Vet on the Loose (15 page)

The three men were huddled by the battered old Fiat which represented their only contact with the outside world. They barely raised their eyes as I cheerfully informed them that I would see them again in three days’ time. My feeling of relief gradually gave way to growing embarrassment as their stony stares seemed to bore into me. Thankfully, I threw my gear into the back of the boot and without even stopping to pull off my overalls, I jumped into the car and slammed the door. As I turned the key, I slammed my foot down on the accelerator, such was my haste to get away as quickly as possible. Before I
realised
what had happened, the jeep came to a sudden halt and the silence was filled with the raw sound of crunching metal and shattered glass. In horror, I looked down at the gear-stick to see it firmly placed in reverse.

Stepping out of the car apprehensively, I made my way to the rear. My tow-bar lay wedged deep into the middle of the Fiat’s ancient bumper. The ground was strewn with the debris of the only remaining light unit on the car. The only perceptible change in the faces of the men was a slight paling of the weathered skin, subtly visible beneath their unkempt beards. I braced myself for the volley of abuse which, under any normal circumstances, would have
followed
, but instead was greeted with deathly silence as the three huddled wordlessly over the vehicle, examining the dent in the crumpled metal.

I’d had enough for one day. Proffering a muttered
apology
, to which there was no reply, I assured the trio that I would fix up with them on my return visit in three days’ time. I then got back into the jeep and, forcing the
gear-stick
into first gear, slowly pulled off, wincing slightly at the screech as the tow-bar became disengaged from the rusted metal.

My last view of my clients was in the rear view mirror. The three sets of eyes followed my hasty retreat with haunted expressions, while their dog pursued my car as though baying for my blood.

M
y patient was an elderly Labrador, a quiet,
dignified
type, despite the bandy hind legs and the emaciated frame. Meg had become an old favourite of mine as I had treated her over the past few months for her numerous geriatric ailments. Her arthritic left hip, her failing heart and worn-out kidneys, meant that I had come to be well acquainted with not only Meg, but also the elderly couple who owned her. No matter what I did, Meg responded only with a sheepish look and a
wagging
tail. It was clear that both she and her owners had absolute faith in me – little aid with which to fight the
ravages
of old age.

I tried not to think of my own Judy, whose temperament and geriatric ailments seemed to mirror exactly those of the dog now being gently hoisted on to the consulting table.

‘Well,’ said Mr Doyle, ‘what do you think of our lassie this time?’

I could sense the pain behind the forced gaiety in his voice. Mrs Doyle was unusually silent, fiddling nervously with the strap of her bag. I ran my hands gently over the aged body and I was aware of trusting brown eyes gazing expectantly at me.

Meg knew.

As I listened intently to the muffled heartbeat, silent memories came unbidden to my mind: a vigorous,
glossy-coated
animal, galloping freely across the far hill, absorbed in the excitement of a rough-and-tumble game of tag. An otter-like head breaking the water, effortlessly propelled by invisible legs. A frenzied roll in the long grass, head ecstatically thrashing from side to side. I forced myself to put the memories from my mind.

Carefully, I manipulated Meg’s left hip, cringing at the rough grating of bone on bone. She grinned apologetically but I couldn’t help noticing how her body seemed to sag with the weight of the chronic pain that she was now experiencing, despite the best available therapy.

Mrs Doyle’s hand seemed frail as she gently stroked the silken ears. Placing the stethoscope over the dog’s bony chest, I listened to the all too familiar swooshing of her leaky valves and the congested chest that even the best medication had failed to alleviate. As though to confirm my findings, she coughed deeply and the scent of failing kidneys was heavy on her breath.

I tried to expel the images of a black and yellow ball, lying snugly in a deep bed of sweet-smelling straw, as my Judy lay, exhausted after the day’s exertions, her golden coat in stark contrast to that of Spook’s glossy black.

With a discreet nod, I signalled to Niamh to leave. Barely trusting myself to speak, I took my client’s hand and for the first time, raised my eyes to hers.

‘Mrs Doyle, I think the time has come.’

There was no need for lengthy explanations. We all knew that we were just putting off the inevitable day with the battery of medications that had become a part of the daily routine. We had discussed on many occasions how when the time would come, Meg would be spared the indignity of a slow and painful death. The Doyles knew in their hearts that their beloved dog’s race was run. All they needed was my confirmation.

Not wanting to prolong the heartbreak, I briskly filled the syringe, blinking the tears out of my eyes. My hand shook slightly as I inserted the needle into the fragile vein. Meg’s tail thumped out a soft rhythm on the steel table. It echoed a rhythm in my mind. As I depressed the plunger, the tail gradually slowed and the rhythm faded as her frail body slumped in Mrs Doyle’s arms.

At peace.

I gulped deeply, trying to dispel the haunting images of a cold body, set in the rigid pose of death. But I could not hold back the tears as I shook the trembling hands of Mr and Mrs Doyle in turn and whispered an inadequate ‘I’m sorry.’ I admired the strength of the elderly man and woman as they thanked me in faltering voices for my care. Mrs Doyle took one look back and, placing her hand in mine, whispered in my ear, ‘Thank you for sharing our tears.’

When the door had shut, I could no longer control the flood. A torrent of tears streamed down my face as I looked down at the lifeless form on the table. I felt slightly guilty that, although I shared the pain of the old couple for the loss of their dog, my tears were being shed for my own beloved Judy, who had undergone a similar fate only two days previously.

Judy had come to me some years earlier. I had travelled to Kildare to buy a Labrador pup advertised in the local papers but, when I got there, ended up feeling sorry for the bitch instead, due to the cramped conditions in which she was kept. The owner seemed slightly surprised, but was happy to part with her for cash. The day I bought her, I took her up to the fields behind where we lived and despite her long confinement in a small dog enclosure, she had run and run and run, in ever widening circles around me, as though her life depended on it. When the last of her energy was spent, she came back to my heel and never took her eyes off me as we walked slowly home.

Spook had arrived a few months later and, from the day I drove home with the two of them together in the back of an ancient Renault 4, they became best buddies. If you saw one, the other was never far behind. Judy was the sensible one while Spook, at only six months of age, was always getting into scrapes. Before Spook’s arrival, Judy had always accompanied me in the car, but now having two large Labradors in the tiny vehicle was a bit of a tight squeeze. One day, I left them parked outside a local shop to run in for a pint of milk. While Judy snuggled peacefully on the passenger seat, Spook somehow managed, in her exuberance, to knock off the hand-brake. I came out to find my little blue Renault a good six feet from where I had left it and with a nice big dent in the bumper. Thankfully, it had run into a lamp-post and not another car.

But once they were together, Spook and Judy didn’t care what they did. Left at home, they would happily potter around the garden or snooze in front of the fire until I returned. They often accompanied Donal and myself on our walks in the early days, and so they settled in quickly to their new home when we got married. So good-natured were they that they didn’t seem to mind the addition of Slug in the least and weren’t at all put out when she usurped them as the car dog. When out on walks the three would play together happily enough, but back home Slug became aloof and so the two Labs became even more of a twosome.

As time went by, Judy, worn down by years of breeding, and with naturally bad hips, slowed down a lot and Spook, with growing maturity, seemed to slow with her – at least most of the time. I became accustomed to the
continuous
clicking of Judy’s left hip as she bunny-hopped alongside us.

But things can’t stay the same forever and the day I had to carry Judy from where she had collapsed on the front step, with Spook sitting loyally beside her, my mind was made up.

As I looked for the last time into those ever-trusting brown eyes, Spook sat motionless for the first time in her life, as though sensing the gravity of the moment.

When all was done, Donal and I took Spook up to the forest where the three of us walked for hours, retracing the many, many steps that we had taken as a foursome over the previous years. And when we returned, even Slug seemed strangely subdued.

The next day, I left Slug at home with Spook for
company
but returned to find Spook lying cold and miserable with an old teddy bear that had belonged Judy.

On the Monday, I took the two to work with me but Spook lay on the passenger floor and even when we got to a friendly farm where I knew she would be welcome, I had to pull her out by the collar.

That night, I woke for a glass of water, and went
downstairs
to find Spook lying on the floor and Slug beside her, methodically licking the silken coat – a gesture which I had never seen before.

Up to now, Spook had always had a typical Labrador appetite but now she barely picked at the piece of freshly roasted chicken I gave her.

I had often offered advice to clients in relation to a
grieving
pet and now I frantically tried to recall my words of wisdom. Lots of exercise, distraction, TLC – Spook just wasn’t interested. I was off duty the following Sunday, so we packed the boot and loaded Slug and the downcast Spook into the back seat and headed for Greystones beach – always a favourite for Spook, who was a strong swimmer.

The fresh sea air and the brightness of the day should have cheered us all up but it just reminded me of the last time we had been there only a few short weeks before. Slug had stayed at home, being contemptuous of water. Judy loved the freedom of swimming, while Spook, as usual, swam straight out to sea, as though heading for Wales. We occupied ourselves throwing stones for Judy and laughed as she duck-dived into the shallow surf in a most undoglike fashion. After a few throws, I looked back for Spook, only to realise with alarm that she was by now some distance out.

‘Spook!’ I yelled, making Judy jump. The little head bobbed happily on the waves, totally ignoring me.

‘Come in, Spook!’ I gestured, my right hand high in the air. It was most unlike her to ignore me and I began to panic. I ran alongside the shore until I was almost level with her. She was swimming at an angle, gradually getting closer, but still she ignored me.

‘Spook,’ I roared, and as I did so, I noticed not one, but two dogs close on my heels – there were Judy and Spook, frisking along behind me. I looked again in astonishment at the dog in the water, only to realise that the little black head in the water was not a dog at all but a seal!

‘Some vet you are!’ laughed Donal.

As the seal came closer, the dogs noticed him too and Judy set up a frantic barking which the seal utterly ignored.

A few times Spook made to swim out to him but each time, she lost her nerve. She’d get about halfway out, and then think better of it and surf the waves back to me with powerful strokes as though afraid of being chased.

But today, she wouldn’t even go into the water, trailing miserably along behind me. And by the following week, I was getting really worried as she was now losing weight despite my best efforts at hand-feeding her.

Seamus laughed initially when I asked him to have a look at her for me, but then quickly agreed when he saw I was serious.

‘You know yourself there’s nothing physically wrong with her,’ he said as he finished the most detailed clinical examination I had yet seen him carry out on any animal.

Between us, we decided to start her on some
anti-anxiety
medication; but, if anything, it made her mope even more. By now, I was bringing her everywhere with me, and Slug loyally sat on the back seat beside her,
abandoning
her usual front-seat perch.

On the following Friday, I had to carry Spook in the
surgery
door to the evening clinic, Slug following behind.

‘Ah, the poor dog,’ commented a well-meaning client as she held the door open for me. ‘Is she very old?’

Spook was only six.

I muttered a reply and brought Spook out the back. The once glossy coat was now dull and listless. With a shock, I noticed the greying muzzle as though seeing it for the first time. Her eyes, once bright and vibrant, lay sunken in her head and I noticed a slight yellowish hue to her
membranes
. As I stroked the familiar body, I was appalled at the ribs that not long ago had been well-padded. I pulled the silken ears through my fingers and she didn’t even lift her head in response.

The door opened and Seamus walked in. ‘There’s two or three out there waiting …’ he began, then cut off when he saw my face. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after them,’ he said, and closed the door behind him.

Only three short weeks after Judy had been put to sleep, Spook followed her. As always in life, where one went the other was never far behind.

A
nother two miles and I would be home. I was on call for the night but as we were into summer, the quiet time of year, I wasn’t expecting much trouble. In my mind I had already reached my destination and was sharing a bottle of wine with Donal in front of the fire when the shrill ringing of the phone shattered my illusion.

‘Hello there. Gerry O’Donnell speaking. I don’t think we’ve met before.’

He sounded like an affable enough sort of person – definitely not like the usual late-night troublemaker that decides at ten o’clock at night that the sick calf (the one which they didn’t think justified a call-out for the last three days) suddenly does – urgently.

‘What can I do for you?’ I inquired politely.

‘Well, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour and it’s probably nothing, but I don’t want to leave it go and then have to get you out of bed later. I’ve a Limousin cow here that’s due to calve and she’s been off on her own for the best part of the day but nothing much is happening. She’s not forcing or showing any signs of getting on with the job. I wonder would it would be safe enough to leave her?’

‘Well, it’s hard to say without examining her. Has she put out a water bag at all?’

‘She did around lunchtime. That’s why I was expecting a bit of progress by now.’

I got a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach. I tend to have an over-vivid imagination, especially late at night, but this cow sounded like she could possibly have a twisted uterus and I’d never dealt with one on my own before. Even at the best of times, I knew it wasn’t an easy job.

‘Sure, she’ll probably come to no harm before morning, will she?’ Gerry interrupted. ‘I don’t like dragging you all the way out at this hour.’

It was so tempting to agree with him and forget about the cow for the night, but my imagination had gone into overdrive and I was already visualising the twisted uterus filling up with fluid, making a bad situation worse.

‘No, I think you’re right to be worried. If you could get her into the shed, please, I’ll be down to you in about half an hour.’

‘Well, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble. She’s a good pedigree cow, right enough.’

His words didn’t exactly console me but the sooner I got there, the sooner I would know.

Reluctantly, I turned the jeep around and continued back down the road I had just driven up. Before I knew it I had reached the yard, following Gerry’s clear instructions – another first for a Wicklow farmer.

‘You made it in right good time,’ said Gerry warmly. ‘I hope I haven’t put you to a wasted journey.’

The Limousin cow eyed me suspiciously as she stood in her stall, carelessly pulling at the odd wisp of hay. Certainly she didn’t appear to be in any distress. Looking at her, I cursed my overactive imagination, thinking I could have been sitting in front of the fire by now if only I had left well enough alone. Hopefully, it would be only a matter of a quick pull and I’d be on my way again. I felt happier as I placed my gloved hand into the swollen vagina.

In a job as unpredictable as large-animal veterinary, it’s normally a lovely feeling when your gut instincts prove to be right, but this time, I would have been delighted to be wrong. With a sense of dread, I felt the tense bands of tissue sweeping off in a tight circle. I could just fit my fingers in through the narrow opening, to feel two enormous cloven hooves. As I prodded at the sensitive tissue between the feet, I felt the indignant twitch of the calf who was probably wondering what was going on.

‘Well, you were right to be worried, Gerry. I’m afraid she has a twisted uterus.’

‘What the hell is that?’ he enquired, looking puzzled. ‘I’ve come across a few things in my time but I’ve never come across one of those!’

‘Well, count yourself lucky. It normally happens with a big calf like this one and, for whatever reason, the whole womb twists over on itself, leaving only a very narrow opening, so the calf can’t get out.’

‘Sounds like a hopeless case then. Is she a lost cause?’

‘Hopefully not. But there’s no denying it’s a messy job. What we’ll have to try and do is get her down on the ground and roll her over – hopefully then the uterus will twist back into place. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll have to do a caesarean. But that’s not an easy job either with a cow like this. Either way we’re going to need a bit of muscle power, though. Any neighbours we could root out?’

‘We can do better than that for you. John and Robert, my two sons, are up in the house. I’ll give them a shout.’

I couldn’t dispel the feeling of dread as I made my way back to the jeep to get my sedative and the ropes that I’d need to cast the cow. I had by now learnt the hard way that performing a procedure was never as straightforward as it sounded.

I was somewhat relieved to see Gerry coming back from the house flanked by his two strapping sons. They definitely looked like they might come in handy.

‘What do you want us to do?’ asked Robert, who wouldn’t have looked out of place in the front row of a scrum.

‘If you could just grab hold of her, please, while I give her a sedative shot, that would be great.’

I drew up a small dose, just enough to take the edge off her. She didn’t stand a chance as Robert towered over her, enormous arms encircling her head while he held her by the nose. I quickly tied two ropes around her body, thanking God that I had managed to make it to that practical in college. At least I could start the job looking like I knew what I was doing.

‘This looks a bit like a cowboy and Indian film,’ said John, the younger son, as the cow stood snorting in disgust to find herself unable to move against the ropes. With Robert holding her head and Gerry, John and myself pulling steadily on the rope from behind, the cow slowly sank to the ground with surprisingly little resistance. So far so good.

‘This is where the fun starts!’ I said to the three men, explaining how they would have to roll the cow over from one side to the other as I lay on the ground, with my hand against the uterus inside the cow. If the situation hadn’t been quite so desperate, I would have been amused by my compromising position as I lay, face down in the muddy straw, hanging out of a cow’s rear end with three enormous men cheering me on encouragingly.

As soon as I had myself in position, I called out, ‘Right, now, flip her over!’, wondering how many times I would have to repeat the scenario before admitting defeat and scrubbing up for a caesarean.

With an enormous lurch, I felt the cow heaving over, unable to resist the brute force. I pushed against the dead weight of the uterus and just as the cow flipped over, I felt an unmistakable squelch as the uterus slipped away from my hands and a gush of fluid poured out from the vagina. I took a few deep breaths, allowing the numbness in my arms to recover and then gingerly had a feel.

I couldn’t believe it – everything felt perfect.

The two feet were now in place in the vagina, followed by a large head. Although it was a big calf, the cow was broad and roomy, and I was confident that I would get him out easily enough with a bit of help and patience.

‘What’s the story, will we try again?’ asked John, starting to warm to the job.

‘Oh no, not at all. Everything’s fine now. That did the trick,’ I replied airily, hoping they wouldn’t be able to hear my heart which was still thumping in disbelief.

‘God, that’s great. I thought it would have been a bigger job than that,’ replied Gerry. ‘You must have done a right few of them before.’

‘Well, you know, some of them are easier than others, Gerry,’ I replied non-committally.

Before long, the calf’s forelegs and head were visible and the tiny nose twitched with impatience after his long wait.

‘He’s alive and all!’ shouted Gerry, delighted with the outcome.

Soon the huge bull calf had been delivered and lay shivering at his mother’s nose, none the worse for wear. The cow seemed a little surprised by his arrival and sniffed him warily as though wondering where the little creature had come from. I held my breath and then relaxed as she began to lick him with increasing vigour. As Robert went up to help rub him down, she shook her head angrily at him and I knew that all would be well.

‘You’ll have to come in for a cup of tea after all that,’ said Gerry, clearly delighted with the result.

I happily agreed. By the time I had washed my instruments and peeled off the mucky overalls, a fine spread was laid out on the kitchen table. The successful outcome of such a potentially daunting job was enough to put me in a good mood which was only enhanced as my plate was piled high with an assortment of home-made breads and cheese followed by hot apple tart and freshly whipped cream. It took a few mugs of hot tea to wash it all down. As I sat chatting with the family, I realised this was the part that made it all worthwhile. The hospitality shown to me by many farmers was just second to none. There couldn’t be many professions where such appreciation was shown for a job well done.