Read Online The Gift of Pets: Stories Only a Vet Could Tell by Bruce R. Coston - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bruce R. Coston
Ads: Link
these skilled practitioners inhabited every day. It was a humbling epiphany, and intimidating.
In a ring at one end of the barn, several attendants were gathered around an impressive yearling colt, who eyed us apprehensively and circled his groom at the end of a rope. This, I knew, was our patient: a sixteen-hand bay stallion with four white socks and a wide blaze on his nose. He was in beautiful flesh and his coat gleamed with the sheen of perfect health and ideal nutrition.
Dr. Evers laid out several thick ropes and a clean towel, on which he placed some carefully wrapped packs that had been recently autoclaved. He deftly slapped a large-bore needle into the jugular vein of the horse and quickly infused a syringeful of a clear fluid into the vein. Within a couple of minutes, the horse’s anxiety eased and he stood still, his great head sagging. Dr. Evers used the ropes to weave an intricate web around the colt’s legs in just the perfect pattern that a gentle tug on one end tipped him onto his side and prevented him from regaining his feet. Another injection into the bulging vein and the horse went still on the ground, though his eyes remained disarmingly open.
As if on cue, the attendants began scrubbing the horse’s scrotum and testicles for the surgery. Clearly, they had assisted Dr. Evers with this procedure many times. Dr. Evers opened the packs he had laid on the towel, donned a pair of sterile surgical gloves, and instructed me to do the same. He pulled a scalpel handle out of the pack and attached to it a sharp new surgical blade. Without hesitation, he knelt beside the downed horse and grasped one of the baseball-size organs in his hand. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sliced through the skin and in short order was holding the testicle, which was still tethered to the horse by a thick cord of tissue. He turned to me.
“Can you hand me the emasculator? But be sure to touch nothing but the handles.”
It sounded to me like an instrument of torture, which I guess it was. I had no idea what an emasculator was or what one might look like. I turned to the open packs lying on the towel, looking for something with handles. Everything in the pack seemed to have them, so I reached for a large tool that looked like a pair of pliers and handed it to him, being careful to touch only the finger holes.
“No, that’s a hemostat. I need the emasculator.”
Oh, I thought. He must need something to cut with. I turned back to the open pack and reached for a huge fourteen-inch-long pair of curved scissors. These I extended to him, again being careful to touch only the finger holes.
“No, those are the Metzenbaums. Give me the emasculator. Don’t you know what an emasculator is?” Dr. Evers seemed perturbed.
Wasn’t it obvious that I didn’t know what an emasculator was? I thought. I looked down at him with confusion on my face. He shook his head and nodded to one of the grooms, who pointed to a huge two-handled hunk of shining stainless steel that looked to me like a pair of glorified vise grips. This mean, two-fisted piece of surgical chicanery was so heavy, it almost took two hands to give it to Dr. Evers.
He took it and placed its blades around the inch-thick band of blood vessels and tissues from which hung the testicle. Checking its placement carefully, he then closed its jaws. The testicle dropped to the ground at his feet and the sleeping horse twitched his front legs involuntarily, but still Dr. Evers held the instrument with both hands, keeping it tightly clamped around the bloody stalk. He held it that way for about five minutes before tentatively loosening his grip.
He stood and turned to me with great fanfare, holding up the instrument, which now had blood dripping from its teeth like a predator, and kicked the testicle toward me with the toe of his boot. “Now that is an emasculator!” he said triumphantly. Who was I to argue? The sleeping horse was not the only one who had just been
In a ring at one end of the barn, several attendants were gathered around an impressive yearling colt, who eyed us apprehensively and circled his groom at the end of a rope. This, I knew, was our patient: a sixteen-hand bay stallion with four white socks and a wide blaze on his nose. He was in beautiful flesh and his coat gleamed with the sheen of perfect health and ideal nutrition.
Dr. Evers laid out several thick ropes and a clean towel, on which he placed some carefully wrapped packs that had been recently autoclaved. He deftly slapped a large-bore needle into the jugular vein of the horse and quickly infused a syringeful of a clear fluid into the vein. Within a couple of minutes, the horse’s anxiety eased and he stood still, his great head sagging. Dr. Evers used the ropes to weave an intricate web around the colt’s legs in just the perfect pattern that a gentle tug on one end tipped him onto his side and prevented him from regaining his feet. Another injection into the bulging vein and the horse went still on the ground, though his eyes remained disarmingly open.
As if on cue, the attendants began scrubbing the horse’s scrotum and testicles for the surgery. Clearly, they had assisted Dr. Evers with this procedure many times. Dr. Evers opened the packs he had laid on the towel, donned a pair of sterile surgical gloves, and instructed me to do the same. He pulled a scalpel handle out of the pack and attached to it a sharp new surgical blade. Without hesitation, he knelt beside the downed horse and grasped one of the baseball-size organs in his hand. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sliced through the skin and in short order was holding the testicle, which was still tethered to the horse by a thick cord of tissue. He turned to me.
“Can you hand me the emasculator? But be sure to touch nothing but the handles.”
It sounded to me like an instrument of torture, which I guess it was. I had no idea what an emasculator was or what one might look like. I turned to the open packs lying on the towel, looking for something with handles. Everything in the pack seemed to have them, so I reached for a large tool that looked like a pair of pliers and handed it to him, being careful to touch only the finger holes.
“No, that’s a hemostat. I need the emasculator.”
Oh, I thought. He must need something to cut with. I turned back to the open pack and reached for a huge fourteen-inch-long pair of curved scissors. These I extended to him, again being careful to touch only the finger holes.
“No, those are the Metzenbaums. Give me the emasculator. Don’t you know what an emasculator is?” Dr. Evers seemed perturbed.
Wasn’t it obvious that I didn’t know what an emasculator was? I thought. I looked down at him with confusion on my face. He shook his head and nodded to one of the grooms, who pointed to a huge two-handled hunk of shining stainless steel that looked to me like a pair of glorified vise grips. This mean, two-fisted piece of surgical chicanery was so heavy, it almost took two hands to give it to Dr. Evers.
He took it and placed its blades around the inch-thick band of blood vessels and tissues from which hung the testicle. Checking its placement carefully, he then closed its jaws. The testicle dropped to the ground at his feet and the sleeping horse twitched his front legs involuntarily, but still Dr. Evers held the instrument with both hands, keeping it tightly clamped around the bloody stalk. He held it that way for about five minutes before tentatively loosening his grip.
He stood and turned to me with great fanfare, holding up the instrument, which now had blood dripping from its teeth like a predator, and kicked the testicle toward me with the toe of his boot. “Now that is an emasculator!” he said triumphantly. Who was I to argue? The sleeping horse was not the only one who had just been
Similar Books
