William's Gift Read online

  GENERAL STORE PUBLISHING HOUSE INC.

  499 O’Brien Road, Box 415

  Renfrew, Ontario, Canada K7V 4A6

  Telephone 1.613.432.7697 or 1.800.465.6072

  www.gsph.com

  ISBN 978-1-926962-719

  Copyright © Helen C. Douglas 2012

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

  or transmitted in any form or by any means without

  the prior written permission of the publisher or,

  in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence

  from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency),

  1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario, M5E 1E5.

  Cover art and illustrations: James McGregor

  Design, formatting: Magdalene Carson.

  Published in Canada.

  Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Praise for William’s Gift

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword

  Acknowledgements

  1

  Starting Out

  2

  An Elephant Comes to Visit

  3

  Pigeons, Budgies, and Other Life Lessons

  4

  Udder in the Gutter

  5

  “They’ll let anybody be a vet these days …”

  6

  Even Calves Are Born on Christmas Eve

  7

  The Buck Stops Here

  8

  Hands and Knees in the Muck

  9

  Never Drink and Drive Your House …

  10

  Away

  11

  Hurricane

  12

  Back to My Roots

  13

  Snakes on a Bus

  14

  “Are you brave enough?”

  15

  BC, the Slippery Slope

  16

  Home Is Where the Heart Is

  17

  Noel’s Nine Lives

  18

  James the Third

  19

  They Just Didn’t Notice …

  20

  Nature Is Not Always Kind

  21

  Emus, Camels, and Yaks

  22

  Getting Back Up

  One Veterinarian’s Journey in Photos

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Praise for William’s Gift

  William’s Gift captivated me from the very first page as the author tells of the hilarity, adventure, sorrow, and life-learning lessons along the path to personal and professional growth. A must-read for any animal lover, big or small. —Alexa

  Thank you for your love of animals and the warmth you bring to our hearts. Your vet journeys and your courage are a true inspiration. Thanks for sharing a part of your life with us! —Joanne

  William’s Gift takes the reader on a remarkable journey through the author’s professional and personal life. Tears and laughter are intermingled as this compassionate woman guides us through the emotional challenges of her chosen field and brings to life the many people her magnetic personality embraced along the way. —Barb

  As a veterinarian, it was easy to relate to all of Helen’s experiences. Movingly written, she portrays the life of a veterinarian just as it is — a balance of emotional and physical stress accompanied by the most rewarding experiences. —Ann

  Reminiscent of James Harriot, William’s Gift is full of wonderful vet stories that captivate us emotionally — yet it is Canadian, contemporary, and introspective. A must-read for Harriot lovers, horse lovers, and vet students. — Judy

  The stories made me laugh out loud as I put myself into Helen’s shoes while on a farm call in the dead of winter. The bond between people and their pets is complex and Helen is able to describes both the joys and sorrows beautifully. — Morgan

  William’s Gift is a delightful read, not only for Noah’s Ark animal enthusiasts but also for people who enjoy a good yarn from a natural, empathetic storyteller. Dr Douglas’s deep love for animals is palpable, as is her love of Canada and its countryside, from Nova Scotia to British Columbia. — Brenda

  To the animals, for all they give us

  For my father and brother, both Williams

  If we could measure a life not in time, but in grace; Not in riches, but in joy; In love, not sought, but given; Then we have much to learn from our animals.

  Foreword

  William’s Gift takes us to many places where stories full of humour, tragedy, triumph, and inspiration, both animal and human, unfold as we follow Helen’s adventures. Throughout her more than thirty-year journey as a rural veterinarian, she shares her insights into human nature through the world of veterinary medicine. I have been privy to this extraordinary life, witnessing Helen’s compassion and commitment to the care of animals and their owners. The lifestyle of being a rural veterinarian has consumed her life in many ways that others cannot comprehend. Her stories capture the essence of that lifestyle — one that is rapidly disappearing.

  Helen’s story writing began in her early years at veterinary college, where she recorded some of her most memorable experiences. As the years passed, she would occasionally bring out this ratty old rolled-up scroll, which contained a handwritten collection of her personal stories, to read in nostalgia or to write another anecdote when inspired. It was stored in her antique Canadiana hope chest that followed her wherever life took her. For many years following, the scroll remained buried in the hope chest, yet all the while, new stories continued to develop.

  Many years of life and practice had passed when we decided to head south to the Bahamas for a well-deserved sabbatical. Shortly after arriving, Helen suddenly became inspired to write the many personal and veterinary stories still to be told. Unprepared for her endeavour, she attempted to search out a laptop or even a typewriter to use for writing — much to the amusement of the locals, as such items were either rare or obsolete. Consequently, she continued to handwrite, as in her scrolls, the stories that are found in this, her first book, William’s Gift.

  It is truly hard for me to say whether I am more proud of the life that has inspired them or the stories, waiting so long, that have finally been told.

  Karen Noble

  April 2009

  Acknowledgements

  I WISH TO THANK the following people for helping me make this book a reality. Because of them, I have been able to see a long-held dream come true. Thanks to:

  Karen Noble, my partner, for her unwavering support and patience, not just with this process, but for travelling these paths with me.

  My mother, Edith Purdy, who has supported me my whole life in the finest sense of these words.

  My sister, Carrie, and her wonderful girls, who have shared many equine adventures and misadventures with me. Carrie, a treasured constant, has been there for the whole journey.

  James and Louise McGregor, who, despite the tragic loss of their daughter Molly, found the time and generosity of spirit to provide editing and computer and graphics assistance, but more important, the friendship and encouragement needed to help me finish my book.

  Judy Tullis for typing all my messy handwritten notes and Morgan for the Glossary.

  The staff at Valley Veterinary Clinic for their loyalty and interest, and everything they
do every day to make this a real story.

  My first and finest mentor, Dr. Eric Pallister (posthumously). He practised for fifty years with no modern gadgets and taught me how to be an intuitive veterinarian. A true gentleman and horseman, he instilled in me my lifelong love for veterinary medicine.

  ONE

  Starting Out

  THE PLAIN CHESTNUT GELDING rounded the last turn of the mile-long steeplechase track at Keeneland well ahead of the pack. At 15.2 hands, he was a good deal shorter than most of the impressive, well-bred thoroughbreds he ran against. With the humble name “William,” no one had expected much of the little New Zealand-bred horse, and he ran at nine-to-one odds. I had noticed him in the parade, and as his name was the same as my father’s, thought he was worth a wager, if only to give me a horse to hope for.

  The spring day in Kentucky was perfect for the horses and for the first day of the meet, with a light breeze keeping the animals cool and the turf good and dry. A cloudless blue sky and the scent of the apple blossoms made the day magical. The atmosphere was vibrant as the field neared the last hurdle, an impressive four-foot brush. With no exception, we were on our feet and cheering them on. I threw my hands in the air and shouted wildly. My little horse, the undisputed underdog, was coming in first.

  Suddenly, disaster struck as William caught a toe and somersaulted over the last jump landing hard and throwing his rider wide. A pause; inconsolable silence, as disbelief washed over the crowd. He didn’t get up. The buzz of whispered conversation began as the emergency black barrier was erected around the fallen animal. The ambulance drove onto the field, and, to a person, we waited.

  An unexpected grief overcame me, and tears started to pour down my cheeks. I stood experiencing deeply and with no inhibition the depth of William’s sacrifice. As a seasoned veterinarian, I had been witness to many tragedies and much loss in the animal world. I had long ago cultivated the ability to stay calm in emergencies, to act and not feel when I needed to most. I had dealt with many such events in a cool professional manner, serving over and over the owners and their pets with no reflection on my own feelings. Now I wept like a baby, and the cumulative pain took my breath away. A tidal wave of repressed emotion knocked me off my feet.

  How did I get to this place?

  I had always known I wanted to be a veterinarian, simply assumed I would be, from my earliest introduction to the idea of choosing a career. This had relieved me of the angst of most of my adolescent friends, who changed their future plans as often as they did their clothes. In the end, they had to draw something out of the hat as graduation neared. I carried on, not even having made a second choice, taking the necessary courses and spending my free time getting the all-important experience with which one had to be armed to apply to veterinary school. The fact that I was female had, thankfully, ceased to be a deterrent by the time I came in front of the interview board. Although the idea of a woman veterinarian was still novel in the late sixties, the obstacles were insignificant compared to even a decade before, and I was lucky enough to have had only support and encouragement along the way.

  In the summer between the third and final year of veterinary school, students usually sought employment with a practice specializing in the area of veterinary medicine in which they were interested. This four-month period was considered to be an important internship for those of us who wanted to go into practice. We looked forward eagerly to doing some of the procedures we had been trained for and to taking more responsibility. Of course, it was a bonus if the job could be found in a part of the country where one wanted to be, so I was thrilled to get an affirmative answer from a mixed practice in Nova Scotia. I had spent my childhood summers at our seaside cottage there. Not only is this a wonderfully quaint and hospitable province, it is a place where veterinarians are known to be less cautious about letting students tackle things on their own. This may be due to the easygoing nature of most Nova Scotians, who are still less inclined to litigation than many Upper Canadians. Whatever the reason, I had certainly heard of students being allowed to do very exciting and varied things there and eagerly accepted the position.

  I set out in early May, somewhat anxious about the long trip alone, with just my young Dalmation for company. It was a thousand miles to my destination, and I had never tackled such a road trip on my own. Although my car was sound enough mechanically, I was apprehensive. I knew the long journey was the first of the summer’s challenges. The warm sun, the first green colours of spring, and the miles slipping by were hypnotic. We were a team — my dog and I, on a grand adventure, and when I arrived in Bridgewater, I felt more than two days older.

  I knew of a family that had moved to Bridgewater from my hometown years before, but I hadn’t contacted them in advance of arriving. Hoping they could help me find a place to stay, I arrived at their doorstep and was pleased to find that they remembered me.

  It was one of the best things that happened to me that summer, finding the Glens. Mrs. Glen led me around to the front of their classic white Lunenburg County home. It had been a sea captain’s house and was quite magnificent, with lawns sweeping out to the water. Off to the side of the property, with a little strip of beach all its own, was a small guest cottage. White with green trim, it had a fireplace and a front porch complete with rocker, and within an hour of my arrival, I had taken it for the summer.

  The few days before I started work were spent exploring the area. Mrs. Glen explained some of the history of the people living on both sides of the LaHave River. A German boat had gone aground in the Lunenburg area two hundred years before, and the descendants, who stayed, with their Lutheran religion and hardworking ways, became the backbone of the Lunenburg culture and economy. The mailboxes along the north side of the LaHave, as I followed it down to the sea, were inscribed with many variations of the one or two original names. It was amusing to see the Whynots followed by the Whynottes and the Veinottes followed by the Veinots. By the time I had crossed to the south side on a small ferry, I had passed through East LaHave, West LaHave, Upper and Lower LaHave. The boxes on the south side had more French names, and I drove as far out as the lovely village of Petite Rivière.

  Following the winding river the ten miles back upstream towards my cottage, past the fishing boats and neatly stacked traps, I felt completely enchanted by the area. White wooden seafarers’ homes proudly sported the Lunenburg bulge, an architectural feature creating a vantage point above the front doors from which the women could look out to sea for the returning vessels. The homes were well cared for and most had lovely cottage gardens. The area was fantastic, rich in culture and history and natural beauty. I looked forward to my time in this place.

  Many of the people who came to the practice were backwoods people. I learned something about their strong, stoic constitutions my first week on the job. Dr. Read, my employer, had warned me that people often came in without appointments, it having been impossible to convince them of the need to call first.

  A rough-looking man in hunting clothes came into the clinic during a quiet time one afternoon. His large hound had a nasty, ragged wound on its side that required immediate attention. We were worried that there had been a lot of blood loss, perhaps even bleeding into the chest, as the dog was pale and in shock. While we hooked it up on intravenous fluids, the owner sat patiently in the reception area. When Dr. Read finally felt the animal was out of danger, he returned to tell the owner to go ahead home. The dishevelled fellow said, “I’ll just go on to the hospital, then,” and peeling back his jacket he displayed a nasty shotgun wound in his own upper arm, which must have been causing him no little pain. He had waited to find out about his dog before looking after himself.

  Dr. Don Read was certainly not of the old school of Maritime veterinary surgeons I had heard about who would, reputedly, turn their practices over to you. He was careful and conscientious, and I was only gradually allowed to take on appointments and minor surgeries.
But by the second week, I was forced to treat an emergency on my own. Dr. Read was on a country call and couldn’t be reached.

  The front door burst open and a young woman with two crying children in tow frantically thrust a small dog writhing in convulsions over the counter into the arms of the receptionist. In this case, the diagnosis was fairly easy to make, as the dog exhibited the hyper-reactivity typical of strychnine poisoning. It was worsening rapidly, and any sudden movement or sound would start a new episode of convulsions. With difficulty I administered an intravenous injection of anaesthetic into the moving foreleg and was rewarded by seeing the animal relax immediately. We lavaged the stomach, trying to remove all toxins that might be left, and administered charcoal powder.

  For two days, the little sheltie cross lay under deep sedation. Every time she came out of the anaesthetic, she started convulsing again and had to be given more barbiturate. The nursing care was considerable, as she had to be turned frequently to avoid pressure sores and pneumonia. Maintaining her intravenous treatment was complicated by the constant paddling movements she made. The owners, though fisher folk and not well off, wanted to continue with treatment as long as there was any hope at all and came around regularly to see their pet. When, on the third day, we knew we had won, they came to pick up their uncoordinated but recuperating “Sally.” They brought with them enough fresh scallops for all of us to take home.

  THREEHORSES

  The area around the mouth of the LaHave River was an intricate network of islands and coves. One group of these was called the Bush Islands, and practically everyone who lived there was a “Bush.” Many of them had no heat other than their woodstoves and no electricity. Each small island boasted several brightly coloured, shingled houses, all with lobster boats and traps at the moorings. Dr. Read was an avid yachtsman and invited me out with his family several evenings, skillfully manoeuvring his cruiser through the mazelike channels between the islands. The boating was tricky, with unmarked channels, sudden narrowings, and dangerous hidden rocks. I felt privileged to have a glimpse into a life seldom witnessed. On each of these outings I gained entrée into a secluded world far from the usual tourist routes. On the most special of nights, we watched the sunset turn the surface of the still Atlantic water from pink to dark purple before we headed in under the supervision of the ever-watchful gulls.