would be like in the morning because Raun told me he had heard the captain say there was a real storm blowing up.
“No matter,” the big sailor said cheerfully. “You come and have a beer with me.”
“Okay, thanks,” I replied, and we went together to the crew’s mess room. We sat down, he gave me a “Camels” cigarette and as we talked I looked around at the other members of the crew. Strangely, though the officers were dark, these were all of a type; thick yellow hair, fine physiques, tremendous men. All of them were cheerful and polite.
Raun told me about himself in his limited English. He is twenty-eight, has been at sea for fourteen years and is married, with two young children. He never stopped smiling, except at the end when he leaned across the table and tapped me on the chest.
“Doctor, on my last voyage we take two hundred cattles from Dublin to Lübeck. When we get to Lübeck, five cattles dead.”
I whistled. “That’s nasty. Didn’t they have a vet with them?”
“No, no.” His battered face was very serious. “No doctor for the cattles. Is good that you are here for the sheeps.”
It made me think. Maybe I really was going to earn my keep.
I thanked him, said goodnight to everybody and made my way back to my quarters. Just outside my cabin is a door that opens onto a small platform on the stern of the ship. I like to go out there for a lungful of the good air before going to bed. Tonight, in the roaring wind, I could see only the creamy wash from the ship’s propellors disappearing into the surrounding blackness. Above, there were a million stars, and I could pick out the plough and the pole star plainly. I didn’t have to be an expert navigator to find our course. We are heading dead east.
I am finding it difficult to write my log tonight because the cabin keeps tilting steeply. I feel the captain is going to be right about the storm.
Chapter
10
T O ANY CONSCIENTIOUS VETERINARY surgeon, killing a patient is a terrible thought. I am not talking about euthanasia, which is so often merciful, but of inadvertently killing when attempting to cure.
This has probably happened to many of us, and I think it happened to me. I can never be sure, but the memory still haunts me.
It all started when a young representative from a pharmaceutical company called at the surgery and started to talk about a wonderful new treatment for foul of the foot in cattle.
This condition was a headache in those early days. Judging by its name, it had been going on for centuries, and it happened when the interdigital space between the cleats of the cloven-footed bovine was invaded by the organism Fusiformis necrophorus, usually through some small wound or abrasion.
This resulted in the actual death of an area of tissue in the region along with swelling of the foot and extreme lameness. A good cow could lose condition at an alarming rate due simply to the pain. The medieval-sounding name came from the fact that the dead tissue gave off a particularly offensive smell.
The treatment we used to employ ranged from the tedious to the heroic. Cows’ hind feet were never meant to be lifted up, and I was always relieved when it was a forefoot that was affected. With hind feet, even applying antiseptics was a chore. If that didn’t work, we bandaged on pads of cotton wool impregnated with caustics like copper sulphate, and a very popular treatment among the farmers was dressing the area with Stockholm tar and salt—a messy and unpleasant business with the feet whistling round the head of the operator.
So I couldn’t believe it when the representative told me that an injection of M & B 693 into the vein would rapidly clear up the condition.
I actually laughed at the young man. “I know you chaps have to make a living, but this sounds like one of your tallest stories.”
“It works, I tell you,” he said. “It has been well tested, and I promise you it really does the trick.”
“And you don’t have to touch
“No matter,” the big sailor said cheerfully. “You come and have a beer with me.”
“Okay, thanks,” I replied, and we went together to the crew’s mess room. We sat down, he gave me a “Camels” cigarette and as we talked I looked around at the other members of the crew. Strangely, though the officers were dark, these were all of a type; thick yellow hair, fine physiques, tremendous men. All of them were cheerful and polite.
Raun told me about himself in his limited English. He is twenty-eight, has been at sea for fourteen years and is married, with two young children. He never stopped smiling, except at the end when he leaned across the table and tapped me on the chest.
“Doctor, on my last voyage we take two hundred cattles from Dublin to Lübeck. When we get to Lübeck, five cattles dead.”
I whistled. “That’s nasty. Didn’t they have a vet with them?”
“No, no.” His battered face was very serious. “No doctor for the cattles. Is good that you are here for the sheeps.”
It made me think. Maybe I really was going to earn my keep.
I thanked him, said goodnight to everybody and made my way back to my quarters. Just outside my cabin is a door that opens onto a small platform on the stern of the ship. I like to go out there for a lungful of the good air before going to bed. Tonight, in the roaring wind, I could see only the creamy wash from the ship’s propellors disappearing into the surrounding blackness. Above, there were a million stars, and I could pick out the plough and the pole star plainly. I didn’t have to be an expert navigator to find our course. We are heading dead east.
I am finding it difficult to write my log tonight because the cabin keeps tilting steeply. I feel the captain is going to be right about the storm.
Chapter
10
T O ANY CONSCIENTIOUS VETERINARY surgeon, killing a patient is a terrible thought. I am not talking about euthanasia, which is so often merciful, but of inadvertently killing when attempting to cure.
This has probably happened to many of us, and I think it happened to me. I can never be sure, but the memory still haunts me.
It all started when a young representative from a pharmaceutical company called at the surgery and started to talk about a wonderful new treatment for foul of the foot in cattle.
This condition was a headache in those early days. Judging by its name, it had been going on for centuries, and it happened when the interdigital space between the cleats of the cloven-footed bovine was invaded by the organism Fusiformis necrophorus, usually through some small wound or abrasion.
This resulted in the actual death of an area of tissue in the region along with swelling of the foot and extreme lameness. A good cow could lose condition at an alarming rate due simply to the pain. The medieval-sounding name came from the fact that the dead tissue gave off a particularly offensive smell.
The treatment we used to employ ranged from the tedious to the heroic. Cows’ hind feet were never meant to be lifted up, and I was always relieved when it was a forefoot that was affected. With hind feet, even applying antiseptics was a chore. If that didn’t work, we bandaged on pads of cotton wool impregnated with caustics like copper sulphate, and a very popular treatment among the farmers was dressing the area with Stockholm tar and salt—a messy and unpleasant business with the feet whistling round the head of the operator.
So I couldn’t believe it when the representative told me that an injection of M & B 693 into the vein would rapidly clear up the condition.
I actually laughed at the young man. “I know you chaps have to make a living, but this sounds like one of your tallest stories.”
“It works, I tell you,” he said. “It has been well tested, and I promise you it really does the trick.”
“And you don’t have to touch
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