An Old Vet's Tales #1

The problem with tablets

My patients often taught me very valuable lessons. I had been with my first practice after qualifying for about four months during which time my confidence had started to grow. In fact rather than growing, it bolted to the extent that I was becoming somewhat arrogant and beginning to believe that I was God’s gift to the pet-owning public of Dunstable. 

It was an evening surgery when an elderly couple brought in their large ginger tom cat which had an abscess at the base of its tail. I was able to lance the boil and clean up the surrounded fur before giving it an injection of penicillin. This treatment needed to be followed up by oral medication of penicillin tablets. I handed the paper envelope containing the pills to the gentleman who expressed his conviction that they would be totally unable to give the cat the tablets.
“Oh, it’s very simple,” I said “You just draw down his lower jaw, pop the pill into the back of his throat and massage his throat while holding his mouth shut. Wait for him to swallow and the job is done.” 
I almost felt like patting them on the head as they left to make a follow-op appointment in three days’ time.
They duly arrived three days later with slightly ashamed looks on their faces. “We have not been able to give him the tablet I’m afraid,” he said in a low, apologetic whisper.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said in all my arrogance. “Give him to me and I will show you.”
That cat! It spat, it kicked, it bit, it twisted and clawed but, most of all, it brought me down several pegs and I surrendered by giving it another injection. After the clients left, probably with knowing smiles on their faces, I went to the sink to bathe my wounds but no amount of antiseptic soap was going to wash away the damage to my pride. I have never forgotten that cat and that was over 50 years ago.

Kind thoughts and a dead giraffe

Back in 1963, when I was in the penultimate year of my veterinary training, the veterinary school was presented with a circus giraffe with a nasty cough. There being no accommodation in the loose boxes the animal had to be kept in the truck in which it was normally transported from one venue to another. The truck was parked in a corner of the school’s car park.

After several days of inaction by the medical staff four of us students decided that the poor animal needed a bit of fresh air. Ken, the originator of the idea, went to the professor in charge and suggested that we took the beast for a walk. After a few minutes consideration, he gave us guarded permission. We tied four reins together and attached them to a head collar. Ken climbed the ladder, spoke reassuringly to the giraffe and fitted the collar. With two students on each rein we enticed the nervous animal out of its confinement and, two seconds later, chaos descended.

The giraffe, seeing a far horizon for the first time in a week, took off through the car park dragging us through the serried ranks of parked cars at a gallop. We careered out of the car park onto the impressive approach road leading to the impressive façade of the school building. Immaculate lawns bordered the wide carriageway with prominent notices invoking severe penalties for encroaching on the hallowed turf. Unfortunately, giraffes do not have literary skills; it cantered onto the carefully tended greensward, took several deep breaths and dropped dead. The image of ten feet of giraffe falling sideways with a resounding thump remains burnt on my memory. After a few minutes of shocked but respectful silence we decided that Ken had better go and inform the professor of the demise of his patient.

The result was a swarm of white-coated laboratory technicians surrounding the body taking every pathological sample known to man.

Within a few hours we had the diagnosis – tuberculosis! Among the many problems that this diagnosis raised was the fact that the veterinary school’s prize flock of Clun Forest sheep were grazing the field on the opposite side of the approach road. Having persuaded the local slaughterhouse to remove the body it was decided to use a flame thrower to kill off any stray mycobacteria which may have infected the sheep. For the rest of that summer our ‘crime’ was plainly advertised by the charred outline of a giraffe alongside the Palladian entrance to the building.

There was an interesting sequel to this story. Tuberculosis takes three different forms – avian, bovine and human – and the giraffe had been infected by the human form. The circus was eventually tracked down but the giraffe’s handler had since left the circus to work as a garage mechanic in Birmingham. When he was visited by the public health authorities he mentioned that he had been troubled by a cough for a couple of years. He was subsequently treated for TB and made a complete recovery.

Our youthfully irresponsible, but altruistic, actions had led to the unfortunate death of a beautiful animal but, probably, saved the life of a son, husband and father.