Trust Me, I'm a Vet: The Otter House Vets Series

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘The Fox-Giffords expected me to use my discretion,’ Frances says, appearing unconcerned.

  ‘This isn’t Talyton Manor though,’ I say, but I’m not sure I’m winning. Frances has the same rather glazed expression as Robbie the ex-police dog did just after he’d been hit by that tractor. ‘I’d appreciate it if you called this Gloria person straight back, please, and tell her to make an appointment to see me if her dog —’

  ‘It’s a cat,’ Frances interrupts, ‘one of her ferals. It’s pretty wild.’

  ‘OK, but that’s no reason for me not to see it.’ I let Miff off the lead.

  ‘It bit right through Emma’s thumb last time – she was on antibiotics for weeks.’

  ‘Frances, just ring her.’ I’m not going to be intimidated by anything, be it feline or human. ‘I’m going to get changed. I’ll be back in five.’

  ‘Take your time.’ Frances’s reading glasses rest via a chain on the shelf of her bosom. She slips them onto her nose, and taps at the keyboard in front of her with the end of a pen as if she’s afraid of making direct contact with it. ‘There’s hardly anyone booked in for you.’

  I go and change my shoes, and return to Reception, fastening the poppers on my paw-print top.

  ‘Did you get hold of Gloria?’ I ask Frances, who’s reading a newspaper now, the Talyton Chronicle.

  ‘She says she won’t see a strange vet. She’s going to wait until Emma’s back.’

  ‘Didn’t you explain the situation?’ I’m smarting a little. I know it’s nothing personal – I’d probably be just as choosy if I had pets of my own – but you would have thought that Emma’s clients would have trusted her judgement.

  ‘I told her Ginge could be dead by then, but she wouldn’t budge. What else can I do? I can’t force her.’

  I don’t pursue it any further, and I refrain from asking her to put the newspaper away. It doesn’t do to fall out with your receptionist on your first day.

  ‘Here’s your nine-thirty,’ Frances says, looking past me. ‘Mrs Moss and her daughter, Sinead. They’ve not been to us before.’

  I look at my first customers. Mrs Moss is wearing a green tent-like dress and Sinead’s dark hair has been scraped back into a Croydon facelift. She’s holding an open-topped cardboard box with THIS WAY UP and PERISHABLE GOODS stamped on the side. I cautiously show them into the consulting room where Izzy’s waiting to assist me.

  While Mrs Moss keeps a tissue pressed firmly to her nose, Sinead keeps the box at arms’ length and lowers it carefully onto the table. The stench makes me retch. Steeling myself, I look inside. A tricolour collie pup with an air of desperation in its eyes sits cowed in the bottom, its mouth set in a squiggle, reminding me of Snoopy from the Peanuts cartoon strips. Glistening strings of saliva stretch from its lips to the fringe of a bloodstained baby blanket.

  Mrs Moss informs me that the puppy’s name is Freddie, he’s eleven weeks old and they bought him from a farm while they were on holiday in Wales.

  ‘Has he had his first vaccination yet?’ I ask.

  Sinead stands beside her mother, chewing gum and fiddling with her enormous gold earrings. I repeat the question, but the Mosses remain silent, their expressions blank.

  ‘It’s really important,’ I say, at which Mrs Moss finds her tongue at last.

  ‘He had some of those homeophobic drops – the breeder showed me.’

  ‘You mean homeopathic,’ I suggest gently, yet inside I’m churning with anger on Freddie’s behalf, at both the breeder and Mrs Moss for believing this would be enough to protect him from some of the nastier puppyhood diseases. ‘He has parvo – a viral infection.’ I hold back from angrily adding, Which we could have prevented with a course of conventional, tested vaccine.

  Izzy hands me a pair of disposable gloves and disappears, rolling her eyes.

  ‘I told you.’ Sinead turns to her mother. ‘I told you we should’ve had him checked out.’

  ‘He was fit enough when we got him.’

  I lift the puppy out of the box. ‘Come on, Freddie, let’s have a look at you.’

  He shivers and moans when I press his belly very gently to check for anything that might suggest an alternative diagnosis.

  ‘He’s been passing blood from both ends,’ says Sinead. ‘It’s bad, innit.’ I leave the Mosses in no doubt as to exactly how bad it is, and admit him. I can’t perform miracles though – it’s up to Freddie.

  ‘Give us a call later and I’ll let you know how he’s getting on.’

  ‘Leave it,’ says Mrs Moss, as her daughter makes to pick up the box. Neither of them looks back. The door into Reception closes after them and, like magic, the door behind me opens from the corridor which links the consulting room with the pharmacy, Kennels, prep room and operating theatre. Izzy comes bustling in with a tray of equipment.

  ‘Izzy, anyone would think you were listening at the door.’

  ‘I was,’ she says with a wicked twinkle in her eye, and I’m relieved that her initial shyness with me has already worn off. She takes a close look at Freddie. ‘Poor little scrap. There’s no way he’s eleven weeks – he can’t be more than six. And the label on the box is apt – he looks highly perishable to me.’

  We put Freddie on a drip, dose him with antibiotics and clean him up, then leave him in the isolation cage under the stairs in the corridor on the way to the laundry.

  ‘Oops, I’m sorry,’ Izzy says when she bumps me with her elbow while hanging her plastic apron on the hook outside the cage.

  ‘Not your fault,’ I say. ‘There’s hardly room to swing a cat.’

  ‘Of course, we’d have had a separate ward for patients with infectious diseases if it hadn’t been for Talyton Manor Vets. They called meetings and organised petitions to stop Emma getting planning permission for an extension at the back of the practice. Old Fox-Gifford spent a fortune on whisky – for bribes, allegedly – but why he bothered, I don’t know. A few extra square metres of floor space wouldn’t have hurt anyone.’

  Not for the first time, I admire Emma’s determination in setting this place up. Otter House used to be her family home. Her father ran a dental practice here before he died prematurely, struck by lightning on the golf course at Talysands when Emma was thirteen. Her mother passed away here, almost four years ago now, her body ravaged by a particularly aggressive form of pancreatic cancer. It was her dying wish that Emma should have the house converted so she could run a successful vet practice in her home town.

  ‘I’m sure Emma’s told you I’m more than happy for you to call on me if you need a hand out of hours,’ Izzy says, changing the subject. ‘Do you – oh, perhaps I shouldn’t ask —’

  ‘No, go ahead.’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend, or a significant other? Only, if you want to go out for the evening, I’ll take the phones for you.’

  I shake my head, trying to suppress the image of Mike which appears in my mind – my Mike, not the one who screwed me over with his ex-wife, but the one I fell in love with, the man who made me feel special and loved.

  ‘The nightlife in Talyton won’t be what you’re used to – it’s more bats and owls than clubs, but if you want to meet up and make friends, you could take up rambling, or join the WI, or there’s an ad in the Chronicle for the Countrylovers Dating Agency, if you’re looking for someone special,’ Izzy goes on brightly.

  I swallow hard against the tide of embarrassment and hurt which rises inside me. ‘I’m definitely not in the market for a lonesome farmer,’ I say lightly.

  ‘But you are in the market?’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. Definitely not. I couldn’t go through all that rejection again. I’ve been there, done that, not once, but twice in my life, and that’s enough for me. I give Freddie one last stroke, then discard my gloves. ‘Er, have you seen my stethoscope anywhere?’

  Izzy stares at me. ‘It’s hanging from your neck.’ She grins. ‘Emma did warn me you were a bit dippy.’

  ‘Did she?’ I say, a little
upset by her comment. It’s a bit personal coming from someone I hardly know.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Izzy says hastily.

  ‘It’s all right.’ It’s true, after all.

  ‘I guess you can blame the odd blonde moment on the colour of your hair. Is it natural, that peculiar shade of golden retriever?’ Izzy’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’ She giggles. ‘When will I ever learn to keep my trap shut?’

  Izzy’s like Marmite, I muse a while later when I’m in the consulting room, checking through the yellow Post-it notes Emma’s left on the drawers and cupboards to show me where everything is. With Izzy, there’s no middle way. You either love her or hate her. Luckily, considering I’m going to be working closely with her for the next six months, I suspect it’s going to be the former.

  I smile to myself. Emma did tell me Izzy was frank and straightforward. It isn’t surprising then that she had a chat with Izzy about me. And as for the golden retriever remark, I suppose it is rather amusing.

  As Izzy tops up the vaccine supply in the fridge, I return to my computer and the screen flashes to life:

  Cadbury. Chocolate Labrador. 21 weeks. Entirely male. Vaccination status? Owner: Mrs L. Pitt of Barton Farm ***

  ‘Have you any idea what these asterisks mean, Izzy?’ I ask.

  She looks over my shoulder. ‘It must be some private code. At the practice where I did my training we used them all the time. NGOR was my favourite.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No grip on reality.’ Izzy grins. ‘TPNN was another – take payment now, or never. I’ll ask Frances to come through.’

  Frances joins us, slamming the door behind her and leaning back against it.

  ‘How I wish Old Mr Fox-Gifford was here.’ Her lipstick is bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth. ‘One look from him could silence the most unruly child.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Izzy asks.

  ‘One of Lynsey’s is eating a sample pack of rabbit food like it’s a bag of crisps and another is scribbling on the notices on the board. I’ve threatened them all with a spell on the naughty chair, but will they listen?’ Frances waits as if she’s expecting Izzy or me to go and sort them out.

  ‘I’m not good with children,’ Izzy says quickly.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ I say. ‘First though, Frances, do these asterisks mean anything, or are they down to a slip of the mouse?’

  ‘Alex Fox-Gifford says that it’s a universal code, something every vet learns at vet school.’ The tone of her voice rises, as if she’s questioning my competence. ‘The number of asterisks corresponds with the saying “this year, next year, sometime, never”.’

  Izzy and I look blank.

  ‘It’s a warning to take payment at the time of consultation. The Pitts have always been rather slow at settling their account.’ Frances stares at me. ‘Before you say anything, Maz, I’ve checked that the puppy isn’t registered with Talyton Manor Vets.’ She glances towards the door. ‘I’m sending them in before they wreck the place.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I say, and the boys – six of them, including a set of twins securely strapped into a pushchair – traipse in with their mother, who has a sandy shoulder-length bob, and shades on top of her head. Clearly an expert in the art of multitasking, she has one hand on the buggy and the other clasping a puppy to her breast – a chocolate Labrador with hazel eyes, and skin which falls in wrinkles over its belly.

  ‘I’m Lynsey. I rang the surgery about worms not so long ago.’ She lowers the puppy onto the table where he pads about on oversized paws, wagging his body as well as his tail. He’s gorgeous.

  ‘We had worms once,’ says the oldest boy, who must be about eight.

  ‘Thank you for that, Sam.’ Lynsey’s jacket is Puffa, her jeans are Next Maternity and her wellies Overdown Farmers, local wholesalers of farm supplies. ‘Boys, please be good,’ she says, looking a bit fraught as two of the boys crawl under the table, one starts investigating the contents of the fridge, and the remaining boy on the loose, Sam, mauls Cadbury affectionately about the head. I turn to the one who’s now pulling boxes of vaccines out of the fridge. He reminds me of my brother when he was about four years old, taking eggs out of the fridge and dropping them one by one on the kitchen floor while my mother was out at work and I was in charge.

  ‘Will you stop doing that, please.’ I use my best It’s Me or the Dog voice, one guaranteed to stop the most aggressive hound in its tracks. (Well, almost.) The boy stares at me, his cheeks glistening with snail trails of snot. ‘Now put them away and close the door.’

  He hesitates.

  ‘Didn’t you see the notice on the board in Reception?’ I ask him. ‘The one that says, “Warning, This Vet Bites”.’

  He shakes his head, flicking his hair so that blond strands catch and stick to the snail trails. Keeping his eyes on me, he bends down, picks up the boxes and puts them back in the fridge.

  ‘Thank you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ryan,’ he whispers contritely.

  ‘OK, Ryan, you can come and help me find out what’s wrong with your dog.’

  ‘He’s been very quiet for the past couple of days,’ Lynsey says, although Cadbury looks pretty bright to me, bouncing up and down and slobbering across the table. ‘He’s hungry, but he can’t keep anything down.’

  Cadbury doesn’t make it easy for me to examine him. He thinks it’s a game, but suddenly he stands quietly, his expression mournful.

  ‘It’s probably something he’s eaten,’ I say, at which he retches and throws up a sausage of foamy, dark fabric onto the table in front of us. The boys stare, fascinated.

  ‘Mummy, that’s my sock,’ says Ryan.

  I give Cadbury an injection to settle his stomach, then stick on a pair of gloves and rinse the offending object out in the sink. It is indeed a sock. Thomas the Tank Engine beams at us, unharmed.

  ‘Mum’s been sick like Cadbury,’ Sam observes.

  ‘I can assure you that it isn’t because I’ve been eating socks.’ Lynsey smiles. I like her. She’s friendly and warm, and not in the least bit fazed by seeing me rather than Emma.

  ‘Number seven’s on its way – all I have to do is look at Stewart and I’m pregnant, but if it isn’t a girl this time, I’m going to send it straight back. Thanks – Maz, wasn’t it?’ she goes on after I’ve murmured my congratulations, uncertain whether congratulations are in order or not. ‘It’s marvellous having this practice on our doorstep. I can’t believe how smart it is.’

  ‘It’s cleaner than our house, Mum,’ Sam cuts in.

  ‘Can’t you keep anything to yourself?’ Lynsey sighs. ‘What was I saying? Oh yes, you and Emma have a much nicer bedside manner than Old Fox-Gifford – he scares the living daylights out of the boys. Ryan’s only just stopped wetting the bed since Fox-Gifford last came out to the farm.’

  ‘Barton Farm?’ I say. ‘I spent a few weeks there with Mr Pitt —’

  ‘That would be my father-in-law. Stewart never calls himself that,’ Lynsey interrupts.

  ‘It was when I was a student, doing my preclinical studies. Emma’s mum put me in touch with them – I stayed here at Otter House with her for the summer.’ I remember Stewart – he was quite a bit older than me. I also remember that he had a bit of a reputation with the ladies – not that he tried anything on with me, I hasten to add, probably because most of the time on the farm I went around in an unflattering green boilersuit and smelled of cows.

  ‘That must have been before my time. Stewart’s parents have retired, thank goodness. His dad, bless him, he’s one of those people who’s always right, even when he’s wrong,’ Lynsey says. ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s my job.’ I love my work, the uncertainty of what you’re going to see next, the adrenaline rush of tackling an emergency, the highs and even some of the lows.

  ‘One other thing,’ I say, ‘have you thought about castration at all?’

  She l
ooks around at her sons and laughs. ‘I think about it pretty often, but Stewart isn’t too keen on the idea. As for Cadbury, I’ll see how it goes. How much do I owe you?’

  I check on the computer in the consulting room. Emma has everything itemised, so all I have to do is type in what I’ve done, press ‘enter’ and wait. That’s the theory anyway.

  The screen flickers and goes black, then a message box pops up:

  Fatal Exception at 00000xxxt2zzx

  ‘It didn’t like that, did it?’ says Lynsey.

  I head out to Reception with her and the boys to find out what’s happened.

  ‘I didn’t touch it, Maz.’ Frances is on her feet, flapping. ‘Really, I didn’t.’

  ‘Can’t you reboot it, or something?’

  Frances sticks her specs on the end of her nose, leans her hands on the desk and peers at the keyboard.

  ‘Try the power button,’ I suggest. ‘Switch it off and on again.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘No, but I can’t think of anything else to do, and Lynsey’s waiting for her bill.’ I hesitate. ‘Emma said you were familiar with computers.’

  ‘I can google like the best of them, but old Mr Fox-Gifford preferred me not to interfere with anything electrical. “Frances,” he used to say, “don’t you dare, on pain of a lingering death, lay a finger on the equipment.”’

  ‘All right, I’ll ask Nigel to sort it out later.’ I tell Lynsey that we’ll send her an invoice.

  ‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘I’m a little short this week – I could do with a bit of free credit.’

  I help her load Cadbury and the boys into the Land Rover parked outside. Not the most successful start. So far, I’ve taken no money, seen hardly any clients and the computer’s crashed. The responsibility of running my best friend’s practice is beginning to weigh far more heavily on my shoulders than I imagined it would.

  I’m missing Crossways, the comforting sounds of the city, the constant swish of traffic, the jets flying in and out of Heathrow, and the rumble and whirr of the trains, and it’s even quieter here in Otter House at night than it is in the daytime. You can hear the house breathing: the creak of a door upstairs as it rocks on its hinges; the intermittent firing up of the boiler; and from out the back, the higher pitched hum of the freezer (for dead animal bodies, not your Ben & Jerry’s).