Because the liver may be contained entirely within the rib cage in normal cats and dogs, microhepatica is more difficult to recognise than hepatomegaly.
Changes in the angle of the gastric fundus in the right lateral projection could indicate a small hepatic shadow if the angle is more upright or perpendicular to the spine – especially if the stomach seems close to the diaphragm.
The liver may also seem small in animals with traumatic diaphragmatic hernia and herniation of liver lobes into the thorax or in those with congenital peritoneopericardial hernia.
This is fine so long as they’re not going to the extent of babying them (a common trait among young women with teacup Chihuahuas, dare I say?) and so long as, like children, the owners remember:
Everyone knows that there’s an ancient feud between vet and medical students. Glasgow is no exception – only the other day, I had a heated debate on the topic with another student (who, annoyingly, wasn’t even a medic).
While, for the most part, it’s just friendly banter, there is some truth in both arguments.
A doctor will usually have one area of focus and will spend his whole career becoming more and more specialised in that particular field, whereas a vet will be the GP, surgeon, physio, neurologist and much more for several different species, not just one. As a first year student, it’s sometimes a little scary and overwhelming to think about the broad spectrum of knowledge we need to gain in just five years.
When the medics graduate, they’ll become junior doctors and from then on will begin narrowing down their fields of interest until eventually finding themselves as “left toe specialists”, or something. In 4.5 years, we’ll be let loose into the world of veterinary and, at the end of day one, will have probably already spayed a cat, pregnancy tested a few cows and euthanised a dog, with a rabbit or bird thrown in somewhere too.
Not only are the medics likely to be more specialised than us, they also “go further” than we do in terms of treatment. In my interview for Glasgow vet school two years ago, after expressing an interest in orthopaedics, I was asked the ethical question: “How far is too far?”
The Bionic Vet
I didn’t really have an answer but tried to reason my way through it, discussing things like kidney transplants in cats in America and The Bionic Vet, and came to the conclusion that every case must be treated individually, having weighed up the pros and cons of “heroic treatments” in each situation.
Now I realise that these heroic treatments are fairly uncommon in the veterinary world. Kidney transplants, for example, which are routine in medicine, are non-existent in veterinary in the UK. Is this a consequence of lack of funding and resources or lack of experience and knowledge in the field? Probably a little of both.
The GP vet will play the role of all these specialised fields to some extent (some being more qualified to do so than others). While we can specialise and work in referral practices, the average mixed or small animal vet will find themselves becoming a “Jack of all trades and master of none”.
Does that make us more intelligent than the medics, or just more well-rounded? Is it better to have a broad spectrum of knowledge and practical skills or to be very skilled at a few specific procedures?
One little piggy’s in a farrowing crate, one little piggy gets his tail docked and one little piggy is left alone.
Illustration by L. Leslie Brooke, from The Golden Goose Book, Frederick Warne & Co, Ltd (1905). Image taken from Project Gutenberg eText
I know I’ve already mentioned pigs, but something came up again this week that seriously rattled me. Using an online programme, an example came up in which a sow had given birth to her litter in a pen, not a farrowing crate. One of the piglets was injured and later died because she’d laid on it. The conditions were described as “cramped” and it was insinuated that the death had occurred due to the lack of space.
While the conditions were not the point of the example (it focused more on the attitude of the stockman), I couldn’t help but feel displeased at the way in which the information was portrayed.
Coming from a pig farming background, I know from experience that it is better to put sows in farrowing crates for the sake of the piglets, saving them from being squashed. The farrowing crate would, in fact, give the sow less room than the pen used in the example.
The principle facts in the programme were wrong, regardless of whether it would be considered “cruel” by some to confine sows in this way – the reason for the piglet’s injury was too much space, not too little.
In another example used in the same programme, it was, again, insinuated that tail docking piglets is cruel.
What I would consider cruel would be to let pigs die of spinal abscesses arising from excessive tail biting, which would be the result of not tail docking them. Would you argue that vaccination is cruel? No, because a small, short term burst of pain is better than contracting a disease that would later prove fatal. Same principle.
Practices such as tail docking or the use of farrowing crates do not come about without reason. Farmers do not inflict mindless cruelty on their animals – it’s not in their interest to do so. These methods are used because they are the most efficient way of managing worse problems. This should be made more evident to vet students who have little experience of farming.
Sat in our equine lectures so far, I’ve found myself dozing off a little. Not because of the morning-after headache following one of Glasgow’s vet school socials, or from utter boredom, but because I already knew a lot of it.
The Manual of Horsemanship (14th Edition)
Yes, I’ve had my own horse and have been riding since I was 11, but I think the real culprit is The Pony Club. Years of Pony Club badges, efficiency tests and stable management sessions at camp had obviously made a lasting impression.
It’s only now, at university, that I’m beginning to appreciate just how much has sunk in over the years. From simple things like the difference between hay and haylage, to the less fundamental like laminitis and strangles – The Pony Club has taught me so much. The best part is that it rarely felt like an effort because of the friends I made and because I always had so much fun at the same time.
Not only did I pick up horsemanship knowledge, but also invaluable skills like being tested orally and having to think on your feet.
There are no written examinations in The Pony Club. The efficiency tests – which higher up can be regarded the same levels as the British Horse Society stages – require a riding and stable management element. In both, you are asked to demonstrate or explain things. Without realising it, by the time I got to the B Test, I was able to talk confidently to an examiner about all aspects of horse owning, riding or the industry in general.
Over the years, I’d also gotten roped into the team Stable Management competition, which took a similar format to the efficiency tests but required you to work as a team of three to carry out practical skills as well as discuss answers. Aside from teamwork, I’d picked up how to effectively bandage for different situations, comprehensive first aid and nutrition – all useful for a prospective vet.
I think The Pony Club has been invaluable and is a fantastic way for children of all ages to learn about the beautiful animals they ride, whether they end up having a career involving them or not. While sat in the vet school library the other day, I noticed a very old copy of The Pony Club’s Manual of Horsemanship on the shelves. I couldn’t help but smile to myself.
A week before the December exams, I found myself making the five-hour train journey south to not-so-sunny Leicestershire for the first time since I left for uni in September.
This wasn’t because I couldn’t stand being away from the horses for a minute longer (though it was starting to get that way), but because I wanted to go back for the funeral of a family friend. These things happen, and I continued to revise for the exams while back at home.
For most of us at vet school, everything we’d done beforehand was aimed at getting in. Studying, sports, work experience. Most of us were good at what we did, going above and beyond our past classmates. To get into vet school, we were pretty much top of the class. To us, anything lower than an A was catastrophic. We had to be the best to have the chance of even getting an interview.
Now, with our first exams looming, for the first time, the possibility of failure had become a very real thing. The sheer amount of information we’ve been cramming into our heads since the start of term couldn’t possibly be remembered, could it? We’d heard the scare stories from the second years:
“Nobody passes all of the December exams.”
“You’re lucky if you get 40%.”
Here, we were on the level playing field of a whole new ball game. I think we’d all tried to mentally prepare ourselves for the worst over the coming week.
Was this just the start of the possibility of failure though? In practice, it is by no means always possible to cure the animal put in front of you. Whether that’s because it’s not possible to provide a diagnosis or treatment because we don’t know enough about the condition, because the disease process is too far along, or because of economical limitation, the fact remains the same. We will have to accept that we cannot do everything for every animal we are presented with in the coming years.
However, just because we may not succeed, we have not necessarily failed.
