In fact, it now struck me, I was only just getting started.
1
ARMADILLO
‘Armadillos make affectionate pets, if you need affection that much.’
Will Cuppy
The animal kingdom is vast and incredible. I personally think it’s impossible not to watch nature documentaries without being filled with awe and amazement at the array of different types of animals with whom we are privileged to share this planet.
It is a common assumption that, as a veterinary surgeon, I will automatically know about, and be able to treat, any animal that finds itself on the consulting-room table, or behind a stable door. So it often comes as a shock and disappointment to others when I confess that I don’t immediately know, say, the common ailments of Triturus cristatus (the great crested newt). That said, I still love that assumption, and I have tried my hardest to fulfil it, but sadly, even over a five-year degree course, there are several species that just don’t make the cut. The maned wolf, the giant panda, the snow leopard and the pufferfish, to name but a few.
So how does the veterinary curriculum work? Well, there are six main species we study in great depth at veterinary school, and they are all mammals: the horse, the cow, the pig, the sheep, the dog and the cat. A few weeks’ teaching is given over to ‘small furries’ (rabbits, hamsters, guinea pigs and the like), with a couple of days allocated to reptiles and birds, and maybe the odd hour to amphibians and fish. This may seem woefully inadequate, particularly if you are a lover of one of the many species that doesn’t feature prominently in the veterinary curriculum, but let’s think about this for a minute and do some maths. At a conservative estimate there are 8.7 million different species on the planet, so in a typical degree course we would have precisely 18 seconds per species to learn everything there is to know about their anatomy, physiology, behaviour, therapeutic pharmacology, medicine, surgery, dentistry, endocrinology, oncology, and reproduction. Oh, and that would be studying twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for the entire five years, and with no time to prepare for the biggest part of the job, namely the three Cs of human interactions: care, compassion and counselling. So unfortunately, but I hope understandably, there have to be one or two omissions.
For some, gaining an MRCVS qualification is just the first step in a lifetime’s journey of studying these more exotic animals, and for the rest of us these specialists become the go-to-gurus. For those in general practice there are several skills we have to learn to mitigate this knowledge deficit. Firstly there is the principle of animal comparisons. For example, to most intents and purposes, you can treat a rabbit as if it were a miniature horse: they are both hindgut fermenters, doing most of their digestion in their caecum, and have hypsodont teeth meaning that their teeth continually grow. Alpacas and llamas are both ruminants like cattle and sheep, and ferrets share many characteristics with dogs. Then there is the idea of lateral thinking. If I am treating a dog with diarrhoea, who has involuntarily redecorated his owner’s sitting room, I am faced with a series of questions. What has caused it? What body systems are involved? What are the animal’s immediate and long-term requirements? Is it dehydrated, requiring fluid therapy? Does it have a bacterial infection, necessitating antibiotics? Does it have a parasitic burden and require deworming? Or has he just gorged on the family’s Sunday lunch? If I can solve the puzzle for a dog, why can’t I solve it for a meerkat, reindeer or wallaby? And, of course, if all this fails, there’s always Google …
Yes, I confess that in my ten-year career I may have referred to Google one or two or several hundred times. I remember the first occasion. I was a couple of months qualified and my boss, Simon, asked me to do a home visit to inject a client’s private collection of green tree pythons. Several of them had gone down with a respiratory infection caused by mycoplasma and, given the value of such a collection, Simon had suggested treating them all. I was game and eager for anything. Besides, it was my boss’s request, so I did not feel I could refuse. The only problem as I saw it was that I had never even heard of a green tree python before, let alone known anything about them. And as the ‘newbie’, I would need to gain the client’s trust as well as fending off a barrage of questions over the hour it would take to treat every one of his ten snakes. I did not want to appear a complete ignoramus, of course, and so knowing that attack is often the best form of defence, I thought if I could drop in a few useful facts early on, I might just gain his confidence and respect enough to transform this daunting visit into a more manageable and interesting experience. So to Google I went. I discovered that Morelia viridis is found in or near the rainforests of New Guinea, the Indonesian Islands and Cape York Peninsula in Australia, thus requiring a hot humid environment. As its name suggests, it lives mainly in trees, and feeds on small rodents and reptiles. They require a certain expertize to keep in captivity, but if conditions are right then they’ll thrive. Armed with this knowledge and feeling a bit more confident, I set off.
The owner greeted me suspiciously, clearly assessing my credentials as a veterinary surgeon to the herpetoculture community. I smiled warmly as I introduced myself, trying to disguise my trepidation. I was going to have to work hard to earn his trust, I could see, but I wasn’t surprised: a collection as extensive as his was worth several thousand pounds, so this was a serious hobby. He took me through the house to a purpose-built reptile house in the garden. It was an impressive set-up. The heat and humidity hit me instantly and I felt like I had just stepped into the Amazon Jungle. There were half a dozen vivariums in a ‘U’ shape against the three walls, all just a mass of green arboreal foliage camouflaging the occupants within. Next to each glass tank was a digital monitor displaying its temperature and humidity. I’d only ever seen such a professional set-up in a public reptile house before, and I realized this guy definitely knew what he was doing. I felt way out of my depth, but tried to compose myself. After all, all I had to do was inject them, and I had done that before. But this was someone from whom I could learn a lot, so I had to pitch it just right. He had to feel confident and comfortable with my professional ability, and able to relax enough to start talking about his passion, rather than being guarded and protective over his babies. I knew I had a limited window of opportunity to make an impression, and this was it.
‘The humidity really hits you when you walk in,’ I began, ‘we could actually be in a New Guinea or Indonesian rainforest.’ It wasn’t my best one-liner ever. It was a start, but I needed to follow it up.
‘They can be pretty difficult to keep in captivity, replicating their natural arboreal environment, but I have to say this is the most impressive set-up I’ve ever seen.’ The compliment paid off; I could sense him start to relax. Maybe one more would do it. I wandered over to one of the vivariums and peered in. The camouflage was incredible and it took me a moment to see the occupant. Saddling one of the branches in three coiled loops, her head resting in the middle, was a stunning lime-green snake with flecks of white across the whole of its body. I’d seen pictures on Google, but in real life they were truly incredible.
‘I love the unique way they saddle a branch … They really are so beautiful.’
That final comment was enough to engage him, and his guard went down. It was as though I knew the secret handshake to the club. I was in! As we proceeded with the task in hand, he started telling me about each snake individually as I injected it. The job was quickly done, but with plenty more serpentine knowledge to share, and a captive audience to share it with, he offered me a cup of tea. Fascinated with what I was learning and relieved that the visit had gone so well, I happily accepted. An hour later I finally left and the warmth with which he bid me farewell felt like a lifelong friendship. As I walked down the drive to my car, I allowed myself a smile of satisfaction. From then on, whenever he rang the practice he always requested ‘the veterinary herpetologist’.