It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  An hour later, I take George out to the yard in his buggy, where he’s surrounded by Pony Clubbers, mainly girls. I have a handful of ‘volunteers’ press-ganged by Sophia to bring their dogs along for the purpose of the badge. Old Fox-Gifford is here too, with Hal as an example of a working Labrador. Once the girls have mauled George, who loves them, they turn their attention to the dogs. Sophia calls them back.

  ‘You can see the dogs in a minute,’ she says. ‘Maz, the vet from Otter House, will talk to you and explain the different kinds of hunting dog.’

  ‘Hunting? I thought we agreed on working breeds.’

  ‘Those as well, but we’d like to concentrate on hunting dogs, real dogs. Then I have a little test for you so you can identify the breeds here. If you pass the test, you will receive a badge.’

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ I begin, but no one appears to be taking any notice.

  ‘Girls and boys, sit down on the bales and listen to Maz,’ Sophia says, and they all sit down. To my consternation, Sophia does too.

  ‘I’m expecting to learn something new,’ she says.

  No pressure then, I think to myself, amused.

  I decide to introduce the subject, ask the audience what they already know about working dog breeds, and then ask the owners to parade their dogs, one at a time.

  There’s a brace of tricolour foxhounds that howl almost incessantly. The beagle and the Jack Russell terriers join in, followed by Old Fox-Gifford’s Labs and spaniels. It’s a riot.

  In the end, I award all the children badges before they run away to find their ponies for one last ride. Sophia organises them getting tacked up.

  As Old Fox-Gifford prepares to head back to the Manor, I join him, pushing George in the buggy. I’ve been meaning to talk to him for a while.

  ‘I wanted to check how you were getting on with finding someone to help you out while Alex and I are away,’ I say. ‘I’d like Alex to have a practice to come back to.’

  Old Fox-Gifford hesitates, Hal and a young Labrador bitch at his side, the bitch taken on as an eventual replacement for Hal, and for breeding. She’s called Poppy, which is a shame because, if we ever did have another baby, it’s a nice name for a girl.

  Old Fox-Gifford walks towards the paddock where Liberty and her foal are grazing, their excitement at seeing the other horses over. He rubs his back. He looks like a very old man, but I find it hard to feel sorry for him. He isn’t the kind of man I can get close to. We’ve come to a civil agreement – since I operated on Hal to save his life, Old Fox-Gifford stopped the sexist remarks about female vets and he appears to have come to terms with the idea of me and Alex getting married. He loves George too, in his own way.

  ‘What makes you think I can’t look after the practice? I’ve not been put out to grass yet.’

  ‘I don’t want Alex to have to worry about what’s going on back here at home.’

  ‘While you’re enjoying your honeymoon,’ he says. Do I detect a note of lasciviousness, I wonder, rather repelled? ‘He doesn’t have to worry. I’m well able to work. For many years, before Alexander came back from university, I worked day and night, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year. I was never sick or sorry.’

  ‘Until the bull got you,’ I point out. If I was talking to anyone else, I’d be more tactful, but Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t do what he calls pussyfooting around. ‘Life has changed, hasn’t it?’

  ‘What are you suggesting? That I’m past it?’ His eyes flash with anger, but no one can stay angry for long in the presence of a long-legged filly like Scheherazade who’s cantering around the paddock again, playing and snorting at the dogs, feigning a buck and a kick.

  ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘All right. I was suggesting that it would make your life easier if you had someone in to give you a hand, some back-up. Alex was called out three times the other night.’

  ‘I’d have gone on one or other of the calls if he’d asked me, but he didn’t.’

  ‘It would be better for your clients not to have to wait for a vet, if you were tied up.’

  ‘They understand. They’re farmers and stockmen, loyal and bonded to the practice, not the fanciful, fickle and ignorant pet-owning general public.’

  ‘That isn’t the impression Alex gave me.’ Immediately, I wonder if I should have said anything.

  ‘What has he said?’ Old Fox-Gifford says sharply.

  ‘Nothing. Not really. I think Guy Barnes was upset when Alex took two hours to get to him the other night because he was busy elsewhere on another call.’

  ‘That’s up to Guy,’ says Old Fox-Gifford. ‘I was ready to go, but he insisted on waiting for Alex.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t you go reading anything particular into that,’ he says. ‘Guy can be whimsical.’

  I don’t know Guy well, but people around here describe him as a steady sort, straightforward and loyal.

  ‘So what happens if Alex is away and Guy won’t see you?’ I ask, determined not to give up until I have a satisfactory answer.

  Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t respond. He has his eyes on the foal, and I wonder if he’s comparing his failing body with her agility and youth.

  ‘You know,’ he says eventually, ‘a good wife doesn’t interfere with her husband’s business.’

  ‘I’m not married yet and I’m not going to be a wife who’s seen and not heard.’

  Old Fox-Gifford smiles.

  ‘I wouldn’t describe my wife as a shrinking violet,’ he says, as Sophia’s voice rings out across the fields, giving instructions to a ride of six small children and their ponies. ‘A country vet needs a capable and supportive wife, and –’ I almost miss the slight catch in his voice as he goes on – ‘I couldn’t have chosen better.’

  Old Fox-Gifford disappears inside the Manor, leaving me standing in the yard, touched that he feels that way, and wondering if he’s ever expressed that sentiment to Sophia.

  ‘What shall we do now, George?’ I say.

  ‘Come and have tea and cake with the rest of us,’ Jennie calls across from the gazebo that’s been set up on the lawn, and we end up joining the party to celebrate the end of camp. Afterwards, I help wash up.

  ‘George, it must be time to find Lucie and Seb,’ I say eventually.

  ‘I’m here, Maz,’ Lucie says, running up to me. Her eyes glitter with exhaustion, but she’s still smiling. She shakes her head, water arcing from her hair.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I ask.

  She’s covered in dust and muck, and smells of hot horse. Her jodhpurs are filthy. They were probably – I’m hazarding a guess here – cream at the beginning of the week. Her shirt is wet, her Pony Club tie caught around her ear.

  ‘You look a wreck,’ I chide. ‘When did you last have a wash?’

  ‘Just now. Josh threw a bucket of water at me. And I threw a wet sponge back. And then Georgia turned on the tap for the hose and everyone joined in. Even Humpy got wet.’ Lucie giggles. ‘She isn’t very happy. She’s given us all a black mark and gone inside to get changed. We’re supposed to be packing up now.’

  ‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Do you need some help?’

  ‘Yes, please, Maz.’

  I take George along and assist Lucie and some of her friends in sorting their clothes and packing their bags in their tent. I’m not sure how much help we are, but George loves it.

  ‘So what’s the best thing about Pony Club camp?’ I ask.

  There is some debate.

  ‘The friends, the food and being able to ride all day.’

  ‘The “funnest” thing is the water fights.’

  ‘No, it was Sam fainting when Daddy showed us the jar of pickled worms,’ says Lucie.

  I chuckle to myself. It happens every year.

  The children might be sorry that camp is over, but you can almost see the relief in the ponies’ faces as they’re loaded back into the horseboxes and trailers. They have worked twice a day, jumping an
d turning endless circles, spiralling in and out again. They’ve galloped cross-country, been on a picnic ride, and had a go at dressage to music and gymkhana games.

  The smell of cold baked beans and burnt sausages lingers in the air. A trailer of dirty straw is waiting to be towed away. While helping tidy up, I find a couple of broken buckets and some lost property. There’s a bridle and three brushes – I’m not sure if the latter are for children or ponies. I’ve found Lucie brushing her hair with a dandy brush before.

  The children have loved it, but what is Sophia’s verdict? I ask her later, when the last of the horseboxes rattles away down the drive, and Old Fox-Gifford is out on the lawn bemoaning the hoof prints.

  ‘It was a great success,’ she says. ‘This year’s tally was one staked pony, one lame one, a sprained wrist and a broken arm. Some years, it’s been so much worse!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Alas, Poor Harry

  I’VE LEARNED TO read that when the clients’ eyes glaze over, it’s time to stop. Clive and Edie don’t want a lecture on the pathology of polycystic kidneys, no matter how fascinating the subject is to me. What they’re looking for is reassurance, practical advice and medication.

  Sometimes I feel I might need medication myself, I think, as I hear the sound of a woman wailing outside. I know that cry. It’s Allie Jackson, roving reporter for Talyton’s local newspaper, the Chronicle, and I don’t know how many times I’ve heard her upset.

  Frances pokes her head around the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of something.’ She smiles apologetically towards Clive and Edie. ‘Maz, it’s Harry. It’s bad.’

  ‘We’ll go now,’ Clive says. ‘We’ve taken up enough of your time already. An appointment to see you again, you said?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have the blood test results by then, and I’ll have another look at Cassie to see if she needs to come in to go on a drip for a while.’ I’ve taken blood today to test for the rogue gene. If she doesn’t eat or drink overnight, she’s going to need fluids.

  As Clive and Edie leave with Cassie, Frances ushers Allie inside. Accompanied by the smell of floral perfume mixed with body odour, she’s wearing a cheap trouser suit with a yellow blouse, and carrying a shoebox filled with hamster bedding. There is no lid, an ominous sign that Harry, formerly known as Harriet, who had a narrow escape from the practice’s waste compressor over a year ago, really is not well this time. He must be at least three years old now, a good age for a golden hamster. Mind you, he’s been well pampered.

  ‘I know he’s on his way out, Maz, but I wanted to be absolutely sure …’ Allie puts the shoebox on the table and crushes a tissue to her nose. ‘He’s suffering terribly.’ I thought she might be here expecting me to find a cure, but she’s resigned to Harry’s fate. ‘Is there any way you can put him out of his misery?’

  ‘Let’s take a look at him,’ I say, almost in tears myself. I don’t normally cry for hamsters, but I’ll probably have to make an exception for Harry. He’s been quite a character. Very tentatively, I lift the bedding to reveal the hamster beneath. He’s comatose, but I can’t help imagining that there’s a hint of malice remaining in his expression. His beady black eyes are open and unresponsive, and his mouth wide, gasping for breath.

  ‘He’s been drinking more recently.’ Allie makes an attempt at black humour, continuing, ‘Mind you, so have I, a bottle of wine a night to help me through what I know is coming.’

  ‘He’s in a bad way,’ I agree. ‘I think it would be kindest to help him along.’

  ‘Into the next world, hamster heaven,’ Allie sighs.

  ‘Yes.’ I toy with the idea of asking her to sign a consent form, but decide I’ve known Allie long enough for there to be no confusion.

  ‘I’ll take him through and let him have some anaesthetic.’

  ‘You aren’t going to hurt him, are you, only he’s sooooo small.’

  ‘We have a small plastic box, he can go in just as he is, in his bed, so there’s no need to disturb him. He’ll breathe in the gas that sends him to sleep so he isn’t aware of the final injection.’ I’m not sure he’s going to need much. He’s pretty well gone already.

  ‘Can I see him after to say goodbye?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Harry is dead. With a sense of finality and secure in the knowledge that he’ll never try to bite me again, I do what I never dared do in life, run my finger along his back, touching the tiny bones of his spine through the orange-brown fluff. I bring him back to Allie, wrapped in paper towel. He does look peaceful, although I can’t get his eyes to close. Allie strokes him, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘Thank you, Maz,’ she says eventually. ‘I’m so grateful for how you’ve looked after Harry these past couple of years. I know people don’t understand – it seems as if you are the only person who does – well, he’s more than a hamster to me … he’s my best …’ she utters a strangled wail, ‘… friend. I could tell him everything, and know he’d never tell anyone else. Not because he couldn’t talk, but because he was so loyal, he just wouldn’t have.’

  I offer Allie tea and a biscuit before she goes on her way, but she declines. ‘What do I owe you for today?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, nothing today.’ I always find it difficult to charge for a dead small furry, or small fury as they’re often called around here, especially as far as Harry is concerned. It seems wrong to break a habit of a lifetime, of Harry’s lifetime anyway. ‘Are you going to take him home?’

  ‘Oh. Oh? I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think about it.’ Allie pauses. ‘Is it possible to have him cremated and take his ashes home?’

  ‘Possible, but expensive.’

  ‘I don’t mind how much it costs.’

  Allie might believe that now, but I’d hate her to rush into a decision she might regret because she’s in shock. She has a family, and I can’t think she earns all that much.

  ‘Why don’t I hold on to Harry here while you have that cup of tea. You can sit in the staffroom to give you time to collect your thoughts.’

  ‘I must look a wreck,’ she says.

  I gaze at her. ‘You’re in no fit state to drive. Take some time out.’

  ‘Are you sure, Maz?’

  ‘It isn’t anything to be embarrassed about. It’s really upsetting losing a pet.’ I think of Ginge – I’m afraid I’ll have to make a decision for him very soon.

  ‘Even a hamster.’ A flicker of humour crosses Allie’s face. ‘It’s all right. I know you lot think I’m mad.’

  There’s nothing I can say to that, so I show Allie to the staffroom, calling for Shannon to make tea if she’s free, and apologising for the untidy state, chasing Tripod off the sofa. It’s odd, but the more staff we have, the less work we seem to get done.

  I return to the consulting room to see my next patient, Saba, who is walking again, albeit moving like a drunken ballerina. It’s a miracle to me. She’s going to need swimming sessions at the hydrotherapy pool for some months yet, but I’m pleased with her progress. It could have been so much worse. When I’ve sent her and Aurora on their way, I head back to the staffroom where I find Allie still chatting with Shannon.

  ‘Next time, I’ll have something I can’t get so fond of, like a spider or stick insect.’ Allie cracks a small smile through the tears.

  ‘Have a chat with Will, our new vet, if you need advice on choosing an exotic,’ Shannon says. ‘He keeps snakes, geckos and tree frogs. They aren’t very cuddly though.’

  ‘Thanks for the tea, Shannon,’ Allie says. ‘The talk has really helped. Maz, I’m going to plant a rose in the garden to remember Harry by.’

  I wonder if we should send Shannon on a bereavement counselling course. She seems to be good at it.

  A few days later and Cassie’s result comes through. It’s positive. Clive brings her back because he’s worried about her. I admit her, take blood, hand it over to Izzy and set up a drip. Cassie purrs the whole time. It isn’t a
healthy, happy purr, but the desperate purr of a sick cat.

  ‘It isn’t fair, is it,’ I say, stroking her head.

  ‘What about the kittens? They still have those, or …’ Izzy hesitates.

  ‘There’s a fifty-fifty chance the kittens will have it too.’ I pause. ‘Where do you want her?’

  ‘I thought she might be happier in Isolation under the stairs. It’s quiet there. Do you want me to feed her later?’

  ‘You can try her with a little convalescent diet if she doesn’t throw up again beforehand.’

  ‘Will do.’

  We settle Cassie in, and later I call Clive to update him on her condition and give him the latest blood results.

  ‘Her kidneys aren’t working so well.’

  ‘She’s worse then? Oh, I knew she was worse. I didn’t need the blood test to tell me that.’

  ‘I know. It gives us a guide though. It means we can compare any future deterioration …’ My voice trails off. What’s the point? I’m not so different from Will. I did the blood test because I wanted to be seen to be doing something, but couldn’t think of what else to do.

  ‘She’s feeling rough, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s feeling sick because of the toxins building up in her body.’

  ‘Cheryl didn’t say anything when we bought her, Maz,’ Clive begins. ‘It isn’t the money, it’s the principle of the thing. Breeding sick cats and selling them to people like us. It isn’t right.’ He pauses. ‘She would have known about this condition, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s heard of it. She might not have thought about the possibility of it affecting her cats though. There are lots of responsible breeders who are already eliminating it from their breed-lines.’

  ‘I wish we’d done more research, but we thought, she’s local, and we hadn’t heard of anyone who’d had a problem with her cats. The cattery was nice, clean and tidy, and she had the kittens in the house. We should have spoken to you first, shouldn’t we, but Edie saw the ad, and we went to have a look and then we couldn’t resist … So, what are her chances of coming home?’ Clive asks eventually.