‘I’ll do it,’ Will offers.
‘I’m nearly there now.’
‘I can’t just stand here. I feel I need to be doing something.’
‘I know. Would it help if I talked to the client? I can give them the outcome of the PM.’
‘Maz –’ Will looks at me abjectly – ‘I don’t think this is right for me. I’m not in the right job.’
‘You mean you want to move on to another practice already?’ I say, shocked and a little hurt that he doesn’t feel as if he’s settled well into our team. ‘If you want to change your shifts, or if you’d be happier living out, rather than over the shop, so to speak, I’m sure we can make some changes that would suit you better. You should have said something before.’ I didn’t think I made a bad boss. I thought I was fairly approachable at least.
‘I mean, I don’t want to be a vet. I got it wrong. I can’t do this any more.’
For a moment, I think he’s going to burst into tears. Izzy moves in to wrap the cat in a towel and pop it into its carrier, before she leaves us.
‘It’s happened to us all. It’s the pressure of the work, the unpredictability, the irregular hours, the sad times. You’re stressed out. You need a few days off, that’s all.’
Will shakes his head. ‘For me, it’s mainly the frustration of not being able to do the job properly.’
‘When clients can’t afford the best treatment, you mean,’ I cut in. ‘What we believe to be the correct approach to a case isn’t always the right one for them.’ I’m thinking of a dog that we had on chemotherapy for a while – the drugs prolonged his life, but also extended his suffering. ‘Welcome to the real world, Will. You have to do your best within the constraints. It’s the way it is.’ I look on the bright side. ‘The clients like you.’
‘Do they?’ he retorts glumly. ‘It doesn’t feel like it. Mrs Dyer hates me.’
‘Mrs Dyer is one client out of hundreds, and she has good reason to be funny about male vets. What about Mr Brown and Pippin? And Clive.’
‘Each time Mr Brown comes in, I dish out Pippin’s steroids while he’s going on about how wonderful homeopathy is. Clive’s a good guy, but I feel obliged to gush and create an illusion of fondness for Persian cats, or rather their crosses since Cassie’s gone.’
‘Clive isn’t like that. He’s quite straight,’ I say, smiling. ‘It’s all part of the art of veterinary medicine. It’s all very well knowing the science, but the greatest asset is the art of handling people.’
‘It doesn’t feel right. It’s rather false. Oh, I don’t know,’ he sighs. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Sleep on it.’
‘I can’t. I’m on call. I can’t sleep when I’m on call.’
‘I’ll do it then. Take tomorrow off, have a lie-in, go for a walk by the sea, put everything in perspective.’
‘Thanks, Maz, but no thanks. You’re already having to cover for Emma on your day off. I’ll soldier on.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ Will says.
‘If you weren’t a vet, what would you do instead anyway?’ I ask him.
‘Go and work in the City? Get an internship at a referral centre. Go back to uni and do a PhD.’
‘Will, you have to do whatever makes you happy. As long as you don’t leave Otter House before the middle of January – I’d like to be able to enjoy my honeymoon.’
‘Oh, I’ll give you notice. I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch,’ Will says. ‘How do you stick it, Maz?’
‘I love my job and having George has made me change my priorities. My career is no longer the be-all and end-all. I like our clients, most of them anyway.’ I spray the prep bench with disinfectant and wipe it down. ‘Ultimately, the good bits outweigh the bad.’
‘Maz, Lynsey’s on her way,’ Frances interrupts. ‘Raffles is sick. He’s vomiting blood. I didn’t think it should wait.’
‘Thanks, Frances. Will, would you see her, please? I’ve got to pick George up from nursery before I meet Clive to go through last-minute details for the reception. I don’t want Flick and her staff locking the door on me like they did last week. I’m beginning to worry that he’ll be taken off the register, and have nowhere to go.’
Much later, when I’m sprawled on the sofa, cuddled up with George because I’m too exhausted to put him to bed, Alex turns up.
‘How was your day?’ I ask him. ‘How was the new boy? Justin?’
‘He overslept and turned up just in time, so to speak. He had a few drinks with Stewart last night.’
I’m not surprised. He’s staying at the farm with the Pitts until he finds more permanent accommodation.
‘And then he struggled to get blood out of a cow, which is pretty impressive considering the size of their veins,’ Alex goes on. ‘Eventually, he settled down and got on with it. I sent him over to Guy’s while I went over to Robert’s.’ Alex grabs a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge. ‘You know, I could get used to this. Do you want one?’
‘Please … A small one, though. Will’s on duty tonight.’
‘How did it go with Clive?’ Alex asks.
‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but everything’s under control. I made the final choices for the food and Clive’s arranged the music. The best news, though, is that Clive isn’t moving back to London. He and Edie are putting the pub on the market in the New Year, and buying a new business. He says he isn’t ready to retire just yet.’
‘How is Edie?’
‘It’s early days, but apparently she’s determined to beat her addiction because she wants to be around for Cassie’s kittens – and Clive, presumably. Clive seemed pretty optimistic, but he says she’ll have to stay with her sister until the pub’s sold.’ I admire Clive’s loyalty, I muse, thinking of the vows Alex and I will soon be making: in sickness and in health.
While Alex is dishing up some casserole from the slow-cooker, Emma calls me. She’s been admitted to hospital for a couple more days.
‘They’re a bit like Will. They’re doing every test possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if they carry me off on a trolley for a brain scan. Mind you, I am going mad cooped up in here.’
‘I’ll come and visit,’ I offer.
‘Tomorrow, maybe. Ben’s here now. You need to concentrate on those wedding plans. Just call me now and again.’
As soon as I put the phone down, Lynsey gets in touch.
‘Hello, Maz. How are the wedding arrangements going?’
‘I feel much better, having booked the reception. I thought I’d never find anywhere this close to Christmas.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘I’ll let you know …’ George tries to swipe the phone from me. ‘No, George.’ I kneel up on the sofa so that George, even at full stretch, cannot quite reach it.
‘To be honest, I rang because I wanted to talk to you about Raffles. Will’s admitted him as an inpatient, and I’m really worried.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ I say, ‘but he’s in the best place.’
‘You couldn’t – I know this is a bit cheeky –’ Lynsey rephrases her request. ‘Would you have a word with him?’
‘Because?’ I wonder how to respond. Lynsey’s a friend as well as a client, so I’m happy to do her a favour, but it seems disrespectful to Will, as if I don’t value his judgement. ‘You want me to check up on him.’
‘Well, yes. He hasn’t had much experience, and he admitted he didn’t have a clue what’s wrong with Raffles. You can see why I’m concerned. In fact, I’m worried sick.’
‘Why don’t you call him direct?’ I suggest. ‘He won’t mind. He’s on duty. He can give you an update on how Raffles is getting on.’
‘Oh, I don’t know …’
‘Lynsey, Will is a professional. He’s done five years’ training to do this job. He’ll let me know if he needs support.’
‘Are you sure?’ she says doubtfully.
‘Absolutely. Trust me, Lynsey, I�
�m a vet.’
I confess my thoughts do turn to Raffles a couple of times during the night, and it is a relief when, arriving at the practice the next morning, I find him alive. I would never admit that to Lynsey or Will, though.
Will is in Isolation with Raffles, the area under the stairs where we keep patients that might be a source of infection away from the others.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, scanning the inpatient details on the record card pinned to the front of the cage: ‘Raffles Pitt. Barton Farm. Heinz 57. Male. Entire. About four years old. Collapsed.’
‘I don’t know, Maz. I told you I was bloody useless.’
‘Hey, stop that. Did you have a bad night?’
‘I was called out four times, and then I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying about this little chap.’ Will hangs his stethoscope around his neck. ‘I admitted him because he had tummy ache. He’s been vomiting blood, he’s restless, and now he’s started panting and his muscles are twitching. His heart rate is so fast, I can barely count it.
‘He’s dehydrated, but why? It’s a mystery to me. He’s been vaccinated – it’s in his notes that you did it.’ Will scratches his head like a dog with lice. ‘He was a healthy young dog. I don’t understand it. Is it a virus, something he’s eaten or some obscure metabolic disorder?’
‘I wouldn’t jump straight for the metabolic thingy,’ I say. ‘Let’s go with first principles. What do you suggest you do next?’
‘I’ve taken some blood – Izzy’s putting it through the machine right now. I’ve got him on a second drip, given him some antibiotics as cover in case there’s an infection there, drugs to stop him throwing up and I’m debating giving him something to slow his heart. What do you think?’
‘I think you can forget about possible side effects and go ahead. If we don’t know what’s going on, we’ll have to treat the symptoms as they arise. Will, that’s all we can do. Let me know as soon as the bloods come through. I can call Lynsey if you like – she’s a good friend of mine.’
‘No pressure then,’ Will says, anguished.
‘You’ve done a good job so far. I wouldn’t have done anything differently.’
Will is frustrated because he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Raffles, but he’s going to have to learn to accept that you can’t know everything.
‘Lynsey won’t think any less of you. We treat lots of patients that get better without us ever having a clue why they were sick in the first place. It’s life, Will. It’s a vet’s life.’
As soon as the results of the bloods come through, I call Lynsey and ask her to come and see Raffles. There’s usually a recognisable pattern of changes in the blood that suggests one condition over another, but Raffles’s results are baffling. What’s more, his health is declining, and I would hate for Lynsey and her family not to have the chance to say goodbye …
Raffles is very quiet – in human terms he looks as if he has a headache. He has a long body, short bowed legs, a curly tail and a wavy strawberry blond coat, an altogether comical appearance, as if he’s several different dogs put together. I remember him with a smile on his face, muscular and energetic, but not now.
Lynsey comes in with Sam, her oldest boy who’s about twelve now. He’s wearing a hoodie, jeans and wellies. Blond-haired and tall for his age, he walks in holding a squeaky ball.
‘It’s Raffles’s favourite toy.’ He hands it to me. ‘Can he have it in hospital to remind him of home?’
‘Of course.’ I show them through to Isolation where Will and Izzy are changing the bag on the drip.
‘I’ve given him some diazepam,’ says Will.
I don’t have to ask what it was for. Raffles must have had a fit, not a good sign. I decide to go into that with Lynsey later. First of all, we need to try to find out why Raffles is sick so we can target his treatment.
I start at the beginning, following the maxim that common things occur commonly.
‘Does he eat out?’ I ask.
‘He is a bit of a scavenger. He’ll eat anything.’
‘He stole the butter off of the table.’
‘Does Stewart put rat poison down on the farm?’
‘No, we don’t. Not with the other animals, and the children. Do you think he’s been poisoned?’
‘It’s a strong possibility.’ It would help to know what he’s eaten, then we could give him the antidote, if there is one, but it isn’t going to be that easy.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Will, joining in, ‘what about chocolate toxicity? Could Raffles have had access to chocolate?’
‘We do have chocolate at home, but I can’t imagine Raffles could have got hold of it,’ Lynsey says, half smiling. ‘The kids wouldn’t have let him, would you, Sam?’
Sam looks down at his wellies.
‘Sam?’
‘Mum, I didn’t mean to,’ he mumbles.
‘Sam, look at me.’ Lynsey lifts his chin. ‘Please tell us what Raffles ate. Maz and Will won’t be able to save him otherwise.’
‘You know the tree chocolates you bought …’ Sam’s eyes are filled with tears.
‘The ones I hid on top of the dresser for Christmas?’
Sam nods.
‘I took them, Mum,’ he confesses miserably. ‘I left them on the floor and Raffles snaffled them up.’
‘Oh, Sam,’ Lynsey wails. ‘How could you?’
‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would hurt him, did I?’ He looks towards Raffles. ‘He’s very still – is he dead already?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s on some medicine to keep him asleep.’
‘He’s going to die, isn’t he, and it’s all my fault?’
‘Sh,’ says Lynsey, putting her arms around Sam’s shoulders. ‘Let’s not go blaming anyone. It’s one of those things. C’est la vie.’
‘Can we bury him next to Cads?’
‘Sam, that’s enough. I can’t bear to see him like this, but Raffles isn’t going to give up yet. Do what you can for him,’ Lynsey says, choking up.
‘We’ll do our best,’ I say, trying not to choke up myself.
The Pitts lost a dog, Cadbury, a chocolate Lab, ironically enough, and I can’t blame them for being afraid they’re about to lose another one.
Suddenly, Will sees that having the precise diagnosis isn’t the holy grail of veterinary medicine, because, although there’s the personal satisfaction of making the link between the dog’s symptoms and him snaffling the tree chocolates in advance of Christmas, it isn’t going to make any difference to Raffles. It’s too late to flush out his stomach, there’s no antidote, and judging by the amount he’s eaten, it’s still touch and go. Some of them make it. Some don’t.
Towards the end of the week, I’m first in to the practice – because I’ve left George with Sophia for the day. I switch on the lights and monitors on my way through the practice, grabbing a clean scrub top from the pile in the laundry, on my way into Kennels.
As I round the corner past the prep bench, I catch sight of a pair of bare feet sticking out across the floor in front of the bank of cages.
‘Will?’ I dart across to where our assistant is lying down, his head on a rolled-up Vetbed and his torso wrapped in a duvet. ‘Will, are you all right?’
He groans and rolls over, sending an empty mug clattering across the floor. Raffles, who’s in the cage above him, having been moved out of Isolation, whines. I notice that he’s thrown up again, not a good sign.
‘Will?’ I lean down and give him a gentle shake. ‘It’s eight o’clock.’
He utters another groan and opens his eyes, squinting in the daylight. Suddenly, he sits up.
‘What the –’ he mutters thickly. ‘I came down to sit with the dog. I must have fallen asleep. What a prat!’ He staggers up, keeping the duvet tight around his body, and failing to conceal his knobbly knees and skinny calves. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot. You won’t mention this to the others, will you?’
‘No one will know if you hurry up and get
yourself upstairs. Izzy will be here any minute.’
‘Thanks, Maz.’
‘If you want to know what I think,’ I call after him as he makes a quick exit, ‘it shows great devotion to duty, Will. I’m impressed.’ I lean down and pick up the paperwork he’s left – he’s made a graph of Raffles’s heart rate over time, and notes for a case report of theobromine toxicity. I smile to myself. I used to consider myself completely devoted to my work, but Will has taken it one stage further.
I read through Will’s notes and look at Raffles, who is about the same.
‘Oh, Raffles.’ I ruffle his coat. He groans and rolls his uppermost eye. ‘Stupid dog,’ I tell him fondly. ‘You’ve been through enough. Don’t give up.’
I call Lynsey.
‘How is he now?’ she asks.
‘About the same, I’m afraid.’ I give Lynsey time for the implication of that statement to sink in.
‘How long do we let him go on suffering?’ Her voice sounds unusually small.
‘I don’t like the idea of giving up just yet. Why don’t we reassess the situation at the end of the day? I’ll take some more blood. If there’s no improvement, then …’
‘I’ll have him put down,’ Lynsey says. ‘There’s nothing else you can do, is there?’
‘All we can do is continue giving him supportive treatment. It’s up to Raffles now.’
‘Thanks, Maz. I’ll call later.’
I cut the call and give Raffles another dose of antibiotic before I join Izzy and Frances in Reception. Frances is reorganising the display of dog and cat toys to incorporate the Christmas range. I notice how she makes herself start every now and then, squeezing the squeaky plastic crackers and puddings by mistake. Izzy is on a chair, putting up loops of tinsel and foil bells. The Christmas tree, a real one from the farm she shares with Chris, lies on its side on top of the scales.
‘Um, health and safety, Izzy,’ I observe. ‘Emma will have a fit if she sees you on that chair.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve done this for years, before I came here. I’ve always been in charge of decorating the practice.’ She grins down at me. ‘I love Christmas.’
‘Could you at least move the tree before one of our clients falls over it?’
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