Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (6 page)

Today was no exception, save that two, rather than one, gnome-like figures emerged through the mist in the yard like phantom goblins from
The Lord of the Rings
rather than Julie Christie lookalikes from
Far from the Madding Crowd.
Madge and Rosie Stockwell – identical twins, dressed identically in brown tweed trousers, stuffed into black wellies and, I suspected, identical green, army-style pullovers, although this time it had to be a guess as their upper halves were obscured by brown, rubber capes, buttoned tightly at the neck, stretching down to calf level, with side vents for their arms which were currently tucked inside. The overall impression was of two over-inflated buoys, an impression given more credence by the fact that they were standing in a yard ankle-deep in water.

As I got out of the car, the two sisters splashed towards me.

Never knowing who was Madge and who was Rosie, each having a tomato soup complexion, hooked nose and mousy, pudding basin-styled hair, I addressed them as one. ‘Morning, ladies. See you’ve had quite a bit of rain here.’ I pointed at the flooded yard.

Both sisters shook their heads simultaneously. ‘It’s not rain,’ said one caped figure.

‘Vet thinks it is,’ said the other.

‘But it’s not, Madge.’

‘I know it’s not. It’s the leak in that outside tap,’ replied Madge.

‘It’s an outside tap that’s leaking,’ explained the sister who I’d now worked out was Rosie.

‘It needs to be fixed,’ said Madge. ‘We’ll get round to it in time.’

‘We will, Madge. In time,’ said Rosie, nodding her head slowly.

I felt a nervous tic start to throb in my temple at the mention of time. I was being reminded of how time meant nothing to the Stockwells. As Beryl had warned me before my first meeting, it was no use hurrying them as they lived in a world of their own. Everything had to be done at their pace.

But, like the time I’d rushed out to treat their Jersey with milk fever, time was still precious; and this time there was a calving cow requiring attention. I assumed she was going to be in the tithe barn and said as much to the sisters as I opened the boot of my car and started to collect up my calving equipment.

‘Vet thinks Deidre’s in barn,’ said Madge, turning to Rosie.

‘But she’s not,’ said Rosie, shaking her head, dislodging a drop of water from the end of her nose.

‘I know she’s not. She’s out in Fox Meadow.’

‘That’s right, Madge. Fox Meadow. Deidre’s out in Fox Meadow,’ went on Rosie, looking at me.

‘That’s where you’ll find her,’ explained Madge, also staring at me.

‘Fox Meadow,’ said Rosie in case I required extra confirmation.

The tic in my temple was now throbbing at full throttle. ‘Look, ladies,’ I said quickly and a little too curtly, ‘we haven’t got all day. Your Deidre needs looking at as soon as possible. Just take me to Fox Meadow, OK?’

‘Rush. Rush. Always in a rush,’ murmured the Stockwells in unison.

‘Shall I show him?’ said Rosie, turning to Madge. Or was it Madge turning to Rosie?

‘You can if you like. Or I’ll go.’

‘Don’t mind.’

‘Or we could both go.’

‘Probably best if we both went.’

‘OK.’

‘We’ll both go,’ they chorused, their ruddy cheeks glowing.

I started to grind my teeth. ‘Well let’s get going then,’ I seethed, hastily donning my boots and waterproofs as the mist turned to a steady drizzle, while handing calving ropes and the rest of the kit to the twins.

As we splashed across the first meadow, water seeped up my sleeves and crept down my collar and mud worked its way up and over the edge of each boot.

‘Is it much further?’ I gasped as the gate to a second meadow was opened.

‘Vet’s asking is it much further,’ said one twin, squelching to a halt.

‘Heard him,’ said the other with a squish, closing the gate behind us.

‘Well?’ I asked, squashed between them.

‘We’re here,’ they said as one. ‘This is Fox Meadow.’

The meadow consisted of a small field bounded by overgrown hawthorn hedges – the irregular tops an undulating line of brown spikes in need of cutting back; the grass was poached round the perimeter with patches of mud and puddles leading to a large, corrugated-roofed field shelter, inside of which huddled a group of about ten or so Jerseys, some of which were desultorily snatching mouthfuls of hay from a pile heaped in one corner.

‘Deidre’s over there,’ said one of the twins – Madge, I think. She pointed to the far side of the field where, through the drifting sheet of drizzle, I could just discern the outline of a cow, only her flanks visible, the rest of her below the level of the grass. ‘She’s gone down in the ditch,’ added Madge.

‘Dear old Deidre,’ said Rosie.

Between them, the twins explained that earlier they’d noticed Deidre had separated herself from the rest of the herd, showing signs of unease, standing alone, tail flicking, gazing into the distance, emitting the occasional soft moo.

‘Thought then she might be due to calve, didn’t I, Madge?’ said Rosie.

‘You did, Rosie.’

‘I did, Madge.’

‘And you were right.’

‘I was.’

So they went back to get a head collar and rope to bring her in but on their return had found she had gone down the side of the ditch that flanked the field, normally dry and grass-filled, but now soggy and water-filled – as I discovered when we got to Deidre and found her hindquarters partially submerged.

‘Couldn’t get her to budge,’ commented one twin.

‘No, we couldn’t,’ said the other.

‘But we did try,’ said the first.

I asked about contractions and was told some had been seen earlier but they had since eased off. There had been no sign of a water bag bursting, although in these wet conditions that could easily have been missed. I felt in a real dilemma here. Deidre certainly looked as if she was about to calve. An internal examination could establish whether the calf was engaged in the cervix and correctly positioned; but there was no way that was going to be achievable with Deidre’s back end half under water. As if reading my thoughts, the heifer gave a grunt, contracted her abdominal muscles and thrust both hind-legs down through the lank grass of the bank, an action which pushed her rump back level with the field so she was now splayed diagonally across the ditch.

‘OK, let’s go for it,’ I exclaimed, and, taking a deep breath, tore off my jacket and sodden shirt and gritted my teeth as I pulled on the red calving apron one twin held out to me, gasping as the freezing rubber slapped across my chest. Lubricating my arm with the oil the other twin gave me, I cautiously levered myself down onto the slippery bank and, while Madge – or was it Rosie? – held Deidre’s tail back, and the other twin, having secured a head collar, was kneeling down, gripping it tightly under Deidre’s chin, I slowly slipped my arm inside the cow, feeling the warmth of the animal’s birth canal instantly enfold me as clouds of steam eddied out.

With my arm buried up to the elbow, I eventually managed to touch the calf’s head and felt it tweak back as I pinched its nose. At least the calf was still alive.

But to judge the calf’s head in relation to the size of the heifer’s pelvis, I had a sinking feeling that we weren’t going to have a normal birth. I just felt that head was too big to pass through. Which meant only one option for a safe delivery. A Caesarean.

I stood up, rapidly re-dressed and told the twins. They sploshed round from either end of the prone cow, only stopping when their hooked noses were almost touching.

‘Did you hear what vet said, Madge?’

‘I did, Rosie. A Caesarean.’

‘That’s what he said, yes.’

‘I know. So what do you think?’

‘Best let vet do it.’

‘That’s what I think’s best,’ said Madge. Or was it Rosie?

The problem now was how to get Deidre back to the farm, since there was no way I could contemplate carrying out a Caesarean under such dire field conditions unless absolutely forced to. Even if we did manage to haul her back, there was still the problem of who was going to help me. I really didn’t feel it fair to put the onus on the Stockwell twins to assist.

The first problem resolved itself when Deidre gave an almighty bellow and heaved herself up into a sitting position, at which point Madge and Rosie suddenly sprang into action and bent down, pushing at Deidre’s rump, the slope of the bank helping them to roll Deidre sideways until her back legs folded in under her. She gave another loud snort and then shakily rose to stand on all four feet.

Problem two was resolved by a mobile call to Prospect House, where Beryl informed me she’d organise someone to come out and help straight away; that created a new problem of its own, though, when after waiting a few minutes while she went and conferred, I was told Lucy was on her way. ‘Hope you don’t mind …’ were Beryl’s parting words.

No, actually I didn’t mind. Although Lucy was only a trainee nurse, she’d already shown her aptitude for the work involved, with an understanding, patient manner when dealing with creatures of all shapes and sizes, a natural empathy not clouded by sentimentality and that niggling ‘love for animals’ so often expressed by people and which so often obscured and undermined the professionalism required by veterinary nurses to ensure that some of the less glamorous aspects of the work were carried out. That aptitude had been clearly demonstrated the time I had to deal with the Richardsons’ difficult foaling – their darling Clementine with her breech birth. Lucy’s support and reassurance as to my capability to deal with the crisis that night had been instrumental in us hitching up. Maybe Deidre’s problem would be the catalyst required to bring us back together again. We’d have to see.

The Stockwells and I had managed to push and cajole Deidre across Fox Meadow and the adjacent field, slipping and sliding into the yard just as Lucy drove down the gravel track.

‘You remembered to close gate,’ said one of the twins as Lucy climbed out of her somewhat battered old Fiesta, a present from her Mum when she reached her 18th a year back.

She nodded and then looked at me before saying, ‘I’ve brought out the sterilised emergency op pack and some additional artery forceps. Hope that will be sufficient.’ She dropped her gaze as she finished, and opened the rear car door to gather up the equipment, taking it across the yard to the tithe barn as instructed by the twins, quickly tiptoeing to avoid too much water getting into her shoes.

‘These young ’uns … always in a hurry, Rosie,’ said Madge.

‘Rush, rush, rush. Always in a rush,’ I heard her twin mutter as I, too, scooted ahead into the barn while Deidre was slowly coaxed in by the sisters. ‘There, there, take your time,’ they were saying as the heifer nervously shuffled onto the straw covering the cobbled barn floor. At least we were now all under cover and I did have somewhere to operate. Not ideal, though, I thought, gazing up at the cobweb-festooned timbers that arched above us; from the central span of one hung a dust-covered bulb which, although lit, scarcely penetrated the shadows of that cavernous interior.

I began to shiver, feeling the muscles in my arms and legs tremble. Was it my wet clothing or nerves at the thought of what I was about to do?

‘Here, put these on,’ murmured Lucy, handing me a pack containing a T-shirt and operating gown. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d want them. But at least they’re dry.’

‘Thanks.’ I removed my jacket and stripped off my wet shirt. Having put on the ops clothes, I felt much better, although still apprehensive at what lay ahead. One of the twins had tied Deidre to a large iron ring embedded in the flint wall. The heifer was now standing there, next to an old wooden manger, its frame pitted with woodworm, with her head down, her dark eyes dull, partially obscured by her long, black lashes, and her hooves sifting backwards and forwards in the straw. She was clearly distressed. The sooner I operated the better.

‘Could we please have a couple of straw bales over here …’ I gesticulated at the stack at the far end of the barn. ‘As quick as you like.’

Madge and Rosie didn’t do ‘quick’. In the time it had taken them to amble down and bring back a bale each to make a makeshift operating table, I’d drawn up the dose of local anaesthetic required to give an epidural, had pumped Deidre’s tail to locate the right spot between the lumbar vertebrae and had given the injection. Some difference to that time last year when I’d given Clementine a similar spinal injection to stop her straining. Then I’d been all fingers and thumbs.

The operation site now had to be prepared.

‘I did bring the clippers,’ said Lucy, holding them up. ‘And they’re fully charged. I checked before leaving.’

Good girl. More brownie points.

‘You can do it,’ I said, outlining the area on Deidre’s right flank that required shaving. ‘And perhaps one of you would like to get me some hot water,’ I continued, turning to the Stockwells who had lined themselves up by the straw bales.

‘Vet wants some hot water, Madge.’

‘I heard him, Rosie.’

‘Shall I get it?’

‘You can if you like. Or I can go.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You go then.’

‘OK, Madge. I will. But it might not be that hot. Boiler’s not on.’

‘Vet will just have to make do.’

‘He will, Madge, he will.’

By the time Rosie had returned with a bucket of water, Lucy had finished shaving Deidre’s right flank and had scrubbed it with antiseptic and wiped it down with surgical spirit; and I had injected more local anaesthetic in the skin parallel to the spine to deaden the nerves that ran out to the area where I was going to make my incision.

I scrubbed my hands with antiseptic, rinsing them in the water provided by Rosie, which, as she had predicted, was tepid, and dried them on some sterilised paper towels from a pack Lucy had opened. I extracted a large green drape from a similar pack and spread it across the straw bales and then Lucy opened the third sterile pack, containing the instruments, and tipped them out. Scalpel, artery and
rack-toothed
forceps, needle holder, scissors, catgut and nylon, swabs and a gauze pad with a variety of different-sized needles threaded through it tumbled onto my makeshift operating table.