Monsieur le Vet

by Sylvain Balteau

  So we stopped him.

  Clearly he didn’t understand a word of what he was spouting. So we got him talking about his product, about the business opportunities, anything but that lecture on the phospholipid bilayer. We tried to get him to relax, to help him to understand:

  ‘You see that spiel of yours, it’s so elementary, we were spoon-fed it for two years, maybe longer …’

  His ‘business opportunity’ was a lot of hot air too (but it went without saying that we weren’t going to buy large quantities of this stuff, so there wasn’t a lot he could do).

  Then one thing led to another, and we found ourselves chatting. Sitting there in his pink tie, three-piece suit and improbably neat hair, he was now fighting back the tears. Because we were nice to him, he said, where other vets had sent him packing, jeering at his product for being outdated and at him for being shy and incompetent. We explained to him why no one was remotely interested in his product. And why they were even less interested in studies that were largely a load of hogwash. There wasn’t a vet in the area who hadn’t made their mind up about it ages ago.

  So then he told us. In his previous career he’d been a rep for luxury products, doing the rounds of smart hair-dressers and beauty salons. He liked it, but then the firm he worked for went out of business.

  So he ended up applying to Sexplousse for a job.

  He hadn’t realised it was a lab making veterinary pharmaceuticals.

  Sexplousse.

  He thought it was a company selling sex toys.

  What’s a life worth?

  It’s a difficult subject. A subject that gets people hot under the collar, that we prefer to avoid, churning out stock responses, not stopping to think. Life is worth the price we put on it. An animal is just a possession. You can’t put a price on a life.

  It’s a subject we try to ignore.

  Because … ‘when it comes to my dog, money doesn’t come into it, he’s my playmate, my cuddly toy, my faithful confidant, my beloved companion – not like my boyfriend, who walked out on me.’

  Because … ‘my cat lies on my bed in the morning and purrs, and he has such funny annoying little ways when he wants to be fed.’

  What would you say, though, if I told you that your cat had cancer, and that I could offer you two alternative courses of treatment?

  Let’s say that the first treatment is highly effective, with very few side-effects, and could give your cat another six months to three years of pain-free life. It will require very close monitoring, and will cost around 2,500 euros. A course of chemotherapy.

  Only six months, maybe three years?

  *

  Or else you could opt for a simple cortisone treatment, which will probably slow down the spread of the cancer and allow him to live comfortably for another three to nine months, at a cost of around 30 euros.

  Only three to nine months?

  *

  Which one would you choose?

  *

  Or would you avoid the question, like so many people, and with it the question of cost?

  ‘Oh no, not chemotherapy, that’s awful, I wouldn’t put my pet through that!’

  Or would you protest that the money isn’t important? This is almost never true. Of course the money is important. Of course it’s important to know how much it will cost. Of course it matters, because the times when owners can treat their pets without counting the cost are vanishingly rare.

  Perhaps you would ask how much a course of chemotherapy for your cat would cost after six months? To which I would reply 1,200 euros. And then you might calculate that cortisone will also give him six months of comfortable life, but for 30 euros. We’d talk about the survival rate, the chances of his surviving another year, or two years. You’d probably tell yourself that when it comes down to it cortisone isn’t so bad. You’d reflect that there are people who don’t even have access to polio and tetanus vaccinations, which cost just a few euros. And you’d be right. But you’d also be haggling over the life of your cat. And what would you think if, despite the very best care, despite the 900 euros you’d already paid, your cat died five weeks into the treatment?

  Or else you’d tell me that you can’t afford to pay 2,500 euros for your cat, even over three years. You’d be ashamed. You’d blame yourself. And I’d feel the same, because I wouldn’t be able to offer you the treatment for less. Because in fact 2,500 euros for a course of chemotherapy isn’t expensive. Does that shock you?

  Me too.

  We’re talking about how much you’d be prepared to pay for your pet’s health. About how much its life is worth.

  *

  Some clients protest that 65 euros for a vaccination for a perfectly healthy cat is expensive. Yes, I agree: 65 euros for an animal could be described as a luxury, even. It’s also a basic necessity, however, if you want to protect it against fatal diseases such as panleukopenia and leukaemia. Not to mention the value of the consultation for a vaccination, the number of points I check, the symptoms I might pick up on. A vaccination isn’t just an injection. So yes, it’s worth 65 euros.

  *

  How do you define the value of a life?

  Its monetary value is the cost of the animal. There aren’t many people who are prepared to pay for treatment for their child’s hamster that cost 8 euros.

  ‘You can just buy another one. And it’ll teach the boy about life and death. And it costs 25 euros for a vet’s appointment! And even if they find something there’ll be nothing they can do.’

  Then there’s the emotional value of a life, the amount these same owners would be prepared to pay to have their pet treated. How much would that small boy have paid to save his hamster? Everything he had, probably.

  But in real life it’s all so much more complicated. Vets deal with people from so many different social and cultural backgrounds. I tried to define my clientele for one of my work experience students, so he could put it in his report:

  ‘It’s geographical. This is a rural area, and my clients are the people who live within a twenty-kilometre radius. They include small farmers, hunters, manual workers, doctors, well-off people, poor people, children, men and women, old people, a priest, and a home for people with disabilities.’

  And all these people relate to their animals in their own individual way. To their own animals, and to other people’s.

  I know one woman of retirement age and pious views who deplores the way wild boar hunters send their hunting dogs out in the full knowledge that they’ll take a beating. So I tell her about those dogs, dogs that would do anything – even when mortally injured – to get back to the chase, dogs that just love to hunt. Dogs that are miserable when they see the pack going off without them, leaving them behind just because they’re a mass of stitches.

  I also know a very old lady who could never get used to the idea that she could enjoy such little luxuries as care for her pet, no questions asked. That day she was paying 50 euros or so to have her cat neutered. Some 60 years earlier, during the war, she had fled Lille in the north of France, which was occupied by the Nazis, to reach the unoccupied zone in the south. According to her own private logic, now she was lucky to be able to spend 50 euros on her pet.

  Then there’s the practical use to which an animal can be put.

  It might help its owner to earn a living, like a sheepdog or a guard dog. It might help them to live with a disability, like a guide dog. It might bring them in an income when it’s sold, like a Limousin calf (probably their only source of income). Or it might provide them with a leisure activity, like a hunting dog or a gymkhana pony. Or – most likely – it might have no real ‘use’ whatsoever, like your cat. Yet it has a value.

  And then there’s the status we give our pets, their social standing, if you like.

  For some people a dog is just a dog, however much they love it. They’re happy to pay, as long as the amount is ‘reasonable’. To some people in rural areas, a cat is little better than a weasel, virtually vermin. ‘Who’d buy
a cat? Some people are mad.’ Other people will pay a lawyer to negotiate custody of the Yorkie that their ex took with them when they left. How will the lawyer explain to them that in law a dog is merely a possession? And most people fall somewhere between the two extremes, the happy medium. Happy? Happy for whom, exactly?

  Then there’s the length of time an animal can be expected to live.

  Who would pay thousands of euros to give their sixteen-year-old dog another month of life? Lots of my clients decide to stop having their dogs vaccinated when they reach a certain age, when in fact the protection vaccinations offer is even more important at an advanced age. Some refuse to treat a broken paw because the dog is old. Others don’t care how old the dog is and feel it’s the least they can do. A cattle farmer won’t spend a lot of money on an elderly cow that can no longer produce milk or calves. He’ll send her for slaughter. Who’s right? Who’s wrong?

  Lastly, there’s how much we love our animals, purely and simply. You never ask yourself the question, but one day I might have to: how much are you prepared to pay? I sincerely hope it never happens to you. But the question’s an interesting one, all the same. And a chilling one. Probably not one you want to ask yourself.

  So why would you answer it on anyone else’s behalf?

  *

  A car driver runs over a dog. It wasn’t his fault, he was driving at normal speed and the dog ran out in front of the car. How much should he be prepared to pay to treat its injuries? Or the dog’s owner, if the driver has driven off? Or what if the driver finds out that the dog is a stray and no one will miss it? How much should the driver pay if this time it was his fault? If he tells himself that it could have been his own dog? If he tells himself that it could have been a child?

  *

  A farmer asks the vet to put down one of his cows. How much extra is it worth to spare her suffering, rather than just letting her die, which would cost nothing? The cost of her vaccinations and the price of her calves?

  And when we buy a steak, how much are we prepared to pay to ensure that the animal is slaughtered painlessly? According to opinion polls, we’re happy to pay extra. People are so generous. Yet often in fact they buy the meat that’s cheapest, rather than meat from countries where abattoirs and animal suffering are strictly regulated.

  Each one of us places a different value on the lives of animals, a value that is shaped by all these considerations, both rational and irrational. So before we judge others we should try to understand them. It’s what I have to do every day.

  At the same time it’s not my decision, though: I can offer alternatives, and I can make adjustments to suit different clients. The little boy who’s weeping inconsolably over his rat will pay a token amount, but he’ll still pay. As a token, precisely. The woman who wakes up every vet in the area in the middle of the night to have her cat spayed as an emergency will doubtless be charged more than someone else who makes an appointment in the normal way. Most of the time, happily, I only have to give estimates, perhaps offer different ways to pay, and leave the owner to wrestle with their conscience.

  *

  And you, what preconceived notions do you have?

  Do you think that because a farmer sends his cows for slaughter he doesn’t care about them, that he’ll pay as little as possible for any treatment and certainly won’t indulge in anything that isn’t strictly necessary? You might also remind yourself that he spends his life up to his ankles in manure and doing backbreaking work. That he’s subject to regulations governing animal welfare and health and hygiene that you have no idea about. And on a small farm, how much return does he see for all his work, in the end? Maybe he doesn’t do it for the money. They play the hard man, as I know only too well, but they share their lives with their animals. I’d like you to see one of these callous brutes when I have to put one of their animals down.

  And what makes you think that those loutish hunters don’t care about their dogs? You’d be surprised to know how much they spend on feeding them, hunting with them and looking after them. And how much time they spend training them. You should see their faces when one of them falls by the wayside.

  Is a dog with a pedigree as long as your arm, say a Shar-Pei that cost 2,000 euros, worth more than a cross-breed? Of course not. So why is this charming and kind owner prepared to lavish so much money on her new pedigree puppy, when she’s just had her old 57-varieties mongrel put down, even though it could have been treated?

  What is the value, in rural France, of a goose bred to be force-fed for foie gras? Would it shock you to know that one of my clients paid 2,000 euros for a triple osteotomy operation on a seven-month-old Bernese mountain dog? Why do horses that have worked at the equestrian centre get sent to the abattoir rather than being put out to grass? What price would you put on the life of a Rottweiler that displays threatening behaviour, growls at people, and has already bitten someone?

  How much?

  Why?

  Odour of vanilla

  Monsieur and Madame Hermann are a retired couple in their early seventies.

  For the past nineteen years they have shared their lives with Gitane, a highly-strung little five-kilo ball of fluff, whose state of health you can imagine only too well.

  An appointment with Monsieur and Madame Hermann has something of a ritual about it.

  First of all there’s the image that meets my gaze as I open the consulting room door. They make a perfect couple. Monsieur Hermann wears a black coat, a fine burgundy-coloured jersey and a grey scarf. His thick silvery hair is immaculately cut. He has a grey hat, and his black shoes are impeccably polished. Madame Hermann wears a fur coat and a discreet toque, a silk scarf knotted at her throat and a floral gilt brooch pinned to her breast. There’s nothing self-conscious about their appearance, nothing showy.

  Close on the heels of this image comes the scent, the vanilla notes of Madame Hermann’s perfume, heavy and insistent, almost oppressive. Curiously, it’s this perfume that sets the all-pervasive, overriding tone in all my encounters with Monsieur and Madame Hermann.

  Not Monsieur’s voice, deep, calm and steady, nor Madame’s more anxious tones.

  Not Monsieur’s handshake, firm, supple and restrained, nor Madame’s brush of the hand, light and almost imperceptible.

  Instead it’s that odour of vanilla, the scent that also clings to the fur of Gitane, who now lies trembling in the arms of her mistress.

  *

  It’s the third time this year that Monsieur and Madame Hermann have brought Gitane in to see me. Gitane is nineteen. Like all lapdogs of her advanced years, she has a heart condition. She’s almost blind with cataracts. But otherwise she hasn’t lost her faculties, she’s not disorientated, and her reactions are perfectly normal.

  Madame Hermann could tell you more about her than I can, if only she could stop referring to her in the past tense.

  ‘She used to be so lovely, such a dainty little fairy with her golden curls, and so intelligent, so affectionate. Such a darling!’

  These days Gitane isn’t so lovely, but you could still say that she looks good for her age. Her coat is very fine, but dense and soft. Her skin is flawless. She’s beautifully turned out. Her joints and postures are normal. In short, she’s not one of those drooling elderly dogs that you hesitate to make a fuss of, and only do it because you remember when they looked good and didn’t smell bad.

  Four months ago, we operated on Gitane to remove a mammary tumour. It all went well, despite the risks of the anaesthetic, and the wound has healed nicely.

  Monsieur and Madame Hermann have brought Gitane in today because she has a sort of scab on her right eye, which is oozing slightly and covers the lower lid and a few square centimetres of the skin below it. It’s clearly troubling her, and Madame Hermann struggles to keep it clean. My first thought, like hers, is that it’s an accumulation of a mucous discharge from the tear ducts, complicated by a skin infection.

  Using tiny scissors and a minuscule scalpel blade, I start to lif
t off the scab, millimetre by millimetre, all the while avoiding the snapping teeth of a little dog that is evidently in a lot of pain.

  Eventually I discover that this oozing scab doesn’t come from the eye, but from a small hole in the nasal wall, an infraorbital fistula, a classic complication of a sinus infection, itself caused by an abscess on a tooth. Gitane’s teeth are in a catastrophic state, obviously, but until now we haven’t wanted to run the risk of giving her an anaesthetic in order to scale them.

  But now we have no choice. As long as there’s a rotten tooth behind it, this lesion has no chance of healing, and antibiotics alone won’t be enough to tackle an infection like this. The treatment will have to be surgical: extraction of the rotten teeth and scaling of the rest, followed by anti-inflammatories and antibiotics. The anaesthetic will probably be quite long and the operation will be painful. The risks of the anaesthetic will be very high.

  But we have to treat the dog. We can’t leave Gitane in so much pain. She’s had these dental abscesses for some time, and the drugs she’s been given haven’t managed to check the infection. Her pain threshold must be high, but there are limits to what we can expect her to endure. Madame Hermann confirms my suspicions: she’s barely eating any more, and she often rubs her muzzle on the ground.

  *

  ‘So we have to accept the risks of the anaesthetic if we want to allow Gitane to carry on with a decent quality of life.’

  I deliberately to phrase it like this in order to leave the way open for her owners to broach the subject of putting her down. Gitane is nineteen, she’s in pain, the surgery will be painful, and she has lots of other things that are starting to go wrong. If they decide they want to put her down, I won’t refuse. They get my meaning.

  ‘If she dies during the anaesthetic, would she suffer?’

  Monsieur Hermann’s voice is grave.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t suffer. And at least we would have tried, rather than merely resigning ourselves.’

  Madame Hermann gives her husband a look of agreement. She asks me if I think the operation will really help Gitane, which I do. So she chooses surgery, and rejects euthanasia. After doing a blood test, with excellent results, I prescribe some medication and make an appointment for the following week.