An angry or scared dog though is another story and I want to share some of the best, or worst, of those tales.
Old Mr Yealands was an interesting and thoughtful chap, and when he brought his corgi, Rex, into the Graham Veterinary Club in my second year after graduation, I welcomed him, and ushered them both into the consultation room.
Companion animal medicine was very much secondary to farm animal medicine at the vet club, and the facilities were adequate, but not like today’s modern clinics. I’m sure the smell of that old clinic engendered a lot of unease and fear in a lot of dogs, and Rex was no exception. It was also the time when parvovirus first reared its head in New Zealand. We’d been reading about the nasty enteric effects of this disease for a year or two in American and British veterinary publications, and the first cases had begun to appear in New Zealand. It’s a terrible condition, attacking mostly the intestinal tract, and when the virus first arrived here there were many sad and devastating cases, mostly in young dogs. Those who were around then will never forget the characteristic smell in the kennels of those retching, scouring animals, and the horror of their owners as their precious pets suffered and died.
Within months of the appearance of the disease a vaccine arrived, and a new era in companion animal veterinary medicine had begun.
People who had had no contact with vets literally queued at clinics to have their dogs vaccinated, and the subsequent awareness of what a vet could do led to a sudden and permanent rise in the fortunes of small animal vets. But this was in the future.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Yealands?’ I asked politely.
‘Old Rex needs a vaccination, and you’d better have a look in his ears too. He’s shaking his head a bit.’
Aha, I had two things to do. This would be a good consultation.
‘Hello Rex,’ I said, and bent down to give him a pat. Without warning the old corgi leaped at my extended right hand and bit savagely, his upper and lower canine teeth almost meeting in the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger. I looked at the deep and ugly wound, at the blood pouring from it and I am ashamed to say adrenaline, anger and shock took over.
‘Fuck!’ I shouted, rattled to the core.
Now if you think that doesn’t sound very professional, you’re absolutely right. But just occasionally, in the heat of the moment, we can all let ourselves down a bit, as I did then. I was embarrassed at my oath, but shocked and in some pain.
‘He doesn’t like strangers,’ said Mr Yealands.
Thanks.
It took the nurses 10 minutes to clean and bandage my hand, and I think one of the other vets asked the owner to muzzle old Rex, then did the required examination and vaccination. My hand, the precious right one, was out of action for a week, then the incident was forgotten.
But there was a humorous sequel. Three years later, after PA and I had left the vet club and set up in our own private practice, Anderson & Jerram down the road, I saw in the consultation book that a Mr Yealands was booked in during the morning. It was the same gentleman. He had a different dog, a nice-natured corgi that was quite happy to greet me as most dogs do, allowing me to pick it up and put it on the examination table. I finished examining the little animal without ever mentioning the incident with Rex.
‘Nice to see you here, Mr Yealands,’ I offered.
‘I used to go to the vet club,’ he replied, ‘but there’s a vet there who used the most foul language the only time I went, and I’m never going back!’
I was ever grateful the dear old chap had failed to recognise me.
Another even more dangerous dog which I saw years later at The Vet Centre became almost a friend, although not without our exercising great care in our handling of him.
Kramar was a German shepherd, but not just any German shepherd. He was an official New Zealand Police dog in the care of Constable Richard van Asch.
Richard was an old friend of ours. His family were clients, and as a schoolboy he wanted to be a vet. I encouraged him, but he found the academic subjects hard going, in particular physics. He spent a bit of time with PA and me in those years and we watched with interest when he won an AFS Scholarship for a year in Greenland, of all unlikely places.
He got a pretty tough placement too, his first family having no spare rooms or beds, so Richard slept on a sledge in the living room after everyone else had gone to bed. It was a hardening experience for Richard and when he came back he joined the police, and became an excellent officer, and a dog handler.
I can’t recall how many dogs he’d had before Kramar, but he was very proud of this very hard dog. Quite a few felons had felt the grip of Kramar’s fangs. This dog had a real attitude. All humans were fair game, if Richard said so.
When we handled Kramar in the clinic Richard always put a muzzle on him first, but even then he had to hold the dog very firmly if we were doing anything to him such as vaccinations. Blood-curdling growls would emanate, and he meant business. When he came to stay for a day, needing some procedure to be performed, he would be put in a large cage, like other dogs. But whenever anyone came into the kennel room Kramar would rush at the cage door roaring and gnashing.
The solution was a bunch of keys on a large ring, which Constable Richard always left with us. You only had to pick them up and give them a shake, and Kramar would instantly sit quietly, allowing the vet or the nurse to clip a lead on him and take him into the surgery. It paid to carry the keys with you.
Kramar was such a good police dog that the powers that be wished to use his genetics. They wanted him to be a sire. But he had a wee problem. Kramar had a condition known as priapism.
When he had an on-heat bitch in front of him for services, his erect member would be painfully strangled by the too-tight opening of his prepuce. It made mating a very painful process for Kramar, and worse, he was convinced it was the bitch he was serving who was causing him this terrible pain, so he’d chew into her. He inflicted real damage on some good German shepherd bitches.
The police handlers in Wellington wanted a solution to his problem, but they also wanted Kramar’s semen collected and frozen in case any surgical remedies for his physical short-coming weren’t successful. I told Richard that if he wanted Kramar to be a successful stud, or even wanted to collect semen from him, the dog needed surgery to increase the size of his preputial opening.
On the day of surgery, Richard stayed with the dog while we anaesthetised him and laid him on the table. It was a delicate operation. If I took too much off, the opening would be so large that his willie would hang out of it all the time. That could lead to damage and infection. If I didn’t take enough, we wouldn’t have achieved anything.
I had to judge the correct amount for an erect member to comfortably protrude, and of course it wasn’t in that state when I did the surgery.
I’m happy to say that the surgery was reasonably successful, and later on I did collect and freeze some of Kramar’s semen. I think I used all dissolving sutures too, so we wouldn’t have the slightly dangerous job of removing them. It was always a mildly nerve-wracking business handling Kramar, but he became quite a friend in the end. And I would never have wished to be the felon he latched on to.
There were also a few dogs who we just couldn’t trust, and it nearly always came down to their owners. There are some people who shouldn’t own dogs. They are the ones who are unable to grasp that you have to be firm, be the leader of the pack. This can be easily imprinted on pups from a young age with good training, and for those dogs, and their owner, life is usually stress free. But many can’t understand the principle. Those people’s kids are usually undisciplined as well.
One nice young woman brought her one-year-old Rottweiler in for castration. The dog seemed fine after she left him, but that particular breed is not one I’ve ever trusted, so when we brought him into surgery we handled him with care: friendly and calm, but firmly.
As the nurses held him, I made to lift his paw to inject the intravenous anaesthetic. Without wa
rning the dog lunged at my face with a savage snarl, teeth cracking together as he tried to get me. We took another tack, gave him a heavy sedative by subcutaneous injection, then managed to get him anaesthetised and castrated.
When the owner came to get him she brought her partner.
‘Can I have a talk?’ I asked, and they followed me into a consulting room. When I told the young woman that she had a potentially dangerous dog she flew off the handle.
‘He’s harmless. You don’t know how to handle him!’ she shouted.
I explained that I’d been doing this for 30 years, that I enjoyed working with dogs, but this one was going to give her trouble. She would have none of it, but her partner was more detached.
‘He’s right, you know, Liz,’ he said. ‘He’s pretty funny around a lot of people.’
The woman eventually listened and even gave me a slightly friendly smile as she left. I heard later that the dog had badly bitten someone and had been euthanased. It was a case of wrong dog for that owner.
Vets have a saying: ‘There are no bad dogs, just bad owners.’ It’s a pretty fair call although there are a few breeds of dog which tend to be less trustworthy than others — Rottweilers and chihuahuas are examples. But dogs are pack animals, and they will respond to a strong leader. That’s where good behaviour comes from.
As I write, there’s a fantastic TV show featuring animal behaviourist Mark Vette. He’s a real pro, and I love watching him deal with all the problems I’ve seen in my career. But the overriding message is to start them young and teach them that you, the owner, are the leader of the pack. If you train them before they’re four months old, you’ve got a well-behaved dog for life.
Mostly …
A LONG DAY ON D’URVILLE — PA
Pete J always told me I was a very poor risk assessment judge. By the end of this one day on D’Urville Island I had proved him right.
I always looked forward to my visits to D’Urville Island, not only because of the friendships I’d developed with the three farming families there but also because of the unique and beautiful landscape. Early Maori also valued this island. It is exposed to the winds but is warm, has a plentiful supply of kai moana at hand and is one of the few sites in the country where rare and valuable argillite can be found. Maori valued argillite’s strength, hardness and ability to hold a sharpened edge, ideal for making adzes. Both Patuki Station and Waitai Station have pa sites overlooking the coast with an uninterrupted view of Cook Strait and the North Island. Further south can be found the old Maori argillite mines. The whole island has a number of very interesting sites to explore.
However, getting to the island, which lies at the northernmost tip of the Marlborough Sounds if coming from the mainland, requires at least three different modes of transport. Driving to French Pass from Blenheim is a good two hours, next a water taxi or barge gets you to the island with all your gear, and then you jump into an old van that’s been left at the pier, again with all your gear, and drive yourself to one of the three larger properties on the island. Often all three. It’s another hour’s drive to the tip of the island where Gus and Bex Forgan manage Patuki Station. So it’s eight to nine hours of travel each round trip, and as a result I would often stay overnight with one of the families. Over the years I have spent many an enjoyable and entertaining evening with Gus and Bex and their three amazing young daughters, or with Shayne and Pam Amyes and their daughter on the next-door property Waitai Station.
The farms on D’Urville Island are probably more akin to North Island farms than the typical Marlborough farm. The hills are steep but clean and well grassed. On D’Urville there is always the constant sound of the sea in the background and the views are amazing — Stephens Island of tuatara fame to the north, Nelson Bays to the west, and the North Island to the east. However, it is exposed to winds and that natural feature plays a significant part in my story.
As you can imagine when going to D’Urville Island I prefer to fly. Forty minutes from home and forty minutes back. But one day this journey took a lot longer and in the end required several modes of transport.
It was early summer and a ram testing day was planned along with a number of other little jobs on all the properties, including dog vaccinations, a lame horse and animal health programme updates. First was Waitai Station, then Patuki and then I was to fly down to Greville Harbour near the southern tip of the island where Steve and Janet Norton managed Ragged Point. Getting to the Nortons’ involved a 10 minute walk from the airstrip to the beach in Greville Harbour and then a 10 minute boat trip across the bay to Ragged Point. (Recently a new airstrip was put in right beside the homestead which now saves considerable time when flying.)
It was going to be a full day and I would need it all. I also wanted to be back before dark. I have flown home in the dark before but without instruments it is no fun — nor is landing on the unlit Omaka airfield. So I had to be finished at least an hour before the darkness fell, leaving time to get back to the plane as well. At dawn I rang Shayne at Waitai for a weather update and at that time all was peaceful. No wind. I grabbed a quick cup of tea and breakfast and drove to my hangar at Omaka on the outskirts of Blenheim where the Pawnee was waiting, all loaded up the previous evening. So it was over an hour later when I approached D’Urville at about 1500 feet. While the sea looked calm enough I could tell that there were a few ripples on the surface indicating some breeze from the nor’west. Should be OK though. Shayne was waiting at the top of the strip in the Toyota, having first cleared off a few sheep.
The Waitai airstrip is a short steep 300 metre strip running southeast along a ridge 500 feet above the beach of a small bay. It is a one-way strip with a high bank at the top end and once committed you can’t abort the landing and ‘go around’ to have another try. I did my usual preliminary run a few feet above the strip to find that there was a significant tailwind and lift over the bottom edge.
Hindsight is great and I should have immediately made the decision to fly down to Greville Harbour and use the nicely sheltered, much easier strip there. However, that would have added two hours to the day as it would have taken Shayne an hour to get down there to pick me up and another hour back to Waitai Station. The day was already going to be a long one and there he was waiting.
I landed, but with the tailwind too fast, and bounced. Brakes don’t work while airborne and as the plane floated along in the updraft the bank at the top end of the strip rapidly approached. A desperate situation called for drastic measures, and I drove the Pawnee onto the strip. We stayed there but unfortunately in the process chewed up the ground with the prop. Slightly shaken I parked on the small flat area at the top of the strip. Shayne wandered up and asked, ‘Has your plane always had those curvy bits at the ends of the propeller?’ The tips of the propeller blades had bent badly on hitting the ground. With a bent prop there was no way I would be flying home. It really was going to be a long day.
Shayne and Pam at the time had been managing Waitai Station for four or five years. I had seen and been a little involved in the improvement in the Romney flock and the performance of the Angus herd that had resulted from his management. Their daughter was also born during this period. And, as rural vets do, I got to know them well and enjoyed their friendship, often overnighting with them.
Shayne drove me in the Toyota along the farm track which ended in a steep drive down to the homestead and woolshed by the sea; the rams were here as well as the other animals I had to attend to. All work at Waitai was finished by midday and after lunch we headed back to the plane and tied it down and removed the prop. I wasn’t too sure at this stage how I was going to get myself or it back to town but the prop was of little use where it was and in its current shape.
Gus Forgan met me at the airstrip in his reliable but rusty Toyota people-mover. (All things ferrous, including fence wires, quickly rust on the island, the result of salt-laden sea air.) Gus and Bex are a wonderful couple who have now been managing Patuki Station for 10 years. They ar
rived on the island shortly after their first daughter Lucy was born and the other two were born while they’ve been there. Bex was very much a city girl, a practising accountant with little understanding of the country before she arrived on D’Urville. They have both adapted well to the remote property where self-sufficiency is essential. The whole family has embraced the lifestyle. It is fascinating visiting them: Bex is always busy home-schooling the girls, gardening, milking the cow and helping Gus on the farm. Because of the difficulty getting things repaired Gus has had to work things out for himself. As well as being a very good farmer he has become a competent electrician, builder, mechanic and plumber. Apart from a lack of regular social contact theirs is a wonderful life, full of adventures for three vibrant young girls. The Forgan girls have become very independent and self-reliant and a delight to know. I wonder how long the family will stay on D’Urville Island. With secondary school education approaching, the far easier life of living closer to town might encourage them to leave, although I suspect it might take more than that to prise them away from this paradise.
Anyway, on the day of the propeller mishap, I imagined that I would probably be camping the night with them. That would be no hardship but more a pleasant occasion. But I learned that their fencer, who had been with them for the week, was heading home that evening and he would wait until I got through all the work and give me a lift back to town with him. It was too good an opportunity to miss because not only would he get me to the mainland in his boat but he would get me back to Blenheim that night. Getting a ride from French Pass to Blenheim was a godsend; that was going to be the really difficult bit and I might have had to wait several days for a lift. Steve and Janet would just have to wait.
So that was what happened. We did the rams and a couple of other jobs, shifting between each task on a four-wheel motorbike, and then sped to French Pass in the contractor’s outboard. From there to Blenheim in his truck and three hours later, around 10 p.m., with the prop on my shoulder, I arrived home. In all I had spent the day using eight different modes of transport.
Old Dogs New Tricks Page 5