SWAN LAKE Julian Norton
As describes in his latest casebook, an injured swan needs immediate treatment. But first the vet must catch the patient…
nity was clearly agitated about her swan. She lived in a quintessentially Yorkshire village and had a large pond at the bottom of her garden. In this pond, or rather, on this pond, lived a pair of swans. They were not the benign, domesticated, black variety with red beaks and a gentle disposition, but the large, wild, white versions with huge wings and a ferocious determination to avoid human interference.
I arranged to visit the swan later in the week, between afternoon and evening surgeries. I found the stone-built country house without problems. It had a circular pebbled area at the top of the drive, which meant I could swoop my car round to point back down towards the gate. This was a habit I had developed over the years. It was a tip passed down to me by a vet called Andy with whom I had seen practise in Skipton as a student. He, in turn, had been given the advice by his one-time boss Donald Sinclair, aka Siegfried Farnon of All Creatures Great and Small fame, during his time spent working at the practice in Thirsk.
“Always leave your car ready for a quick getaway!” were the words of wisdom. I think the idea was that, in the event of a disaster on the farm, the hapless vet could escape post-haste and avoid the ignominy of reversing over the neatly kept lawn, the flowerbed or even the cat. It is a tip that I continue to pass on to vet students to this day, although mainly for the pragmatic purpose of saving time. It is surprising how often the farmer (or in this case swan owner) isn’t ready for you when you arrive. A bit of carmanoeuvring gives them time to catch the patient, sort out a bucket of warm water and put their boots on, without the vet hopping from foot to foot getting agitated that they have five more calls to fit in before evening surgery. Or not…
“It’s my lovely swan,” Unity explained. “He’s gone lame. It’s fine, of course, when he is in the water, but on land he’s not good. The problem is – well, he’s not so easy to catch, you see. I’ve enlisted the help of my neighbour, Brian.”
So our patient had not been caught and snuggled up in a shed or a stable as I had dared to hope. “Hello,” called Brian cheerfully, waving to me as he removed his coat. “I think we’ll be able to catch him in this coat.”
“Okay, that sounds possible,” I said, trying to hide my pessimism. “So where is the patient?” I asked, hoping it would, at least, have been penned in a confined area. “He’s on the lake,” Brian explained, without a hint of the despair that had started
to creep around the edges of my mind. “Well, on the island in the middle of the lake, actually!”
“Okay,” I said carefully. “So how will we get him? Can we tempt him with food, or somehow persuade him to the shore?” “I’ll get in this boat,” Brian declared, “and row out to the island and catch him there, then bring him to land.” He seemed to have an unswerving confidence. I planted my hands on my hips as I stood on the bank and watched the rescue attempt, with as much incredulity as frustration. It was surely never going to work, partly because, even if he managed to grab the swan, Brian would never be able to keep it confined in his rowing boat as he rowed back. Needless to say, the sight of a large man rowing in a zigzag fashion towards him was enough to eject the patient from the island and onto the water. He calmly slid into the now dark lake and swam serenely to the shore, where he stood quietly next to his mate.
Brian arrived back several minutes later. He was much less serene, but even more determined to catch the swan. He leapt out of the boat and rushed at the bird, astonishingly managing to chuck his coat over it and pin him to the ground. Success – although the capture had taken us way past dusk and now it was dark, so I examined the bird’s troublesome foot with the help of a torch. Luckily, even in the gloom the problem was easy to identify. There was a huge abscess between the toes of the handsome bird, as big as a conker, filling the webbed area completely. It looked painful and distended and needed to be lanced. I gathered some equipment from my car – some local anaesthetic (in case I needed to make a large incision), a widebored needle, some surgical-spirit-soaked cotton wool and a scalpel. After cleaning the area thoroughly with the cotton wool, I pushed the needle into the abscess and squeezed gently.
Nothing appeared. I was disappointed; I had expected a geyser of pus to explode from the needle. This pus was solid – inspissated. I instilled some local anaesthetic and made a bigger hole with the scalpel. Sure enough, with some more squeezing, solid lumps of yellow, putty-like, cheesy matter started to appear through my incision. The relief that the swan must have felt straightaway was very gratifying for everyone concerned. The swan rescue had, against all the odds, been a success.
The Next Chapter
A Yorkshire Vet: