William's Gift Page 23

  “This is not a throwaway kitten — she lived through the fires … she must be saved. She represents the people and city of New Orleans. I did not travel all this way to have someone give up on her. Can I trust you to save her? Can you assure me she will not be put to sleep?”

  I knew there was no answer possible but, “Yes, you can trust me. Yes, I will save her.”

  The lady relaxed. Cinders enjoys a home with one of my staff members to this day, a living, loving tribute to the human–animal bond.

  TWENTY

  Nature Is Not

  Always Kind

  REPRODUCTION CAN HAVE its difficulties in any species, including humans. I had long had my hand in breeding, starting with guinea pigs at the age of ten. As animal lovers, many of us become enamoured with one species or one special breed, and some of us become involved in breeding animals long-term. This labour of love takes far more time, devotion, money, and work than a layperson can imagine. A dog breeder must work to learn about his/her breed, develop his/her own lines, then show the dogs and market the puppies. A lot of heartbreak can occur along the way as litters are lost, diseases like hip dysplasia manifest, or puppies are returned. Breeding animals can be an emotional roller coaster, and only the most resilient stay involved long-term.

  Our clinic was slowly establishing a relationship with several new breeders in the area. They are slow to give you their confidence and are generally very knowledgeable and even challenging clients. In addition, information from the Internet, seminars, and long experience means we veterinarians sometimes have to run to keep up with them. It can be well worth it as we all learn together, or very difficult to maintain when there is a difference of opinion.

  When the dog owner plans a breeding, the timing of whelping is critical, and there is a lot at stake. Many have a waiting list for pups. In some cases, Cesareans are planned on an elective date at an arbitrary time after the last breeding, usually day sixty-two or sixty-three. This can be made easier if the bitch tells us she is ready to whelp. Especially the brachycephalic breeds, those with huge heads such as bulldogs, are not allowed to give birth on their own.

  I had a breeder of Gordon setters in the practice who had had wonderful results with a certain line of dogs, especially with their temperaments. She decided to breed her favourite older dog, a middle-aged seven-year-old, one last time. Although I was concerned, the bitch was fit and had never had whelping problems, so I optimistically stood by for the call, making sure I would be in town at the time. I doubted she would need a section.

  Day sixty-two passed with no indication Delilah was going to go into labour. Although she was quiet, her exam gave us no cause for concern and her vital signs were normal. We let her go one more day. On day sixty-three, the owner and I were both worried. She was a little depressed, and no activity had been seen from the pups that day. There was no elevated temperature or discharge to confirm an infection, but it seemed to both of us something was wrong. We decided to do a Cesarean late in the day and hastily set up the surgery, even calling in extra staff. An x-ray had indicated there were eight pups and there would be jobs for three or more people just resuscitating them after the mild dose of anaesthetic they would get. All was in readiness: hot water bottles, oxygen, thread for the umbilical cords. As I made my first cut the owner sat in a nearby room waiting anxiously.

  Within moments of opening the abdomen, I realized Delilah was in trouble and potentially so was I. The uterus was a poor colour and thin-walled, and the abdomen had some abnormal fluid in it indicating the start of a septic process. I called for my other veterinarian, working at the front, to cancel appointments and glove up. It was unlikely the pups were alive. My suspicions were confirmed when I handled the uterus. My fingers immediately went through the wall as I attempted to lift it and some hairs from a dead pup appeared on my gloves.

  “Go tell the owner we’re in trouble,” I said to Erin. “The pups appear to be dead and the uterus unhealthy. We will have to spay her to save her; we’ll do our best.”

  Returning, she said, “Mrs. Harris had not wanted to spay her, but do it if you must.”

  The bitch’s colour was poor and I was worried about her anaesthetic. Keeping the inhalant gas as low as possible, we turned up the fluid rate to try to prevent her from going into shock. It took all our skill, as two experienced vets, to remove the damaged uterus and eight dead pups, tying off all the large bleeders. The abdomen had to be rinsed thoroughly with warm saline, as so much material had spilled into it.

  As she recovered, the poor dog continued to struggle for life. She was cold and her oral membranes were pale and she did not wake up for the longest time.

  “I would not take her home,” I said. “She should go to the emergency clinic for overnight surveillance and not be left alone. There’s no one here,” I added.

  Mrs. Harris started to cry. The events had caused a kind of shock reaction in her as well. Rather than going home with eight lovely new pups, she had her much-loved, favourite dog in a life-threatening situation, hundreds of dollars spent, and potentially many more to spend saving her pet. Having gone this far, we had to do what was best for the dog.

  “This has never happened before,” she said, “and I’ve bred older dogs.”

  “I don’t know why it happened. Perhaps the pups died first of a bacterial or viral infection, or perhaps she had uterine inertia due to her age or a low calcium level,” I replied.

  “I feel like I am in a nightmare, but I’ll go,” she choked out.

  “Start warming up the car while we get warm blankets around her, and we’ll carry her out,” I offered, getting the stretcher.

  Delilah did live, but Mrs. Harris decided not to breed another older dog again. Within months, however, she cheerfully came in to book hip radiographs for certification on a lovely new bitch she had purchased. This time she was sure everything would work out fine.

  I worked for a large thoroughbred breeding farm on and off, especially for emergencies, as I was the closest veterinarian. That spring, they had twenty mares foaling and many of them had already given birth by May. They were almost finished with the exhausting overnight watches and the worry about too-cold nights. By early spring, I could admire a band of lovely mares and foals out in the spring sunshine as I drove up the laneway. We had already begun the business of checking these mares for infection and rebreeding them to one of the farm’s two stallions. The manager was a knowledgeable man, well supported by two helpers. He was worried about one of the last mares, also an older animal that had had a very large foal the year before.

  It turned out doing Cesareans weren’t the only tragedy I had to deal with that spring, as I now encountered the worst foaling challenge of my career. One night, the manager called to say something was wrong.

  “Final Rally has been trying to foal for an hour,” he said. “Something’s wrong! I washed up and put my arm in. I think the head’s back.” I told him I was on my way. Within half an hour I was up and dressed, had driven to the farm, and was in the stall. The mare was on her side already tired from pushing. The manager and his two helpers were well prepared with soap, hot water, towels, and ropes. They waited anxiously for my examination. I lay on my side in the straw, straining to reach the foal against the mare’s intense labour.

  “The head and one front leg are back, and it’s a very large foal,” I said. “We will have to sedate her and give her an epidural to get it out.” At that point I had no idea of the ordeal ahead of me and still hoped the foal was alive. Once I got its head up, I would be able to tell for sure.

  I injected the mare with an intravenous sedative and could see her immediately relax and take a bit of a rest. In order to stop her involuntary straining, I would have to clip and surgically prepare a site on the top of her tail for an epidural anaesthetic. This local anaesthetic would stop her labour so I could push the foal back and try to elevate its nose a
nd head into the birth canal. I would work on the left front leg later.

  I lay in the fluid-soaked straw on a blanket and tried repeatedly to get the head up. It was frustrating work, and the vagina was already dry and swollen. It was hard to push the foal back far enough, as I was working uphill against gravity. Repeatedly I got a hold on its ear and worked my way to the lower jaw, only to lose it. Finally, I got a loop of baler twine, which I had taken inside on my hand, around the lower jaw. By pushing back on the forehead and pulling on the twine from outside, I swung the head around and up. A touch to its non-reactive cornea told me it was already dead. I told the despondent manager.

  “I knew something was wrong, just had a feeling,” he said. “How will we get it out?” He could see I was already tiring.

  After trying repeatedly to feel my way to the knee of the left front leg, I knew I needed to take a break. I was making no progress. This is a critical stage, when a veterinarian, while still working, must formulate a contingency plan.

  I described to Joseph, a tall, strong, twenty-year-old standing by, how to try to pull up the missing leg. He stripped to the waist and washed up. Lying on his side, he tried to feel what I was describing and started working on the leg. I went to call the office. Bruce, the other farm helper, sat in the corner holding the mare’s head down.

  “I need more people and equipment,” I told Erin. “Please come out with two of you prepared to set up an iv for the mare. Bring lots of fluids and more anaesthetic. I’ll also need the fetotome.”

  I knew that if all of us could not get the front leg up, we could not pull the foal. The mare’s vagina was very swollen and dry, and our room to work was diminishing. She was pale and cold and needed fluids to help prevent shock. Erin and Elizabeth could get that set up while I worked. The clinic would now be empty of staff except for the one person on the phone.

  I returned to the stall, grim-faced.

  “Let’s work until they get here,” I said, “then if there is still no progress, I will have to cut off the foal’s head to get it out.”

  “Are you sure it’s dead?” Joseph choked out.

  “I am 100 percent sure,” I said, still upset at the prospect of what was to come. I had been through the embryotomy procedure in calves, where the baby has to be dismembered to be removed. It seems to be against all that nature intended.

  By the time my team arrived, we had to re-sedate the mare to keep her down and set up the iv fluids. She had started struggling a bit. To let her up could be dangerous, as her hind leg strength and coordination could be comprised by the epidural. She would have to stay down, so I hog-tied her front legs. We lubed her vagina with oil and prepared the fetotome.

  This archaic-looking piece of equipment is a three-foot-long steel tube with two separate channels coming first out one side of the rounded end that looks like a mushroom. I threaded the serrated wire used to cut through the tissue out one end and back into the other channel, leaving a loop, which would go over the foal’s head and settle just behind the skull on the other side. The wire was attached to handles and with a sawing motion it would to cut through any tissue in its way. Lying on the now sodden blanket and working one-handed, it took a few moments for me to get the wire placed around the head. But then it took Joseph only a few moments to saw through the neck, and I pulled out the head of the beautiful foal. Its eyes were opaque, signalling that it had been dead for a while. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “It was black, with a beautiful stripe.” The barn manager choked back tears. Even for the most experienced horseman, this is a hard thing to see. We moved on, knowing that giving in to the emotion of the moment would only make it more difficult to complete the job.

  I returned to the business of getting the front limb up. To retrieve the foal and pull it out the birth canal was critical. I felt the knee and pulled it repeatedly up and towards the backbone. Eventually I could work down the little leg to the ankle and foot. Cupping the foot to protect the uterus, I heaved the knee up, then the neck back and pulled for all I was worth. The foot came, and finally we had two long legs to work with.

  The foal was drying out, and I decided to pump warm water into the uterus to lubricate it and try to float the remains out. In twenty more minutes, three of us had the poor ruined foal out of the mare. It was large and stretched terribly as the hips came through, causing me to think it might give in the middle.

  “It was a beauty, a large colt,” I said, then turned my attention to the mare. She was pale and a bit shocky. I was well aware her uterus could also prolapse after such a difficult pull, and re-sedated her just enough to prevent straining and struggling.

  “Increase her fluid rate and re-warm the fluids,” I said. “We’ll hold her down until she is stronger.”

  By seven that night, she was on her feet, eating hay slowly. I had given her painkillers and knew by the look in her eye that she intended to live. I found myself wishing that would be her last foaling ordeal but I knew that unlike the dog, Delilah, Rally would be rebred. Few brood mares have the luxury of retirement. For the record, she never caught in foal again, despite many tries. Finally she did get sent to a retirement home as a companion, as I had hoped. Her will to live, evident through that terrible day, kept her going well into her thirties.

  We often debate about nature, its wisdom and its cruelty. Both of these animals would have died with their young inside them in a natural setting. Despite its wonders, Mother Nature can sometimes use a helping hand, and I felt good to be able to help them. Suffice it to say, most dogs and horses have their young happily, instinctively, and unassisted — thank goodness for that.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Emus, Camels,

  and Yaks

  I HAD BEEN BACK at Brentwood for three years and felt really happy. Sometimes I made a slip and called the clinic home, telling a client I’d “meet them at home.” I felt more and more like my previous boss and mentor as I started to unconsciously adopt his habits, calling at eight to see what was on for the day or zipping into the parking lot and turning the clinic upside-down. Returning had been a great decision, and I was very proud of the clinic and its staff of very caring people.

  We had added a new woman to our staff to train at both the front and back. Young, and with two children, she juggled a busy life, but was always cheerful and brought fun and enthusiasm to her job. Charlotte was excited about learning, ready to work hard, and always up for a good joke. She had different and humorous opinions on everything from books to celebrities that kept conversation flowing. We had all entered a comfortable phase in our professional and personal relationships that few workplaces achieve — celebrating birthdays, highs and lows, without living too much in each other’s lives.

  By year three, Elizabeth was taking care of all the horse bookings and questions, as I simply could not continue to work and also answer my many phone calls. In general, this was well accepted. Although many equine clients come and go, the ones that stayed enjoyed and used our support staff well. I often took helpers on the road, so we were seen as operating as a team. Everyone except Erin tried to go on horse calls and get a break from the clinic and phone.

  One day Elizabeth said to me, “I’ve just had the most interesting call from way above Lanark. I don’t know what to think.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t easily thrown, but this call had left her quizzical.

  “This lady says she’s bought a zoo. She has many types of animals up there and wants to meet with you to talk about being her vet. She doesn’t seem to know a lot about horses but says she has four to castrate.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll give it a go and take help. It should be fun, and it’s beautiful up there.”

  “I’ll call her back then and book a whole afternoon,” Elizabeth replied. “It’s over an hour’s drive to get there.”

  When the day came, I decided to take Charlotte, who was comfortab
le with horses. The May day was beautiful, the drive would be fun, and I felt really up as I packed the car. It had been far too long since I had driven the back roads of Lanark!

  “Don’t forget Tetanus shots and antibiotics,” I said. “Who knows if they have been vaccinated.” The clinic was humming as we pulled out of the parking lot, having no idea what to expect.

  Our drive was a mix of lightheartedly enjoying the scenery — vivid green fields and rolling hills peppered with stones — and analyzing the latest television shows in detail. The dirt roads became more winding and narrow as we approached the farm. It was a perfect day for such a call, a bit cool and windy to keep the flies down and make it easier on the horses as they underwent anaesthesia.

  As has always been the case before a castration, the horse is examined, then given a sedative. A few moments later, an intravenous general anaesthetic is given, and four handlers assist a slow “sit and fall” procedure that ends up with the animal on its side. The twenty or so minutes following are enough to do a minor surgery before the horse wakes up. Often the horses sweat a lot from the particular drugs used, so avoiding a hot day is better for them. We help them to their feet and back to their stalls to wear it off. Occasionally, depending on their breeds and temperaments, dominant and high-strung horses being more challenging, they are difficult to get down or up — meaning that only very experienced horse people must take part in the anaesthesia.

  The couple were aging city people, both having been involved in the arts and music scene in Montreal. They were in their late fifties when they decided to follow a dream and build a house in the backwoods. Shortly afterwards, a small zoo in the Eastern Townships of Quebec closed, and they decided to purchase half the animals and give them a forever home in the Lanark Highlands. What awaited us on the call was unique and unexpected. A camel stood on a hilltop as we drove up the laneway. A group of spotted goats, the likes of which I had never seen before, ambled across a distant field and three yaks stood in a circular wooden pen.