I think we'd better get an x-ray

Do you think it could be broken, doctor?

Erm......

...yeah I'd say so.

FMD, a recurrent nightmare.

       We arrived at the end of the farm road and were greeted by the farmer. His face was working in quiet fury under his own black cloud and he was carrying a gun. 

“You should have been here a week ago, what the bloody hell’s the point of coming now? It’s too bloody late now!”

       I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was keen not to agitate him any further. I was there as the peacekeeper, still a student but experienced at working with British farmers, unlike the Australian small animal vet who was supposedly in charge of today’s blood testing. Foot and Mouth Disease had been spreading like a forest fire down this Cumbrian valley. We were ahead of it here, checking that the sheep and cattle on this farm were “clean”- they hadn’t met the disease yet. Every farm in the county was getting tested. Vets were pulled in from all over the world, every available UK vet student was there, and a huge number of non-clinical staff of various types, from military to admin to cleaners and quartermasters. It was a massive operation. The British vet students from a farming background were widely used both for their clinical skills and to smooth the way, chatting to farmers and translating for the international vets in a host of languages. Even the vets with good English struggled to understand the broad accents of the farmers. 

       As we packed our crates of equipment into his Toyota Land Cruiser, Farmer Jim expanded on his frustrations. The farm just up the road had fallen victim to the disease a few days ago, but was far enough away to fall outside the 1 km contiguous cull zone. Jim was berating the Ministry of Agriculture for having not jumped ahead of the disease and created a firebreak. He reckoned it was almost certainly going to cost him his stock, and all the farms downwind from him too. 

       Once we were in the farmyard, proper introductions were made, as well as a pot of tea. Jim’s wife Moira was a wide, friendly lady with muscular arms, big square glasses and an open smile, despite the strain she was clearly under. A tray of mugs appeared, one of which was half filled with sugar, and a small milk jug. We had a brew and started to learn a little about the farm. The cattle we had passed on the way in were curious looking beasts, not quite one thing or another. I asked Jim if they were a local breed. He told me that they had been specially bred over the last 180 years by his ancestors on the farm to specifically suit the ground they had there. They were large bodied powerful beef cattle, but with quite short stocky legs that helped them negotiate the uneven turf and wade through the stony river that carved up the fields here. Jim softened considerably once he realised I was genuinely interested in his stock, and it wasn’t just some government trick.

“Nine generations, father and son” he said. “These cattle are our lives, our way of life for hundreds of years. And now what? Some bugger has pissed it up the wall for us?”

       The stock we needed to test were scattered all over the farm, so we were loaded into the back of a dubious looking Diahatsu Fourtrack, which was then locked from the outside with a padlock. Taking a seat on the bare metal wheel arch, I realized that there was a dog guard between us in the load space and the two seats at the front. We were trapped.

       Moira took the wheel and we set off down a steep and very bumpy farm track, every jolt causing great discomfort. I tried not to yip when a particularly big pothole threw me up in the air for a second, only to crash back down on the exposed metal, bruising my tailbone. It was away to get worse. The cattle were on the other side of the river; there was no bridge, and no visible ford. Moira kept up a stream of commentary and chatter as she plunged the tiny 4x4 into the flow and drove downstream. Half way across the water began to pour into the back of the car where I was locked in and sweating. I could feel the current pushing on the wing. After what seemed like an age, we reached the edge and started to mount the impossibly steep bank, tipping the back of the vehicle further into the water and making us lift our feet up in the air to avoid the rising tide. With an almighty heave we were clear and pulled up beside a huge bull. He lazily raised his head to the window, and Mary reached out and scratched him, first on the forelock, then under the chin. Our duty with the cows was to look for salivation or lameness, but none was evident, both Billy Bull and all his girlfriends seemed to be in good health. After slowly wandering around the riverside checking each beast we headed up the fell to check on the sheep.

       The sheep were part of a larger regional plan; we were to blood test as many as we could, the numbers all carefully and proportionately worked out by the epidemiologists. The sheepdogs went to work, and we rested in the cool breeze whilst they gathered the flock to us. Our uniform was two boiler suits with hoods up, waterproof coat, waterproof trousers, two pairs of gloves with cuffs tucked into the sleeves, wellington boots (tucked in), and protective eye goggles. We were to leave as little skin exposed as possible. It was August and we got very hot, very quickly.

       Sheep all rounded up, we kicked into action. This was my area, take a blood sample from each ewe as quickly as possible causing as little distress as we could, quickly check the mouth then release them. I had been working with the same team for a while, so we had it down to a fine art and the farmers appreciated our skill. It wasn’t long into our inspection before we started noticing blisters in the mouth. I called the vet over. We turned the ewes on their back, and at the top of the hoof in the cleft between the two toes, there it was again, small pale blisters with a reddened ring around them. The thermometer confirmed it – the affected ewes were running a temperature. The mood changed instantly. We called for back up.

       We silently headed back to the farmhouse to wait. Moira cracked out the sloe gin for everyone and Jim hit the whisky. There was tea and home baking, sobbing and ham sandwiches. We only waited an hour and a half for the reinforcements to arrive, but it was a very long time.

       It was confirmed that evening when a second team came out to join us and agreed: with two qualified vet opinions, the flock had Foot and Mouth Disease. The only option was an immediate cull. The farmers were angry and hurt, we were trying to stay calm and professional but were heavy of heart.

       We left them to come to terms with the news and headed home to base. There were lorries full of citric acid waiting at the gate to powerwash us from head to toe including vehicles, and the police were posted at the end of the drive to stop anyone else coming in or out. I drove back to Carlisle, arriving too late for any food, and got drunk.

By 6am I was back at the farm.

       I spent more of the day talking to the farmers than I did handling the animals. A few times I snuck off alone and cried. I tried to keep them busy inside whilst the shooting was going on, hundreds of sheep killed in the silage clamp pit with a captive bolt gun, the pop pop popping of the guns ricocheting around the concrete walls for 20 minutes non-stop. The cattle had succumbed to the virus overnight. The big gentle bull was unable to walk back to the yard and thick trails of drool hung from his mouth where the skin of his tongue had started to slough. Most of them were shot where they stood by a marksman – one second there, then gone, they didn’t know a thing about it. The sucklers around the farm with calves were penned inside the shed in groups of four, and stunned with a captive bolt gun before being dispatched, then dragged out to the yard by a chain around the leg attached to a tractor.

       After hours of brutal killing, silence fell. Then, after a moment, the engines roared to life as bodies were loaded into wagons to be removed for incineration. Cart after cart trundled away down the track, stopping for disinfection at three separate points.

       I stayed for tea with the family to make sure they were safe, and then it was time to leave. I shook Jim’s hand, and he fell against my shoulder sobbing, face scarlet, hot tears dripping into my neck. Moira hugged me, and wouldn’t let go. When she eventually released me, I walked back to my car to the sound of her shouting her phone number across the yard at me. I tried not to let them see me falling apart with every step.

       I went through the three disinfection points and police cordon, and drove back to Carlisle. I got very drunk, but couldn’t drink away the pain.

       I still get a Christmas card every year

Kitty bank

This is possibly the most expensive 20p I have ever handled

Client Conversations #12

I ever so gently lifted the injured cat out of the basket and placed him on the table.
“Hello Mateusz, how are you today? I heard you are not feeling good, poor puss cat, tell me all about it, hmm?”

“He only speak Polish.”