“I’ll go,” I say. “I’ve finished here. If he hasn’t been sick again by coffee time, you can try him with some fluid by mouth.”
It isn’t the Mosses. It’s Cheryl—I might have known from the way she was pressing that bell—and she’s holding a cat carrier.
“I didn’t think you’d mind me popping in like this, seeing as you did the surgery the other night. Call me a fussy mummy if you like, but I’m worried about Saffy.”
I don’t mind at all. I’m always happy to help, and it isn’t as if I’m rushed off my feet.
“How’s she doing?” I ask as, once in the consulting room, Cheryl extracts a reluctant Saffy from the carrier and turns her on her back so I can examine her.
“Okay, I suppose, but I was wondering about the wound.” There is a note of complaint in Cheryl’s voice. “It’s much longer than Alex would have made it.”
The wound looks fine to me. It’s healing nicely, and it’s no longer than average. What did she want me to do? I wonder. Cut the kitten into pieces to get it out of a smaller hole?
“Everything’s as I’d expect at this stage,” I say calmly.
“Are you sure?” She twists up her necklace of oversize beads the same color as her red shift dress.
“Absolutely.” It’s obvious that Cheryl adores her cats, but her concern seems a little over the top to me. “Why don’t you make an appointment with Talyton Manor Vets for five days’ time—they’ll be able to take Saffy’s stitches out then.”
“You can’t whip them out now, while I’m here?”
“No, definitely not.” I hesitate. “Does Alex—?”
Cheryl shakes her head. “He says it’s too risky. ‘Cheryl,’ he says, ‘taking stitches out too early is like playing Russian roulette with your cat’s life.’”
I’d love to be able to put one over on the Fox-Giffords by saying he’s wrong, but I have to tell Cheryl that he’s quite right.
“In that case, I’ll wait. Vet’s orders.” Cheryl points back into the carrier, where a scrap of blue-cream fluff lies curled up, half covered with a piece of purple fleece. “By the way, we’ve decided to call Saffy’s baby after you because you saved her and her mummy’s life. She’s called Cheriam Maz.”
“I’m—er, flattered.” I stumble over my words, trying to accept this honor gracefully and without an attack of giggles. I’ve never had a cat named after me.
“Oh, I almost forgot—I’ve left you some Belgian buns at Reception.”
“Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”
I open the door on the carrier to let Saffy back in with her kitten as Cheryl goes on, “Miriam and I always want the best for our babies. The Fox-Giffords are jacks-of-all-trades, but you are a specialist.”
I can guess what’s coming. “Are you sure?” I say, preempting her. Although I admit it would be great to win over a few more clients for Emma’s business, I have a suspicion that Cheryl, with her particular brand of fussiness, could end up as the Client from Hell.
“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” she says dramatically.
“If you want to register with us, I’ll have to contact Talyton Manor Vets for your records.”
That stops her in her tracks, but not for long.
“Do you have to? Only, we’ve had our babies with the Fox-Giffords for a long time and I’m a bit embarrassed about leaving them.”
“It’s important we have the records for your cats’ safety, as well as being a professional courtesy,” I point out as I open the door into Reception to make it clear the consultation is over. It’ll also give me the opportunity to introduce myself, which won’t be a bad thing. If I’m going to be here for six months, I’m bound to run into one or other of the Fox-Giffords at some time.
However, when I ring the Talyton Manor practice, the person at the end of the line is far from courteous as I explain who I am and what I’m after.
“Maz! What kind of name is that?” Snort. “Bloody hell! I knew this was going to happen, but would anyone listen to me?”
Izzy looks on, eyebrows raised, as I hold the handset away from my ear. I can still hear Old Mr. Fox-Gifford’s deep and angry breathing as I continue. “It’s Cheryl’s prerogative. It’s up to her.”
“The middle of town’s no place for a vet practice. Problems with parking, barking, and dog shit everywhere. It’s a complete menace, and I’ve said so all along.”
“I beg your pardon,” I say. I’m not sure what he’s ranting on about.
“You gave our receptionist delusions of grandeur and lured her away, and now you’re poaching our clients.”
“It’s nothing of the sort,” I protest. (I always find it easier to argue when I’m not personally responsible.)
“What did you say to her, eh? Eh? Did you make out you were better than us because you specialize in small animals? Did you offer her free samples of that dried-out, processed crap that passes as pet food?”
“It is pet food,” I say.
“Our cats and dogs should be eating what nature intended.”
“Which is, in your not so humble opinion?”
“Raw meat and bones!”
“This is the twenty-first century, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I’m not sure why I’m wasting my breath, because Old Mr. Fox-Gifford isn’t listening to me.
“I don’t know what the profession’s coming to, but make no mistake about it, I’ll be dealing with this. In my own way.”
“Which is?” I say, realizing I’d be in a better position to cope if I knew what he was proposing, but he doesn’t enlighten me. There’s a loud bang, as if he’s thrown the handset to the floor, and a humming tone before the connection cuts out altogether. I doubt very much that I’m ever going to see any sign of those records. I doubt very much that his phone will ever work again either.
I guess they’re empty threats. I mean, there isn’t anything he can do, is there? I’ve come across plenty of grumpy old men like him, and their barks usually turn out to be worse than their bites. No, Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t scare me.
Frances doesn’t scare me either when, during my lunch break, she calls me downstairs to see another client who’s dropped by without an appointment.
“It’s Mr. Gilbert with a dog called Arnie. I took the liberty of sending him to wait in the consulting room while Izzy finds the dogcatcher in the storeroom.”
Dogcatcher? I can’t imagine that Izzy resorts to that too often.
“Are you sure you aren’t winding me up, Frances?” I say lightly as I approach the consulting room door, at which a low, visceral growl stops me in my tracks, providing me with the definitive answer. I push the door open and walk in, my heart beating faster.
Arnie is a black and tan mixed-breed dog, a bit of Doberman, a bit of Rottie, maybe some pit bull terrier and mastiff thrown in too. He must weigh in at well over fifty kilos. He staggers away from me like a drunk, bumping into the leg of the table, his eyes glazed over and froth dripping from his mouth. I back off, pressing my palms against the door behind me.
“He’s gone mad, like,” says a man’s voice.
I don’t dare take my eyes off the dog, but I’m vaguely aware that there’s a man on the table, squatting on his heels. I’m guessing that it’s Mr. Gilbert.
“I don’t know what’s got into him,” he goes on. “Normally he’s a complete pussycat.”
Arnie turns, sways from side to side, stares at me for a moment, then gathers himself together and throws himself toward me. As I dodge to one side, he keeps going, crashing headfirst into the door. Within a heartbeat, he regains his feet, blood pouring from his nose, and staggers back in my direction.
There’s only one thing for it. I make a flying jump for the table and join Arnie’s owner. He’s bald, tattooed with a spider’s web on the side of his neck, and built like a boxer—that’s the profession, not the dog—and I don’t think he’s taken refuge here in expectation of receiving a full clinical exam.
We cling together like the l
ast two survivors on the Titanic and watch Arnie flounder. His muscles start to twitch, he growls, and then he goes berserk, running up the wall before throwing himself backward onto the floor with a hideous crash. He remains where he landed, lying flat out on his side, his legs paddling full pelt.
Mr. Gilbert is close to tears. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“He’s having a fit, but don’t think about that right now. We have to get you out of here before he gets up again.” The last thing I want is anyone getting hurt. Imagine the headline in the Chronicle: KILLER DOG MASSACRE. I grab at Mr. Gilbert’s arm, help him down from the table and, steering well clear of Arnie, lead him out to Reception, closing the door firmly behind me.
“Take a seat,” I tell him, but he declines. He must be in his late twenties, fond of the gym, and I’d guess a family man, judging by the white, malodorous stains on his black vest, which could be baby sick.
“My wife called me at work, told me to come straight home because the dog’d gone mad and she was afraid for the kids.” He worries at his lip. “He’s only a puppy himself. Eleven months old.” He pauses. “Do you think it’s something he’s eaten?”
“I don’t know what’s going on just yet,” I say, “and I won’t until I’ve had the chance to examine him.”
“He’ll rip your throat out,” Mr. Gilbert says apprehensively.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. I’m used to handling difficult and aggressive dogs, but even so I suppress a quiver of fear at the thought of what lies behind that consulting room door. “Frances will get you a cup of tea.” I give her a hard stare. “Won’t you, Frances?”
“Leave it to me. I like a good crisis.” She looks past my shoulder as I hear the door open. “Here comes the cavalry. It’s young Mr. Fox-Gifford. What a stroke of luck, him turning up out of the blue like this just when we need him. Maz, help is at hand.”
I turn to find myself face-to-face (well, almost, considering he’s a few inches taller than I am) with the man I met down by the river. This time, he isn’t riding his horse. He has his keys in one hand and a bundle of notes in the other.
“Hi,” he says.
“Er, hi,” I stammer, ducking the gaze of his fiercely blue eyes and focusing instead on the way his hair, dark and curling at the ends, is ruffled and adorned with strands of hay. It actually looks as if he’s just tumbled out of a haystack.
“Oh, Alex, I’m so relieved,” Frances begins, touching her chest as if she’s about to swoon.
Not half so relieved as I am that he shows no sign of recognizing me. I suspect he’s already marked me down as a fool by my mere presence here, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to suffer fools gladly.
Frances fills him in on Arnie, twittering on like an awestruck fan. “It’s just chased poor Maz and Mr. Gilbert out of the consulting room. It’s foaming at the mouth. There you go”—she’s positively glowing with triumph suddenly—“I’ve made the diagnosis for you—it’s got rabies.”
“Thanks for that, Frances,” I say crossly, trying to regain some control of the situation. There are two kinds of rabies—dumb and furious—and at this precise moment, I’m pretty furious with Frances. “It isn’t rabies. Arnie’s having an epileptic fit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Frances merely looks at me as if I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’ll have to have another word with her later about the dangers of making her own diagnoses and giving out advice.
“I’ll deal with it,” Alex says, making to step past me.
“Excuse me,” I cut in. “You can’t do that.” And he stares at me with an expression that reads “I can do anything I like,” and I can feel myself growing hot and angry with him for striding in and attempting to take over. Alex hesitates, stopping to listen as Arnie begins yelping and scrabbling as if he’s trying to dig himself out. It doesn’t last long, and in the ensuing silence Alex heads for the door and pushes it open.
“This has nothing to do with you,” I say, following him. “This isn’t your practice, in case you haven’t noticed. Arnie’s my patient.”
“There’s no need to make a drama out of it,” he says, shutting the door in my face.
“All right then,” I yell at the door, my cheeks burning with fury. Not only is it none of his business but I’m responsible for the safety of everyone on the premises and, unfortunately, that includes him. “On your head be it! See if I care.”
“I’ve found it.” Izzy rushes into Reception with the dogcatcher, an adjustable wire noose on the end of a metal pole. “It was tucked behind the bins. I can’t remember when we last used it.” She stops short. “What’s up? Am I too late?”
“Sadly, you’re not,” I say sarcastically, my voice drowned out by the sound of shouting. Suddenly, Alex Fox-Gifford comes flying out of the consulting room, slamming the door behind him. He clutches his thigh where a triangle of material has come away from his trousers, then looks up, his cheeks pale and damp.
“He got me,” he says, eyes wide with astonishment.
“Serves you right,” I say without sympathy, but he looks past me, toward Izzy.
“I’ll have that.” He snatches the dogcatcher and heads back in.
Izzy turns to me.
“Don’t ask.”
“You might need this.” Izzy hands me three small syringes of anesthetic. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t find any bigger ones. We must’ve run out.”
“I’ll manage,” I say. “Would you bring a couple of extra vials through, please?” I’m pretty sure I’m going to need them.
“I can’t, Maz,” Izzy says. “This is all we’ve got, and the new order still isn’t in yet.”
I gingerly open the consulting room door, hoping that I can make do with what we’ve got. Arnie is lying on his side in the far corner, thrashing all four legs around as if he’s running for his life. The air is hot with his breath.
“I’ll have the dogcatcher,” I say quietly to Alex. “You look after the anesthetic.” As Alex opens his mouth to protest, I shut him up with a glare.
“Arnie’s my patient. I’m in charge,” I say, and Alex hands me the dogcatcher in exchange for the syringes, not meekly but with a snatch of resentment that I’m not going to let him do the heroics.
“Thank you.” I approach Arnie, one slow step at a time, aware of my heart knocking against my ribs. I keep the dogcatcher in front of me, just in case. “There’s a good boy,” I murmur, but Arnie doesn’t give any indication that he can hear me.
Standing well back behind him, I reach out with the noose, letting it touch his nose before I slip it onto his muzzle and tug it back over his ears, where I secure it tightly. I hang on to the pole so that Alex can move safely round beside me. He squats down, steadies one of Arnie’s back legs, and shoots a dose of anesthetic straight into a vein.
Gradually, Arnie stops paddling. I loosen the noose and take a couple of steps closer so I can check on his airway and reflexes. There are three stages of anesthesia—awake, asleep, and dead—and I’m praying for the second one. It looks promising: Arnie’s uppermost eye is half-closed and his tongue is slack. I bend down and … snap! His head flies up and he’s grabbing for me, for the pole, for anything within his reach.
I yank at the wire, tightening the noose hard until it’s choking him. Alex injects more anesthetic, and Arnie begins to relax again. I loosen the noose once more, and gradually his tongue turns from deep purple back to pink. We watch him for a minute, maybe two, then Arnie raises his lip, and his throat vibrates with a warning growl.
“I’ll make damn certain he’s out for the count this time,” Alex says, topping up the anesthetic again.
I really hope so, I think, counting the syringes sticking out of Alex’s back pocket, because there isn’t any more …
“I’ll have a chat with Mr. Gilbert,” I say. “Send him in, will you?”
Alex looks up at me, his eyes wide with concern. I’m not sure whether he’s being chivalrous or he thinks I’m incapa
ble of dealing with the situation. “I think I should stay …”
“I didn’t ask for your help in the first place, and I don’t need it now. Please leave,” I say sternly. Alex doesn’t move, and I’ve got a dog coming round on the floor and no more anesthetic … What language does he understand? I wonder. I’m obviously being far too polite. “Just go!” I say in desperation. “Get the hell out of my consulting room!”
“Is he still here?” I ask Frances once I’ve brought the Arnie-Gilbert episode to a conclusion.
“If you mean Alex, he’s out the back.”
“What did you let him go out there for?”
“I didn’t,” Frances says. “Izzy showed him through.”
“Oh, fantastic.” I stomp off down the corridor, following the scent of hot, damp cotton to where Izzy is unloading sterilized drapes from the autoclave. Emma would go ballistic if she knew a Fox-Gifford was snooping around her practice. “Where is he?”
“That way.” Izzy points to the door into the operating theater. “I wouldn’t—”
I shove the door open.
“Too late,” she sighs.
There in front of me is Alex Fox-Gifford, trousers in one hand, needle and nylon thread from one of the suture dispensers in the other.
“Oh, er, sorry.” Embarrassed, I start backing out, then change my mind. What have I got to apologize for? I’m allowed to be here.
“We haven’t been introduced,” Alex says as he stares at me, one eyebrow raised, his expression quizzical. “It is you.” He grins. “I don’t believe it, you’re the bog snorkeler?”
I can’t deny it. Suddenly it seems extraordinarily hot, and it isn’t just because Izzy has left the autoclave open next door.
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