mishaps, but I drove away cursing myself for acting too quickly. What must they think?
The mare didn’t catch, and they were game to try again with me in charge, so I went back at it with even more determination. The next cycle, I stayed at their house and tried to time the insemination even more closely with the overnight ovulation. Still she didn’t catch. In fact, it took two seasons to get a pregnancy, as she was an older maiden mare. I know now that the mishap with the straw probably wasn’t a factor, but it was a moment I never forgot. I vowed to slow down and do my best to live down that bothersome name.
Despite these rough moments and minor problems, my career was progressing in a satisfying way. For all the frustrations of practice, there are in reality far more rewarding moments — horses helped and good lessons learned. Lacerations were sutured, colics were treated, clients were happy, and I had met many nice people. I even had the opportunity to be the vet on call for a week at the Royal Winter Fair. My equine internship was progressing as I had hoped.
After what seemed to be an appropriate time, I mentioned to Dr. B that I would like to scrub in on surgery now and then. Often his partner was late, and I knew the drill well, having watched them many times. Surely we could go ahead on these days. I was dying to be given a chance. It never came. After a few more months passed and my role as a technician had not changed, I asked again, a little more forcefully: “I’d like to be included in the surgery roster.”
“The clients who come here really want to see Peter and me do the surgeries,” he said.
That was the end of the matter, and there was no further opening for discussion. It was a well-oiled machine that worked, and Dr. B was reluctant to change anything. I hung in there for quite a while afterward, but I must admit I started considering my options. I never asked again, but it was always there, unspoken, and the invitation never came.
I had some outstanding rides on Kira right on the edge of the suburbs of Canada’s largest city. There was a massive hydro line near my house, and the cleared land beneath the wires made a good hack-out area. Even better, it allowed me to reach a hidden river valley. It was a miraculous sunken canyon, a green gulch completely out of sight of passersby. The small creek twisted and wound for two miles in a forty-foot-deep carved hole, with footpaths winding along the lush banks. At one point it was wide enough to canter safely. Mostly I rode there quietly in silent reverie, watching the birds and the occasional otter, delighting in my discovery. I seldom saw another person in my hideaway canyon. Once, a quick, violent thunderstorm came up, and, pelted by rain, I cantered up and out of the canyon across a cornfield and along the hydro line towards home. Crouched over, barely able to see, I bridged my reins and let my horse take me back, where we arrived soaking wet, steam rising from the horse’s hot body.
It was a time in my life when I did not ride for social interaction or to get ready for shows or even for fun. It was my solace, after hours spent with people, trying so hard to please. It was my earthy, sweaty, grounding — both an escape and nourishment for my spirit.
Toronto was a great place to be in the summer. There were lots of concerts, both indoor and out. Some of the best were at Wonderland and Ontario Place, and I revelled in all the great music, sharing the energy of thousands gathered under the night sky. I went downtown on my weekends off. Chinatown had endless restaurants and nooks and crannies to explore. Then there were Harbourfront, Kensington Market, Toronto Island, and antiquing on Queen Street. With prices far different than those at a Lanark auction, I could only look and admire.
Unattached, I accepted every invitation and made use of every opportunity. When not on call, I could go downtown late and investigate the night scene. The summer mood there was palpably exciting and infectious. The people-watching was always fantastic. There was so much I had to learn and find out about myself. Both my sense of freedom and enthusiasm for exploration were set on high. I was anonymous in an exciting city for the first time, and it was summer. I was in a far different space than at vet school, where we studied and partied as one. It was also far different from being in Lanark. I was now very much an individual. I felt curious but not afraid, unique but not alone. I needed to explore the essential question, “Who am I when I’m not a veterinarian?” I certainly felt very much alive.
India had changed me in many ways. I not only had a far greater appreciation of where I lived and what we all took for granted — freedom, education, even clean water — I now fully appreciated how lucky I was just to be me. It was a relief to know that my sadness could lift and leave me with a richer appreciation of life.
I had my first serious injury in Toronto. I had been called to do a rectal examination for pregnancy on a young Appaloosa mare. The clients were not regulars, and I was a little disappointed to see there was only a young boy to help me when I drove up to the humble barn. He obliged me and put two bales of hay on their sides behind the mare before I started my examination. He was obviously not very experienced with horses and explained that he was working there to help out with chores.
“Hold her head up well and keep her back to the bales,” I said before starting my exam.
No sooner had I touched her tail than she lowered her head and kicked swiftly with both hind feet over the bales. I never saw them coming. One hit my face and the other my chest, and I was thrown across the aisle, cutting my head on a stall door on the other side. I woke up minutes later, a pool of blood gathering around my head from a bad cut on my skull,
and barely able to breathe. Was my nose broken as well? The teenager had called an ambulance and I was taken to a nearby hospital. Feeling very alone, I was wheeled in front of the admission desk at emergency, a bloody cloth held to my face.
“What is your name?” the efficient, impersonal receptionist asked.
“What is your address?”
I mumbled the responses slowly, dazed.
“Postal code? Phone number?” she inquired, unmoved.
I answered through the cloth, concussed and having trouble breathing.
“Do you have a contact here?”
I thought hard. Perhaps my student roomie would come, or the friends I had stayed with last year. I was wheeled into a busy observation room where they sutured my head and kept me on oxygen until they ascertained my ribs were not broken.
“You’ll have to stay overnight,” I was told.
It was a relief, as I couldn’t sit up. A large bruise developed on my chest and my nose. In reality I had been very lucky. I could have been killed. I was off work for a week, and somehow my car arrived back at my house before long. It had, however, been a close call. My neck could have been broken. I would have to be more careful.
Business went on as usual at the clinic. We had a steady flow of lameness and surgery cases. I did some teaching at the college and found I liked it very much. But it took an offhand comment from an old friend to change my course once again.
“The only horse vet in the Annapolis Valley died, you know. They really need someone there to do horses, and I know you love Nova Scotia,” he said.
My wheels started turning. I was satisfied with what I had learned so far in Toronto. I made a few phone calls and decided the time was right. I made a trip to our family cottage in Nova Scotia and, from there, a foray to the Valley to assess the possibilities. I looked at real estate and approached the bank. With no formal business training, I did no feasibility studies and had no proof such a business could work. It all depended on me. My training, my degree, and my love of horses were the only keys I had to starting up a practice and were all I had to bank on. I convinced the bank manager that my equine experience and willingness to work were the cornerstones of the plan’s success.
Nova Scotia might be the perfect answer. There I could stretch and grow in the less uptight climate I knew to exist in Ontario. I had enjoyed it so much as a student and it was my birthplace. Perhaps it would be like “going home.” I felt sure I had something to contribute. I went back and told Dr. B. that I was leaving.
TWELVE
Back to My Roots
I WAS GOING BACK to Nova Scotia to set up my own practice. It seemed like a dream I had simply spoken into reality, and now the momentum carried me along. There was much to do. I planned to open my business on January first, a symbolic date in my mind — good for a new beginning.
I had to find a house first, one suitable to turn into a clinic with a dispensary, a lab, and a darkroom. It had to be in the area where the most horse action took place — the Annapolis Valley. Yet it had to have a reasonable travelling time to other centres such as Halifax, where there are many large farms. Faxes from the real estate agent came in thick and fast, and finally I settled on a small, beautifully restored schoolhouse in Grand Pré. It had a back entrance and mudroom suitable for loading and unloading gear and where people could come if they needed to buy medications. The downstairs half-bath would make a perfect darkroom. I absolutely loved it. For a Canadiana fan, it was the perfect little house, lovingly restored and with taste. The price seemed reasonable, so I boldly made an offer. After minimal negotiation, I learned it was to be mine on December first. I had enough time to organize the renovations, but only a month in which to get them done.
There was equipment to order. It was frightening to start placing orders for everything from carrying kits to surgery packs, sterilizing equipment to farrier’s tools. But it was when I priced x-ray machinery, film holders, and developing tanks that the stakes went up considerably. I had to decide on a bookkeeping system as well and, having no experience in this area, I went with some advice and purchased a manual billing system. Little did I know a computer revolution was just around the corner and soon I would have to replace my manual system.
As my bills mounted, I also found out how to cut corners. I beat the bushes and hunted down a lot of used equipment. I was learning more and new skills. Aware now of the never-ending process of learning life’s lessons, I realized I now had the entire world of business to find out about, and yes … make mistakes in. It was a portion of the biggest part of the challenge, far more than the medicine.
The trip from Toronto was hilariously funny in itself. I had hired a Western horseman from Nova Scotia to move my household goods and my horse in one sweep. He had a six-horse trailer, and it would be a tight fit, but we should be able to do it. The six-horse pulled into my yard in Toronto at six in the morning, well ahead of schedule, country music blaring. Bruce’s mood was volatile, as he had gotten lost in Montreal and had spent hours going around in circles with his large rig. I convinced him to shower and sleep, as my packing crew had not even started yet — in fact, had not even arrived. We shoved all the fragile boxes into the gooseneck. Tropical plants went on top of trunks in the dressing room. We loaded the mare last. We pulled out late in the afternoon and planned to drive straight through.
On our trip, I found out Bruce listened only to country music, ate only hamburgers on plain buns and drank only coke. To be sure of his supply, he had brought three wooden cases of large bottles. As we headed out, the gooseneck door flapped open, and the umbrella plant fell out on Highway 401. Bruce also smoked constantly and spit just about as often. The driver’s window wound open every few minutes as we twanged our way down the highway. I heard from him every detail I would surely need to know about the horses and horse owners of Nova Scotia.
I had one month to get ready to open. Renovations did not start on time, and getting to them was clearly not a priority for the carpenters. I felt like an uptight Upper Canadian as I hounded them with worried phone calls. Deliveries came daily, and medications sat waiting for shelves that would house them. Equipment sat shiny and new all over the house in readiness. Had I thought of everything? Two wonderful friends came from Ontario to visit and provide moral support and their company kept to a minimum the fears I heard whispering in the background. Had this really been a good idea? Could I make it work?
I passed my Nova Scotia examinations and paid for my veterinary licence. The darkroom did get completed in time. The newspapers and farm magazines ran my opening advertisements. And on New Year’s Day, I got my first call.
“Are you Helen Douglas?” a thin wavering voice asked. “I’ve been waiting for you to come see my horse.”
“Certainly,” I said, a little taken aback, as I had predicted New Year’s Day to be a holiday there, as elsewhere.
I found out later there was no stopping this mighty and decidedly difficult little lady. Map in hand, I headed out on the crisp winter day on my first call.
“I’ve been waiting for you to open,” she said when I arrived. “I have a little mare here that has a terrible problem and she’s had it for almost two years. I don’t know if she can be fixed.”
It turned out the small Morgan mare, “Lovie,” had run into a wooden gateway, and a broken shard of wood had imbedded itself deep into the muscle on the left side of her neck over the vertebrae. After several minor operations, it was still draining, and the mare had difficulty turning her head to that side and lowering it to eat. I could see right away that this was a surgical case. How ironic that my very first call was one I would have to refer on to someone with a surgery.
“Where can I go to put her under general anaesthetic?” I asked. It was a task I wouldn’t attempt at this time of year under field conditions.
“There’s a doctor near Shubenacadie, I think,” Elizabe
th said.
“I’ll call him and set it up. Perhaps I can go up with Lovie and help with the operation,” I volunteered.
We did manage to arrange a date to trailer the mare to the little clinic specializing in racehorses. The veterinarian there was willing to let me assist on the surgery, and it was a good chance to meet him. After we had Lovie under anaesthetic and opened the surgery wound, we found several splinters of wood left behind. They were very deep and wedged between the lateral processes of two cervical vertebrae. We took out all we could find.
“They are very close to the cord,” I said. “We’ll do what we can.”
After the wound was cleaned and flushed well, we partially closed it with a drain in place. The horse recovered well and we were able to take her home before dark. The owner was to flush the area well twice daily, and I would remove the drain in one week. We put a hood and blanket on the little mare, and I left, giving instructions to leave her in until I saw her again. It had been an interesting day. All we could do now was hope for the best. I left Elizabeth with a long list of instructions and headed home.
Before long, my phone was ringing off the hook. Though I took most of my calls in the morning, it often rang late at night as well. Many of the calls the first few months had to do with long-term problems, especially lameness, and the owners hoped I could do something other veterinarians hadn’t been able to do. In some cases I could help with the diagnosis, other times make a new treatment suggestion, but in many cases there was really nothing more I could do. It was disappointing for the owners and for me, but sometimes the animals simply would never be sound or healthy again. I was the new kid on the block, representing new hope. It was sobering to see how many times I could not provide a miracle.
As the spring busy season approached, I began to meet more and more horse people. Vaccinations and checkups are traditionally carried out in the spring, and I lived in a whirlwind as everyone tried out the new vet. I drove many miles every day, arriving home tired and dirty. Then there would be x-rays to develop, lab results to call, surgery packs or equipment to clean, restocking and ordering to do. On a quiet night, I attempted to do my books and other paperwork, something I had little aptitude for. Three months into it, I realized I had to have a bookkeeper. Things were rolling and I just couldn’t keep up.
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