A Wander in Vetland Read online

  A Wander in Vetland

  by

  John Hicks

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 John Hicks

  Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase a copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Discover another title by John Hicks - also available at Smashwords.com:

  Pizzles in Paradise: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/139545

  Table of Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1 – Kereopa and Emma Lanfear’s Husband

  Chapter 2 – The Roots of Prejudice

  Chapter 3 – Feckless in Ireland

  Chapter 4 – St. Blaise and the Art of Veterinary Science

  Chapter 5 – Equus Dissimile Est

  Chapter 6 – King Alfred and the Pied Piper of Watling Street

  Chapter 7 – Krebs and Quills

  Chapter 8 – Intolerable Urethral Intrusions

  Chapter 9 – Southland and New Beginnings

  Chapter 10 – Fertility in Beast and Man

  Chapter 11 – Naughtie Herbs

  Chapter 12 – An Ancient Toxin

  Chapter 13 – The Reluctant Immigrant

  Chapter 14 – Warbles, Noah and the Milkshake Mixer

  Chapter 15 – Holes in the Head: Windows to the Soul

  Chapter 16 – Frozen Fellsides, Pregnant Distrust and Rough Justice

  Chapter 17 – Death and Dignity

  Chapter 18 – Prussic Acid, Polecats, Possums and Tits

  Chapter 19 – Mutation or Mutilation

  Chapter 20 – Killing Fields

  Chapter 21 – Music for Cows: Radios for Racing

  Chapter 22 – The Holistic Approach

  Chapter 23 – Foot and Mouth, and the Detritus Gene

  Chapter 24 – Science and Drama

  Chapter 25 – The Seeds of Doubt

  Chapter 26 – Win Some, Lose Some

  Chapter 27 – The Sleep of Life

  Chapter 28 – Cancer – a Catalyst for Change

  Chapter 29 – To Travel Hopefully

  Bibliography

  For my veterinary colleagues: in memory of “Herriotism” and the noble era of mixed rural practice.

  Acknowledgements

  This book could never have been written had I not enjoyed such a stimulating time as a farm vet in Southland, New Zealand. To all the players: my veterinary colleagues and staff, the local farmers and pet owners – even those who never knew they participated, and those who never shall, I would like to express my thanks. It has been fun recalling my days with you.

  More immediately, I am indebted to Conor Quinn and Norman Bilborough for their encouragement and direction with the manuscript. Also to my wife, Viv, and daughters, Emily and Morwenna: all three have assisted with proof reading and suggestions.

  Lastly, I would like to thank Bruce Scott of Regatta Group Publishers for the present cover image. It incorporates Sir John Tenniel’s famous illustration of the Cheshire Cat from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Preface

  “Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice;

  “now I’m opening out like the largest telescope that ever was!...”

  Lewis Carroll, from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Every veterinary practitioner presented with a patient knows that successful treatment depends on an accurate diagnosis. One of the key steps involves extracting a clinical history from the owner: When did the symptoms first appear? What did you notice? How frequently is this recurring? At the same time a subjective assessment has to be made about the reliability of the information received. The owners may not realise the importance of this process; but if you are the vet, it’s up to you to find out. Your patient cannot tell you what happened, but the owner often can. Your patient cannot lie, but his owner sometimes will: he may wish to conceal that “Zac” is acting strangely because he has been fed cannabis cookies; that “Rust” is stiff and sore because of the lead pellets in his back from a careless shot; or omit to mention the stone he threw at “Teak” to stop him barking. A good clinician needs to be a detective. He needs to be curious. It becomes an ingrained habit.

  I confess to a curiosity about the history of medicine and surgery. It is probably driven by the personal gratitude I feel to have lived in an era when medicine has been practised with rationality and humanity. It is matter of lucky timing – by a mere hundred and fifty years or so – that I have evaded the abominable barbarities of the past. I found that the more I dug into the mire of medical history, the more my idle curiosity turned into a grim fascination.

  This interest has led me to link the curiosities I discovered to my experiences in modern veterinary practice. I admit to a certain randomness in this approach, but I lay no claim to balance. To my mind a description of Neolithic trephination techniques sits neatly beside a consideration of more modern methods of drilling holes in skulls; and any account of hemlock poisoning would be incomplete without going back to 399 BC, the year of Socrates’ death. Bladder stones in cats and dogs inevitably invite comparison with Samuel Pepys’ famous affliction; and how could I not avoid straying into the use of goose quills by eunuchs? St. Blaise, is the foremost veterinary saint and his cruel death must surely rate inclusion in any historical study of the veterinary profession.

  We have all been shaped by history, so I have also included personal curiosities linking members of my family to cannibalism and the murder of a missionary in New Zealand, and to the St Bartholomew Massacre in France.

  But there is an inbuilt distortion: history compresses time. Thousands of years can be dispensed in a single paragraph; whereas the present is lived in real time. We must compensate for this if we are to learn from history, otherwise we fail to recognise the significance of the changes occurring in our own lifetimes until it is too late: until they, too, have been consigned to history.

  This is certainly true of the veterinary profession, which is presently undergoing a period of dramatic re-adjustment, just as it did a hundred years ago with the demise of the working horse. In an overpopulated world clamouring for food, pastoral farming is moving towards the vast scale and efficiencies we have seen in the pig and poultry industries over the last few decades: factory farming. For this and other reasons farm animal practice, as so lovingly depicted by James Herriot, is disappearing. I feel lucky to have been part of a proud tradition and do not envy today’s farm vets the less colourful future to which they seem destined.

  Unfortunately for the modern teller of veterinary tales, the tough, idiosyncratic characters on whom James Herriot drew so deeply, are a vanishing breed. It is no longer enough for farmers to be honest toilers. They are, increasingly, well-educated businessmen. Their vets have changed with them. I have tried to give some realistic perspectives of life as a vet during my times, but a lot of what I have written is an indulgence: a concentration of the truly remarkable or amusing incidents that crop up all too rarely in a profession that increasingly consigns its participants to desk work and cerebral pursuits.

  A Wander in Vetland was compiled during a period of major change in my life. I was recovering from some life-changing adventures with cancer, and had recently retired from the profession that had given me many enjoyable years. This book is a tribute to those years, and to the people with whom I shared a working life full of challenges, much laughter, and not a few trials.

  I shall begin in the middle. 18
65 seems as good a time as any in which to start my wander. It was the year that Lewis Carroll wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but on the other side of the world something much more sinister was going on...

  Chapter One

  Kereopa and Emma Lanfear’s Husband

  And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot. Deuteronomy 19:21

  When Viv and I decided I should accept a veterinary position in New Zealand, some of my fellow students were aghast. One of the more image conscious ones – he made a point of driving around with a riding hat and crop prominently displayed on the rear shelf of his car – was aghast. “You can’t be serious! The women over there still run around in print frocks.” Another wag added that the Maoris wore grass skirts and still practised cannibalism. His information was about 140 years out of date but, if anything, it did more to pique our curiosity than to deter us in our adventure. However, in a strange way, he was not as far off the mark as might be imagined. When I married Vivien Lanfear I had no knowledge of any New Zealand ghosts in her past; neither had she. It wasn’t until many years later that Viv’s mother, while researching family history, discovered the Lanfears’ tenuous link to nineteenth century New Zealand.

  ~

  Emma Volkner (née Martha Emma Lanfear), was safely in Auckland while Kereopa te Rau – ignoble savage – was choking on her husband’s eyes. Carl Volkner’s death was one among many in the upheavals of the young colony during the New Zealand Wars, but its manner evokes such fearsome imagery that cautious modern historians, after the elapse of nearly 150 years, avoid the details – perhaps for fear of stirring racial prejudices.

  Until his death Volkner had lived for four years as a missionary among the Maori at Opotiki, on the East Coast of the North Island. He was working for the Church Missionary Society under the redoubtable Bishop Selwyn. Unfortunately, it was also suspected by some Maori that Volkner was a government spy.

  In February 1865 the Hauhaus, a breakaway group of Pai Marire, descended on Volkner’s settlement at Opotiki. Pai Marire, was a new, Maori version of Christianity. Literally translated its name means “The Good and the Peaceful”. The Hauhaus were radicals within it, and they were anything but good or peaceful.

  Volkner and his wife were in Auckland at the time of the raid, obtaining medicines for a typhoid epidemic at the mission. While there, Volkner received a letter from the rebels ordering him not to return to Opotiki. Victorian missionaries were made of stern stuff and he could not be dissuaded from carrying out what he saw as his duty. Leaving Emma in Auckland for safety, he returned to his mission on 1st March to find it ransacked, and the contents of his house sold. He was held captive by the Hauhaus and condemned to death.

  In doing this Kereopa, the leader of the rebels, was disobeying the orders of Te Ua, his own leader. But Kereopa was headstrong and carried away by the malign influence he now wielded over his followers, and those of Volkner’s parishioners whom he had managed to convert.

  On the 2nd March 1865, Volkner was marched into his church by an armed guard. Kereopa stripped him of his coat and waistcoat and dressed in them himself. He then ordered the execution. Volkner was led outside and, after kneeling to pray and saying farewell to some of his parishioners, he was hung from a large willow tree.

  After being hauled up and down, shot at a few times and left hanging for about an hour, his body was lowered and decapitated with an axe. Kereopa then took the communion chalice from the church vestry and filled it with blood – “as it spouted forth” – according to one account. [An over-imaginative exaggeration, unless Volkner were still alive: blood only spouts when the heart is pumping.] Kereopa then took the chalice and Volkner’s head and led his people back into the church.

  What follows is not for the squeamish. Even those of us who were fed a steady diet of Grimm’s fairy tales in our childhoods may not be prepared for the bit about the eyes. Some have phobias about eyes as acute as any about spiders or snakes. I was always surprised when I encountered such people in my veterinary career: they would no more contemplate putting drops into eyes of their pet dog, than you or I would volunteer to clean the teeth of a crocodile.

  Kereopa did not share these fears. He stood on the pulpit and, placing the head on the lectern he gouged out both eyes, supposedly with his fingers. He held up an eye in each hand between finger and thumb and, proclaiming that one was the parliament of England, and the other the law of New Zealand, he swallowed them, one after the other. The second eye, purportedly, stuck in his throat and he “called” [surely beckoned] for a drink of water to help him swallow it. At this stage Volkner’s head dropped to the floor and Kereopa picked it up, re-setting the eyeless, bloody head in front of him on the lectern.

  The written accounts of the day summon to mind a scene of demonic savagery: Kereopa, in Volkner’s long black coat, hypnotically steering his congregation of fearful converts towards the cannibalism of their recent pasts.

  The communion chalice was passed around. Those who drank the blood were persuaded that they would obtain knowledge of the English tongue and be able to work miracles. This would not have been an alien concept to them: by eating a vanquished enemy you absorbed his mana. Cannibalism was widely practised by Maori in the aftermath of inter-tribal warfare until well into the 1830s. So it is not surprising that although many were astounded by the killing of a missionary who had been with them for so long, and some tried to prevent it; they were powerless before Kereopa and his armed men, and feared his god and his magic incantations.

  While Kereopa may have stirred the primal sensibilities of some of his people, he was politically inept. The outrage he caused by this incident, and another murder that he committed soon afterwards, was used by the government and ministers to make successful representations to the Secretary of State to retain Imperial troops in New Zealand. He was captured and executed in 1872. Opotiki was declared a military settlement and units of Armed Constabulary were stationed there for several years.

  Emma’s father, and Viv’s ancestor, the Reverend William Lanfear of the village of Christian Malford in Wiltshire, died in 1875. Twelve thousand miles separated him from the awful tragedy of his son-in-law’s death and many months must have elapsed before he heard from his daughter.

  Emma had married late, at the age of forty-four. After eleven years of marriage to Carl Volkner there were no children. Her genteel early upbringing as the daughter of a country vicar would have borne many similarities to that of another much more famous vicar’s daughter: Jane Austen. The two were raised in the same corner of England and only a few years separated them, so the genteel lifestyles depicted in Jane Austen’s peerless prose could be a useful guide to the life Emma Lanfear may have known. It is hard to imagine how this would have equipped her for her later life. Was she an adventurous woman to whom life in the colonies presented an irresistible opportunity? Or was she reluctantly drawn by her love for a man, of undoubted principle and religious conviction, into this horrific situation?

  My research leads me to believe that neither of these views is correct. I had envisioned a bereft fifty-five year old widow alone in a small town at the furthest extremity of civilisation, with no emotional support and struggling to cope with the ghastly news as best she could. But in this view I was guilty of ignoring the emotional conditioning, which made these nineteenth century missionaries what they were. Emma, it seems, was imbued with more than enough faith to guide her through her loss. The New Zealand Church Gazette records that the “crushing blow”, broken to her by Bishop Selwyn, was borne with “meek submission” and that she prayed for her husband’s murderers. It claimed that she found comfort in the thought that “the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church”. Another account (Church and People) records that she received the news “with true Christian courage, saying only, ‘So he has won the crown’”.

  In January 1866 Emma Lanfear returned to England and made her home with her brother and his
family, “finding true consolation in her widowed life by living only for others”. She died on 27th January 1878. According to her sisters-in-law her last intelligible words were “I am almost come home” and, finally “I know that I am perfect in Christ, nothing can avail me, and I have perfect peace in Him”. She then sank back on her pillow and died. “Her death was like her life, full of light and peace.” No doubt she lies at rest in some corner of a country churchyard, in the land of her birth.

  Carl Volkner’s headless body was buried behind the church that he built at Opotiki, soon to be sanctified as the Church of St. Stephen the Martyr. When the church was extended in 1910 his grave came within the Sanctuary. His head suffered a different fate. It was smoked for preservation and carried off for use in Hauhau rituals. Its final resting place is not known.

  ~

  Kereopa’s performance is memorable for all the wrong reasons. The tissues binding the eye into its socket are tough. Gouging out Volkner’s eyes bare-handedly was no mean feat. It would have been a gruesome struggle, with one hand gripping the awkward and slippery head, while the fingernails of the other tore through the conjunctival membranes to reach behind the eyeball. Perhaps, given the setting, there has been a bit of subliminal scriptural interpolation here: …And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee… There: it’s easy! These days women pluck their eyebrows, but obviously, in biblical times, people were more inclined to go the whole hog.

  We can also deduce that Kereopa must have had a very big mouth. The visible part of the eye is only a fraction of the surface of the eyeball. In fact, the human eye has a diameter of roughly four centimetres, which is only marginally less than that of a golf ball. If you imagined Kereopa popping these eyes into his mouth – like we, as children, popped in those old fashioned sweets we knew as “gobstoppers” – and swallowing them in one gulp, think again. The sclera, the white covering of the eyeball, is a very tough and elastic tissue. These eyes would have required chewing before swallowing: the moment when grisly, acquires teeth and becomes gristly. So although the eyewitness descriptions lead readers to imagine a theatrical “pop and swallow”; the reality would have been even more gruesome. No wonder he called for a glass of water.