The Travelling Vet Read online

  Giraffa camelopardalis: The giraffe

  Distribution: Scattered across Africa, from Chad in the north, South Africa to the south, Niger in the west and Somalia to the east.

  Description: Tallest terrestrial mammal and largest ruminant. One species with nine different sub-species.

  Names: The male is called a ‘bull’, the female a ‘cow’, and their young a ‘calf’. A group of giraffes is called a ‘tower’.

  Life span: About 25 years.

  Habitat: Savannahs and woodland.

  Diet: Giraffes are browsers, eating the leaves, fruits and flowers of woody plants, primarily acacia species, at heights that most other herbivores cannot reach.

  Gestation: 400–460 days.

  Height: 1.7–2 metres at birth, growing up to 5.7 metres as adults.

  Weight: 65 kg at birth, reaching 800–1,200 kg as adults.

  Growth: Mothers raise calves in groups called ‘calving pools’. They are weaned at about 1 year, and reach sexual maturity at 4–5 years old.

  Anatomy: Giraffes have the longest nerve in the world: the left recurrent laryngeal nerve, which innervates the left side of the larynx, is about 2 metres long. To enable them to pump blood up their 2.5-metre-long neck, their heart weighs up to 11 kg, measuring about 60 cm long with a muscle wall 7.5 cm thick. Their network of blood vessels at the base of the skull, the so-called ‘rete mirabile’ system, regulates blood flow to the brain, restricting it when they lower their head, and facilitating it when they raise it. The skin in their lower legs is abnormally thick and tight to prevent blood pooling in the limbs. As ruminants, they must regurgitate their food to aid digestion, which means the oesophageal muscle has to be incredibly strong to allow food to travel 3.5 metres from rumen to mouth. A giraffe’s intestines are more than 70 metres long.

  Body temperature: 38–39 °C.

  Predators: Adults are rarely preyed on because of their size and dangerously powerful kick, but they are still vulnerable to lions, leopards and wild dogs, and to crocodiles when they drink.

  Conservation: Giraffe numbers have dropped by 40 per cent in the last thirty years, with only about 97,500 now left in the wild. For this reason, in 2016 the IUCN categorized giraffes as ‘vulnerable’, and the West African and Rothschild sub-species as ‘endangered’. This has been mainly due to habitat loss or degradation as well as poaching. For more information on how you can help protect this beautiful animal visit www.giraffe-conservation.org.

  3

  SWAN

  ‘His own image: no longer a dark, grey bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan. To be born in a duck’s nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird, if it hatched from a swan’s egg.’

  Hans Christian Andersen

  It was my first weekend on call since qualifying. I had been one of the lucky ones compared with many of my peer group, and I had been well nurtured as a new graduate by my practice. Not wanting to throw me in the deep end until they felt I was ready, I had been kept off the night and weekend on-call rota. Now two months qualified, my time had come.

  ‘Jon, we’re going to put you on call this weekend,’ Martin had said on Wednesday. ‘I’ll back you up so if you have any problems, concerns or queries, call me, but you should be fine.’

  It was reassuring to have a safety net, I’d heard horror stories from some of my friends who had been put on call the very first night of their first job, only to find that, when they needed assistance, their boss had gone out for the evening and switched off their phone. Nevertheless, it was a daunting prospect. The usual filtering out of the more challenging calls that occurred during weekdays would be removed so I could end up with anything, from a horse with severe colic to a cow caesarean. Being pushed beyond my comfort zone was certainly not a new experience for me. It had happened every step of the way through vet school, and now as a new graduate I hoped it would continue through my career, since that is the only true way to learn, grow and improve. However, coping with being on call was the final hurdle in the transition from student to professional, so as Thursday came and went, and then Friday progressed, I felt the nervous anticipation of what was to come in the sixty-two hours between 6.30 p.m. on Friday and 8.30 a.m. on Monday.

  The weekend turned out to be a busy one, kicking off at 7.30 on Friday night. A client had come home to find her horse with a large gaping wound on the inside of his upper right leg after getting caught in a barbed-wire fence. She had managed to bring the horse into his dilapidated stable next to her house, but she was convinced that the wound needed stitching. It certainly did. In fact, I was so daunted by the size of it that I decided I required Martin’s assistance, only to discover, deep in this valley on the edge of Exmoor, that there was no phone reception. There was nothing for it: I would have to stitch it on my own. Three hours later, cold, tired and achy after a protracted period bent over between the horse’s front legs, having painstakingly sewn over a hundred stitches by the light of a very dim torch as a howling gale tore through the gaping holes in the rustic wooden shed, the job was completed. The owner was incredibly patient, kind and grateful, and so, on leaving the farm, I had felt a triumphant sense of satisfaction at having dealt with the situation on my own.

  That feeling was short-lived, however, since, as soon as I found myself back in phone reception, a rush of missed calls and messages pinged up on my phone. Kate, the duty nurse, had been trying to reach me for two hours because she had an emergency calving that was likely to be a caesarean section. Her messages started with repeated requests for me to call her as soon as I received them, progressed to frustrated annoyance and ended with a deep concern that I had been unreachable for so long. With nervous trepidation I at last returned Kate’s call, despairing that I had to go straight on to another appointment when I was so tired, cold and hungry, and dreading the tirade I would get from the farmer, presumably angry at having been kept waiting, or – worse – furious that the calf or cow had died. To my great relief, however, Kate greeted my call with the news that Martin had gone on the visit. She was gratified to discover I was OK and that my visit had been a success, and, sensing my exhaustion, urged me to go home and get some dinner and some sleep while I still had the opportunity. I didn’t need telling twice.

  Fortunately, the rest of the night was quiet, but the long weekend continued at six the following morning. A cow with milk fever, a calf with pneumonia, a horse with a sore eye, a check on the injured horse from the night before, a calving, a cow with mastitis … and so it went on. I always seemed to have at least one call booked ahead of me, and just when I thought I was catching up, Corrina would ring me with a new one. It was relentless, but they were all visits that I felt able to handle and so as I successfully dealt with each one, my confidence grew. By 2 p.m., though, I was flagging, famished from lack of food and weary from the unyielding busyness of the day. Having at last finished my final visit, I warily rang the practice, grateful to hear Heather inform me that there no new calls, and that I finally had the chance to get home and have some lunch.

  Thirty minutes later, the simple pleasure of being able to collapse onto my sofa and tuck into some leftover spaghetti bolognese was such an amplified luxury that when the phone rang ten minutes into the experience I almost cried.

  ‘Jon, I’m afraid I’ve got another call for you …’ It was Corrina. ‘And I’m afraid it’s an unusual one. In fact I’m not really sure it’s our responsibility, but I don’t quite know what else to do. A member of the public has called me several times in the last couple of hours. I’ve encouraged them to contact the RSPCA, but for some reason they aren’t responding. Anyway, I’m sorry to ask, but there is a swan in the fields behind Braunton that seems to be unwell. They aren’t sure if it’s trapped or injured, and no one can get near enough to be able to tell exactly what the problem is because apparently it’s being quite aggressive. So you may not be able to catch it, but maybe you could at least go and have a look at it. Would you mind?’

&
nbsp; It was a splurge of information to receive all at once, so it took me a moment to calm my emotions, regain a sense of professionalism, process what I had just been told and respond.

  ‘OK, I see the predicament, but yeah, of course I can go, I’ll just finish my lunch and then head over there. Do you know where exactly the swan is?’

  ‘I’ve got the contact details of the lady who called me, a Mrs Lovell. She said if you call her, she’ll be able to direct you to the field and you should be able to drive quite near to where the swan is.’

  ‘OK, great,’ I replied as Corrina read off the number.

  ‘Oh, and Jon? Apparently it’s attracted quite a crowd, so good luck.’

  I felt a mixture of intrigue and trepidation. I had never handled a swan before. As a child the fear had been instilled into us of how dangerous they could be – never anger them, never get between them and their cygnets, they can break a man’s arm et cetera. It was obviously one of those common occurrences when a caring member of the public had seen an animal in distress and, wanting to help, but feeling out of her depth, had called the nearest veterinary practice, certain they would know what to do. Indeed we do: a quick call to the RSPCA, RSPB or a local wild-life sanctuary was the usual modus operandi. However, in this case those avenues had proved fruitless. What she didn’t know, though, was that the person responding – i.e. me – would have about as much idea about what to do as any of the onlookers. I desperately hoped I wouldn’t disappoint them. And so, energized by my lunch, my brief respite and the novelty of the call ahead, I called Mrs Lovell to inform her that I was on my way.

  As I drove, I contemplated my tactics. The element of surprise always had the greatest degree of success with animals, but it required a full, 100 per cent commitment. If there was any hesitation, someone would get hurt. That was fine in theory, but it also required overcoming my customary fear, anxiety and self-doubt. Of course, it might well not even be possible to get close enough without endangering myself, in which case another solution would need to be found … I concluded that I had to at least assume I was going to catch the swan. Suddenly a realization struck me: if I caught it, then what? Where would I put the swan? How would I transport it? I made a quick stop at the practice to pick up a small dog crate, some towels and some gauntlets. Maybe I could throw a towel over its head, or the gauntlets would protect my hands from being pecked. I had no idea how vicious their peck was, but equally I didn’t want to find out. Now feeling relatively confident about the task ahead, I began to drive towards Braunton.

  A short, middle-aged lady in wellies, blue jeans and a mac was patiently waiting for me as I came to the end of a long dirt track. I slowed and wound down my passenger window.

  ‘Mrs Lovell? I’m Jon the vet.’

  ‘Yes, thank you so much for coming. The field entrance is just at the end of this track. My husband’s there on the gate, and the swan is in the far corner, beyond where the crowd is. I’ll meet you there.’

  I turned down the bumpy dirt track. Arriving at a gate, a tall gentleman pointed down the hedge line. I followed his gaze expecting to see the swan in the distance, but instead my eyes fell upon a crowd of about twenty spectators, gathered 50 feet into the field. Hearing the sound of a car engine, they all turned in my direction, forming an eager welcoming committee to the climax of their unscripted Saturday afternoon entertainment. Driving through the field and circumventing the awaiting crowd, I was able to get my first sighting of the swan. It was sitting a few metres from the corner of the field, head raised, alert and attentive to its surroundings. I was some distance away from it, so I couldn’t see for sure, but at first glance there didn’t appear to be anything too obviously wrong with it.

  Stepping out of the car I was haled with a barrage of whispered questions, enquiries, praise, thanks and encouragement. It was all a bit intimidating, so I was grateful when Mrs Lovell arrived with her husband in tow and took control of the situation.

  ‘I think we should stand back and allow the vet an opportunity to assess the swan,’ she decisively announced.

  Murmurs of agreement followed, and then someone piped up: ‘Have you warned him how aggressive it is?’

  Prompted by this reminder, Mrs Lovell turned to me, ‘Yes … he does seem somewhat vicious. He doesn’t seem able to walk or fly, so I guess it’s his only way of defending himself, but he certainly warns us off. So no one has dared go near him, but I’m sure you know what you are doing.’ Then addressing the source of the comment, she added, ‘I’m sure the vet knows exactly what to do.’

  If only I did, I thought. I briefly imagined that the next phone call Mrs Lovell made would be a request for an ambulance for the vet who had been savaged by a swan. To my giddy mind, it almost sounded like the basis of a nursery rhyme: ‘There was an old lady that called an ambulance, she called the ambulance to rescue the vet, she called the vet to rescue the swan …’

  ‘Is there anything you need, Jon?’ Mrs Lovell enquired, bringing me back to reality.

  ‘I’ve brought a small dog cage, which I’ll put it in, if I can catch it, so if you could be on standby with that it would be a great help.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said eagerly, pleased to have a role in the adventure. ‘And what do you mean, if you catch him? I have every faith in you, I bet you’ve done this sort of thing hundreds of times!’

  I decided not to respond to her statement. Sensing the anticipation in the crowd, only a successful capture, ideally following a dramatic stand-off, would do – and though they would probably settle for me sustaining a dinner-party-anecdote-worthy injury, I felt they were basically willing me to succeed.

  As I neared the swan, it fixated on me and immediately started a tirade of aggressive hissing in an attempt to intimidate the perceived threat I presented. It worked. I stopped at an exaggerated distance from my patient, nervous that he might suddenly lunge at me, before turning to the expectant crowd and squeezing out a smile to suggest that everything was going to plan.

  I considered my tools. If I threw a towel over the swan’s head, it could give me a brief window in which to pounce, but then again, if I missed, I would probably just prime it even more for my additional offensive manoeuvre. Trying on the gauntlets, I found they actually inhibited my sense of touch, which seemed important in not inadvertently crushing the bird, and more so than any need to protect my hands. So that meant it was just me versus the swan, and I suddenly felt very exposed. In order to successfully restrain the bird, I would need one hand on the top of its neck, and the other wrapped around its body, holding it close to my chest to secure the wings. If I could manage that, then ideally I would grab the swan’s feet as well with the hand that was wrapped around the body. What felt most natural was to hold the neck with my left hand and the body with my right, which fortunately corresponded with the way the bird was positioned. This was all good theory, but as I stood there eyeballing the swan, I had no idea how much resistance it would put up or whether I would be able to restrain it. There could be all number of possible outcomes, most of which, as I saw it, would leave me with some sort of injury.

  I inched closer to the bird, as slowly, steadily and subtly as I could, gradually getting within pouncing distance, but my movements didn’t go unnoticed and were met by an increased fervour of hissing. Nevertheless I prepared my assault, rehearsing the plan over and over in my mind to reassure and convince myself of its efficacy, gradually positioning my hands and my body. I could feel twenty pairs of eyes glaring into the back of my head. I took a deep breath … and sprang at the swan.

  My sudden change of speed afforded me a momentary upper hand, and years of rugby had given me a muscle memory of the tackle, which now came to my aid. And so seconds later, as much to my surprise as the swan’s, I found myself in secure possession of it, and although it tried to put up a fight, it was actually too weak to really present me with a problem. I clambered to my feet, in a very ungainly fashion for fear of releasing my hold, and wandered over to where Mrs Lovell
was standing with the cage.

  Murmurs of awe and wonderment broke out among the crowd, with an undercurrent of quiet disappointment that the stand-off had been so short-lived. However, with the bird secured in the cage a ripple of applause broke out in my honour, before the crowd started dispersing, the spectacle now over. Mr Lovell retrieved my towels and gauntlets as I loaded the cage onto my passenger seat, and a few spectators wandered over to enquire what imminent fate the swan could expect. I told them I’d be taking it back to the practice for a medical assessment and hospitalization, until either it was well enough to be released or we could otherwise send it on to a wildlife sanctuary for rehabilitation, which is in fact what happened. Content with this answer, they encouraged me on my way for the plan to be implemented without delay.

  I climbed into my car to a barrage of hissing from the passenger seat, reminding me, in case I had forgotten, of my unusual passenger, whose cage I now surreptitously covered with a towel to shut him up. Then amid waves of polite farewell, I set off, at once relieved and relaxed with how the visit had turned out.

  Driving back to the practice, I reflected that my first weekend on call had been something of a baptism of fire. Then, looking at the clock on the dashboard, I realized I was only halfway through it.

  Swans: fast facts

  Cygnus olor: The mute swan

  Distribution: Native to most of Europe and Asia. Introduced to North America, Australasia and Southern Africa.

  Description: One of the heaviest flying birds in the world. The mute swan is the largest of the six swan species.

  Names: The male is called a ‘cob’, the female a ‘pen’, and their young a ‘cygnet’. A group of swans is called a ‘bevy’.

  Life span: About 15 years in the wild.

  Habitat: Temperate areas, shallow lakes and slow-flowing rivers. (Incidentally, a lake is distinguished from a pond by a swan’s ability to take off and land on it.)