Part 15 (2/2)

The farmer produced his clippers from the van, tipped up the ewe and expertly cut away the thick fleece from the flank. I shaved, disinfected and infiltrated the site with local anaesthetic before Calum reappeared with the sterilised instruments on a tray. I have never known a vet more meticulous about asepsis-wherever he went on his rounds he carried a metal container with freshly boiled knives, forceps and needles and he hadn't been with us very long before his high rate of success became apparent. When Calum operated, his patients lived.

I was letting him have a go now, and it was impressive to see his big, strong-fingered hands at work, quickly incising skin, muscles and peritoneum before opening the uterus and drawing out two wriggling black-faced lambs. In no time at all he was st.i.tching up, grinning at the two tiny creatures determinedly tottering towards the udder.

Rod was delighted. ”That's great! A good job I came down right away. We've got live twins and a healthy mother.” He lifted the lambs into the straw in the back of his van and the ewe hopped in after them as though nothing had happened to her.

I had done a lot of these operations, but I never ceased to be amazed at how little the ewe seemed to be affected. On one occasion I had just finished st.i.tching after a Caesarean in a loose box on the farm when the ewe jerked her head from the farmer's grasp, jumped from the straw-bale operating table where she had been lying and with a mighty leap, cleared the half-door and galloped off across the field.

When I saw the farmer a few days later and enquired about her, he said, ”Aye, she came back for 'er lambs, otherwise G.o.d knows when I'd 'ave seen her again!”

After Rod Milburn had driven away with the new family we started on our work in the surgery. I did a laparotomy on a Labrador that had swallowed his favourite ball and Calum removed a mammary tumour from a springer spaniel with his customary aplomb.

We were cleaning up when he pointed to three cat cages standing by the door. ”What's happening to those cats?”

”Oh, they're spays. I'm taking them through to Granville Bennett.”

”Don't you ever do those jobs yourself?”

”No. All cat and b.i.t.c.h spays go to Granville.”

Calum stared at me. ”Why on earth do you do that?”

”Oh, he's a top man-brilliant. Makes a great job and they all come back in good shape.”

”I'll bet they do. I know all about Granville Bennett, but Jim, you're perfectly capable of doing these yourself.”

”Oh, I know, but we've always done it this way. We're a large-animal practice. This is only a sideline.”

He laughed. ”Since I came here I've seen you do laparotomies, enterotomies, pyometras. What's the difference?”

”Well, I really don't know, Calum. These other things are emergencies. Maybe it's because when you're doing a spay you're starting on a healthy animal. Silly, I suppose.”

”I know what you mean. You can't bear the thought of a client bringing in his fit little animal and then the operation goes wrong.”

”Something like that. Maybe it all stems from a lack of confidence. I can't help thinking of myself as a farm-animal doctor who shouldn't be doing such things.”

Calum raised a finger. ”Well, with respect, Jim, you've got to change your ideas. Small-animal work is the thing of the future and the day has gone when country vets can turn their backs on routine things like spays just because they think they haven't the time.”

”Maybe you're right. I suppose we ought to start some time.”

”Why not now?”

”Eh?”

”Let's have a crack at these three. Spays are easy-I've done quite a few at the college clinic.”

I was beginning to raise objections, but Calum hoisted a cage onto the table and lifted out a pretty twelve-week-old kitten. ”Here we go,” he cried. ”Spay number one-the beginning of a new era in Skeldale House.”

I was carried along by his enthusiasm and we soon had the little creature anaesthetised and the site prepared. Calum poised his knife and made a tiny incision in the flank. ”Keyhole surgery is the order here. It's so easy that you don't need a lot of room to work. You just fish out the uterus like this.” He probed through the incision with forceps. ”It's no trouble at all.”

He fished out a slender strand of tissue on the end of the forceps. ”There it is, you see, child's play.” Then he paused. ”No, that's not it.” He pushed the thing back and searched further within. But when he withdrew the forceps it still wasn't the uterus he had hold of but the same mysterious pink-white thread.

”d.a.m.n! I've never had this trouble,” he grunted, and began another exploration in the small abdomen. He had just pulled the wrong thing out again when the phone rang.

”Milk fever, flat out. Urgent. Afraid I've got to go, Calum, can you manage?”

”Of course, I'm okay. But where the h.e.l.l is this uterus?”

I left him staring down at the little cat in exasperation.

When we met later in the day, he gave me a rueful grin. ”I'm sorry I made a hash of my demonstration, Jim. You'd hardly got through the door before I found the uterus and finished the job in a few minutes. I did the other two cats after that on my own-no problem.”

I believed him. If ever there was a naturally gifted surgeon it was Calum. But that wasn't the end of the story. A few days later, we admitted four more spays and since Calum was the only man around he anaesthetised them with Nembutal instead of using our oxygen and ether apparatus and did them himself. When I walked along to the operating room he was starting on the last one.

”I'm glad to see you, Jim,” he said. ”I've just done those three,” pointing at the sleeping cats, ”did 'em in double-quick time. Piece of cake. Anyway, I can show you what I mean now you're here.”

He inserted his forceps in the incision and pulled out not the uterus but the same string-like filament as before. He stared at it for a moment and then he tried again and then a third time but with the same result.

”I don't believe it!” he exploded. ”It's like black magic!”

I laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ”I'm sorry I can't wait, Calum. I just dashed along between jobs to see how you were getting on.”

”I was getting on fine till you came in,” he shouted as I went out.

When I look back, I realise it was one of the strange and unaccountable little episodes in my life, because on the third occasion, around a week later, when I walked into the operating room I found my colleague bent over a sleeping cat.

He looked up and gave me an eager smile. ”Ah, here you are again, Jim. I've done a couple of spays like hot cakes and I'm just starting on this one. Now watch, and I'll show you how to do it.”

Quickly and confidently he reached inside with his forceps and instead of the expected uterus there appeared the same fine cord of baffling origin. He pushed it back and tried again, and again and again without success.

”b.u.g.g.e.r it!” he yelled. ”What's going on? When it happened before I thought it was because I was too c.o.c.ky, but now I know. It's you!” He stared at me, wild-eyed. ”You're a hoodoo! You put the evil eye on me every time!”

”Oh, I'm sorry, Calum,” I said, fighting the giggles. ”It's just unfortunate-but anyway, what is that thing you keep pulling out? Has it got a name?”

”It has now,” my colleague growled. ”It's called Herriot's duct.”

It pa.s.sed into the language of the practice and, long after spaying had lost its novelty in the practice and become a regular, trouble-free routine, whenever that errant piece of tissue showed itself the cry went up.

”h.e.l.lo, there goes Herriot's duct again!”

Chapter 23.

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