VETS Part I

Bloggiana’s horse Nag has injured itself rather badly and Bloggiana is away and I am dithering about whether or not to call a vet. The thing is, I say to myself, to weigh up who would benefit most from the £500 the callout will undoubtedly cost: Bloggiana (if I don’t call out the vet), the vet (if I do) or Nag (if I do or I don’t). As I spell out these options, I try and keep the tourniquet in place but the blood does seem to be going everywhere. I should call a vet. On the other hand, maybe I should not call a vet. Bloggiana Hates vets.

In order perhaps to understand the essence of Bloggiana’s antipathy for vets, I should tell you that the old girl at least in this matter comes pretty much from the traditional school. In her day if a dog cut its paw, it was the inconvenience to the carpet that took primary consideration. The idea of vaccinating a cat was largely mistaken for an April Fool’s joke. And horses were NEVER given washed carrots.

Today of course, Bloggiana is wont to pronounce, all that has changed. Horses, for example, are micromanaged to within an inch of their hapless equine lives. Tails are washed with Salon Professional Shampoo. Eyes are wiped with hand-picked-Okavango-Delta-kernel-of-macadaemia-nut oil. Feet are smeared with eco-polish, saddlecloths come in lilac and few animals are allowed to lie down at night without being hock-deep in some highly rarefied bedding that probably costs a great deal more than feathers.

Next it will be compulsory for all horses to have heat and light (more than I get, notes Bloggiana) and they won’t really be allowed to go outside. And when you buy a new one, you will be given a manual on how to look out for its emotional welfare. And all this, says Bloggiana, (with a passion not least fuelled by her loathing of lilac), is down to VETS.

Several things always true about horse-vets, she thunders, (her equi-eyes lit up like a pair of red rosettes). His is always the largest four by four in the livery yard. His bill (with the possible exception of the divorce lawyer’s) is invariably the largest in the in-tray. And, she goes on, (by now snorting like a Sheikh Makhtoum-owned top-of-the-range thoroughbred filly), his capacity for altering the course of nature is virtually nil. Horses are too large to be x-rayed (exception: their legs), too difficult to operate on (exception: their legs) and so badly designed that they almost invariably don’t recover anyway (their legs not excepted).

And while the vet may have over the years improved on his diagnosis skills, the treatments at his disposal have not. It seems to me, Bloggiana rants on, (wind under her tail, crisp galloping turf beneath her feet), that your average vet has three prescription options. Option 1 is painkillers, Option 2 is antibiotics. Option 3 is generally the most effective but only really works if you are prepared to accept being told to do nothing at all. Option 3 is God.

By now Nag’s injury has showered my person with a layer of something distinctly blood-like. The patient seems to be swaying somewhat, I can’t really get the tourniquet to stay up and I am genuinely anxious that soon the horse may be an empty carcass on the floor. Should I call the vet? Should I not? As tremulous spare hand reaches for mobile telephone, I suddenly hear Bloggiana once more ranting across the airwaves.

And, she says, And (my capital) if you think that’s all I have to say on the matter, wait, she says, wait till I tell you what I think about Rolf Harris…

I press harder on the spurting artery and pray to Option 3 I am doing the right thing.

To be continued