Her sour face was scrunched up, on the phone, abrupt words spat out – \”Ok then, of course, we will get them done today for you.\”
I had walked out into the office to check on some records, and I wondered what was going on. She hung up the phone, and if anything, the lines of bitterness deepened on her face. Our practice manager. The Bosses wife. The bane of my life.
(Looking back, I can\’t blame her for how she was – she had been a first class honours student, a veterinary student, and had left Uni in 3rd year to marry the boss, who was graduating. Then she had spent her life managing the practice and vet nursing for him, that brilliant mind and ability, wasted away into a twisted bitter old woman.)
She looked up at me, several emotions warring for precedence on her face. She looked like she had to do something unpleasant. \”What the hell is going on?\” I thought.
\”There\’s a mob of cattle to preg test, 200 of them. They have to be done today, and Trevor (the boss, not his real name, of course) can\’t do them, so you\’ll have to go. Make sure you do a good job, and don\’t miss any,\” she said with a glare at me. \”You can\’t afford to miss a single one.\”
\”No pressure,\” I thought… You see, I\’d been working there for only a few months, and had absolutely no preg testing experience except the small amount I\’d done at Uni. Usually, a new graduate would go out with the boss a couple of times, and do a whole lot together, making sure that they could do the job before throwing them into a preg testing job on their own. This mob expected me to do the work of an experienced vet, straight up, and got upset if I couldn\’t meet the mark.
I pulled up at the farm, greeted the farmer, a nice bloke, and got into my overalls. I collected a box of preg testing gloves, and a bottle of lube. The cattle were milling around in the yards, and I climbed over the fence into the familiar smells – dust, cow shit, their sweet breath, and all the sounds- moans, bellows, huffing and the scuff of hooves. The farmer and one other fellow started to move them up into the feeder yard, and I stationed myself at the back of the crush, an arm length glove on both arms. The first run came bustling up the race, hairy faces, rolling eyes. British breed cattle, so different to the bos indicus, brahman types I spent so much time working with at home. And, i was soon to discover, very different in an important, and quite particular way.
The side gates crashed, and the first cow ran up into the crush, where the farmer trapped her head with a grunt on the lever. I kicked the half door in behind her, and stepped in, lubed glove at the ready. I grabbed her tail, and went to push my hand gently in. I pushed, and pushed, and thought, \”My god, this is tiny!\”. Eventually I squeezed my arm in (and I am blessed with small hands), and managed to pick up the uterus and feel my way along both horns. I felt the subtle swelling, but only just. And only just before the burning tight constriction around my arm restricted the blood flow to my hand so severely that I couldn\’t move my fingers at all, let alone feel anything.
\”She\’s pregnant,\” I told the farmer. \”How long since you pulled the bull out?\”
\”8 weeks ago.\”
Right at the earliest you can preg test, of course. Ok for an experienced vet, not so ok for me. Inside, I was desperately hoping that this first cow had an abnormally tight bottom. Alas, if anything, some were even worse.
I alternated arms, to try to keep some life and sensitivity in my fingers. I\’d get a hand in, and the band of pressure around my arm was like a tourniquet. I\’d desperately feel for the uterus, and try to grasp it before my hand went numb. Then I\’d feel my way along, trying to tell if this was a very early pregnant cow, or an empty one. Some were easy (thank god), but they were only about half. The rest… Well, I could hear the bosses wife\’s voice echoing in my head, and the farmer was none too pleased to have the new vet in any case. The classic line had been uttered. \”You\’re not Trevor!\” And with every cow my hands and body got more and more fatigued.
It\’s a full body exercise, preg testing. The cows (and who can blame them?) somewhat resent a human stuffing their hand and arm up their bum. So they tend to struggle, rock, and jump about; and when you\’re arm deep in cow, and the cow moves, it tends to throw you around a bit. It was hot, dusty, and I was streaming with sweat from exertion, and the stress of trying to do a job that I wasn\’t skilled up to do. Let alone the thought of the pressure from my employers.
By the time I was halfway through, I was cooked. I\’d get my hand in, and it would immediately become like a bag of spaghetti – limp, weak, and very painful. I\’d make every effort, eyes popping out, the utmost clenching of my muscles, and be hardly able to close my fingers at all, let alone make the strong, fine motor movements required. I could find the uterus, yes, but I couldn\’t hold it firmly enough to be able to palpate the really early ones. It was a slow motion train wreck inside my head. By the end, there was quite a bit of guess work going on.
Afterwards, I slunk back into my truck, and drove away, tail between my legs. When I got back to the clinic, I copped a glare.
\”You\’d better have done a good job! Those are important clients.\”
Months later, the boss pulled me aside for one of his rare, after the fact, talks. (They were always after the fact, once even a year after the fact!)
\”You know that mob of cows you preg tested? He sent the culls to the meat works, and ten of them were in calf! It\’s just not good enough, you\’ll have to do better.\” His face looked as if I had really let him down.
And off he went. Leaving me wondering who the hell I could get better at things given no support to do so?