As a vet, everyone expects you to have an interest in and love for all animals. However, some vets are allergic, scared or unfamiliar with particular species.
For me, it’s alpacas. I’m not fond of them. In fact, I would even describe it as a borderline phobia, which stems from being spat at by the ones that lived over the fence from my pony years ago. She was terrified of them and would even go wild at a cross-country jump decorated with a wooden alpaca.
I think her fear subconsciously triggered mine, and it wasn’t until I had to get up close and personal with them through vet school and work that I realised how much I disliked them.
Tooth, claw and saliva
Surely any animal whose defence mechanism is to spit at you is despicable? Give me a bitey cat or kicky horse any day. How do you handle them?
There’s just too much neck, their physiology is weird – like they can’t decide if they’re a ruminant or a horse, and they generally just look mean with those huge creased eyebrows.
Their claws scare me, and one ripped right through my favourite pair of (very thick) waterproof trousers when I was helping to restrain one for castration while on EMS. It doesn’t help that our vet school teaching consisted of one lecture on camelids, from which all I can remember is that they have “fibre” not “wool” and their owners get seriously pissed off if you get it wrong.
Money (s)pit
They are expensive creatures and their owners are often very dedicated and will do anything to save them, which makes me feel even more helpless when I have to treat them now.
If nobody who actually likes them is available, I push down my fear, crack out the books and my trusty alpaca cheat sheet for drugs and try my hardest. After all, I swore an oath to all animals under my care (even the ones that spit at you).
Despite my reservations, I have ended up needing to treat quite a few and have found myself in a number of ridiculous situations, which does them no favours.
Once bitten…
A number of vets were involved in the treatment of one particular alpaca at a local petting zoo, but it had to be me that got my finger bitten while examining her.
I can be covered head to toe in blood from a cow surgery, but at the site of my own mangled finger I was lightheaded and stumbling around, feeling absolutely mortified and just desperately trying not to faint.
The poor staff didn’t really know what to do and sat me down with some juice and clumsily bandaged it until I was coherent enough to get myself to Minor Injuries. The nurse looked at it quizzically, said she didn’t really know what to do with alpaca bites so treated it like a dog bite, bandaged me up and gave me some antibiotics. Apparently it’s not just me who feels clueless sometimes.
Last rites
Another alpaca had been quite poorly despite my colleagues efforts, but of course it fell to me to do the final deed when we and the owner felt it was only going one way.
These alpacas were truly loved and the owner was very upset but wanted to do the right thing. The alpaca in question was cushed in the field, helpfully surrounded by his field mates who gave me the eye as soon as I approached. I tried to ignore the fear of getting spat at and concentrated on the task at hand.
The owner proceeded to straddle the patient (her restraining method of choice) while I prayed there would be an obvious clip patch over the jugular from a previous vet visit to indicate the easiest place to go for. Thankfully, there it was, but it still took a small amount of faffing to hit the spot, all while reassuring the owner that it’s the kindest thing to do.
Alpaca picker upper
Although I knew I’d given enough to euthanise a horse, I still had that familiar panic when auscultating to ensure the heart had stopped. Having convinced myself (and the owner) that he was no longer with us, the owner indicated to a nearby wheelbarrow and asked if I could help her lift him.
She started to sound quite choked up – I assumed just because she was holding back the tears, but she croaked out: “I’m sorry – I have myasthenia gravis and it affects my voice and I’m quite weak.”
“Oh yes, animals can get that too – don’t worry I’ve got him”, I resisted the urge to ask her more about it, despite the questions whirring around my head.
Unfit for purpose
Don’t worry, I’ve got him? Why did I say that? I was looking at a dead alpaca that weighed far more than me, and I hadn’t been to the gym in a very long while. Somehow, between us, we did get him in said wheelbarrow and I gritted my teeth and began pushing him a good 100m back to the yard, thankful that there were a few gates to stop at for a breather.
Feeling very unfit, it felt like an out of body experience, like something straight out of a James Herriot book, and I couldn’t help wondering how vets get themselves in these situations.
My bizarre experiences with alpacas were not all bad – I have had to milk a dam to tube her premature cria. Although I was convinced the baby would die, she amazingly did really well. While I could almost say the cria was cute, I still can’t say I would choose to be an alpaca vet.
Surely I’m not the only vet with an aversion to a specific species?
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