Morbid advertising

Most folk have a plain mug at work, or maybe a pretty patterned 99p Tesco mug, or a present from their kids that says No.1 Dad or something. 

Vets? We have adverts for pet crematoriums, or drugs for treating diarrhoea. Lucky we're not squeamish! 

Puja

     Breakfast time down on the ghat, we performed the sacred rituals of the puja ceremony. A few people were performing their own morning rites, alone or in small clusters on the marble steps surrounding the holy lake. Some were washing clothes, others having a dip themselves. We walked slowly and found a quiet spot on our own. I found it moving being part of the ebb and flow of Indian life, chanting cross-legged and barefoot with my Brahmin friend. We offered up gifts in memory of departed family and friends, praying for their souls in the bright early morning light and sending paper boats out onto the lake. I choked up at one point and had to croak my way through the next prayer, pleased to offer my rice to the water and see it devoured by the catfish sucking at the surface. Ceremony finished, red dot and grain of rice stuck on my forehead, coloured string tied around my wrist, we retreated up the steps and sat in the sun. 

     You, he said. You carry a shadow. Sometime in the past, you were like fire, always fire. Now like water, but sometimes fire still. But I see shadow, is always with you.  Is in your eyes. Find peace, my friend. It is passed.

Timeless

   I picked up my old Volkswagon saloon on the Wednesday night, and drove back down South, down the motorway to Carlisle and across the country following the Tyne, the route of the old marches of Elizabethan times when the border had to be defended from reivers. It was a bitter night, and as I passed Haltwhistle it started snowing. When I got home I went through the usual routine – call to say I’m home safe, make a cup of tea and a fuss of the cat, then up to bed. 

   I awoke early with a bright light pressing into the room, squeezing past the curtains. Looking out of the window I could see that we’d had a substantial dump of snow overnight, the ground was perfectly white and smooth all over the village. Snow clung to the branches of the trees and the tops of fences, a sparkling beautiful sight. I got myself together hastily and headed out for work. 

   It took me five tries to get up the hill and out of the lane. The first time I made it, ready to pull out, but a car coming the other way made me retreat. After that the car didn’t want to climb the slight rise up out on to the road, and instead would slither around looking for some purchase on the now compacted snow. Eventually I took a good run at it and succeeded in scrambling over the top of the street and out on to the main road.

   I arrived at work surprisingly punctually, having allowed extra time to dig myself out, however all of my operations for the day had cancelled. Nobody could reach us. The only thing on the diary now was my evening appointments and they were already getting rapidly dropped. 

   “You got any work to do?” Bill asked hopefully. Days like this are always good for catching up on paperwork. Unfortunately I’d had an efficiency drive/crisis of conscience a week before and caught up on my reports, histories and mail in my own time during lunchtimes and after hours.

“Well you might as well go home then, just stay on call – any farm calls I’ll have to take the pick up and you’ll be on surgery. By the way, is it your birthday?” 

   I went home, but couldn’t relax. I was anxious, knowing that if we got any more snow I could be stuck immobile until the pick up came to drag me out. I got my boots on and starting to shovel the street clear, at least I’d only have to contend with any new snowfall. As evening fell I moved the car again, up to the main road where I was sure I’d be able to get out.

   The next morning I was called out early to a dog with chronic diarrhoea in need of some medication. They were able to meet me at the surgery so I packed the snow shovel into the boot of the car on top of my drugs cabinet and set off. The building was freezing cold and I was glad this was a quick visit. As I tried to put my equipment back into the car, I found that the boot lock had frozen. I skooshed some de-icer into the slit, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried harder and suddenly it gave way, the key spinning uselessly in the lock. The only way into the boot now was by crawling through the hole when you fold down the back seat! I was getting pretty fed up, and went home for some hot tea in front of the coal fire. 

   At 3 o’clock the phone rang. It was a familiar number, one of the local horse dealers who was a friend. 

“Cathy’s Horsus got a ridge” he said. 

“Sorry?"

“A ridge! Doon is belly! He’s na pissin!”

“I’d better take a look. How’s the road, will I get down the hill okay? 

“Wey aye, man! Gerron with it!”

   I was sure I could get down to the allotments behind the terrace of houses by the river where this wee horse lived, but I wasn’t so sure I could get back out again. Nevertheless, duty called, so I was off. I slid all the way down the hill at 10mph, touching neither accelerator nor brake, and arrived safely by the red brick houses. I wasn’t quite sure what I was coming to see, so I just grabbed my basic toolbox and stumbled into the knee-deep snow of the allotments.

“HELLO? CATHY? JOHNNIE?"

“Ower here, pet”

   They were in a knocktogether shelter of corrugated iron, a 7ft cube with a stable door at one corner, bedded with damp sawdust. Johnnie had been called upon to help out, Harry the pony belonged to a very nice local lady, the wife of the dentist, and Johnnie the traveler was chief advisor to this village in all things horse. He was a good solid guy, if a bit rogueish. I sometimes slipped him rehydration tablets for calves when he expected a bad hangover was imminent. They were both in the tiny shelter with a very sad looking little pony. He did indeed have a ridge running along his abdomen, an excess of fluid building up. His back feet were placed apart, he shifted from side to side and was straining and grunting. He needed to pee, but couldn’t let go. He was also so uncomfortable he was dancing about, and wouldn’t let me examine him properly. His heart was racing, a sign of pain in horses, and he was starting to sweat. Sedation was the next step. I drew up what I thought would be the right dose for his size, a combination of sedative, pain relief and muscle relaxant, slipped it into his vein and watched him start to settle. 

   “Right, I’m going to need to try to pass a catheter. But I don’t have a horse catheter, so we will have to improvise, okay? He needs relief or his bladder could burst, or his kidneys suffer irreparable damage. That jab should help drop his willy and allow him to pee easier”

   I trotted off back to the car to collect some gear. I had forgotten about the boot breaking, and swore under my breath as I climbed into the back seat and reached through into the boot space, grappling for the equipment I though I might need. It was dusk, pretty dark already and to make things even better, it had started to snow again. I was getting cold, and needed to keep moving.

   As I jogged back across the uneven ground of the allotment I saw a warm glow coming from the stable. My shout stirred a cheery yell back – he’s dropped it! The drugs had worked, Harry’s considerable manhood was now hanging loosely between his legs. I got my makeshift urinary catheters out and went in to the horse box. Johnnie had found his paraffin lamp and was lighting the stable with it. The smell it gave off was lovely and homely, like remembering something which you had never known. I got down on one damp knee, got hold of his penis with my left hand and started to pass the urinary catheter with the right. Something was dripping on me. 

“Is it raining in here?”

“Naw hinny – it’s the sweat affa him”

The poor pony was running with sweat, it was dripping off his long shaggy hair and falling on my arms as I guddled around under his belly. I got the whole length of tube to pass, but nothing came out. I flushed it with saline solution but the only thing that ran out was what I put in. It wasn’t reaching the blockage; I had to come up with a new plan. I took out my pocket knife and cut a length of drip line – I only had the coiled ones that I use for dogs so they can move around the kennel and not pull their IV line out. I straightened it as much as I could, lubricated it and slowly, gently corkscrewed it up through his urethra. I got it in as far as I could, but still no joy. I was going to have to rectal him, and see if I could fix this from the other end. 

   I sighed, took a deep breath and started to strip. It was -5C, dark and snowing. I took off my jacket and handed it to Cathy, then my hat and jumper which I threw into the corner of the box, followed by my shirt. I was standing in my vest, ready for action with a shoulder length glove on. I stopped and grinned for a moment, this truly was the stuff of the James Herriot books I had read so avidly as a youngster – stripping in the snow to rectal a sick horse, lit by a paraffin lamp held by a gypsy.

   The cunning plan was to apply some gentle pressure to his bladder whilst he was catheterized to try and force the issue a little. So up past my elbow in horse I gently drew his bladder back toward the pelvis and gave it a little squeeze. Johnnie put his hand under the pipeline to feel for any drips, but we weren’t getting anywhere. After a couple of goes I decided we’d all had enough. I called my boss. 

“Bill, I’m down at the yards, this horse can’t pee. I’ve passed the longest catheter we have, but it didn’t work, I gave him ACP, I’ve put pressure on the bladder, I’ve done everything I can think of but I’m not further forward. I think I’ll have to refer him to the local equine specialist unless you have a plan?”

“Nae point sending him there, wor Alex is covering for them this weekend wi my pickup – they don’t have owt you don’t, and you’ve done everything already. Just have to try again in the morning. Nowt for it”

   I would have to give him an anti-inflammatory and come back later. This did not please me at all, I was really concerned about him and wanted him seen by a more experienced vet with better kit, but there wasn’t one – I was it. I pulled on my shirt, drew up a hefty dose of the drug and gave it to him IV, then started to get my stuff together. I grabbed the jumper, now covered in sawdust and pulled it over my head. The hurricane lamp was burning low and guttering on the last few drips of paraffin.

“Cathy, can I get my coat please?” 

She made one of those little “Oh dear” sounds as she picked it up from the stable door. It had been lovingly placed on top of the door out of harms way and off the wet floor, but by accident the wrong way up, so the snow had fallen inside the fleece lining of my jacket. With the temperature still dropping outside I didn’t really have a choice, I needed the extra layer. I shook it out, and with a grimace I put on my snow lined coat, shuddering.

   I was just putting the last of my equipment in my toolbox outside when a cry came out from the box. I jumped over to the door with the head torch and was delighted to see a stream of hot urine spouting forth. Henry had let go, and judging by the noises Johnnie was making it was a couple of days worth – strong smelling and thick. There was a chance for this wee guy, and we would all sleep tonight.