IT ALL BEGAN WITH A TURKEY.
We stood eye-to-eye, locked in a toddler–bird standoff. I was three years old, so we were of equal intelligence, but the turkey had an edge. I wanted to flick his gobbley little neck and make it wobble. He wanted me to go away. I toddled towards him. He raised his head, gaining a height advantage but exposing his flappy neck, the object of my wonder. I made my move but before my hand had gone an inch he struck. TAP! TAP! TAP! Three sharp pecks to the forehead, and I toppled onto my backside, screaming in outrage. A decisive defeat.
On a family trip to Australia a few years later, I plucked a blue-green, glass-eyed lizard from a rock and clasped it in my hand. With primal speed, the agitated reptile twisted in my hands, clamping her jaws onto my finger. I ran shrieking to my parents, the lizard still dangling from my hand.
Later that year, back home in New Zealand, I tangled with a colossal longfin eel, shimmering and black, monstrous yet elegant. She must have been 80 years old. She twisted at the river’s edge, tangled among dozens of other eels looking for food. I leaned down and put my hand in the water. One hungry chomp later and my blood filled the stream, sending the swarming eels into a frenzy.
The next year, we took our annual holiday at a deep- green lake nestled between mountains on the West Coast. My fingers were dusted with sugary powder after a leisurely marshmallow-toasting session when a dragonfly so large that he belonged in King Kong choppered down to land on my hand. I was enchanted by his black-and-yellow colouring and bulbous eyes. I held still, revelling in my apparent abilities as an animal-whisperer. Here I was in a remote wilderness, attracting beautiful creatures. The small dragon crept his way towards my fingertips, pausing at the sugar. That’s it: explore, friend. When his jaws locked down, piercing skin and flesh, my scream echoed across the lake . . .
By the time I had graduated from veterinary school at the age of 23, a sheep, a cow, a hawk, innumerable dogs, cats, parrots and even a territorial fish had locked their mandibles onto my flesh. Every bite only intrigued me further. The wonderful creatures with which we share this planet have never stopped filling me with awe, and it is for them that I’ve written this book about my adventures as a vet.
CHAPTER ONE
WRESTLING THE MOON COW
I KICKED OFF MY GUMBOOTS and pushed the front door open with my elbow, not wanting to dirty the handle. My day in the trenches had left me covered in every manner of excreta; my aroma arrived home before I did. The main female in my life came racing to meet me in the hallway, fascinated and ready to spend as long as I’d allow her sniffing my sleeves, arms and face. I was a house cat’s dream. Unfortunately, my human roommates were not as thrilled.
Here was my dilemma: I was on call. If I didn’t shower, chances were I wouldn’t be called out and I’d have stayed stinky for no reason. But, invariably, every time I showered when I was on call — Ding! — the ominous toll of my work phone sounded.
The evening of the ‘moon-cow wrestling’ would be one of those unfortunate occasions.
Ding!
Cow down in paddock, difficulty calving.
Just from the text, I knew I was in for a tough night. The cow was in distress — and she was also not on her feet. When a pregnant cow is lying down, there is less space to work with inside the uterus, making it harder to extricate the calf, meaning I’d have to work either sitting or lying on the ground, in knee-deep mud. So it was with some apprehension that I climbed into my truck, my hair dripping, and smelling like a soap shop.
Soon the wide roads of Canterbury were disappearing behind me as the spring sun dipped behind the Southern Alps. The contrast to my life of two weeks earlier was stark. Then, I had been wandering the streets of Lisbon, drinking red wine with a gorgeous woman named Lila whose sand- blonde hair fell in loose curls, framing her wide blue eyes. Chasing her had felt like trying to catch a speck of dust floating in a beam of light. Every time I got close, she danced away. I sighed and hoped the calf wouldn’t be as tricky to pin down.
By the time I pulled into the hedge-rimmed paddock the sun had finished its lazy fall behind the mountains. Twilight was setting in. A stubby older chap in mud-stained overalls waved me over. His grey hair was short and there was stubble on his weathered cheeks. There are many like him in New Zealand — but none the same — archetypal hard-working Kiwis who walk their paddocks at all hours, making sure their animals are safe, and who grind away at the seemingly endless list of tasks on the farm before finally heading home to dinner and the fireplace.
The farmer looked troubled and seemed jumpy as he made his way over to my truck, confirming my fears that this might not be a run-of-the-mill call-out.
‘Sheza-goer. She’ll go ya, shehwill!’ His rapid-fire sentences blended words into a language of their own.
‘Dahryt?’ I answered, grateful that I’d grown up close enough to farm gates to pick up an ear for this unique dialect.
‘Yep, shezhaddacrackahme, o’ll tell ya. A reeeal goer,’ he warned.
Translation: She attacked me, so look out.
The farmer’s eyes were wide, and there was a tremor in his voice. Given his obvious years of farming experience, this anxiety surprised me.
I turned my attention to the cow. Her head was turned back in our direction, and she was glaring at us. Her eyes were wild, and her head twitched. Ketosis. A condition that occurs when an animal’s blood sugar is very low, it can send cattle into a hyperactive, aggressive frenzy. Prolonged labour, like the kind this cow was experiencing, is a common cause.
Even from where I was standing, I could see the nose of her partially born calf sticking out of her back end, and it didn’t look like it was moving in a hurry. I paused to consider my options. None of them looked great.
To my astonishment, I realised my companion was already creeping like a midnight assassin towards the nervous cow. I hadn’t even had time to grab my rope. Left with little choice, I joined him, planning to time my dash along with his. We would jump on her head and immobilise her before she could get to her feet and charge us. I moved towards the cow, creeping a little faster to catch up with the farmer. Again, I underestimated his eagerness. Within seconds, he had dashed ahead of me and leapt onto the cow with full gusto.
‘HEAWEGO!’ he bellowed.
The panicked cow thrashed her head from side to side as he landed on her muscular neck. Head-to-head the two struggled before she managed to toss him off, flailing like a doll. He pounced back. Most people would have considered surrendering at this point, but this warrior had 60 years’ worth of farmer strength and resilience to call on. I ran as fast as I could towards the manic scene. He held on tight, and seconds later I joined the fray.
‘GEDDER!’ he cried, as I landed half on him and half on the cow.
Together we grappled her head around, so her nose was next to her side. I held her head tight until the farmer got a good grip. Eventually, she huffed and let her head settle on the cool grass. Once things calmed, I slid from her shoulders to get my calving equipment. Surrounding us, a semicircle of curious, liquid-eyed cattle held their heads low, sniffing in our direction. More cows standing behind them craned their necks, bearing witness to the scene.
Now that the farmer had the distressed cow in hand, I could return to the truck to get the equipment I needed. Rummaging around, I found my ropes and swung them around my arm. I then grabbed a 2-metre-long narrow steel device called a calving jack, which uses a ratchet system to apply traction to a calf when it is stuck. Next, my vet’s box of tricks. It was only then, reaching back in the rapidly vanishing light, that I realised I’d forgotten the last piece of essential equipment: a headlamp. Calving a cow is tricky enough without doing it in the dark.
‘I’ll need you to hold her still while I pull the truck up so we have some light,’ I told the farmer.
By now, the farmer was perched comfortably on his steed. He looked at the rising full moon on the horizon.
‘Yull have light frum the moon!’ he crowed.
I pondered this for a moment, then agreed. The idea of calving by moonlight was intriguing after all.
I made my way back over and put my gear down. The cow had relaxed a little, and was now obligingly lying on her side. From his warm cow seat the farmer was gazing out at the final flare of golden light vanishing behind the mountains; he’d relaxed, too, it seemed.
I gave the cow an epidural, carefully inserting a long needle between the vertebrae at the base of her tail.
Next, I cleaned her back end, then washed my hands and forearms. I rubbed thick orange lube on my arms, and then checked her inside. I was met with a familiar warmth, and my cold fingers thawed a little. The calf was wedged with its nose just protruding from its mother’s vulva. One of its front legs was coming hoof-forward, with the elbow stuck back beside its chest. The other leg was still tucked all the way back and well out of reach.
I put my fingers in the calf’s mouth and it moved its tongue, confirmation that it was still alive. A correctly presenting calf comes out like Superman, taking its first heroic dive into the world — a serious drop for a newborn calf from a standing cow’s backside. If they are one of the luckier ones, the cow will give birth lying on her side. It always baffled me how the little calves managed to avoid injury, plonking down onto the grass from such a height.
But this calf wasn’t going anywhere in its current position. I ran a clear rubber tube into the mother’s birth canal and positioned it over the calf, then pumped lube around it.
I started Plan A. Placing my hand on the calf’s forehead, I tried to push it back into the cow. The calf didn’t budge. I changed tactics and tried sliding my hand past the calf’s neck, hoping I could get its malpresenting leg up, but the leg was on the side of the cow that lay on the ground. All her weight was crushing my hand, and I grunted in pain as I tried to push through. The farmer turned to watch me and raised an eyebrow. I was thwarted. Damn. I settled with extending the calf’s leg that was already pointed forward all the way out, so that it stuck out of the cow’s back end alongside its head.
Time for Plan B. We needed to roll the cow onto her other side so that I had more space to free the leg. We sat her up on her haunches, and of course she tried to stand and throw us once more.
‘Watchit! She’ll go ya!’ the farmer cried for a second time.
We wrestled with her swinging neck and concrete-hard head. Finally, we pulled her head around again, this time the other way. Together, we planted our shoulders, one just above the armpit and the other on her hips, and drove with our legs, heaving her over onto her other side. It’s no wonder New Zealand has so much success in rugby: half the nation spends its time tackling and scrummaging livestock.
Around us silver moonlight reflected off the watchful eyes of the other curious cattle. The paddock and surrounding trees had transformed into a magical grey-scape under the glow of the moon.
After washing my hands again, I reached back in. To my disappointment, I still couldn’t get past the calf’s shoulder to reach the misplaced leg. The cow’s birth canal was too narrow. Time for Plan C: gentle traction.
I wouldn’t normally pull a calf out with one leg back, but it was my last option and worth a try. I pumped even more lube over the calf and looped my rope around the front leg, just above the calf’s carpal joint, which is the equivalent of a human’s wrist. I then made a second loop just below its carpus to reduce the pressure from the pull. Next, with a separate rope, I made a bigger loop that I slipped over the calf’s head, making sure it went all the way behind its ears and pulled tight in its mouth. Then I picked up my calving jack.
The calving jack is used by first bracing it against the cow’s back end. A long metal bar extends about 2 metres back from the brace. On the metal bar is a ratchet system from which you can attach ropes. Now, I know what you might be thinking. This barbaric chap is about to pull the head off the poor wee thing! I petition for a delay in your assessment. Would I accost you with such a tale so early in the piece?
Newborn calves are very different to newborn babies. Their bones, including their skulls and jaws, are developed and strong. They are designed to be on their feet and running within the hour — the alternative is to be lion’s tucker. Well, at least it was where they originally came from; there isn’t as much as a toothed goose to pose a threat to anything larger than a well-fed guinea pig here in Kiwiland. Although a great deal of care is still required, due to this handy design you can put more traction on a calf than you might think.
I placed the calving jack brace against the cow’s back end, then wrapped the ropes around the hooks on the ratchet. Slowly, I increased the tension on the ropes by working the ratchet.
The farmer peered over the cow’s back as I worked. I gradually added tension and angled the device so that it was pulling the calf in a downward direction as well as out. With each pull, the calf inched from the cow. An eye appeared, then an ear, then a shoulder . . . until, all at once, the little female calf came rushing out, slithering from her mother, shiny and slippery in her foetal membranes. She made a wet splat as she landed on the grass. I removed the ropes and cleared her nose.
All my attention was now on the calf as I pulled mucous from her nose and mouth, then vigorously rubbed her over the ribs. I heaved her up off the ground to let the last of the birth fluids drain from her nose and mouth. My back strained as I lifted her by the waist, gently swinging her from side to side, allowing gravity to do the work. Slimy mucous glinted in the moonlight as it ran from her nose and pooled on the grass. Still, she lay limp in my arms. Despite my efforts, she wouldn’t breathe. Had I pulled too hard? Had I taken too long?
I rubbed the calf’s slimy back firmly with one arm, then slapped the side of her chest to stimulate her. I put my fingers in her nose and pinched between her nostrils.
Wake up! My muscles screamed as I held the heavy, limp calf in the air.
Then, a cough. She took her first breath. Slow, wet and ragged as it was, there was life. Relief rolled over me as I laid her on the grass in a dog’s sitting position so she could breathe more easily. Once she was breathing well, I turned my attention back to the cow. I put my hand in to check for a twin or for any damage to the uterus. She felt fine, and the farmer, still roosted on her side, chirped his satisfaction.
I injected her with oxytocin to help close the uterus, along with antibiotics, pain relief and a calcium-glucose mix. I had one final wrestle with her to get some more glucose, an added measure against ketosis, into her mouth. Before I’d finished, she was clambering to her feet. The dismounted farmer made a dash for it, anticipating a vengeful charge that never came.
Our ever-faithful bovine observers let out a silent cheer for me and my new friends. Exhausted but triumphant, I made my way back to the truck.
As I filled out the paperwork, my new comrade told me a story that explained his somewhat surprising degree of nervousness, given his obvious years of farming experience. A few years back he had been bowled down and savagely gored by a bull that had mashed him into the ground and smashed his ribs. Sharp hooves had stomped him again and again, pummelling him into the dirt, breaking skin and cracking bones. The bull was rearing up and thumping down with his full weight, crushing the poor man’s crumpled body.
Just as he had given up hope of surviving the onslaught, his son came hurtling into the paddock, running at the beast with a stick in his hand. He’d saved his father’s life. The farmer had been nervy around cattle ever since. I viewed his earlier leap onto the cow’s head with a new sense of awe as he finished his tale.
It was with some satisfaction that I noticed the cow sniffing and then licking her calf. I said my goodbyes to the gentleman and the four-legged onlookers and loaded the last of my things back into the truck. The hot steam from my shower earlier that evening had been replaced with sweat, mud and foetal fluids, but I drove home smiling, the image of the stocky man flying through the air fresh in my mind. What an absolute legend.
