A weekend from hell

Being on call. Afterhours! The bane of many a vet\’s life. You watch the phone like it\’s a viper, ready to strike. I remember my first job. At first, being on call was a bit of a novelty, really, nothing too terrible. However, the boss I worked for at the time could have taught fishes bottom\’s a thing or two. He was not a man to part with a penny more than he had to. In those days most vets got paid extra for after hours duties. These days it is enshrined in legislation, part of the award. Then it was not, and so I didn\’t get any pay at all for dragging myself out of bed at all hours of the night. Mostly, after hours were kind to me, and on average I\’d have 1/4-1/2 of the calls that my work mates did. Why? A strange, unexplainable blessing.

This weekend, was the exception to the rule. Friday was a busy day. I got home late, and had just managed to cook dinner when the phone went off like a firecracker.

\”There\’s a cow down with milk fever. You\’d better get a move on.\” The boss\’s wife took all the calls after hours, and then rang me.

I put my lovely hot dinner in the fridge with a regretful sigh, and jumped in the ute. My practice car was an ancient Nissan with a canopy that leaked, and all the get up and go of an old grandmother on a walking frame. It was cold, and rain was pelting down, being flung into the windscreen in tattered sheets by a howling wind. I pulled up beside a pool of light out in the paddock. The cow was flat out. I put my head torch on, and guddled about in the damp, fusty cave of the ute, pulling out a flutter valve, 18 gauge needle, and a bottle of calcium solution.  I popped the needle into her jugular vein, and slowly ran the fluid in, carefully watching her pulse rate (too much, too quickly, and I\’d kill her). It seemed like an age in the cold and wet before she started showing signs of life. She perked right up, and I gave her another big dose under the skin, to soak in. Another 10 minutes, and she struggled to her feet.

I went home, at a cold dinner, went to sleep. Just as I got to the deepest sleep humanly possible, the phone slammed me in the ear like a hammer.

\”Wsffft! Gumgle sneee…\” I mumbled.

\”There\’s a cow calving, been trying all day. They need some help.\”

\”Ok, I\’m on my way,\” I replied, having regained the power of speech. It was 1:00am. Colder. Windier. And just as wet.

I got there, collected the bucket, calving chains, calving jack, and went to work. Soap up and clean hands and arms, hand in. For all that she\’d been trying all day, her contractions were as strong as any I\’d ever felt. A rhythmic crushing surge, squeezing all the blood and strength out of my grasp. Every time she relaxed I\’d push like hell to reach a bit further in- Finally I hooked a finger around the front leg that was back and got it up and out. Then I fought for another 1/2 an hour to get my hand in and turn the calfs head back, got the chains on and after a bit of vigorous heaving, there was a healthy calf kicking on the ground.

Back to bed. 5:00am, the phone reared it\’s ugly head again, with a horse to stitch up – a massive laceration of it\’s back leg, which took hours to piece together and bandage up. So- forget about breakfast! Because then it was time for small animal consults at the clinic. A full book, and then an emergency caesarian for a dog on top of that. A very late lunch, and I got home, and had no sooner collapsed like a tired puddle into a comfy chair when the phone rang again! I was back out until 7:00 that night, and had blissfully sunken into a deep sleep when it was shattered. The phone had started to sound like a siren, an alarm, a claxon, by this stage. They had to ring twice, though, to drag me awake. The bosse\’s wife\’s voice cut into my head. \”Why didn\’t you answer the phone the first time? There\’s a cow calving…\”

I dragged myself out of bed, and hit the road. It was a tough calving, a big calf, the farmers couldn\’t afford a caesar, so I had to skull drag it out, at the risk of hurting the cow, bruising the nerves inside the pelvis, causing paralysis. She was a bit wobbly in the hind legs, but still upright, when I left. The calf was dead. Then, at the deepest possible time in my sleep pattern (as was the same for every time I had a night call that weekend) the phone rang again. \”That cow you saw earlier, she\’s down. Better go back and see what you can do for her.\” Her voice was accusing, as if I had done something wrong the first visit.

I spent 2 hours with that damn cow, and we did get her up. I was bruised, covered in cow shit, tired as a dog with 25 puppies, and wondering what had hit me. I got half an hours sleep before the next call rang in. Another milk fever. All day Sunday, I\’d get home, start eating, or just finally relax, or doze off, and the phone would ring. In the end it was like a refined form of torture, as if some malevolent being was watching, picking the worst possible moment, then pressing the button. Sick dogs. More calvings. More milk fevers. And then, Sunday night, a horse with colic that kept me there for three hours after getting me out of bed at 11:00.

I had to back up again for work on Monday. A dozen cups of coffee, and it is a miracle I didn\’t kill either any of the animals I tended to that day, or myself while driving. I have never been so shattered before or since.

The response from my bosses, after grossing an insane amount of money for this unpaid work, a bona fide weekend from hell? Not even a thank you! They were shockers to work for, and I learned so much about how not to treat your staff from them. So I thank them for that, at least.

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