Attending farm animal emergencies, like a cow with staggers or a lambing sheep, is often, in veterinary parlance, referred to as ‘fire brigade work’. Some in the veterinary world see this as old-fashioned and the modern protagonists of the profession regard ‘herd health’ as the way forwards. Veterinary surgeons wielding laptops rather than stethoscopes should have advisory meetings with farmers to discuss nutrition and vaccination, so emergencies do not occur.
In theory this is a great idea, but for small farms like those belonging to Wilf or Brian, providing differential feeding strategies for cows at different stages of their lactation is completely unfeasible. Most of our farmers already use pneumonia vaccination regimes to good effect, so my early forays into the world of ‘herd health planning’ largely fell on deaf ears. Most of my clients were not convinced and traditional fire brigade work still remains a big part of our daily work.
One visit, not long after I had become a partner at Skeldale, turned out to be more of a ‘fire brigade’ job than expected.
Harward and David were elderly brothers who ran a small dairy herd on a farm called Village Farm, just outside Thirsk on the way to York. They were both short men and were from the generation of farmers who were always immaculately dressed, wearing a jacket and tie underneath the perennial flat cap. Or rather, Harward’s outfits were always topped by a flat cap, as he was the brother who oversaw the outside work. His brother David was in charge of domestic duties – cleaning, washing, cooking, making cups of tea and organizing the paperwork for the farm. It was a curious arrangement.
Our work here was the typical stuff of a small dairy herd: TB testing, cases of mastitis, milk fevers and the odd calving. But the most regular job of all, as it was on many farms like this, was to visit every three weeks to disbud a handful of calves. Calves grow small rubbery buds that will develop into large horns by the time the animal reaches adulthood. Horns are a nuisance because they can easily get knocked and damaged when cows are feeding or going into the milking parlour. More importantly, a cow with horns uses them to bully the other cows, by prodding them in the side. This can cause all sorts of injuries, so it is good practice to remove them when the animals are little calves of about six weeks old, when the job is simpler and less traumatic.
It is a simple enough job. Local anaesthetic is injected into a groove near the horn, where it numbs the nerve that supplies the horn and the top of the head. It takes about ten minutes to take effect and lasts for a few hours, so each calf is numbed first, then we go back round and burn off the horn buds, one calf at a time.
The burning is done using a gas-powered metal burner, with heat coming out of the end, a bit like old-fashioned curling tongs, although with bigger flames. The burner is lit soon after arrival at the farm, so it gets a chance to heat up to the right temperature – it doesn’t work very well if it isn’t hot enough.
On this particular day, Sue, one of the best vets that I have ever worked with, had put her initials next to the visit to disbud calves at Village Farm and she was there with characteristic promptness and enthusiasm. The brothers liked Sue. She was a whirling dervish of energy and could always put a spring in the step of an elderly farmer. The fact that she could not involve herself with their favourite topic of discussion – cricket – was only a minor inconvenience, and Sue was always welcome. They were happy to miss out on this discussion when Sue burst onto their farm.
Everything was normal at the beginning and the burner was lit up after the usual search for matches. To avoid it being kicked over by the calves, Sue had positioned the burner in the next pen, where it was also out of the draught coming down the passage. Each one of the calves was injected and the conversation was in full flow.
Suddenly the mood changed, as smoke appeared from the neighbouring pen and it became evident that something was on fire. It was in the days before mobile phones, so David rushed into the house to call the fire brigade and immediately Sue and Harward stopped what they were doing to tackle the fire.
The burner had set fire to the straw and the wooden feed trough was alight, too. With luck, Sue managed to grab the burner and pull it out of the blaze, turn it off and sling it into the grass outside the Dutch barn. Harward, normally cool and calm under the pressure of a sick cow or a difficult calving, panicked and ran off in the opposite direction, presumably looking for water.
By the time he returned with a half-full bucket, the flames were near the wooden roof struts and disaster was close at hand. Half a bucket of water didn’t achieve very much and Harward ran off again to get more, shouting at the top of his voice.
Luckily, on this particular morning the fire brigade in Thirsk was not very busy. Sirens were heard, and blue lights soon appeared outside the farm. The firemen unravelled their hosepipes just as flames were lapping the top of the calf pen. Disaster had been averted.
After cups of tea all round, two of them fortified with brandy, the firemen were on their way and the rest of the job was completed.
Back at the practice, there was some concern. The senior partner was blustering around.
‘Where’s Sue got to? She’s been gone all morning and she only had half a dozen calves to disbud! She needs to get back here and finish off the ops list! What’s taking her so long?’
Little did we know what had happened until Sue reappeared, tousled and smoky. She related the story, finishing by saying pitifully, ‘Julian, I was absolutely gutted.’
I expected her to explain how mortified she had been to inflict such devastation on a small farm and how close to disaster it had been, but no.
‘I was out on call early this morning and I then found myself surrounded by all these lovely firemen and I hadn’t even had chance to put my make-up on!’