In their study of Pathology, they had been introduced to diseases like tuberculosis, liver-fluke, anthrax and ‘wooden tongue’ as well as micro-organisms with imposing names such as Fasciola hepatica, Corynebacterium pyogenes, Dictyocaulus viviparus, Fusiformis necrophorusand many others. Now they were learning how to combat these adversaries and it was a hard but fascinating challenge. When studying Medicine and Surgery, the students had to master text books on these subjects – assimilating the knowledge from such revered tomes as Udall’s Practice of Veterinary Medicine, Dollar’s Veterinary Surgery, and Caulton Reeke’s Colics in the Horse –but the practical side of their education had to be learned outside the college. The students were assigned to various veterinary practitioners in the Glasgow district, in order for them to acquire some hands-on experience.
A number of these outside vets also lectured at the college. Professor Willie Robb, who taught Medicine and Surgery in the final year, ran a thriving practice in Glasgow, assisted by his son Harry, and was one of the most respected practitioners in the country at the time. Willie Robb, a highly-skilled surgeon, gained a great reputation as a horse specialist, having lived through the great days of the heavy draught horses when the City of Glasgow was full of them. His experience with horses was second to none, and Alf learned a great deal from him.
Another whom he held in great esteem was Bill Weipers, a veterinary surgeon who ran a small animal surgery in the West End of Glasgow. The animal receiving most attention from the teaching institutions in those days was the horse, followed by the cow, pig and sheep, with the smaller animals, dogs and cats, receiving far less consideration. Bill Weipers could see, even during those years of the depression, that the small animal could become a very important part of the future veterinary surgeon’s life. X-Ray machines, microscopes and all the best up-to-date equipment littered the premises of this skilful surgeon, who was performing operations that others only dreamed about. He was a man years ahead of his time and the Glasgow students were incredibly fortunate to operate under his guidance. Bill Weipers later became the principal of the Glasgow Veterinary College, integrating it into the city’s university system in 1949. This industrious and dedicated man, who was to receive a knighthood in recognition of his services to the profession, was one whom Alfred Wight held in the highest regard, not only in his student years but throughout his life as a veterinary surgeon.
Donald Campbell of Rutherglen was another distinguished veterinary surgeon with whom Alf spent some time. He learned much from this go-ahead practitioner, but his fondest memory of him – one that he would never be able to recall without tears of laughter – was at the end of evening surgery when Donald Campbell would telephone his wife, informing her that he was on his way home. An unvarying ritual was performed so often that Alf became almost hysterical in trying not to laugh every time he listened to it.
Donald Campbell had an ancient telephone system by means of which, when the day’s work was over, he would contact his wife by cranking vigorously on a black handle attached to the phone. Having completed several energetic twirls on the handle, he would shout loudly into the mouthpiece, with a piercing and distinctive drawl, ‘Calling the ha-ouse, calling the ha-ouse!’ There would then be a tense pause while Donald waited for a response, followed by a faint ping from the other end and a low chattering noise while he listened intently. Having received the necessary information that he was through to the ha-ouse, he would then inform his wife that he was on his way home. ‘I’ll be na-ow, I’ll be na-ow!’
This set piece, which never varied, put enormous strain upon Alf’s powers of self-control. He enacted the ritual for his friends at the college, which so intrigued Aubrey Melville that he requested a day seeing practice at Donald Campbell’s surgery. At the end of that particular day, Alf and Aubrey were in a state of high tension waiting for the famous telephone ritual. Aubrey was so charged up that the slightest nudge would have been enough to send him over the edge. When Campbell moved over to the black handle, the pressure was really on, and once the cranking began, Aubrey was at breaking point. True to form, Donald’s voice pierced the silence with, ‘Calling the ha-ouse, calling the ha-ouse!’ Aubrey Melville was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared into a nearby cupboard, his head buried deeply into an old curtain. By the time, ‘I’ll be na-ow, I’ll be na-ow!’ came over the airwaves, he was writhing on the floor.
Despite being such an unconscious source of amusement to the students, Donald Campbell was held in high regard. He was a first-class veterinary surgeon and the students gained tremendous experience while under his care.
Alf saw plenty of small animal work with Bill Weipers, while Donald Campbell gave him a taste of life with the large animals as well as the small, but he wanted next to spend some time with a specialist country veterinary surgeon. At this point in his life, he thought that he would probably become purely a small animal veterinary surgeon. Nevertheless, he wanted to get among cows to observe the life of the large animal veterinarian for himself. He had already worked with some cows. Not far from his home in Scotstounhill was a dairy farm run by a man called Mr Stirling, and Alf was a regular visitor there in his final two years at the college. He had the opportunity to observe the cows, milk them by hand, assist during calving and examine any that were ill.
During the vacations in his final two years at the college, he went further afield to gain this experience, first seeing practice at Dumfries in the south-west of Scotland with a veterinary surgeon called Tom Fleming. He soon discovered that life among the large animals was very different from that among the clean and orderly small animal surgeries in Glasgow. This part of Scotland is the home of the Galloway cattle and, although they can be very docile animals if left to get on with their lives, they respond spectacularly to any hint of interference. The veterinary surgeon is often an unwilling participant on these occasions.
Alf and Tom Fleming visited a farm one day to remove an afterbirth from a Galloway cow of uncertain temperament which, miraculously, the farmer had managed to tie up in an old hen-house of dubious construction. On entering the dark little shed, the men received a hostile glare from their patient who further showed her displeasure by savagely switching her tail from side to side, propelling liquid faeces in every direction. The prospect of making any sort of contact with this animal was not an appetising one.
Alf, following Tom Fleming’s generous gesture in allowing him the privilege of removing the afterbirth, soaped his arms in a bucket of water, advanced towards the cow and gave a gentle pull at the mass hanging from her rear end. The following few seconds were lively ones. The cow burst forward with a deafening bellow, and as the chain around her neck sprang open she saw her line of escape. There was a small window in front of her and she charged straight for it. Her head smashed through the opening as she plunged forward, taking one end of the old hen-house with her. The remainder of the ‘building’ collapsed on top of the men as she catapulted away over a large field, her rate of progress seemingly unhampered by the splintered remnants of the shed still around her neck.
As the three men watched the ruined hen-house thunder over the horizon, the farmer displayed the qualities of a man who could make an instant decision in a crisis. ‘Let the bugger go!’ he yelled.
‘ Whatsort of a cow was that?’ thought Alf. It bore little resemblance to the docile creatures he milked on Mr Stirling’s farm in Glasgow. At that moment, he had no inkling that unplanned rodeos among the bovine race were to figure prominently in his future life.