Although the vast majority of our patients at Clover Hill were small animals, and even the cats getting a very poor look-in compared to the dogs, occasionally there was a chance to work with some more unusual characters. Edward, my long-eared donkey buddy who I got to meet on a relatively regular basis, lived with a Highland bullock, a few horses, two goats, a variety of birds and Biddy the fox.
Biddy had been hand-reared when her mother had been killed on the road. As the only surviving cub, she became very accustomed to her new life and although shy with strangers, settled in well to enjoy life in her little commune. When the occasional duck or hen started to disappear during daylight, her free ranging had to be confined somewhat and at night she was safely confined in her own personal den, as much for her own safety as that of the birds. Although the dogs regarded her with suspicion, she enjoyed the same food as them, although in respect to her wild origins, her Sunday night treat was usually the remains of the ray wings from the local chipper which she always relished.
My only previous significant encounter with a fox was back in the early days of my time in mixed practice, long before the arrival of the kids.
I was behind the office desk, wading my way through signing what seemed like an endless batch of TB cards, when one of the local beef farmers arrived in. Unlike many of the clients, Declan was one of those farmers who appeared to have little interest in his stock apart from their economic potential. Visits to the yard were always frustrating, and I usually left feeling like I hadn’t done my job well.
On this occasion, Declan was rushing, and I was grateful at least not to have to engage in a lengthy discussion in relation to his latest bill.
Without as much as a glance at me, he dumped a tattered feed sack, tied with a length of baling twine, on the countertop.
‘I found this vermin on the side of the road,’ he said, already making his way back out the road. ‘Would have put a bullet in it myself, but I’m on the way to the mart with cattle and I don’t want it stinking in the truck all day.’
I didn’t even manage to respond as he was already on his way back out the front door. ‘And don’t be putting any charge on the bill for that one,’ he threw in as the heavy front door swung shut behind him.
‘It takes all sorts to make the world, doesn’t it?’ I heard from the side-counter. I looked up to see Jack Doyle, one of our more popular farmer clients, waiting patiently for a prescription. I had been so engrossed in my TB certs that I hadn’t even noticed him come in. Jack ran a serious dairy operation, but in contrast to Declan, he personally knew each cow and their offspring, and he and his two stock-men minded them better then he looked after himself. With Jack, nothing was ever too much trouble, and he always listened intently to any advice I could offer, although I was quite sure that with his years of experience and his obvious passion for the job, any advice I could give him would be of little value.
‘So what d’ye think is in the sack?’ he enquired inquisitively as it mysteriously began to make its way across the countertop.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied honestly.
Placing my hands on the old-style bag, I could at least feel a warm furry body, roughly the size of a small dog, but it was the smell that alerted me that something was different. Cautiously untying the twine and peering in, I was enthralled to find the bright eyes of a young fox staring back at me. Suddenly realising that I was in the wide open space of the front office, I withdrew to the small enclosed consulting room with Jack following closely on my heels, reluctant to miss anything of interest. Turning off the bright surgery light so that only the dim bulb remained, I carefully took hold of the quivering animal by the scruff of its neck and withdrew it from its haven. Jack feigned horror when he saw my patient.
‘There won’t be a chicken safe in Wicklow. Vermin for sure!’ he retorted, but I could see by his twinkling eyes that he too was fascinated. The young, but almost fully-grown little vixen, allowed me to gently examine her. Although she was clearly shocked, the only significant injury I could find was a fractured jaw but only the little joint, joining the right and left lower jaw bones. I knew from my orthopaedic training that it would be a matter of minutes under anaesthetic to place a piece of wire, using the lower canine teeth to prevent it from slipping in the few weeks that it would take to heal in such a young and otherwise healthy animal.
‘Ah, now don’t tell me you’re even thinking of trying to fix it up,’ said Jack throwing his eyes up to heaven and at the same time reaching out to stroke the sleek head. Two bright eyes honed in on us, as I muttered something non-committal, quickly wrapping her up in the bag again as I heard Seamus, the boss, coming in the front door.
My plan was foiled, as Jack a longterm, fellow IFA member, and friend of Seamus, opened the door to beckon him in.
‘I hope you don’t have any serious cattle calls lined up, Seamus. Nurse Nightingale here has an important surgery to do, so you’ll be on your own!’
Seamus clearly wasn’t in such good humour. He took one look in the bag and said, ‘Make sure it’s gone out of here by this evening.’
I took that as an open invitation to abandon signing the TB cards. Once the little fox was peacefully sleeping, inhaling the mixture of anaesthetic gas and oxygen, it did only take minutes to wire the jaw. Vermin, as I affectionately called her in respect to the good Samaritan who brought her in, came home with me in the back of the car that evening. Over the few weeks that Vermin stayed with us, in one of the stables that were vacant for the summer, I watched with fascination how, although reasonably docile to handle, she retained that fiery look in her eye of a truly wild animal.
The surgery to remove the wire was even quicker than it had been to insert and less than a month after her arrival, Vermin made the return journey to the outskirts of the practice and I took a detour on the way down to release her close to Declan’s farm. When I opened the box, she stepped out delicately, taking a few sniffs of the hopefully familiar environment, whiskers twitching dramatically and then she turned and looked at me and I got a last glimpse of the those innately wild eyes before she darted off into the hedgerow and with a last rustling of the bushes, she was gone.
It was a few years later that I got to know Biddy the fox. It was always the very specific smell of her that would bring me back to Vermin and I often wondered how she or her potential offspring were doing in the wild. I never had much cause to see Biddy as she was remarkably healthy, but I would often drop in to say hello to her, particularly if the kids were with me as they were always fascinated to see a real live fox, far from the demonised villains of their bedtime stories.
Although she always carried the odour peculiar to her kind, on one occasion as I peered into her night time pen, the smell was clearly more pungent and Karen was concerned that apart from the smell, she was having to refill the water bowl on an increasingly frequent basis.
It’s not easy to get a urine sample from a fox, but Karen was adept and knew her animals well so within a day or two the required sample arrived and my suspicion was confirmed that Biddy had a raging urinary-tract infection. Although nothing was licenced for urinary tract infections in foxes, I was reasonable confident that a similar combination that was used successfully for dogs would suffice and sure enough, within two weeks, although Biddy refused to produce another sample, the smell was back to normal and the water bowl was lasting the full day.
My secret pleasure at my fox cure was short lived as within two weeks the symptoms were back. As we had been unable to get a sample giving the all clear, I assumed that the course had been insufficient and so repeated it for a longer duration. This time, Karen was determined to get a sample and even after a longer course, although much improved, the sample was still showed some blood and white cells. A microscopic examination confirmed the result. I knew now that, at this stage although again Biddy seemed much improved, she would need an ultrasound examination of her kidneys, bladder and uterus. Usually animals would come to the clinic for ultrasound examination for both convenience and more important to protect the hideously expensive piece of machinery that I could in no way economically justify having in a small, one vet practice. For Biddy, I made an exception, although not without some concern, watching the machine perched on top of a barrel outside her pen for the duration of the examination. Biddy was remarkable co-operative as I clipped and cleaned her abdomen. When the cold gel was applied, Biddy started to pant as Karen, down on her knees, held her securely.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re looking at!’ Karen proclaimed as the black and white images appeared on the screen.
‘Either have I!’ I laughed, freely admitting this this was my first and probably last ultrasound examination of a fox. Thankfully the three large white spherical shaped surrounded by the black shadow of the urine in the bladder made it blatantly evident the cause of Biddy’s recurrent infection was the bladder stones. I was less enthusiastic as I realised that due to their size, surgery was going to the only option.
Whatever about an ultrasound examination, in my inexperienced hands, anaesthesia and surgery was a little more daunting! Although I had anaesthetised Vermin some years previously, it was a very short procedure and as her ultimate destination at the time had been euthanasia, it was worth the risk.
I explained my concerns to Karen. While her confidence was flattering, it in ways made it worse. Her own father, Bill Bennet, had been a vet who tragically had passed away at a young age. From everything I had heard about him from older colleagues, it seemed that the man had a natural gift that went way beyond his academic learning, along with a compassion that made him a favourite with both patients and clients.
The surgery was booked for a Sunday, as it was likely that Biddy would have the place to herself. She walked in on a lead with Karen, looking almost as apprehensive as I felt. After Karen had left, I sat with her in a darkened room, waiting for the sedative to take effect – noting how her heart rate slowed as the medication slowly took effect, almost mirroring the increase in my own!
‘Come on now, Bill, give us a hand here,’ I muttered under my breath, imploring the help of my long-departed colleague as I drew up a carefully measured dose of anaesthetic. The anaesthetic induction which I had devised after consultation with other vets and what was termed as ‘anecdotal evidence’ from the drug companies was remarkably smooth so before long, with Biddy intubated, I was engrossed in the surprisingly standard-looking abdomen, surgically prepped under the green operating drapes. As I focused on packing around the bladder with sterile surgical swabs before incising into the thickened and inflamed looking wall, making an incision big enough to remove the stones, I almost forgot about the unusual odour, and the giveaway bushy tail hanging down from under the heated surgical bed. The three stones were easy to locate and by the time I was placing the final skin incisions, while Biddy’s heart rate and respiration rate remained stable, mine had almost returned to normal.
Having administered appropriate pain relief and cut off the gaseous anaesthetic supply leaving Biddy inhaling a supply of pure oxygen, within minutes, she was sitting up, eye-balling me and apparently totally unfazed by her experience. As kidney and bladder stones can often be prevented by dietary change, she was discharged later that evening on a commercial prescription diet, but as she had made it to almost eight years of age by the time of her surgery, we did agree to make a concession so that evening she was tucked up, back in her usual den with her Sunday night treat of ray wings from the local chipper!