Vet On a Mission

by Gillian Hick

  Terry, a carpenter friend of John’s, was roped in for some of the woodwork. Despite Jack’s concerns about Terry ‘leaving his curls all over the floor’, referring to the endless wood shavings as doors and frames were worked into shape, the end result was quite spectacular.

  I did feel a stab of guilt when the three Polish men arrived to fit the white plastic wall covering in the theatre and kennel to enable a higher standard of hygiene and easier washing. They were quiet, but pleasant, and it was only after the first tea-break (which they insisted on having in their van) that one enquired what we were doing with the building. When I told him it was for a veterinary practice. He looked appalled.

  ‘In Poland,’ he said, ‘we do not have hospital like this for the people.’

  I did begin to wonder if maybe we had gone too far.

  It was only years later, when the practice was well established that John finally stopped fretting over us even being able to earn a living out of it. He finally confessed that he had built the surgery to house standard so that if it didn’t work out we could rent the house and live in the practice.

  As the practice continued to expand over the years, there was no part of it that I regretted investing in. This was in stark contrast to all the large-animal equipment I had invested in shortly after qualifying, which still sits in a dusty corner of the shed.

  But in the early days, there were many anxious days when the day’s takings fell far short of what it actually cost to run the business.

  With this in mind, I was delighted when a phone call came in one day from a new client. She had a litter of ten Labrador puppies and wanted them vaccinated. A job like this was just what I needed, until I realised that she wanted me to call out to her instead of bringing the puppies in. Going out on a call, a good forty-five minutes’ drive away meant rescheduling kids, clinics and everything that went with it. But still, I wasn’t in a position to turn the work away. I rang her back that evening, having arranged for Donal to get home early to take the kids, so I could do the call out and be back in time for the evening clinic.

  It almost seemed like an afternoon off to be driving down the country lane through Aughrim and on past Tinahely. Being in sole charge of vaccinating puppies with no toddlers in tow was heaven! Feeling like life was just too good, I guiltily stopped off in The Stonecutters in Aughrim and ordered a takeaway coffee and scone, secure in the knowledge that I could eat the whole scone myself and that there was no risk of anyone spilling the coffee or scalding themselves with it. All too soon, I was pulling in the narrow gate that led to a quaint, comfortable country home to be greeted by Margaret and Edith, the two spinster sisters who had been born and reared there.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Margaret called out to me as soon as I had negotiated the narrow gateway, beckoning me to park beside the old Land Rover.

  ‘Let me take your bag,’ she insisted, almost grabbing the refrigerated bag containing the vaccines out of my hand as soon as I got out of the car.

  ‘And I’ll take your case,’ insisted Edith, the other sister, clearly not wanting to outdone.

  I suppressed a giggle as they reminded me of Molly and Fiona, although they were surely heading for almost seventy years of seniority. I paused on the doorstep to remove my boots and before they could hit the outdoor step Edith whipped them off me, placing them carefully inside the front door while Margaret continued on, linking me by my arm to lead me to a surprisingly spacious conservatory room at the back of the dwelling. Far from being for their own personal comfort, this space had been totally taken over by the family of black Labradors. One bewildered-looking mother and ten energetically crazy fluff balls greeted me with an exuberant, if somewhat deafening, enthusiasm.

  Edith started bundling all the puppies, one and two at a time, outside the door, into the old-fashioned darkened hallway.

  ‘Whatever are you doing, Edith?’ questioned Margaret, although it was perfectly clear to see.

  ‘Well, I thought if I put them out in the hallway, then we could let them in one at a time for their injections,’ began Edith, clearly slightly miffed at Margaret’s questioning.

  ‘And wouldn’t they destroy the carpet out there?’ retorted Margaret, cutting her sister off with her tone of voice.

  I busied myself filling the ten syringes with the vaccinations, not wanting to engage in what was becoming a heated battle of wits between the siblings.

  ‘We’ll keep them all here and then let them out into the hall one at a time after the vet is finished with them,’ declared Margaret, ignoring her sister’s valid protestation that they could equally well destroy the hall after the injection as before.

  ‘Nonsense! They’ll be quiet as lambs after their injections. Stop fussing, Edith!’

  By the time I was ready, Lola, the mother, was flopped resignedly on the far rug, clearly glad of the break. Ten puppies is a big litter for a Labrador and as they were all very even in size, it was impossible to imagine how you could tell them apart. After the first few, as I examined teeth, eyes and ears, checked their hearts and lungs, felt for hernias of any kind, identified boys and girls and their respective anatomy and finally vaccinated each pup, the rest of the gang became bored and restless. As I finished dealing with each puppy, I handed it to Margaret, who handed it to Edith, who carefully placed it outside the door into the hallway, each time making a point of checking that they weren’t doing damage in the hall. As the numbers remaining dwindled, the remaining few decided I was of no further entertainment to them and went back to harass the exhausted Lola. After a few minutes, she jumped up, spewing the remaining puppies in all directions and jumped up on the door to open it and let herself out.

  ‘Lord, Edith, can you not carry out a simple task?’ wailed Margaret as all the puppies ran back in to the room between the unfortunate Edith’s legs. They scampered playfully around, joyful at being reunited with the pack, and clearly far from ‘quiet as lambs’ after their injections. There was a quick shuffle to ensure the pups I had dealt with were still separated from the ones remaining, and then we resumed the task.

  Finally, I picked up the last remaining puppy. He was slightly subdued by being abandoned by all his play mates and he sat quietly as I made my way through his routine examination before reaching over to the tray to pick up the last remaining vaccination. As the tray was now full of all the empty vials and needles and syringes, I had to shuffle through them to find the remaining loaded syringe, knowing I had filled ten to start with. But much and all as I rooted through all the empty syringes, I couldn’t find the remaining one. Carefully I re-counted the empty syringes; despite the last puppy remaining before me, I had clearly vaccinated ten already, meaning that one had been vaccinated twice while this little guy had had none. We all realised it at the same time and Edith was brave enough the be the first to speak out.

  ‘One of the little beggars must have come back in when Lola went out.’

  ‘Well that is entirely obvious, Edith,’ declared Margaret. ‘I don’t suppose you have any ideas which one of the little beggars it might be?’

  There was nothing for it but to confine the last remaining puppy in the crate while allowing his siblings back into the room and promise to call back later that day, as I had only carried the exact number of vaccinations with me.

  Suddenly, what had seemed like an afternoon of freedom was not so appealing as I knew that by the time I made it home, I would have to go straight back to the clinic and come back later that evening.

  The kids were not impressed to see me heading back out that evening and the drive had somehow lost its charm as I envisaged the hour-and-a-half journey to vaccinate one puppy.

  By the time I made it back, the lone puppy was howling miserably at his prolonged confinement away from his buddies.

  He was overwhelmed with enthusiasm as I took him out, didn’t seem to notice the injection and then ran off delightedly to rejoin the gang. I quickly checked through the other pups in case whichever pup had received the double d
ose was showing any adverse effects, but they all seemed in good form.

  Edith was nowhere to be seen. I suspect she had been berated for the incident, which was no more her fault than mine or Margaret’s. Margaret had laid out a plate of sandwiches and small slices of cake which I ate enthusiastically as I filled out the ten vaccination certificates, not having eaten since the stolen coffee and scone much earlier in the day.

  The puppies had been sold to people in the greater Wicklow area; a client of mine who was buying one had apparently recommended me to vaccinate them in the first place, and I was pleased to think that at least one of the pups would become a full-time patient of the practice. As I signed off on the vaccination certificates, I noted down the next vaccination due in three weeks’ time for the new owners to bring the puppies to their own vets.

  I had almost forgotten about my afternoon coffee trip when, three weeks later, I saw two new clients booked in for morning clinic, each with a Labrador puppy. I felt sure they must be two of the litter. Scrolling through the appointments list, I saw there were three more booked for that evening, and then another three the next morning. The remaining two pups came three days later with a family who had been away for the weekend and so delayed collecting their new charge.

  I could well believe it when the new clients told me that Edith, and especially Margaret, had been most particular about discharging the puppies and each new owner had been presently with a leaflet listing out the diet and general care and maintenance instruction along with a stern note that I was the veterinary surgeon to whom the pups were to be taken for follow-up care. No recommendation or suggestions – just an order! Furthermore, although this all happened well before the introduction of mandatory microchipping, the ladies had insisted that all of the puppies be microchipped in the new owner’s name at the time of the second vaccination.

  In hindsight, it was well worth the double drive to the outskirts of Tinahely that day; it resulted in ten new patients to the practice, all of whose owners were suitably impressed by the new, purpose-built premises.

  Chapter 10

  Tales of Tabby Cats

  It was New Year’s Eve and we were well into life in the new practice. We had been invited to the neighbours’ for the evening and although I was fairly sure that, whatever about the kids, Donal and I were not likely to last as long as ringing in the New Year, we were hopeful to get a few hours with the neighbours, many of whom we simply hadn’t seen in the dark winter months unless they were unfortunate enough to need veterinary assistance. My optimism about not getting a call on the night that was in it should have been enough to warn me. It wasn’t until I had the kids all fed and dressed and I was finally in the bath myself that the phone rang.

  I knew by the tone of the unfamiliar voice that the plans for a relaxing evening were over.

  ‘I could hear the weirdest yowling coming from the bush, but by the time I got back out with a torch it had stopped. I was about to go back in and then it started again and when I got in under the bush, I found this little cat, and her eyes were rolling and her legs were going in all directions. I have her in a box now, but I don’t know what to do with her.’

  As I got out of the bath and dried myself with one hand, still hanging onto the phone with the other and talking to the distressed stranger, I discovered that as far as she knew, the cat was not from the area, but from her description appeared to have been poisoned and was having what sounded like full-blown epileptic seizures. In fairness, she was very grateful when I told her to come up immediately and I regretted my initial feeling of frustration that while everyone else would be partying I would spend the night looking after a high-maintenance stray cat.

  As Shauna lived no more than fifteen minutes away, I headed straight over to set up in preparation for my new patient.

  It’s funny how in veterinary practice, things often seem to run along a theme. Only a few weeks after moving into the new premises, Amanda the recently acquired practice nurse had booked in a routine cat neuter for a new client.

  Unfortunately, when I arrived in to examine the new arrival prior to his surgery, I realised why he was called Twister. When I finally managed to coax him out of his cosy nest in the cat-carrier, I could see that apart from being a stunning, long-haired tabby, Twister had a distinctive head tilt and the pupil of one eye was significantly more dilated than the other. When I rang the owner to get a more detailed history, she told me that he had had ‘a few’ seizures, but as he was a wild cat that just came in the evening for food, she wasn’t too sure of any further detail. When I told her that the anaesthetic for his surgery would carry significant risk and that working up and treating his condition could be costly, she reluctantly asked if I could put him to sleep.

  I could almost feel the request coming, and I wondered if it was just me that got caught up with these ‘hopeless cases’. I knew even before she asked that I couldn’t euthanise this stunning and inquisitive-looking cat while he clearly, despite his issues, still had an interest in living.

  Reluctantly, I offered for her to surrender the cat to us, knowing that now, not only would we incur the cost of his treatment, we’d also be left with another animal that we had little to no chance of rehoming.

  I never regretted the decision, although Twister ended up staying only a short six months with us. Routine tests that we could carry out in-house gave no clues as to the cause of his condition. When he responded well to twice-daily anti-seizure medication, I reluctantly had to accept that it was not viable to refer him for tests that would cost more than all our patients put together would generate for the month. The anaesthetic went reasonably smoothly with a carefully tweaked anaesthetic regime for his neutering.

  Once fully recovered from his surgery and stable with his medication, Twister became increasingly less impressed with his enforced confinement. He became our outdoor warrior – fearlessly stalking through the woods behind the house and surgery all day, but always arriving back by dusk for his medication and a night in comfort. We became accustomed to his peculiar head carriage and his slightly exaggerated high-stepping walk as he prowled around his territory. Over the following months he never had a seizure that I knew of.

  On the evening of a super full moon, Twister didn’t appear and although I searched through the woods under the stunningly beautiful moonlight long after the kids had gone to bed, he was nowhere to be found. When a giant shooting star passed overhead, I knew that something had happened to Twister. Sure enough, two days later, Molly and Fiona came running into the house to say that they had been in Narnia (their name for the woods behind us) and found a dead cat. For some reason they didn’t seem to realise that the dead cat was Twister. I followed them out and sure enough – although looking very wet and bedraggled and in their defence most unlike his former glory – there lay Twister, underneath a giant oak tree.

  When Shauna mentioned that this stray cat was a tabby and was also having seizures, I felt I owed it to Twister to take care of her.

  In contrast to Twister, Titch, as she was named some weeks after her arrival, was tiny. I had no idea if she was a wild cat or a much-loved pet, as she was so stunned and almost unconscious from the multiple seizures she had been having even in the car on her way up.

  I rudely left Shauna at the front door and took the tiny quivering body straight down to the brightly lit treatments room, where due to her almost comatose condition, I easily was able to place the intravenous line, which would quite literally become her lifeline for the remainder of the night. I did eventually get up to the party, a five-minute walk up the road, twice for short intervals, but the remainder of the night was spent monitoring Titch and the concoction of medication that I was pumping into her to help control the aggressive seizures that were ravaging her tiny body. At the time I had no clear idea as to the cause of her seizures – her overall clinical condition didn’t tie in with any of the more common intoxicants and although I couldn’t rule out trauma, the few visible scratches on her head and ba
ck legs could have occurred during the violent seizures in the bushes.

  Six hours into the New Year, Titch was finally stabilised. I wearily crept into bed, hoping to get an hour or two of actual sleep before the kids woke hopefully a little later than usual after their late-night party.

  As Titch’s seizures were now controlled, by the next evening she was recovered enough that I was able to remove her intravenous line, although this proved much more difficult than it had been to put it in in her comatose state. The frail, placid body turned into a hissing, spitting fireball as I struggled to peel off the sticky tape with one hand, while holding her thrashing body under my other arm. When I finally managed to remove the line, she shot back into the depths of the kennel, glaring villainously at me. I surveyed the parallel scratch marks down my arm as thanks for a night of intensive care treatment!

  In fairness to her, Titch, once recovered from her needle fear became quite amicable again and would allow me to stroke her while feeding and cleaning her out, but in typical cat fashion, with even a hint of an injection or medical intervention, she turned into an angry tiger again. Within days, I discovered that her poor body weight was not a result of her medical condition, but simple hunger as she devoured everything I could put in front of her, including the dishes of cat food carefully laced with her medications. After a few days, she thought it normal that cat pouches and even dry food came complete with tiny pills and happily crunched through them without any fuss.