Vet on the Loose (2 page)

I
spent my first week in a veterinary practice as an innocent fourteen year-old when I was both honoured and thrilled to be allowed to clean out the cattery in a local small-animal practice. To handle an animal that was under the care of a vet seemed such a wonder and even an afternoon spent folding and enveloping invoices left me deliriously happy that at last I was on my way.

Watching my first cat spay from a sterile distance, I was so chuffed you could well believe I had done the surgery myself. So awed was I by the experience that I was totally dumbstruck when the vet asked me if I would like a cup of coffee and I nodded my assent even though I hated coffee at the time.

Much and all as I would have loved to go back, I didn’t want to tempt fate by preparing myself for a career that might never be mine. It wasn’t until my third time repeating the Leaving Certificate in search of those elusive points, that one of the teachers in the school, probably sensing my end-stage frustration as I ploughed my way through yet another Shakespearean play, put me in touch with Finbar McCarthy, her brother-in-law, a vet who had a large animal practice up in the northernmost tip of Louth.

As it was too far to travel, I was to stay with the family for a week – the week I should have been preparing for my third set of mock Leaving Cert exams.

Arriving at the red-brick house for the first time, I wondered if this was the surgery, but was soon shown the purpose-built shed that served as a clinic for the local animal population.

‘It may not be as fancy as some places, but it does the job all right,’ said Finbar, obviously pleased with his set-up.

He brushed away my halting thanks. ‘No, it’s I should be thanking you,’ he assured me kindly. ‘It’s not everyone who wants to help out at this time of year. My own kids saw sense years ago,’ he laughed, obviously well reconciled to the fact that they were not going to be following in his footsteps.

Our first call was to a ramshackle farmyard, inhabited by a weather-beaten old farmer and his herd of forty or so sucklers. It was the first time I had come into such close contact with cattle and I kept a low profile as I watched Finbar and the experienced stockman pick out the sick cow from the herd and pen her up against the shed with an old gate. One of the older cows, obviously noticing my inexperience, frisked up to me and then scampered off with an indignant bellow as Finbar shooed her away. I tried to look busy inspecting the back of the shed door that I had dived behind for cover.

‘Take her temperature there,’ Finbar asked me, once the patient was confined. I thanked God that I had watched enough James Herriot films to know where to put the thermometer, but it wasn’t as easy as it looked to pull up the heavy tail which seemed to be welded to the cow’s rear end. I reached further down to grab the bit that was swishing violently, generously christening my spotless wet-gear with a liberal spattering of farmyard manure, and worked my way up, pausing briefly before cautiously inserting the thermometer. So far so good, I thought.

Finbar concentrated as he to listened to the cow’s enormous chest with his stethoscope, and I watched expectantly, hoping he might offer to let me listen too.

A noise from behind alerted me and I watched in horror as the cow lifted her tail and squirted a stream of
greeny-brown
faeces in an arc behind her, expelling the thermometer along with it. There it lay, in a pile below her, just the tip of the glass sticking out. Tom let out a roar of laughter.

‘Well, that’s one trick ye’ve learnt today anyway!’ he declared. ‘At least, it was well protected.’

Sure enough, it was still intact as I gingerly retrieved it from where it had fallen. Thankfully, Finbar hadn’t noticed my blunder as by now he was busily milking out the udder.

‘Have you ever milked a cow, Gillian?’ he called out from underneath.

Feeling a bit foolish, I had to admit that I hadn’t.

‘Well, isn’t now the very time to learn? Sure, maybe Tom could give you a demonstration while I go to the car for some antibiotics.’

Tom proceeded to explain, with surprising patience, how to close off the top of the teat between the thumb and first finger while squeezing the lower part with the remaining fingers. Although my first few attempts were awkward and clumsy, by the time Finbar returned, I was happily spraying away, delighted to have mastered this new skill so swiftly.

‘Go aisy on her there, or there’ll be none left for the calf,’ teased Tom.

‘Well, have you come to a diagnosis yet there, Doctor?’ Finbar inquired of me, winking at the stockman as he did so. Observing my blank face, he continued: ‘Try milking the other teat.’

I grasped it in my hand and noticed that it seemed a lot warmer than the first one. I attempted to follow the same procedure only to find that, try as I might, I couldn’t get any milk out. After a few attempts, a clot burst out followed by some foul-smelling watery fluid. I jumped back as the cow kicked indignantly.

‘Well, there you are now,’ Tom announced triumphantly, ‘your first diagnosis of mastitis!’ I was glad that he had clarified the matter for me!

The next case, Tom informed me, was a heifer who had held her cleanings. I nodded sagely at this piece of information, although I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

As the skittish young beast ran up to us, I saw a long trail of what looked like half her intestine hanging out behind her. I was astonished that Finbar didn’t appear to be overly concerned by what surely must be a hopeless case. He pulled on a large plastic glove and then another and having lubricated his gloved arm, inserted it into the heifer’s rear end. I watched in disbelief as he gently manipulated the putrefied mass and slowly, it stretched to the ground before dropping altogether from the cow. The smell was overpowering and I had to move away and take a few deep breaths before I could be sure I wouldn’t start to retch.

‘Not a job for a Friday night,’ said Finbar cheerfully.

‘It’s a common enough condition in cattle,’ he continued as he drew off the long gloves and dipped his arms in a bucket of water to which he had added a generous splash of disinfectant. ‘If the afterbirth, or the “cleanings” as it’s known, takes too long to pass out, then the cow becomes sick as the toxins build up in her. They usually do well enough, though, after the cleanings are removed and the uterus is flushed out.’

* * *

By now, I was feeling thoroughly versed in the art of cattle practice, but our next call was to a stableyard, to vet a horse. As though anticipating my ignorance, Finbar explained how he would carry out the detailed examination of the horse, which a client of his was thinking of buying.

‘Unfortunately, she’s buying it from another client of the practice, so, if the horse fails that’s two less I’ll have on the books,’ he added, but not looking too worried about the prospect.

The horse in question was a magnificent-looking chestnut gelding. The buyer, Linda, stood by, waiting anxiously for the verdict.

‘There’d have to be lot wrong with that lad to justify failing him,’ said Finbar, quietly admiring him.

With my limited experience of horses, I was a bit concerned when Finbar asked me to take the gelding out of his stable, but, like a true gentleman, the horse lowered his head for me to clip on a lead rope, having first given me a good quizzical sniff.

I watched in silent fascination as, having checked the eyes and chest, Finbar concentrated on examining each leg in turn, spending what seemed like an age poking and prodding at all the bumps and lumps that made up what I supposed was a normal limb.

After examining each leg, he would hold it up off the ground, fully flexed, for a couple of minutes and then ask me to trot the horse to the top of the yard and back again, to see if he was still sound. Even with my non-existent knowledge, I couldn’t fail to notice the free-flowing movement of the animal as he trotted off each time.

Henry, as the horse was known, was then turned and backed and circled in what seemed like an endless series of tests that he obviously passed with flying colours.

‘Now, just to lunge him,’ said Finbar to Linda, and I was thankful when she took him from me and clipped on the long lunge-line. My only previous attempt at lunging a horse had ended up with me tied up in knots before the horse even broke into a trot.

Henry started off friskily enough, happily cantering around in large circles. Soon, however, he started to get bored with the game and frequently slowed down until Linda flicked a long whip at him.

‘You go in and chase him on,’ said Finbar to me. ‘Keep him going.’

Off I went, enthusiastically running after the horse, waving my arms to keep him going; happy to be doing something useful. He perked up a bit and cantered on with a renewed burst of enthusiasm – but only for a few seconds. Soon I had to chase him again. I found that by standing in the one spot, I could whoosh him on as he came around each time, which was enough to keep him going until the next lap – but soon he got wise to that too and lapsed into a walk halfway around the circle. There was nothing for it but to follow after him, although he kept getting ahead of me and almost appeared to be enjoying what must have looked like a game of tag. Each time I fell behind, he slowed down again until I caught up with him and then he cantered on.

‘Just a few more laps!’ Finbar called out encouragingly. ‘I need to hear his wind when he’s going at a steady canter.’

Round and round I ran after him, as my breathing became deeper and my stomach began to lurch for the second time that day. Much more quickly than the horse, I began to tire. Soon I was only trotting half-heartedly after him and was relieved to hear Finbar eventually call out to Linda to pull him up.

I sank gratefully against the field gate, trying to catch my breath until I saw that now, Henry was off again, this time in the opposite direction.

‘Just keep him going for a couple of minutes and we’ll be finished.’

After two laps, I couldn’t keep up with him and by the third it looked as though Henry was chasing me. When I could feel him snorting over my left shoulder, I gave up.

While Finbar carried on with the examination, I sank to the ground, frantically trying to catch my breath and wondering how I was meant to hear the horse’s wind over the sound of my own desperate rasping.

Thankfully, it took a while before Finbar had filled in the certificate and wished Linda luck with her new venture. He chose not to notice as I lay slumped over a round bale of hay, waiting for the agonising pains that wracked my chest to die down.

By the time he was ready to go, I had just about recovered sufficiently to drag myself into the car.

I was relieved when Finbar told me it was time to go back to the house for tea. In the warm kitchen we did justice to the mouth-watering food prepared by Finbar’s wife Andrea, who laughed as she told me that I had done well to survive the first day. Throughout the meal, their four children, ranging in ages from ten to twenty-two, passed in and out, obviously well used to yet another aspiring vet joining them at the table.

I didn’t know then, that this was to be the first of many meals I would share with the family. The experience reinforced my growing conviction that I had finally found my place in life.

The week passed in a flash and all too soon I was back at school, toiling through my third set of mock Leaving Cert exams. I did reasonably well at these, but my mind was still filled with lambing ewes and lame horses. The next time I went back to Finbar’s, it was as a
bona fide
veterinary student, having finally become familiar enough with French grammar, mathematical theories and Shakespearean plays to obtain the required number of points for veterinary medicine.

That summer, I left school behind me forever and immersed myself in real life – scouring calves and itchy dogs. I even calved my first cow! And all before even going to college.

A
fter my third time sitting the Leaving Certificate exams I was finally offered the elusive DN005 – VET MED, and it seemed that heaven had come to earth. That summer was spent in a blur of ecstasy. Nothing could dent my overwhelming enthusiasm, although at times it all seemed too unreal to be true. I took to driving the long way home from routine trips just to pass by a veterinary surgery and peer in the window, or to see a brass plate hanging on the wall.

The university prospectus arrived in due course, filled with terms like ‘clinical anatomy’ and ‘veterinary pathology’, which, although I had little idea what they meant, filled me with unprecedented excitement.

At last, on a frosty October morning, the day dawned for my life as a student of veterinary medicine to begin. I had often passed the college in Ballsbridge on the way into town but had not realised that the entrance on view was not the main one but a side door to a lab which remained permanently locked. Rattling the door and seeing no sign of life, I wondered could I possibly have got the day wrong until two other new students joined me and we fell into conversation.

‘Are you really interested in animals?’ began one.

‘Oh, God no,’ replied the other. ‘I wanted to do medicine but thought for a laugh that I would put down veterinary first. I never thought I’d get the points.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ replied the other. ‘I wanted to do science but I filled in the wrong code in the CAO form.’

I kept my mouth shut, silently stunned by this sacrilege.

By the time we had located the correct entrance and made our way up the stairs to the lecture hall, we were late and the general introduction was in full swing.

Despite this inauspicious start, we all got into the run of things fairly quickly as freshers’ week broke the ice and our lectures got underway. Before we knew it, we were well established in the routine of spending half the week on campus in Belfield doing the basic sciences along with the medical students, and then the second half of the week in the veterinary college in Ballsbridge. Here we became deeply acquainted with the body of a preserved greyhound which would accompany us on our tour of anatomy for the remainder of the year. It surprised us how fond we became of Patch, as we christened him in our first practical. We listened with scarcely disguised admiration to the second years, whose job it was to fill us in on the general run of things, and familiarise us with the necessary requirements for the year ahead.

The twenty-five-week academic year – although it seemed to slow up and almost come to a standstill around exam time – generally flew by in a whirl of academic and social fixtures.

I almost didn’t become a second-year veterinary student because, during the summer of first year, I got married. I had met Donal almost four years previously, all because of Gracie, a pony which his father grazed in a field behind my parents’ house. I had often admired the pretty little Connemara cross and she enjoyed nuzzling through my pocket for the slice of apple that I always brought her. I had met Donal’s father by chance one day while out walking in the fields with my dogs. When he told me that he drove down twice a day to check Gracie, the mare, I offered to do it for him, delighted to get a chance to be involved.

When Gracie foaled the following summer, I met Donal. From then on, we both took a huge interest in Star, the foal, and diligently met up most days to handle him and discuss his progress despite the fact that I was supposedly studying for the Leaving Cert. By the time Star was old enough to begin his training in long reins, we had got into the habit of meeting daily and we used to spend many hours each evening walking the back roads with him. Gradually, we took to going out to buy tack for him and then to the local horse shows under the pretext of checking out the competition.

By then, Star had a little brother, Maxwell, and so our meetings became even more frequent. I don’t think anyone was surprised when we finally started going out without the horses. Around the time Merlin, the third foal, appeared, we decided to get married and give the mare a break.

Back at college, I was advised to change my name to avoid confusion at a later date. I followed directions and duly notified the registrar. However, when second year started, it turned out that the authorities, in their wisdom, had deleted me from the register under my former name of Gillian Kelly but had failed to re-enter me on the register as Gillian Hick. It took a lot of persuasion, and finally a letter from the dean of the veterinary college, to convince the authorities in Belfield that I was indeed a
bona fide
veterinary student.

That year, we left Belfield behind and were established full-time in the veterinary college. The year focused mainly on animal husbandry and especially on the farm end of things. Our weekly visits out to UCD’s research farm at Lyons Estate in Kildare were supposed to introduce us to the management of cattle, sheep and horses and level out the differences between those students reared in a farming background and the impostors like myself – a born and reared Dub. In anatomy, Patch was replaced by a
stunted-looking
Hereford cow and a small chestnut pony.

During this second year, much of the holidays were spent doing what was known as farm experience, where we went out to work on farms to learn the basic concepts of animal management from the skilled stockmen who, in a few short years, would hopefully become our clients.

The other main subject for second year was the combined physiology/biochemistry course which had the highest failure rate for that year. Three-hour written exams were followed by two sets of practicals and then, finally, just to really see if you would crack under the pressure, each student had a twenty-minute oral exam with three of the professors who would decide your fate.

To this day, the way I felt the morning of that exam is always the barometer by which I assess how much pressure I am under. Of the three interviewers, one was a lecturer with whom I got on reasonably well, the second was the head of the department and the third was an external examiner – a departmental head from an English college, brought in to standardise the results.

The biochemistry questions went fine as I managed to conjure up the required metabolic pathways, although I wouldn’t even remember the first step now. Physiology was usually easier, and I thought that I had tackled a question from the extern on respiratory patterns in horses fairly well. I was beginning to feel that I was home and dry when the third examiner took over for his stint.

‘Ah, good afternoon, Ms Hick,’ declared the head as he introduced me to the extern. Although any other student would have been referred to as Miss Whoever, this particular lecturer persisted the whole year in pointedly addressing me as Ms Hick in supposed deference to my new marital status. ‘Well, Ms Hick, I take if that you are familiar with avian anatomy?’

I gulped. Birds had never really featured strongly in my limited knowledge of physiology and apart from the fact that there was something funny about their lungs, they had lots of air in their bones and turkeys had green testicles, I didn’t know much about them. I was fairly sure that not one of these gems of wisdom was what he had in mind.

‘Ms Hick,’ he continued, ‘would you care, perhaps, to enlighten us in relation to the thermodynamic regulation of the feathered species?’

Not particularly, I thought to myself. ‘Eh, well, if they get hot, they … em … pant … or something,’ I began nervously, beginning to feel a bit hot under the collar myself.

‘Brilliant, Ms Hick,’ he declared dryly. ‘And would you care to expand?’

Frantically, I racked my brains trying to dredge up any other piece of information I might have in my scant array of avian knowledge. ‘Well, em, they have this piece of tissue in their throats and if they get too hot they flap it and …’ I paused again, trying to remember why the hell they flapped it.

‘Yes, Ms Hick?’

The silence seemed endless.

I continued haltingly: ‘and … the air passes over the tissue and that cools them down … or something like that …’ I ended lamely, suddenly wondering if I was dreaming the whole thing or if it was really happening.

‘Indeed, Ms Hick, and would you, perhaps, be familiar with the
term
for this mechanism?’

Silence again until inspiration hit me. Out of the depths of my mind came the term ‘gullar flutter’. Yes, that was it, wasn’t it … or was it? Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

‘I presume you don’t have any plans for the summer, Ms Hick?’ This was always his way of letting you know you were going to fail and you would spend the holidays studying for repeats.

This is it, I thought to myself. Last chance. ‘Yes, it’s known as …’ my mind had gone blank. ‘It’s known as …’ I began again, slightly louder this time. Three sets of eyes boring into me: vultures waiting to swoop. ‘It’s known as … gutter fucker!’

It took a few seconds for me to realise why the three suits were suddenly exploding into their handkerchiefs, trying to disguise the great guffaws of laughter that escaped as the tears streamed down their eyes.

That ended the oral but they passed me, probably for the sheer entertainment value I had inadvertently provided in an otherwise tedious day.

The summer of second year, I spent seeing practice with a variety of different vets and felt vaguely disappointed to find that really, although I enjoyed every call, I felt none the wiser in veterinary terms than I had felt in previous years before going to college at all!

Third year started more hopefully, with the introduction of microbiology, which would surely bring us closer to our final goal. By the end of the year, a lever-arch file was stuffed full of typed notes on the identification of the various bacteria, viruses, fungi and on all kinds of other bits of bacteriological knowledge that would hopefully enable us to earn a living in years to come. We first became acquainted with bacterial cultures in glass petri dishes in the labs and then in relation to the diseases they caused; this then led us on to the basic concepts of pathology. Pharmacology was in there too, but although this was supposed to enlighten us in relation to all aspects of the use of medicines and their mechanisms of action, and although we all supposedly passed the exam one way or another, I have a feeling that I wasn’t the only one very busily reading the labels on the bottles when we eventually qualified.

It wasn’t until fourth year, though, that we got into the thick of things clinical and spent the afternoons in the yard and in the consulting rooms. How chuffed we were with ourselves in our pristine overalls and spotless wellies, walking around the stable-yard, looking as though we were doing something important.

In the consulting rooms, we were finally given a case of our own. The unfortunate animal that arrived in for a routine booster vaccination was subjected to six novice vets, each vying with the other to carry out a clinical examination.

We were also allowed into theatre for the first time to watch the final-year students as they did their first neutering surgeries, under the supervision of the infinitely patient surgeons.

To give us a taste of being on call, we were all rostered on to the clinic for a day each term to stay until nine o’clock in the evening or whatever time was necessary for the particular cases in question. As luck would have it, while I was on, we had a spate of major liver surgeries in a litter of pedigree pups with a genetic disorder and so, instead of pottering around drinking cups of coffee and writing up the odd report, we each had to look after a critically ill animal. We were required to observe and note down all the vital signs such as temperature, heart rate, respiratory rate and a host of other parameters, every five minutes. As the junior, I was designated temperature, and dutifully recorded it at the prescribed intervals. In the warm recovery room, the two final-year students and I chatted to pass the time. We took it in turns to walk around the surgery to stretch our legs before returning to our posts. The rooms seemed eerie in the semi-light as the various monitors flickered and beeped, indicating that all was still well with the deeply sedated dog. Every half-hour or so, one of the vets would drop in to check on us.

Nothing much was happening and by half-past nine we were becoming stiff and bored. The conversation lulled as we lapsed into a silence broken only by the rhythmic bips of the monitors.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle erupted. We all jumped out of our semi-slumber, frantically trying to figure out from which machine the noise was coming. Although we had all been thoroughly drilled on the use of the equipment, this particular alarm call was unfamiliar to us. We
double-checked
our parameters. They all remained unchanged but still the sharp whistle continued at regular intervals. Quickly, one of the final years dialled the internal number to the vet’s room. Within seconds, the sound of heavy
footsteps
came from the corridors. In burst the senior surgeon and one of the anaesthetists to see what was going on.

As suddenly as it had begun, the panic was over, broken by the shriek of laughter from the anaesthetist. In a darkened corner of the room was a cage which contained another in-patient in the form of a Macaw parrot, a species famed for its skills of imitation. Although up to now, he had remained so silent that we had all but forgotten his presence, as the night was becoming dull, he had obviously decided to add in his own version of a monitor with a convincingly high-pitched whistle. As soon as he realised he had been sussed, he coyly hopped on one leg and hid his head under his wing.

Half an hour later, when the excitement had died down, he tried it again and was promptly removed. We laughed as his indignant shrieks faded as he was carried off to another, less critical unit.

As the summer of fourth year ended, it was hard to believe that next time around we would be out on our own, and we began final year with a mixture of elation and dread. Twenty-five short weeks to learn all we could know about veterinary medicine before being let loose on the general public, not to mention the unwitting animal population. As the weeks rushed by, a sense of desperation began to descend upon us and, before we knew it, we were heading into our final exams, still wondering when the moment of true enlightenment would dawn. A few weeks later, incredibly, the results table confirmed that we had passed. Now all that lay ahead was graduation day before we would be fully-fledged veterinary surgeons. By then it was beginning to dawn on us that, far from being over, our days of learning were only just beginning.