First call

It's getting close to the end of another year (where does the time go?) and around this time of year I can't help thinking of when I first started out as a vet.

Having slogged my way through all the exams and practicals, I had a short holiday and then, still wet behind the ears (hell everything else was wet too I was so green!), I was eager to get into it and finally start being a...cue the dan dan daaa music...REAL vet. Back in those days I was actually disappointed to be stuck with vaccination consults as I wanted the challenge of real consults, whereas now I'll happily take a quick routine check of a healthy animal as a much-welcomed time out!

Time has slipped by and I've seen countless cases since that first day, but I will always remember my first solo farm call on my second or third day of work. The senior vet in charge of looking after me was off to a triathlon in another city that afternoon when the call came in about two bloated dairy calves. He was rushing off to his flight and so gabbled a stream of instructions as he raced around the clinic grabbing items at random. I followed in his wake like a lost puppy and finally he handed me his field surgery kit (I hadn't had one made up yet) and said,
"If you have to stab them just aim at the highest point in the flank" (this was to let the gas out of the stomach) "and then stitch it up again."
He must have noticed the stricken look on my face (I was still trying to process his directions to the farm, which consisted of looking out for a lot of hills, trees and funny-shaped rocks) and patted me kindly on the shoulder.
"Don't worry, you'll be fine. Everyone has to learn one way or another and here it's sink or swim. If you have any questions just give me a call on my cell."
It was only after he roared off in a squeal of tyres that I realised he would be on a plane and so be completely out of contact for the next few hours. I was truly on my own, like many a new grad before me.
"Well," I thought. "If my old vet could do it then so can I." (The day he arrived at his first clinic his boss took off on a three-week holiday, leaving him in charge. Luckily he had a very experienced vet nurse who pretty much told him what to do the entire time.)

I decided I would do everything in my power to avoid having to thrust sharp objects into the poor calves' sides (mainly because I didn't want to have to clean up the mess). After driving past the farm drive three times, I finally arrived at the yards to find two very rotund calves wobbling around looking like little black-and-white oompah-loompas. We managed to get one calf into the race without too much trouble, and I examined it, trying my best to exude the confidence of an old hand despite looking like a 12-year-old dressed up as a vet.

Having done a bit of horse work, I decided to treat them like little horses, and started by shoving a stomach tube down their noses and into their guts to relieve the bloat. The first time I passed the tube it somehow reversed direction and emerged from the calf's mouth, but I quickly managed to direct the tube down its throat and into its rumen before the farmer noticed. The gas rushed out straight into my face and, while I was gagging and the farmer laughing, the calf sank to its knees with an audible groan.
"Oh crap!" I thought, "I've killed it!"
But it was a groan of relief, as the free gas in its rumen escaped and its abdomen noticeably deflated. I followed this up with a generous helping of anti-bloat oil, and then repeated the procedure with the second calf. By the time we were done the calves were much brighter and in search of food.

"Done a few of these, have you?" the farmer asked as I packed up my gear.
"Oh yeah, you'd be surprised," I replied, trying to look older than my years.

I'm sure he would have been too...