That feeling was short-lived, however, since, as soon as I found myself back in phone reception, a rush of missed calls and messages pinged up on my phone. Kate, the duty nurse, had been trying to reach me for two hours because she had an emergency calving that was likely to be a caesarean section. Her messages started with repeated requests for me to call her as soon as I received them, progressed to frustrated annoyance and ended with a deep concern that I had been unreachable for so long. With nervous trepidation I at last returned Kate’s call, despairing that I had to go straight on to another appointment when I was so tired, cold and hungry, and dreading the tirade I would get from the farmer, presumably angry at having been kept waiting, or – worse – furious that the calf or cow had died. To my great relief, however, Kate greeted my call with the news that Martin had gone on the visit. She was gratified to discover I was OK and that my visit had been a success, and, sensing my exhaustion, urged me to go home and get some dinner and some sleep while I still had the opportunity. I didn’t need telling twice.
Fortunately, the rest of the night was quiet, but the long weekend continued at six the following morning. A cow with milk fever, a calf with pneumonia, a horse with a sore eye, a check on the injured horse from the night before, a calving, a cow with mastitis … and so it went on. I always seemed to have at least one call booked ahead of me, and just when I thought I was catching up, Corrina would ring me with a new one. It was relentless, but they were all visits that I felt able to handle and so as I successfully dealt with each one, my confidence grew. By 2 p.m., though, I was flagging, famished from lack of food and weary from the unyielding busyness of the day. Having at last finished my final visit, I warily rang the practice, grateful to hear Heather inform me that there no new calls, and that I finally had the chance to get home and have some lunch.
Thirty minutes later, the simple pleasure of being able to collapse onto my sofa and tuck into some leftover spaghetti bolognese was such an amplified luxury that when the phone rang ten minutes into the experience I almost cried.
‘Jon, I’m afraid I’ve got another call for you …’ It was Corrina. ‘And I’m afraid it’s an unusual one. In fact I’m not really sure it’s our responsibility, but I don’t quite know what else to do. A member of the public has called me several times in the last couple of hours. I’ve encouraged them to contact the RSPCA, but for some reason they aren’t responding. Anyway, I’m sorry to ask, but there is a swan in the fields behind Braunton that seems to be unwell. They aren’t sure if it’s trapped or injured, and no one can get near enough to be able to tell exactly what the problem is because apparently it’s being quite aggressive. So you may not be able to catch it, but maybe you could at least go and have a look at it. Would you mind?’
It was a splurge of information to receive all at once, so it took me a moment to calm my emotions, regain a sense of professionalism, process what I had just been told and respond.
‘OK, I see the predicament, but yeah, of course I can go, I’ll just finish my lunch and then head over there. Do you know where exactly the swan is?’
‘I’ve got the contact details of the lady who called me, a Mrs Lovell. She said if you call her, she’ll be able to direct you to the field and you should be able to drive quite near to where the swan is.’
‘OK, great,’ I replied as Corrina read off the number.
‘Oh, and Jon? Apparently it’s attracted quite a crowd, so good luck.’
I felt a mixture of intrigue and trepidation. I had never handled a swan before. As a child the fear had been instilled into us of how dangerous they could be – never anger them, never get between them and their cygnets, they can break a man’s arm et cetera. It was obviously one of those common occurrences when a caring member of the public had seen an animal in distress and, wanting to help, but feeling out of her depth, had called the nearest veterinary practice, certain they would know what to do. Indeed we do: a quick call to the RSPCA, RSPB or a local wild-life sanctuary was the usual modus operandi. However, in this case those avenues had proved fruitless. What she didn’t know, though, was that the person responding – i.e. me – would have about as much idea about what to do as any of the onlookers. I desperately hoped I wouldn’t disappoint them. And so, energized by my lunch, my brief respite and the novelty of the call ahead, I called Mrs Lovell to inform her that I was on my way.
As I drove, I contemplated my tactics. The element of surprise always had the greatest degree of success with animals, but it required a full, 100 per cent commitment. If there was any hesitation, someone would get hurt. That was fine in theory, but it also required overcoming my customary fear, anxiety and self-doubt. Of course, it might well not even be possible to get close enough without endangering myself, in which case another solution would need to be found … I concluded that I had to at least assume I was going to catch the swan. Suddenly a realization struck me: if I caught it, then what? Where would I put the swan? How would I transport it? I made a quick stop at the practice to pick up a small dog crate, some towels and some gauntlets. Maybe I could throw a towel over its head, or the gauntlets would protect my hands from being pecked. I had no idea how vicious their peck was, but equally I didn’t want to find out. Now feeling relatively confident about the task ahead, I began to drive towards Braunton.
A short, middle-aged lady in wellies, blue jeans and a mac was patiently waiting for me as I came to the end of a long dirt track. I slowed and wound down my passenger window.
‘Mrs Lovell? I’m Jon the vet.’
‘Yes, thank you so much for coming. The field entrance is just at the end of this track. My husband’s there on the gate, and the swan is in the far corner, beyond where the crowd is. I’ll meet you there.’
I turned down the bumpy dirt track. Arriving at a gate, a tall gentleman pointed down the hedge line. I followed his gaze expecting to see the swan in the distance, but instead my eyes fell upon a crowd of about twenty spectators, gathered 50 feet into the field. Hearing the sound of a car engine, they all turned in my direction, forming an eager welcoming committee to the climax of their unscripted Saturday afternoon entertainment. Driving through the field and circumventing the awaiting crowd, I was able to get my first sighting of the swan. It was sitting a few metres from the corner of the field, head raised, alert and attentive to its surroundings. I was some distance away from it, so I couldn’t see for sure, but at first glance there didn’t appear to be anything too obviously wrong with it.
Stepping out of the car I was haled with a barrage of whispered questions, enquiries, praise, thanks and encouragement. It was all a bit intimidating, so I was grateful when Mrs Lovell arrived with her husband in tow and took control of the situation.
‘I think we should stand back and allow the vet an opportunity to assess the swan,’ she decisively announced.