I had the pleasure of the company of a final-year vet student that day — he was a huge help at every call. A full clinical exam took less than half the time and as soon as I decided on a treatment protocol, he would get the various injections, powders etc ready to go.

We were running like a well-oiled machine. Our last call to clear the decks was to a cow that was “off form”. As the jeep rolled to a halt by the crush, I was glad to see the cow was already restrained in the head gate and two buckets of water were at the ready. “This should be a quick one,” I said to my student.

I had received a picture earlier from one of our office staff of chocolate treats in the canteen. One (or maybe three) would be tasty with a cup of tea in about half an hour.

Unfortunately for me, my chocolate addiction would have to wait for quite some time. I let the student examine the cow and he quickly told me that she had an LDA (left displaced abomasum). This is where the cow’s small stomach that belongs on the right side of her abdomen displaces to the left, getting trapped over there by the bigger stomach.

I was a little taken aback because two years previously, we had performed surgery on this cow to correct the very same issue. We usually suture the stomach back into place to prevent the condition occurring again.

I examined the cow myself in case the student’s inexperience had led him to diagnosing a problem that couldn’t possibly exist. I was wrong however, and sure enough, I found the abomasum high up on the cow’s left hand side. The only thing for it was to operate.

My student started the surgery under my supervision and, with hardly any delay, was feeling around inside the cow’s abdomen. “Something’s not right in here,” he said. Thinking that inexperience might be throwing him off, I had a quick feel to find out again that he was right.

The abomasum was indeed on the wrong side, but it was round the front of the big stomach, taking lots of omentum (a thin layer of tissue in which all the organs sit) with it. The omentum was stuck to the stomach as a complication of her previous surgery. We decided that, to save the cow, we needed to open her on the other side too.

So picture the scene. The bemused farmer is holding up the cow’s tail to keep her standing steady, while there is a vet on either side of the animal, one with his hand pushing down the displaced stomach and the other pulling on the stomach to get it back to its rightful place.

At one stage, our fingers were touching, deep in the cow’s abdomen. With the issue finally rectified, the student stitched the cow back together. I was somewhat put out that his really neat stitching would put mine to shame.

I dropped him back to the clinic where, by this time, only crumbs remained of the treats that I had been looking forward to.

“It could be worse,” I thought. “I’ll be home in time to put the kids to bed and then tuck into dinner.” Five minutes from home, the phone rang — a suckler cow calving. As I headed towards the farm, I tried to stay positive. This farmer’s cows were usually very quiet. Hopefully, it would be relatively easy to sort and I would be home in half an hour.

A sprightly Limousin awaited me, restrained in a head gate, although the thought did cross my mind that she was facing the wrong way if I needed to carry out a Caesarian section.

For a section, we normally go in on the cow’s left side, if looking at her from behind. This is because the big stomach (the rumen) sits on the left and serves as a barrier to keep all the intestines inside the cow and out of our way when we make our incision.

I quickly dismissed my negative thought. “No way this lady will need a section. Her pelvis is so big, I’d nearly fit out there.” Wrong again. Getting my hand into the cow was far from easy and when I did, I felt a pair of back feet that wouldn’t be out of place in a yearling show and sale. A section was the only possibly course of action.

The surgery can be done on the right hand side, but it’s a lot more difficult and carries a higher risk of complications. I decided the safest course of action would be to sedate the cow and let her lie down. This would allow access to the correct side and, at the same time, greatly reduce the risk of her kicking myself or the farmer.

Sedation was delivered and we let her out of the head gate. After making a run or two at the gate we were luckily standing behind, she duly waddled over to the corner of the shed and proceeded to lie flat out, with her right side up.

Of course, this was the side I didn’t want, but with 950kg of cow lying at an angle to a concrete wall, this was the side I was now forced to operate on. Time was of the essence and I decided it would take too long to pull her out and flip her over.

So with the farmer on the most comfy seat in the house, the cow’s shoulder, I set about a Caesarian on the right (or in this case, the wrong) side. We delivered a whale of a Charolais bull calf that I’m quite certain weighed more than I do.

He struggled to take his first steps while I was struggling to stitch up the layers of muscle, hindered by having to keep one hand ready to prevent any intestines popping out. After what seemed like an eternity, I got my patient stitched up, again nowhere near as neat as that of the vet student. 

As I headed toward home, tired and very hungry, I thought of something a farmer said to me a long time ago in reference to things going almost too well: “When you think you’re flying, you’re really only fluttering.”

​Eamon O’Connell is a vet with Summerhill Vet Clinic, Nenagh, Co Tipperary.