Farming Breeds: Caroline – the newbie vet
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet City slicker turned country vet Caroline…
Caroline is not sure why she chose to be a vet. Daddy was something in the City, and countryside looked nice as they drove through it on trips out. At Cheltenham she excelled academically, so is seemed automatic to do six years of veterinary at Cambridge (knocking off a first in Genetics at the same time, just because she could).
First stop after qualification was a first line mixed practice in a small market town. The interview with the dribbling senior partners was a doddle; they had never seen anything so lovely and fragrant in their lives. She left boyfriend Giles in London, said farewell to the hectic social life, and started work.
Small animal work was easy. The diagnoses were textbook, the owners bowled over by her Cheltenham charm. It was drips and blood tests for everything, with bills to match. The senior partners weren’t sure about her techniques, but loved the cashflow. Even better, any cock-ups she made were easily solved by her bursting into tears.
Farm work proved more of a challenge. She arrived at the farm in the aged Forester that the practice had supplied, and stepped out into six inches of slurry and an even deeper wave of scepticism from the farmer. Then the puppy she’d bought as soon as she got the job leapt out and got fixed by the farm collie. By then a small crowd of tractor drivers had gathered to watch this vision in Prada and Dubarry at work.
Her first diagnosis of the lame calf was, inevitably, foot-and-mouth. In a slight panic, she called a senior partner. He rather wearily advised her “common things happen commonly”, and suggested she has another, proper, look in the hoof. Unfortunately, this was all on speakerphone, and she could only just avoid bursting into tears at the shame of it. The secondary diagnosis was, of course, lure. A mumble of “I could have told ‘er that” came from the assembled throng.
In an attempt to salvage her reputation, she insisted on filling in the medicine book. The office was up steep steps. “After you,” was the cry, as the crowd all suddenly became proper gentlemen. “Things are looking up,” she thought. But then she glanced behind her, and realised how right she was, as she was followed by the laviscious throng in search of a thong.
That was nearly it for Caroline. She thought hard about ringing Giles and begging him to take her back; they had broken up as her weekend duties had piled up, and he refused to come to the countryside. She thought about the comfort and security of a small animal practice if Fulham.
But then there was the caesarean. Thanks to her man management skills, she expertly put the assembled willing volunteers to good use.
They’d come so see her strip off and lather up, but ended up doing all the donkey work. It was a great success, the story spread, and next time one of the senior partners turned up at the farm, Mick the herdsman looked disappointed. “Not Caroline today, then?” he asked. “But she smelt lovely.” Clouds of Parfume de Diesel enveloped the yard as the tractors drivers made their excuse and left.
Then one day, the farmer’s son rang. For once, it wasn’t a vet call, it was social. Would she come with him to the Young Farmers bash at the weekend? She surprised herself by saying yes. But why not? Giles was but a memory, the Prada and Jimmy Choos somehow weren’t comfortable any more. Those Barbour check shirts somehow suited her down to the ground, and there was nothing as wearable as neoprene-lined wellies. In one of the mirrors in the Dog and Duck, she caught sight of herself looking very much at home in the boozy but benevolent mob. Now she knew exactly why she chose to be a vet.