Every pet deserves a chance

     “You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, but no-one will help him and his fish will die. Is there anything you could do?” 

     I took a long slow breath. “Okay, I can’t promise anything, it’s really not my area, but I can talk to him. Text me his number and I’ll call in the morning”. I hung up with a feeling of doom. I always worry when personal and work life collide. My soft hearted mate was lobbying on behalf of a friend of his who was a Koi carp enthusiast. He had spent all his spare time and money investing in special ponds and filtration systems to look after a handful of these friendly big fish. Now one of them was sick, and he couldn’t find a vet to treat them. His local vets all gave him the brush off saying they don’t treat fish. The fish vets out on the coast wanted to charge him an arm and a leg to do a full inspection including travel cost, full day consultation fee plus drugs, running to hundreds of pounds. They weren’t able to find that much cash at short notice having maxed out on setting up the facilities. He was getting desperate, and with every set back the infection was gaining ground, untreated for longer. 

     “Hello is that Paul? I’m Ranjit’s friend, Heather the Vet. He says you’ve got a problem you need a hand with? “

     Over the course of the next 10 minutes Paul told me all about his fish, not in abstract terms but as individual characters who had likes and dislikes, different personalities. He was clearly besotted. He had been caring for Koi for 8 years, learning as much as he could and giving them the best life possible. But now his favourite, Big Momma was sick. A minor scrape on her side had become infected and was spreading rapidly, killing off the scales on that side, affecting the muscle and causing pain and suffering. I didn’t want to get involved, but neither did anybody else and I wasn’t going to let this animal suffer just because it was inconvenient. His final sign off clinched the deal:

“She’s my favourite fish and we love her very much. Please help us?”

     In order to legally diagnose, treat and prescribe for Big Momma I had to officially register the fish as being under my care. We started by getting as many details as possible – the basics like name and address, then moving on to fish names, lengths, ages and weights. I needed as much information as possible. Next I wanted to see the lesions on Big Mommas side to assess the damage and also to chart progress. I asked for a set of photographs to be taken. Whilst I waited for Paul to email me with all the information I needed I did a little research about the best treatment for problems like this. I was delighted to discover that the most effective (and crucially, licensed) treatment is a relatively common drug that I had sitting on the shelf. All I had to do was dispense a five day course of antibiotic at 14milligrams per kilo of fish, and supply the equipment to inject the fish once daily.

     My phone pinged; Paul’s email had arrived and I could see the problem myself for the first time. The poor girl had an extensive infection causing necrosis of the skin and loss of scales. The raw flesh underneath was poking out. Based on the measurements I worked out the appropriate dose and ran to the post office – this fish needed the drugs by tomorrow or it might be too late. 

The infection spreading

     Over the following week I checked in regularly to see how Big Momma was getting on, and for days she seemed to stay the same – no spreading infection but not getting better either. And then, suddenly, a shift. The dead scales were still getting pushed out but instead of raw flesh underneath there was healthy granulation tissue. She was fighting back, making a scar.

The infection stopped, dead tissue sloughing and nice white scars forming

     It took two weeks of daily care, cleaning the wound , removing all the dead tissue and giving an injection of antibiotics, but I was delighted to receive an email telling me that Big Momma was back to normal, the scar was healing and she was eating and wanting tickled again. It was an odd one for me, but very rewarding, and for Paul and Big Momma it meant the world. 

A Sticky Situation (photos)

Those who throw sticks for dogs have never had to stitch up the throat of a dog with stick trauma injuries.

Tongue ripped right up to the tonsil. Wound caused by stick

Splinters and blood removed, wound flushed clean

A zillion tiny stitches in a space my fingers struggle to access

Rodeo Adventures

     “Wey hinny, it’s Darren up at Shielings, me Dad’s away on holiday an I’m looking after the beasts an there were this calving and it was reet difficult mind, an I think I might hae brocken it’s leg when it came oot an oh ahm gonna be sick lass, an I’m so sorry but ah dunno what to do. Me Dad’ll be ower upset. What am ah ganna dae? Can you come?”

      I’d visited Bobby’s farm a few times, up at the far North reach of the practice, well off the beaten track. The nearest village had one of those names that you can only pronounce if you’ve lived there all your days. I always timed my visits to coincide with lunchtime, partly due to the distance and timing to get back for afternoon surgery, partly due to Carol’s spectacular lunches. She was a quiet, serious woman in stark contrast to Bobby’s gregarious nature– especially when there were ladies to charm. A visit from us usually involved some pretty heavy banter and leg pulling whilst we got the job done. He liked to tell dirty jokes that would leave me lost for words, and watch my reaction. I never went into the house if Carol wasn’t home. 

     This time, Bobby and Carol were away off to the sunshine, leaving their son to run the place. I didn’t really know him, but the word at the mart was that he was great with machinery, but not much of a stockman. This morning he crossed the yard to meet me, visibly distressed. 

“Ah didn’t mean it an ah don’t know what happened, yon big calf got stuck and I had to jack it oota her. But now it winna stand an ah think it’s leg’s brocken…”

     I got him to lead me to the calf, still damp from birth, held in a pen on the concrete whilst the cow looked on through the gate, waiting in the deep straw. On clinical exam, three legs seemed okay but the front left was definitely out of sorts. The bones of the foot were not sitting in the correct place – the fetlock was dislocated. Darren had turned away and looked like he was about to throw up as I wiggled the hoof. I realised I knew what had happened, and thought I’d better fix the cause before it happened again. There was no point in giving him a hard time, it was an honest mistake made from ignorance rather than malice. 

     A calving jack is a clever little bit of engineering designed to help you manually pull a calf from a cow. It’s a long ribbed metal bar with a bracket at the top at right angles to make a capital letter T, the bracket sitting against the cows rump. Ropes are attached to the feet of the calf, and hooked on to a travelling section which gets cranked up the length of the long rod, easing the calf out a tiny bit at a time, pulling first the right leg then left as you work the jack handle. It wiggles the calf out, and has made calving an awful lot easier. There are a few pitfalls though, one of which is that attaching the ropes below the knuckle of the fetlock means that that the weak joint is put under a lot of strain, and it is relatively easy to pull it apart, dislocating the foot. 

“When you put the ropes on the feet for the jack, it’s a bit more secure and a wee bit safer to make your slip knot above that knuckle joint. You get a better grip and the bones are stronger there” He nodded vigorously.

“Ah’ll nivver dae that again. Will we have to shoot him? He’s a reet grand muckle calf an all. Ah cannut believe it.”

“Well, he’s still pretty fresh and bendy, I’d like to give something a try rather than just give up on him”

     I went to the car and brought out what I needed to make a “stookie” or plastercast. My plan was to get the bones back in the right place and hold them there for a couple of weeks. A bit of manipulation and the foot made it back into the right place, ready to be held firm. I soaked the plaster impregnated bandages in warm water and wrapped the leg up snugly, making sure to extend up beyond the next normal joint for support. It wasn’t the best looking plastercast I’ve ever done, I just prayed it would be enough. 

     I heard no more from the farm, but I was so caught up in other work that I didn’t have a chance to devote much thought to the calf. It was several weeks later when Bill came into the surgery and announced that Bobby had called and would like me to go out and take off the cast. I set off on the hour long drive up to the farm on the moor. 

     Bobby was in hearty mode when I arrived, full of the joys of spring. I was greeted with hug and much thanks for taking care of things whilst they were gone. Never one to accept compliments easily, I deflected it somewhat whilst we got on the quad bike and drove off across the fields. 

     The tiny baby calf was now a strapping fit beast, out and about in the field with it’s pals. The plan was to get alongside, hold it by the head, lay it down on the grass and remove the cast – we had brought some blades and a hacksaw with us. There were no handling facilities anywhere near where the cows were grazing. Bobby got close, stopped the bike and ambled up to the calf, hirpling with the classic farmer’s limp that comes from wrecked hips. As he drew level with the calf, its eyes flared and suddenly it shot off. Bobby lunged after it but it was long gone, leaving him to sail through the air and land on the soft ground with a thud. The calf had raised its tail up in the air and was belting along, clearly not troubled by the foot any more. A new plan was needed. We took to the quad bike. 

     Our new plan was ambitious - Bobby was to get as close as possible with the bike, whilst I hung off the side. When we got within touching distance, I was to leap off the back and catch the calf by the head. Bobby had misgivings about letting me do that, but I reassured him I was fairly hardy and would be just fine. So off we went. 

     It took a fair while to get close enough to the alarmed calf to even attempt to catch him. The first couple of tries I was almost ready to leap when he would suddenly change course and disappear at right angles. Then I had a go where I jumped a little too early and ended up sprinting along in my wellies to try and outrun him– I lost. I realised I was going to have to really go for it. We got close, I leapt and secured my arms in a big bearhug cum headlock around his neck. But he didn’t stop. He kept running, full tilt across the field with me attached, digging my trailing toes in, trying to use my weight as a brake. There was mud and cowshit everywhere as I skated across the pasture. I looked back and Bobby was trying to catch up on foot, wheezing like a rickety old horse. 

“GET THE BIKE!!!” I yelled across the field. 

     I managed to get my feet out in front of me, really dug in ith my heels and felt the pace slow. Gradually he started to wobble. I took my chance, changed my grip, turned his head towards me and with judicious use of leverage, cowped him onto his side on the grass. Grabbing a foreleg so he couldn’t get up and run off again, I shifted my weight onto his neck and waited for reinforcements. 

     The bike came roaring up behind me, Bobby wheezing and laughing and shouting all at once. 

“Bloody hell, where did you learn to do that! You really are a tough little bugger, aren’t you?!”

I didn’t have any spare breath to reply for a while. Eventually I coughed out the answer– I was the full back for the ladies rugby team at Uni and pulled in a pro tug of war team. 

     Whilst Bobby held the back legs to stop me from getting a kicking as well for my troubles, I removed the cast. It was a long and slow process, not helped by the conditions or the fact that I was now totally shattered, but little by little the plaster started to fold away from the cut I was making, and reveal a skinny but healthy leg underneath. There were a few places where the cast had rubbed at the skin, but they would heal quickly now that they were out in the open air. The joint itself felt pretty stable, and more or less flexed the way it should. 

     Swiping back the hair that was sweat-plastered to my forehead, I sat back on the balls of my feet. 

“Let’s let him up slowly and see what happens”

     He wasn’t interested in slowly. As soon as his feet were released he rocketed forward, nearly flattening me in the process, and galloped across the field. 

“100% cure! You know that costs extra, right?” I grinned. For once, I had the upper hand at Bobby’s.

Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat

     During the course of morning surgery a new client came in. They were a wholesome looking family, quietly spoken cheerful Dad, three well behaved kids sporting wrist bands for various causes and an admission bracelet for a recent festival, the eldest daughter wearing a hoodie with the Greek fish logo. They were talking about having been on retreat over the weekend – the very image of a modern Christian family – a little bit socks and sandals. 

     We took down their details and made up a new file. They had come in to register their cat. After a bit of a chat they told me that the cat had just turned up one day and moved in. It walked in quite calmly, found an armchair, and stayed. It was clearly enjoying its new surroundings and was even purring in its basket at the surgery, a happy wee cat. They had no idea where he had come from, they lived in the Station House down by the river and there weren't really any other homes or farms around. The father was feeling a bit guilty about not coming in sooner, the cat had been with them for around 3 weeks, and having decided to keep him they would like to start vaccinations, worming and flea treatment. Also might it be a good idea to scan him for a microchip? I reached for the scanner and started to sweep across his back whilst talking them through what they might need to know about keeping a cat. I was stopped in my tracks by a sharp beep from the machine – it had found a chip. This was a definite fly in the ointment – this cat belonged to somebody else and they cared enough about him to fit a chip so that if they were ever parted he would find his way back to them. I took down the number and broke the news – in all likelihood this cat had an owner and would have to go back home. 

     It took the best part of the afternoon for the nursing team to contact the microchipping database, get the personal details registered against the number and contact the owners. But Natalie worked her magic and we soon discovered that the cat came from a major town a good 12 miles away, an unattractive walk for any cat. It didn't make sense. I thought perhaps that he might have climbed into someone’s warm car engine and been trapped until the car stopped again until we looked up the addresses – both were beside railway stations. The cat had gone for a walk, hopped on the train, jumped off after a wee while and found itself in a brand new place! The only thing to do was seek out the nearest warm armchair. 

     There was a happy ending at least: the cat and his owner were reunited and the family decided that they had enjoyed being pet owners so much that they bought a kitten. All's well that ends well.