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Victorian vets: woeful reputations

Author : Pippa Elliott

Categories : Vets

Date : September 12, 2011

Pippa Elliott looks back to a time where the profession was held in much lower regard than it is now

“YES, there are plenty [of vets],” said Polynesia, ’but none of them any good at all,” by Hugh Lofting in The Story of Doctor Dolittle.

Times change

Perhaps there was a golden age, probably around the time of James Herriot, when people trusted and respected the veterinary profession.

However, now there are investigative journalists, the internet and clients coming in telling you, the professional, the treatment they have researched and want their pets to have.

We live in times of accountability to the public, and helping them make informed decisions. However, perhaps taking examples from history, change has been a long time coming.

Looking back at the veterinary profession’s earliest reputation, it seems it started from a pretty low base.

Take, for example, this passage from Hugh Lofting’s popular novel The Story of Doctor Dolittle from 1920.

It says: “It happened one day that the doctor was sitting in his kitchen talking with the cat’s meat

1 / 3 man, who had come to see him with a stomach ache.

“‘Why don’t you give up being a people’s doctor and be an animal doctor?’ asked the cat’s meat man.

“‘But there are plenty of animal doctors,’ John Dolittle replied.

“‘But you see, Doctor,’ the cat’s meat man went on, ’you know all about animals much more than what these here vets do.’

’‘Yes, there are plenty,’ said Polynesia (the parrot), ‘but none of them any good at all.’”

Only choking

If we look further back to the Victorians, it seems pet owners had to be at their wits’ end to call out a vet. In his 1868 book, The Book of Cats – a Chit Chat Chronicle of Feline Facts and Fancies, Charles Ross recounts the story of a friend’s cat choking on a fish bone.

It says: “A lady… had a cat that got a fish bone sticking in its mouth… in such a way that it was unable to close its jaws. For two or three days it remained in this state, refusing all food and in a woeful plight. At last someone suggested seeking the aid of a veterinary surgeon.”

But wait, as the story continues, it seems the woman was right to hesitate, if the vet’s attitude is anything to go by.

“Seeking the aid of a veterinary surgeon, whose dignity seemed just a little bit ruffled by being called in for a cat, and who, when he did come, did not bring his instruments with him. Nevertheless, he found out what was wrong and, forcing open the cat’s jaws, put in his finger to loosen a fish bone.”

Just resting

But if they were not helping a cat with a fish bone, what did Victorian vets do? Apparently, euthanasia was not on the list. When it came to ending life, the local chemist was the person to call on, according to Charles Ross.

He writes: “In cases where the cat is accidentally crippled and it were better to put it out of its misery at once, the best plan is to send for a chemist, who, for a small sum, would administer the poison upon your own premises.”

Indeed, this does sound the best option, since Mr Ross also recounts: “I have known cases where men servants entrusted to take the animal to the chemist’s shop have thrown it down in the street,

2 / 3 or killed it with unnecessary torture themselves, and pocketed the money they should have paid for the poisoning.”

And referring back to Mr Ross, he continues: “I know for a fact two medical students twice poisoned [an] animal, as they supposed, and once actually buried it, of course not very deeply, after which it recovered again and crawled into the house rather to their alarm, as you may suppose, as on the second occasion it happened in the dead of night.”

Whistle down the… doctors

So if the Victorians were reluctant to use the services of a vet to attend their pets, who did they call? To finish, here is the amusing story of the artist James Whistler and his pet poodle.

American-born and British-based artist James Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834 to 1903), famed for paintings such as Arrangement in Grey and Black: Portrait of the Painter’s Mother (yes, the picture in the first Mr Bean movie), was an animal lover. Whistler owned a tortoiseshell cat, but his favourite pet was his French poodle. One day the poodle was taken ill and, in a panic, Mr Whistler sought the help, not of a veterinarian, but of an eminent human surgeon.

Arriving at Whistler’s address, the distinguished doctor was horrified to find the patient was not human, but canine.

Begrudgingly, he examined the animal and prescribed a course of treatment.

However, the next day the doctor sent Whistler an urgent summons. Thinking it was news concerning his favourite dog’s condition, the artist dropped everything and hurried over to receive a progress report.

The doctor greeted Whistler warmly with the words: “Ah, good morning Mr Whistler, so good of you to call so promptly. I needed to see you urgently about repainting my front door.”

Sobering isn’t it, the regard in which Victorian vets were held? Perhaps things aren’t so bad today after all…

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