Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (11 page)

‘The usual Monday morning panic stations,’ sniffed Beryl, blowing her nose, her giggling now under control, her face having reverted to its usual deadpan expression. ‘By the way, your mention of Mrs Venables and her cockatiel reminds me I’ve got one booked in for you to see this evening. At least now you’ll know what you’re looking at.’ She said it without a trace of irony. That was the thing with Beryl – she often came out with comments which you could argue were withering or sarcastic but, when spoken with that deadpan face of hers, they left you wondering whether she realised what she was saying. My guess was that she knew precisely what she was saying, as once, when I was having my tea break with her, she admitted that she was a plain speaker and, as a result, would occasionally ‘get peoples’ backs up’.

Having felt niggled by her reaction to my tale about Tammy, I refused to be drawn any more, and merely gave a tolerant smile. Referring back to the appointments list, I saw a name which I deliberately picked up on. ‘I see Mr Entwhistle’s coming in this evening,’ I remarked casually, and, as suspected, the mention of his name made Beryl’s face instantly light up again.

‘Yes,’ she said, barely able to suppress the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘He said on the phone that he’s got a new puppy. Wants to bring her in for her vaccinations. Crystal was getting rather booked up so I offered him an appointment with you. He seemed happy enough with that.’

Thanks a bunch, Beryl. Another tolerant smile … only to have that smile immediately wiped off my face when she continued, ‘There’s a lady coming in soon with a sick Schnauzer which sounds quite poorly. I thought it could be serious, so I’ve had to double-book you.’

Beryl didn’t elaborate. But I knew that if she considered it serious, it probably was. Beryl had been working at Prospect House for many years now and was experienced enough to sift out any priority cases over the phone; and, indeed, I reckoned she could have diagnosed what was wrong with many of them before they were seen. So I awaited the arrival of the Schnauzer with some trepidation.

Meanwhile, as I was about to leave reception and get ready to start the appointments list, there was a scuffling and skittering of paws on the vinyl behind me as a dog was reluctantly dragged in by a harassed-looking man in his mid-thirties. The man was powerfully built, tall, wearing a brown tweed suit with waistcoat, white shirt and tie, sporting a dark brown trilby and round, brown, framed glasses giving his face an owl-like expression. He looked familiar, although at first I couldn’t place him. Then in a flash – a sort of Superman flash – it came to me. A Clark Kent lookalike – him off the
Superman
movies – although the dog he was dragging in was far removed from Krypto, the Superdog of the comic strip. The hound shared the same colouring – white – and had an equally long tail and big ears; but whereas Krypto was a large dog, this one was tiny – a titchy terrier whose large ears and long tail were wildly out of proportion to his small, elongated body, supported by stumpy little legs that barely kept his undercarriage from scraping along the ground. Definitely some Dachshund in his breeding, I thought. A weedy little specimen. So, no Krypto. However, he was wearing a red jacket which, with a stretch of the imagination, you could have thought of as a cape, although I couldn’t see him using it to fly into action. As it turned out, he didn’t need anything to fly into action. I found that out to my cost later.

The Clark Kent lookalike had to yank on the dog’s lead to drag the terrier across to the reception desk, the dog having now promptly sat down firmly on his haunches, back legs splayed out either side of him, his red cape (jacket) spread out on the floor behind him.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Archie, behave yourself,’ said the man, his voice full of exasperation, as he slid the dog forward to draw level with the desk and confront Beryl. The peeved look on her face suggested that she in no way considered herself Lois waiting for Superman to fly in and sweep her into his arms – not that Beryl could possibly have been swept up by anything other than a broomstick, which she’d have fitted admirably with her black clothes, evil eye and long red nails.

‘Sorry if I’m a bit late,’ said the man, addressing her. ‘Got held up in traffic.’

Beryl’s normal response to latecomers, whether for admission for ops or for appointments, was an audible click of her tongue against her teeth and a rather tart, ‘Well, I’m sure we can still fit you in.’

Her response to this man was no exception.

The little pooch had started to shake and was panting heavily, saliva pouring out of his jowls. The man bent down and scooped him up under his arm.

‘Calm down, Archie,’ reassured the man, ‘no one’s going to hurt you.’ The man glanced at Beryl and smiled wanly. ‘Anyone would think the end of the world was nigh,’ he went on. Whoosh. Was he about to turn into the caped crusader, I wondered? The dog shook his head and a string of saliva arched up and over the desktop to splatter down on Beryl’s keyboard.

‘Archie, for heaven’s sake, you’re embarrassing me,’ said the man, as Beryl pursed her lips, took a tissue from the horde up her sleeve and, with an exaggerated swipe, mopped up the offending dribble and dropped the sodden tissue in her wastepaper basket. ‘You must be Mr Henderson,’ she said brusquely, checking her computer screen. ‘Archie’s coming in for a dental. Am I right?’

Mr Henderson nodded. ‘Dr Sharpe warned me a few teeth might have to come out.’

Ah, there we go, I thought. One of Crystal’s clients. If it had been a ruptured knee ligament or some complicated internal surgery she would have had it booked in to do herself. But rotten teeth. Well, Paul could deal with those. I gritted my own teeth and slipped out ready to start my appointments, having seen two people, both with cat baskets, come in through the front door and who were now queuing behind Superman (Mr Henderson), waiting to be transported to another world (my consulting room).

I was running ten minutes late by the time the
double-booked
appointment Beryl had mentioned turned up. The poorly Schnauzer I was presented with was of the miniature variety, salt and pepper, with clipped beard and short upright tail. They’re normally alert, sharp little dogs, full of vim and vigour. Not so this female. You didn’t have to be a vet to see we had a very ill dog here. Her owner, a Mrs Little, did little to hide her feelings as she carried the dog in and lowered her onto the consulting table.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ she said, her eyes glistening with tears, the mascara round them smudged. ‘Bo-Bo’s not at all well.’ The Schnauzer just lay there, on her sternum, head down between her extended front paws, eyes glazed, unfocused, pupils dilated.

Since starting at Prospect House, I’d gradually perfected a standard approach to my consultations, usually beginning with a ‘Good morning/afternoon/evening …’ depending on the time of day, directed at the owners with a ‘Come in’ as they entered the room, carrying pets in baskets or cages or – in the case of dogs – in arms, or beside or between legs, or sometimes disappearing rapidly down the corridor, being pulled towards the exit.

Having overcome that initial hurdle, I would follow it up with a friendly ‘Hello, Tibbles … Cindy … Fluffy … Rex … Sabre …’ My cheerful ‘How are you feeling today?’ I had to curtail and use more selectively. It was OK if it were a dog or cat coming in for its annual booster, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. But for a pet that came in dull-eyed and droopy-tailed, such a phrase was not appropriate as the animal was obviously feeling bloody rotten and would have said as much. For a short spell, I did try ‘What can I do for you?’ But I stopped that after my encounter with Francesca Cavendish, an out-of-work actress, who had swept into the consulting room with Oscar, a Maltese, wrapped in her pashmina. My ‘What can I do for you?’ was countered by a ‘Darling boy, it’s not what you can do for me but what you can do for my darling Oscar.’ I then tried ‘So what seems to be the problem?’ only for Miss Cavendish to retort ‘That’s for you to find out, sweetie.’ After a few months in practice, I acquired a short list of phrases from which I would select one to fit the circumstances of a particular consultation.

My initial observation of Mrs Little’s Bo-Bo made me want to utter ‘Bloody hell, she’s sick!’ But that wasn’t on my list so I had to resort to an ‘Oh dear, we seem to have a poorly little dog here.’ Not quite so dramatic but the sentiment expressed was just as heartfelt. I started to ask the standard questions as I examined Bo-Bo.

‘How long’s she been like this?’

Mrs Little hesitated before she spoke. ‘Er, just the last 24 hours.’

I suspected it was longer. Those tears wetting Mrs Little’s cheek could have been induced by guilt. Especially when she went on, ‘My husband thought it might be a tummy upset. She does get them from time to time.’

‘So she’s got diarrhoea then?’

‘Well, no. But she has been sick several times. And she’s off her food.’ Mrs Little bent over the Schnauzer and stroked her head. ‘I’ve tried her with all her favourites – tuna … fresh chicken. But she’s not interested.’ Mrs Little shook her head and gave a little sob.

By now, I’d checked Bo-Bo’s temperature – slightly below normal. Checked her eyelids – congested. Felt her pulse – erratic and sluggish. All suggestive of a toxic dog. My list of differential diagnoses began to narrow. The next two questions would narrow it further and probably allow me to reach a definitive diagnosis.

‘Is she drinking more than normal?’

Mrs Little nodded. ‘Why yes, heaps more than normal. Could it be her kidneys then?’

I ignored her question and posed the second of mine. If the answer was going to be ‘No’ I had a pretty shrewd idea of what was going on. ‘Is she spayed?’

‘No. My husband was against the idea. He was hoping to have some puppies from her. But we never did.’

Classic condition. Yes! I suddenly reprimanded myself. No cause for jubilation here just because I reckoned I’d diagnosed Bo-Bo’s problem. A careful feel of her abdomen would give me further evidence that I was on the right track. Or, more appropriately, on her tract. Having gently rolled the Schnauzer on her side without a murmur of protest from her, I had used my fingers each side of her tummy to knead her distended abdomen and, in doing so, felt a large, soft mass yield beneath them. Yes, I was definitely on the right track – her uterus was grossly enlarged and no doubt full of pus. Bo-Bo was suffering from pyometritis – an infection of the womb. Sometimes in such cases, if the cervix remains open, the infection drains out and you see a sticky vulval discharge. But if the cervix remains closed, the infection, unable to escape, builds up in the womb, causing it to grossly dilate, and consequently leads to toxaemia and collapse. Precisely what we were seeing in Bo-Bo. I explained all of this to Mrs Little and ended by saying: ‘We need to operate and remove her infected womb. But I do have to warn you, she’s in a very toxic state so it’s not like a normal hysterectomy. The risks here are much higher.’

Tears welled up once more in Mrs Little’s eyes – this time there was no doubting their sincerity. ‘You mean she might die?’ She leaned over and kissed Bo-Bo’s head. ‘Oh my poor sweet,’ she whispered. In response, there was the merest wag of the Schnauzer’s tail.

‘We’ll, of course, do our best,’ I said with more conviction than I felt. That line wasn’t in my list but I could hardly say ‘You shouldn’t have left it so long before coming in.’ But I surmised that this had been developing for quite a few days and not just suddenly overnight as had been suggested by Mrs Little. Still, now was not the time for recriminations. I had a feeling those would be wrought on a certain Mr Little when she got home.

I took the decision to admit Bo-Bo straight away and lifted the inert little dog off the table and carried her down to the ward while instructing Mrs Little to go back out to reception where Beryl would get her to sign the necessary consent forms.

As I passed the alcove door to reception, Beryl swivelled round in her chair and said, ‘Thought it might be a pyo.’

‘It is,’ I replied and hurried on. Here again, Beryl’s uncanny instincts had proved right, although she’d had the good grace not to prejudge the problem earlier on.

I saw Mandy step out of the preparation room as I came down the corridor, and she stood there watching as I approached with the dog in my arms, her face set in what, over the months, I’d come to think of as ‘Mandy mode’. Under normal circumstances, she had a pleasant enough face, rounded, a little chubby maybe, but Rubenesque, pink cheeks, snub nose, unblemished skin framed by a
no-nonsense
auburn bob – she had none of this frizzy or straggly long hair which constantly escapes the confines of hair clips or grips to dangle down over operating sites, threatening their sterility, as witnessed on several lady vets in past TV programmes, forcing me to utter the words, ‘Get a grip.’ I can still hear my previous girlfriend, Sarah, moan every time I said it. When things were going Mandy’s way, her face would be all sweetness and light; she could be the apple of your eye. But when things weren’t going her way – ouch! I’m not sure what fruit you could compare her to – a lemon perhaps? Sour grapes? Whatever, her look was guaranteed to give you the pip. And one way in which to get that sucking-on-lemons look was to upset her ops list for the morning. Something I was just about to do.

I suspected she knew that since her expression changed from rosy-appled to bitter-lemoned in the time it took me to get down that corridor; in fact, when I drew level with her, such was the look of her pinched-in lips and the narrowness of her eyes, she could have just finished sucking on a whole basketful of lemons.

‘It’s a pyo,’ I said, rather weakly. Where was my manly voice when I needed it?

‘Right,’ said Mandy, briskly. ‘We’ll get that sorted once we’ve finished the morning’s ops.’

I knew that, on the rare occasions when additional ops came in from morning appointments, they would be tagged onto the end of the list, often meaning they wouldn’t get done until the afternoon, especially if they involved
re-sterilising
some of the instrument packs. It wasn’t usually a problem. But I felt uneasy about leaving Bo-Bo those few extra hours, hours in which her toxicity would only get worse, making the operation even more risky. No – I wanted to get her spayed as soon as I finished seeing my few remaining clients and ahead of the routine spays and castrates and – I suddenly remembered – Superman’s dog’s dental. Well, that could certainly wait until the afternoon, and even be postponed if necessary.