It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘Thanks, Fifi,’ I say, not wishing to upset her by letting her know I’m not all that keen on the idea of lunch.

  ‘I remembered, Maz,’ she says, as if she can read my mind. ‘I’ve asked Elsa to provide a vegetarian option this year. There’s a hog roast for the carnivores.’ She glances from me to Alex and back. ‘It’s a happy pig, Maz.’

  ‘Was a happy pig,’ I correct her gently.

  We follow Fifi along the main avenue, walking between the marquees and stalls with their rails of waxed coats, deerstalkers and boots, and everything you could possibly need for your horse and dog – because most people here are accompanied by either a spaniel, a Labrador or a terrier of some or other variety. There are sober-looking men in country tweeds, selling farm insurance and contracts for maintaining milking machines. There aren’t many takers for the Hen Welfare tombola which is right next to Talyton Animal Rescue’s, but there’s quite a crowd around the next stall, Jennie’s Cakes.

  ‘Isss …’ George waves his balloon and points towards a shining tractor on display. ‘Isss. There Iss.’

  ‘George, it’s a tractor,’ Fifi says. ‘Tractor …’

  ‘It’s Travis,’ says Alex. ‘Travis the tractor from Bob the Builder.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘And I should know. I’m the world authority on those stories. Seb loved them, and George does too.’

  We round the corner past the WI tent. I stop and take a look inside to give Frances a wave, but she’s arranging scones on a plate at one of the long trestle tables and doesn’t see me.

  ‘Horsey,’ George says, pointing with his balloon as we pass the farriery display. Sophia has taught him well.

  ‘It’s going to be a great day,’ says Fifi. ‘All the organisation will have been worth it.’

  The air is sweet with the scent of deep-frying doughnuts and coffee, and the atmosphere electric with the sound of generators and a crackly public address system.

  ‘Hi, Alex. Hello, Maz.’ Chris, Izzy’s husband, shouts a greeting as he drives a handful of woolly sheep along the next avenue with the help of two collie dogs, only one of whom has its mind on the job. The other comes trotting over to see us.

  Chris puts his fingers between his teeth and whistles, but the dog, a striking black, tan and white collie, ignores him. ‘Freddie, get back here!’ Chris yells.

  ‘Go on, Freddie,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll get the sack, if you’re not careful.’

  Freddie was one of ours – Otter House Vets’, that is. Either his owner was completely heartless, or she really thought she couldn’t afford the fees, but she dumped him at the practice soon after I began working there. Freddie was seriously ill, but he pulled through with supportive treatment and Izzy’s nursing care. Izzy took him to Chris’s farm to see if he had any aptitude as a sheepdog. It turned out that he hadn’t, and it doesn’t matter because, without Freddie, Chris and Izzy wouldn’t have got together.

  When we reach the Pet Show ring that’s divided off from the main thoroughfare with bales of straw, posts and rope, there are competitors already waiting. My heart sinks a little. There are about thirty of them with all kinds of animals: dogs, cats and rabbits, some on leads, some in carriers. There are rats and hamsters too, a duck, a python and what looks like a tarantula in a box.

  There’s Raffles who belongs to the Pitts, Stewart and Lynsey. He’s being shown off by their eldest boy, Sam. Raffles is one of ours, but Alex looks after the cows on the family farm. Raffles, though short on legs, is long on character. He would win for being the cutest pet, with his reddish tan coat and fluffy blond knickerbockers.

  Saba, the standard poodle, would win for being the most glamorous pet. Her curly black coat is newly trimmed, and her collar and lead studded with what look like Swarovski crystals. Her owner, Aurora, is dressed in black leather trousers, long boots, and a short jacket.

  Cheryl from the Copper Kettle, the tea shop, is here too. She used to be one of ours, but moved on to another small animal practice some way away, after an unfortunate misunderstanding. I gave her prize-winning stud cat a closer shave than she thought she’d asked for, when she brought him in to Otter House for a tidy-up.

  She’s brought the same cat, Blueboy, a blue Persian, along today. He’s wearing a harness and sitting on a cushion that’s covered with bling. Cheryl wears grey trousers and a waistcoat covered with cat motifs. Cats dangle from her earrings and bracelet. Her hair is short and dark, except at the roots where it’s silvery grey.

  ‘This is going to be a bit of a marathon,’ Alex says aside to me. ‘How on earth are we going to choose?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, smiling. ‘What did you and your father used to do before Emma turned up and opened her practice? You must have had a system of some sort.’ When he doesn’t respond, I go on, ‘The first and last time I did this, we gave points out of ten for each animal, and Fifi added the two judges’ scores together to give a final score. The pet with the most points wins.’ I pause. ‘Or we could decide to go for the cutest, or the most exotic.’

  ‘Or the one in the best condition,’ Alex says.

  ‘How do you tell if a tarantula is in good condition?’

  ‘Count its legs? You tell me, you’re the small animal specialist,’ Alex grins. ‘Come on, we’d better hand George over to Mother and make a start, otherwise we’ll be here all day.’

  Sophia joins us with Seb and Lucie on the other side of the ropes. Lucie has her blonde hair tied back with a purple ribbon, and she’s already kitted out in her riding gear: white shirt, Pony Club tie and jodhpurs. Seb, who takes after Alex in appearance, wears a blue checked shirt and slops about in wellies that are at least two sizes too big for him.

  ‘I’ll look after George.’ Lucie drags the buggy back out of the ring, unclipping the harness and hauling George out. ‘You sit there on the bale,’ she tells him.

  ‘No,’ he says, and sits down anyway.

  ‘Lucie has a real knack with little kids,’ I say to Alex.

  ‘It’s a pity she doesn’t have the same knack with Sebastian,’ he says. ‘Will you be all right there, Mother?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve roped a couple of the Pony Club mums in to supervise the ponies for the next hour or so. It’s no thanks to your father. He should have been here.’ Sophia turns to Fifi. ‘He’s never had a day off sick, not since he recovered from the bull attack. And that would never have happened, if he hadn’t been so stubborn and gone into the pen with it. Everyone knew he was a rogue.’ I take it she’s referring to the bull, not her husband. ‘They called him Lucifer, after the Devil.’

  ‘Did you call the doctor?’ Fifi asks.

  ‘Dr Mackie’s coming out to the Manor after surgery.’

  ‘He must be dreadfully unwell, if he’s allowed you to call the doctor. Are you sure he should be left on his own?’ Fifi says. When Sophia answers her with a dark stare, she goes on, ‘Well, I’m sure he’ll be better soon. Dr Mackie’s such a lovely young man. Did I ever mention he’s done wonders with my bunions?’

  ‘You have mentioned that before, Fifi,’ Sophia says curtly, ‘on more than one occasion. Now, shouldn’t you be getting on, Alexander? I can’t possibly miss the Mounted Games.’

  ‘Come on then, Maz.’ Alex takes my hand. ‘Into the lion’s den, or unto the breach, or whatever the saying is.’

  Fifi organises the competitors into a line, asking those with pets of a convenient size to stand them on the straw bales, before Alex and I walk up and down, the picture of unity, the perfect couple in love. I squeeze his fingers. He smiles.

  ‘I like that one,’ I say quietly, pointing out a small, scruffy grey-black terrier. ‘That’s Lucky, one of ours.’

  ‘I know Lucky,’ Alex says, reminding me that although the dog is registered with Otter House, the family to whom he belongs have other animals, cattle, ponies and chickens, registered with Alex’s practice. ‘I’ve never quite trusted him, and I have to admit that he reminds me of a rat,’ Alex goes on in a whisper. ‘And you can’t choose on the bas
is that he’s one of your clients. That isn’t fair. I prefer the tarantula.’

  ‘That isn’t one of yours?’ I say in disbelief.

  ‘It isn’t – I’m not biased.’

  It’s supposed to be fun, I muse, but every pet owner believes their pet is the best, and I can feel the tension as Alex and I walk up and down the line, unable to make a decision. Sensing the weight of their expectation, I wonder how anyone can make a decision, when each pet is equally precious in the eyes of its owner.

  Aurora is posing for Alex’s benefit, but I’m reassured at his response. He looks away from her legs, giving me a wink and a look.

  Lucky doesn’t help his chances of winning by snapping at Alex when he moves to stroke him.

  ‘You know he doesn’t like strange men, Alex,’ says the lanky teenage boy who’s with him. He’s about fifteen or sixteen, and wears his jeans down around his thighs, showing off his stripy pants.

  ‘Thanks for that, Adam.’ Alex grins.

  ‘I didn’t mean strange as in weird or anything,’ Adam says hastily. ‘If you remember, Lucky was abandoned on the motorway before we adopted him. You can’t blame him really.’

  ‘It isn’t a particularly endearing quality though, biting first and asking questions afterwards,’ Alex says. It’s just like a reality show on television. A good sob story can do wonders for your chances.

  ‘Your father never has any difficulty coming to a decision,’ Fifi interrupts. ‘Come on, Maz.’ She touches my elbow. ‘You will have to make the casting vote, otherwise we’ll miss out on lunch.’

  Alex looks at me. ‘What were the criteria for Best Pet again?’

  ‘I’m torn between Raffles and Lucky.’

  ‘The scruffy one? It tried to eat me.’ Alex rubs his chin. ‘I’m inclined towards the spider.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be your father’s choice,’ I say, amused. ‘He’d class it as vermin.’

  ‘The girl seems to know a lot about tarantulas, where they come from and how to keep them.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Alex. Picking the spider might cause a bit of a stir.’

  He chuckles. ‘Let’s do it then.’

  It wasn’t such a good move. The girl with the spider is delighted with her red rosette and the perpetual challenge cup that she keeps for a year, but Cheryl immediately lodges an objection with Fifi who calls me and Alex over to adjudicate.

  ‘Blueboy has won prizes at the National,’ Cheryl says. ‘He’s a champion, yet he’s been placed beneath a bug. It’s a disgrace.’ She’s looking at me when she says this. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. ‘Look at Blueboy. Look how beautiful he is.’

  Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder in this instance. Blueboy has squinting orange eyes and a grumpy expression, very much like Cassie’s, who happens to be one of his many daughters. His hair is long and lustrous though, bathed and conditioned.

  ‘Cheryl, this show is for the children,’ says Fifi.

  ‘Where does it say that in the rules?’ says Cheryl.

  ‘It doesn’t. It’s common sense. We should use this opportunity to let our young people shine. It’s supposed to be fun.’

  I can tell from Cheryl’s expression that it’s only fun when you win.

  Fifi continues, ‘Cheryl, please accept defeat gracefully. Blueboy is no less of a show cat, and this is hardly the National Cat Show, or whatever you call it.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Cheryl begins to back down. ‘It’s a pretty tin-pot affair really. And the judges are hardly qualified.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ Fifi says, defending us. ‘They are vets.’

  ‘What do they know?’ Cheryl shrugs her bony shoulders, and turns to me again. ‘I thought you’d like to know that Clive dropped by to ask my advice about Cassie. It seems to show a distinct lack of trust in veterinary advice, if you ask me, but that’s by the by. They’ve ruined her, of course. It’s such a shame they didn’t come to me.’

  ‘What do you mean, they’ve ruined her?’ asks Fifi.

  ‘Mating her with a common moggie. She’ll never be able to produce a pedigree litter in future.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference,’ I say, with restraint.

  ‘Her blood is tainted,’ Cheryl insists.

  I look to Alex for a second opinion.

  ‘Maz is right,’ Alex says firmly. ‘There’s no reason why she shouldn’t breed a pedigree litter next time, so long as she’s bred to a pedigree cat. The rest, well, it’s an old wives’ tale.’

  Cheryl’s cheeks flush deep scarlet. ‘You vets know absolutely nothing about Persian cats. I despair of the profession today. Persians are a special breed.’

  ‘I despair too,’ Alex says quietly into my ear, as Cheryl retreats. ‘Cat breeders aren’t merely a special breed, they’re a different species.’

  ‘Oh, Alex, you are a one,’ Fifi giggles, overhearing. She organises the competitors into making a lap of honour around the ring to the applause of the audience that has gathered and I take a moment to speak to Alex.

  ‘Do we have to go for lunch? Your mother wants us to have the children back so she can run the Mounted Games team.’

  ‘I feel as if we should put in an appearance,’ Alex says seriously.

  I rest my hand on his arm. ‘We’ve done our bit. I’d rather spend the rest of the day with George, and watch Lucie compete.’

  ‘We are pillars of the community. We are obliged to schmooze.’ The corners of his eyes begin to crease and his mouth curves into a boyish grin.

  ‘You’re winding me up,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘You bet I am.’ He grabs my hand and links his fingers through mine. ‘I fancy stout and oysters –’ he lowers his voice and whispers in my ear – ‘and you.’

  ‘Careful,’ I warn. ‘I hope you’re not going to get overexcited.’

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ Fifi rejoins us. ‘Oh, young love,’ she sighs. ‘I can’t wait for the wedding. It’s December now, isn’t it?’

  I think she knows very well when it is, and somehow, even though Alex and I haven’t got around to writing the guest list yet, she’s made the assumption that she’s invited.

  ‘Just a word of advice for you, Maz,’ she goes on. ‘Don’t forget to use your contacts. We have an excellent variety of potted trees at the garden centre, if you should choose to follow the royal couple’s example of bringing nature into the church.’

  ‘It’s a kind thought, but I don’t think so, Fifi. The church is spacious, but it’s hardly Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘I do hope you’re going to choose some special touches to make the day your own. You have to consider the wedding photos.’

  Photos? The photographer. I haven’t booked a photographer yet. I start to panic. There is so much to do. I feel as I did just before my finals at vet school, that shaky, sick sensation that I haven’t done nearly enough work to pass the exams.

  ‘We’d better be off, Fifi,’ Alex says. ‘We have to rescue Mother – she has all three of her grandchildren on her hands.’

  ‘You aren’t joining the Show Committee for lunch then? That’s a shame – Old Fox-Gifford always makes a point of joining us.’

  ‘You know what he’s like – he’ll never turn down a free lunch,’ Alex says.

  We join Sophia and the children. George refuses to go back in the buggy, so Alex gives in and carries him on his shoulders, prompting Seb to play up in the most spectacular fashion, even though Alex promises him a turn later.

  ‘Everyone’s watching. That naughty little boy,’ says Sophia, ‘that’s what they’re thinking.’

  ‘I not little,’ Seb protests in baby language, something he reverts to frequently, even though he’s nearly six. ‘I not naughty either.’

  ‘Well, you are,’ Sophia insists sternly. ‘Humpy says so.’

  ‘Humpy says so,’ Lucie echoes. She adores her grandmother.

  ‘Alexander, can you manage here? Lucie and I need to get the pony warmed up. The Games are in the arena
at one sharp.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Daddy,’ Lucie says, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

  ‘I’ll be there. I promise. See you later.’

  Alex and I take the boys around the showground, letting them explore the cab of one of the shiny new tractors. Alex has half a stout and several oysters at the oyster bar, and I taste so many local cheeses that I can’t tell the difference between them any more. Seb and George have ice creams and I indulge in a guilty pleasure of mine: melt-in-the-mouth candyfloss freshly spun. We all end up with sticky faces and sticky fingers – thank goodness for baby wipes.

  ‘I wanna drink,’ says Seb, as we pass the beer tent on our way to the main arena for the Mounted Games.

  ‘Please …’ says Alex.

  ‘Please …’

  ‘I’ll get you one,’ I offer. Anything for a moment’s peace. I can see why parents pander to their kids. I thought I’d be a strict mother, but sometimes it’s easier to follow the path of least resistance. ‘You stay out here with the buggy, Alex. You don’t want a drink, I take it?’

  ‘I’d love a beer, but I’d better not, not that I expect to get called out today. Everyone’s here at the show.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a mo’.’ I give George a wave before I head inside the beer tent where the air is thick with the scent of wet clothes, malt and mothballs. I’m not sure why. Maybe the older generations of farmers have pulled their best tweeds out of storage for the occasion. I head past the tables to the bar beyond, where Clive is serving.

  ‘Hi, Clive. How are you?’

  ‘Well, thanks, Maz. Edie’s looking after the pub, and the cat, of course. What can I get you?’

  ‘Just a coke to take out, thank you. Last of the big spenders, that’s me.’

  He pours a coke and hands it over.

  ‘What’s this I hear about a vasectomy gone wrong?’

  ‘A what?’ My neck grows hot with embarrassment. It seems a strange subject for Clive to raise even though we’re on good terms.

  ‘You know. You’re a vet,’ he says awkwardly.