Old Dogs New Tricks

by Peter Anderson

  Pete was badly injured, lucky to survive at all. His jaw and ribs were broken, his head badly lacerated, his skull cracked and he had very severe concussion. In truth, severe head injuries.

  Pete and I had been Anderson & Jerram for about eight years at that stage. We were getting established, just raising our heads above financial waters, and we had a growing clientele. We were in our early forties, a very productive time of life, and we like to think we worked very hard. Our wives, Chick and Ally, would undoubtedly agree. They didn’t see much of us.

  There were still only the two of us, and it was getting to be a major juggling act to fit the large and small animal parts of our practice together. We would leave for work early, and come home late, nearly every day. With Pete out of action from his prang — he was in hospital for two or three weeks, then house-ridden for about three months — the pressure came heavily on yours truly.

  I could see that I was going to have to get some help, and eventually I did when Mandy Batchelor, newly qualified, came and spent three months with me to ease the burden. (Mandy later came back and worked with us for some years and remains a good friend.)

  But in the first three or four weeks I was pretty stretched.

  When Graham rang, asking for his cows to be pregnancy tested on a day in April, two weeks away, I looked at the diary. Yes, I could do it that day, at 1 p.m.

  ‘No,’ said Graham, ‘I want them done in the morning, so I can get them out the back in the afternoon.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Graham, but I’ve got a full clinic that morning. It’ll have to be the afternoon.’ I put down the phone, and gave the matter little more thought.

  It had remained dry right into April. If you like summer living, Marlborough is a lovely place in autumns like that, but if you’re a farmer, it’s no fun at all during those years. And then, the day I was due to test Graham’s cows, it rained. In fact it piddled down: soft, warm, life-giving rain.

  My car, a Mitsubishi station wagon, was in hospital. It might have been because I’d driven it backwards into a telephone pole at 140 kilometres per hour, or it might have been for something more mundane, but whatever the reason, I had to borrow a car. The only one which Wadsco, the company we dealt with at the time, had available was a 1964 Holden Kingswood station wagon, an old dunger. It didn’t look very professional, but it would do.

  I raced through the clinic that morning, doing several small animal consultations, then some surgery.

  I grabbed a sandwich, loaded my gear into the old car and headed up the road. Past Renwick I sped, then turned left into the Waihopai Valley road. These days the flats in the valley are clothed in grapevines, but in those days it was all dry land pastoral farming, and I ticked off the names of the farmers I knew well as I raced to Graham’s place.

  Over the Singing Bridge on the Waihopai River, and soon after I was there. I’d never been to Graham’s farm before, and it was only later that I found out that Pete A had turned up there a month earlier to do the same job, only for Graham to realise he’d asked for March when he meant April.

  The rain was coming steadily down as I went up the drive past the house. I could see the yards ahead and I was possibly driving a bit over enthusiastically as I approached. As I turned and braked, the wheels of the old Holden lost their grip on the greasy paddock, and the car did an undignified 20 metre skid before stopping more or less in the correct place. It was a spectacular but unseemly arrival.

  I could see a pen full of cattle at the yards, a hundred metres away, and I could see two men sitting on a rail in the yards, unmoving. I thought my entry was pretty extraordinary, and funny too. I lifted the back door of the wagon and under its shelter donned my overalls and leggings, then took a handful of long gloves and a container of lubricant. One hundred and forty cows: this was going to be a breeze. The men sat watching.

  As I trudged across to the yards in the steady soft rain, the two men still sat motionless, watching my approach. I climbed over the first pen and came up to them.

  ‘Gidday, Graham, fantastic day.’ I meant the rain was good.

  Graham and his man were unmoved and his reply stunned and shocked me.

  ‘No, it’s not. I wanted you here this morning.’ A hard, uncompromising glare came from my soon-to-be-no-longer client.

  ‘Well, we’re not going to let that spoil the day, are we?’ I said, trying to be more cheerful than I was now feeling.

  ‘It already has,’ said Graham.

  At that point, dear reader, something snapped in me.

  I had been under near-unbearable pressure for weeks, with my partner and best mate badly injured. I had been juggling a lot of balls to keep the practice running, and I was probably getting a bit low on resources. Pete’s accident had been front page news. Everyone knew he had had a very bad accident, and all our clients had been sympathetic, understanding and helpful. Until now.

  I heard myself say, ‘Well you might like to pregnancy test your own bloody cows,’ as I abruptly about-turned. Seething but strangely exhilarated, I climbed the rail, stomped back to the car, whipped off my gear and jumped onto the old bench seat of the Holden.

  I banged the column shift into first and planted the boot. A massive spin of the wheels and the rear end did a graceful pirouette, which turned into a full 360 degree wheelie before I headed for the gate. I should have been shocked and ashamed at my own rude behaviour, but I was almost ecstatic and the wheelie put the icing on it.

  Something was released, and as I raced down the valley I found myself singing out loud — I felt as if I’d got out of jail free. The tensions of the last two months were gone. I’d been treated unreasonably, and had told my client so.

  It wasn’t very professional, but there’s only so much a man can take.

  THE MULLER — PJ

  The Marlborough high country figures prominently in my stories, and for that I make no apology.

  That wonderful series of geographic features and the people who live and work there have long been where my heart lies. This love of the high country began when I spent early years working on large properties in northern Southland and Wanaka. The work ethic, the isolation, the tough thoughtful people, the self-reliance, the stock work, running and training dogs, and most of all the country itself, the beautiful surroundings, all capture the souls of the many people who experience it, and I am one of them.

  Muller Station, next door to Molesworth at the head of the Awatere Valley, is one of the great high country runs, and I’ve been fortunate enough to have forged a lifetime friendship with the run holder, Steve Satterthwaite and his wife Mary. Together they run a very big station, one of the largest private properties in New Zealand.

  My friendship with Steve began pretty early on, soon after my arrival in Marlborough. Paddy Dillon’s cricket team, United Country, had established itself in my first summer, and in the subsequent winter I was in Christchurch for an international rugby game. I’d met Steve once or twice, so when we met in a bar after the game it was a natural gravitation. He talked of his love of cricket (although he hadn’t played for 10 years since leaving school) so I suggested he should join our team. When the next season began he did, and quickly showed himself to be a punishing batsman, and not a bad medium-paced bowler.

  That team became the focus of many family friendships, most of which have lasted, and after cricket Steve spent many evenings at our house in Blenheim, sometimes for a meal, sometimes for the night.

  Steve and his family had had a disastrous and devastating year, losing two brothers to road accidents, and then his 10-month-old son to a cot death, all within three months, and I think Steve very much enjoyed the friendship on offer, and we became and remain good mates.

  Steve’s father Clive was a very successful businessman and farmer, and had set his sons up with farms, including Muller Station, which was run by a manager until Steve took over about 1978 or 1979. Clive was still pretty much a presence, a strong one, and we were a bit nervous around him. I recall him a
s an undemonstrative and firm man, but who knows what effect the loss of two sons and a grandson was having on him in the years I knew him.

  He was rather stiff and unsmiling and I learned early on to tread carefully and to open my mouth only when I had something useful to say; despite opening the batting with me in a social cricket match in Canterbury, he remained pretty distant. The breakthrough came some years later when he came to Blenheim to watch Steve playing cricket. Steve and I had a long and productive partnership and, unusually, I scored at a faster clip than Steve. After that, Clive became much friendlier, and I felt I’d broken through.

  The reason for his stiffness may have had something to do with an incident on the Awatere Road. Much earlier, probably two years after our first meeting, I was driving up that lonely winding path early one morning. I was off to perform artificial insemination on merino ewes at Glenlee, I think, or possibly to pregnancy test cows somewhere in the valley, and was approaching a small saddle, the Isis. It was a steep patch of road which had been tarsealed to consolidate the surface. Coming over the saddle and down the hill towards me was Steve’s blue Falcon station wagon, no mistaking it.

  As a back-country mate’s gesture of friendship, I put my right arm out the window and vigorously gave the reverse victory sign, that is the fingers, to the approaching car. Sort of saying: ‘Gidday, you old bastard.’

  Horror! The impassive face of Clive, eyebrows slightly raised, slid past my window about a metre away, with Clive’s lovely wife Diana looking strangely at me too. They had borrowed Steve’s car. I’m sure the colour drained from my face as I planted the foot and raced on up the road.

  I’d insulted the gaffer.

  Over the years I did a lot of work at Muller Station, mostly pregnancy testing the 800-odd cows, and some deer work after Steve established a deer farm there. Steve and I became pretty good mates, and when his first marriage to Nicky dissolved and he was living alone, he spent many nights with our family in Blenheim. When his Jack Russell dog contracted TB, probably from catching ferrets on the station, it had to be euthanased and Steve was deeply affected by the loss of his little companion.

  I also visited Molesworth with Steve, seeking high country brown trout on several occasions, often with Don Reid, Molesworth’s manager. And when I received a business grant to travel internationally to learn more about dog cryogenetics (semen freezing) and transcervical insemination, Steve accompanied me across the western United States and up into Canada on a roadtrip. A highlight was coming out of Yellowstone National Park and staying in a motel run by an ex-F18 pilot who had flown 180 missions over North Vietnam, and also for Air America, the CIA’s private air force, in Angola. Hayes Kirby was a character, and told us his story of being on a mission to ‘take out’ Idi Amin, the Ugandan dictator. The engines were running when the order to cancel the mission came through. We didn’t doubt the truth of it. He had a lot of big photos of himself and his aeroplanes on the walls.

  All the while, Steve was running the station with rare skill, with attention to detail and with real leadership, and he still does as I write this in 2016.

  When he teamed up with Mary in the late 1990s he became a happier man again, and I was surprised and honoured when he asked me to be his best man. Mary particularly wanted a garden wedding beside a stream, so Ally and I were happy to offer our home on the banks of Spring Creek, near Blenheim, as the venue for the event.

  Officiating at the wedding was John Craighead, a delightful man of the cloth who was semi-retired from that job, and mostly involved in his psychotherapy/counselling role. John is an old friend of my family so it was a pleasure to have him. He’s relaxed and humorous, and it came as no surprise when he arrived and pulled out an old and rather grubby cassock, if that indeed is what the robe of an Anglican vicar is called.

  It was autumn, and our neighbour across the creek was keen on the use of gas guns to scare birds off his grapes. In those days, Rapaura, heart of the grape country, could sound like the Balkans warzone that was a regular news item back then. This neighbour was particularly fond of his gas guns, and I’d rung him to ask if he could turn them off for a few hours while we had the wedding.

  We set the scene with care. Straw bales were set out on the lawn for the 60 to 70 guests to sit on for the service. Steve and Mary’s three-month-old baby Alice was tucked into her bassinet behind the large flax bush beside the pristine stream, which gurgled quietly and soothingly in the background. The happy couple stood, backs to the river, facing their seated friends. The Reverend, for that is what I feel I must call him for this story, raised his arms, spreading his slightly grubby robe for all to see, as he began the words of the wedding ceremony.

  At that moment he was rudely interrupted.

  Boom! … Boom! … Boom!

  A trio of gas gun detonations rent the air. The neighbour, who shall go nameless, had either forgotten, ignored the message or, just possibly, was doing it deliberately.

  Boom! … Boom! … Boom!

  Gas guns make an extremely loud percussive noise, and you can’t ignore them, or speak over them if they’re close by.

  After a few of these detonations, John Craighead remained undeterred. The show must go on despite the interference. He began to speak the words: ‘We are gathered here …’

  Boom! … Boom! … Boom!

  Finally, with a broad smile, he made his greatest utterance.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think I can say that this is the first proper shotgun wedding I’ve officiated at.’

  Brilliant. The crowd dissolved in laughter and the show went on. And a jolly good show it was too.

  THE LORD GOD MADE THEM ALL — PA

  In Cock and Bull Stories I wrote about exotic animals and some of the difficulties vets are faced with when having to deal with them. My earliest experiences with a wide range of different species had been the animals at the Marlborough Zoological Gardens. This small wildlife park was developed in the early 1980s and survived for three or four years before a disaster and finances forced its closure. During the 1980s an influx of new species also arrived on the farming scene that presented us with many novel experiences and a huge range of opportunities.

  There was a period in New Zealand’s history when diversification in farming was being encouraged. It was not a big step to shift from sheep and beef cattle to include goats or deer in a farm business. After all they were both ruminants and there was some demand for their products: meat and fibre for goats, and meat and velvet for deer.

  Both these industries have more or less successfully continued in the New Zealand farming scene. Pete J in his chapter ‘Angora Anguish’ (page 47) tells of an interesting time doing embryo transfer work.

  Many tried their hands at other species, historically not domestic animals, and while there are still a few around none have continued as a viable farming option. Among these were alpaca, Angora and rex rabbits, fitches (ferrets) and later ratites (emus and ostriches). The problem with this group was that once the initial demand for base stock was met — those that would be the nuclei for commercial populations — then there had to be a demand for their products either nationally or internationally in order for operators to survive. The message, well promoted by those people who were in right at the beginning, was that there was an insatiable demand for the products they produced — the skins and fibre from rabbits and fitches, fibre from alpaca, and oil and feathers and meat from ostriches and emus. So as well as the traditional sheep and beef and dairy farmers, many of those who got into ‘farming’ during this era were lifestyle-block holders, professionals and successful business people with money to invest. There was also an element involved who had somehow mysteriously acquired their wealth.

  I worked with one rabbit farmer, Will Parsons. Rabbits were not the sort of diversification you would expect for a sheep and beef farmer, but he did appreciate their breeding potential well before he got into them. He was in right at the beginning and with the help of a regional development grant converted
a hay barn into a purpose-built rabbit shed, and then imported 10 very valuable females and two bucks from Germany and set up a registered stud. By the time he had finished rabbit farming he was running around 800 Angora rabbits. As there were few other rabbit farmers in New Zealand to consult he had to learn much by trial and error. Breeding up was as expected not a problem, and feeding and management eventually, after some experimenting, became relatively easy, although fairly time consuming for a busy sheep farmer. Each rabbit was shorn four times per year and in a year produced up to 2.3 kilograms of very soft fine fibre. With an average value of $42 a kilogram the return from one little animal could be quite impressive. As a result, and being first off the block, there was much interest in his Angora rabbit farming enterprise. He once did a shearing demonstration in the wool room at the Ward A & P Show, packed to overflowing with punters including many local farmers. Merino farmers who had spent a lifetime having to deal with plagues of this rodent were amazed at the quantity and quality of fibre produced off such a small animal, but none could apparently identify with farming rabbits instead of merinos, even if it would have removed the concern of poor reproductive performance.

  Will really enjoyed his rabbit farming days and paid a lot of attention to the rabbits’ welfare and fed them well. Somewhat to his surprise he found that they had a very high pain threshold as they never flinched or reacted in any way if he happened to nick them during shearing. While shearing one particular doe he happened to nick it over a solid lump on its neck. He felt the lump needed further investigation so he carefully dissected out this large cyst-like mass from beneath the skin. He then stitched her up and made a special trip into town to show me this mysterious mass and see if I could determine what it was. He was a little taken aback when I began to laugh. I had to tell him he had chosen the wrong career and suggested he should seriously look at getting into cosmetic surgery. He had successfully removed a large lump of fat!