It's a Vet's Life

by Woodman Cathy

  ‘George does get to see me,’ Alex says, his voice suddenly hard. ‘I make sure of that. You know I do.’

  ‘What about the others then?’

  ‘Seb and Lucie, you mean. Why do you call them “the others” as if they’re aliens? You said you were cool about them being here.’

  ‘I make them welcome.’ I didn’t intend to come across as resenting them. ‘What I’m not happy with, is you agreeing to have them here on your weekends off, when it’s me who ends up looking after them because you’re covering for your father.’

  ‘It’s one of those things,’ Alex sighs.

  ‘It’s hard work looking after someone else’s children, especially Seb. He’s a nightmare.’

  ‘He’s a boy,’ Alex says. ‘George will be just the same.’

  I hope not.

  ‘You can always hand over to Mother,’ Alex goes on. ‘She loves having her grandchildren around.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem fair to impose on her either. Alex, both your parents are getting on. They should be enjoying their retirement by now.’

  ‘They’re happy. They like to keep busy.’

  ‘Well, you’ll end up like your father. You won’t get to retire either,’ I point out. ‘At this rate, you’ll die of some stress-related illness by the time you’re sixty-five.’

  ‘It’s great to see you’re looking on the bright side, Maz,’ Alex says sarcastically. He pulls away from me, picks up the journal again, and sits staring at the same page.

  My chest feels hollow, my heart knocks in an empty space, like the chasm of misunderstanding and difference that is opening up between us. When we first got together, I thought, this is it. Alex is the One. My soulmate. But it doesn’t seem like it now. I thought I could talk to him about anything.

  Hot and prickling with anger, I bite my lip. Men! I have a better relationship with Ginge than Alex at the moment. I suppose I’ve always got on better with animals than the male species. Animals listen, catch on to how you’re feeling, and don’t answer back.

  I gaze at Alex. I want to be close to him. I don’t care if he doesn’t share my point of view, but I’d like him to respect mine. I’d like to be happy and at ease with him again, not treading on eggshells, wondering what mood he’s going to be in when, and if, he gets home in the evenings. I’m not asking too much, am I?

  The next day, I catch up with Emma over coffee and cream slices in the staffroom.

  ‘I’ve heard all about the goat.’ Emma sits down on the sofa and touches her bump which has already expanded to surprising proportions for someone who is only seventeen or eighteen weeks’ pregnant, even if she is having twins. ‘That was brave of you, considering the last time I remember you anywhere near a goat was in the dissection room at vet school.’

  ‘Actually, the last time was when I took George on the Toddler Group outing to the petting farm at Talysands over Easter,’ I say. ‘He wanted to stroke a kid, but it nudged him and made him cry.’

  ‘Not an auspicious start for a budding vet expected to inherit the family practice.’ Emma grins.

  ‘Alex wasn’t impressed when I told him.’

  Emma is wearing a cream belly band with a navy cotton blouse over the top. She has her hair loose around her shoulders. ‘Apparently, there’s some goat’s cheese for you in the fridge. Frances said Russ Jackson dropped it in this morning.’

  ‘That was kind of him. I think he realised I wasn’t best pleased about having to operate on a goat.’

  ‘Did you have a word with Alex about it?’

  ‘I did, but you know what he can be like. He didn’t take it seriously.’ My heart sinks a little at the memory of our conversation. ‘I talked to him about taking on another vet at Talyton Manor because he’s working virtually single-handed.’

  ‘And?’ Emma bites into a cream slice.

  ‘He’s in denial, just like his father.’

  ‘He’ll have to get either a locum or an assistant by Christmas,’ Emma says, aghast. ‘He’s got a wedding to go to, and a honeymoon.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Occasionally, I wonder if Alex is hoping the whole wedding thing will go away.’

  ‘No? You’ve got that wrong, Maz. He adores you.’ Emma tries to reassure me. ‘There’s no way he’d change his mind. He’d have me to deal with, if he did.’

  ‘That’s enough about me, Em. How about you?’

  ‘I felt the babies move for the first time the other day,’ she says happily. ‘Properly, I mean. I wasn’t sure before. It could have been wind, but this is definitely them, like butterflies.’

  I think back to George, remembering how, as he grew bigger, he ended up booting me under the ribs like a footballer.

  ‘It’s going so quickly now,’ Emma goes on. ‘Another three weeks and I’ll be having another scan. Although they have said I can ask to be checked at any time if I’m worried.’

  ‘You’re bound to worry.’

  ‘What with the consultant, midwife and Ben, I feel like a medical case study. Would you like to check my blood pressure, Maz, only Ben hasn’t checked it since breakfast?’ Emma’s being ironic. ‘I can tell you without using any gadgets, that it’s pretty high right now. I’m not sick. I’m pregnant.’

  I laugh. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m here to work, not put my feet up. Really, Maz.’

  ‘Do you need to cut down your hours at all yet?’

  She smiles wryly, her upper lip dotted with cream. ‘I wouldn’t mind having another afternoon off in the week – that’s if you and Will can cope. I don’t want to put any pressure on you, Maz. It’s important you and George have plenty of time together.’

  ‘There are occasions when I think we have too much time,’ I say, smiling back. ‘His favourite word is still no, and he has some spectacular tantrums.’

  ‘Will is coping, isn’t he? He could manage another afternoon a week sole charge, as long as we made sure he had Izzy on duty with him?’

  ‘I hope so. He’s going to have to do more without one of us holding his hand when you go on maternity leave.’

  ‘He isn’t a terribly practical person, is he?’ Emma sighs.

  ‘He has moments when he shines, but not many. Though he was good with the goat.’

  ‘What can we do, though? We can’t sack him.’

  We gaze at each other, and say simultaneously, ‘Can we?’ as Izzy comes into the staffroom, hands on hips.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your break,’ she says, ‘but I’ve told Will he can’t carry on. One of you will have to finish off.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Emma.

  ‘He didn’t go and get any antibiotics for that cat bite injury, and now his thumb is twice the size it should be. All he’s managed in the last hour and a half is to take a couple of skin biopsies. He’s fumbling about, dropping instruments all over theatre. In fact, he isn’t all fingers and thumbs, he’s all thumb. Literally.’

  ‘I’ll take over,’ I offer, getting up from the sofa, at which Tripod jumps onto the cushion I’ve vacated and sits there, blinking at me as if to say, how dare you take my place. At least I have some sympathy for Will, having been in a similar position myself before. ‘What’s left?’

  ‘A couple of particularly smelly dentals,’ Izzy smiles.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do them?’ says Emma.

  ‘If you carry on consulting, I’ll send Will to the doctor. Who’s next?’

  ‘It’s one of the Labradoodles.’

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ I’m thinking pregnant vet, biggish dog, manual handling …

  ‘Shannon can help.’

  ‘She isn’t exactly cut out to be a weightlifter either.’

  ‘Maz, don’t fuss. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Leaving Emma to it, I head into Kennels where I find Will running his thumb under the cold tap. ‘You really have to see Ben.’

  ‘Maz, I’m busy.’ He grimaces with pain.

  ‘I don’t
want to lose you because you’ve lost your thumb. Go on. Get yourself to the surgery.’

  ‘I haven’t got an appointment,’ he stammers.

  ‘You don’t need one. Just turn up.’ I frown at him, aware of his scent of aftershave and anal gland. ‘Say that Emma sent you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says eventually. ‘I feel such an idiot. I thought I could work through it.’

  ‘Will, always remember you have to look after yourself as well as your patients.’

  After lunch, I see the afternoon appointments, the ones booked for Will. They’re fairly straightforward. There’s Cocky, the cockatiel, who’s started plucking his feathers out, making him look a sorry sight. I catch him to check for parasites and his general state of health, making sure the lights are down and the fan is off. He’s easy to get hold of, and I keep a gentle but secure grip on his head so he can’t turn and peck me.

  ‘That other vet doesn’t have much of a way with birds,’ says Peter, Cocky’s owner. ‘I can tell.’

  I smile to myself, then, having put the bird back in his cage and checked a feather under the microscope in the lab, give my verdict.

  ‘Cocky is stressed out. That’s why he’s plucking his feathers.’

  ‘How can he be stressed?’ Peter is laughing. ‘He’s living in luxury.’

  ‘He could be lonely,’ I suggest.

  ‘I leave the Skybox on for him all day.’

  ‘I expect it’s the endless repeats driving him mad,’ I say, joking.

  ‘Perhaps I should swap channels. I could find him some wildlife documentaries.’

  ‘That won’t make the slightest difference. Cocky’s idea of a happy, stress-free and fulfilling life isn’t the same as ours. Ideally, he needs food, water, warmth and the company of his own kind.’

  ‘I couldn’t have another bird,’ Peter says. ‘He’d be jealous.’

  Before he goes, I talk to him about improving Cocky’s diet and environment, but I’m not sure he’s going to make the recommended changes. Like many of our clients, Peter is a law unto himself. He’ll do what he thinks is right, follow some tips he’s found on the Internet about parrots and extrapolate, and then complain that the bird is no better. We’ll see.

  ‘Maz, Cheryl’s here,’ Izzy says. She’s covering for Frances while she has her break. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she is on the phone to Lenny.

  My heart sinks. ‘What can she want now? Can’t you send her away?’

  ‘I’d like to – with a flea in her ear, literally, but she seems contrite, for once. She says she can come back if it isn’t convenient.’

  ‘No, let’s get it over with,’ I sigh. ‘You’ll be present as witness again, Izzy?’

  ‘No problem. Come through,’ she calls. ‘Maz will see you now.’

  Cheryl walks in, looking pale and anxious, more like a cat in a trap than one on the hunt this time.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, as she stands there, fiddling with the cat on her keyring. Her nails are painted with paw prints.

  ‘I wanted to ask how Cassie is, Edie’s cat?’

  ‘I can’t say. It’s confidential.’

  ‘Oh? Only I’ve tried contacting her and she won’t talk about it.’ Cheryl shakes her head. ‘I know I’ve treated her badly, but I still care for that cat. I care for all my babies. I cry every time I send one out into the big wide world.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t care enough about them to test their parents before you bred from them.’ I am in no mood to be conciliatory even if Cheryl is. I don’t trust her motives.

  ‘I’ve offered to refund the purchase price and pay half the vet’s bills, but Edie hasn’t come back to me yet.’ Cheryl purses her lips before going on, ‘I’m here to apologise to you too, Maz. I’m very sorry I misjudged you.’

  I glance towards Izzy who rolls her eyes, unconvinced, as I am, of Cheryl’s change of heart.

  ‘I’m asking you to help me clear my colony of this hideous genetic disorder so I can start anew.’

  I touch my throat. I’m not sure. It seems like I’d be walking into the lion’s den.

  ‘I’m not prepared to do that. You’ll have to deal with it with your current vet.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve left the practice because they didn’t know anything about cats, let alone Persians.’ She pulls an envelope from her bag and pulls out a letter. ‘Here are the notes from my previous vet. As you can see, I’ve paid my bills.’

  I read through reluctantly. There’s no statement saying that Cheryl’s been the client from hell, but reading between the lines, she’s been her usual demanding self, complaining that she had to drive thirty-five miles to their out-of-hours emergency service, and refusing to have a kitten tested for ringworm because she doesn’t have, has never had, and never will have ringworm in her breeding colony. Here, whoever typed the notes has inserted a grumpy-faced emoticon.

  I gaze back at Cheryl. I want a peaceful life. I don’t want her back as a client at Otter House. I can’t forgive her for putting up posters of her cat Blueboy for all of Talyton to see after I gave him that close shave. Frankly, I don’t like her and I don’t trust her.

  ‘I promise I won’t cause any more trouble, Maz. I know I can be annoying and difficult, but I love my babies, and I want the best attention for them.’

  ‘You haven’t exactly been supportive of Clive and Edie. They’re very upset. Not only is their beloved cat dying of an avoidable genetic disease, you claimed it had nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I was frightened. Now this has got out, I’m persona non grata in the showing world. Everyone’s rather –’ Cheryl pauses – ‘well, catty. It’s supposed to be a hobby, and I like the social side and the buzz of the competition, but, having gone through something like this, well, you know who your friends are.’

  I am aware how Izzy’s body stiffens. I’m sure she’s biting her tongue. I can imagine her comment. I can’t believe that woman has any friends.

  ‘Please, can I come back? I want the best for my cats. I don’t want to be seen as some monster selling sick kittens.’

  I’m not sure what to do. If I don’t take her on, will she continue breeding from the same lines?

  ‘I can’t take you on at the moment. I’m going to meet with my partner and the staff here at Otter House and talk it through with them, to see if we can come to any kind of arrangement. I’m not promising anything though.’

  ‘Can I pop in tomorrow to find out what your decision is?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ I say firmly. I will not be manipulated or coerced.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Izzy says once she’s gone.

  ‘What else could I do? I had to find some way of getting rid of her.’

  ‘I suppose so. We’ll have to call a practice meeting. We haven’t had one for a while.’ Izzy cheers up. ‘Can we order sandwiches?’

  ‘It’s always a good incentive to make up for losing a lunch hour,’ I say. ‘You can draw up a list of what everyone wants.’

  ‘I thought lists were your thing,’ Izzy says, amused. ‘How are you getting on with the wedding plans?’

  ‘I’m getting there. I’d like to to get on with sending out the invitations, but I really want Alex to help, and he’s always too busy, or so he says.’

  ‘Oh, Chris was no use either. He couldn’t see the point of having invites when everyone knew when the wedding was anyway. He thought we could do it by text, until I reminded him that some of the maiden aunts hadn’t got mobiles. The funny thing was that, when they turned up at the wedding, most of them had.’

  ‘How many maiden aunts do you have between you?’

  ‘Nine,’ says Izzy. ‘I had a close shave.’

  After Cheryl, I see one more, the Cave family of mum, dad, two teenage children and one of those late, last-minute babies. They are grockles – tourists – passing through on their way home from a camping holiday in Cornwall. They’re wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts and T-shirts.

  They bring their dog, a giant masti
ff, with a tan coat, wrinkled brow and saggy jowls. His head is tilted to one side.

  ‘This is Monty,’ says Mr Cave. ‘He’s got something down his ear. I’ve looked as far down as I can with a torch, but I can’t see anything much.’

  ‘That’s because he’s got no brain,’ says Mrs Cave and I wonder from her weary manner if she’s referring to the dog or her husband.

  ‘Does he mind people touching his ears?’ I ask.

  ‘He isn’t overly keen,’ says Mrs Cave.

  I decide to slip a muzzle on anyway, the biggest one we have. I fasten it behind Monty’s head, my hands becoming laced with slobber, then take the otoscope and extra long forceps. I have a look down with the light while Mr Cave kneels on the floor, restraining him. As soon as I touch Monty’s ear, he shakes his head. He’s obviously very uncomfortable.

  ‘How long’s he been like this?’ I ask.

  ‘Since the beginning of the week,’ says Mrs Cave. ‘We stopped here because we didn’t want him to have to wait until we got to our vet at home. We rang them but they didn’t have an appointment until next Tuesday, whereas you fitted him in straight away.’

  I can see clearly now. The dog keeps still. There’s a grass seed stuck down the ear canal close to his eardrum.

  ‘Hold on tight.’ I grab the end with the forceps and slowly pull it out.

  ‘Is that all it was?’ says Mr Cave, seeming disappointed as I check that the seed hasn’t damaged the eardrum itself. Luckily, it’s intact, so I send them on their way with ear drops to calm the inflammation down.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Mrs Cave. ‘We’ll go and have tea now. We love Talyton St George. It’s such a sleepy place.’

  Sleepy? I smile to myself. If only they knew …

  I get ready to leave work, planning to collect my engagement ring from the safe where I’ve left it for the day, having mislaid my necklace. On the way home, I notice the pale band of untanned skin around my ring finger, and realise I’ve forgotten to pick it up.

  Chapter Thirteen