Veterinary Days

Veterinary Days Ken Watson - my working life as a vet

Moss

Ginger

Dear, departed friends

Jean (Ken’s wife) and daughter April (a future Veterinary Nurse) accompanied

by Dandy their Dachshund at Sidmouth seafront in 1954

Ken Watson - writing about

his experiences as a veterinary during the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s.

Blue

Ken has been a regular contributor to Devonshire magazine and the Sidmouth and Budleigh Diaries for a number of years now.

His colourful writings about his experiences as a vet working in the industry from the early 1950s onwards, bring together his editorial contributions into one complete volume.

Ken is long retired, having ceased work at the age of 65 in 1992.

Chloe (back) and Tilly

Published by Nigel Jones

Starting my career at Veterinary College in 1948 (second from left)

A Cumbrian Interlude In July 1949, having just finished my first year at Veterinary College, I spent eight weeks on a small farm in Cumbria, then known as Cumberland. Unpaid it was, and just for my board and keep I soaked up an experience I have never forgotten, I certainly needed it. A London boy born and bred, I had a nerve launching myself into what was then a mainly agricultural profession, but National Service in the Army had set me up and I was ready for anything.

I had advertised my services in the Farmers Weekly and this offer appealing most saw me leaving my beautiful wife-to-be and setting off from Kings Cross for 7 rattling hours north. Not a seat to be had so I sat on my sturdy leather case, which even empty, weighed three times it’s filled modern equivalent, in the packed corridor. I was met at Carlisle by my new boss who took me to a cafe nearby where I demolished a post-war omelette while he sat benignly not partaking. Then my cultural shock began. He drove me in 1

his brown upright Austin 14; I believe they were all brown or black and had an oil pressure gauge atop the radiator, to his farm near Hesket Newmarket.

He was a veteran of the First World War and one of many allotted a small farm, council owned. Just 50 acres but with vast access to the Fells where he hefted his 200 sheep. The stone-built house, grim outside and in, was in keeping with the small mountain looming above it, but what beauty it all held I would soon learn. He seemed to have no wife but they were not people to discuss such matters. Two daughters, one a kindly care-worn homebody drudge and a younger one away at college. There was also a son away somewhere. Then there was a mysterious older woman. A decade earlier she had taken to her bed for a good while in apparent good health and stayed there. Mother? Grandmother? I never saw her.

My first meal was a shock. Farmer Fred, daughter and myself sat down to generous plates of cold beef. In the centre of the table was a plate heaped high with thick cut slices of white bread. I waited for the veg. The others started and I realised that was it, and every meal thereafter was the same, unless it was cuts from the ham which hung from a hook over our heads.

Apart from a few potatoes, I never saw a vegetable the whole time I was there.

The work was hard. He milked 10 Shorthorn cows and so before breakfast we hand milked them and I learned how to milk, a joyous experience which has stayed with me all my life, but I doubt if folk who did it for a living would agree. Then there was hay-making, all done by horse power. There were jobs he had obviously saved for me, like the loose box where there was a foot depth of cow dung so old that the ammonia gripped my throat. Too proud to ask, he led me to a gate on which we leaned and gazed on a good crop of swedes absolutely smothered in weeds. In embarrassment he indicated that he was getting a lot of stick from the locals in the pub about it. I said I would see to it, and so I did, by hand and on my knees. To tell the truth I enjoyed it. Does that make me some sort of idiot?

Of all the life-long memories, two stand out, apart from my first joy at working with a heavy horse, a Clydesdale. I was there for the sheep shearing, where all the neighbours turned out to help, a favour which had a return side. We set off at dawn to a flat stone wall enclosure halfway up the fell. Having unloaded shearing benches and the all-essential barrel of beer, we went for the sheep. Then I witnessed the magic of hefted sheep. The fellside was covered by a mass of sheep but at a whistle and shout from Farmer 2

Fred, they divided like the Sea of Galilee and Fred’s sheep came bounding down to us. I am sure if there had been a dog I would have remembered, but there was none. There were five or six shearers, all using those crossover hand shears. Fred did the important job of rolling the fleeces. My task was to catch and carry sheep to the shearers as needed. This was not so arduous as it sounds because these were only half the weight of lowland sheep I would encounter later in my career. Herdwicks were traditional but Fred favoured the Swaledales of his Yorkshire youth. My other job was to satisfy the shearers thirsts from the barrel set up in their midst. I slept well that night!

My other memory was quite different. Fred and I found we had a common interest. We both loved Beethoven. So one Saturday evening, after milking and supper, we sat in companionable silence in the austere kitchen and listened to Beethoven’s 7th from one of those large old wireless sets with the jigsaw cut fascia which sat on a shelf above our heads, while the dying rays of the setting sun played across our faces.

Then he paid me one of the greatest compliments I have ever received, this work-ravaged man of so few words. He asked me if I could extend my stay by a week and run the farm while he spent a week at the Test Match at Headingley. To my eternal regret I had to refuse as I had booked a week youth hostelling across Dorset. I was relieved that his son offered to fill the gap.

3

College Days There is, or used to be, a station on London Underground called Camden Town which I came to know extremely well. For 4½ years I would alight there five, sometimes six days a week. I would cross the road and walk down College Road until I reached an ugly brick building. This was the Royal Veterinary College whose spartan exterior was home to some of the luckiest students in the country. It may not have seemed so at the time, but looking back I realise that we were inundated with so much information and facts that if we stayed the course and passed the frequent exams, we emerged very much older and with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Horse, Cow, Sheep, Dog, Cat and Chicken. Then we were permitted to spend a final year of practical, clinical and surgical teaching at the Field Station at StreatleyOn-Thames.

Having walked the bleak length of College Road, whose pavements were covered in wind swept waves of ash from the many factory chimneys, I was daily rewarded by the warmth, friendliness, and sense of purpose of the college. At that time it was self-governing and even set its own exam papers and vivas for the many exams which came at you like the hurdles in a steeplechase. Fail one and you stayed back to take it again so that some took as much as eight years to pass the basic five year course.

This was better than school, for you could see a purpose, a reason, in every fact you learned. The first text book was “Animal Husbandry”, by a vet named Kirk, which solved the mystery of all the harness of the horse or perhaps how to down a cow using only a rope, according to a man named Reuff. A veritable bible. Even Chemistry became Biochemistry and encompassed Forensic Chemistry taught by the leading Forensic Chemist in the country.

But the main subject was the two year course on Anatomy with the great Professor McCunn. Two years to learn to identify every single bone, muscle, blood vessel and nerve in the five species. About three afternoons a week were spent in the vast anatomy hall. Each student was allotted a pony cadaver for dissection and these were kept in tanks of formaldehyde, so that on entering the hall your throat was gripped by the fumes, but this was the 4

least of your worries. I recall only two traditions at the college; one was that you did not clap to show approval, you stamped your feet. The other was that people at one end of the anatomy hall surreptitiously hurled pieces of meat at those at the other end, so it paid to keep your head down.

Further years took us through Histology, Pathology, Bacteriology and Pharmacy, where we met a wonderful eccentric array of characters who lectured us, and we received good value. Most of us were ex-service and found it harder to retain facts than the ex-schoolboys; but lecturers such as Prof. Greatorex who taught the diseases of the horse, a Mr. Daykin on pharmacy, rose above subjects which could have been boring. For sheer showmanship you could not beat Prof. Amoroso who started his lecture on Physiology as he walked in the door and finished as he walked out. He was famous for wearing two pairs of spectacles, one perched precariously over the other. His lecture on the placentas of the five species remains with me today. But once we had mastered all these background, yet essential, subjects and passed the relevant exams, maybe at the second or even third attempt, we were welcomed to the final, clinical, year where it all came together.

This was held at the field station at Streatley-On-Thames, a beautiful location and, two years married by now, we bought an ancient caravan from a previous student and I settled down to master Clinical Medicine and Surgery. This caravan was sited in the grounds of a local pub, but as we did not patronise said pub, no money, and I mean literally no money, we were asked to move our caravan. So we moved to a delightful spot in the grounds of a Country House Hotel. It was an idyllic time, or would have been had we not all had the dreaded Finals hanging over us. The staff, from Professors down to technicians made it so pleasant and I shall be forever grateful. My wife together with our first dog, a Dachshund called Dandy, would walk the mile to the shops in Goring through beautiful countryside and, joyously, I passed my Finals at first attempt. Despite our penurious poverty we were sad to leave. At last I was deemed fit to be let loose on the, no doubt anxious, world of veterinary practice. I have a photo of six of us students posing around a horse, two professors, one future head of the Army Veterinary Service, one American drop-out and two General Practitioners; and of these who do I rate the most? Why the GP’s of course!

5

It takes all sorts I never cease to be amazed by the difference life holds from one person to another and the way they see life. Working through the intense years of veterinary college you imagine everyone looks forward to a life of treating animals. I can assure you that is not so. Of course there is always a select group who come from a veterinary family whose future is mapped out for them, but even among those there are always one or two who do not go willingly into plans laid for their future. This variation in outlook does not really show until the final year, although it might crop up in casual conversation. I think the seeds were often sown during the compulsory, custom of “seeing practice” during every vacation, when you were expected to write up a book of interesting cases you had encountered, for presentation in your final year. I noticed that people who had seen practice in the North of England were more likely to be put off general practice, probably due to the harder conditions. I remember a chap called Wiggins. You know how some people look like little old men from birth; well he was one of those, and he was obviously not good at exams because in just second year I caught him up and left him behind, and I was no whiz-kid. He always sat in the front row and Prof. McCunn would always pick on him, in the nicest possible way, “and, Now Mr. Wiggins,” we would hear. But he was no fool was Wiggins, because not too long after qualifying he was appointed Official Veterinary Surgeon to the City of London. I bet you never caught him with his arm up a cow’s rear end. Next to him sat Mr. Manton, a man of similar circumstances but better looking, and we would hear, “Now Mr. Manton”, before long he was Resident Veterinary Surgeon to Whipsnade Zoo, a plum of a job.

Some went into the Ministry of Agriculture(MAAF), and some into industry.

More than one qualified one day and the next saw them employed as a lecturer in the very same college where they spent the rest of their working lives. Some chaps were interested only in horses, which meant they were pretty hazy about other species and so failed exams. Of those who came from a veterinary family most had a job waiting for them, but in some cases it was not so simple. Perhaps they were only there to please father and in some extreme cases changed career upon father’s demise or, heaven forbid, before.

6

One fellow student had no intention of engaging in the rough and tumble of general practice and intended to study on for his Ph.D. - but how? He was not exactly brilliant but he hit upon a good wheeze. He realised that a certain roundworm common in pigs was so common that no one had actually written a treatise about it. There was his Ph.D. You know when you read that a scientist has proved something and you say, or think,“Well I could have told them that,” there is some cushy post-grad earning his Ph.D or Fellowship or whatever. I have seen it happen. Then again I remember one little chap, straight from school, who suffered so much from his own ego that he decided to miss out the first year altogether as being beneath him and on qualifying went straight into industry and soon thereafter produced an instruction manual which told us how to vet by ticking boxes; the annoying part was that it turned out to be very useful. No arms up cows’ backsides there. But the one I liked best, a scion of a famous chocolate dynasty, whose motto was,“It’s not what you know, but who you know”. For most of the year he was swathed in a RAF Officer’s greatcoat. That may seem useless information, but it is how I remember him, with affection I might add. In the run-up to every exam he researched the background of every examiner.

In the Viva he would steer the discussion round to the examiner’s special interests and establish a common interest or passion. It seemed to work, such is human nature. Then, on qualification, he rapidly immersed himself in a subject as remote from actual animals as he possibly could - Animal Housing. Before long he was appointed Professor of Animal Housing in the University of Taiwan. From there he was appointed to various prestigious positions in Universities around the world. You have got to admire him. His inseparable mate, an ex RAF Red Cap who incidentally was a superb vet, stuck farm practice for as long as he could and then joined the Ministry of Agriculture for a well earned rest.

I remember them all you see, although I cannot recall what I did ten minutes ago. None of that was to my taste. Although no one in my family had a leaning towards animals, I had always just felt a love for them and comfort in their presence, so that the idea of a career which involved people lending me their pets, albeit briefly, just seemed too good to be true. So when I was let loose in the world of general practice I was in heaven. I did not mind how mundane the task, cleaning ears, anal glands, emptying impacted rectums, I was happy because I was engaged, often in very intimate contact, with the animal world. There is nothing more soothing, more relaxing; and if I could feel that I had helped them cope ‘better’ with life, that was great. In fact my only sometime doubt was - had I done enough. How soppy was that!

7

Starting out as a vet I qualified from The Royal Veterinary in London and was let loose upon the mainly welcoming farmers of Devon. My first job was in Sidmouth, at the princely sum of ÂŁ12 per week plus a free cottage. Being the junior assistant, wet behind the ears and green withall, I was given all the dirty jobs. Although situated in the middle of town it was almost entirely a farm practice. Dogs and cats were not often treated in those days and those who did were looked down on by other vets.

The difficulty about having a practice on the coast is that you have only one way to go - inland. This means that you have to travel farther, and we did. Almost to Lyme Regis in the East, Budleigh Salterton and Exmouth in the West, and Dunkeswell and Plymtree in the North. All this I did in a beat up old Land Rover which I always reckoned must have been the first ever off the production line. The farms were mostly small, but they all seemed to make a living of sorts, and just as the land varied, from rich valley soil to meagre upland holdings, so did the clients. There was the gentry, the Aclands and the Clintons, and there were the poorest of farmers. Some were progressive. One farmer at East Budleigh milked 20 cows well, out of 30 acres. Others carried on as their forebears had for generations before.

But they all called us in for the most minor injuries because, unlike today, our fees were modest.

Just as the farmers varied, so did the land. Along the rivers Axe Exe and Otter the land was fertile but the uplands were pretty poor and so were the farmers. To the west of Sidmouth and then on past Newton Poppleford was the bleak tract of Woodbury Common. But just before this was an area known as Hawkerland. From this unforgiving land some weird characters managed to make a living, and yet they were some of the loveliest people you could hope to find. One of them was deaf and dumb, yet managed to farm his land well and, I always imagined, found solace with his many farm animals. You see, in those days almost all the farms kept all types of stock.

Very few specialised as they do today. Within that stock all breeds were kept, so that it was a sheer joy to walk down the shippon and see all the 8

different breeds of cow. His next door neighbour had lost the use of his legs although the rest of his body was as strong as an ox. He wore a thick loose leather apron to protect his knees and shins and he would crawl about on his knees. Holding a cow for me was no problem. He would just shuffle up to it and grab it by the nose and that was that. Of course all his animals were so tame that he did not have to chase them.

The greatest character in Hawkerland was Farmer Kittle. His was the largest farm thereabouts and he liked you to know it. A short well-spread man he invariably wore a loud Harris Tweed suit and plus fours. I’d heard he was a one-time traveller, and he ran his farm with the aid of his daughter, Daisy, and her diminutive husband, who was also an Irish traveller. One day, after I had completed some mundane task for him, he said to me, “While you’m here” (which meant he did not expect to be charged), “While you’m here vet’nary just have a look at this cow for me. But, mind, her can be a bit ornery.” As we all walked through the shippon door I could see what he meant. She was a large Ayrshire cross with the widest spread of horns I had ever seen and an evil look in her eye. Up piped Daisy’s little husband in broad Irish, “I”ll hold’n for youse sorr! With that he rushed forward and took the cow by the nose. With a contemptuous flick of its head the cow flung him over our heads and into the dirt outside. No one moved. Then Farmer Kittle turned to his daughter and said casually “You hold’un Daisy”.

Then Daisy, who was like the proverbial brick built public convenience, just stepped up to the cow and gripped the cow with her left hand. We had no more trouble. By the way, did I say, it had Wooden Tongue and Farmer Kittle had a bill after all.

My memory, and more importantly my nose is still fragrant with all those cows which had not shed their afterbirth. What was worst was the tuberculin testing. Farming at that time had not, apart from the tractor, altered much in 100 years, and many of the farms were so small that today they would be called hobby farms. But they made a living.

The country was just then trying to eradicate tuberculosis from its cattle. In many of these small farms the disease was rife and they were allowed to have a private test to see how they stood before submitting to an official test. Positive reaction to this meant the chop! So this is where I came in.

Two injections were made into, but not through, the skin of the neck. (This was made possible by a very clever automatic syringe invented by a vet called McClintock. He actually ran a practice in Norwich. In my last months in the Army I heard that I could get special leave to obtain experience for 9

my future career. I called on Mr. McClintock to further this aim. I always remember the definite manner in which I was told to clear off?).

Unfortunately for many of the farmers the results of these tests meant that 50% or more of their herd would have to go. It got so that I dreaded putting my head round the cowshed door. The condition of the milking herds in Devon was pretty dire at this time, mainly due to ignorance, but by perseverance, the veterinary profession eventually controlled tuberculosis in milking cows, only for governments to allow it to flare up again in recent years.

This test only showed cows which were carrying TB. Much worse was the cow which was actually suffering from TB, and here we get technical! The farmer would call us in to see a cow which was losing weight and probably had a dry cough. The method of testing was very simple, and I could really recommend it to the NHS. All that was needed was a piece of cardboard about one foot square and a stiff straw about eighteen inches long, both readily available on the farm. Someone then held the cardboard on the wall in front of the cow. I would then grip the cow’s nose in one hand and with the other tickle the beast’s throat with the straw. The result was a great cough and sputum flying from throat to cardboard. I never knew it to fail. Thus armed with my sample I would head to the farm kitchen, only diverting to my battered old Landrover to pick up my microscope. Every self-respecting vet carried a microscope in its heavy wooden case. In the kitchen “mother” would clear me a space on the corner of the kitchen table.

There, using two microscope slides, I would prepare my specimen and stain it with Ziehl-Nielson stain, also carried in the box. Now came the problem; a light source for my microscope. I have used natural sunlight, Tilley lamps or even a candle. Only the Tubercle bacillus took up this stain, and there you were!

On one such occasion one of the partners was sitting at the kitchen table on a farm near Honiton enjoying a cup of coffee. He had just confirmed a severe case of tuberculosis in a milking cow. The farmer said, “I just can’t understand it. That cow has milked well right up to this morning. Isn’t that right mother? Well, come to think of it that was her milk went into your coffee!”

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A very unusual practice Little did I know what I was letting myself in for when I rang the doorbell of Elm Cottage for my 11 o’clock interview for my new job. As the vet opened the door the church clock across the road started to chime the hour and she said, “My God, you’re punctual”. I got the job and my life changed for ever.

DIY was the theme of this veterinary practice. It was set up by a man named Hoddinot whose attitude to life was summed up by the following anecdote.

During the war the Luftwaffe dropped a stick of bombs across the property, but destroyed only a large brick and timber greenhouse. When he got compensation from the government he painstakingly gathered up all the bricks, rebuilt the greenhouse and pocketed the money. I never met him, but I did later meet his formidable widow and I can only think that after living with her the task of picking up a few thousand bricks must have seemed like easy living. His successor, my boss, continued this way of life.

If he wanted boarding kennels, he built them himself, but not your run-ofthe-mill wooden kennels, but a grand two storied cement affair housing a hundred dogs. The noise was horrendous and a door connected kennels and surgery, bringing racket and sawdust. I soon changed that. My first day was one of shock. The kennel inmates were mainly fed on still-born calves donated by farmers and cooked in a great iron cauldron. Did I say donated?

Did you ever know a farmer give something for nothing. They saw they were recompensed. Mind you, farmers could be generous in other ways, as I was to find out.

Of small animal work there was very little, my predecessor having left with most of the clientele to practise in central Plymouth, so for the first week I cleaned out the kennels. I think it was at the boss’s suggestion and was a test of sorts. I have never been proud and I was pleased to have something to do when all around me was manic activity shown by the four surgery girls who ran the clipping, boarding and quarantine kennels. When I pulled open the top, home-made drawer in the surgery by the handle my hand came away covered in dried blood and what else was that? Better not to know. I could see I had a lot of work to do.

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In a filing cabinet I found many letters of complaint which, judging by his replies, the senior partner regarded with insouciance. Yet there were two extremes in the practice. Despite the dire conditions I have mentioned, all the vets’ cars were fitted with radio telephones and on a high shelf I found a beautifully prepared skull of a Chinchilla and beside it a bespoke crafted mouth gag designed to facilitate dental work on Chinchillas, who were all the rage at the time. The senior partner often reeked of the pigs he kept in the garden, yet this did not hinder his social life which embraced the county set. He and his wife liked to host dinner parties at which, and I kid you not, the ladies left after the meal to powder their noses while the men stayed and passed the port. The clientele included the Lord Lieutenants of both Devon and Cornwall, a couple of Earls, and all aristocratic grades on the scale, many churchmen included an eccentric Canon from Bodmin who always sent two delightful young men up with his pets. To accompany these we also were honoured by the custom of all the villains of Plymouth’s greyhound racing track. Bank Holidays were mad. The principle of the booking system seemed to be never turn anything away (a principle which stayed with me) so that when kennels filled up, dogs were just tied to the fence at the top of the spacious garden, and Saturday was a full working day.

This was a whole different culture from Sidmouth and I realised I was in my element. Surgeries started at 8.30am for one thing and when it got around that there was a new chap at Milehouse and I got things moving, clients queued at the door at opening time. It is a myth that countryfolk rise early for in the city activity never ceases. No matter what time I was roused from my bed there were others intent upon their business and the night howled with police and ambulance sirens, one of which often involved me. In fact I often made special arrangements to see clients before the 8.30 start. Yet my greatest baptism came with the number and frequency of RTAs (Road Traffic Accidents) and with the method of treatment. I had noticed in the surgery a great industrial size roll of thick brown paper on a holder and thought they must post a lot of parcels. Then I saw it’s use to treat fractures.

First the limb was set, then wrapped in layers of brown paper and each layer was painted with hot glue which had been heated in an iron pot, a scary procedure. When cold it set hard. I tried it once, but only once. On one occasion I picked up a dog which had been run over outside Plymouth’s Isolation Hospital. Yes we had those in them days. We were organised. The doctor in charge, a regular client of mine, came out and said he would foot the bill, a generous offer, but on one condition, he said, touching me on the arm, “No glue and brown paper!”

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The good old days Just after the war, most veterinary surgeries were pretty bleak affairs. The Sidmouth surgery was typical; an old brick building behind the Volunteer Inn. That was it, just bricks, no plastering or any attempt at comfort whatso-ever, and as cold as charity. Where I saw practice as a student, in London, Stevenage and North Tawton, it was just the same.

Yet the mornings all hummed with activity enough to keep anyone warm.

Steam filled the air as syringes, catheters and instruments were sterilised for the day’s work on open gas rings - syringes and needles in small stainless steel dishes and long catheters, also stainless steel, in long fish kettles- all bubbled away like the devil’s cauldron. These long conceived with a liquid known as Lugol’s Iodine. Who Lugol was I never divined, but the farmers swore by this treatment, so it was in great demand. We made the solution up every morning in recycled calcium bottles. We also made up various medicines, many specific to the practice and so powerful that the corks had to be held down with string and hot sealing wax. At that time we did not have antibiotics, but we did have Sulphonamides, soon to be overshadowed

by Penicillin, but never-the-less very useful drugs. A treatment for diarrhoea in cattle required a precise amount of powder squared up on a bench with a spatula, divided into 16 squares, then each wrapped in brown paper to make a twice daily dose. In the cupboard was a Red Drench, a loaf-size block of Epsom Salts, and a Brown Drench, mainly ginger, a very popular bovine tonic. The shelves above held wonderfully shaped glass dropper bottles of oils and exotic tinctures.

All this activity then led to the ceremony of the day. As we all gathered around the pulpit which held the large diary and the day’s tasks were handed out, the gossip flowed and any young vet was able to learn more than any college could teach.

Usually someone was missing because he, unlucky soul, had missed breakfast for a calving, lambing or milk fever. Clients would wander into this hive of activity, bringing their pets for treatment, but such work was never 13

any more than a sideline and any money taken would be thrown into the petty cash. There was at that time in the profession a very macho attitude that the only real work was farm work. This lingered on into the sixties when I was trying to build up a town practice in Plymouth on the back of a large farm practice. The principal of a firm across the Tamar in Saltash was an irascible Welshman. On being called upon to visit a dog in the isolated Saltash Passage he got out of his car with the statement, “I don’t usually visit bloody dogs!” Needless to say the client, a breeder of Chesapeake Bay Retrievers, transferred to me forthwith and became a lifelong client. Then he introduced me to his neighbour, a certain Mr. Thomasjeski, and when he died, his widow continued as a client for many years as long as she kept dogs. That’s how it went. I cannot speak for today, but then there was a protocol for the free and easy transfer of clients as they wished. It was all very gentlemanly. The etiquette was for the gaining practice to inform the losing practice; a pointless exercise really because the client had the right to do what they liked. But there was a vet in Honiton who styled himself with a military title and would have none of it. He would call on the hapless client and demand to know why. Two times out of three they would meekly recant. The veterinary profession was full of eccentrics.

You may notice I have made no mention of nurses. That is because there weren’t any. If any assistance was required with patients we called in the yard man. Every practice had a yard man, who maintained the cars, cleaned up, and generally did anything required of them. A marvellous breed of men.

The only female in the practice was upstairs in the office trying to decipher the scribblings in the ridiculously small books in which we recorded, under most difficult conditions, our day’s work on the farms.

It may all sound very primitive and hard, but it was a wonderful career, in an atmosphere of freedom which you can hardly imagine in these days of rules and regulations.

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Veterinary after the war What you have to remember is that after the war, apart from the tractor replacing the horse, farming had not advanced very much for generations.

There were many small farms which represented a way of life more than an industry, but nevertheless, unsophisticated farming meant that the animals were not handled very much and when they were, the result was mayhem such as you can hardly imagine. A cattle crush was a rarity. Farmers did no paraveterinary work themselves as they do today. We did everything, even down to castrating and tailing lambs; we would be called in to treat a single pig or even a chicken. After all our visit charge was only 7/6d (37½p).

For any longer visit we would send a postcard and then a phone call warning of our arrival and the time. Most times I would arrive to find no animals had been brought in from the field. “I’ll just go get ‘em. Won’t take long”, and my heart would sink. Of course the cows, sheep or pigs knew this was not normal and decide not to co-operate. Time and again, we would almost get them in and two or three would make a break for it. I remember one farm near Whimple. The yard was deep in glutinous mud and in the farm kitchen the ashes from the stove had not been cleared for weeks and had spread halfway across the kitchen floor. You may think I exaggerate, but I assure you I do not. I once drove into the yard of the farm near Weston. The whole area was 6 inches deep in liquid mud and I was just deciding where best to park when around the corner came the farmer’s wife wearing just a large jute sack with holes cut in it for her head and arms. When she stepped into the house I could see she was barefoot. But back to the farm at Whimple.

On this visit, one cow point-blank refused to go into the shed as she knew something was up. After many attempts the farmer, a short-tempered man, shouted “I’ll kill the b******,” and rushed into the house leaving the rest of us bemused. His son-in-law tapped me on the shoulder and said, “He means it you know, I’m off”. With that the farmer reappeared with a loaded shotgun in his hand. It took several of us to wrestle it from him.

15

But in general, it was not the cows who were the trouble, except in one respect. In summer, a vet would be ill-advised to walk down a shippon full of cows unless he was wearing his waterproof coat, With the rich summer grass their faeces were liquid and I swear they knew what they were doing when they lifted their tails at the approach of a stranger and fired a foul jet several feet. The young stock was the worst to handle. To be in a loose box, nursing precious medical equipment, (no disposables in those days), you needed to use all your senses and reflexes.

Along the old A30, between Fairmile and Rockbeare there was a farm building, a loose box made of horizontal clapboard. I believe it has since become a cafe and then a crèche. Well, on this occasion, we had managed to get a group of 20 yearlings in and were preparing to go in and do battle with them. It was obvious they had other ideas and were literally kicking up a storm in there. Now, on every farm amongst the hands, there was always one comedian, who was the butt of all the banter, but gave as good as he got. This ancient worthy was leaning against the shed miming shock at all the turmoil within. He suddenly noticed that his boot lace was undone and bent down to re tie it. As he did so, one of the clapboards exploded out just where his head had been. “Thee best come away, Jack” cried one of the men. Jack retreated in a dignified manner, but as he did so, the whole of the side of the shack fell outwards over him. But, you know what? He stood in the shadow of the door frame, which fell around him leaving him completely unharmed. You may have seen it on Laurel and Hardy, or Michael Crawford in Some Mother’s Do ‘Ave ‘Em” - but I have seen it in real life. But his luck was short-lived, for in their delight at their new found freedom, the yearlings burst out en masse and knocked him flying.

16

The end of an era When I was nearing the time of my demob from the army I was summoned to appear before the Colonel to discuss my future career. When I said I hoped to become a vet he observed that he did not think there was much prospect there since there were now few horses. He could not have been more wrong, but in vet college the horse was still by tradition the prime subject. Yet I was lucky to see the last days of the heavy horse. Just along the road from the Camden Town College, 200 heavy horses were stabled under the arches at King’s Cross Station, Shires, Clydesdales, Percheron and Suffolk Punch. In Stygian gloom they rested thankfully overnight, four to every arch, lit by oil lamps: and in the half-light their shoes shot sparks as they trudged in from a hard day’s graft delivering goods to the railway’s customers. Then one morning they were gone, to be replaced by smelly, noisy, dangerous lorries.

Everything was on the change in farming. Until then it was a way of life, but after the war business stepped in. There were some big farms but the majority were small. It was possible to live off 30-50 acres, with a few cows, pigs and some sheep. Some lived shambolic lives and dressed accordingly but others wore immaculate tweed suits which they then covered with a brown drill coat. Yet basically it was all the same. The flat cap of the poor farmer might be contorted into a twisted shape and redolent of many hours pressed against the yielding flanks of generations of cows but it was still the same worn by the richer farmer. The brown coat, where had it gone? Worn by all, from the warehouseman to the managing director touring his factory.

Yet remember that everyone wore a suit and tie, no matter how tattered and greasy. Many wore celluloid collars fixed by stud front and back.

I always wore a white shirt, with separate Van Heusen collar. As I spent much of my day with one or other arm up to the shoulder in a cow’s rear end, my wife cut my shirt sleeves off flush with the shoulder. Even then my shirt was often stained. No latex gloves then. My fellow assistant in Sidmouth was allergic to bovine fluids yet he had to buy his own rubber gloves. I never found it necessary to even loosen my tie, let alone remove it. Put my 17

jacket back on and I was fit to enter the lounge of a lord. The jacket! In it’s many pockets I could carry all the instruments I needed for the average consultation, plus money, pen, notebook etc. Take modern man with his sweater and tight jeans and his wallet projecting enticingly from his back pocket. He takes half the consultation time to gather his tools together.

Don’t get the impression all was genteel and sedate. As a student I did visits with a young vet who later rose to the top of the profession. He wore a pin stripe suit and worked so fast that I had to run to keep up with his frenzied pace. He would leave a house, jump into his car and be off, and I had to leap into the moving car or be left behind. No seatbelts. A few years later I would learn the art of jumping into the car and driving off before even closing the door, using the car’s momentum to close it. You could do this because there were few other cars on the road and also hurtle around country lanes, but if you did meet someone the brake of those days meant you rarely stopped in the same direction you intended. I always thought that Honiton High Street resembled a Wild West cowboy town with it’s wide vista and emptiness. There were even horse carts, and I sometimes saw a horse hitched up outside a shop.

Such antics were needed because of the heavy workload we carried, on a five and a half day week, plus nights. This was a result of the absurdly low fees we charged but also the macho attitude in the profession at that time.

The Veterinary Journals were full of how many miles the writer had driven in a year, leading one wag to calculate that one such had driven into every farmyard, thrown a pack of antibiotics through the shippon door and out again. Half of my college year migrated to MAAF or industry for a quieter life but I loved every minute of it.

These were the last days of the universal wearing of hats. My father wore a bowler to work. Many vet students, in an effort to look the part, would wear a flat cap. Ringing a bull would see a rite of passage for many a student.

When it came to the delicate business of inserting the tiny brass screw to secure the ring a hat was often held under the bull’s nose to avoid losing the screw in the bedding straw. “Lend me your hat, boy”, the vet would say, and the hat was duly held under the nose while it was first punched, the ring inserted and secured. Then the hat was returned to it’s owner redolent of bull blood and snot amidst straight faces all around. Me? I never wore a hat!

18

A time we have lost I suppose that if you imagine a modern day vet, a picture comes to mind of a smartly kitted type in a state-of-the-art surgery. It was a different story in the 1950-80’s. It was a time of great change, of post war initiative and vigour.

Most students were mature ex-servicemen and we were determined to build a better world, and to do this we took little heed of bureaucrats. In the 50-70’s we cleared the country’s cattle of TB from a level of infection far, far, worse than anything seen today. But, then, there were fewer badgers!

We spent little time in the surgery and motored many miles on country lanes or city streets. Personally I never wore a white coat in surgery as I found it upset my patients and I look upon the Sat-Nav inspired navigation of modern youth with amusement as they try to find their way. I would set off with the terse advice, “Go past Tucker’s farm, right at the crossroads, and it’s a mile on the left”. I cannot recall getting lost. If so, you just stopped and asked the way. Yet I regard those days as the golden age of the veterinary profession when it’s standing with the public was the highest ever. This may have been helped at the time by a general consensus that veterinary study was the most difficult course of the day, and of course James Herriot. I can certainly confirm that. It consisted of a number of subjects, all requiring much memorisation, which dovetailed in over the basic 5 years, so that at anytime you were taking 2 or 3 subjects and the exams came at irregular intervals. If you failed you were relegated to repeat the subject, so that I knew people who took as much as eight years to complete the course.

In most practices the only back-room staff was one hard-worked secretary, or wife, and a yard man, so that if you owned your own practice, there was a lot more to it than just treating animals. Most practices would board at least a few dogs and cats. In Plymouth I ran a large boarding kennels for dogs and cats and later, exotica, from rabbits to reptiles, a very busy clipping parlour - this was the age of the poodle - a quarantine station and a transport business collecting dogs and cats from airports and ports for our own and other quarantine stations. That was five vigorous enterprises which meant a lot of logistics, accounting and staff. Everything was bought in bulk, and 19

such factory by-products as Farley’s Rusks and Ambrosia Rice Pudding eagerly collected. Sawdust and straw likewise, and chain-link fencing was procured from a Youth Remand Centre in Cornwall. There were no readymade kennels, we made our own. I became an expert in wire work, enough to satisfy the MAAF inspectors.

In the early days there were no veterinary nurses. We had what we called surgery girls. They were multi-taskers. For example, one would work in the clipping room and then shoot up to the quarantine kennels to exercise and clean. I can assure you their work did not suffer. Their cowboy or lion clips were a joy to behold. Another would be in charge of the boarding kennels and any one of them would assist with operations. These jobs were in such demand that when I advertised a vacancy, there was a queue from the surgery to the main road, some 50 yards.

Mine may have been an extreme example, but many vets did something similar. On the other hand I once visited a practice in Hayle where the vet’s wife earned more from her boarding, clipping and dog breeding than he ever did, or ever would, from his veterinary practice. But then he was pretty laid back. He spent most days fishing from his boat, and he showed me a telephone box situated almost on the beach where he would land every two or three hours and phone home in case he had any calls. When I visited another vet in Ashburton he showed me a vast table in his kitchen where he operated on one end while his wife cooked at the other.

What I am saying is that this was a time when most vets worked frenetic long days, but others chose not to because they were free of the regulations which stifle today’s profession. New medicines were being marketed every month and the practising arm of the profession seized upon them and often found further uses for them which stand to this day. I believe that would be a crime by today’s regulations. It was a time of initiative, of a profession peopled largely by eccentrics who nevertheless formed many of the specialist bodies which exist today. They built the profession of today and I am proud to have been part of that era.

20

Days in court In the post-war years the government chief pathologist was Sir Barnard Spilsbury and he would often appear in court as an expert witness in murder cases. He would expound his findings in no uncertain terms and I, albeit with my much lesser knowledge and even that only relevant to animals, would think, “How can he say that with such certainty?” Well it turned out that he couldn’t. Years later doubt was cast on many of his pronouncements, but he got away with it because there was no one else of calibre to challenge him.

Of course today lab techniques have taken away much of the guesswork.

In the village of Tipton St John lived a pleasant middle aged couple who kept 3 spaniels and I would often visit. Call them Mr and Mrs John Smith.

The Husband commuted to Exeter on one of those underpowered motor bikes beloved by the British, and every morning early he would putter through the narrow twists of Wiggaton. This day was he late or careless in his road sense? Gillie Pyle let his milking cows across the road as he did every morning and John Smith hit one cow side on and both man and cow died instantaneously. I was called away from my breakfast to attend. What I found was a dead cow with a massive impact wound just at the level of it’s heart or it’s blood vessels. That was it. No post-mortem was requested and I returned to my breakfast and the poor cow went to the knacker’s yard.

Soon after that I moved to a new job in Plymouth but one morning I received a summons to appear as expert witness at the inquest. Outside the court I met Gillie Pyle. After exchanging pleasantries he said to me, “Did you hear what they found at the knacker’s?” I said that I had not. “Poor old Daisy had a broken neck”, he replied. That set me revising my prepared summation.

So when the coroner, after the usual introductory rigmarole, asked me “And what in your opinion was the cause of the cow’s death?”, I replied, “A broken neck your honour”. So much for expert witnesses.

An incident in the South Hams established a legal precedent. A working sheep dog belonging to a farm client was run over by a train. A neighbouring vet who was a friend of mine was called to the scene. Trains inflict appalling 21

injuries. He decided the damage was such that euthanasia was the kindest route to take and, no owner being apparent, he carried this out. Now the owner was renowned for his litigational tendencies and when he heard what had happened he took legal steps against the vet, and every step saw a rise in the value of the dog. However when the case came to court the judge took the view that in the absence of any other input the opinion of the vet on the spot is paramount. This judgement went down in legal precedence.

The case which I enjoyed most of all came to nothing. An elderly lady in the Ernesettle area of Plymouth was in the regular habit of walking a Jack Russell belonging to a neighbour and she became very fond of the dog.

However one fateful day, she called to take him out and as she bent down to greet him he attacked her, causing serious damage to her lips and probably scarring her for life.

She was determined to sue the family for damages. Her solicitor contacted me for expert advice and gave me full freedom to investigate the case and interview anyone I wished. All he gave me was a photograph showing the damage to her mouth. It appeared the defendant family had three teenage sons who had shown no interest in the dog until they had recently taken up rabbiting. The claimant asserted that this activity had changed the dog’s nature. It was an interesting change from my usual job when I set about visiting and interviewing. It soon appeared that no one had ever asked the claimant to walk the dog. She had taken it upon herself. Moreover the family regarded her as a bit of a nuisance and couldn’t care less whether the dog was exercised or not. My considered opinion was that she had no case and should withdraw. Even her sensible middle-aged daughter agreed with me but no, she was adamant that she wanted to go ahead.

So I wrote a report for the Q.C. which, mainly to cover the lack of a case was a treatise on the fighting tactics of the Jack Russell, which I likened to guerilla warfare. On the morning of the case I arrived at Plymouth Court to be greeted with delight by a young QC who was wackier than anything you could dream up. It seemed that everyone was enjoying my description of the modus operandi of the Jack Russell as guerilla warfare. Anyway we all retired to the canteen to await the call to court when the news came that the claimant had withdrawn at the last minute. All for nothing but an enjoyable interlude.

22

Night calls When I look back, in my declining year, to my working days I sometimes wonder how I survived it all. For at least 20 years, possibly more, I worked alternate nights and weekends on top of a 5 day week. This meant a lot of night work. Sleep was regularly broken by the telephone. Through the haunting waves of slumber, decisions had to be made. Could it wait till morning? Would I need any special equipment. Location? Must get that right. Folk are notoriously poor at giving directions so an encyclopaedic knowledge of local geography was needed. Then there was the delicate matter of payment. Has to be discussed because, unlike the commercial world, a veterinary business depends on the earnings of the vet and when people steal, for that is what it is, his stock-in-trade, they are also robbing all those employees who depend on him. How many times have I been told “I have the money waiting for you”, and when I walked in the door, “Now about the money”!

So now you have dressed, started the car and are on your way. Still sleepy.

What is the best route? What problem awaits you. Some roads in Plymouth run to numbers over 1,000 and have long front gardens with the number on the house. I had a pillar mounted spotlight on the car just for this. Strictly illegal, but a godsend. I remember a time when I stopped a police car to ask if they had seen a run-over dog. I watched with amusement as the occupants obviously discussed whether to caution me about the pillar spot.

They didn’t and I never was. It met it’s demise when modern cars were produced without pillars strong enough to hold it.

Reasons for a call-out ranged from domestic pets in trouble - injuries, cuts, severe illness, objects lodged in throats - to larger animals, often on Dartmoor. A swan flew into power lines, a lone calf being struck by traffic.

All went into the back of the car. These were just the cases that could not or would not come to the surgery. Many was the time I was told there was nobody to bring the patient in, only to arrive and find 2 or 3 teenagers slumped in front of the TV. 23

Callers ranged from owners to Police, Fire Brigade or RSPCA, and I became a connoisseur of accident set-ups. Dollies were set up, onlookers kept back, but I remember one poor dog, in the gutter on a steep street in a downpour.

Instructions to PC’s not to move the casualty meant that his body had backed up water which gushed over my feet when I picked him up. Some accidents were in dark and lonely spots, others in the midst of bustling night life. I attended a German Shepherd, back broken, in Plymouth’s notorious Union Street. I gave him a pain killer, but you could not hang about in such a place with drunks a plenty. So I picked him up with a lift I had perfected for such cases and as I did so he buried his teeth into my wrist. I like to think that nobody noticed. Just as dangerous was a call to one of Plymouth’s notorious drinking pubs, packed on a Saturday night. Medical bag held high, “Let me through please”, but knock someone’s drink at your peril!

The late hour seemed to create an intimacy with folk. Sitting beside a client while a bitch delivered pups, with intermittent help, in its bed. Sharing pity for a mare with colic which had to be kept on its feet and moving although it sweated with pain. The mutual joy felt as I held a fresh delivered calf or lamb in my arms. The interaction with people, like the young couple, no more than children really, very much in love, who had found this kitten severely injured below their bedroom window. It was obviously their pet, and even more obvious that they had no money... Hence the pretext. I hope I went along with the charade. Charity, charity!

I often gained insight into the terrible tragedies of the night. The young girl dying of cancer, the man in the prime of his life but dying of a brain tumour and sitting in his bed in dread of the coming night. Or the renal dialysis patient who has run out of veins and awaits the arrival of the expert visiting night shift or nurses to rescue her. Did you know that all that went on while you slept?

Then home again and hoping for no more calls, and hoping the car is still there and driveable. One of my partners kept an old banger for night calls, tired of returning and finding the wheels gone. One mile from home a right turn at the crossroads, no traffic and an eerie silence, but a red light holding me. Suddenly a gang of teenagers appeared from nowhere and jumped all over the car, aerial and wipers at risk. I jumped the light and jinked and turned and they all fell off one by one. Back home and I looked up and saw crystal stars glittering in a cold sky and it all seemed worth it. The best job in the world.

24

A life on the road Somewhere back in the 70s the cost of a visit by a vet was so cheap that I was kept busy, between surgery times, careering around the roads of Plymouth and surrounding countryside to fit in a dozen or more home visits every day.

This was a very satisfying time, allowing me to bond with people and their pets in their homes. One day my wife said to me, “As you spend so much time on the road, why don’t you get yourself a good car to enjoy it”. So I did, a low mileage Triumph TR6, garish in it’s body colours, which had obviously been someone’s pride and joy. The only snag was its clutch pedal, which needed a superhuman effort to depress. A kindly mechanic made me a raised wooden shoe which he fixed to the pedal to ease depression, but it still had a mighty kick.

When I first arrived at the surgery in it there was a lot of banter about midlife crisis and bird pullers, but I rose above it all and I thoroughly enjoyed my time driving it. It had a hard removable top which spent most of its time suspended from the garage ceiling and a client made me a tonneau which covered all except the driver’s seat; but unfortunately I had the only two proper accidents I have ever had while driving. In both cases another car drove into me. In the worst incident I was travelling along a residential street parallel to Plymouth’s Alma Road when a car shot out of a side road and struck me on the left rear wheel, making my car spin through 180 degrees, so that I ended up facing the way I had just come. They say that in incidents such as this you see everything in slow motion and I can vouch for the truth of that. As my car spun round, I watched in dreamy horror as I aimed for a substantial looking metal lamp post. A yard short of impact my rear tyre burst with a bang and stopped my spin dead. Someone was watching over me that day.

Driving had not always been that luxurious. I learnt to drive and passed the test in a Morris Minor, that most simple and dependable of cars. After that I did not drive a car for two years, except for a one day hire of an Austin Cambridge. Geordie drives one in the latest series of Grantchester. It had a steering column gear shift and was a very boring car. We also, for a Norfolk 25

holiday, hired an ancient Opel which jumped out of third gear up every hill and every 50 miles or so, deciding it needed a rest and refused to go any further until it had a rest in a layby or farm gateway. Then we moved to Streatley-On-Thames for the final, clinical, year of Vet College, and the only digs we could afford was an ancient caravan which we bought from another student for £150. When it came to vacations, there was no rest for vet students. We had to “see practice” somewhere and produce a written record of interesting cases witnessed. To be near the practice and night calls, it would be useful to tow our caravan to my chosen practice in North Tawton. It would need a powerful car to tow our heavy old 4 wheel van. On the forecourt of a garage in Pangbourne we spotted a big old Talbot 110 with a canvas hood, a running board and headlamps like searchlights. It had a pre-selector gear change on the steering wheel so that you set the required gear, double declutched and carried on your way. There was no choke, but a contraption called KiGas. This had to be pumped vigorously at least ten times and then you tried to start with the ignition key. If that did not work, it was out the front with the starting handle, which either put your back out or dislocated your thumb. So by the time you got it running, you had forgotten where you were going, but just felt the need to go indoors and have a lie down. But what a magnificent beast it was to drive. It cost me £110, of which I had to borrow £100, but I think they must have seen me coming because within 6 months the big end packed up and it was scrap. Still, it served its purpose gallantly, towed our caravan twice and finally, unencumbered by caravan, carried us and all our worldly possessions, which included a pregnant wife, from Streatley to Sidmouth to my first job with the big end clanking so loud that the staff of every garage on the old A303 came out to cheer us on our way.

In the post-war days a job for an assistant invariably came with accommodation and a car. In my case the living was No.1 Bird’s Nest Cottages, Sid Road owned by Farmer Bob Fry of adjacent Sidcliffe Farm and the car was a Land Rover which, judging by the milometer and its general condition, must have been one of the first off the production line. Yet I came to be very fond of it and it was ideal for some of the places I had to reach.

The gear stick was about a yard long and selecting a new gear was said to be like stirring a pudding, but next to it was a lever topped by a red knob which when depressed gave access to another set of ultra-low gears which were then selected by another shorter lever which sported a yellow knob; 8 gears in all and very useful for cross-country work. Comfort - there was none and 26

the suspension made for a bumpy ride. In fact when the boss’s wife ran over her time for delivery of their first born he borrowed it back and took her for the roughest ride he could find. I believe it worked. Seating in the cab was spartan, just a cushioned bench, but with passengers aboard it could be very sociable. Leaving surgery on my round I pressed the accelerator to the floor and there it stayed so that speed was a product of the incline of the road. Going down Straitway Head my ambition was to hit 70 by the time I reached the bottom end. The humped back bridge by the Toll House on Sid Road was much humpier in those days and I regularly tried to leave the ground at the top of the convexity. On two occasions I succeeded and landed with a bone jarring crash just before the corner.

But suddenly on the day the boss’s wife decided she wanted it to pursue her new found interest in dog-cart driving and showing. So I was shunted on to the firm’s other car, a Morris 8. Now the Morris 7 I though was a pretty little car but the Morris 8 was ugly and boring. This particular car had an unusual quirk. The front passenger seat lacked any attachment to the rest of the car.

One time I drove Farmer Bob Fry to a cow on the top of Salcombe Hill and as I shot away with him in the errant seat he, plus seat, rolled back legs in the air into the back of the car. Luckily he had a sense of humour.

In those days windscreen wipers swept only a pitifully small area and screenwashers had neither been thought of or deemed necessary, so I made my own. Wound powder came in small plastic puffers. So when one became empty, I filled it with water and then, setting the wipers a wiping, I leaned out of the window and squirted across the driver’s wiper.

Eventually I saved enough for a deposit on a Triumph Herald. My very own car, with its ingenious forward lifting bonnet which, having no wheel arch, meant that it had the turning circle of a London Taxi Cab. It was a beautiful fun car to drive and could outrun many more expensive cars. They came in only one colour, British Racing Green. From then onwards, with the encouragement of the Tax Man, I changed cars every two years, through the Herald 12/50, the wonderful 6 cylinder Triumph Vitesse range, all that British Leyland and Ford could offer, right up to my present Mini Cooper Special.

In the later days of my career I also ran a smallholding on the outskirts of Plymouth. So it came about that Mr Tax Man allowed me three cars and I had, as well as a Landrover, a Ford XR2 and that wonderful car the Ford XR4.

They only made it for about two years and then stopped production. I think Ford realised they were giving away too much for the price. It had many new devices, including one of the first on-board computers, but the main asset 27

was its top speed of 140mph. Soon after its arrival I said to my wife would she like to take it for a spin up the motorway. I sat as a passenger enjoying a rare chance to view the passing countryside, but suddenly realised it was passing rather rapidly. After looking at the speedometer I said to my better half, “do you realise you are doing 120mph?” She didn’t. Then when my sheep were being shorn I had to go, early morning, to Torex to hire a long cable and I went in the XR2; but in the afternoon return trip I was in the XR4.

The young manager looked at the car and said, “You’re a flash chap. How do you manage it?” I replied, “It’s quite easy. You just work all the hours there are for 35 years and then you just go out and buy it”.

I think the difference between those early days and the present day cars boils down to two factors. First - brakes. Before the advent of the ABS braking, when you hit the foot brake hard you never knew how you were going to end up, certainly not in the direction you hoped. Then there is power steering. If we had to forego that invention today I think we would find driving very hard, but we would probably be a lot fitter.

28

People and pets In days of old, when vets were bold, and fees were not so expensive, I would roam far and wide to visit my patients and life was so much more interesting.

Among my clients I could count the Lord Lieutenants of both Devon and Cornwall, ex-government ministers and various famous people, but most the very ordinary folk who, with their apparently boring lives all have a story to tell. People talk to vets much more than they do to doctors, and so we were a repository of that rich tapestry which is the matrix of all life around us.

I soon learnt that in all levels of society, from the castle to the tenement, you will find equal numbers of the good and the bad. Just because someone lives in a grand mansion he may not necessarily pay his bills as well as the little old lady living in a terrace house on a small pension.

Take the rather querulous old lady who lived with her Sealyham Terrier in a terrace house not far from my surgery. My first impression was not good as she whined and creaked about the house, her legs encased in horrific metal callipers. Then one day she showed me a photograph of herself in WAAF uniform, an attractive 18 year old blonde, and she told me her story. She was being chatted up by an officer outside a hut at RAF Uxbridge when a hit and run Messerschmit fighter bomber attacked the aerodrome. The shrapnel from a bomb shattered her legs and she spent the next 18 months in hospital. Her life was never the same again. Such are the cruel cards that life can deal you.

The daughter of one of the foremost aristocratic families of Devon would often find an excuse to bring her cat to my surgery when the hunt met at her ancestral home. She was beautiful in a Spanish kind of way, and very intelligent. She would stay for a chat, but it was obvious that life sat heavily upon her shoulders; and so it proved because she was soon in trouble with the law and later committed suicide. What a terrible waste.

29

Mrs. P was the chatelaine of a large stately mansion and still lived in a bygone age. When greeting you she would hold out the back of her hand to be kissed, and even for everyday meals her dining table would be set with elaborate place names. She always referred to her husband as “The Major” and their shooting dogs were all named after wild duck. So we had Wigeon, Mallard, Teal and so on. After Major died, whenever there was any decision to be made about the dogs she would say, “I will ask the Major”, and then the next day she would ring me up and say, “The Major and I have agreed to your suggestion”. She was a lovely lady.

In the fishing village of Beer, half way up the main street, a group of old houses were due to be demolished and rebuilt. Meanwhile residents were to be moved. But one old retired fisherman refused to shift. “I will never move” he told me. He called me and asked me to collect his elderly cat on the day of the move and put him to sleep. He said he would leave the fee on the kitchen table. When I arrived I found a police car sitting outside. The police told me that he had been found dead sitting in his favourite armchair with his cat on his lap. They said he looked quite peaceful.

One of my favourite memories is visiting a certain lord and his lady, well known for their philanthropy and public duties, to treat their flat-coat Retriever. When I was shown into the lounge by the butler (oh yes!) they turned to me and said, “Mr. Watson would you mind waiting until we just finish this game?” The game was this; one would hold the dog and cover his eyes and ears, while the other would hide a much-loved toy somewhere in the room. Then the dog had to find it. A simple game but thoroughly enjoyed by all three. I remember thinking how different people are in the privacy of their home and what would people think who only see them in their public persona, civic duties and charity work.

All lovely people and all gone now but, as a vet, I got to know them as they really were.

30

What happened to the brown warehouse coat?

When I was a young vet in the 50’s and 60’s the brown warehouse coat was still seen everywhere, worn by all ranks of society at some time or other for some purpose or other. It had the great advantage, in those penurious times, of durability and the ability to withstand stains and could be put through a mangle, still the first step in drying in many households back in those days. For this purpose, and also that of easy ironing, it had a great asset, removable bone or metal buttons. Each had a shank which slipped through an eyelet in the coat to hold in place a strong button. Just like a collar stud. Simple but ingenious.

To run my old-fashioned veterinary practice which, in the manner of the day included boarding kennels, quarantine kennels and clipping parlour, I had to visit wholesalers of every trade; ironmongery, electrical, plumbing, wire-working - a depot for every trade. The countermen in ironmongers all wore brown coats and fearsome they were to face behind their long counter and behind that long aisles containing every delight of ironmongery known to man. Woe betide you if did not know precisely what you wanted, but show a willingness to learn and they could be kindness itself. On the other hand in timber yards the workers would wear overalls and only the foreman would wear a brown coat, a sign of rank. Best of all I liked the wire workshop, a regular haunt of mine down by the docks. A hell-hole of a place, a low ceilinged cave in a wooden building of noise, sparks and the moaning shriek of metal being cut. A fire inspector’s nightmare.

Where the brown coat really came into its own was with the gentleman farmer on his 25 to 50 acre farm. Always immaculately dressed in a three piece tweed suit he would greet the visiting vet with great courtesy. He lived a life dictated by the needs of his livestock, probably a few milking cows and sheep and pigs. His shippon or byre was spotless as was his house.

I knew one who took this to such an extreme that when we were standing in his milking parlour and a cow raised it’s tail, before the cow pat could hit the ground he was there with a large shovel to intercept it’s fall. You could not see how he subsisted, but there was probably a pension or inheritance 31

in the background. What was sometimes called a remittance man. It was a way of life and he was master in his own house, a situation organised by his wife. Sometimes he might have seemed a tad pompous, but he was the epitome of politeness and you felt comfort in his presence. This was in contrast to his equivalent in the town who often threw their weight about a bit. I could name a few. I recall one who came bustling in just after I had arrived and, completely ignoring me, said to his wife, “Well what does he say?” To which I could not resist replying, “He has not said anything yet. He’s only just arrived”. Yet my gentleman farmer, after the niceties of welcome, would don his brown coat and we would go out for the purpose of my visit and, wellies at the door, his suit would remain pristine.

The workaday farmer ironically, also wore a three piece suit, but would not dream of protecting it, so that it became stained and greasy and was usually topped off with a flat cap so greasy, so shaped to his head that it looked as though he slept in it. I was always fascinated by the way the peak seemed to have worked it’s way round towards the side, the result of many hours of pushing his head into a cow’s side while hand milking. As for changing his boots for “they new-fangled rubber boots”, not a chance. But I bet he had a lot more money in the bank.

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Money matters You may think I put a lot of emphasis on getting paid, but veterinary surgery is a business like any other and money, quite apart from making a profit, is essential to pay staff, buy equipment and medicines. When I moved from Sidmouth to Plymouth I was amazed by the lengths that folk would go to in order to avoid payment. Like the client who would say after treatment, “Shall I pay the receptionist on the way out?”, and then walk casually past the desk with, “Send the bill will you”. So I had to devise counter measures.

The first was obviously to discuss fees before consultation. A good receptionist was needed for this, but it was not always feasible. I had other tricks up my sleeve. If medicines were prescribed I would suggest the client returned to the waiting room, paid the bill, and waited for the tablets etc. or invented an excuse to retain the patient while they paid. This was for shady characters, you understand; but some would still outwit me! I once saw some travellers walking out with their lurcher without paying. It had been admitted after ripping it’s side on barbed wire whilst taking a peaceful stroll with its owner at two o’clock in the morning. My junior partner had broken the rules by handing it over without payment, and when I remonstrated with him he said, “It’s quite alright, he’s just gone out to the car to get his money”. So, more to make a point than to have any hope of success I said, “Right, meet me at their camp after surgery in the morning and we’ll chase them up. Next morning, on our arrival, everyone suddenly disappeared into their vans. But one was too slow and I asked him, “Which one is Johnny Small with a Lurcher?” He replied, “We are all called Johnny Small and we all have Lurchers!”.

Some clients would make false complaints with the aim of getting the bill reduced or cancelled or send the family to collect their pet after surgery.

Difficult to refuse, especially a young child. You see there was always this Hippocratic compulsion on the profession to treat any sick animal, regardless. One time my assistant was called to an injured dog by the police.

On arrival he found that the owner had turned up, a man who had owed us money for years and never paid a penny. The vet’s efforts to point this 33

out were frowned upon by the police who then transported the owner in a police car which followed my assistant and injured dog back to the surgery.

Thereupon the owner laid a charge, which the police accepted, that my vet had handled the dog cruelly. We had a considerable task to clear his name, and we never did get paid.

I one time calculated that one fifth of our work was pro-bono or just plain charity, but I must emphasise that it was all outweighed by the sheer pleasure of working with the great British animal loving public and their pets and I was more than happy to give free care to such as Guide Dogs which were very numerous in Plymouth. Even running quarantine kennels, with it’s attendant difficulties, was a joy. Difficulties because we were carrying out the strict policies of MAAF on pet immigration and there was understandable antipathy on the owner’s part. Yet I met many delightful people and their even more lovely dogs and cats. But I remember one incident. A family came to Britain with their father who was to manage a Plymouth factory. All went well and they paid monthly for their dog’s quarantine. Then father left the family and payments stopped. When the dog’s release time came I agreed when they deposited with me an original painting worth, I checked, three times what they owed me. After some months the daughter came to me and said she had a buyer for the picture and if I let her have it she would sell and settle my bill. So I let her have it and I never saw her again. Sucker, me. My lovely ex-neighbour in Sidbury could never understand why I was such a cynic.

I often had to make allowance for the fact that owners of pets in quarantine had difficulty in getting money out of the country they had left, and then again some cases involved downright charity; such as when a local commando brought home a Labrador which had saved many lives during their tour of duty, or the ship’s dog I had been instructed by MAAF to confiscate from a Russian trawler. I could go on, but I think I speak for most vets when I say that there is no other profession which is expected to do so much for nothing, from officiating at shows to plain charity. I will freely admit that some of it was my own fault because I could never turn a job down. One time a valued client whose dog had a chronic condition had to move to another town and he asked me to fix him up with a vet there. I looked up The Register and rang a colleague in that town. He heard me out and then said,”I am afraid my case list is full”. I am ashamed to say I fell about laughing, because such a concept had never occurred to me.

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However I would not like you to end up with the impression that all I ever thought about was money. Early in my career I realised that the most reliable and loyal clients were, contrary to what many might think, the little old ladies with their pet dogs and cats. I had many of these and I made it clear to the most faithful of these that if they ever came upon hard times I would treat their pets for nothing. Some did, and I kept my promise. When I retired I left them to my ex-partners, much to their distress. My partners I mean!

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Veterinary Nurse I have always had the greatest admiration for veterinary nurses; overworked and underpaid, but they never complained and came to work eager for the day ahead and the envy of their peers who had such boring jobs. At least that was so in my day. One time a fire inspection officer asked one of my staff what she would do in an emergency and she pointed out that her day was one long emergency, and so it was in Plymouth.

In my years at Sidmouth there were no nurses. A yard man was deemed sufficient. Plymouth was a professional shock. There were four girls employed and they did everything, kennel work, clipping, routine hospital work and assisting with ops. We called them surgery girls. Two were mainly occupied in clipping. Almost everyday they turned out 8 major poodle clips, Cowboys, Lambs and Lions, for this was the era of the Poodle. They would also turn out Spaniel and Sheepdog clips and baths. Now if you don’t know anything about Poodle clipping I can assure you this was a prodigious output. But that was not all, because one of them would break off and run, yes run up to the quarantine kennels to give a dog its exercise break. The other would do the same for boarding dogs. Both would also cope with the considerable paperwork for the department. The other two girls, more junior, would clean the boarding kennels and cattery whose numbers, I might add, would make most modern establishments look amateurish. The whole set-up was almost medieval. There was even sawdust on the floors.

I soon set about trying to modernise and improve their working conditions and give incentives for their hard work, but I think they really looked upon my efforts with amusement. Yet, despite all this, the girls of Plymouth went crazy for the job. When I decided we needed more staff I foolishly advertised in the local press. We were overwhelmed by applications, over a hundred. I never did that again.

Then the veterinary profession decided to regulate the situation and create qualified veterinary nurses. It was a simple system. The trainee, male or female, had to have 3 O’levels and a job at a recognised training centre 36

where they would undergo practical and theoretical training for two years and then take an exam. My practice was one of the first centres and we topped off the 2 years by sending our trainees to a 6 month course at an agricultural college in Maidenhead, paid by Devon County Council. This did wonders for those who had never been away from home, until some sort of wit of a councillor decided the money should be spent in Devon and insisted we used Bicton. Not far enough from home, as it was getting away from home which gave the most benefit. They would come back transformed, and I almost always kept their job open for them.

It gave me great pleasure to see the change in these youngsters, many of whom had problems. I employed one, a Geordie, who had difficulty in stringing two words together, but after two years she was a self-confident young woman and married an up and coming young man. The head nurse at my practice has now been in that position for some 25 years, but when she first worked for me she made 3 attempts to get her 3 O’levels. I still remember the group discussion with her fellow staff to decide whether to give her the third chance. You should see her today.

Not all were successful. One, having settled her sexuality, left to become a traffic warden and found her place in life. Another came from medical nursing but had, to her great regret, to give up and return because she could not manage on the money. When I lay in recovery after my first cataract op, she passed by and, recognising me, brought me a very welcome ham sandwich. It takes a person with distinct characteristics to make a good veterinary nurse and these are not always academic.

When I set up my own laboratory, so that I could often see a case in the morning and produce a diagnosis and treatment by the afternoon, I was amazed how young school leavers took to, and were very accurate in, laboratory work. They must have enjoyed the work for they stayed with me for years, even though I sometimes might have wished an individual to move on to give the youngsters a chance. As a group, they were more efficient than any computer. Whenever a home was needed for a stray or conversely someone needed a pet, then one of them would always know someone to fit the bill; and who else would accept from me an unpleasant task (maggots come to mind) and set to work without demur.

I left them all behind over 25 years ago, but every few years I still take several out to The Jack in the Green and I catch up with their lives and we relive the old days when we did what we thought best, unharried by rules and regulations.

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Managing a practice I have never understood the doctors’ complaint that running a practice is a burden because compared to running a veterinary practice, it is a doddle. Ah! I hear you say, but they have so much more responsibility, they are dealing with human lives. Well, all I can say is try telling that to some pet owners I have encountered. Anyway if there is a case for greater responsibility it is counter balanced by the cut throat competition between veterinary practices. If a vet cannot produce results in a month of less, i.e. cure or a productive line of treatment, the client is off down the road to the opposition.

Think of this. Most vets give the complete services, from diagnosis to after care, which means most of those services which doctors hive off; X-ray, surgery, hospitalisation, pharmacy. I could go on. We ran a mini NHS from the hiring of staff to buying drugs and equipment, providing staff cars and vans and, sometimes, housing. Under the Veterinary Nurse Training Scheme we even trained Veterinary Nurses and in my case at least sent vets away on Further Education Courses at practice expense. Over 35 years I had only two specialist surgeons and by dint of spending a fortune on sending them on surgical courses turned them into top rate surgeons. So they stayed with me, and in the early days when I was ahead of the crowd people came from all over Devon and Cornwall for their services. Good staff are like gold.

Many vets lack business sense and these days employ a practice manager and in fact my ex-partners went almost bankrupt some years after I left.

Personally I loved every minute of it. Each evening my wife and I sat down and booked takings from 4 branches and then my wife banked everyday. I always considered it essential to keep everything up to date. I have found, over time that many folk love to be able to say “No,” or “That can’t be done”.

If I was passing by and heard one of my staff saying this I would intervene and point out how it could be done. I have always considered waiting lists to be a state of mind, but of course once they are established they are difficult to reduce.

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In writing this, my wife says, I must not give in to vanity or worse, but then why not, for on the first day of my tenure at my new practice in Plymouth there was nothing and when I left 35 years later, I left behind me a vibrant busy practice of 4 clinics and 6 vets. I shall never forget that first day when, for want of something to do, I went and cleaned out the kennels. Of course there was plenty of farm work but my remit was the companion animal work, which was almost zero since the last incumbent had left, along with most of the clients.

In many ways I was ahead of my time, which was not difficult in those conservative days. My most cherished achievement was, with the aid of a sympathetic plumber, to install a large furnace to burn the enormous byproduct of waste we produced. This then supplied copious hot water and also heated kennels and cattery, an innovation in those days. It also meant we could offer a pet cremation service, and as we were charged by the number of bins we put out it meant we saved a lot of money. Then there was the day the Water Board wrote to me to say that in future the Sewage Charge would rise in accordance with the amount of water we used, and we used a lot to wash the exercise yards. So I looked at the vast roof over the two storey building which housed the dog and cat boarding kennels and I thought, “That could catch a lot of water”. I bought two enormous water silos to catch it and when the Water Board rang up again I was able to say, “Oh, I have found an alternative supply”. The silence at the other end was sheer joy. Of course I had to sign up eventually. You cannot argue with a monopoly, but it gave me simple pleasure in my battle against bureaucracy.

My greatest regret was that I was unable to fulfil my ambition to develop a large grass exercise run for dog boarders, surrounded by kennels. My research showed that the canine urine would kill the grass in no time at all. Recent work has shown that the introduction of a common element to the dogs’ drinking water will neutralise this effect. Also my desire for a hydrotherapy pool for horses and dogs came to nothing for lack of funds.

Yet I would not like you to get the impression that all this reduced my time devoted to my great love, the treatment of sick animals. That must be my legacy. After all it is all in the distant past and pie in the sky.

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Eccentric vets I have always said that, in my time at least, the veterinary profession was the last bastion of eccentrics. There was a vet, very well known in the day because he had written an iconic students textbook on Animal Husbandry.

He had two sons. The younger sold and maintained generators. Indeed he serviced my own generator. On the outskirts of Plymouth, no mains you see. But the other was a vet renowned throughout the profession for his misdemeanours, who was always being hauled before the Disciplinary Committee. On one occasion he smashed down someone’s front door.

Heaven knows why. However his main foibles came with his hobby, flying.

Regularly upsetting the civil authorities by flying where he shouldn’t, such as under bridges, he also developed a feud with his local police. This resulted in him repeatedly dive bombing a police car. He was always being struck off.

They don’t make them like that these days.

When I joined the practice in Plymouth it was temporarily without an X-ray machine. One of my first jobs was to take a Greyhound to be X-rayed at a neighbouring practice in the city centre. I was later moved to say, “I have spent the morning in the company of a madman!” This vet’s every action defined the word procrastination, and in the intervals of that he would break out in song, excerpts from Gilbert and Sullivan. In fact, I was so absorbed in his antics that I forgot the golden rule - concentration; so that when the needle went in the greyhound jumped straight up in the air and when he came down he buried his teeth in the top of my head. This vet managed to run his practice on a shoestring. He instructed his clients to bring a 3inch bandage for use when they collected their bitch after spaying, and from helping him out when he was ill I realised that he ran his practice almost entirely on samples he cadged from visiting reps.

Then there was the student who came to us for experience. He was openly hostile to our charging of clients and said he intended to charge the very minimum by working out of his mother’s back kitchen. Although yet a student, he looked old and world weary enough for retirement, and his name was Doody!

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My senior partner was so successful that he retired at 40, but what a career.

He was so precocious that he completed the 5 year course before he was 21 and had to wait to reach his majority before he could practice. He joined the Plymouth practice and then expanded it so that it stretched from Liskeard to Modbury, from the coast to Tavistock. Nothing defeated him. As well as this he had a vigorous social life. He never refused an invitation and would arrive at calving in full evening dress. He kept pigs at the surgery and would don overalls to attend them but their aroma would follow him to the most urban social functions. He drove a minivan and I have seen him changing his clothes in a city road quite oblivious to the busy traffic almost clipping him. He would go to the cinema on his night on duty and arrange to have any emergencies flashed up on the screen.

Multitalents were his. I was appalled that the two storey boarding kennels, which he had built, adjoining the surgery had no drainage. Sawdust did the job and also trailed into the surgery. I made my feelings known and one day he arrived with a pneumatic drill and put in an excellent drainage system. “I have always wanted to use one of these,” he said.

On his early retirement he bought a farm in Polzeath. He had a very downto-earth approach to everything. When he needed a garage there he built one out of railway sleepers which he happened to have. It was the ugliest building I have ever seen. When he decided to decorate the interior of his farm house he used limewash throughout, even over some of the furniture fittings. He accomplished this task nonstop one weekend without stopping for sleep. When he came to return to Plymouth on the Monday very early, his trusty minivan soon jammed in third gear. He realised that if he stopped he would never get going again so when he reached the toll booth on Tamar Bridge he put money in a tobacco tin and threw it into the booth as he charged through. The toll keeper thought it was a missile and called the police. He arrived at the surgery with a police escort, quite unperturbed.

This attitude to life was his hallmark. I once came into the surgery to hear him being berated by a client. The diatribe went on for some time during which he listened carefully and then finally said, with some concern, “Well, if you feel strongly about it I should tell someone,” and walked away.

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Characters People were such characters back in the fifties. All those dear souls have gone now, so I hope they will not mind me talking about them. Take the village of Metcombe. Many of the farmhouses were side by side behind the stream, while their land could be far away. This led to good-neighbourliness.

Two characters I recall were Ron Abbot and Eli Turner, who always seemed to help each other and get the best out of life. I was once called to a cow down in a loose box. It was vital to differentiate between calcium deficiency or that of magnesium. Quite apart from the cow’s point of view, the latter type could often turn aggressive. I decided it was magnesium and was on the far side of the cow about to raise the vein when it jumped up and went berserk. Ron and Eli were on the door side and were out in a flash. All I could do was gather up my gear and climb into the hayrack, cursing them roundly betimes. I swear I heard them laughing as they slammed the door shut behind them. But I forgave them. Further up the village was a farmer who always wore the “weskit” and trousers of a pin-stripe suit, together with a collarless white shirt. This was worn with a celluloid collar fixed back and front by a metal stud. Whenever he went into the house he would remove the collar and hang it on a small nail under the glass verandah beside the back door. So that when you called he would pop out of the door and reach for his collar, fix it, and he was ready.

As if the cows cared.

At the top of Trow Hill Farmer Northcott, a patriarch of about ninety, ruled over his farm and his family of sons. I remember being invited to breakfast after my task was finished. The sons all sat down to eat. I believe two of them were married, but their wives did not sit with them but cooked and served at table. They seemed to sit in order of age and after the meal father turned to the eldest son next to him and said “get the vet a bag of turnips boy”, (swedes to you), and the “boy” he spoke to wasn’t a day under 70!

After the annual TT test at Burscombe Farm we all retreated, sweaty and bruised, to the cider barn where Cordon Spiller ceremonially tapped his 42

best cider. We sat on a long bench where the single tankard was passed in turn down the line.

Sid Spiller of Ridgeway was different again. A gentle giant, he was one of those big men who often have a high pitched voice. Unusually for a farmer he sometimes wore shorts in the summer. I heard later that he came to a sad end by taking his own life. The Loosemoores were great characters.

Walt, another big man, had one of those wonderful rosy skin complexions that I always put down to drinking a lot of milk. During my time, he moved to Farway where he bought a farm whose main feature was a modern house which had been the Ideal Home Exhibition demonstration house some time in the Thirties. After the show it had been transported brick by brick down to Farway. After his day’s work he delighted in coming home to his state of the art house with all its latest gadgetry. George Loosemoore, like Walt, had a great sense of humour. I remember him telling me in the kitchen of his farm at Pinhill, Sidbury of his little difficulties with the Inland Revenue.

“Of course” he said with a theatrical wink, “I don”t really understand these matters”. He brewed a potent rhubarb wine in a wood half barrel in the kitchen corner and insisted I had a glass before I went on my way. I often had to pull into the side of the road to get my vision straight before driving to my next call. The annual test at Farmer Drake’s at Sidford was a slow affair because every twenty minutes or so he would slip into a wooden shed in the yard which I thought must be his privy. We would all have to wait until he came out again. After one of these interludes I turned to a farmhand and remarked, “Poor chap must have a weak bladder”. He looked at me with scorn and said, “That bain”t no privy. That be “iz cider shed!”.

Back in the 60’s and 70’s in Plymouth, there lived a lady of such eccentricity that if she featured in a work of fiction you might think the author’s imagination had carried him away. When I knew her she was no spring chicken but I think in her heyday she was attractive, otherwise why would her husband, a very wealthy man, have married her, for she gave him a barrel of trouble. Her passion was rescuing stray dogs. She had immense energy and spent days and nights scouring the streets and often rescued dogs before they were lost, so to speak and would often demand that I took in one of her strays at one in the morning. Yet no disreputable bag lady was she, but attended fashionable events where she would bend everyone’s ear to her cause. It was said that more than once, after such an outing she would return to her mansion on The Hoe to find that her husband had locked her out, when she would just bed down on her doorstep for the rest of the night.

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I can testify that one day my wife and I were in town for some shopping.

We were about to cross the road when this lady grabbed my arm and demanded to discuss stray dogs. I politely pointed out that it was my day off but she would have none of it. So we crossed the road, my wife pulling one arm while my nemesis hung on to the other. Any male observing this must have thought, ‘‘What’s he got that I haven’t?’’.

In the Stoke area of Plymouth the wife of a medical consultant ruled her household with a rod of iron. Her forceful nature was matched by her perversity as she controlled her menagerie of people and even more animals. She ruled from the large basement of a four storey Victorian house which she left only for a foray to the nearby shops. Although we had a good working relationship, whatever I suggested she took the opposite view.

For example, if I opined that a dog should have an operation she would invariably challenge me and oppose my view. I soon learnt how to deal with her. I would decide my favourite procedure then suggest the opposite.

A kind-hearted woman, always dressed in severe black, she will remain forever in my memory.

I first met the Lewis-Browns in Plymouth in the 60’s. I must call them that because nothing but a double-barrel name would suit their faded gentility.

He was the son of a vicar and she was a devoted wife, a devotion also shared by their four spaniels and many cats. He was a door-to-door insurance salesman in those early days but I doubt he sold much insurance because he was too honest. So it proved because he was soon looking for work, always dressed in his three piece suit, the same one I believe which he wore all the time I knew him. Yet, as their fortunes waned, and they down sized from house to house they never stinted on their pets’ care or in paying my bill. He was a man of such probity that when, in view of his financial circumstances, I suggested I waive my fee he was affronted. ‘No Mr. Watson, you must earn your living and I must earn mine’.

I remember visiting a greengrocer’s business which was so incompetently run, such a shambles, that it would have been laughable if not so tragic.

Once I visited them in a garret, literally under the eaves, where conversation was accompanied by the plop of water in bowls placed judiciously under the leaking roof, and when I asked for water to wash he triumphantly produced a half full bowl of roof water.

They faced this steady fall in their fortunes with equanimity and their only vice. They both chain smoked, to the extent that their fingers, their lips, 44

and even the ceilings were yellow. Of course all their pets died of lung cancer of obvious causality. Yet the penny did not drop with them despite my repeated suggestions they give up the habit. Then one day I arrived to a solemn reception. ‘‘Sit down Mr Watson,’’ said Mrs Lewis-Brown, ‘‘We must discuss why our pets keep dying’’. I looked at them aghast. I did not know what to say. ‘‘Why it’s your smoking of course,’’ I blurted out. The reaction exceeded anything I could have ever imagined. They obviously never realised. It was painful to see these honest people beat their breasts in self-reproach and I believe it shortened their lives. They both died before my retirement. You will never guess the cause.

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Bill Burnell Bill Burnell was a simple man in every sense of that word. I first met him when I went to work at Elm Cottage veterinary practice in Plymouth in 1961. He was the yard man to the firm. Every practice had such a worthy in those days and his was an essential part of the smooth running of the whole affair. Apart from general cleaning he would maintain the cars, carry out minor repairs, feed the inmates and often step in to help out at lambings or calvings. Burnell did all these things with a quiet dignified manner, but in his own way. He did all this faithfully for many, many, years and then retired and died so quietly that I thought his life, such as I knew it, should be recorded in some way.

He was known to everyone in the practice as Burnell. A man of much personal dignity, he would have regarded the use of his first name as an intrusion into that dignity, but happily to my knowledge no-one ever did. I remember once, after his retirement, I called at his house where I found him entertaining a group of cronies to tea; he never drank. And I was shocked to hear them all calling him Bill and he had a jocular manner which I had never seen before. As to retirement, he kept on working after that date for “the sake of the cats� and he made it quite clear that he did not consider anyone else in the practice was capable of looking after the cats properly.

But he said he would come in his own time for no pay or it might, he worried, interfere with his pension. We did, however, come to a private arrangement about that. I never knew a lot about his past life but I think the fact that he recognised me as a fellow cat lover made him a little more forthcoming. I do know that he started his working life as a delivery boy for Condy Uren the chemists in Plymouth.

When war broke out he was conscripted into the Anti-Aircraft Regiment. By this time he was married and had a son. He was stationed at a battery on Mount Edgecumbe at the time of the great Luftwaffe raids on Plymouth.

Thus it was that he was allowed home after a particularly vicious raid to find his house destroyed and his wife and son dead. He never spoke of it much, but I think it was a turning point in his life. He withdrew into himself 46

and found solace in his love for cats. It is remarkable to think that one of his postings later was to an anti-aircraft battery at Barrowell Green swimming lido North London, where I would often go swimming during wartime, and I well recall seeing its long guns pointing at the sky. Burnell must have been there on some of those times.

He was always diligent in his work, but he had his own way of doing it and it was unwise to interfere. He was very good at a type of carpentry using recycled wood and his wirework was second to none. Wire fencing was of course very important where so many animals had to be securely confined.

He also did all the simple electrical wiring, but in his own rather eccentric manner which would play a role in his very dramatic demise. The most distinctive trademark was his habit of tying a knot in any wiring before he connected into a socket. He said it was so that if anyone pulled on the flex it would not weaken the connection. So that all our wiring looked peculiar.

But more of that later. His other task was to maintain the cars. In this respect, every time he saw someone preparing to drive off he would rush over and rub the windscreen with an evil greasy cloth he kept for that purpose. This meant that as soon as I was safely up the road I had to stop and clean the wind-screen of his greasy smears. It became a battle of wits to jump in the car and away before he could strike. He also had various quaint expressions.

In the course of measuring up a job he would not say a measurement was one foot exactly, he would say it was one foot bare and bare. Or if after a particularly gory lambing in the garage he would say I’ll swamp that down in a minute. He seemed to wear the same clothes all the years I knew him, a black suit with a white collarless shirt, all this topped with black peaked cap of the type favoured by German prisoners of war.

After his mother died he obviously came into a small legacy and he bought himself a very basic scooter, more of a motorised bicycle. But he could knock up a fair speed on it. I would often see him cycling to work along Alma Road and I always said I could judge his speed by the angle of upturn of the peak of his cap. He was meticulously honest about money and would never accept a tip.

There was one hilarious incident which, although none of us witnessed it, we could imagine it from his aggrieved account. A Greek nightclub owner was a regular client, both veterinary and grooming, for his white poodle.

He was a flash character who paid in cash from a wad of notes he produced from his pocket. He was later murdered in a gangland shoot-out. He lived in a grand house on The Hoe. The dog was collected and returned for its 47

monthly clip and bath. There was some competition among the male staff for this task because the dog’s mistress would wait at the top of the wide staircase which is a feature of the grand houses on Plymouth Hoe. And she was always still wearing her baby doll nightie. And she was some looker.

Burnell was of course unmoved by all this, but one time he was met by the Greek himself, a wad of notes in his hand ready to pay. So he stuffed a large denomination note in his hand, took the dog and said “Keep the change”.

This was too much for Burnell who said he did not need tipping to do his job and kept the Plymouth Mafia man, still in his pyjamas, waiting on the stairs while Burnell laboriously searched through his pockets for change and then gave him a signed receipt for the money. We were not there of course, but could imagine it from his affronted account when he returned.

Then came his end. He had finally given up regular visits to his cats, as he called all the boarders and in-patients so we had not seen him for some time. He was found dead in his little one up one down terrace house. For some reason the police asked me to look at the scene and answer questions for about three hours that evening. I saw nothing unusual. He lay at the foot of steps under a bare light fitting wired in his usual way. He had obviously fallen while changing a light bulb and hit his head on the stone floor. He had told me some time before that he was having blackouts. The rest of the scene was normal Burnell. But the police thought differently. They saw a man lying on the floor under a setup which could either have been for a hanging or to administer electric shocks. They saw the walls lined with black plastic to catch blood splashes and the windows covered with the same plastic sheeting. I knew this was opened out body bags; his idea of privacy and keeping the walls clean. What was the clincher for them was that on that afternoon he had been seen arguing with a group of young football supporters in town. It took me a long time to convince them which was quite understandable as they did not know the man. I often think that had he known about it, Bill Burnell would have been highly amused.

The chief of detectives in Plymouth who was in charge of the case was married to Shirley, who was a secretary at the practice I worked at in Sidmouth. How strange is life!

48

Ladies of character Not far from the village of Crapstone in West Devon a very independent, eccentric lady bred Arab horses. I believe in horse breeding circles she had a good reputation. Although in her eyes I could do no wrong, having cured her long standing leg ulcer using a veterinary aerosol, I was not allowed near her Arabs. This honour fell to a friend of mine in a neighbouring practice.

Frankly he was welcome. Her many household pets gave me enough trouble. Yet here I must digress with a few amazing facts. The Arab horse has 17 ribs instead of the usual 18. It also has a concave muzzle, but most amazing is that if you trace the spine up from the base of the tail, between the 13th and 14th vertebrae it is very flexible. This allows the horse to ‘stand’ and ‘dance’, a characteristic which has passed onto the Lippizaner horse made famous by the Spanish School of Riding, although the horses were actually bred in Austria.

But back to the lady horse breeder. In her later years she became frail and took to sleeping downstairs in her rather chaotic lounge. I remember calling one day and the large floor area of the lounge was covered with various bedding, for no one could call her a tidy person. Suddenly the telephone started to ring, but muffled. It was somewhere under the bedding. We both commenced a feverish search. I believe I was the first to locate the extension cord and I tracked it along to the phone.

Whilst she was thus in her dotage a long lost nephew, a rather flashy 18 year old, suddenly appeared on the scene and became very helpful. I remember, during one visit, I brought up the matter of her account. She protested she was unable to pay me because she had mislaid her cheque book. ‘‘I know where it is’’, he piped up. He pulled open a drawer in a side table and there it was! I was paid, but what would you have thought?

On Tavistock Road just up from my Plymouth surgery, dwelt a lady and her delightful Harlequin Great Dane. I would often call to treat the dog, but the brevity of the dog’s life soon caught up and the day arrived when I was called to put her to sleep. Just as I completed the task her next door neighbour dropped round to give moral support. The client said to me, ‘‘Come in 49

the next room where I have your money’’. I followed her obediently. The moment we entered the room she turned and flung her arms around me, sobbing on my shoulder. I was saddened by the end of this lovely dog but this seemed to be overdoing things a bit. Looking over her shoulder I spotted my money on a nearby table. Time was always pushing at my daily round so I thought I might speed things up a bit and reach out to pick it up.

Just then the neighbour, concerned by the sobbing, burst into the room. The tableau which met her eyes must have given her something to think about.

One of the loveliest ladies I ever met was the wife of the local MP of those days who lived in a beautiful mansion above Harcombe. One day I called to treat her cat but he was nowhere to be found. “He’s in there somewhere,” she said, pointing to a dense clump of bushes in front of the house. “You start that end and I will start this end”, she said, “and we should flush him out”. It was a hot summer’s day so I removed my jacket but she was already suitably dressed in a light skirt and sun top. What I believe today would be called a boob tube. We worked our way through to within a couple of yards of each other when her top snagged on a bush and was pulled down to her waist, revealing the fact she was almost completely flat chested. Without any hesitation she looked me in the eye and said “As you may have noticed, my sun-top is completely superfluous”.

Now that’s what I call a lady!

50

Me and the toffs Soon after I retired I was sitting one day in The Refectory at Exeter Cathedral waiting for my lunch. As I gazed idly at the magnificent stained glass window which celebrates the leading families of Devon and Cornwall it suddenly dawned on me that at one time or another they had all been clients of mine.

There they were, each with their beautiful section of stained glass; the Lopes, the Morleys, Parkers, St. Aubyns, Vyvyans and more.

It set me thinking. You could always tell the real aristocrats because they were considerate, had impeccable manners and, as far as I can recall, always paid their bills. They didn’t all live in castles, unlike some of the ex-politicians who had ended up with a title and seemed to think they needed a grand residence to go with it. You would be surprised how many castles or pseudo castles there are in Devon and Cornwall.

However the aristocracy does not always live the privileged life you might think. In my early days in practice, home visits were very common and I gained an insight into clients home life. I could say, with a straight face, that I did some of my best work in bedrooms, but unfortunately under the bed rather than on it. You would never believe some of the things I came across. Then there was their staff, a pretty sullen lot as far as I could see. I well recall, with embarrassment, the look on the face of a head gardener as he was told by the titled lady to dig up some Jersey Lily bulbs for me when she learned I was a keen gardener. You see if you want to get to the reality of a situation always ask the person at the sharp end, that is the working chap, not his boss. I will give you an example. A colleague, a bit of a social climber who liked to be addressed as Major, liked to the boast that the owner of a well known garden near Plymouth, also self-titled, kept him supplied with cuttings for his own garden. Now a friend of mine, a bricklayer, had recently done some work at the garden. Whilst he was there my colleague turned up. The gardener turned to my friend and said, “We know him. He is always hanging around here trying to cadge something for nothing�. Yet despite the grand silver cutlery and table settings, the food often looked pretty awful, prepared and served by a family servant who had 51

been serving the family for generations. And the state of the bathrooms!

My boss in Sidmouth said you could always judge a person by the state of their bathroom.

Yet I was privileged to witness some very touching episodes. I happened to be present when the mature son of a leading Cornish family arrived home to take over the estate after a lifetime in the Army; or the affectionate interaction between father and son at Cadhay. I can say this now because all are gone, even the sons, and when memories are gone the people are gone too. We should try to hold on to memories as long as we can. I was also very impressed by the affection they all bore for their animals, horses, farm animals. Aristocrats always seemed to age attractively, delightfully, especially the women. An easier physical life perhaps? Wherever you travelled in Plymouth you soon came across water. I would often ferry across the Tamar, a tedious business, and sometimes to the Lord-Lieutenant of Cornwall. But my farm animal partner’s reluctance to cross in the small hours meant that clients eventually changed to a Cornish firm. Yet his lady, although no spring chicken, persisted in ferrying her beloved Spaniel over to me and would arrived reeking of brandy, bringing that delightful aura of confident bonhomie and friendliness typical of a true toff. A man of the people me, but I just loved her.

Then there were the social climbing wannabees. Probably lived in a castle or mansion. There was one couple who occupied a castle in Cornwall. I believe they ran a business selling packaged herbs. They were fond of holding food fairs and art exhibitions in their castle, to which I was initially invited. Money seemed to be no object, except when it came to paying my bill, which grew and grew. I mentioned it on every possible occasion until they got round that by transferring their affection to my senior assistant who, being Irish, was more relaxed in such matters. Then they did a midnight flit leaving debts all round.

Yet the impeccable manners of the aristocracy are not always reflected in their offspring. I remember one such scion who returned home to take over from his aging parents. He was autocratic and dogmatic. Pending the final takeover he was living in a lodge house on the estate. I had reason to visit there and entered by grand semi-circular steps and through some large rattly old wooden doors with a large brass door knob. When I left he said, “I wonder if you would give the front door a sharp tug as it does not close too well”. So I did, with the result that the door knob came off in my hand and I tumbled back down the steps. As I lay on my back on the gravel drive 52

with the large door knob still in my outstretched hand like some supplicant martyr, and all shook up, he came out. “I am so sorry”, he said, “a lot of people seem to do that”. I was about to get up but it looked as though he was about to help me. So I stayed. Instead he just took his door knob from my hand and went back up the steps to fit it back on!

53

The things people do My brother was a big whiz in the City of London. I called on him one day in his office overlooking a busy, frenetic, London street. While waiting for him I chatted to his secretary and she said she loved it there as she could look down to see such exciting life passing by. Having experienced both town and country life I could not help pointing out that it was nothing compared to what went on in the average village or farmstead.

Take the middling size farm I called upon many times with my boss as an eager student in that god fearing part of Mid-Devon around Winkleigh. It was farmed by two brothers and a sister who had come into equal ownership by the early death of their parents. They ran a tidy farm in the old-fashioned way and all went well until one brother got himself a girlfriend and wanted his share out to set up on his own. No doubt his intended had seen what happens when a new female is brought into such a situation. But the other two would not hear of it or even discuss the matter. So it niggled on for months, until one fateful morning, months of frustration brought him to desperation. He loaded his shotgun and killed his siblings both, and then, no doubt aghast at what he had done, turned the gun upon himself and ended it all.

When I was an assistant vet in Sidmouth I was never allowed to take the telephones. The jobs were passed on to me by one of the principals, which meant that I usually got the more unpleasant ones. It was good training for when I got my own practice. I made a point of always doing the unpleasant jobs myself. One night I was sent on a rather vague visit to an affluent area on Peak Hill to attend a Dachshund. Apparently the caller had been rather incoherent. On arrival I walked into a very drunken party. A man, tall and melancholy in his geniality, in the manner of the legless, stood out from the alcoholic melee in such a way that I assumed he was in charge, but neither he nor anyone else could recall sending for the vet. So I examined the dog, who seemed to be enjoying the party, and found nothing amiss. Before I could leave, the dog’s owner insisted I had a drink. My protests went unheeded and, glass in one hand and bottle in the other he proceeded to 54

pour me a glass of wine; but he completely missed the glass. He solemnly handed me the empty glass with the words, “There you are my dear fellow.

Have that one on me”.

As a student I also saw practice near my home in North London. The owner of a Cocker Spaniel had been to the surgery two or three times and it was obviously suffering from advanced cancer. The vet had tried to suggest on every occasion that he should be put down but his owner would not hear of it. Then came a call to visit as the dog was too ill to bring to the surgery.

I well recall this because it was a salutary lesson to me of man’s deceitful nature, although in this case it had a certain nobility. The house was at the Northern end of that part of Green Lanes known as Wood Green, a strip known for it’s shops. A place where everyone went for Saturday afternoon shopping. I believe they shoot each other there now.

Soon after we arrived the man’s wife blasted us with accusations that we had kept the dog alive just to make money. We were dumbfounded. In the heated discussion which followed it emerged that after every visit to the surgery the husband had told his wife that the vet had said the dog was responding well to treatment and advised to continue. What will man do to keep his beloved companion!

Athenaeum Street in Plymouth runs directly up to Plymouth Hoe and boasts several small hotels; no more than B&B’s with aspirations really. To one such I was a regular visitor to treat the owner’s poodle. I came to know what follows because on every visit subsequent to this event I was regaled with more details by the, understandably, bitter owner. She was not the most pleasant of people but she did not deserve her fate. In the Autumn, after a busy Summer, her husband suggested they took a holiday and said he had booked everything as a surprise and had even booked a hair appointment for her on the morning of their departure. He had also given their only resident staff, a young chambermaid, a two week holiday and she was upstairs packing. So on the morning of departure he said to her, “Off you go and get your hair done and you will be back in time for the taxi to the airport”. So she went. Then he ran off with the chambermaid!

55

Tragedies Someone once said, “Life is one long tragedy”. I certainly, in my travels, saw my share. I have said before how people confide in me as a vet. A farmer from Sidbury told me how as a young man he was driving his horse and cart down Station Road in Sidmouth in a storm with his new young wife at his side.

Driving a farm horse in a cart can be one of the most beautiful of experiences, as I can vouch myself. Suddenly a tree fell across the cart and his wife died instantaneously, while he received only scratches. Can you imagine that?

In Buckley Road Sidbury there lived a handsome middle aged couple. They would often come to the Sidmouth surgery with their boisterous Cocker Spaniel. One cold winter’s night, readying for bed in their luxurious house, they switched on one of those electric bed warmers so popular then. It wouldn’t work. “Oh well, just warm it on the Aga”, one said. A few minutes later it exploded, smothering both their faces with caustic chemicals. They were scarred for life.

I was called to the scene of a fire in a cul-de-sac of fine houses, just behind Plymouth Hoe. An old lady had fallen on a paraffin stove and died. Her cat had survived by hiding in a cupboard. I started off badly because my entry to the cul-de-sac was blocked by a TV cameraman intent on getting an overview of the scene. Full of his own importance he just glanced back and said “You can’t come along here”. I had to disabuse him of that idea and we parted on unfriendly terms. When I arrived at the front door the young constable on point duty was very solicitous because he said I would have to walk through the focus of the fire to reach the cat in the cupboard. I am afraid I rather dismissed his concern but he still said, “Well mind where you tread”.

Now the main characteristic of a fire scene is the blackness that engulfs you and I was stepping gingerly by torchlight when I looked down and realised I was astride the charred body of the little old lady, looking rather like a large doll. I had no option but to carry on to the corner cupboard where the cat was cowering. Then I had to return. We found a good home for the cat.

Many events remain in the memory. Such as the day when the hounds streaked across the railway line near the village of Cornwood just as the express came through. Trains do terrible damage; or the time I was called to 56

a squat in Devonport where 5 dogs had met a sudden death, spread about the squalid scene in the throes of rictus. With the aid of the MAAF Lab I came to the tentative conclusion that someone had given them takeaway leftovers, the foil plates were everywhere, and in their ravenous hunger they had eaten not only the food but parts of the plates as well, the interaction of the metals proving toxic.

When I first qualified I found myself becoming increasingly involved in clients and animals tragedies so that, for example, I have lost something of myself every time I put an animal to sleep. I had to resolve that I would try to harden myself to life, but there was one event which has always haunted me. I had regular clients, a pleasant couple who lived in Turnchapel with their Dalmatian dog. He was well known at the surgery because as well as treatments he spent frequent spells in the kennels when his owners went away for short breaks. The husband was a jolly Betjemanesque type of character, and the wife was a very likeable matronly woman, a busy local midwife. I got to know them well and on one of my visits to the house she revealed that she suffered from severe depression. She also explained that, contrary to some opinions you could not shake it off or ‘snap out of it’. Anyway one Friday she brought her dog into me and said would I board him until Monday when her husband would collect him. She went straight home and killed herself. I have always, to this day, felt that if I had even an inkling of her intention I might have talked her out of it. Yet life had to go on and the close company of animals would soon raise my spirits, as they still do.

57

The Commander I always referred to him as The Commander but in truth I never knew his actual rank. It was so natural to imagine him, short of stature, but long in gravitas, strutting across the bridge of some naval ship. I saw quite a lot of him and his wife because they bred King Charles Spaniels. They were a pleasant pair and I got on well with them and they seemed to be living an idyllic retirement. Then tragedy struck. His wife developed a form of dementia, a particularly unpleasant type whereby she became aggressive, both verbally and physically. Apart from attacking him she would repeatedly accuse him of various misdemeanours. After about a year of this she died.

One hesitates to say it, but there must have been some relief on the part of the Commander and his two grown up sons, each with his own family. To help with the funeral arrangements a family relative of his wife arrived from Canada. She and the Commander got on very well and the upshot was that he went back with her to Canada to live. A happy ending.

Well the sons did not think so, for there went their inheritance, I never felt so comfortable with either of them as I did with their father. The elder of the two seemed to have too much of his mother’s aggression, which resulted in an unpleasant episode. He did not come often to my surgery but one day he and his wife came in and placed their dog on my table. They obviously had a great difference of opinion which they continued to air in my surgery.

His wife was really letting off steam, until he finally shouted, “shut up”. This seemed to have no effect so he just smacked her round the face. Well I usually made a point of keeping out of family arguments but at this I had to say, “steady on. I am not having any of that in here”. I cannot recall the consultation nor seeing much of them as clients after that. Nor was I sorry about that to tell the truth. In my work I saw quite a bit of domestic abuse, but that is a story for another day.

The younger brother was a different proposition. Much more approachable.

He was one of those self-build DIY’ers whose house renovation meant they lived in an ambience of half built walls and building supplies stacked in the garden. At least this was so for all the time I knew him. He had one great 58

asset, his wife. A statuesque blonde, she oozed sexuality, maternity and kindliness in equal quantities. Soon they had four lovely daughters, and the chaotic house filled with dogs, cats, birds, hamsters, guinea pigs, gerbils; you name it they had it, and they were all well looked after. As you can imagine I was a frequent visitor to this menagerie. There was only one cloud in their happiness. Daughter number four, the youngest, was autistic.

Yet they took this misfortune in their stride and it was a happy house, for she was cherished.

On one fateful day his wife was driving home from visiting a friend in the village of Crapstone, with the girls in the back of the car. She had to negotiate the T junction where the road from Crapstone joins the Plymouth to Tavistock Road across the moor. Who knows what happened in that car.

Did the children distract her? As she drove out into the main road, some idiot came hurtling along and smashed into their car. They were all killed outright. All except one. The autistic daughter survived and she and her father started the rest of their lonely life together.

59

Of pets and ships Back in the SixtiesBB (Before Bureaucracy) every ship carried a cat, dog, or at least a parrot. So as a vet in a port I was kept busy and soon amassed an intimate knowledge of the vast Plymouth Docks and boarded many ships, both Naval and Mercantile. I was also the licensed supervisor of my own Quarantine Kennels and one of my most vivid memories is boarding a tender in the early morning bound for the French liner La France. At that time it was the fastest liner afloat, and there it was, anchored in the Sound. It was to be it’s last visit to Plymouth. Having passed through the glitzy reception area I went down to the bowels of the ship where I met the Labrador I was to collect for it’s 6 months stay in quarantine. His owners also accompanied me back on the tender, a family of four and I distinctly recall the father was dressed in tweed plus-fours.

Some of the incidents to follow involve MAAF, the predecessor of DEFRA. Now I am not saying that staff of this worthy institution were lazy, idle, or connivingly workshy, but put it like this - I rarely met one who did not find time to run a little business on the side. As a Local Veterinary Officer - most vets were - and Quarantine station I was the recipient of a lot of tricky jobs they didn’t want. When the famous Greenpeace ship Sea Shepherd laid up in Plymouth Docks for repairs the ship’s mascot, a German Shepherd, had to be kept below decks and under veterinary supervision. This meant monthly inspections. The chief MAAF vet carried out the first and rapidly passed it over to me. I soon found out why. Regulations meant the dog had to be kept below decks. This meant the hold, access to which was a bit precarious.

A metal ladder took me 6 rungs but then I had to jump across to another at right angles. This reached almost to the floor of the hold. Another Jump.

Nothing to an old sea salt but I cannot say I enjoyed it. The dog was a delight, as were the crew, who always invited me to coffee in their very spartan mess.

The captain was, and I believe still is, Paul Watson.

Then again, at nights, weekends and Bank Holidays, all MAAF staff seemed to disappear. One midnight I was called to take a dog into Quarantine custody. At a car park behind shops in Exeter St. a diligent shopkeeper, 60

whilst exercising his dog spotted a lorry driver, obviously just off the ferry, also letting his dog stretch his legs. He informed the police. The police arrested the driver, I took the dog, and the poor shopkeeper not only had his dog taken into quarantine but suffered medical checks himself. Such are the rewards of diligence.

Now I should have taken the designated van, but I knew I had to take a Plymouth surgery at 4pm and I would never make it in the van. At the time I was driving a Triumph Dolomite Sprint. Not many of those made. So I spread a waterproof sheet over the back seats and placed a cage on it. At this time Trading Standards had taken over many of MAAF’s duties, so that when I arrived I was greeted by two of their worthies on the dockside. But it soon became apparent their duties were purely supervisory. The cat was in the engine room and the Ship’s Engineer obviously wasn’t going to cooperate. “She’s down there,” he said, pointing to a narrow gap between the bulkhead and the engine. So, using a crabbing motion on my side I worked my way along and then reversed holding a complacent moggy. He kept his engine clean I’ll give him that. When I drove off the two officials were still chatting on the dockside, whilst giving disapproving looks to my flash car. I remember thinking that I presumed that this was their day’s work.

I was only 10 minutes late for my two hour surgery.

When the last Atlantic cable-laying ship, the SS John Gale, was finally decommissioned in Millbay Docks, I was sent to put ship’s dog to sleep.

A lovely gentle Collie. MAAF’s strict instructions were that he should be cremated on the dockside beside the ship. It was obvious that the ship’s crew were pretty mutinous at this prospect. I noticed the Brittany Ferry moored at the next wharf across the water. So I said to the Captain who was helping me, “Do you know the captain of that ship?” “Of course,” he replied.

“Well then if we put him in a sack, together with a brick, just row him over before she sails and ask the Captain to give him a sea burial half way across the Channel. So it was done and I was pleased with myself. But the next time my kennels were inspected I received a right dressing down by the Divisional Veterinary Officer and thereafter was never allowed to forget it.

I must just say this. Quarantine Kennels received a lot of criticism from all quarters, but it was MAAF who set the draconian rules under which the dogs and cats had to be kept. To nurture these companionable pets through six months of their short life, under strict rules of isolation, entailed an extreme dedication and care by all concerned, and particularly the kennel girls.

61

Embarrassing moments When I was young and newly qualified I ran everywhere. Distance running was my hobby. I remember visiting a house in Furzehill, Sidbury. They all had long front gardens. I reached the front door at a fair lick and reached out for the knocker. However the client must have seen me coming and she obligingly opened the door for me. I shot past her and ended up full length on the hall floor.

One morning I was called to a cow with Milk Fever at Tipton Mill. In those days it was not only a working mill but also a farm and B&B. My arrival coincided with that of a family of holidaymakers. The teenage daughter said to her mother, “Gee, look mum there’s the vet”. I walked nonchalantly around to the boot of my beat up old Morris 8 for my medical gear. It’s not easy to do nonchalant you know! I leaned far in to grab a bottle of Calcium. Now in those days there was a thin metal prop which you lifted up and fitted into a slot to hold the boot lid. It was not always reliable and, with everyone watching it slipped out and the boot lid fell, trapping me ignominiously beneath it.

Once I parked my much loved Triumph Herald in Sidmouth High Street and went shopping. No difficulty parking and no need to lock the car or even run the window up. Returning I jumped in and put the key in the ignition. It would not fit! I looked around in surprise. My own car was in front. Identical!

They only came in Racing Green and most people left their window down and even their keys in the ignition. I hopped out and into my own car. Then I thought “My package”. So back to the other car, reached in for my goods and back again and off. Nobody noticed anything and I am sure if they had they would have accepted my explanation. Contrast this with my later years in Plymouth when even the slightest touch between cars might end up with a punch-up and you will see how things have changed and how much innocence we have lost.

When I was a student I was appalled at the ways pets were put to sleep. So I was delighted that my first boss, Peter Steel at Sidmouth proved to be a 62

humane man. He had found that the newly available barbiturates were the answer. But there were drawbacks. We could only obtain it in capsule form.

This entailed emptying the capsules one by one into a saucer of warm water.

Even then this solution was too crude to inject intravenously.

One day I was asked to euthanize a much loved elderly Siamese belonging to a lady in Bickwell Valley. She was what was then called a spinster. Not old, but definitely on the shelf. We don’t seem to have those these days.

So I calculated the weight of the cat and laboriously made up the injection.

She then presented the patient to me swathed in a large blanket which she held in her arms. The injection was very slow in action so I gave some more.

This was working but the patient still clung on to life with the odd shallow breath. It is an irony that the elderly are slower to absorb any drug because the pulse is weaker. So I thought I had better do something to pass this embarrassing hiatus. So I said to her, “Why don’t you find a cloth to bury him in while I hold him”. As I said it I put my arms around the bundle and took a good grip. Still she did not move, but gave me what I can only call an old-fashioned look. So in preparation for making a move to pull the whole bundle away from her I wriggled my hands around to make sure I had a good grip. It was only then that I realised that I had both hands well and truly up inside her sweater!

63

Cats of character Which is a silly title because all cats have character in spades but not all of them get a chance to express it. They say that dogs have owners but cats have staff. Dogs love to learn tricks to please us and thrive on routine, whereas cats exhibit hauteur, which just means they look down their noses at the world. I well remember two dogs having a great game with a ball when a cat passed by. The cat paused, observed, and then went on his way with a look that could only mean contempt for such a childish behaviour.

I knew a cat which exhibited a protective instinct towards a younger cat in the household. The older cat was out in the garden and the younger was in the house when they received a visit from a Labrador puppy, exuberance personified, and the pup started to play roughly with the kitten. Suddenly the elder cat came rushing in from the garden and beat up the Labrador as only a cat can. The same cat embarrassed his owners when they were visiting neighbours. They were all sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee when this cat strolled in, cleared up the resident cat’s food and then walked upstairs to sleep on the bed. Their hosts said, “He often does that. We don’t know where he comes from”. His owners, to their everlasting shame, said not a word. Is this starting to give an idea of the character of cats?

Now I know that in Rome there are vast number of feral cats, but I also noticed that in many of the Italian coastal towns there were numbers of well fed well groomed cats lying in the sun, and they knew they owned the place and mere people had to walk around them. On the other hand I knew a ginger cat who always slept with his owner’s chicken. During the day he claimed his place in the household, when he wasn’t catching rats or rabbits from dusk to dawn he had his bed (and food) in the henhouse, and woe betide any marauding rat that strayed into his domain. So you see they are adaptable.

When my daughter visits with her Border Terrier it brings delight to my ginger cat Tigger. Normally she greets us draped across the hall carpet like Cleopatra welcoming her subjects, but when Twizzle comes in the front 64

door she streaks down to greet her and there is much nose kissing and body rubbing, before they get down to the serious business of mock attacks and all-in wrestling. Once let out into the garden they hare off with the dog in front and the cat in close pursuit; but what the dog does not realise, in the headlong striving for speed, is that the cat is making strategic short cuts.

Now I can hear the cynics among you saying these cats are just reacting to stimuli as all animals do. In the same way a cat approaching you with friendly intentions will have his tail erect like a flagpole, or if he is squaring up for a fight his ears will be flattened to his head. We all know now, at the first sign of danger, his fur will stand on end to make him look bigger to his foe. So the cynics may be right; we must not read too much into simple reflexes but what about these two examples?

A small dog visited a house where there lived a ginger cat. As the dog entered the kitchen by the back door she veered around the corner and without hesitation hoovered up all the cat’s food. She knew her way around. The cat sat on it’s favourite chair and watched, inscrutably you might say. But later that evening when everyone was in the lounge and the dog was shut in the kitchen, she was a bit boisterous in company you see, the cat quietly slipped through the serving hatch into the kitchen and beat the daylights out of her as only a cat can.

All vets quietly do a lot of charity work in taking in stray animals. In my Plymouth surgery we had a tom cat, called Tom, who became our surgery mascot. Mind you we soon neutered him. If you have ever tried to coexist with an entire tom you will know why. His great delight was to sit in the office during surgery time and watch the hammers of the old fashioned typewriter. If a dog made a great fuss whilst being treated he would run across the desk top and wait for it to come out of the consulting room. Then, taking advantage of his superior height on the desk, he would cuff him about the ears as if to say “Don’t make that noise in my place”. He eventually found a lovely home and lived to a contented old age.

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Cow down A cow off its legs means trouble. I suppose these days most farms have a fork lift to raise such a weighty animal from recumbency although that does not mean she will stay up, but in the post-war days we had no such luxury.

We might rig up a hoist from an overhead beam, but who was to know if a beam in those undulating shippon roofs was strong enough to take the strain?

So how does a cow collapse and why is it so important? After all when we are ill we are often advised to assume a horizontal posture in bed to speed recovery. Amongst the commonest causes are Calcium or Magnesium deficiency known as Milk Fever and Grass Staggers; very satisfying to treat because one intravenous infusion brings a cow to its feet like magic. But, rarely, there was no response even after further medication and you had a problem. Another cause of a cow losing balance was bloat. A sight to see, a cow on it’s side with flank taut like a balloon, legs projecting grotesquely stiff from this grunting bovine mass, and an opportunity for some veterinary heroics. Every vet carried a trochar and cannula, a round dagger encased in an open-ended tube and, after carefully selecting the right spot, stabs the swollen flank. The trochar is then withdrawn to leave the cannula in place.

Trapped gas pours out, the swelling subsides and the cow is soon on its feet.

Then you look for the cause. Sometimes a cow will have it’s throat blocked by a piece of swede or a potato. I remember the first time I had to plunge my arm down a cows throat to retrieve such an object, the pressure on my arm as her molars tried to grind me. Then I found the Drinkwater gag which when slotted into the angle of the jaw stopped all that while my fingers grappled to grip the blockage. Then the triumph at pulling it out!

So why is it so important for a cow to be upright and burp so much? It is all due to its digestive system, which has to digest vast amounts of grass. Four tanks of fermenting food which at times propel gobbets of grass back into the mouth for further mastication. It must be satisfyingly flavoursome as the look on her face will tell you. If you carry all this apparatus then lying on 66

your side or getting up are not easy. Hear a cow grunt when she lays down.

Sheep are the same, which is why a sheep on its back can be fatal.

With all this tackle behind its diaphragm the bovine is not going to move very fast, so it grows a formidable pair of horns and turns to face its enemy, whereas the horse has a different approach, or rather departure. It has two great assets. First of all eyes which are set well back from it’s teeth, so that it can feed and at the same time keep an eye out for danger with almost 360 vision. Second those wonderful legs which allow it to run like the wind, but once again not easy to rise from the lying position.

For this speed it has evolved a completely different digestive system to cope with the same food as the cow. It has an elongated intestine, yards of it even our vestigial appendix has been enlarged, all packed with bacteria working to digest grass. Marvellous, but what scope for something to go wrong in the domesticated horse kept in conditions dictated by man. Horse colic! Improper food, twists and kinks in those lengths of gut. A horror to treat, and it could go on for hours and this is why I mention it, the horse had to be kept on it’s feet. The midnight hours can be better spent than walking a horse around a loose-box.

To return to the cow. I well recall an incident on a farm in the village of Harpford. My boss had treated a cow for Milk Fever three days before and after initially rising to her feet she had gone down again, and despite looking alert, refused to get up again. I was sent along with instructions to do anything necessary to get her to her feet again. Now there were many wise old country ways to deal with such a situation. Scrape a 4 prong dung fork along the spine, throw a cat onto the cows back, and so on. I gave her a small injection of Strychnine, which in those days was recommended.

No effect. It was obvious to me that this particular cow was enjoying her extended recumbency, like one of those old folk who take to their bed in apparent good health and the family has to run around for their every need.

Never come across it? Well I have.

So I said to the farmer, ‘Will you fetch me a bucket of hot water?” As soon as he was out of earshot I jumped on the cows back and shouted all the bovine imprecations I could recall whilst waving my arms like a windmill. She looked round at me and rose to her feet so fast I had to dismount sharpish.

When the farmer returned he said, “that injection was powerful stuff”. I replied, “Science is a wonderful thing”.

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Difficult dogs When I was in my prime I could “stiff-arm” almost any dog except a Rottweiler. I would grasp the difficult dog by the scruff close to the head so that he could not twist and bite me and, pushing against a wall with my arm straight, inject him with my right hand. It was not possible with a Rottweiler because first they had no scruff and second they were amazingly strong. This technique was useful when visiting patients as I often had to work alone when the owner mysteriously disappeared.

Unfortunately there was a lot of Rottweilers in Plymouth as they suited the lifestyles of their owners. They also tended to hold a grudge. I remember injecting one while he was held by his owner and afterwards held a long discussion with his owner during which I absent mindedly scratched the dog’s head. In a flash he laid the palm of my hand open from wrist to fingers.

I spent the rest of the evening having it sutured at hospital.

All the old streets of Devonport and Stonehouse in Plymouth boasted two or three ancient pubs, the Benbow, the Nelson, virtually identical in layout.

Grimy wood panelling, a bar and behind that one panel would conceal a door which led up steep narrow stairs to the living quarters. The width was reduced by boxes of crisps and nuts stored each side, and then at the top was another door which, when opened, led you face to face with the defender of the household, usually a German Shepherd. The landlord would often say, “You go up. I’ll follow soon as I can”, and the regulars would smirk into their pints. But it wouldn’t do to chicken out. So I soon learnt how to cope.

Not for me the square medical case. I suppose I had cleaned the tablet dust from too many drawers as a student. I always flaunted a Gladstone type bag with washable lining and in one end I placed a half brick. It made a useful weapon if the dog should launch a serious attack, which in fact was rare. However on one occasion I had a tricky situation. I was giving monthly injections to a Rottweiler at Saltash Passage Inn under the shadow of the Tamar Bridge. He had his own room upstairs and frankly I doubt he ever went out but was loosed to roam the premises at night. Usually the landlord came up to hold him but this time the bar was full and I was left to 68

my own devices. Luckily after some time I persuaded him to shake hands with his left paw and my left hand. While talking to him I slowly advanced my right hand and syringe up to his shoulder and injected him. But it was after this that I had a strange encounter. This pub had an open landing and as I went down the stairs so that my head was about floor height I looked to my left and saw a beautiful teenager crawling across the floor in her nightdress towards me. I admit I fled in embarrassment. It turned out that she was a thalidomide child and a right tearaway to boot. Some days later I saw her hurtling along the waterfront in her wheelchair at suicidal speed while her boyfriend tried to keep up. Who could blame her?

Yet most dogs were no trouble at all. Trixie, a German Shepherd visited my surgery regularly and every time I rang the bell for the next patient she strained at her lead to come in, until it was her turn and her owner released her. She would run in to me, pushing the door open herself, and sit against the wall for injection. By the time her mistress came in it was all over. Then one day tragedy struck; but that is a story for another day!

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Cops but no robbers Plymouth was home to the three services, who all employed dogs, but these were dwarfed in terms of veterinary work by the Police Dogs. Part of the cultural shock of moving from Sidmouth to Plymouth was the constant wailing, night and day, of police sirens.

The reason for much of the work with Police dogs was that the handler, all PC’s with a sergeant in charge, identified and bonded with his dog. They had many reasons for keeping their dogs healthy. In fact they were all paranoid about it. A sick dog could not work and the handlers took it personally. They were all German Shepherds who devote their affection and loyalty to one person, their handler. If a dog could not work, then the PC was put back on the beat, a demotion. Unfortunately German Shepherds were very prone to hip and spinal weakness and their working life often ended at 7 or 8 years. I have known handlers go to great lengths to disguise their dog’s weakness.

When searching old building they often have to climb up steep stairs or ladders. More than one copper, after a discrete look around, has lifted his dogs up the steps. After all that training it must be daunting to think of taking on a new dog. If he could get one! There were no breeding centres and they were dependent upon the public donating unwanted young dogs.

I was often instrumental in finding them. The Plymouth squad once put on a publicity stunt by marching around the streets with their dogs, but one who could not find a dog, walking with an empty collar and lead, stiffened with wire, held before him. Another PC had the misfortune to have two trainee dogs in succession develop fits. He was in such a state about his that I was moved to write to his superiors to emphasise that it was not his fault.

But through all this the dogs were a delight and loved their work.

Then there was the problem of what to do when the dog was retired. They had all lived with their handler’s family and the mutual bond was so close that it was often difficult to separate them on admission for some surgical procedure, let alone a permanent retirement separation. Happily many PC’s were able to keep their dog but this could cause difficulties when the new trainee came along.

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Out of all this maelstrom of dog-bonding, male machismo and old wives tales about treatment I was supposed to extract payment for all this work.

I can only say that dealing with the police financial department was a nightmare, only beaten by MAAF where you were lucky if you were paid inside 6 months. Yet I enjoyed it because I loved working with German Shepherds, that most lovable, albeit temperamental, breed of canines.

The Police always insisted on priority attention and the sergeant would telephone me to say he was sending a down for treatment. I would watch out for him and usher him into my consulting room as soon as possible.

All this close contact with the police, both with dogs and also the many accidents I attended could have it’s downside. My wife once opened the front door to be confronted by a posse of police with dogs, one of which was practising jumping over my rose bed, who happened to be “just passing”. I was not in! On the other occasion I was just returning to work after lunch and had reached the main road when a police car roared up behind me with lights flashing and sirens wailing. I pulled into the side thinking “what have I done now?!” Instead of pulling in front of me it double parked beside me, the window ran down and a face I knew well said “How’s my dog doing?”

His pet dog was hospitalised for treatment.

At that time the other services had mainly guard dogs but MOD Ernesettle, where they stored the naval ammunition, brought me into contact with a remarkable lady. No spring chicken even when I first knew her, she managed when at home to look after her disabled brother and several cats but at work she fed and cared for an army of stray cats as well as working in the canteen. I hope you have spotted the connection. It was my experience that in any such establishment there was a humble soul like her who dedicated themselves to such a time consuming task. Unrecognised by society they seek no plaudits but the satisfaction and love of what they do. Anyway this lady would ring me up and say that she would catch and bring an ailing cat to the back of the cycle sheds at a certain time, whence I would carry out any necessary treatment. Thus she was able, with a twinkle in her eye, to tell everybody, “Oh Mr Watson and I have been meeting behind the cycle sheds for years”.

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Petty crime I had a client in Plymouth who was head of the City Planning Committee and for a living he owned a very busy newsagent and toyshop. One lunch time I happened to meet him and he was clutching his back in some pain.

“You know”, he said, “I have spent the morning cooped up in a cubby hole behind the cash register and bending down to watch a girl we suspect is pocketing the takings”: Well I have never gone to those lengths, but I have suffered my share of petty crime, in common with, I suspect, most veterinary practices.

In most businesses, money comes in from many sources and it is very difficult to ensure that all of it finds its way into the till. The Victorians had one answer, by pricing items at 11 3/4 pence or similar the cashier had to open the till to give change and if money was not put in it would be noticed.

Of course the culprit could come to work with a pocketful of farthings. No system is perfect. The Victorians also invented that wonderful system of over-head wires, which so fascinated me as a boy, whereby the salesman put the cash and bill into a pot of two halves, screwed it into an overhead railway and pulled a cord. It would then travel across the store to a cashier sat high in a tiny high office across the store. She would then return the receipt and change by the same route. There was still one of those systems in the local store when I was a lad. Today, when cash is used less and less these matters lose importance, but the digital world has opened up new avenues for criminals. Then there is the matter of money going out from the till. There are always items of petty cash to be spent. One time my partner and I noticed we were spending an excess amount on postage stamps. We soon found that one member of staff was just writing “Stamps” on the till then pocketing the money. In most cases a quiet warning was sufficient, but one young lady took it too far and we had to call in the police.

It transpired that to impress her boy-friend, with whom she was besotted, she told him she had a highly paid job and helped herself to our money to prove it. A young detective in charge was anxious to make a case. She even found the pub where he liked to drink and offered him sexual favours to drop the case. She left.

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Another scam was much more serious, or could have been. My Head Nurse, hitherto much trusted and valued, was discovered to have been helping herself to vaccines and drugs and running a cut price practice with her catloving friends on the side. It was discovered because she fell out with her partner and moved out. Her partner requested that she removed her illicit haul and receiving no response then dumped the whole lot out with the rubbish. The bin men then handed it all over to their superiors. It was then passed into the hands of a colleague who very kindly returned it all quietly to me. It could have finished her career, but I have never felt able to do that to anyone, and it was partly my fault in being so trusting. You may think it was all too easy going but the alternative was to make everyone sign for everything they did, resulting in the tangle of red tape we see in the NHS today. I was not that innocent, as I was fully aware that although every member of staff had a pet, I could not recall over the years, a single one ever asking me to vaccinate their pet.

After I left my ex-partners were subjected to the biggest scam of all, involving some £200,000, but it was really their own fault as they were reluctant to become involved in the paper work. I recall a similar case in Plymouth of a well known solicitor who when he came to retire discovered that his clerk had made off with his entire capital account. This resulted in me giving his wife, hitherto an excellent client, free treatment for her pets for life. Thus can a person’s actions, like throwing a stone in a pond, cause waves that affect many people. But to return to the misfortune of my old practice, I was amazed to learn that the Inland Revenue decreed that as the misdirected money should have gone into the till, then the practice owed the VAT on that £200,000! It graciously allowed them some time to pay it off.

These incidents I have mentioned took place over some 35 years, a very small proportion over time. Generally I found people to be very honest, and I always ran incentive schemes which ensured that if the practice was doing well they had a share of it.

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Intelligent sheep Scientific pundits recently published the results of studies which show that sheep are more intelligent than dogs. I could have told them that. Most people underestimate the savvy of sheep because they are not in close enough contact with them. Seen at a distance, on the hillside or in the field, their antics seem to lack sense; but when you think of it, they mostly add up to keeping out of the way of man and his accomplice the dog, both they have learned mean trouble. Give them the chance to interact with man on a level of mutual trust and a different character emerges.

My wife and I used to keep sheep, but as our grass was not very productive we had to get them in every day for extra feed and so we got to know them and they got to know us very well. In the first place, and if they are allowed to, they form lifelong friendships. The first flock of sheep we had were a mixed lot, but amongst them were two Poll Dorset Horns, and they were inseparable. So much so that we could not tell one from the other. What with that and their gentle nature we just called them the Sweeties. One would not move without the other. They slept side by side and were never parted. They were no youngsters when they came, and lived into their teens.

When the end came for one of them from sheer old age, it happened when they came in for feeding. Her mate stood over her and when the flock were let out after feeding, she stayed as long as she could and then reluctantly walked out to the flock with just one or two backward looks, because a sheep must always be with the flock.

The flock is everything, their protection and security. To see the way it interacts is an example to humans in behaviour. There is always a leader.

When the decision is made to move to another location, it is done in an orderly fashion. In single file they stick to well worn tracks and when two files join into one, they politely take it in turns to join the main track. Fights are rare and are mostly for show and their lambs get most concerned and often try to interpose themselves between the mothers. But let them into fresh grass and you will see them young and old, kick up their heels with joy, a sight which must move even the most hardened shepherd.

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They seem to recognise humans at a distance by their clothes. A new coat can cause panic, but on close-up they go by smell. My wife has long blonde hair and when she bent over to fill the trough they took great delight in smelling her hair, even sometimes forgetting to dive their noses into the trough.

Lambs are like children, and like all children they have a play hour just before dusk. It starts as a general get-together, as though they were loitering on the street corner. Then one jumps straight up in the air and they are off.

Running races first. One or two timid souls look around for mother first before dashing after the mob. After a run in one direction they stop, moon around and then they are off back the way they came. They can make games with just the simplest props. A bale of hay or a tiny hillock and they play “king of the castle”. One jumps up and defies anyone to come up and barge him off. Then the shadows lengthen and the ewes start to call the lambs back and reluctantly they comply. Sometimes ewes join in, or an excited lamb will jump on its mother’s back and tramp back and forth.

You may have noticed that so far this has been a mainly female affair. When the rams come in everything goes haywire, fighting all round, and that’s just the females. Perhaps it’s an allegory for human behaviour. I remember when I worked on a farm in Cumbria that all day the air was filled with a repeated “crack” as the two rams charged each other head on just for the hell of it. But for me the height of bliss is found in milking a ewe. It takes all sorts!

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Unexpected encounters One of the great joys of veterinary practice in my day was that, owing to the reasonable charges for visits, I was able to see people in their home environment and even to discuss matters close to their heart. In fact if a case was proving difficult to diagnose I would often make a home visit to see the animal in it’s natural home, often without any extra charge. However it could cause embarrassing moments.

You have to remember there was much less crime and so folk did not lock their doors, especially in the countryside. It was my habit to just call out as I walked in the front door and this saved me waiting time which over the course of a day could add up. One such time, in Ottery St. Mary, I walked through the house to the kitchen, whilst calling out. Now the old couple must have been hard of hearing for when I entered the room Mother was stood at the kitchen table having a stand-up wash, stripped to the waist.

Then, as I stopped in my tracks, Father appeared from behind his newspaper in the corner and cried out, “Ere what’s a goin’ orn?” I beat a hasty retreat.

Quite a different experience occurred when I was called one evening to a calving near Talaton. It was snowing a storm and I had never been to this farm before. As I passed Escot the snow was banking up and even my old Landrover was finding it hard going, when I saw the faint lights of a farmhouse. Partly to check my way and partly, if I am honest, to meet another human being in this maelstrom of a night I pulled into the yard. I knocked and walked right in. The scene I met has stayed with me all my days. At a large table sat about 10 children, graded roughly down their ages and about to start their supper. Behind them stood their Father, an almost biblical figure in a farmworkers smock. The only lighting came from the log fire and candles and this gave an ethereal setting to the scene. The man set me on my way in a kindly manner with heartfelt good wishes. That house has now been gentrified but I think of that night whenever I pass by.

I often used to visit a farm at Goodameavy on Dartmoor. It was run by a very eccentric lady and even by the primitive standards of the moor it was 76

run in a rather casual manner. You had to step over a small stream to enter the kitchen door. Come to think of it I am not sure there was a door at all.

Anyway this day I walked through the kitchen and was just about to enter the living room when 3 sheep passed me on their way out. I believe one of them even bleated a greeting to me as it passed.

A much less pleasant encounter happened one summer evening when I was called away from my evening meal to an emergency at a vicarage near Plymouth. As usual the front door was open so I walked in whilst calling out. I had just reached the foot of the grand staircase in the hall when a woman appeared at the top of the stairs and subjected me to a tirade of abuse for entering her house without permission. It eventually transpired that my client, in his panic, had failed to point out that he lived in a flat at the back of the vicarage. However such was the stream of vituperation that the vicar’s wife aimed at me that before I left I said to her, “Madam, I think you should see somebody!� This proved prophetic because a few weeks later her husband, the vicar, was charged with abusing young children and I learned a great lesson of life, that the outbursts of invective people sometimes let loose are often less about the immediate subject but more about some hidden pressure in their life.

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Animal defence Predation and sex aside, the animal kingdom does not go in for a lot of violence, unlike it’s human branch. Even much of that is for show and need not lead to a spill of blood. I well remember when, as a student, I worked on a farm in Cumbria and the sounds of the countryside were split by an intermittent sharp crack as two Swaledale rams met head on in an adjacent field. Like ancient knights-a-jousting they would each retreat to their respective corners of the field and at some mutual signal set off thundering at each other again. It seemed to cause them no harm and they would often break off and graze amicably side by side. Just so do the stags at rut fight to be top stud, using those absurd looking weapons, the antlers.

Horses will rear up on their hind legs and use their forelegs as weapons, and they sure can bite. However if they suddenly turn around it is not to run away but to use those most powerful weapons, their hind legs. Time to back off... Even that gentle creature, the ewe, may fall out with it’s neighbour and some head butting may ensue, but their lambs often interpose themselves to stop the unpleasantness. Mostly the ewes just stamp their feet, but never turn your back on a ram; even when hornless they can give you a painful butt!

Now the pig, especially a sow with piglets, can be a dangerous proposition.

She will sweep you off your legs by sheer brute force and then trample and bite. A farmer in Salcombe Regis was killed by his own pigs in this manner, but usually with people they know and trust they are sweetness itself and seem to live to eat and have their bellies scratched. So what of the Alpacas, who are often kept to protect a flock of sheep or chicken. They are very effective in this and diligent although in reality, owing to the disposition of their teeth they cannot bite, or even lick come to that. Yet they will scare off foxes, badgers or dogs. They are very protective of each other and their sheep and have been known, if they are sufficient in number, to form a circle around an intruder and trample it to death.

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Dogs and cats are gentle despite having vicious teeth, and in the cat ferocious claws. Even when you think you have a cat pinioned they can bring their hind legs up over their backs and rake you, yet mostly they are pussy cats. The pit-bull fighting dog is not naturally aggressive until man rouses his atavistic and teaches him to fight.

The loveliest story I know of gentleness through strength concerns a gorilla kept in an American zoo. He was huge and could have crushed or broken a human with little effort, but he was elderly and wise. His name was Congo.

A young woman who was suffering from Asperger’s Syndrome so severely that interaction with people was embarrassing and gave her no pleasure, was advised to work with animals. So every day she attended the zoo and was given simple tasks. One day the keeper gave her some strawberries to feed to Congo by placing them, one at a time, along a horizontal bar just inside the wire. “But be sure to keep ahead of him”, the keeper warned.

She set about her task with the concentrated zeal typical of sufferers from this condition but suddenly she felt her finger seized in a vice-like grip. She looked up and saw in his eyes that he instinctively understood her anguish.

They became great friends and she visited him every day and would often sing to him and he would grunt with pleasure.

But he was old and after some time he was dying. She was allowed into his cage and she caressed him and sang “You are my sunshine”, which was his favourite song, and he grunted his appreciation as he slowly slipped away.

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Palpation If you don’t know what it means you soon will. I have always admired the way my wife can handle dishes hot from the oven, but then if my fingertips were as inured to the heat as hers have become I would not have been able to carry out my life’s work as well as I have done. On the other hand my brother-in-law, a farmer all his life, had fingers like a bunch of bananas and they served him well. Every vet worth his or her salt gives patients a thorough examination whilst listening to the owner’s recital of the symptoms. Much of this is done by feeling with the fingertips, or palpation.

I often think the medical profession is losing this accomplishment because, like playing the piano, it needs constant practice. Of course, the medical profession is impeded by clothing, but just imagine if it were not so and you might have the situation where a mother has brought her daughter because of an ear infection and is suddenly told, ‘Madam did you know your daughter is pregnant?’. Such a scenario often happens in the veterinary world, or maybe it is a large abdominal tumour, or even severe constipation.

That is what make veterinary work so much more interesting than medical.

A car salesman who was a bit of a wag once telephoned me and as I was rather a long time coming to the phone he said, ‘‘Have your arm half way up a cow did you?’’ Only he did not put it quite like that which is something that people might find repugnant. But believe you me it is where palpation really proves its worth. In there is a world of wonder. With your fingertips you can feel all the amazing stages of pregnancy or it’s aftermath, the growth of the foetus and the accompanying throbbing rise of the arteries and changing shape of the ovaries. Maybe it is all redundant today because of that modern miracle the scan.

Yet I am sure one skill has not changed; that magic moment when you feel the situation inside the newly opened uterus of a difficult birthing in a sheep, cow or less often a mare. What is this jumble of legs? Are they fore or hind legs or even a mix of twins tumbling to be born. Or where is the head, and in the case of twins does this head belong to these legs. Once the 80

situation has been sorted comes the business of bringing the foetus into this world. Two forelegs and a head together is the ideal but sometimes you have to make the most of what you find and it can then become difficult. It is amazing what a difference can be made by just pulling the ears through the cervix, the head will then follow. I once used this principle to good use.

I was called to a caravan where a puppy had it’s head stuck in a hole in the floor. When I arrived there was already a fire engine and an RSPCA team on the scene, and the firemen were assembling some powerful looking cutting gear. I noticed that the hole was one inch longer than it was broad, so I turned the puppy’s head and then pulled the floppy ears back one at a time and out it came. But, returning to the birthing process, one thing is certain, for that one moment when you hold that slimy, warm and wriggling new born in your arms is one of the best sensations ever. Having carried out those essential procedures to kick-start life I would turn and look at the owner and I never came across even the most toil hardened farmer who could not help a smile crossing his face.

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Hand milking on the farm Two things I greatly miss from my halcyon days as a young vet back in the 1950s. First, is hand milking. As a Londoner, I only learnt to milk when on work experience on a farm in Cumbria when I was 20, and I loved it. I found it most relaxing, bar the odd clip round the ear from a dung-encrusted tail.

A most painful experience. Despite the spread of machine milking, many farms still milked by hand and it was not just the small herds. It was much more labour intensive and of course, there was the camaraderie, and much banter between milkers. The farm worker of those days was much more independent and not above telling his employer where he was making a mistake.

I well remember during milking time at Willie Harding’s farm at East Budleigh; I was quietly doing some pregnancy diagnoses when Willie called out to a farm hand who was milking just two cows away from me. “Can I use your bucket?” “What?” replied the hand without pausing in his work. This exchange was repeated three times until Willie, with much cursing about mankind and this hand in particular picked up the bucket and stomped off.

The grumpy old man looked up at me, winked, and said “I don’t give a toss what he does with the bucket”. Only he didn’t say toss.

But the main joy of hand milking was the sound. When you started with an empty bucket it produced a high pitched singing sound on the side of the bucket which gradually deepened as the bucket filled and ended with a delightful frothy quality. Bucket full! Empty it into one of those delightful old fashioned coolers which looked like mothers scrubbing board in stainless steel and start again. Of course, folk who had to do it day in and day out, come cow kick or arthritic joints, might not agree, but I always found milking time to be a happy time. I remember one farm on the Topsham Rd just down from Sandygate, run by three brothers who milked over 100 cows.

Milking was a joy to them, as it was in an enormous thatched shippon at Venn Ottery where the cows were all North Devons.

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What I miss most of all is the lovely lilting Devon accent. Where has it gone? Down the television tube? Although I will say this; some years ago, I was visiting some friends in Connecticut USA, and we were chatting and I suddenly said “You’re speaking pure Devonshire”. All those long “a” and “o”s. It is too big a subject to cover here, but there is one aspect about the Devonshire accent that I can cover. In the matter of gender, everything in the dialect is her. He don’t get a look in. For example, a farmer will look over the gate and gaze admiringly at his bull and say, “’Er be a good un ‘er be”. It is probably summed up best by the following, probably apocryphal anecdote. The recently widowed wife in the village is visited by the vicar.

“Well, my dear,” he says, “your man is up there now playing his harp with the angels”. The widow turns away from the sink where she is doing the washing, wipes her hands and says, “’er larned to play the harp mainish quick then. ‘Er couldn’t play the ruddy tin whistle when ‘er was down ‘yer”.

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Tales of the harvest field In wartime Britain agricultural labour was scarce and so my school summer farm camp was welcomed by farmers. We boys received the princely payment of 9 pence per hour, lashings of food and the excitement of living under canvas in bucolic surroundings. For all this we were expected to work and, oh boy, did we work, because the farmers were determined to get their money’s worth out of these town boys. Farming at this time had not really altered for generations and very much depended on man, woman and horse. Such tractors as there were had to be used sparingly because of the shortage of fuel and, let’s face it, the innate prejudice against them.

Our war-torn country needed good harvests and the long summer school holidays happily coincided with that time. But what a contrast to today when, no matter how large the acreage to be tackled, it involves no more than 3 or 4 workers, each encased in the cab of an automated harvester or tractor. Back then it was a time of joy, the gathering in of the harvest, and there were people everywhere, each intent of his own task in this seemingly chaotic event. The centre of all this activity was the binder, a Heath Robinson affair, no more than a flimsy windmill pressing the cornstalks against a side cutting bar. The cut stalks then travelled along a moving canvas belt to a point where they were tied into sheaves and dropped off the rear of the binder. This contraption was drawn by a single horse and controlled by a man who sat on a flimsy metal seat, which bounced alarmingly, while he steered the horse and watched for any snags to the working of this amazingly simple machine. It worked, and if it didn’t it could soon be set right.

We boys had to follow behind, pick up the sheaves , one in each hand, and set them together at an angle so they stood up then repeat this until we had 6 or 8 together, known as a stook. We then went on to build another stook. The rain would run off the stook while the breeze blew through the gap below and the corn and straw would dry.

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In those pre-myxomatosis days rabbits were everywhere, so much so that every grass field or crop was eaten down bare for several yards in from the hedge. They made a valuable addition to the diet in those war rationed days so many folk brought their shotguns and dogs for the rabbits hiding in the corn. As the binder circled the crop and the standing corn diminished so they would make a run for it until only a small island remained and the air was shrill with the sound of gunshots and barking dogs showing their joy as they pursued fleeing rabbits or picking up dead ones. Health and Safety was there none and I remember one rural stalwart being shot in the backside by a spread of shot and taken to the side of the field where the farmer dug out the pellets with the point of his pocket knife. He taught us boys some new words I can tell you.

All this work was dry and dusty and I have vivid memories of the farmer’s daughter’s welcome appearance at lunch and tea with sandwiches and bottles of cold tea. Never has liquid refreshment tasted better. There is a myth that farm workers were downtrodden and no doubt they were often badly treated. Yet they were proud and independent.

After the sheaves had dried they were carted and stored in stacks and the women of the village appeared and, by custom, picked up any spilled corn they could find to take home for their chicken.

It was the custom in these parts of Hertfordshire to build round ricks, a skilled job. Some farms even had special stones, Staddle stones, to keep the rick off the damp ground. There was always one worthy who was the expert at building a circular stack and he would order us lesser mortals how to pitch the sheaves to him. On one occasion the farmer kept butting in with words of advice. We could see him getting redder in the face until he suddenly stopped and, hands on hips, said to the boss, “Now look it here mister. Be you building this rick or be I?” The farmer walked off muttering to himself.

It wouldn’t do for today because it just would not pay but the atmosphere of those wonderful horses, dogs and friendship and the moment when the last sheaf was tamped into place and the cry went up, “That’s the one,” was unforgettable.

I believe Stansted Airport stands there today.

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Animals and climate It is all the rage to talk of the vagaries of climate but such variations have a great effect on the well being of animals. This winter we had an excess of rain. One of the results of this is to flush out the drains in gutters and roadsides bringing out diseases associated with rodents, and who are the first recipients of this, but dogs and cats with their delight at close sniffing everywhere they can. I always noticed that after heavy rains there was a surge in Leptospiral diseases, mainly affecting the kidneys. Some of these can affect humans. In fact my mother died of one, Weill’s disease, back in 1933. Wet weather in Summer produces lush grass which results in profuse diarrhoea in cattle and made a walk down an old-fashioned cowshed a hazardous procedure, which is why a vet often wears a heavy waterproof on a summer’s day.

A hot dry summer also has it’s downside for animals, for when the grass is short, farm animals will be tempted by unsuitable food. I remember a farm in Metcombe where a feeding herd of young calves, short of grass, were tempted by a bumper fall of acorns. The farmer thought it was great until they started to die. There was little I could do apart from an occasional heroic operation to manually remove the poisonous acorns. I well remember the despair of this farmer, a Charlie Chaplin of a man who wore various parts of a pin-stripe suit and would don a celluloid collar to greet visitors, even with it’s devilish studs front and back. I always wished I could have done more for him.

A spate of wet weather in Spring or Autumn brings out the ticks, and then watch out for the many diseases they vector, some dangerous to man. The West Country, together with parts of Scotland, was the only place where cattle suffer from a tick borne disease known locally as Red Water. Rarely fatal, it caused a drastic fall in milk production, so we were called in for treatment.

Another hazard in which the West Country excelled was poisonous snakes, the Adder. Although quite harmless in general, hot weather would bring 86

them out to bask. Dogs, with their insatiable curiosity, were the main victims.

Bites were usually on the face and feet, which would swell up alarmingly and death was common. I like to think I rarely lost a patient but it was, like the treatment for hyperthermia, all systems go. From excising the point of bite, to administering anti-venum serum, which I always stocked despite it’s eye-watering cost, to other medication and lots of strong coffee poured down the poor dog’s throat plus all efforts to keep it awake. On more than one occasion, Plymouth hospital even borrowed my serum for human use.

For sheer theatrical drama, you could not beat that moment when two weather fronts collided and produced lightning. Farm animals, in their exposed position in the field and their predilection for standing under trees or gathering round metal feeding troughs, often suffered. Fierce thunderstorms would produce a rash of farmers sure that their latest cattle, sheep or even pig, had been struck by lightning. This was to their advantage as the insurers paid up more readily for such deaths. Diplomacy was needed if the body showed no evidence for this. For the signs were unusually clear, as the power of the strike left a typical mark on the hide of the casualty. I was once called to an incident near Ottery St. Mary where cows had gathered around a metal feeding trough during a storm. Three were dead, and one of them had been thrown 10 yards by the power of the strike. As an example of the superior sensitivity of animals, I remember the day when as I walked across my garden with my Border Terrier at my side and a thunderbolt struck the field beside my garden. I felt the shock but my dog jumped a clear foot of the ground and for the rest of the afternoon would not leave my side, even to the extent of sitting on my feet when ever she could.

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Rodeo Days I was talking to a farmer recently and I mentioned that when I see a vet on the TV these days, they seem to have everything laid on, so to speak, in that either the patient is held in a metal crush or it is firmly held for him/her by the farmer or one of their staff. This was not so in my young days. If you wanted to get on with the job and finish before Christmas, you had to first secure the patient yourself and then hand it over to the farmer or, more likely, do the whole of it yourself.

This was not due to any laziness on the part of the farmer but mainly because they were not used to handling the animals themselves. They did not vaccinate or worm their charges much, so that they did not often even get them in from the field. Hence they were not accustomed to being handled.

I would often arrive at a farm to find they had not even got the stock in, such was their laid-back approach. “It won’t take long”, I have heard so many times. Of course the cattle or sheep knew something was up and refused to cooperate. Then we had to get them into a building and some of the sheds used were pretty ancient. I have seen a shed literally kicked to pieces. Then I had to go in amongst that lot and I soon learnt that to get out unscathed and finish the job, I had to catch them myself and I had to learn how to do it.

The secret was intense concentration. Once I had my grip in the bovine nose I was home and dry, or at least snotty, and the horns, although dangerous, came in handy too. Even so, I often came home well bruised.

My dear departed friend, Pete Hannaford, whom I had known since we were evacuated together at the age of 11, was once told as a student, to hold on to a horse’s bridle whatever happened. At first touch of the needle the horse bolted, went through the side of a greenhouse and out the other side before finally coming to a standstill with Pete still hanging on. He was just reprimanded with, “I didn’t mean for you to hold on that much”.

There were several procedures which could be used to reduce the patient’s chance of turning you black and blue. One was to lift a cow’s tail as forcefully as possible where it joined the body, or when examining the udder, to press 88

ones head into the flank in front of the hind leg. It was not unusual for me to be doing pregnancy diagnosis unaided while the farmer carried on handmilking his herd just beside me. If you did get any help, you might ask them to lift one foreleg or perhaps to hold the nose and turn the cow’s head back towards the tail, or the hind legs could be hobbled together. When it came to horses, nothing beat the presence of someone whom the horse trusted.

For dogs and cats, we were equally badly served. Such sedatives as we did have were slow and only partially successful. When Boringdon Hall was sold by its aristocratic owner to become a hotel, I was called in to collect its 10 semi-wild cats. They were all hiding in crevices in the vast old fireplace and, as the owner made it clear he would have nothing to do with it, I had to don gloves and catch them one by one. I ended up black as a chimney sweep, but I must digress to point out that in those days we had none of the plastic cat baskets of today. They were all wicker, woven willow; but not in the Elm Cottage practice. I have mentioned before that the senior partner was a self-sufficiency fanatic. He had bought a job lot of ex-army ammunition boxes and the handy yard man had cannibalised these into cat boxes with ex-army webbing for carrying straps. They were devilishly heavy and banged against your legs at every step. I was the first in the practice to buy a modern version, but even then it was only fibreglass. I have it still, to remind me of those early primitive days.

My first day at Plymouth coincided with a breakdown of the x-ray machine, so I was tasked with taking a racing greyhound with a leg fracture to another practice in town. I had nil experience of working greyhounds in Sidmouth, so I did not realise how taut with energy they could be, for at the first touch of the needle he shot straight out of my grip and jumped high above me.

When he came down he buried his teeth in the top of my head. A good start.

On another occasion I called to a very smart house to inject a lively red setter.

There being no table uncluttered with ornaments, the owner said she would hold her dog on the floor. I remember she was wearing a very smart tweed suit. At first prick the dog jumped so violently that her owner was bowled over, legs in the air, to reveal that she was wearing a vast pair of knee length drawers, what my wife would call ETBs (Elastic Top and Bottom). Another time, I paid a visit to an upmarket house in mid-afternoon, to vaccinate a Siamese cat. The door was opened by the lady owner, wearing a plunge neckline evening dress. I tried to hide my surprise and look anywhere, but she insisted on helping and as usual, we ended up on the floor, the 89

cat having decided on a non-cooperative role. Three times my attempts to inject ended with the owner and cat rolling on the carpet and every time her left breast popped out of her dress, albeit a short journey; and every time she seemed to have difficulty replacing it. At the third attempt a great urge came over me to say, “here, let me do it�, but I never did, thank goodness!

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The intelligence of birds My dictionary defines “Intelligence� as the capacity for understanding. I prefer to think of it as the ability to cope with life. Birds are a perfect example, and as their lives are short evolutionary improvements built up fast over generations, as opposed to, say elephants or horses. Think what they have achieved since they branched off from dinosaurs. The Turkey of today is probably the closest to dinosaurs. Look at it closely and you can see how scales became feathers.

Most of these improvements have come about either by genetic aberrations or from renegade individuals who have suddenly devised better ways of coping with life. Some of these variations have been successful, but most have just disappeared in the soup of life. Young birds learn most from parents, but they also copy each other. There are examples of sheer stupidity, such as the Pied Wagtail which attacks its image in the wing mirror of a car, or the Crow who pecks at a ping-pong ball, but mainly their foibles have one aim, the procreation of the species. The classic example of Tom Tits stealing cream from milk bottles on doorsteps is said to have started in an area North of London, from where it spread like wildfire by copying to the most of the country. Many innovations have to do with sexual display. We have all seen the swooping stalled flight of the Pigeon, usually accompanied by a distinct clap of the wings. Various species perform a complicated dance before their partner and presumably have learnt this from their fathers. The Bower Bird woos his intended with a display of bauble collected, bottle tops, pieces of coloured glass or plastic. He will smooth out a stage to display them and then enhance the whole shebang by pulling adjacent long grass into an arch to make a bower. The female will come to view. If it does not impress her, she will fly off. Then he will either rearrange his treasures or fly away in search of new trinkets, some of which he might steal from other displays; but he had better not be gone long or his own trove might be burgled.

Many other tricks have been acquired, the use of sticks as tools by Crows, the way some birds will carry moss to their nest to squeeze out moisture for their nestlings or a Woodpecker honey laden bark for its young to suck.

It is said that Jackdaws kept for experiments to test their intelligence come 91

eagerly to their experimental puzzles every morning. I have seen such a phenomenon in my own garden. I have a fat ball feeder with a squirrel guard, but I have lost the lid. Before long a cheeky House Sparrow realised that it was easier to squeeze down the tube from the top and then come out backwards. Soon they were all doing it, even the Greater Spotted Woodpecker who was a pretty tight fit.

Yet not all accomplishments come from copying. The young Cuckoo’s parents have left for Africa probably before it is even hatched, but it knows its own route to Africa and what to do with its egg on return to this country next Spring. The last batch of young Swallows or Martins can find their migratory route without parental guidance, and what about their use of magnetic lines for migration. Get my drift about intelligence?

On the other hand, the amount of infidelity among birds would amaze you.

Most Robins have 2 or 3 wives, but the females are also up to the game and often nip off to a lover, so that any clutch of eggs in a nest may have more than one set of genes.

Oh what a world it is out there. Reminds you of human-kind!

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Decisions, decisions Whenever I hear of a medical profession’s so-called “Never Event”, I feel great sympathy, because in the nature of things every day brings so many events, certainly in the veterinary profession, that there is every likelihood that something could go wrong. I used to reckon that in an average day I would make in excess of 40 vital decisions, anyone of which could end up, in a naughty world, with me being sued. Over a long career I developed an interest in the science, or art, of decision making. There are two types of decision, the Instant, which just cannot be delayed because of its inborn urgency. Then there is the Delayed Decision where you have a certain leeway of time. For these I would set myself a future date to decide; time to mull it over. This might all sound pretty obvious, but not to some people.

They treat every decision as Instant. Life has taught me to watch out for the clean desk man. He takes every decision on the spot and refuses to change his mind. I had a partner of this ilk. He made his decisions then went off bathed in his righteousness, leaving the rest of us to face the consequences; and he had a habit of being out of touch.

You might think that in a well-run business nothing should go wrong. Well I can tell you it can. First there is the unexpected event which hits you.

Then there is what I call the Compounded Mistake. This is when someone makes a minor lapse in the norm, which likely could be laughed-off, but then someone else also makes a minor mistake which, combined, brings about disaster. I give you an example. One of our greatest nightmares was the escape of a patient. To avoid this there were 6 doors between patients and freedom. Every day the bin men collected some 6 or so bins put out for them. One day the kennel girl responsible, forgot to do this. So the bin men, ever helpful or perhaps thinking of their Christmas bonus, came in to find them and propped all the doors open as they went. This shouldn’t have been a problem because all inmates were leashed or caged on the move.

But on this occasion the kennel girl was taking a long-stay boarder to the exercise run and he knew the ropes well and ran beside her, but on finding all the doors open he couldn’t believe his luck. I always assumed everyone was doing their best and there was no witch-hunt to lay the blame so 93

there was no point in a cover-up I also insisted I was informed forthwith of any such situation. If out I would say, “I will be there in 10 minutes. I want everyone assembled”. So I had all the facts before making any decision.

A difficult decision I made, apart from the purely medical, came about like this. I was wakened about 1am by a PC on his round. “It looks as though you have had a break-in at your cattery. I have just chased off some lads who had broken in”. I was soon there and to my horror found it was the cat quarantine and four cats had escaped. The young copper was very helpful and we soon found three cats. They were terrified, had not even left the premises and were glad to be back in their quarters; but no sign of number 4. Now came the decision. By rights and strict regulations I should have informed the ministry. No chance of that at 2am, and I also knew this particular cat had almost completed its 6 month incarceration. Once before, after a Rabies scare in the kennels, MAAF had made every inmate add another 3 months to their time. So I know what to expect. Also MAAF made every owner bear the extra cost. They always made it quite clear they would have no truck with such matters and seemed oblivious of the financial and emotional repercussions of their decisions. So, next day, I thought, “That cat will turn up,” and it did. About mid-day we had a call from Plymouth Argyle football ground. “We have a very scared cat. Is it yours?” No one ever knew, apart from my staff. Just as well, as it may have spelt the end of my career.

During the latter half of my time in Plymouth I was the longest surviving vet and sometimes other peoples’ clients, and even other vets, would come to me for advice before suing, or being sued, for negligence. My advice was always forget it, because the only people to gain were the legal profession It is a great source of satisfaction to me to think of the amount of money I have denied to the said profession. As for myself, I am proud that only once was I ever sued, to no avail, but the details of that must remain secret for now.

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Secrets of the consulting room Once the consulting room door closes and you are isolated with your client and his pet, you may be surprised to know that the most troublesome one is not usually the animal but more often it’s owner. Take the time when I turned out at night for the manager of a local factory, his wife and their very sick boxer dog. It was midnight as I met them outside my surgery and as I led them into the consulting room I distinctly heard the wife say to her husband,” I think we should get a second opinion”. Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that any fool can give a second opinion because by then many diagnoses have been ruled out. I should know; I did a lot of second opinions. As it turned out the Boxer had Gastric Torsion and was operated on there and then and made a good recovery.

One of my great dreads was the windbag client. I remember a family of mother and three children and a dog, and a dragon of a grandmother or was it a mother-in-law! She was certainly in charge and the rest stood respectfully as she held forth at great length. Eventually, mindful of the passage of time, I tried to break in, whereupon she said , “Will you let me finish, young man”. I was about to protest but then I thought, well if you want to come here and pay me good money to hear the sound of your own voice go ahead.

When you buzz for the next client and the door bursts open to admit a gang of unruly children, or even a single, followed by parents, you could be in for trouble. Prying fingers into everything and a general situation of chaos. I found the best way to tackle the situation was to select the largest syringe I could find and then attach a large needle whilst making eye contact with the ringleader. Overdo the maleficence enough and he would slink behind his mother. “Oh Tristram you are quiet today. Not like you,” from mother. Or following on from that we might have the case of the dog or cat which has mysteriously acquired a second rectal opening, possibly by the injudicious use of a sharp pencil. “I can’t imagine how it happened,”says parent. But I can because I have seen it before, and a bit of eye contact with sheepish offspring soon tells me the culprit.

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On the other hand, as a newly qualified vet I was once accosted by a group of young girls who, accompanied by much giggling, intimated that one of their number was in a certain difficulty and could I help. I had to say that there was nothing I could do whilst averting my eyes from the shelf containing the large jar of Quinine Sulphate tablets, at the time considered one solution to the problem.

I once employed a young German vet who although very efficient and of a very pleasant disposition was lacking in confidence when facing animals.

On one occasion we could all hear such a confrontation as he tried to deal with an unwilling German Shepherd, a breed not known for it’s stoicism.

“No Duke, we heard, in a voice of reason which repeated in an ever rising voice up to the level of panic, and every time the dog responded with high pitched shrieks. They must have come to some mutual arrangement for eventually Duke and owner came out, but unknown to them our resident cat, a big tom and called Tom, incensed by the hooligan behaviour, was waiting on his vantage point on the counter and beat the poor dog-up about the ears to teach him better manners.

One particular incident stands out in my memory. An elderly couple who were enthusiastic clients of mine brought their cat to my surgery. After my treatment the husband said, “I wonder if you would look at the skin condition my wife has on her chest. We have been to the doctor and received no satisfaction.” Now, such was the high regard the public had for the veterinary profession in those days, I was often asked to treat people and I admit I sometimes did so in a simple way. So I took little notice and mumbled assent while writing up my case notes with my back to them.

When I turned round my double take must have been amusing to watch. He had her stripped to the waist and stood behind her, hands on her shoulders like some saucy music hall tableau. I advanced warily and soon diagnosed a case of Scabies. I gave them a medical bath to use and I believe they were delighted with the result. But it wouldn’t do today, no it wouldn’t do today!

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Sheepdogs During my long career I treated many dogs and I loved them all; even those that bit me. But I think those who drew my affection most we’re the working dogs, whether Police dogs, Guide dogs, Army dogs or Foxhounds, and the type that attracted me most of all was that most useful group of dogs - sheepdogs. To see two or three in the back of a pick-up, eager for work, was enough to lift anyone’s heart. Their devotion to their owner was a joy to see.

There are two main types of sheepdog and their use goes back in time to the days when man first started to herd sheep with the aid of domesticated wolves. Wolves had already developed their own technique for harassing herds of wild animals until one could be singled out for their next meal, so it was easy for man to use this talent for his own needs.

The first type is the low, creeping, collie who will control from a distance and makes a great show of staring intently at his flock and dominates by sheer physiological force. This is your Border Collie, all of which are said to derive from one famous dog from North of England. The second type is more upright and barks a lot and may even bite. They are more common abroad and include the Huntaway and Kelpie, which will often run across the backs of a tightly packed flock, and some dogs will even catch individual sheep as instructed by grabbing them by the fleece at the neck and holding on until the farmers takes over. An offspring of this is the cattle dog which controls by sometimes biting the legs of cattle and barking, such as the Old English Sheep Dog. They could often be quite vicious and their long coats would become matted with mud. I lived in No.1 Birds Nest Cottages and farmer Bob Fry in Sidcliffe Farm kept an Old English to bring in his herd for milking, but he became old and his coat was just solid with mud. Farmer Fry decided he had to go as nobody could get near him. It fell to me to carry out the unpleasant task and they had shut him in the milking parlour. I had to lean over the stable door and shoot him with a .22 pistol as he came at me.

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The dog that we all think of as a sheepdog is a border Collie. It was recently voted the nation’s favourite dog but I have doubts about this because it has far too much energy for the average family and it also has a tendency to Epilepsy. There is no doubt about it’s high intelligence and devotion to it’s owner. A Dartmoor farmer I knew went out one day to look at his sheep. He had a heart attack and dropped dead. His wife organised a search party and they found his body next morning with his two collies lying one each side of him in a vain effort to keep him warm and safe.

When I was working I also kept a small flock of sheep; just a hobby, although the Tax man did not agree. So we decided we had better get ourselves a sheepdog. I saw an advert in the local paper for some collie type working pups. It was a farm on Dartmoor. Some of those farms had not progressed for a hundred years. The litter was in a loose box, six inches deep in cow dung, and the mother had found the only half decent place to have her pups, a recess in the wall. Many farmers treated their devoted servants very cruelly. We chose one and brought her home. She was riddled by fleas, lice and worms, but bathed and groomed was a different dog and loved her new life. We called her Moss, and she forged a bond with our big Ginger cat; but sheep, not a chance! When we went for a walk we often had to pass through our flock and she was terrified of them. Then one day returning home, she saw the sheep and just rounded them up in classical manner.

It was a start. The atavistic instinct of generations of forebears had suddenly surfaced and come flooding back. Back in the days before railways, sheep were driven on foot to their final destination. The sheepdog was essential to this industry and as well as driving the sheep were often sent ahead to lie in side road or open gateway to stop sheep from straying. When the drover returned home he would often travel by coach leaving the dogs to find their own way home. They knew that if they rested at drovers inns they would be fed and the next time the drover came by he would settle up with the innkeeper. One of the recognised signs of a drovers inn was the planting of 3 Scots Pines. I believe the Hare and Hounds at Putts Corner was one such and if you look you will see a single Scots Pine surviving. 20 years ago there were two.

A sheepdog was involved in my last case before retirement. I was due to finish at 6pm on a Friday night. At about 5:30 I took a call from Joan, an Australian who was doing a locum at my Plympton surgery. At that time we relied heavily on Aussie and SA vets to keep going. She said, “I have just had a run-in with a farmer. His sheepdog has a deep wound on it’s left side and 98

needs an anaesthetic. He refuses and says he will hold the dog down while I stitch it under a local. I refused and he says he’s going to lay a complaint against me. He’s on his way to you now”. So I said, “Just leave him to me, Don’t worry about it”. When he arrived I soon realised she was correct as the wound was deep and would need layers of buried sutures. When I told him this he said, “You’re just making a big job out of it so you can charge me more”. To which I replied, “yes and if it went wrong you would be the first to sue me!” I could see it had hit home and he quietly left his dog when I told him he could come back at 9pm to collect him. I then handed over to Keith, an excellent surgeon, and English too, and headed off into retirement.

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A day in the life of a bird Someone once said that if Man had to pass his day as a bird does, at the end of it he would be beyond exhaustion. The term bird covers, mostly, feathered flying creatures, but within that group there are many subgroups which strive a life so many different ways. So consider the song bird.

Having survived the night, food must be the first consideration. Here they differ, some specialise in insects, some in seeds or herbage, and have evolved the anatomy to suit. The specialisation in this field is amazing.

Different foods peak at different times and places, so we come to migration both horizontal and vertical, for some. Others stick it out at one place and adapt. They must programme their life, travel, procreation, and even fun, to take advantage of peaks of supply of their favourite food. This search for food is a continuous pressing urgency of the day, and may even involve dashing home with as much food as can be carried, and all the time looking over his shoulder for predators determined to make him part of their daily diet. Think of this and you have part of the picture, and if he is a songbird never mind about enemies, he has enough on his hands keeping his own kind away and carving out a territory of his own.

They manage according to their lifestyles. Some are solitary feeders, creeping under foliage like the wren, others feed in groups and either rely on one of their number to spot danger or appoint a lookout who has a vocabulary indicating levels of danger; at the top warning all make a run for it. Even this has its risks, for the sentinel on a high branch is vulnerable; and certain wily birds, often Corvids or Parrots, learn to mimic the top call and, when everyone scarpers, calmly hop down to pick up the flocks’ leavings.

Different times provide different foods, but whatever the season, come glut or famine, there is no easy time. Even times of plenty bring the need to larder food away for the hard times. Some birds have been known to hide away several hundred items of food and subsequently recall 80-90% of them. There are other birds who watch them and dig up their booty, so they have a good look round before any burial or even carry out a false burial or sneak back and re-bury. I tell you it’s everyone for itself out there.

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Then there is the business of accessing the food, according to time and place.

He must learn when insect stages proliferate or seeds ripen. Yet some foods need preparation. From the crow who takes a hard morsel and dunks it in water, to the gull who, often repeatedly, drops a mollusc from a great height onto a hard rock to crack it open, it is ingenuity all the way. We have all seen the seagull drumming on the grass to imitate rain and trick worms into coming to the surface, but others beat that for ingenuity. Crows have actually used us by placing a hard nut on a pedestrian crossing when lights are red for traffic to crush it and then retrieving it when the red comes round again. In my young days milk bottles with cardboard lids were left on the doorsteps and tom tits soon learned to peck them open and eat the cream, but not the milk which they could not digest. Yet the most macabre is the vultures in Zimbabwe who perch on the fence bordering a minefield and wait for a deer to tread on a landmine, then flying in for the feast.

On top of all this the song bird must practise his song. It is said that nestlings listen to their father’s song from the age of two days and learn. His song is important and must be perfect. But the search for food is the continuous pressing urgency of the day. The bird must eat well to be sexually desirable, to have the vigour to control territory or keep up with the flock, dodge predators, or when the merciless cold of the winter night settles on his roost, to have enough fat on his bones to keep him warm and survive. Then his day will have been a success against all the odds that nature can throw at him.

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Do animals have a sense of humour?

Do you think animals have a sense of humour? I do, so long as you liken it to the impish behaviour of children, especially if it is combined with a lot of rough and tumble.

They certainly express joy. You only have to watch cows or sheep let into a new field to see that, when even mature matrons will give a display of legs and udders flying in all directions. I had a Border Terrier whose whole life centred around playing ball. This phenomenon can be seen in sniffer dogs who give their valuable services just to be rewarded with a few minutes play with their ball. My Border would devise ball games for herself. She would drop her ball at the top of a flight of steps and then chase it as it rolled down.

Then she caught it and took it to the top of the steps again and again. But her favourite was to come beside me as I knelt weeding and drop the ball just midway between us and then sit there nonchalantly looking around as if she was totally unaware, but if I even so much as twitched a muscle to grab the ball, she was on it in a flash. Then she would rush around in circles of joy at having outwitted me. Even so, sometimes I would beat her to it, and then she would crouch in shivering concentration for the throw and chase which followed.

My favourite dog of all time was a Harlequin Great Dane called Chloe. For the first 18 months of her life she was brought up on a Naval Estate in Plymouth until the Navy decreed she was not suitable for a small flat. She was due to be put down and I was called in, but instead I decided to take her into my own family, a decision which I never regretted. We hit it off straight away and my children loved her. I would take her with me when I lectured at schools and she would wander round the class shaking hands with everyone. Now she certainly had a sense of humour. Her party trick was to stand up with her feet on your shoulders and pretend to bite your nose with a great snap of her jaw, but she was so accurate that she would miss by less than an inch. This unerring accuracy was shown in catching a ball thrown high in the air when she would track it’s fall and catch it clean every time. We always called her Dodger.

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I knew a Siamese cat who devised a game for herself. She needed a small ball of silver paper which she would drop at the feet of any human who looked likely. She would then retreat two or three feet and you had to throw the ball so that it reached her at a height of about 3 inches, when she would bat it with her front paw into the far corner of the room. Then she would retrieve it in her mouth and drop it at your feet again. But woe betide you if your throwing did not come up to her rigorous standards. She would give a look of contempt and drop it at the foot of someone else.

I know another Siamese who lived in a house which had a grand staircase with wide bannisters. Her party trick was to climb this by gripping round to the underside with a front paw to give her traction. But she would only perform if she had an audience. So she sat on the bottom newel post and set up a caterwaul as only a Siamese can until she had gathered a group of admirers, then, to cries of encouragement she would set off up the slippery slope to the top, whence she jumped down and strolled down the stairs to receive her applause.

But what about parrots when it comes to humour. I witnessed the following whilst waiting for my client to appear. Before me were French windows with curtains either side. A black cat sat looking out of the window at ground level and his tail draped over the edge of the step. To the right a parrot sat upon his perch. He looked at the tail and then at me and he stealthily climbed down the curtain and gave the tail a hearty bite. The cat cried out in pain and the parrot hastily clambered back up to the safety of his perch, and once there he laughed. Well it was a good imitation of a laugh. Is that a sense of humour or is it not?

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Difficult animals It seems to me that vets today have it easy when it comes to handling difficult animals. Back in the 60’s we did not have the rapid acting sedatives and dart guns available today.

One day I had just finished morning surgery at my Plymouth practice when I received a call from the police. “A leopard has escaped at Plymouth Zoo. Can you attend?” Not having the courage to say no, I said I would be right there. Well I did all the police work and the zoo was bang next door to my surgery. Then it occurred to me that the zoo had closed a year ago; so I was intrigued. The problem of what equipment to take was soon solved as I had only a slow acting narcotic, usually used to sedate animals before an operation. It took about 15 minutes to work; a lot can happen in 15 minutes.

But I took a large syringe!

On arrival I found out what had happened. A leopard was being transported from abroad to Whipsnade Zoo. The driver had received permission from the owners of the zoo, the Chipperfields of circus fame, to overnight in their premises. During the night the leopard had broken the wire in the corner of the trailer and escaped. The driver was nowhere to be seen. The fact that the red light district of Devonport was just down the road was irrelevant.

The leopard was most probably still within the zoo’s high fence, but to be safe the police had cleared the whole of the surrounding Central Park and police cars were circling the park with bells and sirens galore, an impressive sight, but in the zoo itself there was an eerie silence. The site was steeply sloping and I began to walk up, quartering the ground as I climbed.

A third of the way up I met two high ranking police officers, a magnificent sight in all their silver insignia. The thought struck me that the leopard might be attracted by all this glinting bling, so having exchanged pleasantries I rapidly put distance between us and worked my way up the slope. What I thought I was going to do if I met the beast heaven knows but the ignorance of youth drove me on. At the top of the enclosed area was a deserted ice cream kiosk and I was heading for this when I heard a loud voice behind me.

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“You’re mad you lot. That leopard is a killer!” It was Richard Chipperfield, a well known member of the younger generation of the family, rifle slung over his shoulder. I told him I had covered the lower slopes and he went straight up to the kiosk, shinned up the drain pipe like a cat burglar and onto the flat roof. I stayed where I was, for want of anything better to do, not 20 yards from the kiosk. Two shots rang out and Richard Chipperfield climbed down from the roof. The leopard had been resting on the lawn where, in years gone by, customers had sat at tables and licked their icecreams or consumed their drinks at rickety little tables and chairs. Richard had undoubtedly saved my life. I went over to see her and his shooting was immaculate. First a spinal neck shot to immobilise her and then a heart shot; but she was beautiful and I could not resist stroking her still warm body.

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Babies galore Nothing is more fascinating than the way that different species provide for the welfare of their babies. It even starts with the variation in the development of their placentas, which is a study of it’s own. You all know how human babies are cared for. Now listen to this. Some animals go to great lengths over a long period to provide infinite care and food while others just give basic food but otherwise just drop their offspring and leave it with the virtual attitude of, ”You are on your own mate“, but they are not so callous as this might seem. There is always a reason.

Take the comparison between the Rabbit and the Hare. The Rabbit has a gestation period of just 30 days, but then produces naked young in an underground burrow where she suckles them in comfort. The Brown Hare, on the other hand, gestates for 42 days but then drops young which are fully developed. They never go underground but spread out and each scrapes a hollow in the ground, called a form, into which it settles and, remaining perfectly still, becomes invisible. The mother visits three times a day to suckle them but with care because predators are watching. The leverets separate so that if one is discovered, the others have a chance, and from birth they can run. The Hare also has a clever trick to make the most of the February to October breeding window. About two weeks before birthing she can conceive again. This means that when the existing tenants of her uterus move out into the world there is a developing set of foetuses ready to take their place. Thus, for a time, the Hare is permanently pregnant, but to achieve this the sperm of the buck have to journey through and over the growing tenants of the uterus, a journey which is akin to the homeward travels of Odysseus. If you don‘t think that amazing you must be hard to please. Moreover the doe does not come on heat but ovulates after mating, and the famous boxing matches of hares can often be between doe and buck when she is telling him to get lost. So, you see, she is in charge of the whole sex business. That should please the feminists!

Yet other species have another method. Whereas the Rabbit, Bats, and most mammals nurture helpless young, and remember the most extreme 106

of those is the Marsupial which carries it’s young in a special pouch on it’s abdomen, or the big cats which scare the hell out of any potential predator, some species just produce young which within a short time can join and keep up with the herd for protection. In this group we have the Ungulates or those that evolved even beyond and have only one toe. In the Ungulates we have Cattle, Sheep, Deer etc. whose young are licked clean by the mother and are soon ready to join the adults on long shaky legs. Even so the Deer may leave it’s young hidden whilst gaining strength, but remember how agile the adults are. No youngster could keep up with that. The second, single-toed group is also fast and includes the Horse and it’s wild variants, Zebras, Wildebeest etc. Here the young are soon able to keep up with the herd with the aid of their long legs.

One would have to be very hard-bitten to fail to be touched by the way the long-legged, always long of leg, offspring of these species, fuelled only by mother’s milk and a little grass, struggle to find their place and keep up with the herd.

Finally I must preach. Never, unless it is obviously injured, pick up or even touch a seemingly abandoned leveret or any feral young. For if you do you will leave your scent upon it and it’s mother may abandon it as she no longer recognises it as her own.

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Three marmalade cats Or Gingers as I like to call them. In my time I have owned, or rather been on the staff of, many cats; but not so many as it might have been because they all, except one, lived to a good old age. It was the one exception which ensured my last three cats to be all Gingers. When I retired, one present amongst all my embarrassing number of gifts was a Siamese kitten we called Roo. She shared all the uprooting of our move from Plymouth to Sidmouth and we loved her dearly; but sadly, on her very first outing she was run over and killed by a tractor right outside our gate. She was never allowed that precious time to learn the dangers of the world. Her predecessor had been a Ginger cat from a farm at Plympton, so we made enquiries through the veterinary nurse network to see if they had another, and they did. So came about Ginger I and Ginger II. Later there was to be another Ginger cat and I would like to show how three cats, so similar in appearance, could differ so much in their characters.

Ginger was a big strong cat, a typical castrated Tom. He was by nature an outdoor cat and he had a domain which really could not be improved upon; 15 acres of field and ancient woodland, and the field was alive with rabbits, his favourite food. Even so, he liked to spend most afternoons indoors which he enjoyed although his real home and nightly bed was with the chickens who lived in stables some 50 yards from the house. In the day he would often catch a rabbit as big as himself which he would carry down to the chicken house for consumption. To achieve this he had to drag his catch over a 4ft high chain link fence. It was not really necessary to scale the fence, but he knew it was right opposite the kitchen window and he did it just to show off. As I have said, he was a big strong cat, but yet he remained cuddly and loveable. Every tea time my wife would carry him down to the chicken house for his nightly sleep with the chickens, cat under one arm, his food under the other. He took his chicken guarding duties seriously, and we would often find the corpse of a rodent which had the temerity to try to steal the chicken food.

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He lived to the grand old age of eighteen and never seemed to ail, but one morning we found he had passed away peacefully in his bed beside his beloved chickens.

I have already told you how we came about to have Ginger II. I think he was the best of the lot. He loved to lay in wait in our Sidbury garden and ambush our Border Terrier as she strolled past intent on some ball game of her own devising. Whenever we sat on a garden seat he would make a beeline for your lap. When I revelled in retirement by having a post-lunch siesta, he would snuggle up to my chest and purr, and if I put my arm around him he would raise the rate and decibel of purr so that I had some difficulty in nodding off, although I did mostly manage. He was made for love, yet he had his mischievous streak. One time we went to London overnight and left him with plenty of food and all mod-cons, but when we returned we found he had completely unrolled the toilet roll so that it spanned the bathroom and even reached the hallway. When the end came, again at the grand old age of eighteen, he made a bed under our bed and refused to come out. A true gentleman of a cat.

So that was that. We decided that at our age it was not fair to have another dog or even a cat... but our daughter had other ideas. One day she arrived with another, most beautifully marked ginger kitten, one of a litter of feral cats she rescued from a local farm in Shropshire. “Take them now or they will go back to the wild”, she was told. Far too young to leave her mother she, and her siblings, were then bottle fed by various carers, a great disadvantage as we shall see.

But what a cat she became. Everything about her is different. You notice I say “her” and that was the first difference, because most ginger cats are male; and having come in from the wild she decided to embrace domesticity to the feline full. Although she will go out and enjoy her territory, she makes it clear that unless the weather is perfect, she would rather stay in with us.

She is the most intelligent of the three and has developed many quirks of habit.

Most kittens will hide under the furniture for 24-48 hours; not Tigger. Having come in from the wild she, like many converts, went to the other extreme and decided she would play her full part in family life. This meant she would join us on tables and kitchen counters as an equal, and although she would obey the command, “Get down”, she would soon be up again. I think her ideal would be to have a plate laid for her at meals. This doesn’t happen 109

but she does the next best which is to go to her food in the corner when we eat, although she could eat at any time. I who have mastered animals from wild bullocks down to vicious parrots, never thought I would be outwitted by a cat.

Cats have less taste buds than we do and judge their food by smell, at which they surpass us many times over. Also their sight at closer than 3 inches is poor whereupon their tactile whiskers take over. So she smells every thing closely as she passes. To see her negotiate a crowded table top is a wonder, aided by her sensitive feet whiskers. In this she is well served by nerves which run from her front feet directly to her hind feet without connecting with the brain, thus warning her hind feet of obstacles to come; and if she should pause midstride the memory of where to put her hind feet will hold until she moves on. All that and ears which can hear a mouse brush a blade of grass yards away and what a living miracle you have.

Just as Cranes dance so do cars purr; but not Tigger. It seems that all feline habits come to her with difficulty. If she is chastised for clawing the carpet she will stop when shouted at but repeat the crime two minutes later. In that vital gap in her life, from 2-7 weeks, when many lifetime habits were set, one of many carers must have played mock fights with her, for she has learnt that human hands and feet are playthings and will launch attacks upon them and will neither be picked up or sit upon your lap. Her feral ancestry means that she never backs down and will stand up to any attack and always has the last word even if her counter attack is launched ten minutes later. All this combined with a sharp reaction to any sound as though she is still living on the wild side.

Yet having been brought up into this life with humankind she has taken her lifestyle to extremes and shares our life completely. She does go out and averages a mouse a day but makes it clear that she would rather be with us. She follows my wife everywhere and joins in with every household task, such as bedmaking, and is fascinated by hair washing or brushing and will steal hair clips to play with, even taking them out of her hair. Once, when family visited, plus dog, and there was much hugging, she stepped out of the ruck and made her own greeting to the incomers as if to say, “I am here too you know�.

Although her food is down all the time; and drink! Well get this. She seems to have an affinity with water. When we sit down for a meal or a coffee at the kitchen table she must have a drink as well, but not from her water bowl 110

on the floor which she never touches. She sits by the kitchen tap until we turn it on for her at a trickle. She loves water in any form and likes nothing better than to join in at bath time by walking around the edge of the bath and then when the emptying bath reaches about one inch she will jump in to paddle. In the days of her kittenhood when her balance was not so sure she would often fall in and the occupant would fish her out by the scruff give her a shake, and toss her back over the side. She loved it!

At night she sleeps in the kitchen for she would otherwise give us no overnight peace. I have to announce “It’s time for Bed” and she appears for her nightly head scratch before making her way to the kitchen. She loves routine and her favourite foods are mayonnaise and mashed potato. She is full of life, but I would be less than honest if I said she was an angel. Some time in those early few weeks of life when she was like a sponge soaking up habits, good and bad, someone taught her a game which involved attacking hands or ankles. Nothing we have tried has cured her. As she can also open doors, it can get tedious.

Yet of all Tigger’s habits, one is the most charming. It is my old fashioned way, after a meal, to get up and give my wife a kiss. Wherever she may be in the house this cat miraculously appears on the table and as I bend down I feel a wet kiss on my cheek as she joins in the general love-in.

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Animal conversations Well they are not really conversations as we know them, but there is no doubt that mammals and birds, particularly birds, can communicate with each other. This can also be supplemented by facial expression and body language as also seen in human exchange. Indeed these latter can even nuance the meaning of a simple statement. I give you the example of the raised eyebrow. From the vantage point of my kitchen window I can watch in wonder as the large flock of sheep across the valley decide to move across the field. Who gave the order and how. They move in well trodden paths, and often two paths merge into one. There is never any barging or fighting, but an orderly alternate file between the two lines. Is there any audible exchange, a sort of, “After you Claude”, or is it just body language. We shall never know because the moment man comes near the situation changes.

When geese fly any distance they form into a vee formation so that each one benefits from the slipstream of the one in front; but what of the leader at the point of the vee. No benefit there and after a time it means that he has to drop back and let someone else take the strain. Is there a honk that means, “Lordy, I am knackered”?

Pigs grunt a lot and are very social animals. They must have developed some meaning over time. What about mice. They live together in large numbers in crowded conditions and apparently squeak in frequencies we cannot hear; must be some meaning there. What about the massed flights of starlings before roosting. Who gives the orders so that they don’t end up with the biggest mass collision of all time. It is said that each one instinctively follows the movement of the six or so immediately around it, but there must be some bird in that magnificent murmuration who is giving the lead. The cock pheasant who walks beside me every morning as I go up to the greenhouse where the food is kept talks to me the whole time.

Still doubtful? I suggest you read some of the research on bird intelligence.

Yet in some cases we are able to decipher the meaning because the animal in question shares our life. On a superficial level the stallion or bull which paws the ground with it’s forefeet while making that throaty rumble is either saying, “Phwoar, I could give her one,” or in different circumstances, 112

“You want to make something of it?” Dogs and cats share our lives more closely and most conversation involves food or exercise. That look up at you while standing over the food bowl, with vocal accompaniment. You know it.

My daughter’s Border Terrier has one vocal for wanting her ball thrown and another for an excited greeting. Dog barks can mean anything from, “Keep off,” to “I am having a whale of a time,” while everyone knows the purring of a cat denotes contentment. Do lions and tigers purr I wonder.

The conversations of birds is a study in its infancy, but research is providing some surprises. The songbird singing his heart out is telling any listening females, “Listen up, I am a fine strong fellow. Choose me and your off-spring will be fine too”. Evolution has provided him with a special organ for this, the Syrinx, and if you look closely you can see it vibrating on his breast. The females are listening and are very critical of his performance. Any false notes and he is crossed off the list.

I think the greatest conversations occur between man and dog, bolstered by circumstance and body language and close contact. The horse can commune with man by subtle means. While working on various farms I developed a great respect for the working horse, the Heavy Horse. The effort required to get a heavy load moving was obvious from the grunt which resonated through that magnificent frame as it leaned into it’s task. Between my first and second years at Vet College I worked on a mixed farm in Cumbria where every day started with hand milking a small herd of Shorthorns. Traction was by horse alone. My stay coincided with haymaking. There was one field, less than an acre in a beautiful spot bordering woodland, where the hay amounted to one heavy cartload. The gateway was in a sharp dip which meant that you had to lead the faithful old Percheron by holding onto the head harness and going into the dip at a fair clip to get enough momentum to climb out of the other side. The horse was obviously aware of this and that, for my own safety, I had to keep a stride ahead of him. When we were loaded up and ready to go the horse nibbled at my hand with his beautiful soft lips, whickered softly and looked at me as if to say, “Well, new boy, are you ready for it,” and I was.

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Talking to animals I knew a household where a German Shepherd was a valued member of the family. As it was a well run house she was fed at regular times, but being an intelligent dog she was always trying to push that time a little earlier. She would appear and look meaningfully at her food bowl, but her owner only had to say the word “Twerly”(Geddit?) and she would go away and continue whatever doggie business she had been engaged in before.

A friend of mine visited for tea with an elderly lady who owned a Siamese cat, a breed renowned for their talkative nature. During small talk over tea the cat made a certain sound and the old lady, without breaking off her conversation, produced a saucer from the tray, filled it with milk and put it down for the cat which lapped it up with obvious enjoyment. Some time later the cat gave voice again and her owner automatically pulled a piece of vetbed out from behind a cushion and laid it on the sofa beside her. The cat settled down on it and went to sleep. “How did you know what she wanted?” the visitor asked. “She has got about seven different cries. I have, over time, learnt to understand them.” She replied.

My own cat, Tigger, has built up a fair vocabulary of words she understands although she talks little herself. One particular word which she never misses is “bed”. She has her night bed on a chair in the kitchen. This has to be because she has her own ideas about when we should get up and is most insistent, and even ingenious, in transmitting her wishes. For example she will jump from adjacent furniture and land with a thump on any sleeping body, although at other times she can creep onto the bed without a tremor felt. But although she could take to her night bed at any time she chooses not to do so until we ourselves make preparations. The moment I mention the word “BED” she harasses us until finally having bathed and made the night drinks we shut her in, and of course lock the door because unlatching a door is child’s play to her.

The classic case of listening to humans is the horse. Those mobile ears, programmed to listen for danger, have learnt to understand many 114

commands from man, although I wonder whether their almost 360’ vision, plus the flick of the reins, plays a major part.

Then there is the case of the farmer in the American Mid-West whose farm is so vast that his large milking herd often disappear over the horizon. His hobby of playing the trombone comes in useful as he plays it to call them in for milking.

Many birds like to be spoken to and soon learn to mimic words they have heard. At the foot of the steep road which lurches down to Farway there was a farm where a Jackdaw was a much loved member of the family. He spent most of the day on the farmer’s shoulder and there was a regular raucous repartee between them. The Mynah bird is notorious for learning words and sounds it has heard. Of course everyone knows about the talents of the Parrot and Parakeet. Do they just repeat the words “parrot fashion” or do they understand the context of the words? I can only say that upon visiting some parrots to clip their beak, a procedure necessary for deformed beaks, but which was never-the-less hated, I was bombarded with a barrage of foul language produced whilst jumping up and down on the perch with rage.

But of course, talking to animals reaches it’s peak with dogs. They are highly receptive to receiving instructions. The method, at first, is to choose a moment when they are, by chance, doing what you want and then giving the key word, or whistle, for that action. After a time the dog comes to associate that sound with that action. Some breeds are more attentive than others. Top of the list is probably the Border Collie; those alert ears and intelligent look say it all. Phillip Walling in his superb book Counting Sheep quotes an anecdote to show how a Collie listens to his owner’s every word.

A farmer was entertaining a guest on a summer evening, his collie lying at his feet. In addition to his usual sheep work the dog had taken upon himself the task of seeing off a cow which frequently broke into the kitchen garden.

As a test the farmer, without changing emphasis, inserted the words, ”That cow is in the potatoes again”. Immediately the dog jumped up and shot out through the open window to investigate, only to return a short time later and give his owner a look as if to say, “Are you having me on?”

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My pheasants I call them my pheasants, but of course they don’t belong to me. In reality they have taken over me and my garden. In the Springtime I could often look out of my kitchen window and see anything up to twenty hen pheasants soaking up the morning sun on my garden fence. They were attracted by the bird feeders which I attempt to keep stocked with peanuts, seed, fatballs and bread. I wonder if any other nation feeds birds as we do. I always say that we fatten birds so that people in southern climes can shoot or trap them and eat them. I can perhaps understand that if their need is great but I cannot condone shooting them for so called sport. In the islands of Cyprus and Malta these sportsmen wait in their droves to shoot exhausted migrant birds as they home into the first land they see as they cross the Med. They even dress up elaborately for the occasion. Every year, for years now, I have signed a letter to the PM of Malta urging him to ban this barbaric practice, which is illegal under EU law. I believe they, the hunters of Malta, voted in a referendum to continue the practice and won.

Yet of course my pheasants cannot actually reach the feeders. In the midst of summer I have three hens and one very protective cock pheasant who visit every day. In fact they live here. The girls sleep in conifers at the Southern end while the boss sleeps high in the ash tree on the East. There was a period when they all overnighted in the ash, but the goings-on were such that the girls decided to sleep elsewhere. So it is that every morning his lordship is seen hanging about on the lawn, trying to look as if he just happens to be there like some lovesick teenager passing a school just as his girlfriend comes out. Then they spend most of the day waiting under the feeders for any crumbs which drop their way. All the time he stands aloof while his girls keep their distance and no wonder, because his intermittent attempts at mating consist of running after his intended and leaping on her back. It is a good job we don’t carry on like that as I can imagine some very nasty injuries. What if you missed? Then every night he escorts his harem to their bed in the conifers and then trudges back to his lonely bed high in the ash tree.

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My outstanding memory of Exotic Pheasants was when Mrs Brown of Brownlands in Sid Road, very rich and a bird fancier, decided she wanted her large flock of Golden Pheasants to have their wings clipped. Of course I got the job. Beautiful birds, but hyperactive. It soon became obvious that I would need help to hold each bird. Mrs Brown refused to have anything to do with it, so I decided I would have to take them, all 36, back to the surgery.

Mrs. Brown found some large but ancient wicker crates and I stuffed them in, each one a mini battle, and set off in haste. Before I had reached the Radway, they had burst out and I arrived at the surgery in Temple Street with birds and feathers all over the car and me; one was even perched atop my head.

I reckon the average life of a wild pheasant to be about 18 months to 3 years, so that any great characters in my garden only really have a short stay. One day a hen pheasant came to the feeding station and we noticed a tiny brown chick which kept darting out from under it’s mother to peck at a morsel and then even more swiftly running back for cover. It was small, that must have been it’s first foray out into the world. We called it Henry, but as it developed we had to revise that to Henrietta, and from then it visited us every day of it’s allotted span. We always knew which one was Henrietta because when we approached all the others ran away, but she ran eagerly towards us.

Another great character was a magnificent cock pheasant who decided I was a reliable meal ticket. Every morning he would follow me up to the greenhouse where I kept the peanuts. Fearless, he would wait for me to throw him peanuts and even came to take them from my hand and he was so accurate that, despite his excitement, he never once pecked me. All the time he followed me, he emitted a low ticking sound like a well tuned motorbike ticking over; but when I gave him peanuts he moved up a gear, his clicking doubling in rate and volume. His obvious enjoyment was such a joy to watch. Then, sometime in his third year, he was no longer there.

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My life with animals Little did I think, as a first year Grammar School boy in the late 30’s, the first wave to receive free education, that I would one day be a qualified veterinary surgeon, and not only that, but build up a large multi-vet, multisurgery practice in a busy city far away from where I grew up. There was no hint of it to come.

My academic talent was nothing great and due to medical deficiencies I was mediocre at exams. Topping all that I had no experience of animals, so that at Vet College, considered at that time to be the most difficult of courses, I had to compete with those who were the sons of vets, or farmers, or at the very least were imbued with country life and all it’s flora and especially fauna. Maybe they just took pity on me.

Whatever it was I soon came to realise that animals, for some reason, seemed to like me. Which was half the battle, because I knew a lot of vets who did not like animals at all. One lecturer at college only qualified to please his father, a vet, and specialised in animal buildings, and no further could he get from animal contact than that; even then the moment his father died he retrained as an engineer, his true love. Many others made sure they took no part in the rough and tumble of general practice by going straight into industry, teaching, research, or the Ministry of Agriculture. This was an attitude I just could not understand, but it takes all sorts.

After five and a half years of the most rigorous training, for which I must be eternally grateful, I was employed in a mainly farm practice in Sidmouth.

When I hear students complaining that they receive too little instruction I realise how lucky we were. Hard facts were thrown at us as fast as we could digest them and vacations were more practical work. No gap years; for what purpose would they be? Even then I cut a new furrow because my year was the last before the Royal Veterinary College was swallowed up by London University and our much cherished Diploma became a Degree.

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In my first job, which lasted for eight happy years, I came across the British farmer, ignorant yet worldly wise, lovable but infuriating. At the end of eight years I was not sorry to leave him, although in my new job in Plymouth, for the first year at least, I had to deal with an even worse version in the Dartmoor farmer. But the animals, oh the animals, the worse they were treated the more love and affection they gave in return and, daily, I spent my working life amongst them. I developed an interest in what were known as exotics, birds, reptiles, warm blooded and cold, and clients came from North Devon to South Devon, Cornwall to Dorset, because at that time no other vets were interested. There was in those days a certain macho attitude that a true man had his arm up the backside of a cow which, interesting as it could be, I found to be only part of the job. Then other vets realised what they were missing and they all muscled in and set up their plates all around me. During this time I also came to love and appreciate all farm animals, the gentle cow a particular favourite but also the lovable sheep and goat and fun-loving pigs. They were all mine for a time. Then when it all got too much (remember I was also running a very busy boarding kennels, quarantine kennels, and clipping parlour) I had to make the decision to concentrate on town work.

I developed an affection for working dogs, giving so much for so little reward, perhaps ten minutes play with a ball. I also learned to hold no grudge if attacked by a patient. It was just to be expected. I once saw a vet, having been kicked by a cow, punch it so hard about the level of the heart, that it fell to the ground, stunned.

Many vets were particular about what cases they took on, but I could never resist a call and as a result I learnt a lot about the ways of animals. People have a tendency to regard pets as if they are lifelong children, but they become adults just like us and feel and suffer accordingly. They can certainly differentiate, probably by smell, the sex of their keepers and respond in different ways. I shall be forever grateful to owners, my clients, who gave me joy by lending me their pets, and even paying me at the same time, a bonus. I remember the anger I felt that these creatures should suffer in their illness and that I used every weapon at my disposal to cure them. Today it seems all about the money. I would never wear a white coat. It frightened them. There was a period, more recent, when I thought I ought to wear one to set a good example but the effect was so marked, they no longer came bouncing in to meet me, that I soon gave it up. I believe today’s muted blue tunic may be an improvement.

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Yet nothing could equal the joy given by my own pets, although I must agree the feeling of holding in my arms a freshly delivered calf or lamb came close. I think up there among my favourites was Chloe, the Harlequin Great Dane who was my companion from the age of 18 months until her 13th year, a good age for a Dane. She would accompany me as I lectured around schools and could charm any class as she worked the room shaking paws with as many as she could. Such love she gave was beyond description. Her sense of fun showed as she put her paws on your shoulders and pretended to snap at your nose and miss by an inch. She had a great turn of speed and I recall my heart-stopping thoughts of being sued as she sprinted for home when the little boy from next door crossed her path. Looking back I need not have worried as her accuracy was phenomenal. She loved a ball to be thrown sky high, and she would track it and catch it neatly in her mouth.

Her bed was in the front bay window and my children would stand on her back to watch for my arrival home.

I often wonder if it had evolved with a different method of heat loss the dog would have had such a special relationship with mankind. That lolling tongue, so ready to lick it’s owner takes a lot of resisting, about on a level with a cat’s purr, and that wagging tail. Even the frequent blast of halitosis spoke to me of work to come.

When I retired it happened that we were dog-less. So I looked around and I pondered. It seemed to me that of all the breeds that came into my surgery with calm dignity the Border Terrier was the top dog. This was before they became so popular, when everyone else cottoned on to this fact. So, after a false start we travelled to North Devon, in sight of Hinkley Point, and brought home Blue who was to be my close companion for the first fourteen years of my retirement, and my last ever dog. She had a beautiful temperament, was obedient and loving. She lived for her ball, for which she devised endless games; rolling it down our garden steps with their slight slope was her favourite which she would have played all day if left. As I worked in the garden she was never far from me and loved to drop her ball just out of my reach and when I made a grab she would beat me to it and then do a little victory dance. In those days I was able to exercise lying on the grass and the first time this happened she was sniffing about nearby and suddenly spotted me down at her level. She did a double-take and then ran around me in ever decreasing circles until she was jumping over my legs and my head. I miss her terribly.

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On the other hand I have a great affection for heavy working horses, ever since one trod on my foot when I worked on a farm. He did it in such a gentle-manly fashion and was obviously so embarrassed, which he showed by nuzzling my hand, as if to say, ‘Sorry about that�, that my heart warmed to him. Now I am just left with such beautiful memories of the characters I met doing what I considered to be the best job in the world.

Acknowledgements My veterinary career would not have been possible without the unstinting and loving, support of my wife Jean, and later on, of my eldest daughter April, who was one of the earlier graduates of the Veterinary Nursing Scheme. I must also express my gratitude to my colleagues and devoted staff at Elm Cottage Veterinary Centre Plymouth.

This book would not have come into print without the help and advice of Nigel Jones and Charlotte Fergie of The Sidmouth Diary.

Ken with customers and staff

Tigger

April’s alpacas

About Ken Watson Born in North London in 1927, Ken was evacuated in 1939 to the Essex countryside (right in the path of the German bombers!), his first introduction to rural life. He was mesmerised that life could be so pleasant after the grim reality of Tottenham.

Following Grammar School and National Service, both of which he highly recommends, he studied at Royal Veterinary College for five and a half years, once again highly praised.

His first job was as a lowly assistant in the Sidmouth practice doing mainly farm work. After eight blissful years in what seemed like Paradise, he left with great reluctance and bought a partnership in a farm practice in Plymouth with the set purpose of building up the town side of the practice. This he did in 1961 when it was 99% farm practice, whereas, when he retired in 1992, it was said to be 110% small animal.