Vets of the Heart

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Maybe that’s what I should have done,’ he says gruffly. ‘I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘You said yourself that recovery can take weeks.’

  ‘He can’t walk, Shannon.’ He swears. ‘I was expecting some sign of improvement immediately post-surgery.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘This is a disaster.’

  I wish I could do or say something to console him.

  ‘You know that feeling you get sometimes, when you try so hard and nothing seems to work out?’

  I nod. I don’t think he’s just referring to Sherbet.

  ‘That’s how I feel right now.’ He sighs. ‘I’ll have a chat with Emily later.’

  I wish he’d confide in me. It isn’t just the dog. There’s something else that’s eating him, but what is it? Heidi again? His father?

  I have to admire Sherbet’s bravery and determination, because a week later he’s still with us, having been confined to his cage. The three vets have a meeting in Kennels to assess the situation. I hold on to Sherbet’s front end, stroking his bald ears, which feel like rubber – not that there’s any real need to restrain him. He isn’t going very far.

  ‘I’m really depressed about this,’ Ross says. ‘He’s shown very little improvement; all I’ve done is raised everyone’s hopes and dashed them.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ Maz says.

  ‘You don’t know until you try with these cases,’ Emma says.

  ‘What now? How long do I give him?’

  ‘You can’t give up on him yet,’ I join in. I can’t help it. I’ve been the one who’s been feeding him by hand when he’s too sad to eat, carrying him out to the garden, changing his bed and bathing him when he soils himself.

  ‘I know you’re fond of him,’ Emma says, ‘but Emily and Murray can’t afford months of rehab. It’s already been a week and we’ve given them quite a discount on his hospital fees.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I cut in. ‘I don’t mind coming in early and staying late.’

  ‘You do that anyway,’ Ross says.

  ‘Yes, and we’re very grateful for that,’ Maz says.

  ‘Not grateful enough to turn it into paid overtime, though,’ he adds.

  ‘Please don’t.’ I glare at him. I know he means well, but I don’t want to upset the partners. Insisting on paying me for extra hours isn’t going to help Sherbet’s cause.

  ‘She’s too nice to ask you for more pay, but it isn’t fair to expect a member of staff to be here day and night and stuck on the same salary,’ he goes on, ignoring me.

  ‘We can look into that later,’ Emma says. ‘What are we going to do about Sherbet?’

  ‘I’m happy to match Shannon’s generosity,’ Ross offers. ‘I’ll come in early and stay late to give him the veterinary treatment he requires.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Maz says, apparently warming to the idea.

  ‘We aren’t a charity though,’ Emma says coolly. I know she struggled to balance the books in the past. It was before I started work at Otter House, when she went off on holiday, leaving Maz to pick up the pieces. I’ve heard from Frances that the bailiffs were pretty well knocking at the door. I don’t see what the problem is now, though. The practice is thriving, unless the partners have overstretched themselves by converting the flat and buying and doing up the property for the branch surgery. Maybe Emma’s just being tight. ‘We can’t do it for every client. Is it fair to offer free treatment to just one? It will be all over town in five minutes that we’re doing discounts.’

  Maz gazes at her partner. ‘We’ve made similar arrangements before. We can keep the hospitalisation fees to a minimum, just enough to cover our costs. Which is worse? To miss out on a small amount of income or put the dog to sleep?’

  ‘All right. You’re right.’ Emma looks at Sherbet. ‘He’s a funny little chap. We’ll do this on the understanding that if he isn’t showing steady improvement, then we make the decision.’ She smiles. ‘Thanks, everyone.’

  I thank Ross later.

  ‘I’m not sure Emma would have gone for it if you hadn’t supported me,’I say.

  ‘Maz would have done. You didn’t need me, but, having done the op, I want to see this through. I’ve spoken to Emily and she’s over the moon. She’s bringing a bag of Sherbet’s food in for him.’

  ‘Where do we go next?’

  ‘He has two more weeks of cage rest to look forward to, then we’ll have to think about some rehab in the form of physio and hydrotherapy.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t make any difference and he still can’t walk and lead a normal life?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.’ He smiles and my heart melts. ‘I’m learning that sometimes when you want something badly enough and it’s really worth having, you have to be incredibly patient . . .’

  I find myself remembering his words every now and then. He wasn’t referring to Sherbet alone. He was talking in general. Is it possible that he means he’s waiting for me? I wonder if I should say something to make it clear that the moment has gone, but that would be opening myself up to further hurt, like a wound breaking down. It’s true, I think, that some things are better unsaid.

  I keep myself busy. I tolerate Godfrey and the prostate, do a shift now and again in the shop for Mum, walk Seven and spend a lot of time on Sherbet’s rehab, doing basic physio exercises to keep his muscles from wasting. I get to take him to a practice on the other side of Exeter for several sessions in a pool for dogs, learning from the qualified canine hydrotherapist who looks after it, but although he can move his back legs when he’s in the water, he can’t support his weight on them. I’ve perfected the art of using a tea towel as a sling to hold him up so he can relieve himself and take a few steps around the lawn, and I turn him regularly when he’s in his kennel so he doesn’t end up with bed sores.

  I love Sherbet and he loves me. He yaps and wags his tail every time I walk past him.

  ‘He’s getting stronger,’ I say to Ross when we have him out in the garden one morning. The dog pricks his ears and wags his tail, all excited, until he realises he can’t chase the birds or play with the kitten, and his ears go down and he sniffs at the ground. I’m determined he’s going to put on a good show, though, because I don’t want anyone saying that he should be put to sleep.

  ‘Look.’ I lift him into a standing position and he holds it for two or three minutes, trembling towards the end when he sits back down. I place a treat about a metre in front of him. He sniffs the air and looks at me as if to say: you don’t expect me to go and get that, do you?

  I’m aware of Ross’s expression. He looks decidedly doubtful.

  ‘I’m not expecting him to be doing tricks or handstands or anything like that, but this isn’t looking great.’

  ‘He’s being lazy,’ I say quickly. ‘He’s got used to me picking him up all the time.’

  I let him sniff at the treat before I put it back in its place. This time, he thinks it’s worth going for, and he drags himself along on his front legs and snaffles it down.

  ‘Good boy,’ I say, before turning back to the arbiter of the final judgement. ‘I know it isn’t much, but he is happy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think you’re living in false hope. No one could have worked harder than you—’

  ‘Before you give up on him,’ I interrupt, ‘I’ve been researching the options and I reckon he’d do very well with a set of wheels. He’s the ideal candidate. Please, he’s got this far . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighs. ‘I’ve only ever had one patient on wheels – he was an older dog with all kinds of problems and it’s my opinion that keeping him going just prolonged the agony for everyone.’

  ‘Sherbet isn’t in pain, though, and his health is good. I think he’d adapt very quickly.’

  Ross looks down to where the dog is gazing up at us, as if he understands every word.

  ‘Okay, but I think Emily will say I’m off my trolley if I suggest t
he dog has one.’ He smiles. ‘I’ll talk to her about it.’

  ‘Make sure you use all your charms to persuade her.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says with a cheeky grin, before growing serious. ‘Can I charm you into going out for a drink after work tonight?’ he goes on. His eyes are filled with warmth, taking me back to a time before the accident when he made love to me.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I say, unable to stop myself blushing.

  ‘Are you otherwise engaged?’ he asks, raising one eyebrow.

  ‘I’m busy, I’m afraid,’ I confirm, relieved when he doesn’t question me further. I don’t want to go out in public unless I absolutely have to, and I don’t want to go backwards now that I’ve got this far in getting my head straight. I still dream that Ross is holding me in his arms and kissing me, and my heart still skips a beat when I hear his motorbike, but I can cope with it. I’m in remission, like Lucky appears to be. When Jennie brought him in last with a scratch on his eye, she said he seemed back to his old self, and Maz couldn’t find any sign of cancer when she examined him.

  Emily agrees to order a trolley for Sherbet. When it arrives, he takes one look at it and turns away in disgust. I set it up, adjusting the padding and strapping so he’s comfortable; although he isn’t impressed with it dragging along behind him, he’s ecstatic outside, wandering along the path, sniffing and running at the kitten with a yelp of pure joy at regaining his freedom.

  Job done, I think. He has every chance of leading a long and happy life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The World’s Best Vet Nurse

  ‘There’s someone to see you.’ Celine looks around the door into Kennels. I’m scooping cat food into a bowl for Tilly, who’s sitting on the prep bench, mewing for her meal. I know, I should chase her off, but Izzy isn’t about. ‘Come on in,’ she calls down the corridor, and I can hear a scuffle of claws, a faint but repetitive squeak and a child’s giggles. I’m about to remind her of another of the practice rules – no clients beyond the consulting room – when Poppy appears, tripping over her dress in her red wellies, with her mum and Sherbet, who rushes up on his trolley to greet me with a sharp ‘woof’.

  ‘Hello.’ I squat down to greet him as the kitten hisses and arches her back. ‘How’s my favourite patient?’

  ‘He’s doing wheelie well, as you can see,’ Emily jokes.

  ‘He sounds as if he needs some WD40 to me,’ Celine says.

  ‘What are you going to say to Shannon?’ Emily gives Poppy a nudge.

  She frowns, holds her finger to her mouth and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling, as if she’s trying to recall a dim and distant memory. Emily bends down and whispers in her ear. She smiles but, overcome by shyness, she can only stand there with her finger in her mouth now, as her mum speaks for her.

  ‘We’ve brought you a present to say thank you for all you’ve done for Sherbet.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Poppy says, suddenly finding her tongue.

  ‘It’s a thank you present, not a birthday one.’ Emily smiles as she hands Poppy a small box wrapped in gold paper, which Poppy solemnly passes to me.

  ‘Thank you very much.’ Suddenly, I feel as if I want to cry. ‘It’s a lovely thought, but you shouldn’t have . . .’ I read the label – Love from Poppy and Shebert xx – written in pink felt-tip pen.

  ‘Open it,’ she says. ‘It’s a special—’

  ‘Sh,’ Emily cuts in. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘It’s a special surprise mug,’ Poppy goes on, her excitement uncontained, as she helps me tear the paper and open the box to find a mug with a photo of Sherbet on his trolley and ‘To the World’s Best Vet Nurse’ printed beneath it.

  ‘Oh, that’s amazing, the best present ever.’ I bend down to give her a hug. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘We thought you might find it useful. When we brought him in that first time, I couldn’t have dreamed we’d take him home one day. He’s brilliant with the trolley, except he gets stuck in the mud at times. Murray’s planning to make him a new one, a cross-country version with wider tyres, so he isn’t so restricted.’

  ‘No, Mummy.’ Poppy frowns and tugs at her mother’s jacket. ‘That isn’t right. The elves are going to make it. I asked Father Christmas.’

  ‘So you did. I remember now. We saw Santa and his reindeer at the garden centre the other day. Are you doing anything special for Christmas, Shannon?’

  ‘I’ll be working.’ I’m on call with Ross. ‘I don’t mind – I’ll have the New Year off.’ I don’t let on that I prefer to be here at the practice than with Mum and Godfrey, who are planning their first Christmas together.

  ‘We’ll see you at the manor for the New Year’s do.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’ I’m not sure I’ll go this year, even though I’m invited as part of the Otter House contingent. I can’t feel any great enthusiasm about spending hours glamming up and putting on make-up – I’m talking about thick, scar-disguising potions – so I can face attending a large social gathering where I’ll end up fending off endless questions and, worst of all, sympathy. I can still sense it – though not with Emily. She’s one of the people who’ve been able to see past my disfigurement. No, a party at the manor is too much for me. I’d rather be on my own than trying to pretend everything is normal.

  ‘Happy Christmas, if we don’t see you before.’

  ‘And to you.’ I watch Emily take Poppy’s hand and head for the door with Sherbet’s trolley squeaking along behind them. ‘Just a minute,’ I call after them. I pick up the can of clipper oil from the prep bench and give both wheels a quick spray. ‘How’s that?’

  Emily pats her thigh, encouraging him to take a couple of steps towards her.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ she says.

  ‘Neither can I.’

  It’s the perfect result, I think, once they’ve gone. Happy dog, happy clients, and one very happy vet nurse. I smile at Sherbet’s photo. It’s wonderful to be appreciated, which reminds me that I need to do my Christmas shopping.

  I’m leaving it a bit late this year and, a couple of days after Sherbet’s visit, I find myself wandering through Talyton St George – having bought most of my presents in Exeter – looking for those last-minute gifts. I buy a top that Mum saw in the window of Aurora’s Cave. It’s all glitter and lace, and more than likely too long, considering how it fitted the six-foot, size six mannequin, but she said she loved it when we were walking past with Seven the other day. I decide to buy a bottle of malt for Godfrey from Lacey’s Fine Wines, where Mr Lacey invites me to try some samples.

  As I’m getting quietly sozzled, he asks after Mum and the shop, and wishes me the compliments of the season, as he puts it. While I watch him wrap my chosen bottle in tissue paper and slip it into a gift bag, I can’t help wondering if he’s deliberately making his customers tipsy so they’ll spend more.

  I almost fall out of the shop, tripping on the step, straight into the path of Penny’s speeding wheelchair, forcing her to slam on the brakes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as the chocolate lab with his pink nose and yellow jacket jumps up at me.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Penny says, ‘I really should have a speed limiter on this thing.’ She’s wrapped in a purple cape with only her eyes visible. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. Hello, Trevor,’ I try not to encourage him, but he’s impossible to ignore.

  ‘Are you busy? Only I’ve got another half-hour to kill before Declan can pick me up. Do you fancy coffee and a cake at the Copper Kettle – that’s if you have time and you’re not dashing back to work or something? My treat.’ It seems as if she’s already decided for me because she rattles on, ‘My lovely dog is allowed inside now he’s qualified.’

  ‘He passed then? Clever Trevor.’ I notice he has a piece of red tinsel fastened around his collar.

  ‘Just, thanks to you,’ she smiles as we make our way along to the Copper Kettle. ‘I don’t think he’d have made the grade without the
time you put in.’ I hold the door open and Trevor hurries on ahead, hopeful that there’ll be someone to play with. He isn’t disappointed. The teashop is packed with families who have taken shelter from the winter drizzle to wait for Father Christmas to make his annual parade along the high street. There appears to be a crisis, though, because rumour has it that one of the reindeer that Fifi from the garden centre has hired for the occasion is sick and having treatment from one of the Talyton Manor vets – and someone is trying to source a pair of horses or a tractor to pull Santa’s wheeled sleigh instead.

  Trevor greets everyone as if they’re his long-lost friends, even those he hasn’t met before. Most of the children adore him, but Cheryl isn’t so keen. I can sense her bristling from behind the counter and hear the shake of disapproval from the metal cats that dangle from her earlobes. I take hold of his collar and drag him to a table near the door. I sit down opposite Penny, who removes her cape, revealing the colourful beads and some tinsel in her hair.

  We order scones, jam and clotted cream, with a pot of tea.

  ‘That dog is safe?’ Cheryl asks when she brings our cream tea across. She gazes at my face as she lays cups and saucers from the tray across the blue and yellow gingham tablecloth, but doesn’t say anything. It’s as if she’s noticed a piece of spinach between my teeth and she doesn’t want to embarrass either of us by mentioning it. Sometimes, I feel like I am the scar. ‘I don’t want any of my customers getting bitten.’

  ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Penny says, hurt on her dog’s behalf. He rests his head on her lap and gazes up with a mournful expression in his eyes.

  ‘It’s my experience that dog owners are blind to their pets’ faults,’ Cheryl counters.

  ‘I’m the first to admit that Trevor has his issues,’ Penny says sternly, ‘but I can assure you that eating people isn’t one of them. Now, can we enjoy our tea, or would you like us to leave?’

  ‘I apologise.’ Cheryl backs away. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m a cat person, not a dog lover.’