Excerpt
Another one of my early calls in my first year of practice involved a "mine pony," which was used to pull cars filled with coal out of a deep mine on a railroad-like track. Walter Coyer from Blacktown called and said he had a pony "down" in the mine because the pony had been cut by an auger, which is a piece of equipment used to cut into a vein of coal. He said the pony was bleeding, could not get up, and was down deep in the mine.
When I got there, Mr. Coyer shook my hand and added, "He's cut up bad, and we can't get him up. Besides, he's the meanest son-of-a-bitch I have." Just what I wanted to hear.
Mr. Coyer was covered with coal dust, as were his helpers, and they all looked like they hadn't bathed in a year. He motioned toward a small coal cart and said, "Let's go."
Because I tend to be claustrophobic, I was not anxious to go down into that mine, but I gathered up my black bag and other essential instruments and medications. I took a miner's hat (with a light on it) and got into an empty coal car. We immediately headed down into the mine. Boy, was it dark down there! I found out why miners are so short. They have to be because someone of my height of 5' 10" can't stand up in a deep mine.
I knew we were getting close because I could hear the pony thrashing around and I heard someone trying to console him. It was not a pretty sight, even in the dim light. I could see that we were not going to get this bleeding pony on his feet and back up above ground. I would have to operate and stop the bleeding down there in the mine.
The light from my miner's lamp glowed with a dim yellow ray, and I could tell that this operation was going to be a difficult surgery under these conditions. When my eyes finally adjusted to the faint light and with the help of two men holding flashlights (which looked like they were going to go out any minute), I started to perform the surgery.
In the early 1950s general anesthesia for horses was relatively new. I was glad that I had some of the injectable anesthesia called Equi-thesin. After anesthetizing the pony, I began to clean up his wounds, stop the bleeding, and suture his lacerations. The two men holding the flashlights were not very steady. One of them almost fainted, and we had to take time out to attend to him.
So there I was, on my knees, working in a dim light with water dripping from the ceiling onto my hat and down the back of my neck. The lacerations were dirty and filled with coal dust, and the water supply for scrubbing the wounds was limited. All I could think about was they never told me in veterinary school that it would be like this. The environment was a far cry from the sterile surgery room: no sterile gowns or gloves nor trained nurse to hand me the instruments I need before I asked for them. Thank God for antibiotics.
That pony was too mean to die. The surgery took about one and a half hours, which seemed like five hours. After giving him some fluids and some coaxing, we got the pony up on his feet, and he walked out of the mine. I got out of the mine as fast as I could. I wasn't sure I would ever be able to stand up straight again.
Although the pony was not a cooperative patient, he finally got better-mostly on his own because he wouldn't let anybody dress his wounds.
Welcome to the world of a rural veterinarian!
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