It's a Vet's Life: (41 page)

‘All right, Maz. I know what I said,’ Allie says, her voice high with excitement. ‘But I saw these chihuahuas advertised in the
Chronicle
– I couldn’t resist. Meet Blondie.’ She places the puppy on the table. Blondie is wearing a pink harness and lead. Allie is looking smart too, and younger somehow. Instead of her usual sweaty work suit, she’s wearing a cool, acid green mac and cream trousers.

I scratch my forehead. ‘I thought you wanted something you couldn’t grow fond of? That’s adorable.’

‘She is cute, isn’t she?’ Allie hesitates. ‘I swapped the husband for her.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He hated Harry, and when I said I was having a dog, he told me I couldn’t. If I brought one into the house, he would walk out.’ She smiles wryly. ‘I called his bluff.’

‘Are you and the children going to be all right?’ I ask.

‘It will be tough. I’m under no illusion, but I’m glad I stood my ground this time. It was a case of “It’s me or a dog”. The dog won out.’

It seems strange to me, wishing Allie well for the end of her marriage, when I am about to embark on married life. I return the conversation to Blondie.

‘She’s nine weeks old and she’s had her first vaccination at the breeder’s,’ says Allie. ‘I just wanted you to check her over. And I was worried about her diet – I’m not sure I’m feeding her the right food. And she has a sore on her back – it’s very small, but I wondered if it could be infected.’

Allie’s relationship with Blondie is going to be just
the
same as her relationship with Harry: obsessive and overly fond. Blondie will want for nothing. I smile to myself as I run my fingers through her silken coat. I hesitate, part the hair and catch one of the black-brown creatures that are whizzing about across Blondie’s pale skin, between my thumb and fingernail.

‘Here’s the cause of the sore on her back,’ I say, showing Allie. ‘Blondie has fleas. Don’t worry,’ I add quickly as Allie opens her mouth, ‘we can get rid of them and they won’t have caused any lasting harm.’

‘Oh, my poor little puppy-dog,’ Allie wails. ‘No wonder you’ve been itchy-witchy.’

I treat Blondie for fleas and book her in for a second vaccination and Izzy’s next series of Puppy Parties.

‘Allie, I don’t know if you can help,’ I say before she leaves the consulting room.

‘Try me,’ she says.

‘I’m trying to find a wedding photographer for the third Saturday in December. It’s proving impossible. Does the
Chronicle
have any freelance contacts who might be willing to do it? I don’t want any action pictures, like the one of me hanging from that cliff … I’m not asking for perfection either.’

‘There’s Simon,’ she says. ‘I can give you his number.’

‘Thanks. I hope he can do it. I’m running out of time.’

When Allie has gone, and I’ve seen the rest of the appointments, I call Allie’s contact. At first, he thinks he’s already booked for another event, but on checking his diary, he finds that he’s free. Result! The more I get done from the list, the more I look forward to the wedding. I can hardly wait.

I catch up with Will towards the end of the afternoon. He asks me to help him with a post-mortem on a young cat that died unexpectedly.

‘I thought you should do it, Maz, otherwise the client will think I’m hiding something,’ he says. He looks exhausted.

‘Of course I can. Will, are you all right? It happens, you know, you can’t save them all,’ I continue when he doesn’t respond. ‘Sometimes it’s impossible not to become emotionally involved.’

‘I’m not,’ he says curtly. ‘It’s more … well, I feel as if I’ve let everyone down.’

I think we’re talking about the same thing, but if Will finds it easier to define his reaction as feelings rather than emotions, I shan’t argue the point. I follow him out to Kennels where Izzy’s laid the cat out on the prep bench ready for one of us to open it up.

‘It was a young cat,’ Will says, as we throw on gowns, gloves and aprons. ‘I didn’t expect it to die. I can’t believe I didn’t spot something was wrong when it came in for a vaccination the day before.’

‘Cats are good at hiding the fact that they’re ill.’

‘I did a full clinical exam. I checked the pulse, listened to the chest, nothing.’

Apart from the obvious, that it’s lifeless, there isn’t anything externally that suggests what might have gone wrong, so I open the cat’s chest and belly, parting the skin and muscle and snipping through the ribs. The lungs are filled with fluid and the heart is three times the size it should be. I point it out to Will.

‘So it’s heart failure, damage to the muscle,’ he says.

‘Sadly, yes.’ I check for any other possible cause of death before I start to close up the chest and belly. It’s pretty soul-destroying having to sew up a dead
patient
, but it has to be done because the client wants the body back to bury at home.

‘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.’