It’s a Vet’s Life. Roy Aronson
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elected to leave the gun safely in the office. I did not wish to look like Wild Bill Hickock of the Wild West and in any case, I was a pathetic shot. I’d been trained to use a firearm while in the navy but it could not be said that I was one of their success stories. Each time a rifle or side arm went bang, I got a fright and shut my eyes. This is not conducive to hitting the target with any degree of certainty.
On the day that this story took place, a train from what was then South West Africa (now Namibia) arrived at the rail siding and the abattoir staff started to offload Brahman cattle from the trucks. The Brahman had been reared on large farms in rural settings and they had hardly ever seen humans. They were wild in the true sense of the word. The animals were herded into chutes that took them to the pens. As the chutes were tall and made of steel and the lairage had high sides, it was safe to assume that they would not be able to escape. But, of course, the best laid plans of mice and men go astray.
As luck would have it, a Brahman bull escaped. Afterwards no one knew how it had escaped and of course it was no one’s fault. One of the staff unloading the animals ran over to where I stood, shouting that a wild bull was causing havoc on the railway tracks. Luckily the animal had escaped onto the track, which was fenced in by a high wire mesh fence on either side. This meant that the animal was effectively contained in a very long and narrow pen. We could enter the enclosure through a gate and about another hundred metres away there was another gate through which we believed we could herd the bull back into his pen. A few of the workers agreed to assist me. They ran ahead to the far gate and the plan was that they would hide behind it while I would theoretically frighten the bull (by waving my jacket at him) and chase him to the gate. He would then gallop through it into the safety of the pen. Or so we thought.
I waited until the workers were in position at the top gate and then, with my heart thumping, I walked cautiously towards the bull. It stood motionless for a while, just long enough for me to get dangerously far enough away from the gate. I had gone beyond the point of no return. Waving my jacket around my head, I started shouting at the bull. I wanted to get this over as soon as possible because I really was frightened. It was at this point, with a man approaching him waving wildly, that the bull was supposed to turn around and run away from me. He did start to move but not, to my horror, towards the far gate. He was coming after me. I shouted even more loudly and waved frantically but this just seemed to spur him on. From a walk he broke into a trot and then into a headlong galloping charge. I must have had all of three or four seconds to get the hell out of the way and the only way out was up. I lunged for the fence and grabbed the barbed wire strands at the top of the fence, completely oblivious to any pain, panic spurring me on. The rampaging animal careered past me at the speed of a runaway freight train as I somehow managed to scramble over the fence. The gates were quickly shut. Back to square one with the bull on the railway lines and me and the workers peering nervously at him from the outside.
I took stock of the situation. I was now badly scratched and bleeding and had been given an enormous fright. The bull was now in a state of frenzy. Tearing up and down the track, he was in great danger of breaking a leg or getting out and really hurting someone. I decided that it was time to run and fetch the rifle, just to be on the safe side. When I got back, I saw to my consternation that the hullabaloo had attracted quite a few spectators and the situation was deteriorating rapidly. The more people who were about, the bigger the chance of an injury to someone but nothing I could say would make them leave. The bull didn’t like having them around either. Bellowing furiously, he began to charge the fence, which started to buckle ominously. If he carried on like that for any longer, he was going to break through and this would have put the bystanders in considerable danger. To my utter dismay, it looked as though I would have to use the rifle and shoot the bull.
I could not shoot through the fence as people had gathered on both sides of the track. My only option was to enter at the far gate and somehow take a shot at the bull and hope for the best. Thinking back, I must have been out of my mind. I should at least have asked around if anyone was a good shot.
Fearfully I made my way to the far gate and walked onto the track holding the rifle at high port. I decided that I would try and take a shot as the bull came towards me, being careful to aim down the tracks for fear of hitting one of the staff who, seemingly oblivious to the danger I was in, were lining the fences cheering and shouting. This was great sport to them.
I stood in the middle of the tracks, raised the rifle to my shoulder and took aim. The bull must have been about two hundred metres away. He started to walk towards me. Then he broke into a trot. Within twenty metres he was charging me at full tilt. This was where I found myself staring down the barrel of the rifle, dry mouthed, sweaty palmed and very scared.
Luckily my survival instincts took over. It was kill or be killed. I stopped shaking and waited as the bull came galloping towards me, nearer and nearer, until he completely filled my vision. When he was about thirty metres away, I took aim and squeezed the trigger. I even managed to keep my eyes open. The shot exploded from the barrel and the next second the bull was lying dead about five metres from where I stood.
Fully expecting to collapse in a heap of nerves, I was surprised when a new and wholly unexpected emotion took hold of me. I am not a hunter and I abhor senseless killing of animals in the name of sport. And yet, standing there, just having survived a confrontation with a dangerous animal bent on killing me, I was suddenly overtaken by a very primitive atavistic urge to beat my chest in triumph at having been the victor. Looking back, I think it all came from the pure joy at having survived the encounter.
After I had paid off my debt to the City I thankfully left the abattoir and went into private practice to look after small domestic animals, hoping that would be my first and last bull encounter. From now on, at least I would not have to carry a gun.
Aberrant appetites
Animals, especially dogs, tend to eat strange things. They like things that smell strongly and seem to particularly target things that humans find embarrassing. Some dogs make it their life’s work to spice up their menus and can be very creative and adventurous indeed. More often than not, a particularly audacious snack results in a visit to the vet.
Over the years I have surgically removed many things from the intestines of my canine patients and I have no doubt that I will continue to do so. I have removed pantyhose and a ladies bra; I have taken out tennis balls, stones, pieces of seaweed, plastic toys, matchbox cars and many other items of little nutritional value. I have also removed foreign objects such as bones and toys from the oesophagus of some of my patients. I once used a snare and an endoscope and a lot of patience to remove a dummy from the stomach of a poodle, but what stands out the most in my memory is the case of the dog that swallowed a steel sosatie stick.
At the time I had a job at a veterinary hospital in the east of London in the UK and had been there for about three months. The work was routine stuff and included all the usual itches, lumps and bumps, cuts and broken bones – common injuries and ailments that do not tax one’s diagnostic or surgical skills. Amidst all the everyday procedures I got a most unusual case – one that challenged not only my skills but also my imagination.
The practice had late consulting hours and we closed only at 10.30 pm. During the course of the evening a client came in with his male Labrador, Jake, and with a quickening pulse I listened to him describe how his dog had just swallowed a sosatie stick. He’d been bar-b-queuing sosaties on the fire and Jake had helped himself. In his haste to make sure he got to devour this treat, he swallowed the whole lot in one gulp. I told the client that while sticks can potentially be a problem, they are more often than not broken up by the acidic digestive juices in the stomach. Jake was looking singularly unconcerned. I could see that the stick had not pierced his throat and so I assured his owner that the stick would probably not cause any problems. Close observation for a couple of hours but I felt sure that he’d be fine. ‘No, no,’ said the client. ‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t a wooden stick. It was stainless steel – look!’ He produced a long stainless steel skewer that must have been thirty centimetres long and five millimetres in diameter.
I looked at it in disbelief