“Maybe he missed his calling,” Alec said. “Maybe he’d rather have been a surgeon than a rider. But that’s not why I’m here,” he added, slightly irritated by Henry’s squeamishness. “I’m going inside. You do what you like.”
When Alec had gone, Henry quietly faced the closed door separating them. For several minutes he didn’t move, fighting the panic within him. Then, furious with himself for what he knew had to be needless fear, he wrenched the door open and strode inside the operating room.
He saw the filly, Bitter Sweet, prone on the operating table, arc lights blazing above her and white-robed men standing around the table. A small group of spectators hovered nearby. His nerves tingling, he nodded to some of the horsemen he knew. They paid little attention to him, all being interested in the work of the veterinary surgeon, and for this he was grateful.
For a while Henry kept his eyes on Dr. Palmer’s tall, round-shouldered figure, hoping thus to reassure himself, even though the man was well known to be competent and skillful. But finally his gaze shifted to the curving line of faces just beyond the operating table. He picked out Alec’s and moved over to stand beside him.
Alec hoped that within a few minutes Henry would see this operation for what it really was—no curtain raiser, no impending TV drama but a quick, efficient, skillful job of mending a horse’s broken bone. The large doors at the far end of the room were slightly open and some neighborhood kids were peeking inside. Perhaps one of them would be a veterinary surgeon himself one day, Alec thought.
He knew that the filly had come through those doors a short time ago, quietly and without pain. She had been given a sedative, nothing more than a tranquilizer that a human being would have taken under the same circumstances. Once she was inside the room, the anesthesia had been injected intravenously, and as it began to take effect she had been carefully lowered to the operating table which lay flush with the floor. She had been secured, then the hydraulic lift had elevated the table so that the surgeon could go to work.
She was resting comfortably now, and the anesthesia was being maintained by a closed-circuit, circle-type machine. She breathed easily through the mask about her nose, the tubes of the mask leading through a vaporizer and into a large rubber bag that contained a mixture of gas and oxygen. It moved like a living thing as she inhaled and exhaled.
An operating sheet, draped over the filly’s injured leg, had a rectangular, open window which exposed the area ready for incision. Her leg had been shaved and painted with an antiseptic.
Dr. Palmer finished drying his hands on a sterile towel; he glanced at his assistant standing alongside and nodded. They were masked and gowned and scrubbed, ready to begin. The surgeon’s eyes swept over the table and he made a swift, meticulous inventory of his instruments.
Henry muttered, “It’s like watching them operate on a member of your family.”
Alec didn’t answer. He was aware of a faint smell of ozone coming from the ultraviolet lamps, which he knew could effectively kill bacteria in the air. But he also knew that the greatest advance in preventing infection during veterinary surgery had come with the discovery of sulpha drugs and penicillin and streptomycin.
While the assistant injected novocaine into the injured area, the surgeon glanced around and nodded to Alec and Henry. Then he took the razor-edged scalpel and bent over the table.
Henry turned away from the scene but Alec continued watching. There was a powerful light directly above the operating table which cast no shadow, generated no heat. The surgeon had a square piece of gauze in one hand and he pressed it hard against the exposed area before making his incision. The scalpel slashed quickly to bone level. His assistant steadied the filly’s leg and removed the rush of blood with a suction tube which he rotated in the depths of the wound. When the opening showed clear, the surgeon swabbed it dry and packed it with cotton. The injured bone area was now in complete view.
“I have all the room I need,” the surgeon told his assistant. Then his gloved fingers probed the wound for bone fragments and adhesions at the fracture site. He paused to allow his assistant to manipulate the suction tube again, then walked over to look at the X-ray plate that was hanging against the wall. It showed a fracture of the long bone.
It wasn’t good, but he’d seen a lot worse during the past week. The filly had a fifty-fifty chance of ever racing again. Post-operative care of these weight-carrying bones was always the big problem. But that would come later. Right now he had to join the fractured parts perfectly and make certain the leg would stay that way long enough for a firm callous formation to develop. Fortunately, the filly was young and the healing process would not take as long as with an aged horse. That was one thing in her favor, anyway.
He went back to the table. “How’s she doing, Max?” he asked, turning to the anesthetist.
The report came quickly. “Pulse and respiration have steadied, Bill. Go ahead.”
The anesthetist was a big man who kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting the small machine before him. When the adjusting was finished, he glanced at the heart monitor attached to the machine. Satisfied, he straightened and waited for the surgeon to proceed.
Alec, who had been watching the anesthetist, left the small group and went over to him. “What gas are you using?” he asked.
“Halothane,” Max answered, his eyes studying Alec from beneath heavy brows. “Ever hear of it?”
“I’ve read about it,” Alec answered. “It’s pretty new. It has twice the strength of chloroform and four times that of ether, so less of it has to be used.”
A smile crossed the man’s face. “You’re right,” he said quietly, his eyes leaving Alec for the heart monitor. “More expensive but worth it, and a big step forward. No danger of any explosive mixtures as with ether. No effect on the heart, liver or kidneys as with chloroform. It allows the muscles to maintain complete relaxation, too. Just look at her,” he added, satisfied and proud of his work.
The filly lay absolutely still as the operation proceeded. The anesthetist was an important part of this skillful team, Alec knew. He would keep the filly under anesthesia as long as necessary, using the halothane sparingly but effectively. He would add oxygen to supply her body’s needs and watch for any sudden change in heartbeat, blood pressure and pulse.
She was breathing easily, Alec noted, the large rubber bag rising and falling regularly. The mask over her upper and lower jaw was airtight. She inhaled through one tube and exhaled through the other. The controls were set, regulating the amount of halothane and oxygen which she was breathing in. All carbon dioxide was being removed by sodalime contained in a metal cannister. Everything was going on schedule. The moments passed quickly and there was no sound within the room but the clink of operative instruments.
Finally, the surgeon selected vitallium screws of the size needed to secure the fractured bone firmly. He inserted them into the bone with a small drill, and the whirring noise from the machine suddenly dominated the room.
Alec glanced at Henry and found that he had turned away momentarily from the table. The whirring of the drill stopped as the surgeon had an X-ray technician take a quick picture. A few minutes later, the surgeon was looking at a film, still wet, that showed the progress of his work. Satisfied, he picked up his drill again. The screws he was inserting would remain in the bone permanently.
Suddenly, the anesthetist said, “Hold it a minute, Bill.” He began adjusting a valve.
The surgeon waited, brushing the sweat from his forehead. “How’s she doing?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Pulse was slowing up but it’s steady again.”
“Shall I go ahead?”
“You’d better wait a couple more minutes,” the big man answered. He adjusted the line to increase the flow of oxygen, then watched the rubber bag. The filly was breathing regularly but he wanted to make certain no complications developed. He had lost one horse this season at Hialeah but he attributed that death to surgic
al shock rather than respiratory failure. However, he wasn’t taking any chances with this one. She was a good filly with years ahead of her as a fine broodmare, even if she didn’t make the races again.
Alec turned his gaze to the elderly, gnomelike man standing closest to the table of any of the spectators. He was the filly’s groom and, Alec knew, was taking this harder than anyone else. He had twisted his cap in his hands; his bared head was completely bald except for a fringe of shaggy, white hair. He was breathing in vast gulps of air as if this would help his filly in her own breathing. Now he wiped his big nose with the cap, an attempt, Alec knew, to hide the concern and fear he felt.
Most caretakers were like this man, Alec reflected. They went from track to track, from youth to old age, caring only for their beloved charges and the day’s eating money. On the whole they were a happy lot. But they were quick to adjust to whatever tomorrow would bring, for that was their way, too.
The surgeon looked over at the groom and said, “Dick, you have nothing to worry about. She’ll be back in a year.”
“I sure hope so, Doc. They’ll send her to the farm, don’t you think?”
“It’ll be the best place for her. She won’t be able to move out of her stall for three months, anyway.”
“Just fix her up so she’ll be back sometime, Doc.” The powerful overhead light disclosed the purple veins in the little man’s nose. He rubbed it again. “That’s all I want. I’ll be waitin’ for her. You jus’ fix her up.”
“We’ll fix her up all right,” the surgeon said. Then, with glances, he invited the others to listen to what he had to say next while waiting for word from the anesthetist to proceed. “What helps us in this case is that because she fell she couldn’t continue the race. We have real trouble when a horse fractures a leg and keeps running on it. Their bones are brittle compared to ours and when one is fractured in a race it can break into splintered fragments, especially when they try to keep running.”
The anesthetist interrupted. “You can go ahead now, Bill,” he said. “Pulse and respiration are back to normal.”
The surgeon continued with his work. When he had finished drilling, the two screws were securely and correctly imbedded in the bone. He had done everything he could. All that was left now was to close the wound and put on a plaster of Paris cast to give the screws added support and immobilize the injured leg as much as possible. Unfortunately, it was almost impossible for a horse to keep its weight off a fractured leg for any length of time, and this made successful treatment more difficult than in the case of a human being.
The surgeon’s assistant handed him the needle with suture attached and, stitching neatly, he closed the wound. Then he gave the filly another antibiotic injection to combat infection and, removing the operating sheet, applied sulfanilamide powder thickly to the hair around the wound, rubbing it into the skin also to prevent superficial bacterial infections. Next, his assistant helped him put an orthopedic stockinet over the leg. He made certain it was absolutely smooth before applying the wet plaster of Paris bandage. He wound it quickly but efficiently about the leg until he was satisfied the cast would provide maximum support and an even pressure.
At last he straightened up. “Okay, John. We’re done,” he said to his assistant. Then he called to his anesthetist. “Turn her off, Max.”
Alec stepped back as the big man turned off his machine and removed the mask from the filly’s mouth. All the other operative equipment had been removed from the table, and now the hydraulic lift lowered the filly to the floor, where she was left to lie quietly and unrestrained in a relaxed hypnotic state.
The small group began breaking up, speaking to one another in quiet, almost hushed voices as if there was a continued need for silence. Only when the surgeon laughed loudly at something someone said to him did they suddenly start raising their voices. But they kept away from the filly, giving her the room and air she needed.
“How long before she’ll be up?” Alec asked the anesthetist, having noticed a quick twitching of the filly’s legs.
“They usually come out of this gas pretty fast,” the man said, putting his equipment away. “Most of them are up within a half-hour. A few take longer.”
Henry came across the room to stand beside Alec; he said nothing, his eyes on the filly.
“Do they come out of it quietly or struggling?” Alec asked.
“Quietly,” the big man answered. “I’ve only seen a few excited ones. That’s another advantage of halothane.”
Alec turned to Henry, whose face had a sickly pallor. “Shall we wait or do you want to go now?” he asked.
“I think we ought to go,” Henry answered.
They were nearing the door when Dr. Palmer stopped them. “Nice to have had you here, Henry,” he said.
“A good filly, game as they come,” Henry answered. “Too bad about her.”
“Don’t cross her off so fast,” the veterinarian said. “She could be back in training before the year’s out.”
“I hope so, Doc,” Henry said sincerely. “I sure do.” He took another few steps toward the door.
“You come back, hear?” the veterinarian called to him.
“Yeah, Doc, sure.” Henry left the operating room sure of only one thing. He wasn’t ever going back unless he had to. And the only way to make certain of staying out of that room was to keep the Black as sound as a dollar. But how sound was that anymore? One couldn’t be sure of anything these days. He rubbed the horse chestnuts that he carried in his pocket for good luck.
FIRST START
7
Henry showed up at the track earlier than usual the following morning. “I’m having the horseshoe man come around,” he told Alec.
That was enough to let Alec know that during the night Henry had arrived at a decision concerning the Black’s program. New shoes had been put on only two weeks ago and Henry rarely changed plates so soon unless the Black was going to race.
“What made you change your mind?” he asked. He didn’t want to appear too anxious, just interested—perhaps even a little puzzled—in the hope of drawing Henry out.
“That 1:37 mile on the grass the other morning,” Henry said quietly.
“I thought you said it was too fast.”
“It was. But it was a big move to me; he handled that soft turf perfectly. It convinced me he was ready.”
“I see,” Alec said, although actually he didn’t. He’d never be able to understand how Henry could be furious about something he’d done one day and forget about it completely the next. “When are we going then?” he asked.
“There’s a mile race on the grass tomorrow, so let’s blow him out this morning for it.”
“Great!” Alec said, no longer trying to conceal his joy. “How far do I take him?” He could smell the pine tar in the body brace a groom was using a few stalls away.
“Three-eighths. Take him over the main track, breaking from the gate. He’s been away from it for some time, and it won’t do no harm to have him see it again. Have him look things over now instead of when he has to get out of there fast. Take your time, just walk him in and out, if you think he’s curious. Break him when he’s good and ready.”
“Okay,” Alec said.
“Pull him up after an eighth from the gate. Hobbyhorse him until the quarter pole, then let him go again. That’ll blow him out good.”
“Fine,” Alec said. “You want to saddle up now or wait for the new plates?”
“We’ll go now. The horseshoer won’t be around until later. We’ll save the new plates for the race. It’ll give him better leverage and traction when he needs it most. No sense wearing down the toe grab and calk now.”
The sun had climbed a little higher, turning to gold in the eastern sky. Henry gave Alec a leg up and swung him into the saddle. “He likes the warmer weather,” the old man said.
“Yeah,” Alec said, knotting the reins as the Black shifted quickly beneath him. “He’s full of go this morning.”
“He should be. He’s done nothing but walk the last couple of days.”
“I might have trouble snugging him up,” Alec said, “like last time.”
“You don’t need to snug him up too slow. I want him blown out good.”
Alec left Henry at the gap in the fence and rode slowly toward the starting gate at the far end of the backstretch. The Black’s hoofs made a flat, wet, rhythmic sound in the pock-marked track. He handled easily, making no attempt to break away, but Alec shortened his reins still more and rose higher in his irons.
“Easy, Mister,” he said softly. He didn’t want the Black getting away from him this morning. It was just as well that the coming race would be over grass. It suited him as well as the Black, being a welcome change from dirt racing. It used to be that infield courses were mostly confined to steeplechasing with only an occasional flat race over the grass. But during the last ten years most tracks had inaugurated turf classics with large purses. The Hialeah Turf Cup, for example, was worth close to one hundred thousand dollars. Also, the large number of foreign horses being imported and raced in the United States were, in a way, responsible for the ever-mounting popularity of races over the infield course. Abroad, they didn’t race on dirt tracks at all.
Alec was nearly at the starting gate. He slowed down the Black still more in order to stay clear of the horses coming down the track. When they swept by, the Black kicked his heels in the air.
“Okay,” Alec said, “your turn’s coming now.”
The track in front of the starting gate was a sea of slop. The crew had been schooling young horses all morning and, Alec figured, were pretty tired of all the activity in such deep going. The men were squishing through the mud, and one yelled, “Hiya, Alec. It’s been a long time.” The man’s black rubber rain pants were splattered with mud. He came forward to take the Black’s bridle.
“Better let me take him in alone, John,” Alec said. “I just want him to look around a minute. We’ll walk in and out once.”
The Black Stallion Challenged Page 7