It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘I don’t know. If she doesn’t pick up on the drip, we’ll have to think about how long it’s fair to prolong her life. If she was a human, she’d be having regular dialysis and be on a waiting list for a transplant. Listen, Clive, I’ll call you if there’s any change in her condition tonight. If not, call tomorrow after we’ve done the ward round at about nine.’

  The next morning, I join Will in Kennels to check on the inpatients.

  ‘This is the renal failure cat?’ Will checks Cassie’s ID, as he carries her through from Isolation.

  ‘No.’ Izzy glares at him. ‘She isn’t. And don’t say, righty-oh, it’s a good job I checked then, because I don’t mean it like that. She is called Cassie, and she’s a patient with renal failure, not a disease as such.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Will stares, his forehead like a ruckled drape. ‘It’s what we did at vet school.’

  ‘It’s disrespectful,’ Izzy continues, then, noticing me glaring at her, she softens her attitude. She wants the best for the animals. ‘I’m not saying you have to kiss them, like Maz does, but our patients respond to kindness. It’s about holistic nursing, looking at the whole patient.’ She shrugs. ‘You’re a vet though. It’s different for nurses.’

  Will puts Cassie on the prep bench and we look at her together.

  She looks brighter and hasn’t been sick, so I suggest we try her with some liquid food. ‘If she keeps it down, we could see how she does without the drip now she’s rehydrated.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we leave her on fluids for longer?’ Will asks, hinting that he would.

  ‘We could, but if she can’t maintain her fluid intake by herself, she isn’t going to survive at home. I’m reluctant to prolong everyone’s suffering – Cassie’s and her owners’. Cassie’s a stressy cat anyway – it’s better she’s in her own environment than here. In fact, if we can, I’d like to get her back to them by tonight.’ According to Clive, the kittens are taking a little solid food mixed with cat milk replacement formula, but I’d prefer them to have their mother back as soon as possible so she can continue nursing them.

  ‘Shouldn’t we run more bloods this morning?’ Will says.

  ‘How much will that cost the client, and will it tell us anything useful that means we’ll alter the management of Cassie’s case? In a perfect world, we would, but, as you know, this is far from a perfect world.’ I go on, when Will doesn’t respond. ‘Clive and Edie aren’t made of money, and Emma and I aren’t into profiteering from other people’s misfortunes.’

  ‘It’s their choice,’ Will argues. ‘I give them the information. They decide how far they want to go. I expect you’re going to have a go at me now for referring that spaniel – I mean, Jack – for an MRI.’

  ‘That’s expensive,’ I say. ‘Is it going to help the patient?’

  ‘Yes, because if he does have a brain tumour, he can have surgery. He’ll have a chance.’

  ‘This is all hypothetical, but what’s the point in putting the dog through that, only to find it’s a malignant tumour and it’s already spread?’

  ‘Have you always been such a pessimist?’

  Will’s question makes me stop and think. I suppose I did used to expect positive outcomes for the majority of my patients. Am I becoming overly cynical, or am I feeling this way because I’m overtired and over-wrought?

  ‘We’ll see what happens to Jack, shall we?’ I try to think of something to cheer Will up after Izzy’s criticism and my reality check, and recall seeing him spattered with liquid barium not long ago. He managed to get more over himself than inside the patient.

  ‘So, how’s that Labradoodle you saw the other week, the one that ate the corn on the cob?’

  ‘It –’ Will turns to Izzy – ‘I mean, Toby, is doing well. He’s back to his normal self after the operation, although he’s not allowed to eat everything he comes across now. He has a muzzle to stop him scavenging when he’s out and about.’ Will smiles. ‘They call him the Dyson at home.’

  That’s better, I think. Will seems happier. In this job, you have to laugh as much as you can, otherwise – I glance at poor Cassie, at the haunted expression on her face – you’d break down and cry.

  ‘Maz, Cheryl Thorne is in Reception,’ Frances interrupts. ‘I’ve asked her to come back after morning surgery yet she won’t budge. You know I’m not easily defeated, but she insists on seeing you now.’

  ‘Thanks for trying, Frances.’ I sigh out loud. ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘Cheryl runs the Copper Kettle,’ Izzy explains to Will. ‘She breeds Persians, and Cassie’s one of hers.’

  ‘I really don’t want to have anything to do with her,’ I say, but I’m guessing that this confrontation is inevitable. Clive must have spoken to her. ‘Is there anyone else waiting?’

  ‘Mrs Dyer with Nero to see Izzy for a weigh-in, and Mr Brown with Pippin to see Will.’

  ‘All right then. Show Cheryl into the consulting room and I’ll see her first. Izzy, I’d like you in with us.’

  ‘What, like a witness?’ says Izzy.

  ‘Yes, otherwise it’s her word against mine.’

  In the consulting room, Izzy stands beside me. Cheryl stands opposite, at the other side of the table. Her earrings, black cats, tremble at the sides of her neck. Her ultra-short fringe stands upright like the fur on a cat’s back. She’s quivering, ready to pounce.

  She slaps the palm of her hand onto the table.

  ‘You!’ she snaps. ‘You listen to me.’

  ‘Good morning, Cheryl,’ I say, as calmly as I can when inside, my heart is hammering faster than a hyperthyroid cat’s. ‘You can have five minutes.’

  ‘You know how I feel about you, Ms Harwood,’ she says. ‘In my opinion you are incompetent and utterly unprofessional, which is why I’m no longer a client of your practice.’

  That’s fine by me, I think, biting my tongue.

  ‘It has come to my attention that you’ve been spreading vicious and unsubstantiated rumours about my babies.’ I remember she always refers to her cats as her babies.

  ‘Hardly unsubstantiated,’ I point out. ‘I’ve blood-tested a cat bought from you, and she’s positive for the PKD gene which she has to have inherited from one of her parents, both cats belonging to you. She didn’t get her DNA from any other source.’

  ‘What do you know about genetics in Persians?’ Cheryl says, suddenly defensive. ‘They’re a special case, you know. They don’t follow the rules.’

  ‘Oh, Cheryl, they aren’t that special. The gene has come from one, or both, of the parents. My question for you is, do you test your cats routinely before you breed them? Only I’ve checked the disease-free register and your breeding concern isn’t listed.’ I pause. ‘It seems to me that you are the irresponsible person here, selling cats who are going to die prematurely, to members of the public who know no better.’

  ‘What do you know about it? I knew you wouldn’t listen. I’m going to speak to my own vet – they’ll back me up when I go to the Royal College with my complaint.’

  She means the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons. I’ve done nothing wrong, so her complaint won’t go far. However irrational it is though, I can’t dispel the sense of apprehension that Cheryl’s presence has triggered. Time has not altered how I feel about her. She stresses me out.

  ‘Holy kidneys, she was mad,’ says Izzy, once Cheryl’s left the practice.

  ‘She doesn’t change,’ I say, and I try to dismiss the incident from my mind, although I do mention it to Clive when I send Cassie home to see if she can cope again for a while, however long that will be.

  ‘Cheryl’s been in,’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m sorry. I had to say something. I asked her to keep it between us.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘I should have expected this. I hope it wasn’t too awkward. Is she going to have her cats tested?’

  ‘I don’t think she has any intention. She’s in denial of the whole situation.’

  ‘What else can I do to stop her sendin
g more cats like Cassie into the world, apart from naming and shaming her? Oh, and putting a claim through the small claims court for our money back on the purchase price and vet’s bills.’ He hesitates. ‘Let’s get Cassie home. We didn’t think she was coming back, Maz.’

  ‘It is a small miracle,’ I say, ‘but unfortunately, all I can guarantee is that she will be back here at some stage.’

  ‘We’re going to have the kittens tested eventually, just not right now. I’ll call you to book them in.’

  ‘Special delivery for Frances,’ says Bridget, coming into Reception with a bouquet of flowers at the end of the afternoon, as Clive is leaving.

  ‘Who are they from?’ Izzy and I try to look over Frances’s shoulder as she slips her specs onto the end of her nose to read the card that comes with them, but she turns away. ‘Is it your birthday?’

  ‘Izzy, you know very well that it isn’t. My birthday was last month.’

  ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’

  ‘They could be for an apology,’ Frances points out, poker-faced. ‘Or a thank-you. Why do you assume that they’re a romantic gesture? I’m too old for all those shenanigans.’

  ‘Twelve red roses?’ I say. ‘That rather gives it away, I think.’

  ‘Who is it?’ says Izzy.

  ‘Oh, leave her alone, Izzy.’ I look at Frances. ‘You don’t want to spill all about your private life, do you?’ I turn away to hide a smile, knowing that Frances will be unable to resist.

  ‘I admit there are certain details one should keep to oneself, but suffice to say Lenny and I are—’

  ‘An item?’ I say at the same time as Izzy says, ‘In love.’

  ‘Seeing each other. He’s taking me out for dinner.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, ‘but you will be careful. Don’t go rushing in. You don’t know him all that well.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman,’ says Frances. ‘He’s always polite and charming, and he has a cat.’

  ‘So does Cheryl,’ I point out, amused. ‘She has several cats and it makes her neither polite nor charming.’

  ‘Ah, but there’s something about a man who admits to owning a cat,’ Frances says. ‘It shows a caring side.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s going to care for you in the way you deserve.’ I’m genuinely pleased – and a little apprehensive for her. Frances was widowed many years ago when her husband’s trawler went down in a storm off the coast at Talymouth. As far as I know, apart from what I suspect was a minor flirtation or attraction on her side to Old Fox-Gifford when she was first working at Talyton Manor Vets, there hasn’t been anyone else.

  Although Frances is quite fixed in her opinions, and can act like a hellhound at the gate of the underworld with clients like Cheryl, she is kind and thoughtful. She is the person who notices I am only just holding it together at the end of a fraught day.

  ‘Maz, dear – note I am speaking to you now as your friend, not your receptionist, when I say, go and fetch your son from the nursery before it shuts. You have to stop this.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘All this bombing around, playing the perfect vet, fiancée and mother. You don’t have to run yourself ragged. Don’t worry about people like Cheryl. Try to stop stressing out about poor Cassie because you can’t change it.’

  ‘Anything else?’ I say, forcing a smile.

  ‘Accept all the help you’re offered, especially where the wedding plans are concerned, and give yourself a break.’

  ‘But everyone else at Toddler Group copes.’

  ‘All these yummy mummies – they’re all front. They don’t have jobs like yours,’ says Frances sternly, ‘and, although I’m not a betting woman, I’d bet if you scratch the surface, you’ll find they feel the same as you. You’re clever and successful. What are you trying to prove?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug miserably.

  Frances pats my hand as I dissolve in front of her, like a pillar of salt.

  ‘You, dear, need to take a breath and lower your expectations. Let things slide a little.’

  I wish I could, I think, but I can’t. If I did, I’d lose the plot. For example, when I get home the same evening and Alex turns up an hour later, striding into the Barn, and leaving his kit in the kitchen sink and muddy boots in the middle of the floor where George is toddling about, I have to say something.

  ‘Can’t you dump all of that in the surgery?’

  ‘Not now, Maz.’ Alex sighs wearily. ‘I’ll pack it up later.’

  The dirty cotton drapes from the day’s operations go in our washing machine because the one in the surgery broke down weeks ago, and Alex hasn’t called in the repair man, or ordered a replacement. I don’t think he’s always been this inefficient, and he can’t blame George any more, because he’s sleeping through the night. Alex is run ragged so things like household maintenance have slipped. One of us has to keep it together, and it looks like it will have to be me. At least I have help at work. But it doesn’t stop me feeling furious with him. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he says.

  ‘It’s cold.’

  ‘What, not rabbit food again?’

  ‘No, it isn’t salad. It was hot, and it’s gone cold because you’re so bloody late.’ There are tiny explosions of frustration and disappointment in my belly. I know he’s on call every other night, but he’s always late for dinner.

  ‘I’m not doing it to avoid you. I’m doing it for us – you, George and me,’ Alex says when I tackle him about the hours he spends at the practice. ‘I’ve got to keep a roof over our heads.’

  ‘It isn’t entirely your responsibility,’ I point out more gently. ‘I contribute too.’

  ‘Yes, and I appreciate that, but you’re down to a four-day week with George, and you’re still paying the mortgage on your share of the partnership at Otter House.’

  ‘So, you’re saying I don’t do my fair share?’ I can’t believe we’re beginning to argue about money. A gulf of noisy confusion exists between us, our relationship like a radio out of tune. ‘What do you mean? I thought you wanted me to spend time with George.’

  ‘I do, but … What the hell. I’m having a few financial problems at the moment, clients not paying their bills on time, some not settling them at all.’

  I’ve never really talked finance with Alex. We slipped into an agreement where we shared the bills. It didn’t occur to us to have a joint bank account. We carried on as we had always done when I moved in. It made sense. We’re both earning, and I was under the impression that Alex was well off.

  ‘I thought …’ I begin.

  ‘You thought?’ says Alex, a hint of challenge in his voice, a shadow across his eyes.

  ‘The very first time I met you …’

  ‘When you spooked my horse, crawling out of a ditch like a Swamp Thing.’ A brief smile crosses Alex’s lips, making me think I’d rather be kissing than discussing money.

  ‘You said you owned the place – that’s how you put it. You have the Manor, the Barn, the estate.’ I falter at the expression on Alex’s face.

  ‘The bank has them,’ he says slowly.

  ‘The bank?’

  ‘They’ve been mortgaged for some time. Father made some dodgy business decisions in the nineties, thanks to his friends on the local Council. We’ve been paying for them ever since.’ He hesitates before plunging on, ‘Then there’s Astra and the children …’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ It’s a shock to me.

  ‘You never asked. Maz, I don’t like talking about money. It seems rather—’

  ‘Vulgar? That’s what you were going to say, Alex. I can’t believe you’ve withheld this info for so long. Didn’t you trust me to handle it?’

  ‘Of course I trust you, Maz.’ Alex tries to make light of it, moving round and ruffling my hair, which I hate. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘You’re the vet. You’d better give me the prognosis,’ I say, my forehead tight.

  ‘We’re keeping up with the payments.
The debts should be repaid in the next ten years or so, if everything pays its way, the horses, the cattle and the practice, which is why –’ he prods me playfully – ‘I have to keep working all these hours.’

  ‘I know we’ve talked about this before, but shouldn’t you take on another vet?’

  ‘Can’t afford to. Simple as that.’

  ‘If you took on an assistant, you could take on more clients,’ I say hopefully, although it’s pretty unlikely because the number of farmers keeping animals is ever decreasing, meaning less work for vets like Alex. I gaze at him. It’s meant to be good to keep some mystery in a relationship, but not this. He doesn’t respond. ‘Alex, how bad is it?’

  ‘As I’ve said, it’s nothing to worry about,’ he says sharply.

  ‘Alex, we’re getting married soon. We shouldn’t have secrets. No more secrets. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Do I believe him? I suppress a twinge of doubt. I have to, otherwise what else is there left?

  I offer to put his dinner in the microwave, but he says he isn’t hungry. I drop it in the bin to make a point and let him make himself a sandwich.

  ‘I might be able to help.’ I move behind him and slide my hands over his shoulders, feeling for the muscle and collarbones diving under his open-necked shirt. Alex turns his head, scouring his stubbly chin against my wrist. ‘I could take out an extra loan as a top-up on my mortgage.’ Wrong thing to say. I feel his body stiffen.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Alex wrenches himself from my embrace. ‘I’m not taking money from you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be taking it. You can pay me back with interest if that makes you feel better about it.’ I speak lightly, but inside, I’m hurting that he’s rejecting what is a well-meant offer of assistance. ‘What’s the problem? Your male pride?’

  ‘You’re so bloody condescending sometimes.’ Alex glares at me, his eyes flashing with sudden anger.

  His words are like ice injected into my spine. He doesn’t easily lose his temper, and he’s never directed it towards me before.