City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “Fifi—ugh, I can’t stand that woman—she wanted to split them up, but I couldn’t bear it. It would have broken their little hearts to be separated. You may mock, but they’ve been together since they were eight weeks old.”

  “I’m not mocking.” I stand up again. “Now, where’s the cattery?”

  “That’s it.” Gloria waves her hand dismissively toward the wall of concrete blocks straight ahead of us. “There, you’ve got what you wanted. You’ve seen it.”

  “Gloria, I’m not stupid.”

  “I would show you around, but I seem to have mislaid the key”—she pats the pockets on her housecoat—“and you must be needed back at the surgery by now.”

  “You’d better un-mislay it,” I tell her. “I’m going to fetch the visit case from the car. If nothing else, the little black cat needs treatment for its skin, Mac’s claws could do with a trim, and we need to think of the best way to wipe out all those fleas.”

  “Fleas? I don’t have fleas.”

  “You don’t, but your carpets are alive with them. I’ve seen kittens die from anemia with that level of infestation.”

  Alternately I bully and cajole her, and ten minutes later, after I’ve fetched the visit case, the key miraculously appears from the depths of her pocket. Gloria fiddles with the padlock on the bolt of the door into a long, low building behind the yard. The sound of howling crescendos. I try to look through the tiny window to the side, but the view’s blocked by a bag of animal feed.

  “I have to keep the dogs and cats in the same building at the moment because the roof of the old kennels leaks,” Gloria explains. Finally, the padlock comes away and she pushes the door open. “Good morning, my darlings,” she coos, and the dogs go quiet.

  It’s afternoon, I want to say, and it’s a bit late for breakfast.

  “How often do you feed them?”

  “Every day. I go without so that my animals are fed.” Gloria fumbles at the wall, and a light comes on. “Come inside, if you must.”

  “I must.” If the smell in the house was bad, this is ten times worse. I run straight back outside and throw up in the grass by the door. Trying to hide my embarrassment and find a way to breathe through the stench, I tuck my nose into my top and head back in. Gloria seems oblivious to my struggle and the smell.

  She shows me into the first small room off the main corridor.

  “This is where I wash up and prepare the dinners.” She waves vaguely at the sink, which is stacked with bowls; a sack of rubbish, which spews its foul contents across the floor; and a workbench crowded with tanks and cages, some on top of each other like slum tenements. Something inside one of the cages starts to rattle: a gerbil on a wheel. When I look closer, I discover that Gloria’s retreat for small furries is running at 100 percent occupancy.

  “You see,” says Gloria. “They all have food and water.”

  It’s true, although the water in the various bottles and dishes doesn’t look too clean and there seem to be more husks than seeds in the various receptacles that she’s using as food containers.

  “I clean everyone out at least once a week, unless I’m not feeling up to it,” Gloria goes on. “I haven’t been so good recently.”

  “Don’t you have help?”

  “I don’t need help. Fifi said I’d never manage without her and Talyton Animal Rescue, but I manage perfectly well—better, in fact, without her constant interference. And I can manage without your help too. I haven’t asked for it.”

  “Let’s take a look at the rest now,” I say, ignoring her protests. Somewhat subdued, Gloria leads me back into the corridor, which is lined with walk-in cages on either side. The building is well-constructed, each cage having access to an outside run, but it’s showing signs of neglect.

  The occupant of the first cage stands on its hind legs and starts mewing and batting at the wire in the door. There’s a bowl of water and a litter tray overflowing with wet clay. There’s an empty washing-up bowl on the stage above its head, which I assume is where it sleeps.

  The occupant of the next cage is less fortunate. It’s a scrawny tortoiseshell cat lying flat out on her side, hardly breathing, her eyes staring into the corner where a shaft of sunlight enters the building through a gap between the walls and the roof. As I unbolt the door and enter, she utters the low howl of distress of an animal that’s too far gone.

  What a miserable way to end your life, I think as I turn to Gloria, my voice grating in my throat. “What’s going on here?”

  “That’s my Molly.” Her voice quavers. “She’s been sick for a while, but she seemed so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb her. I knew what you’d say if I brought her to the surgery …”

  “I think it’s time to let Molly go, don’t you?” I open the visit case. “Have you got a blanket or towel handy, Gloria?”

  She fetches a rather grubby towel, and I pick Molly up and wrap her in it, leaving her head and front legs exposed. I hand her over to Gloria, who holds her while I give her the final injection and a merciful release.

  “I wish they’d close their little eyes.” Gloria tries to hold the cat’s eyelids closed, but they won’t stay.

  “I’ll take her back to the surgery with me.”

  “Not straightaway.” Gloria nuzzles the dead cat, staring up at me as if I’m the madwoman around here. “I like to spend some time saying good-bye first. When I had help, I used to bury them in the garden.” She covers the body with the towel and leaves it beside the cage, by which time I’ve ascertained that there are another fourteen cats imprisoned in the cattery and, beyond that, seven dogs. At least the rest are on all four paws, so to speak.

  Five of the dogs come trotting up to the barriers to sniff me, wagging their tails. Two hang back, a beautiful white German shepherd and a big bully-boy of a boxer, who starts to move toward me then stops, slumps onto his bottom, and scratches furiously at his ear, crying out at the same time.

  “Who’s that, Gloria?”

  “The German shepherd’s called Petra.”

  “And the boxer?”

  “Ugli-dog, I call him. I’ve had him here so long he’s almost part of the furniture. He’s on a herbal tincture for his skin condition—Mrs. Wall prescribes it.”

  I stare through the chicken wire. Ugli-dog is a mess. His skin is scarred and angry, and he’s so thin you can make out the detail of his skeleton.

  “Old Mr. Fox-Gifford said, ‘Gloria, that dog’s a hopeless case,’” she says, steadying herself against the cage. I realize Gloria looks as forlorn and underfed as Ugli-dog.

  “The injections he gave him made him ill, so we stopped them altogether,” she goes on.

  “Doesn’t Fox-Gifford ever ask how he is?” I put my fingers up to the wire. Ugli-dog sniffs at them, then gives them a friendly lick.

  “I wouldn’t expect anyone to remember to ask after all my animals,” Gloria says. “Would you?”

  “I would if he’d been in this state when I last saw him.” As a vet, I’d feel some responsibility for his welfare.

  “I don’t recall him ever being quite as bad as this … Still, you can’t put an animal down because they have bad skin, can you?”

  “Gloria, we must have a proper talk—this situation can’t go on. I’m going to take Ugli-dog back to the surgery so I can have a good look at him and treat him accordingly. He needs a bath and some food, if nothing else.”

  “You can’t do that.” She blinks back tears, and whereas when I first met her I found her a small but forbidding figure, she strikes me now as rather pathetic as she whines, “You can’t take him away from me.”

  “I have no choice.” I harden my heart. I can imagine what it’s like to have your pets taken away—to many people pets are family. To some it would be like giving up their children, and I suspect that is how it seems to Gloria, who appears to have few friends.

  “Maz, I thought you of all people would understand. I thought you were an animal lover.”

  “I am, which is why
I can’t stand by and watch things get any worse.”

  “You’re planning to take them all away from me, aren’t you? I’ll never let them go,” Gloria says, pushing her way between me and Ugli-dog. “Over my dead body.”

  “All I’m going to do today is take Ugli-dog for treatment and call Fifi to get you some help,” I continue firmly. “You need someone to help fix your roof, walk the dogs, and clean up in here.”

  Gloria opens her mouth to argue with me, but I stop her before she can start. “You’re an intelligent woman. Surely you can see you aren’t coping?”

  She stares at me. Mute. Humiliated. Defeated. In fact, I don’t like to leave her on her own.

  “Is there someone who can come and sit with you?”

  “There’s no one left,” she says weakly. “All I have is my animals.”

  “Why don’t I help you feed this lot and tidy up a bit, then I’ll be back tomorrow.” I reach out my hand, but she shrinks away from my touch. “I promise you, we’ll sort this out.” I leave my stethoscope behind, deliberately this time.

  “You’ve been hours,” Izzy says when I return to Otter House with Ugli-dog in tow. I sat him in the footwell of the passenger seat in my car—he didn’t seem to mind.

  Izzy looks at the dog. “What have we here?”

  “A bit of a crisis, I think. I’m going to take some skin scrapings, hair pluckings, a biopsy, and blood, and then he’ll need a bath.” Ugli-dog wags his stump of a tail. “I’m going to need a bath too. I stink.”

  I describe the situation at Gloria’s to Izzy as I take skin scrapings from various parts of Ugli-dog’s anatomy: his thickened, crusted ears; his greasy, spotty back; and the red-raw webs between his toes.

  “I didn’t even get to see Ginge. Gloria says he’s always out in the fields, which means he only gets his medication when he turns up, and then she gives him extra to make up for the doses he’s missed. I can’t see how he’s ever going to get better.”

  “What are you going to do?” Izzy takes the microscope out of the cupboard under the bench and sets it up on top. “I can call Andrea if you like—she’s our local RSPCA inspector.”

  “No, not yet. I’m going to call Fifi first.” It might be a little awkward seeing I wouldn’t give her a better discount than Talyton Manor Vets, and I’m sure she’s heard every detail of Blueboy’s bad hair day and Cadbury’s demise. But Fifi is Gloria’s best hope of help without losing all her animals.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “She and Talyton Animal Rescue must take some of the responsibility. They can’t let their personal differences take precedence over the welfare of those animals.” I pop Ugli-dog in a cage. “I’ve done what I can for now. None of them is in immediate danger. I’ll arrange to meet Fifi and as many volunteers as she can round up tomorrow at Gloria’s. That way, we can decide together which of the rescues can be rehomed and make arrangements to look after the rest.”

  “You mean you’re going to leave some of them with Gloria?”

  “One or two of the cats, maybe three, no more than she can care for properly.”

  “Maz, you’re too soft.” Suddenly, Izzy’s face falls. “How on earth will she choose which ones to keep?”

  “I want to give Gloria a chance, like she gave those rescues. I think it would kill her to lose them all.”

  “Look at poor Ugli-dog,” Izzy says. “What kind of life has she given him?”

  “What kind of life does Gloria have?” I counter. “She has no relatives, no friends, no one who cares whether she lives or dies. Imagine ending up like that.” I have a quick look at Ugli-dog’s skin and hair under the microscope, finding the mites that are causing his skin problem. “Ugh, it’s mange. And I kissed him. I’m sure I kissed him.”

  “I’ll get him started on the washes,” Izzy says. “You go and phone Fifi.”

  “I don’t see what I can do about it” is Fifi’s immediate reaction. “Gloria’s made it perfectly clear that I’m not welcome at Buttercross Cottage anymore.”

  “I’d hoped that Talyton Animal Rescue would be able to help out, but if it’s that difficult, I’ll have to speak to the RSPCA …”

  “Oh?”

  “It could reflect badly on you and your committee, but I’ve run out of options.”

  “Oh no, there’s no need to involve any other organization,” Fifi says quickly. “We’re more than able to handle any situation.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t get a handle on this one sooner,” I point out.

  “I admit that I should have kept an eye on her. I should have insisted.” Fifi pauses for a millisecond. “I tell you what I’ll do.”

  “No,” I cut in, “I’ll tell you what I want you to do. Come over to Otter House tomorrow at eleven, and we’ll go up to Gloria’s with Izzy and any other helpers you can rustle up.”

  “I’ll go up there now,” Fifi says.

  “Please don’t rush in. Promise me …”

  “All right. I’ll wait.” Her voice brightens a little. “What about Talyton Manor Vets? I’m sure they’d help us.”

  “No, there’s no need to involve the Fox-Giffords,” I say. “There’s plenty of room here at Otter House.”

  “Oh? All right then. Well, I’ll concentrate on rallying the troops and organizing supplies.”

  “Thanks, Fifi.” I return the phone to Reception, where Tripod joins me, winding himself around my calves.

  “You had a lucky escape ending up here, not at Gloria’s,” I tell him, at which my demons come howling back, reminding me that Cadbury wasn’t so lucky.

  I promise myself that I’ll make up for my perceived failures and make the pet owners of Talyton St. George proud to have me as their vet until Emma gets back. I’ll ensure all those animals at Gloria’s so-called sanctuary are found good homes and treated well. To do that, there can be no more thoughts of closing Otter House down. Emma has still not returned my frantic calls, so like it or not I’m going to have to stay on in Talyton for a while longer, which means I’ll have to get hold of the bank and sort out the payments on the X-ray machine at least.

  CHAPTER 16

  It Really, Really Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet

  “I’m running out of time, so I’ll cut to the chase.” My heart leaps at the sound of Alex’s voice. It’s seven-thirty in the evening and the first time he’s spoken to me since he kissed me. That was a whole week ago, and I want to give him a gentle telling-off for leaving it so long. However, there’s something in his tone that makes me hesitate. “I’ve got a horse with colic, and I need to refer it to a hospital ASAP.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me …”

  “Yeah, I guessed that some time ago. Listen, I need to ask you an enormous favor. I wouldn’t normally dream of bothering you, but this is an emergency.”

  “I can take your calls for you,” I offer grudgingly, “but I can’t remember anything useful about cows and sheep.”

  I’m not sure Alex is really listening to me, because he continues, “My parents are up in London, I can’t get hold of Lisa, my groom, and old Dickie Pommel is much the worse for wear in the Coach and Horses—”

  “Well, can’t Eloise help? She is your girlfriend after all,” I interrupt.

  “Eloise? My girlfriend?” I hear Alex make a half-choke, half-laugh snorting sound. “No way. It’s nothing like that. She isn’t my type at all; we’re just good friends. We go back years. She’s more like a sister. Now, I’m looking—no, begging—for someone to give me a hand getting Liberty over to the referral clinic at Westleigh.”

  “Liberty?”

  “My horse.”

  “The show jumper?”

  “Please, Maz. You’re the only person left. You’re my last resort.”

  I make up my mind. “Okay, put your phones through to us—Izzy will take the calls.” At least, I’m pretty sure she will. She might not be my and Alex’s biggest fan, but she’ll do anything for an animal in distress.

  “I’m up at the man
or, in the yard.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Maz.” Alex’s voice seems to catch in his throat. “I owe you.”

  I park in the yard beside the lorry that has TALYTON MANOR HORSES and a logo of a jumping horse printed in gold across its purple bodywork. The rear ramp is down, and there are lights on inside, in spite of the fact that it’s only eight o’clock in the evening and the sun has yet to sink completely behind the hills that lie beyond the house.

  I find Alex by the stable closest to the house. As I lean over the stable door to peer in, my hand brushes against his—it’s the slightest touch, but it raises goose bumps over my skin and sends a tiny shiver of longing down my spine.

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “Not good.” Alex opens the stable door and whistles quietly. “Steady there, girl,” he murmurs, but the mare continues to pace tight circles in the straw, her coat dark with sweat, her nostrils flared with anxiety. She stops to paw at the ground and kick at her belly. “She’s been down twice already—I can hardly bear to watch.”

  “What’s the plan?” I ask.

  “I’ll stick some boots on her and load her up. As soon as she’s in the lorry, you shut the gates behind her and fasten them quick. I don’t want her throwing herself backward down the ramp.”

  “Have you given her anything?”

  “An antispasmodic and a painkiller, but they aren’t touching her.”

  I follow Alex into the stable. He clips a rope onto the mare’s head collar and passes the other end to me. It feels odd to be holding a horse again—I’d forgotten how powerful they are.

  “Keep her head up if you can,” Alex says. “I don’t want her going down again.”

  I hang on to the head collar. Gradually, Liberty lowers her head until her nose touches the straw. I lean against her shoulder, trying to haul her head up, and just as I think that I’m beaten, that she’s going to go down, she tenses. A spasm grips her belly, and her front legs come up in a half rear, knocking me momentarily off-balance.