It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘There will be flowers in the church because it’s close to Christmas,’ says Bridget. ‘You could tie it in with the Christmassy theme: holly and ivy.’

  ‘Holly? Won’t that be prickly?’ I’m concerned for the person catching the bride’s bouquet, the one who, by tradition, will be the next woman to be married.

  ‘I can see it now, Maz. A bouquet of evergreens interspersed with scarlet and cream. Depending on the colour of the bridesmaids’ dresses, of course. It will look stunning.’ Bridget passes me the bowl of crisps. I decline, and, flicking through the files, she takes a handful for herself. I want to tell her to look after her health – for Shannon’s sake, if not for her own – but I bite my tongue. ‘What do you think?’ She shows me a photo of an evergreen bouquet.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, realising that I should have been paying more attention to the bridal flowers at the weddings I have been to. ‘It’s … Bridget, to be honest, I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.’

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’ she says, amused. ‘And I won’t let you leave until you’ve made a decision. We don’t want you falling behind on your “to do” list.’

  Bridget is right, I think, when I’m driving home. I can’t afford to fall behind on the dreaded list that’s beginning to take control of my life. My head is filled with flowers and foliage. Anemones, calla lilies or amaryllis? Eucalyptus, ivy or twisted willow? Bridget took me through every combination, and more. At least, that’s what it feels like. I’ve made my decision on the bouquet and the bridesmaids’ flowers, and the arrangements for the church and the tables at the reception … I’m exhausted. I can’t imagine how I can possibly make any more decisions when I have so much else going on.

  Chapter Seven

  A Higher Love

  THREE WEEKS LATER, and I’m in the staffroom at work, confirming the booking for the photographer on my mobile.

  ‘I’ll send a cheque for the deposit,’ I say.

  ‘That’s great,’ the photographer says. ‘I’ll be in touch nearer the time to go through any special requests you might have. Bye, Maz.’

  When she cuts the call, I want to cheer. Another job I can cross off the list.

  ‘Maz. Maz.’ Frances is in the staffroom right beside me, waving the practice phone. ‘It’s Saba.’

  ‘I’ve heard everything now,’ I say drily. ‘A poodle that’s learned to talk.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Frances says. ‘It’s Aurora about Saba. She’s fallen forty metres down a cliff. Tom, the coastguard, is there. Saba’s in a bad way, but not so bad that she’ll let him near her to rescue her. She isn’t keen on men.’ Frances hands me the phone and Aurora takes over, her voice laced with panic.

  ‘Maz, I don’t know what to do. I’d go down myself, but I’m afraid to move her. Can you come straight out? Saba needs you.’

  ‘What about the RSPCA inspector? She’s more qualified to abseil down a cliff than I am.’ I’ve had a go once before, supposedly for fun, but my vertigo kicked in, and all I could do was close my eyes and hang on.

  ‘She’s on holiday,’ Aurora says. ‘Tom’s tried her.’

  ‘I’ll be with you asap,’ I say, realising that without me, Saba won’t be going anywhere. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the cliffs at Talymouth. If you stop in the car park, we’re about five minutes from there on foot. Keep to the path.’

  I pack the visit case, muzzle, sedatives – for the dog, although I just might need them – and blankets before I hit the winding road to Talymouth. On my way through the seaside town, past the pastel-coloured Regency hotels and B&Bs, to the seafront, I try not to think about what I might be letting myself in for. Forty metres down doesn’t sound too bad, but when you realise that the cliffs are about one hundred metres from top to toe – I try not to think about it – it’s a long way to the rocks at the bottom.

  I park in the car park, ignoring the ticket machine. There’s a warm breeze, whisking up dust and ice-cream wrappers. Seagulls call and white horses dance on a blue-green sea. As I walk down the sandy path along the top of the cliffs, Aurora runs towards me in a sequinned vest and tiny shorts.

  ‘Maz, she’s this way,’ she calls, pointing back to the coastguard’s Land Rover that’s parked behind some scrubby gorse bushes. ‘Thanks for coming. I didn’t have her on the lead. She ran after a rabbit and went over the edge.’

  Tom, the coastguard, greets me with a handshake and a smile. He’s well-built with prematurely grey hair, and, in spite of the July heat, dressed in orange waterproof clothing. I’d describe him as rugged.

  ‘Believe me, I’d rescue that dog if she’d let me, but I’d rather keep my face,’ he says in a strong Devon accent. ‘She won’t let me near her.’

  ‘Is she hurt?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s lying down, so I’m assuming she’s injured herself.’

  ‘Oh, Saba,’ Aurora wails, at which there’s an answering whine.

  ‘Let’s get you kitted out then,’ Tom says.

  Soon, in a helmet, harness and boots, and, having been given a crash refresher course in abseiling, I’m dangling from a rope above the rocks at Talymouth. Tom is alongside me with a pack containing a safety bag, splints, tape and shots of painkiller and sedative, in case Saba needs them. I feel a rush of excitement followed quickly by fear. I’m a mum. I can see danger in eating a grape whole, the jeopardy in an inch of rainwater and the peril of the hot tap, but these are nothing compared with the risks of hanging one hundred metres up by what looks more and more like a thread to me.

  ‘Hang on there, Maz,’ Tom says. ‘Take it slowly.’

  ‘Slowly? I want it to be over with as quickly as possible. I am not good with heights.’

  ‘Now is not the time to tell me that,’ Tom smiles. ‘I think the dog’s paralysed, and I don’t want you getting stuck halfway down because you’re paralysed with fear. I’ll have to rescue the two of you.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘I could ask that Aurora to help, but I think she’s afraid she’ll break a nail.’

  ‘That’s rather sexist of you,’ I say lightly, trying to ignore the rapid knocking of my heart.

  ‘Silly woman,’ Tom says. ‘Aurora, I mean. Not you. How many times do we tell people through the press, and down on the beach, to keep their dogs on leads when they’re up on the cliff path? This is the third dog in three weeks.’

  ‘Did you have to rescue them?’

  ‘One made its own way back up. The other fell onto the rocks. It didn’t make it.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom. You’re so reassuring,’ I say, unsure if he’s winding me up deliberately, or if it’s his naturally blunt manner. He seemed reassuring at first, but I’m not so sure I’d choose him as an abseiling partner in the future.

  I can taste salt on my lips, and feel my hair sticky and damp across my face. The sandy cliff crumbles away under my feet, and if I look down – I mustn’t look down – I can see the water rolling off the red rocks below.

  Gradually, we make our way down to the ledge where Saba is lying on her side, facing out towards us. She takes one look at Tom and snarls.

  ‘Hey, Saba. What’s got into you?’ I say soothingly, at which she turns her eyes to me, appraising me as if to say, do I know you? She does. I hope she doesn’t remember the operations I’ve performed on her otherwise I’ll get the same reception as Tom. I’m not sure she’s that much danger to us though, because she doesn’t seem to be able to lift her head.

  I edge towards her, and slip the muzzle over her face, fastening it carefully behind her ears, at which she yelps in pain. I’m not sure what to do. Tom was right. She’s paralysed, which suggests either a neck or back injury, and in an ideal world I’d strap her to a stretcher, but this isn’t ideal, sixty metres up on a narrow ledge. I give her shots of sedative and painkiller, and strap her neck instead, using splints and tape to immobilise it as far as I can, before Tom helps me get her into the safety bag ready to lift.

  Saba snarls the whole way up, in spite
of the sedation, so at first, I miss the fact that Tom is gesticulating and yelling at someone above our heads.

  ‘Get back, you –’ he curses.

  I look up, catching the flash from a camera.

  Tom glances towards me. ‘Some people!’

  We continue our ascent, arriving safely at the top where I crawl through the rough grass well away from the cliff edge and throw up – with relief. I’m shaking. I did it. I actually did it. I’ve been over the edge.

  ‘Maz, I’m so grateful,’ Aurora says, coming over to me as I return to help Tom extract Saba from the bag. ‘You’ve saved Saba’s life.’

  ‘Don’t raise your hopes,’ I say, as I hold Saba’s head. ‘She’s safely off the cliff, but she’s critically injured. She’s damaged her spine and that means she may never be able to walk again.’

  Aurora’s hand flies to her mouth.

  ‘I’m going to get her back to the surgery, X-ray her neck and operate if I can,’ I go on. ‘If not, I can refer her to the nearest specialist orthopaedic practice.’

  ‘I feel so guilty.’ Aurora is crying. ‘I’ve often walked her up here without a lead. She hasn’t done that before. You know, I hate that rabbit.’

  I wonder about the rabbit’s fate. Did it manage to duck into a burrow and escape, or did it meet with a sticky end? Tom expresses his sentiments for the fate of the mystery photographer who has disappeared off in a small white van.

  ‘Do you have any idea who that was?’ Tom asks Aurora.

  ‘I think he said he was from the paper,’ she says nonchalantly.

  ‘How did he know we were here?’

  ‘There’s quite a crowd.’ Aurora points to the people who are dispersing now.

  ‘What a prat. There’s no way I’d have picked him up, if he’d fallen,’ Tom observes.

  ‘There’s a good case for having cliffs banned,’ Aurora says vacantly.

  ‘Thanks, my lover,’ Tom says, using the Devonian term of endearment which, when I first heard it, rather surprised me. Lots of people around here call each other my lover, when clearly they are not, but perhaps Tom has aspirations. He appears to have had a change of heart where Aurora, the thoughtless dog-walker is concerned, and I suspect it has much to do with her legs. ‘I’d be out of a job,’ he goes on.

  Tom and I get Saba into the back of my car, and I drive her to Otter House where I park as close as I can to the entrance of the practice.

  Shannon rushes out. ‘Shall I fetch more help?’

  ‘Please … and the stretcher would be useful.’

  Shannon returns with Will, and Frances who doesn’t want to miss out on the action.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be looking after the phone?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Maz. I have it with me.’ Frances holds it up to show me. ‘I would never desert my post, except in the case of fire or flood.’ She smiles, remembering, I suspect, the occasion when we did have to vacate Otter House in a hurry during the Great Flood of Talyton nearly two years ago.

  Will unrolls the stretcher in readiness for transferring Saba from the back of the car into the practice.

  ‘Will and I will lift the patient onto the stretcher,’ I say. ‘Shannon, you are in charge of keeping Saba as calm and as still as possible. It’s imperative we keep her head steady so she can’t move her neck. Will, I reckon she’s snapped her cervical spine in the fall, so this exercise could be purely academic. If she’s completely severed her spinal cord, there won’t be anything we can do.’

  ‘Poor Saba,’ says Frances. ‘Aurora must be distraught.’

  ‘She could turn up at the practice at any time.’ She wasn’t in a fit state to drive, and I think Tom and his team were keen to give her a lift back into Talyton. ‘If she does, can you make her one of your legendary cups of tea and supply some biscuits? She can wait for news if she likes, but it could be some time before we have any answers.’

  We move Saba carefully, treating her like eggs loose on a tray, carrying her through to the prep bench.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ Shannon coos. ‘What can I do, Maz?’

  ‘Stay with Saba. Will, can you do a full neuro exam, assess her reflexes and see if you can localise the site of the injury? I’m going to set up for some plain X-rays and a myelogram.’

  ‘Are you planning to refer her?’ Will asks.

  ‘If her condition stabilises enough to be able to transport her somewhere. Come on, Will. Get started.’

  I try to infuse the team with a sense of urgency, and within half an hour, we have plenty of useful pictures. As I feared, Saba has broken her neck, chipping off the peg on the second bone that allows the head to turn, as if you’re shaking your head. If I don’t fix it, the bones will move relative to each other and damage the spinal cord irreparably. Saba will be paralysed from the neck down. If I do fix it, it may already be too late, or the surgery itself may cause further injury, and Saba might still be paralysed from the neck down. Either way, the odds aren’t great.

  Will and I stand in the darkened X-ray room, looking at the films on the viewer.

  ‘I’m going to have to get the Meccano out. I’d like you to assist, Will.’

  ‘Have you done many of these before?’

  ‘One. A long time ago.’ I smile wryly. ‘It’s a bit of a risk, but it’s kill or cure. It’s all right – I’m pretty handy with a drill.’

  I might think I’m handy with the drill, but I’m out of practice and pretty slow, and I’m apprehensive about operating so close to the nerves that supply the whole of Saba’s body from her neck down. This means that three hours later I’m still operating, tightening the screws in the plates that I’ve set across the bones in Saba’s neck to immobilise them. We X-ray again to check everything is in the right place using the X-ray machine that Will has dragged into theatre.

  ‘It’s all looking good,’ I say. ‘Let’s get her closed up, then we can get her into the big kennel and keep a twenty-four-hour watch on her.’

  ‘I’m up for that,’ says Shannon. ‘I’ll take first shift.’

  ‘I’ll take second,’ offers Will.

  ‘Great. I’ll do the third.’

  ‘Isn’t it your day off tomorrow?’ Shannon says.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll finish off for you now then,’ Will says. ‘You could do with a break, Maz, after your daring cliff-top rescue.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll be in the Chronicle?’ asks Shannon.

  ‘There’s every chance,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Someone took a photo over the edge of the cliff. Aurora said he was from the paper.’ I smile. ‘I didn’t have a chance to do my make-up, but it’ll be good publicity for Otter House.’ I pull off my gloves and call Aurora – Frances sent her home when she turned up earlier.

  Finally, I head for home myself, and let myself into the Barn. Alex is in the kitchen area, wearing a red apron, and stirring something in a pan.

  ‘Hi, there,’ I call.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he says, looking up.

  ‘Where’s George?’

  ‘In bed.’ Alex holds his finger to his lips. ‘Sh!’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Mother’s had him toddling around the stables all day. He’s exhausted.’ Alex walks round to join me. He gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say, turning to press my mouth against his.

  ‘I’ve cooked us some of that fresh pasta, and there’s a bottle of Rioja open on the side.’

  ‘Are we celebrating, or something?’

  ‘I suppose we are in a way. Your daring cliff-top rescue? I hear you’ve had an exciting day. I’ve health-checked some sheep, treated a horse with low-grade colic and diagnosed pregnancy in endless cows. There’s been nothing to raise my pulse today, apart from seeing you,’ he adds with a grin.

  I smile back, reassured that he loves me, even if he doesn’t say it anywhere nearly often enough.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘It’s all ov
er town – I stopped to pick up some fruit and veg from the greengrocer’s. Peter told me. Bridget told him, and Aurora told Bridget.’ Alex pinches my bottom. ‘If I’d known in time, I’d have been there. I know how much you hate heights. In fact, I can’t believe you agreed to do it.’

  ‘I had no choice. Saba wouldn’t let the coastguard near her.’

  ‘How is the dog?’

  ‘Heavily sedated. Shannon and Will are watching her.’ I check the time. ‘I’m on the early shift from five.’

  ‘It sounds as though I’ll have to get you to bed early then,’ Alex says, his breath warm against my face.

  ‘That sounds like an excellent plan to me,’ I murmur.

  ‘How is she?’ I ask Will the next morning. Like me, he appears to have been up all night, his glasses smudged, his eyes dark with exhaustion and a bottle of some caffeine-containing power drink in his hand. He’s wearing the same shirt as the day before and has a tiny spattering of blood across his cheek where he must have nicked a patient’s artery when he was last operating, but hasn’t washed.

  ‘Will, you can’t have that in here,’ Izzy says, taking the bottle off him. ‘You know the rules.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I forgot. Anyway, back to the patient. Saba’s conscious, comfortable on painkillers, she has sensation in all four limbs, but she can’t support her weight. She wags her tail when you say her name.’

  ‘There are some positive signs then.’ I bend down to stroke her silky curls. She’s remarkably clean and bears a perfume that’s more Coco by Chanel than Eau de Chien. ‘Has she passed urine?’

  ‘She has a catheter. I put it in last night,’ Will says.

  ‘It’s early days yet, but I wonder whether she should be referred to a specialist for rehab.’

  ‘We could set up a pool for hydrotherapy in the garden,’ says Izzy. ‘Couldn’t we borrow a paddling pool from somewhere?’