Why did I become a vet, anyway?
I remember as a child, the vet would fly in to do the tuberculosis testing of our cattle herd. I must have been only 5 or 6 years old. We would hear the plane in the distance, and all in a scurry run over to the shed to catch a ride with my dad down to the air strip. I\’d climb into the toyota, old, grey and battered, a rattle rolling through the dust. The dash littered with pliers, tools, old bits of paper, and the floor covered in dust carried in by the boots of men. The plane circled once or twice while we pushed a few cattle off the strip, and then we pulled up at the yard that protected the plane from the cattle (they will chew a plane rather badly if they get a chance), and I\’d watch the roar and clatter of the single engine cessna plane drift and glide down to touch with a thump and a puff of dust, racing down the strip as it slowed. I\’d stay in the cab, as the plane turned and revved its engine. My dad would be out in the sun, tall in his faded work shirt, big beaten old felt hat shading his face, undoing the cockies gate that made one whole side of the tiny square paddock that held the plane. He\’d undo the bit of steel picket that strained the gate tight, and drag the post and wired around in a big half circle, while the plane thumped and road towards us. The pilot then eased the plane into the square, and while my dad dragged the gate back into place, the plane shuddered into silence. The pilot (the vet) sat there for a moment, intent on doing something. Then the door cracked open, and cheery greetings were exchanged, bags and gear disgorged, the plane tied down securely to some metal loops set in cement, and covered up with a special shiny shade cloth. The man then put special covers on bits and pieces, as I watched, rapt.
All the gear got stowed in the ute, and the vet hopped in. I was shy, silent, huddled up beside my dad, as their conversation unfolded on the drive home. He came every year, so news was exchanged, and friendship reseated. A quick stop at the homestead, to drop his bags in, then we were off to the cattle yards, chocked full of a big mob of shorthorn cattle. The men would have the feeder yards full, a roiling dusty bellow of hairy red cattle, wide eyed, snorting. That sweet smell of bovine breath, the sharp scent of urine, the warm smell of cow pats all mixed with the sharp tang of dust. The vet got himself sorted beside the race. He had a special metal syringe gun (which I thought was the coolest thing in the entire universe) which he would charge up with tuberculin liquid from a small glass vial. The men would run a lot of the cattle into the race, sliding the gate at the back closed with a crash, and carefully begloved, he would inject a measured dose of this into the fold of skin beside the tail of each beast. They would often bellow and twitch. It was a well choreographed dance – as soon as he\’d run up the 10 or so in the race, the race man would open the front slide, and they\’d all rush out, pushing each other to escape. Then the pound would regurgitate another lot into the race, and the man in the feeder yard would open the gate to fill the pound. Always, always, the men fed and moved more cattle in form the bigger yards, around to the race, hot and sweating in the sun.
I stood by an old hollow stump a bit back from the race. It was grey, and jagged, with a skin only about an inch thick; the vet would throw the empty vials in there, year after year. The stump was full to the brim with these shining little bottles. I\’d take one out, now and then, and feel it, look at it, watching him working away at injecting the cattle, so strong and sure of himself. This was the first moment i decided I wanted to be a vet, I think. The whole testing process was fascinating. If the animal had tuberculosis, their immune system would react to the injected tuberculin, and a lump would form at the injection site. Two days later, the whole mob would be collected, put in the yards, and run through again. The vet would palpate the injection site, and any reactors would be put in a separate yard. The testing had been going on for many years, and only now and then would the be one who reacted.
My dad would go and get the .22 rifle, ease a bullet into the chamber, and with a sharp crack!, the unfortunate beast would drop to the ground like a stone, shivering and quivering. I\’d perch on the rough red rusted rails as the men attached a chain to the back legs, and hitched it to the toyota. In low range, 4 wheel drive, the old truck growled steadily, dragging the beast out into the paddock, to the graveyard, raising a bow wave of dust from the road. I\’d stand in the back, holding tight to the rails at the front of the tray, with my dad and the vet in the front. We\’d drive into the spot where old white bones lay scattered, sun bleached. The chains were released, and clattered in a heavy heap back in the tray. The vet then pulled a case of gear out, and proceeded to post mortem the reactor, Honing the blade on a steel, whisk whisk whisk, then flaying back skin and flesh with a flash of metal, hunting out lymph nodes… If any were swollen or looked unusual, he carefully popped samples into little pots with preservative to be taken back and analysed to see if TB was present.
I was utterly fascinated!