The Travelling Vet

5

GOAT

‘The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.’

William Blake

Martin headed into the practice with a spring in his step. The surfboard on the roof of his car was reason enough to explain it.

‘Morning Martin,’ I said. ‘Catch any good waves?’ It was 8.30 a.m. and I had only just arrived myself.

‘It’s always so great. No better way to start the day. You got the bug yet?’

‘I need to get a wetsuit and a board first,’ I mumbled. Being a surfing nut was obviously one of the most important prerequisites to joining a vet practice so close to Woolacombe Beach in North Devon. So to confess I hadn’t even ventured in after six weeks at the practice was almost criminal.

‘You need to head to Second Skin in Braunton! Andy will sort you out with a suit and a second-hand board and then you’ll be away. Trust me, you’ll love it. Make sure you get a 5/3mm suit, then you can venture out in December without freezing.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, making a mental note to do just that. It wasn’t that I had been avoiding surfing – far from it. It was just that, with all the changes I had undergone since graduating, moving down to Devon and starting my career as a veterinary surgeon, I simply hadn’t got round to exploring any new hobbies, but I was still keen to do so. Next time I was in Braunton I would get my wetsuit.

With that we both headed into the practice to see what the day had in store. Looking through the diary, I saw I had a couple of lame cows to see, a cow with mastitis, and then, as luck would have it I had a visit, booked for midday, to see Mr Giles at Home Farm to castrate a dozen of his bullocks. Home Farm was just outside Braunton, so if all went to plan and no emergencies came in I could grab my lunch and take a look at some wetsuits.

And sure enough, at a quarter to two on that Thursday afternoon I found myself heading back to my car with a brand-new 5/3mm Second Skin wetsuit and with Andy on the look-out for a second-hand Bic 7ft9 Mini Mal surfboard – a good beginners’ board, apparently. Clearly, I would soon be just another North Devon vet driving around with my surfboard on the car roof ready for a pre- or post-work dip.

As I sat in the car enjoying my lunch, I resolved to try out my new purchase at the weekend, and maybe even book a surfing lesson. I wasn’t on call and didn’t have any plans for Saturday. The holiday season was over, so what better way to pass the day? My phone rang, breaking my train of thought. It was Jackie, the practice’s farm and equine receptionist.

‘Jonny, you done all your castrations? Can you go to Mr Watts at Upper Hill Farm in Umberleigh? He’s got a calving that he’s struggling with.’

‘Sure, I’m just in Braunton now … Where is Umberleigh?’ Six weeks in, and I was still getting to know my way around. I had naïvely purchased a sat nav before I moved down, only to discover that farms located on either side of a valley could both have the same postcode; it might be a good device for London, but it wasn’t much use in rural Devon. Fortunately, Jackie knew every postbox, streetlight, pub and phone box in a 30-mile radius and could direct me with pinpoint accuracy.

‘South of Barnstaple, head out on the A377 through Bishop’s Tawton, and just keep going on that road until you reach Umberleigh, turn left over the bridge at the Rising Sun …’ I was furiously writing down her directions on a crumpled scrap of paper I found in the passenger footwell. ‘. . . and the farm is 100 metres down that road on the right.’

‘Great, thanks.’

‘It should take you about half an hour, depending on traffic. I’ll let Mr Watts know you’re on your way. It’s marked on the map so it should be quite easy to find … Oh, and he said the cow’s down in the field and he can’t get her in.’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Thanks Jonny. Martin or Neil will be around if you think it’s a caesarean.’ And with that she hung up.

I pulled out my Ordnance Survey map from the driver’s door pocket, opening it over the steering wheel, then folded it down to centre on Umberleigh, before spreading it on the passenger seat and setting off.

Forty minutes later I pulled into the farmyard, having exhausted myself on the journey trying to play through every possible permutation of what I might find with the calving and how I would handle it. Every day of the last six weeks had felt like a cross between The Crystal Maze and Mastermind. Book knowledge and some basic practical skills had got me through finals, but I was now having to rapidly expand the repertoire of my practical skills and problem-solving capabilities to bring theory into practice. It’s that transition that makes the first-year post qualification far more stressful than anything at university. Having good supportive bosses and colleagues was the key and in that regard I had been very lucky.

Mr Watts greeted me in that characteristic Devonian smile I was becoming accustomed too.

‘Good afternoon, young man. I don’t believe we’ve met, but Jackie says you’re all right!’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Watts. You’ve got calving trouble I believe?’

‘It’s Arthur, call me Arthur – I can’t be doing with any of this formal talk, I’m just a man of the fields … Yes, indeed, she’s a fourth-calver, never given me trouble before, but she’s gone down in the fields … Tail is up and she’s pushing, but nothing is happening. I tried to have a feel and, well, it’s pretty tight, I can barely get my hand in, I’ve no idea what’s going on. So I thought this is one for the professionals.’

‘How long has she been calving for?’ I asked.

‘Oh, about two or three hours, I would think. I noticed her down this morning. Probably a spot of milk fever, I thought, so I gave her a bottle of calcium under the skin about eleven. She wasn’t calving then. When I checked her again at one she was still down, but straining – that’s when I had a feel and then called you. I mean, she might not even be calving, but she is due … It’s an odd one for sure, got me flummoxed.’

‘Well, let’s go and have a look.’

He cast a disparaging glance at my Ford Focus estate. ‘Don’t think your car will make it in the field, so best grab what you need and come with me.’ One day I’ll get a Defender, I thought, as I tried to collect every possible item I might conceivably require.

‘You planning on camping?’ he asked as I loaded my two boxes of equipment onto the back of his Land Rover.

‘Is that all right?’ I bantered back. ‘Have you got a calving jack?’

‘Yeah, it’s in the field next to her.’

‘Great. Then we’re set.’

We set off through the farmyard and down an old cobbled track with a high broom and gorse hedgerow on either side. The farm collie rushed out from one of the buildings and started in pursuit behind us, and Arthur slowed down.

‘Come on then, Fly,’ he cried, looking in his wing mirror. ‘They never like to be left out.’

The dog effortlessly jumped into the back and then we continued on down the track. After about 200 metres he swung left, stopping at the gate entrance, which I hopped out to open. I could see the cow sitting up in the field, about 20 metres away: a Holstein Friesian. She seemed bright enough. I could see a large bucket of water and a pile of hay just in front of her and the calving jack discarded a couple of metres behind where she lay. Arthur drove through and I shut the gate behind him. As I strolled over to join him where he was parking up by the cow, I noticed the other cattle at the far end of the field grazing. There were probably thirty; this was the field of ‘dry’ cows – the ones that were no longer being milked because they were due to calve in the next two months.

Arriving at the Land Rover I grabbed my box of rectal sleeves and lube, and approached the cow’s back end. Glove on, lube applied, I inserted my hand. I could immediately feel what Arthur had told me: everything did indeed feel abnormally tight. For a moment I too was confused, and then as I examined her further I realized my arm was having to twist like a corkscrew as I explored. And suddenly I knew exactly what was wrong.

‘What do you think?’ Arthur said.

‘She’s got a uterine torsion – that’s why you can’t get your hand in very far.’

‘A what?’

‘A uterine torsion. It tends to happen right at the end of pregnancy when the calf is so big, the cow slips or rolls, and the uterus ends up twisting over on itself so that it prevents the calf from being born. We either need to untwist it or we’ll have to do a caesarean.’

‘Well, there it is!’ he said, removing his flat cap and scratching his forehead. ‘I’ve been calving cows for forty years and never to my knowledge come across this. Can we untwist it?’

‘We can have a go – but is there anyone who can give us a hand? This will be a three-person job. We need to roll the cow, but I need to keep my hand inside her to keep the uterus and calf in one place, then we rotate the cow around her and hopefully it will untwist.’

‘Well I never. I’m sure Mrs Watts is about, I’ll go and find her.’ He jumped in the Land Rover and headed back to the gate.

My heart was pumping. Of course I knew the theory behind the technique of correcting a uterine torsion – it was a classic exam question – but actually executing the procedure was a whole new ball game. Unlike some vet students, though, I had been lucky enough to have witnessed it at first hand, when I was seconded to a practice in Fermoy in Ireland. I remembered Ian, the vet, stripped to the waist on a bitterly cold night, demonstrating how important it was to work out which way the uterus had twisted so that you unroll it properly.

With Arthur gone, I kept checking and double-checking the direction of the twist; it was going anticlockwise, which meant the uterus had to be rotated clockwise to untwist it, or else rotating the cow anticlockwise if the uterus was held in place … Was that right? It seemed counter-intuitive to be rolling the cow in the direction of the twist. I went through it again in my mind, step by step. Yes … that was right, I was certain. Or if I was wrong, I suppose I’d be calling Martin or Neil to help me with my first caesarean!

Arthur soon returned with his wife, a small, round lady with red rosy cheeks and a friendly smile. It looked as if Arthur had dragged her away from doing something in the kitchen; probably baking some delicious cake, I thought. Her floral dress and apron were visible under her threadbare, fern green quilted jacket, which she had obviously just thrown on when Arthur called for her, along with her wellies and beige bucket hat.

‘Well, you must be the new vet. I’m Mary, Arthur’s wife, very nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘Arthur tells me this is a tricky one, and something about rolling the cow?’

I set about explaining the situation to her and the object of the manoeuvre.

‘Well, what a job!’ she replied.

‘Is that OK? Will you and Arthur be able to roll her?’ I asked.

‘Oh, don’t you worry about us. We’ve been farming since long before you were born, and we’ve rolled a cow or two in that time. Haven’t we, Arthur? But never for this, mind.’

‘Indeed we have,’ Arthur agreed.

‘Great. Well, we need to roll her onto her left and then all the way over,’ I said, miming the action as I mentally checked I was right.

‘Right you are.’

Lying fully stretched out on the grass behind the cow, I gently reinserted my right arm. I felt the taut band and, following it in an anticlockwise direction as far as I could, I could just feel a hoof of the calf. It was tight, but I gently managed to insert my arm far enough to grab the leg. That was a good sign. If I was able to get my arm in that far, it meant the twist was probably only 180 degrees and we had a better chance of untwisting it.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’m ready for you to roll her.’ They gently rocked her onto her left flank. With the cow’s legs now exposed, I had to be careful not to be kicked. Arthur took some ropes and looped them around the front and back legs separately, then took hold of the front legs and head, while Mary took the back legs, and together they pulled on them, gradually rolling her onto her back and then onto her right side. Bending both hind and front legs up, they were then able to rock her back up into a sitting position.

The effect was miraculous: the taut band was gone, and I could now insert my arm much further and more easily I could feel the calf’s legs and the head, so it was presenting normally, and its mother was obviously feeling more comfortable. I felt a contraction, then another. On the third one, her waters broke. With my arm still inside her up to my shoulder, my head just inches away and my whole body stretched out behind me, I was on the receiving end of the entirety of her amniotic and allantoic fluid. About 12 litres of warm, slimy, pungent foetal fluid drenched my head, flooded down my back into my pants, and down my legs, filling the bottom couple of inches of my wellingtons. It was as though someone had just thrown a bathtub full of the stuff all over me. I could not have been any wetter. I realized why, on that wild and windy night in Ireland, Ian had taken his top off. Why hadn’t I thought that through? The result was, quite simply, disgusting.

‘Oh my! Well, I never!’ commented Mary. ‘I think you might be a little wet young man. But should I deduce from this that rolling her has worked?’

I desperately attempted to maintain my composure and professionalism and sound in complete control.

‘Yes, yes indeed, Mrs Watts. It worked perfectly. We … we should be able to calve her without too much difficulty now.’

I hadn’t moved at all since being drenched. There was no need for me to stay in that position now the uterus had untwisted; besides, the next job was to get the calf out. But I knew any movement I made would just reinforce how disgustingly drenched I was. There was nothing for it though, so taking a deep breath, while at the same time trying not to inhale, I got up and squelched over to the back of the Land Rover to retrieved my calving ropes.

Placing one of these around each of the calf’s forelegs, we then connected them up to the jack and slowly ratcheted him out: a large, healthy bull calf. All was well. It was a great result; the torsion must have been a recent event for it to have caused so little trauma to either the uterus or calf. I was delighted with the outcome – though couldn’t help being somewhat distracted by the warm, slimy fluid that was rapidly cooling and congealing against my body and, as it did so, becoming more viscose, sticking my hairs to my clothing. The result was that every movement I now made involved a painful plucking of my body hair. I tried to maintain a cool air of professionalism, but my movements must have resembled that of a possessed robot. Fortunately, Arthur and Mary were too delighted with the calf to notice me.

‘That ’ere Jackie was right – you are all right! Well done, Mr Vet, that there I think was a most impressive job.’ Arthur slapped me on the back. I tried to appear grateful – I was genuinely thrilled – but his slap had sent a jet of cold fluid down into my pants, reawakening that cold and slimy sensation that my body was desperately trying to forget.

Happy that the mother was attending her calf and all seemed well, Mary now turned her attention to me.

‘I think it’s time we got you a shower. Have you got a change of clothes?’

Still new to this way of life, I felt slightly uncomfortable taking a shower in a stranger’s house. Besides, I didn’t have anything else to change into so the thought of putting my cold, wet, slimy and pungent clothes back on after a warm shower did not appeal.

‘That’s very kind, Mrs Watts, but unfortunately I don’t have a change of clothes so I’ll probably just head home to clean up.’

‘You mean you won’t even stay for some tea and cake?’ she said, crestfallen. ‘I baked one specially … I’m sure we could find some old flannel trousers of Arthur’s for you to change into.’

I stole a subtle glance at Arthur. He was 6 foot tall, with at least a 36-inch waist. A pair of his trousers would drown me, I thought, but then it would be the height of rudeness to decline tea and cake.

‘You are so extremely kind,’ I stammered, ‘but I think it best to get off home to shower and change, and I wouldn’t want to come into you house like this, so maybe I could just have a cup of tea and cake outside …’

‘Oh don’t you worry about our house, dear, it’s seen far worse than the likes of you in that state, believe you me.’

And so, fifteen minutes later, against every instinct for normal manners, decorum and etiquette, I found myself precariously perched on a kitchen chair, a drenched, sticky, smelly mess, opposite a very relaxed Arthur, while Mary busied herself cutting into a delightful-looking sponge cake and then seeing to the kettle boiling away on the Rayburn behind me. The tea was quenching and the cake delicious so I made the best of my unpleasant state by having seconds of both. My external predicament was not improved, however, despite the satisfying tea break. Having exchanged thanks with them, I carefully lowered myself behind the steering wheel, started the engine and drove out of the farm.

Retracing my journey I passed the church, headed down the hill to cross the bridge over the river, but then pulled into the car park of the Rising Sun to call the practice to inform them of the successful calving and that I wouldn’t be needing any assistance.

It was Hazel who answered. ‘Hi, Jonathan. How are you getting on?’

‘Yeah, all done, I managed to calve her – a lovely healthy bull calf.’ Before I could add anything else, Hazel cut back in.

‘Well done, well done indeed. Now before you head back in, there’s a goat visit for you. It’s in Harracott, so not far from where you are now. A Mrs Parker, at Oak Tree Cottage, she has a billy-goat that’s gone lame, so if you could pop in there on your way back, that would be great.’

What I should have said was: ‘I’m covered in 12 litres of unbelievable disgustingness, a lame goat isn’t an emergency, so I’ll go tomorrow because I’m not in any sort of state to see someone on a professional basis.’

Instead, doubtless because of my new graduate eagerness to please, the words I heard coming out of my mouth were: ‘Sure! Do you have an address? I’m afraid I have no idea where that is in relation to where I am, but I can certainly head there now.’

‘Great,’ she replied. ‘Harracott is about ten minutes away from Umberleigh …’

I jotted down the grid reference.

‘Tell her I’m on my way.’

‘Will do. Thanks, Jonathan.’

You idiot, I thought to myself. What on earth were you thinking? You can’t go to see a client like this! I adjusted the rear-view mirror so I could survey the damage. I had globules of afterbirth stuck in my hair; my face had a tainted sheen to it from the dried foetal fluid; and I was still soaking wet. I thought through my options. They were limited: to go as I was, or to ring Hazel back and cancel. Neither seemed particularly appealing.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, I remembered the wetsuit I’d bought that morning, and which was still lying in its packaging in the back of the car. I remembered how snugly it had fitted when I’d tried it on, and imagined how warm it would keep me. I could put that on, with clean waterproof trousers and top over it so it would be invisible, and what’s more, I’d be dry, which would feel a hundred times better. It seemed like a perfect plan.

If anyone passing the Rising Sun on that late Thursday afternoon in September had glanced into the car park, they may have seen a green Ford Focus estate in the far corner, parked at an odd angle in an attempt to hide the dishevelled semi-naked figure behind it. After extracting myself from my sodden, odorous clothes, I made a moderate success of patting myself dry and cleaning my face with the roll of blue paper towel I always carried in the boot.

The first flaw in my plan came when I attempted to squeeze into the wetsuit. Forcing my bare left leg through the appropriate aperture, the unforgiving neoprene exfoliated most of my leg hairs, causing me to howl in pain. The dried amniotic fluid had stuck the hairs together in clumps, so any friction caused them to be ripped from their follicles. Knowing now what torture lay ahead for my right leg, I gritted my teeth and thrust it down as quickly and bravely as I could. The pain was so acute and intense I nearly collapsed.

With my legs in, I pulled the suit up to my waist, before realizing I now had to go through the whole ordeal again with both my arms. It was starting to dawn on me that maybe this wasn’t the most robust and foolproof plan in the world. Nevertheless I continued with a stubborn defiance drawn from the conviction that this was now my only option: Hazel would by now have called Mrs Parker, and she would be expecting me.

Wetsuit now on, I blanched at zipping it up, so instead hauled a clean pair of waterproofs over the top and slipped my bare feet into my saturated wellies. I looked at my reflection in the passenger window. The collar of my waterproof top did a good job of hiding the wetsuit at the neck, but the long sheaths of its rubberized arms could not be disguised, poking out weirdly from the short sleeves of the waterproof. It would have to do. Was it such a ludicrous idea, after all, that a professional vet would attire themselves in a wetsuit? And in any case, British politeness would surely save the day.

Ten minutes later, I was speeding towards Harracott to attend to Mrs Parker’s lame billy-goat. And it was now that I discovered the insulating benefits of the 5/3mm wetsuit that Martin had recommended. Within minutes I was sweating profusely and, despite turning the air-conditioning on full blast, I felt there was a distinct possibility that I could evaporate before making it to my destination. The chinks in this plan were rapidly turning into gapping chasms; perhaps I needed to re-evaluate my method of decision-making as a matter of priority.

Oak Tree Cottage was a quaint, whitewashed, nineteenth-century cottage, with black timber-framed windows and a slated tiled roof, and I easily found it. Parking outside, I wiped the sweat from my brow as I reviewed my appearance in the rear-view mirror. My face was flushed, my hair was a mess, and the combined aroma of sweat and foetal waters was overwhelmingly unpleasant. Poor Mrs Parker, I thought. I threw together a box of basic equipment that I might require: hoof knives, thermometer, gloves, stethoscope, needles, syringes and a choice selection of drugs. Here goes, I thought, as I shut the boot, headed for the front door and rang the doorbell.

Moments later the door was opened by a middle-aged lady in socks, jeans and a jumper, with a toddler crooked in her left arm.

‘Hi! I’m Jonathan the vet. I’ve come to see a lame goat I believe?’ She studied me for a moment. The initial and familiar facial expression of a client grateful at a vet’s arrival to sort out their ailing animal quickly turned to confusion as she tried to process the figure before her: a supposedly respectable professional with a very peculiar dress sense.

‘Are you … wearing a wetsuit underneath your waterproofs?’ she enquired after a moment. I couldn’t believe it. My attempt to disguise it hadn’t even survived ten seconds. Maybe in Camden it could have passed as a type of self-expression, but in Devon it was just pure weird.

‘It’s a long story,’ I began.

‘Interrupting your afternoon surfing?’ she guessed.

‘Not exactly.’ I could see I wasn’t going to get away with this lightly. ‘I got a bit wet from my last visit and this was all I had to wear …’

She laughed. ‘Well, I suppose I have to admire your dedication to the cause, but it wasn’t an urgent call. It could have waited till tomorrow.’

I was an idiot. Why hadn’t I asked Hazel to postpone the visit till tomorrow?

‘Well we can’t let pride get in the way of doing our job,’ I said, rather primly, as much to convince her of my professionalism as to justify the humiliation I felt.

‘Very admirable,’ she said, moving away from the door and beckoning me in. ‘I suppose you’d best come this way.’

‘Er … my boots are very wet. Could I go around the side of the house?’

‘Sure. Just head round there,’ she said, pointing. ‘I’ll just put on my boots and meet you around the back.’

As I sashayed round the side of the house, the constricting wetsuit lending my movements an oddly stilted gait, I was grateful for the few seconds to myself. There was a large garden behind the house, littered with children’s toys and paraphernalia, and beyond that was a small paddock containing three goats. Mrs Parker joined me, toddler still on her arm; in addition a little boy of around five was now accompanying her, wearing bright blue wellies and an oversized coat. He eyed me suspiciously.

‘Mummy, who’s that?’ he asked, pointing at me.

‘That’s the vet, Jamie. He’s come to look at Bertie. Remember I said Bertie had a sore leg? The vet has come to make him better.’ The answer seemed to satisfy him, but he continued to assess me warily.

‘They’re over this way, in the paddock,’ Mrs Parker said leading the way. ‘We have three. Two girls and a boy.’

The little boy followed close behind, and then, tugging on his mother’s jacket, piped up again.

‘Mummy, Mummy! Why is he wearing a wetsuit?’

Mrs Parker burst out laughing. Then, in a brave attempt to salvage my dignity from her five-year-old son, said, ‘Sometimes vets do jobs where they get wet or mucky so it’s useful to have something to stop their clothes getting wet.’ It was an admirable effort and I was grateful, but Jamie wasn’t so easily bought.

‘But a wetsuit is for going in the water and we are on land. It seems silly to me.’

‘You’re right, darling,’ Mrs Parker conceded, and with this confirmation that his logic had been faultless, Jamie proceeded to start repeatedly chanting, ‘Silly wetsuit man, silly wetsuit man, silly, silly wetsuit man!’ all the while oblivious to his mother’s whispered commands of ‘Jamie that’s enough.’

‘Bertie is that one over there,’ she said, pointing at the obvious male of the group as we reached the gate. ‘I put him on his chain earlier so he’d be easier to catch, but I’m afraid I can’t really hold him for you with this one on my arm –’ gesturing at the baby she was holding. ‘Can you manage on your own? They’re pretty tame, but you could always wait for my husband to get back if not.’

It wasn’t ideal, but I was keen to get the visit over and done with as quickly as possible, and with Jamie insisting on being such an angelic child, I preferred not to have the humiliation of meeting Mr Parker as well.

‘No problem,’ I said, and opened the gate to head into the paddock. Mrs Parker and Jamie stayed in the garden, Mrs Parker leaning against the fence, Jamie peering through it.

‘Don’t worry, Bertie,’ he shouted. ‘Silly wetsuit man is going to make you better.’

Wetsuits and vets would probably now be synonymous for Jamie, seared into his consciousness forever.

The paddock was about an acre. An open-fronted shed was situated in the corner to the left of the gate, straw-bedding spilling out onto the grass. To the right of that, a large metal peg, connected to a 5-metre chain, was imbedded in the ground. At the end of the chain was a large white billy-goat, who after grazing contentedly moments before, now eyed me balefully as I approached. I could immediately see from his tentative movements that the problem was located in his left hind leg. Bertie’s initial suspicion did not develop into attempted flight. Instead he clearly assumed that my vet’s box bore some delicious delicacy, and he limped over to greet me. His interest in the box, which swiftly became an obsession, meant it would be impossible to put it down without him attempting to devour its contents. But it gave me an idea.

‘Do you have any feed you give them that I could use as a distraction?’ I asked Mrs Parker

‘I’ve got some hay, but otherwise they just graze the grass.’

‘Hay will do. Could you put some in a bucket?’

‘Sure.’ She disappeared off to the garden shed, returning moments later with a bucket of hay, full to overflowing.

‘Perfect, thanks,’ I said, taking it off her. Bertie was still intrigued by my box, and followed it as far as his chain would allow. I carefully left it by the fence, extracting a hoof knife, and returned to Bertie with the bucket of hay. He immediately descended on it, tucking into the hay with gusto. The distraction allowed me the chance to examine his foot. I bent down to pick it up – and immediately felt the embarrassing restriction of my ridiculous attire. I had voluntarily decided to wear this? I thought. What was I thinking? Examining Bertie’s foot, it was quite clear what the problem was (and I was grateful for the distraction). There was an ulcerated sore in between its two claws. I examined the rest of the leg, but there were no other problems, so some painkillers and a burst of Terramycin spray should do the trick. I put the foot down and wandered back to my box, Bertie remaining engrossed in his bucket of hay.

‘What do you think the problem is?’ Mrs Parker asked.

‘He’s got scald,’ I told her. ‘It’s very common, don’t worry. It’s an ulcerative sore between the claws caused by environmental bacteria. Very easy to treat …’

Back at my box, I drew up some Finadyne, an anti-inflammatory, grabbed the Terramycin spray, and returned to the goat.

‘I’ll give him some pain relief as well,’ I said, injecting into his muscle. Bertie didn’t flinch, his head still in the bucket. Goats really are food-obsessed, I thought. I picked up his foot and sprayed between the claws.

‘That should do it,’ I said, releasing his foot to the ground and heading back to my box.

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘He’ll be happy finishing off his bucket of hay. You must be a little hot in your outfit,’ she added with a chuckle. I became conscious of the beads of sweat now dripping from my forehead.

Then Jamie joined in. ‘Did you make Bertie better, Mr Silly Wetsuit Man?’

‘I hope so,’ I said, making my way through the gate back into the garden.

‘Poor Bertie,’ he sighed.

‘He’s your favourite, isn’t he, Jamie?’ said Mrs Parker as we headed back to the house. Then, turning to me, she added, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I completely understand if you want to just get home, but the offer’s there.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but … yes, I think I will just head off.’

‘I thought you might.’

As we reached the front of the house, a car pulled into the drive.

‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!’ Jamie shouted in excitement, rushing to the driver’s door of the now parked car.

My heart sank as Mr Parker stepped out of the car and gathered Jamie into his arms.

‘Have you been a good boy for Mummy?’ he enquired, but Jamie completely ignored the question.

‘Daddy, Daddy, this man is wearing a wetsuit on land, silly man, he came to make Bertie better.’

Mr Parker, having only half listened to his son, turned to his wife.

‘Hi, darling,’ she said. ‘This is Jonathan, the vet. He came to have a look at Bertie.’ Her husband stuck out his hand to shake mine, only then gaining a full appreciation of what Jamie had been saying.

‘Oh, I see … You are indeed wearing a wetsuit. Have you been treating seals today or something?’

‘It’s a … long story?’ I replied feebly, noticing the exchange of glances between Mr and Mrs Parker. ‘Anyway, I’d best be getting off. Bertie should be fine now, but any further problems, then give me a call.’

And with that I made a dash for the car, quickly loading my box into the boot, before slumping behind my steering wheel, starting the engine and speeding away, praying that Bertie would not actually need a revisit in the next few days.

Goats: fast facts

Capra aegagrus hircus: The domestic goat

Distribution: Global, following domestication of the wild goat of south-west Asia and eastern Europe.

Description: The domestic goat is a sub-species of the wild goat, Capra aegagrus, with over 300 distinct breeds.

Names: The male is called a ‘buck’ or ‘billy’, the female a ‘doe’ or ‘nanny’, and their young a ‘kid’. A group of goats is called a ‘tribe’.

Life span: About 15–18 years.

Husbandry: In much of the world they are usually free to wander hills and other grazing areas tended by goatherds, who are frequently children. Elsewhere, they are usually stabled, tethered or contained in small paddocks.

Diet: Goats are ruminants, like cattle and sheep, but are browsers rather than grazers. They will often chew on anything, but prefer vines, shrubs and weeds to grasses. They are used in Chinese tea plantations, to eat the weeds and fertilize the plants while avoiding the tea leaves themselves because of their bitter taste.

Gestation: 150 days. The breeding season depends on their global location, the female’s 21-day cycle either commencing when day-length shortens or lasting all year round in equatorial regions.

Weight: Anything from 20 kg for pygmy breeds to 140 kg for Boers.

Size and growth: Sexual maturity is reached anywhere between 3 and 15 months, and full size at 2–3 years.

Body temperature: 38.8–39.4 °C.

Conservation: The domestic goat is one of the most wildly distributed agricultural animals in the world, due to its multiplicity of uses to humanity. More humans consume goat’s milk globally than cow’s milk; their meat is popular to consume, their manure can be used as a fertilizer, their fibre and hide for clothing or leather products, and they are useful for clearing land of unwanted vegetation and carrying light loads. It is estimated that there are around 924 million domestic goats worldwide, so happily they are not a threatened species, like some others in this book. Why not celebrate the huge benefit this animal has been to humanity by sending a goat to someone in the developing world, by visiting: www.musthavegifts.org/a-goat.html?.