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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781742699707 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Allen & Unwin Pty., Limited |
| Publication date: | 12/01/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
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Doctor Hugh
My Life with Animals
By Hugh Wirth, Anne Crawford
Allen & Unwin
Copyright © 2012 Doctor Hugh Wirth with Anne CrawfordAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-74331-104-2
CHAPTER 1
A charmed childhood
I was born stubborn; the gruffness came later. I arrived in a private hospital in East Melbourne on 9 September 1939, six days after World War II broke out — some would say a fitting start to the combative life that was to follow!
My childhood was an idyllic time. I was the eldest, followed by my brothers, David and Paul, then my sisters, Elizabeth (who died aged eight) and Rosemary. We grew up in Warncliffe Road, East Ivanhoe, in a clinker-brick house named Mapledene (my parents were keen gardeners), a typical prewar home except that it was double brick rather than brick veneer, and on a double block. In those days East Ivanhoe was a pioneer suburb, next door to being rural. We were surrounded by dairies, cows, horses, riding schools and agistment farms — perfect for a young animal lover. Acres of long grass sloped down to the Yarra River, with the occasional street of new houses rising out of the paddocks. There weren't many fences, meaning there was plenty of room to ride a pony or scream about on your bike.
We had a huge amount of freedom as children to roam around — I knew every little track on the northern side of the Yarra, and it was nothing to go by train into the city, about 10 kilometres away, by myself at the tender age of seven or eight. My parents thought it was perfectly safe for us to go down to the Yarra to play or walk the dogs in the bush along its banks. Half a dozen swagmen lived along the riverbank — homeless people, all single and male, living in tents or scrap-iron humpies. My mother told me not to talk to them, but they weren't really considered a threat. It wasn't until an event years later that we had any suspicions about the swaggies.
Animals were a normal part of my life. My maternal grandparents kept chooks, like everybody else of their era, and they also had a cocker spaniel and a cat. We didn't have chooks at home or a cow for milking, though plenty of people did, but I had an opportunity to look after these animals at school. I was always interested in the animals around me, even though it took a while for the first pet to be introduced into our home. I was keen to know what animals' needs were and how they should be looked after. I was fortunate that my parents and grandparents had a background in raising animals and could teach me the basics.
One day when I was about five, a pony suddenly appeared in the paddock next door to us: a present from our parents. Jinks was a typical Shetland — she had a will of iron and did her own thing. We all learned to ride her. There wasn't much traffic around, so we could ride on the road or along the footpath without anyone thinking anything of it. Jinks was a cunning little devil, and as soon as she thought we weren't in control she'd race for home in a mad gallop. She wasn't a nasty pony, but she did exactly what she wanted to do. If she didn't like something she'd stamp her hoof on your foot — I still carry a scar from one such occasion. Little monster! For years now I've been a steward for the ponies at the Royal Agricultural Society's summer horse show, and those ponies are wicked, too. Five or six years later, Jinks suddenly died. I don't know what of; she was just found dead in the paddock one morning. She was never replaced, but by that time we didn't really need another horse as we were at school and doing other things.
Despite enjoying games with my younger brothers, I was a bit of a loner. When I was about nine, I reached the stage where I badly needed my own dog. My parents had owned a Scottish terrier called Angus when I was born, but he'd had severe dermatitis and had been put down when I was two. Vets didn't have the armoury of medicines and treatments that they have now. Angus must have made an impression on me, though. I had also attended dog shows with my father at the show-grounds once or twice: Dad had shown English setters and dachshunds before he married and had children.
The sighting of some puppies in a pet shop window in the city one day did it. I used to go into the city to my father's work sometimes. Melbourne was a quiet place then; everyone in certain social circles knew each other, and it was easy to run into people you knew in the street. I'd go into town, dressed in my school uniform, meeting all sorts of people who somehow or other knew my father, and therefore knew me, and would say hello. Arthur Calwell, then a minister in Ben Chifley's government, would always say 'Hello, Hugh' to me walking up Collins Street. Calwell had a birth defect on the roof of his mouth, and my old man, who was a manufacturer of dental equipment, had made an appliance that enabled him to talk properly. Well, he was a politician!
There was a pet shop in Regent Place, not far from where my father worked. I discovered a litter of black-and-white fox terrier puppies in its window one day, went home and started pestering. I nagged and nagged and drove my parents to distraction until I got one. (I did say I'd been born stubborn.) I didn't get a pup from that pet shop litter, but soon afterwards a six-month-old black-and-white foxie appeared at home. I presume my father found it through one of his contacts in the dog-showing world. He was a great little dog: a vigorous, hysterical terrier, like all foxies are. I've had other breeds since then, but my absolute passion is terriers. I was smitten — it was my dog! I called him Spot, like Spot from the First Book of the Victorian Readers, which I've still got. 'This is Spot, Spot's a dog. This is Dan, Dan's a man.' Dan gets into the gig, Spot gets into the gig, and so on.
The biggest fun was playing with Spot in our huge backyard, playing chasey, screaming and roaring around. Spot was a buffoon, always ready to join in the rough-and-tumble games. We went everywhere on our bikes with Spot running alongside. We could ride around the schoolyards, and although Spot didn't go to the dairies with me — that wasn't on — he used to come for walks along the riverbank. He was a hyperactive terrier and we were all hyperactive boys, doing normal boyish activities after school.
The tearing around, the screaming, barking and general high activity were, perhaps, difficult for my parents. After a few years Spot vanished. I came home from school to an empty backyard. I was inconsolable. Like all terriers, Spot had bonded very closely with his owner — in this case me — and because I was a loner he had filled the role of confidant. I could tell Spot anything and he was never judgemental. It was never properly explained to me why he disappeared; the only suggestion my parents made was that perhaps he had been stolen by the swaggies. It was a plausible story at the time because of the number of swagmen living along the Yarra, but looking back I'm not sure it was the truth. I have no reason to say my parents caused Spot to go, but they weren't exactly upset when he disappeared. However, they maintained the swagmen story even when I queried them as an adult.
While human relationships have necessarily played a part in my life I have always found a great deal of solace in animals, especially those I have selected and kept as my companions. Spot was the first dog to draw me out of myself and to make me recognise my dependence on animals. Those that followed simply strengthened the ties.
Spot was replaced fairly quickly by an English setter called Rajah — my father's choice. By contrast, he was a weak specimen of a dog, a wimp of the highest order. He was highly bred and didn't join in with our games like Spot had done. He came to us at three months but was soon diagnosed with a bowel problem and died before his first birthday. Despite the fact that he wasn't Spot, I was still upset when he went. My parents took him to the Balwyn Veterinary Surgery, where I later did work experience as a veterinary student and which, later still, I owned. I looked through the records when I was a student but couldn't find anything about Rajah's death.
Rajah was replaced within days by Rufus, an Irish setter. Rufus was a fabulous dog. He was remarkably laid-back. He did everything and would go anywhere with us. He ran around the pine plantations near our holiday house at Mt Martha with us and seemed quite relaxed when we half-buried him in sand once at the beach. Rufus was with us all the time except when we were at school. In those days you didn't have to lock dogs up, and Rufus would sit on the nature strip waiting for us to come home each day. He knew exactly when we'd be getting off the bus and would come to meet us and walk home with us. Rufus had so many charming aspects to him. The only thing he ever did wrong was to eat a steak that was on the table waiting to be cooked. He got up on a chair and ate it all. That dog lived until he was fifteen.
As a boy I also went through a period of owning mice and rats. I didn't graduate to guinea pigs or rabbits; I just liked ordinary, everyday white rats and mice. My parents certainly weren't impressed, but, as I've told other parents and listeners to my regular ABC Radio spot over the years, a rat doesn't last more than two years, and mice live for even less time. So if you can put up with it for two years it will die, and by that time the child will have moved on to something else, usually a ferret nowadays. I don't know what I saw in rats and mice except that they were interesting to keep.
By the time I had Rufus, the mice and the rats, I had started pestering for a sulphur-crested cockatoo. The people who lived in the house opposite ours had one that they kept in a cage out front. It would talk to anyone walking past. (They also had a kelpie-cross called RAAF, known as the Cat Killer.) I first talked to the cocky as soon as I was mobile and could speak, when I would toddle along the street talking to the neighbours. There was only a handful of houses then. The cocky was a pleasant bird who never swore. He said the usual things like 'Hello, Cocky' and 'Cocky's a good boy,' and then he would put his crest up and shriek. He eventually lived to the age of sixty-three. We were all sitting around the dinner table one night when I was harping on again about getting a cocky of my own when my mother said, 'I've got enough galahs in this house. I'd rather get another dog!' The next minute I was on the phone to a breeder arranging to get Rudolph, a dachshund. I actually wanted another terrier but had been told bluntly by my parents that the only breed of dog acceptable as a second dog would be a dachshund.
Rudolph, or Noddy, as we called him, was a black-and-tan smooth-haired dachshund, an intelligent dog with a reserved, somewhat Germanic personality. Dachshunds are stand-offish little dogs that bond closely, like cats, with one person. In our case that was my mother, because she was around all the time. Rufus and Noddy got on well, but Rufus was the boss. Noddy also came out with us all the time — even though he was Mum's dog — particularly if Rufus was with us. If Rufus followed us on the bikes, Noddy did, too. That's not to say he was necessarily comfortable doing all this, but because Rufus did it Noddy had to keep up. Too right he kept up! He ran like the wind on his funny short legs.
* * *
I was the child in our family who introduced most of our animals to the house, including cats later on. Scientists have spent a bit of time trying to discover why one human should necessarily get on with animals better than another. They've talked about body odours and particular human projections that give confidence to an animal. I didn't learn how to read the behaviour of animals properly until I was a vet, but when I was a boy I got on with them a lot better than with humans, and I probably still do today. I'm not blaming anybody for this: I didn't have any bad potty-training experiences or a harsh father or mother, it's just me. I was a loner and I still am. That doesn't mean I don't have friends, but I've always liked my own company.
My rapport with animals drove everything that has followed — my career as a vet, the way I live and my priorities in life. As a young boy I observed that all the animals I came into contact with had a personality as well as behaviours common to their particular species. Having a personality made these animals individuals, particularly if we humans gave them a name. I also recognised that given the chance all animals were capable of responding to human care and attention. Animals were called 'dumb' because they did not have the power of human speech, but they didn't lack intelligence. I realised that animals can and do feel pain, which I later found out was called being sentient. True, the level of pain they experienced and their response to it might vary depending on the species, but showing a tolerance to pain could never be regarded as feeling no pain. The conclusion was obvious: if animals could feel pain they could also suffer, and it was unacceptable to me that they did.
An event in 1949 refined this early philosophy on animals and steered me towards what became my honorary career — voluntary work for the RSPCA. Victoria Carter, the secretary of the Victorian RSPCA, came to the school to give a talk about animals and animal welfare, an annual event. We were all lined up waiting for her outside the grade 5 classroom in drizzly rain when she arrived with her shaggy dog, Pebble. (She carted around a Shetland pony called Sammy later on, as a talking point, whom she would ferry about in the back of her sedan.) She was probably around fifty at the time, but she looked ancient to me. (Little did I know then that when I became president of the RSPCA many years later my first job would be to supervise Miss Carter's retirement.) Nothing she said was new to me, and I agreed with it all. She spoke about being kind to animals and said that it was morally wrong to be cruel to them. I certainly could not understand how anyone could be cruel to an animal. Everyone in my circle of acquaintances, whether it was neighbours or people my parents knew, was kind to animals. I'd heard of cruelty to dogs and cats, such as drowning a litter of kittens or trapping stray cats with rabbit traps — both criminal offences now — but I had not yet been exposed to it. I had been upset, however, by the way the local riding school proprietor handled his horses, often using a cattle whip to round them up into the yards. Everything in Victoria Carter's talk rang true; I joined the Junior RSPCA that day, and still have my badge.
The RSPCA's simple message was reinforced regularly throughout the year by Molly Casey, my teacher in grades 5 and 6. She was strongly committed to the cause and made sure that her classes renewed their membership of the Junior RSPCA (a shilling per year) and took part in essay and poster competitions run by the organisation. Regrettably, my efforts were never judged worthy of a prize.
I was also involved with the Dingo Club from the age of ten, accompanying my father, who was a member, and brothers on regular field trips run by the club. We'd travel to bushland within easy reach of Melbourne, such as along the Yarra River or Healesville Sanctuary. The club, whose president was the well-known naturalist Crosbie Morrison, promoted respect for native Australian animals. I enjoyed those trips and encountering the wildlife specimens. Learning about wildlife also opened my eyes to the fact that pets weren't the only animals that needed to be protected.
* * *
My first school was Our Lady's College, a convent primary school in Cape Street, Heidelberg, opposite St John's Church where my parents were married and we kids were baptised and confirmed. The school had a yardman, Mr Lewis, who was employed to milk the cow, Beauty, and look after the chooks, whose produce was used to feed the nuns living in the convent. In those days the number of nuns was quite large but now they don't have any nuns at all in that convent: they've all disappeared. Mr Lewis would collect the eggs and turn the milk into butter — the sorts of jobs that were normal before packaged goods and supermarkets. I'd go there before school on the bus, leaving home by eight o'clock, to help him milk Beauty, a Jersey, and pick up the eggs. It was only a penny for the ride from East Ivanhoe to Heidelberg on the bus, and I thought nothing of setting off early to spend time with the animals. Mr Lewis extended the invitation to anyone else who wanted to do this, but there weren't any other takers.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Doctor Hugh by Hugh Wirth, Anne Crawford. Copyright © 2012 Doctor Hugh Wirth with Anne Crawford. Excerpted by permission of Allen & Unwin.
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements ix
Prologue xi
Part 1 Growing up my way 1
1 A charmed childhood 3
2 The mystery of Grandfather George 23
3 Taking on the Jesuits 51
4 The land of long white socks 68
5 A city boy in a country town 98
Part 2 A passionate career 129
6 My first and last surgery 131
7 An honorary career 156
8 The national stage 183
9 'Aren't you Hugh Wirth?' 194
10 People and their pets 212
11 Showtime 232
12 Politicians, causes and campaigns 242
Part 3 Looking back, striving on 263
13 Going global 265
14 Triumphs and troughs 277
15 The home front 286