Stories from my Archives

ALBERT AND THE BULL

In the summer of 1948 I had been a veterinarian for a mere six months. I was dreadfully shy and self-conscious. My first job in practice was in Kent, the garden of England, where the rich and famous have country homes and hobby farms. During the summer months we often had veterinary students with us. This summer I had the misfortune to be accompanied by Albert who was extremely tall, very thin, pale, pimply and devoid of any personal charm.

One day I was given the task of visiting Melbury Court in order to examine a valuable bull for insurance. The owner was a peppery little man, Colonel Fotheringham-Smythe. The Colonel was immaculately dressed, complete with silk tie, straw-colored jodhpurs and gleaming hunting boots. His aristocratic accent and condescending manner so intimidated me that trying to make small talk drained my concentration. We arrived at the `model bull pen' and, without a thought, I opened the half door, walked in and grabbed the bull by the ring. It was a Jersey bull and an experienced person would never do that to a Jersey bull; they can be lethal. This bull was obviously taken by surprise by my impertinence. However, he rapidly recovered and started to snort and roll his eye balls.

"Here, Albert," I said handing the ring to the now quivering student.

I walked around the bull doing all the impressive things that veterinarians are supposed to do when examining an animal for insurance. The examination complete, the Colonel and I left the pen. Seconds later Albert rushed past us. Terrified at being left alone with the `monster,' he had abandoned his station and fled. Unfortunately, the bull sprang into action with great vigour. The Colonel, seeing the bull ready to charge from his pen, rushed to the half door and slammed it shut in the face of the oncoming beast. But not quite! The bull got his horns under the crosspiece of the door and gave a mighty heave. The door, with the Colonel attached to it, sailed through the air past me. The irate gentleman landed on his back in a soft pile of very oozy manure. The language that followed was picturesque. It featured my mother's morality and indicated the profound wish that Albert would find himself in hell and that if he remained on his premises certain unpleasant things would happen to him. Meanwhile, I was keeping the bull at bay with some hefty kicks on the snout until two nearby farm hands were able to restore order.

If I say that I am frightened of bulls, I would not be lying. I have more bull stories than I care to mention. Some of my colleagues thought that I was "good with bulls." It happened, quite often, that it was I who was sent to attend to these unpredictable creatures. Fear is a pretty useful emotion because it makes a person very careful. I have seen veterinary students leading a bull and, just because it is a Hereford, they go into the pen and remove the halter while they are between the bull and the escape route. Always release a bull as you are leaving through the door. Otherwise, the nasty ones will think you are stupid. If you are confronted by an angry bull, never turn your back on it and run. Face the animal and try to stare it down. Allow your voice to project rage and aggression in a profuse stream of threats and curses. Above all keep the tone very deep and don't ,whatever you do, let your voice break. This, of course, will not save you, but you may confuse the animal long enough for you to be able to back out to safety.

Bulls are not stupid and they can learn. A farmer once asked me to come and dehorn his bull. The animal was confined in a concrete shed with a pen outside that was constructed from stout pipes to about seven feet high. Every time I arrived at the farm, out would come the bull hollering insults. He also had the nasty habit of tossing cows over the side of the pen after he had finished serving them. I didn't relish going in will this animal because he had not been handled enough and had by now become quite savage. I climbed the fence furthest away from the bull and out he came a snorting and a hollering but, before he knew what was happening, the farmer had flipped the noose of a long rope over his horns. The other end of the rope was attached to a tractor and the unpleasant creature was dragged unceremoniously to the part of the pen that I had chosen. When I went in with the bull, there was a lot more noise and lashing out with the back feet. To cut a long story short, I fixed him to a steel post with a double wrap of stout chain. Apart from getting a bit fed up with the noise, I was pretty nervous the chain would break. To cover up my fear I cursed the wretched beast long and loud. By the end he was a somewhat humbled creature. However, whenever I came to the farm afterwards, out would come the bull to tell the world what he would do to the stranger. I would get out of the car and shout at the animal in the same loud terms that I had used on the day of the dehorning. He would immediately scamper back into his house and peer shyly out from the darkness, saying nary a word. Yes, bulls remember!

In summary, never take a bull for granted even if you have known one another for his lifetime. He will identify you by smell, possibly by the way that you walk and to some extent by your voice. If you have a sore throat, your corns are troublingyou or you're using `after shave,' you may not be the same person to him. Some bulls are like watch dogs, they don't like strangers.

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A CRISIS WITH `BUMPS'

`Do you mind slipping out to see a cow for the Bush brothers?' my boss asked.

In 1950 I had only been out of vet school for three years and I was keen to make a good impression on my new boss who just might make me a partner. No matter that it was 11:30 a.m. on a weekend I had Saturday afternoon off.

`One of their cows has fallen in a pond, so you shouldn't be long,' my colleague added cheerfully.

I was off and away before any more could be said. When I arrived on the scene, however, my enthusiasm evaporated. It seemed that the whole village of Baltonsborough had turned out to see the spectacle. There in the centre of a pond about forty feet in diameter was the cow, impaled on a fence post. The post had entered her body somewhere below the water line and had travelled up under the skin to be just visible behind her shoulder.

One of the Bush brothers, Fred, was shivering in water beside the cow, holding her head above water. Brother Bert stood on the bank with a doleful expression on his face, holding his sibling's coat and muttering over and over, `It's a bad business' and occasionally adding `Poor Bumps, she's a gonner.' The Bush bothers were in their fifties, quiet men totally devoted to their animals. Not many farmers would have bothered with such a hopeless situation, but the Bush brothers were different; they loved each and every cow. Either of them could walk up to any of their cows at pasture, throw down a few cubes of concentrate and the cow would move its right leg back and stand quite still to be milked by hand.

As I surveyed the scene, I could feel butterflies starting to play in my stomach. This was not a problem discussed in any textbook of veterinary medicine. The cold hand of a feeling of hopeless inadeqacy was clutching my chest, and I was certain that weakness would follow. Then I would be rooted to the ground paralyzed.

Providence came to my aid in the form of one of the village elders, a Mr Garland. Being the village know-it-all, he was explaining to the gathered crowd what he would do and hinting very distinctly that I was far too young to handle the problem. As I stood there contemplating the disaster, he marched over and confronted me.

`Well, young man, don't stand there doing nothing, get on with it! If I were you I would......'

Free advice I did not need, I was uncertain as it was and I did not want the little confidence I had to be undermined by other options. I was infuriated.

`Mr Garland, what I will do, if you don't mind your own business and get out of the way, is to put you in the pond with the cow!'

In those days I was not normally rude nor did I usually get angry, but I was on the verge of panicking. Here was I, somewhat shy, expected to pull off a miracle in front of a substantial audience of villagers. I just didn't need Mr. Garland's hassle. The easiest way of dealing with a cow impaled on a stake in the middle of a pond would be to shoot it. The Bush brothers would never allow that and Mr. Garland would doubtless add further insults. The only solution to MY problem was action. I dismissed failure from my mind and started issuing orders in all directions. I needed two long wagon lines, the tractor, a farm gate, buckets of hot water, soap, towels and on old pair of trousers. There was a bustle of activity and I felt relieved.

I went up to the house and took off all of my clothes and put on an ancient pair of Berts pants. Back at the pond I waded into the cold, black, waist-high water. I dragged one of the ropes with me, and when I reached the patient carefully wound the rope around the post beneath her. The post had angled over to about thirty degrees, and I thought that maybe I could either pull the post out or pull the cow off the post with the tractor. Of course the force could rip the post through the cow's side. The stake was behind the shoulder of the upper leg, so I tied the second rope around the other front leg which was below water. This rope was given to the eager crowd who were to pull when I told them. I gave the order to start the tractor, the post broke, the men pulled and the cow slid onto the bank. It all happened just as if I had known what I was doing.

The rip in Bump's side was at least three feet long. The skin had been pulled away from the abdomen, making a pocket at least two feet deep. The normally white fat beneath the skin was stained grey by the black mud from the pond. By some miracle the abdomen had not been ruptured and there was no bleeding.

An easy way to move a cow that is unable to get up, from one place to another, is on a farm gate. Lie the gate flat, cover it with a tarpaulin, bed it with straw, slide the cow on and haul her where you will with the tractor. Make sure that the ear doesn't get trapped under the gate during the sliding process. Cows can be easily slid onto the gate if they are rolled onto their side and pulled by the leg nearest the ground.

Cleaning the wound and stitching it back together took most of the afternoon. The wound was filled with a pound of sulpha product and drainage tubes were set in place.

I have always believed that nursing is important. For Bumps I set the Bush brothers to work making a quilt. They stitched six gunny sacks together with binder twine and filled each compartment with hay. Loops of twine around the cows neck, tail and each leg prevented the quilt from falling off. I gave her injections of fluids containing glucose as well as a good shot of antibiotic. The Bush brothers drenched her with warm gruel containing more glucose and some powdered ginger.

To everyone's amazement Bumps recovered. Each time I visited the Bush brothers, until I left England fifteen years later, I always had go to see Bumps or be introduced to her daughters or granddaughters. I think the moral of this story is that sometimes vets can work miracles if they are given the chance. However, a farmer who invests time in nursing a sick animal properly will find the experience rewarding.