From Afrikaner to Zebra – a Vet’S Life: The Chronicle of a South African Vet

By Charles Kingsley

You are so lucky ! I always wanted to be a vet! was a recurring
statement at any and every gathering which I ever attended.
Yes I was lucky, or maybe I was a bit more determined than most.
Thank goodness for a good sense of humour and a positive attitude
to life, if a bit cynical.
I learnt to accept with a good grace being woken for the third time
many nights to see emergencies, most of which could easily have
waited until daylight.
I got over the God Syndrome and the inevitable loss of some
patients only to have the immense satisfaction of pulling through
some very diffi cult cases.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462883356

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was born in Holne, Devon, in 1819. He was educated at Bristol Grammar School and Helston Grammar School, before moving on to King's College London and the University of Cambridge. After graduating in 1842, he pursued a career in the clergy and in 1859 was appointed chaplain to Queen Victoria. The following year he was appointed Regius Professor of Modern History at Cambridge, and became private tutor to the Prince of Wales in 1861. Kingsley resigned from Cambridge in 1869 and between 1870 and 1873 was canon of Chester cathedral. He was appointed canon of Westminster cathedral in 1873 and remained there until his death in 1875. Sympathetic to the ideas of evolution, Kingsley was one of the first supporters of Darwin's On the Origin of Species (1859), and his concern for social reform was reflected in The Water-Babies (1863). Kingsley also wrote Westward Ho! (1855), for which the English town is named, a children's book about Greek mythology, The Heroes (1856), and several other historical novels.

Book preview

From Afrikaner to

Zebra – A Vet’s Life

The Chronicle of a South African Vet

Charles Kingsley

Copyright © 2011 by Charles Kingsley.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011909212

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4628-8334-9

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4628-8333-2

ISBN: Ebook           978-1-4628-8335-6

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Contents

Prologue

So you always wanted to be a vet?

Chapter 1:    Where It All Began

Chapter 2:    The Next Phase

Chapter 3:    Practice

Epilogue

Prologue

Veterinary practice has been an extremely rewarding profession, more spiritual than financial.

Its diversity can hardly be matched by any other. The people and their pets that go to make up that practice are as diverse as any population group and, while one gets fed up at times with the public, there are a lot of lovely people out there. In retrospect (which is an extremely exact science), it is the people as much as the animals, who make veterinary practice what it is.

The Concise Oxford Dictionary describes a chronicle as a continuous register of events in order of time.

My chronicle does not necessarily adhere strictly to any order of time. The events are based on personal experiences and related in some cases with a little artistic licence.

The people and incidents are real but names have been changed. If you think you recognize yourself in any of the characters you either have a good imagination or have been in a similar situation.

There is a very true saying in the profession . . . . If it hasn’t happened to you, you haven’t been in practice long enough.

Every practitioner will come up against problems and situations which have been experienced by others with, slight modifications and twists. It sometimes takes a little thought to sift them out of the daily routine, but they are there. Many incidents which are an aggravation at the time become humorous memories in retrospection.

So you always wanted to be a vet?

So did I. And I finally realized my dream about two thirds of the way through the twentieth century. An interesting life it has been too. Too bad that one has to make a living out of it, but I suppose you can’t have everything!

As the custodian of your secret wish in life (or not so secret as every vet will tell you after having been bombarded with this sentiment at every party, dinner, consultation and every other conceivable occasion when someone can get you aside or try to make their mark on you) perhaps I can, on behalf of my colleagues, give you an insight into the mystic world of your frustrated desire—veterinarianism.

What is it about vets that makes everyone want to be one?

When I look around at my colleagues and try to identify the average vet, what do I see? Some are old, some are young, some are fat and some are thin, some smoke while others don’t, some are male while others are not, some are good surgeons while others are not, some are adequate diagnosticians while others are not. The public’s perceptions of the ability of any vet are based on subjective data and often bears little resemblance to actual ability. I have come to the conclusion that there are all kinds of vets and, like any section of the population, they are basically human, with all the strengths and failings that can be attributed to people in general.

There is, however, one single common factor, independence. All of my colleagues are independent personalities with strong views of their own. This is born out by the fact that when a question arises among a group of six vets, there will, more than likely, be seven opinions offered.

But I know what people mean. When I was young and stupid (or less cynical) I had a picture of a vet in my mind. He (there were few, if any, lady vets around at that stage) was tall, strong, if a bit gaunt, pleasant looking with a ready smile and had magic healing hands. Like Superman he was ready at all times (day or night) to fight the good fight and ward off evil. I suppose that these perceptions were built on the vets I knew as a boy, how they dealt with the various situations that presented themselves and the mental picture of how I wanted to see myself when I finally became a vet.

I guess that our family vet fitted that image (or perhaps the image was based on him). He was a rather taciturn man of middle age (I mean he was old to us), who had very little to say to a bunch of inquisitive boys but he seemed to be quietly competent as far as we could judge. Perhaps he was wise enough not to say too much and therefore was not open to misinterpretation. Anyway we held him in high esteem because, although we didn’t need his services too often, he was always there to look after our precious animals when needed. After all, he was the vet. He did perform a miracle on one of our heifers with milk fever—he magically brought her from a paralysed, moribund creature to her normal happy self within 10 minutes by administering a magic potion through a tube into her jugular vein. This feat I accomplished many times once I was in practice and which never failed to give me huge satisfaction and caused the same awe in the clients as it will always do to me.

I think what most people really crave is the vet’s perceived ability to communicate with animals, that gift that seems to set vets apart from common mortals, that nonverbal communication between modern man and primitive beast. Man longs for that uncomplicated, unsophisticated, undemanding interpersonal relationship with other beings that is really only possible to have with a dog because, no matter how badly they are treated, they always greet you like a long lost friend without demanding anything in return.

Even vets know the value of those types of relationships.’

The secret is that everyone has the power to communicate, all you have to do is be patient and try. And if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, and try again. Vets don’t get it right by accident and some vets never get it right at all, just like normal people. These usually join the ranks of the academics where they try to explain to unknowing students how it is done.

Chapter 1

Where It All Began

I don’t remember when I first decided to become a vet, but I don’t remember ever wanting to be anything else.

At the age when boys have everything else on their minds except a career it was already taken for granted that I was going to be a vet. Not for me the agony of decision on what career I was to follow when my school days were coming to an end. I knew with certainty what I wanted to be and could not wait to get started. Unfortunately school got in the way and I had to absorb all the supposedly useless knowledge such as History, Latin, Maths and the other subjects which, in my mind, had nothing whatever to do with being a vet.

Without the distraction having to agonise over my career choice I was free to get on with what little boys do best at that particular age or stage, whatever that may be.

For me it was horses, horses, horses and more horses with a few dogs and cows thrown in for good measure.

Having had the good fortune to have been born into a happy, if impecunious household with two brothers during the last great war, my parents invested in a smallholding which gave us (and many of my wealthier friends) the opportunity to enjoy the down to earth pleasures of country life.

My first introduction to horses was at the tender age of 7 when my dad was given a wonderful old horse called Balmy. A proud winner of 6 races he had reached retirement age, which meant that he was no longer a potential race winner and that he had two prospects for the future, either find a willing sucker like dad to feed (or starve) him for the rest of his days or send him along to the local horse sales which would more than likely see him end up as pet food.

A 17.2 hands high thoroughbred, recently out of training, would hardly be my recommendation today to teach a 7 year old to ride on. But we got him for nothing, he was (fortunately) of good and placid temperament and we loved him. I must admit that it looked a long way to fall but it didn’t take any time at all to hit the ground once you had started. My mum had ridden most of her life and believed that you had to get straight back on again if you fell off or you would lose your nerve. Maybe that’s not a bad philosophy to carry on into life.

As Balmy and I got more adventurous, the ground and I also got better acquainted on odd occasions. I do not remember any particular fall at that stage. All I do remember was that there were many. I do remember that, in later years, although the polo ponies I rode were a lot smaller, the ground seemed to get a lot harder and a lot further away. Fortunately the grounding (no pun intended) which I received in those early years must have taught me something as the most serious injuries I received from riding horses over the years was to my dignity and a few scrapes and bruises.

Yes, I think that in the final analysis, I became a vet because of a horse called Balmy and because it seemed to be a good thing for a boy to do at the time.

I’m afraid that things like business acumen, an astute analytical mind, market surveys and aptitude had nothing to do with my choice of a career.

We had many horses and ponies after Balmy, but I suppose that, as with one’s first love, he is the one that will stick in my mind for ever. In the ultimate analysis that is probably his claim to fame—he was the first. In fact he never did anything spectacular except to teach a couple of small boys and some of their friends to ride, and to instill in me a profound appreciation of the simple things in life.

Our horses became our toys. We taught many horses to do many things and in so doing learnt much about ourselves, although we did not realise it at the time.

Cowboys and crooks was a very real game to us. With our BB pellet guns and our horses we waged a range war. The koppies and dongas were our forts and hideouts. The fact that we never had any serious accidents and that no one lost an eye can only be ascribed to fate and the lack of projectile power of the Daisy repeating air rifle.

We got to know the area in very fine detail. We knew where the secretary bird nested and where the bullfrog made his muddy home to see him through the dry months.

We discovered that the crested barbet is a fearless adversary and would defend its nest by dive bombing anyone who happened too close, whether innocently or not.

We found out that the poor, wounded, broken winged plover was only luring one away from her nest, and that if one looked carefully you could see her pair of chicks hiding in the grass nearby like little balls of shredded newspaper.

We would sit for hours watching a grey heron stalking the shallows of a dam or a stream bank in search of food. We were really interested in what it was to have for dinner.

If anyone had posed the question at that stage as to whether there were any really interesting birds or animals in our area they would probably have been answered that there were a few around but nothing very special.

It is only in later years that I have come to realise that familiarity breeds contempt and that those creatures which were accepted as very commonplace in our lives are the very creatures that birders and naturalists would give their eyeteeth to see a few times in their lives, never mind at such close quarters and with the regularity which made them seem ordinary to me. Today I am reformed and derive the utmost pleasure and enjoyment with just a brief encounter with these ordinary creatures today.

As we got older we got more adventurous and explored ever further afield on our horses. There were few fences and even fewer roads to be negotiated. During school holidays we would leave at daybreak and return exhausted but happy at sunset having been to new places and made exciting new discoveries.

We came to love the wide open spaces and, despite our total lack of sophistication, or, perhaps, because of it, there was a never ending stream of friends and acquaintances weekending and holidaying at our country estate which was only some 20 km from the city centre.

In my case school cricket and rugby came to be regarded as intruders as they limited my time with my horses and my unconscious communing with nature.

Let me hasten to add that while we had our horses and could just about afford to feed them as well as ourselves, we had none of the embellishments that one associates with the horsey crowd of, such as fancy tack and grooms. The stables were built by us and without being grand they were serviceable. At close hand horses seem to produce about three times their own weight in manure daily and this has to be mucked out. Horses also conserve this metabolic waste and nutritional byproducts all day.

No sooner do they enter the nice clean stable, that took such effort to muck out that morning, than they deposit the contents of their bladders and great heaps of balled up dung and proceed to trample it inextricably into the fresh, sweet smelling bedding.

The school bus arrived at our stop at about 7am. This meant that the horses had to be fed and groomed and the stable mucked out well before to give us time to shower and dress by 6.30 so that we could walk the 2 km to the main road in time to catch it.

This close contact really leads to meaningful lines of communication and I am sure that it was the basis of our success in teaching our horses the many tricks which we did and also of ridding some of them of nasty habits. One learns to unconsciously sense moods and to almost read what the animal is thinking.

In retrospect one learnt to love the early dawn and to be bound forever to wake up and get up. At the time it appeared as hard work for no return, but the years have softened it to happy memories. I suppose, too, that this type of activity was a type of preparation for life as a vet as there are always those situations where one is suddenly faced with more than a little physical effort.

ROY ROGERS.

Towards the end of the cowboy era a crowd of us were galloping along a path in the veld on some imaginary mission far from home when we finally stopped to give the horses a breather, Silver caught up to us with his saddle empty.

Silver was an old moke who was fatter than his owner, about as lazy, and always brought up the rear. Roy Rogers’ only resemblance to his film idol was the large stetson he always wore on our forays and which we all secretly coveted. Silver’s only resemblance to his namesake of movie fame was his colour—grey.

We hastily retraced our trail and some way further back found our podgy friend still lying spreadeagled where he had come to grief. He had a large bruise on his forehead over his right eye and was breathing in jerks.

Being far from home, or from any habitation for that matter, we were in a bit of a quandary as to how we were going to get him home. We considered making a travois with some branches but could not find any long and straight enough. Anyway we did not have a blanket to make a sling.

Having exhausted all of our other options we decided to drape him across his saddle and tie his hands under Silver’s belly as