Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (24 page)

I couldn’t argue. Didn’t dare.

I got home that evening completely demoralised, fed up to the back teeth and drained. All I could think of was collapsing on the sofa, feet up, watching the TV, regardless of what was on. I did get a few crumbs of comfort from Lucy. That was a turn-up for the books. The guilty conscience over Nelson was clearly working overtime.

‘Guess you’ve had a rotten day,’ she said, clearing the dishes after a supper of spaghetti bolognese, her standard quickie meal when we’d both been working a long day. She’d just flopped into the armchair next to me when the phone rang.

I visibly jumped, such was the state of my nerves.

‘Leave it,’ said Lucy firmly, seeing me about to get up. ‘You’re not on duty. Let the answerphone kick in.’

I sank back, failing to suppress completely the mild attack of jitters provoked whenever the phone rang, regardless of whether I was on duty or not. A sort of Pavlovian response. But instead of salivating, I would start sweating, my armpits getting drenched within seconds of the first ring. I could feel the wetness seep through my shirt as a woman’s voice issued from the answerphone: ‘Hello. I’m sorry to trouble you this time of night, but I was wondering if you could help. I’m Sandra Coles, your neighbour over at Ashton Manor. I understand you’re a vet and just want some advice really. One of our Boxers is acting really strange. If you could possibly give me a ring back I’d be very grateful.’ The message ended with a telephone number, repeated twice.

I swung my feet off the settee.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked Lucy sternly.

‘Ringing the woman back.’

‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Lucy’s voice was adamant. ‘You’re not on duty. Let her ring the surgery and get Eric to deal with it. He’s on tonight.’

‘But she’s only after some advice.’

‘Paul. Leave it.’ Lucy’s tone had become more strident.

I sat for a moment on the edge of the settee, and then lay back again to watch the TV screen blankly, careful not to say anything to provoke her. But it didn’t do the slightest bit of good; Lucy had the bit between her teeth now. ‘This is typical of you, Paul. You’re getting far too wrapped up in your work. Nothing else matters.’

Ah, did I detect an inkling of what was the matter with Lucy? That she felt I was putting myself and my work before our relationship. Maybe she did have a point. Maybe I was too obsessed with putting all my energies into ensuring I was as competent a vet as I could be. Today’s performance suggested I still had a long way to go. All the more reason, then, for her to realise I was still learning my trade. Perhaps she didn’t have the capacity to see that. Unlike someone like … Well, someone like … Jodie Sharpe. A knot tightened in my stomach as I realised the implications of what I was thinking.

That really wasn’t fair on poor Lucy. She was a good sort in her own way. I cringed again at my train of thought. ‘A good sort in her own way …’ How condescending that sounded. How patronising. But the niggles had begun to surface. Perhaps Lucy was sensing them … and sensing I was losing my respect for her. If so, no wonder her manner had changed towards me. But for the life of me, I couldn’t see how I could alter my ways, express more appreciation of her, be less self-centred, if that’s what she thought I was, unless – and this was the nub of the matter – unless it genuinely came from the heart. And I had to acknowledge, no matter how much I regretted it, that my heart was not truly in it. Not for the long run, at least.

Lucy fell silent. I thought I heard a sob – or was it just a sniff – above the babble of voices on the box, and wondered whether it would be wise, as a conciliatory gesture, to go across and give her a hug, say how much I was still fond of her (I wasn’t certain I could use the word ‘love’), and that things would sort themselves out. Yes. I decided it would be a good idea and went to lever myself up just as a car’s headlights lit up the front curtains, quickly followed by the sound of car doors slamming.

Lucy sprung up first to answer the door when the bell chimed, a voice outside immediately apologising for disturbing us, but would it be possible to have a word with the vet? It was the voice of the woman on the answerphone. ‘I’m afraid he’s off duty,’ Lucy was saying. ‘But if you phone through to the hospital someone will be able to help you. I’ll give you the number if you like.’ There was the murmur of anxious voices outside … a muted ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’

It was no good; I couldn’t let it be, and jumped to my feet, calling, ‘Lucy, just a minute.’ She turned and scowled as I drew level with her and peered out of the door. It was dark, but in the light from the porch stood two people; they were in their mid-forties, the woman solid-framed, mousy, short hair, wearing an oilskin jacket, and the man in a similar jacket, of similar physique with receding hair. The faces of both were creased with concern.

When I asked what the problem was, it was the woman who spoke first, introducing herself as Sandra Coles, and the man next to her as John, her husband. ‘We really are sorry for disturbing you, but it’s Henry, one of our Boxers. He seems to be really stressed.’

Her husband butted in, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘I know it’s a bit of a liberty …’ He paused and gave an embarrassed smile. ‘But as we live just across the back there …’ He raised his hand and vaguely waved in the direction of Ashton Manor ‘… we thought perhaps …’ His voice trailed off.

‘We’ve got Henry in the back of the car,’ said the woman. ‘If you could possibly have a quick look we’d be most grateful.’

‘Much the best thing if you get him to a vet,’ said Lucy icily.

‘Bring him round,’ I said, ignoring her.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Coles, and instantly both he and his wife turned on their heels and ran back up the side of the cottage.

‘Typical of you,’ seethed Lucy, storming back into the living room, in what I considered to be a completely unreasonable frame of mind. But then maybe she’d just been trying to protect me from myself. Whatever, the appearance of the Boxer in the porch instantly concentrated my mind on the problem I was being presented with. The Coles were right to be concerned – Henry was a very sick dog. Supported by Mr Coles, kneeling next to him, holding his collar, the Boxer stood splay-legged like a rocking horse, his chin out, froth round his muzzle, strings of saliva hanging down from his jowls, his breathing shallow. When asked, the Coles told me he’d been like it for the past 30 minutes or so.

‘He’s just so restless,’ said Mrs Coles. ‘Can’t seem to settle.’

‘And he keeps trying to be sick but not bringing anything up,’ said her husband, stroking the Boxer’s head. ‘Don’t you, Henry?’ He kissed the top of the dog’s head.

Sandra Coles stepped round the side of the Boxer and ran a hand down his left flank, gently patting it. ‘And see here – his tummy looks really swollen, if you ask me.’

I didn’t have to ask her. I could see. Henry’s abdomen was indeed swollen. Grossly dilated. I bent over and tapped it. As suspected, it was tympanic – tight as a drum. I lifted his upper lip. Even though the porch light was poor, it was sufficient for me to see that the gums were extremely pale, and just to prove the point that the dog was in circulatory collapse, I pressed on the upper margin. It stayed white when I removed my thumb. There was no doubt in my mind as to what was happening.

I straightened up and said, ‘We’ve got a gastric torsion here. He’s going to need emergency surgery if we’re to save him.’

Both the Coles’ faces blanched to the pallor of Henry’s gums.

‘You’ll need to get him over to the hospital straight away. I’ll ring them for you now.’

‘I’ve just done it, Paul,’ said Lucy, appearing at the doorway, obviously having listened in to the drama unfolding. ‘Mandy will be expecting them.’ She got hold of my sleeve and pulled me in to say in a lowered voice, ‘But there is a problem. Eric’s out on an emergency calving and won’t be back for at least another hour.’ Hell’s bells. Henry was unlikely to survive that long.

‘I’ll just have to go in then,’ I declared. I saw Lucy’s look. ‘Well, there’s no other choice, is there?’ and added with a whispered hiss, ‘Otherwise, we’ll have a dead dog on our hands.’

I stepped back outside and instructed the Coles to get going, telling them I’d follow on behind.

‘Are you sure?’ they queried.

‘Yes, yes. Be as quick as you can. And I’ll see you there.’

‘That’s so kind of you,’ gushed Sandra Coles as her husband lifted and carried Henry back to the car.

They were already sitting in the waiting room when I arrived at Prospect House. ‘Your nurse has taken Henry through,’ they informed me. They both vigorously nodded their heads when I told them they could stay there if they wished. I then charged down to the operating theatre where Mandy had the – by now collapsed – Boxer on the table, his abdomen already shaved, a drip set up ready to be connected, the anaesthetic machine to hand, emergency instruments on the trolley. Brilliant. What a great nurse.

With Henry anaesthetised, I did wonder about
stomach-tubing
him, but Mandy had already anticipated that and handed me one from the anaesthetic trolley with a ‘Thought you might want this.’ I slid the tube down, but, as suspected with the stomach twisted round on itself, it wouldn’t pass through the pyloric sphincter. I needed to get into the abdomen and turn the stomach on its axis before that could be done. No easy task … especially as it was the first gastric torsion I’d ever encountered, and I only knew from my college notes that such a twist of the stomach – with the resulting build-up of trapped gas causing the extended stomach to press on the diaphragm – would gradually stop the dog from breathing and lead to circulatory collapse and death.

The operation went better than anticipated, although I was tired and anxious. At one point, when wrestling with the inflated stomach, trying my best not to rupture it, I did wonder whether I was manoeuvring it the right way – in gastric torsions did the stomach twist clockwise or anticlockwise? And was that looking towards the dog’s head or towards the dog’s tail? For a panicky moment, I couldn’t decide which, until Mandy came to my help.

‘Paul,’ she said, ‘I’ll push down on the stomach tube as you turn.’

Yep. Good idea. And it worked. I knew the stomach was correctly positioned when the tube slid through the untwisted pyloric sphincter and the trapped gases seeped out, the stomach gradually reducing to its normal size without any visible damage to its walls or adjacent organs. Once again, my thanks, Mandy.

Despite still being shocked, the imminent danger of dying had been prevented and immediately Henry’s colour started to return to normal and his breathing eased. So, too, did my colour and breathing. So, too, did the Coles’ when I told them Henry had survived the crisis; both of them burst out crying with relief. I almost joined them.

All in all, it had been a horrendous day. A challenge to my abilities as a vet. A roller coaster. One moment I was down, full of self-doubt, and then up again, as now, pleased as punch that I’d been able to save Henry.

The Coles brought the Boxer over to Willow Wren ten days to the day after the op, to have his stitches removed. Against house rules really, as he should have been seen at the hospital, but what the heck.

And what a different dog I was presented with this time. A Boxer full of high spirits, haunches swinging from side to side in a frenzied greeting, jowls this time slobbering with delight and not fear. Nevertheless, he lay down in our hallway and, with John Coles’ restraining hand on his chest, allowed me to remove the stitches without a murmur, while Sandra stood to one side, holding in her hand a thin, rectangular parcel wrapped in green-and-gold paper. She handed the parcel to her husband as he got to his feet.

‘This is for you,’ he said, proffering it to me. ‘A thank you from both of us. And of course, Henry.’ The Boxer had sat up, and was looking at me, head on one side.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, holding it between my hands. ‘May I open it now?’

Both John and Sandra shrugged. ‘Please do, if you wish,’ said Sandra.

Henry whined.

‘Seems Henry wants you to,’ said John, with a grin.

‘In that case …’ I said, and began to tear off the paper, gradually revealing a framed watercolour. Even before I had removed the last vestiges of the wrapping, I could feel the tears begin to well up, and it was with a supreme effort that I kept them at bay as the portrait was fully revealed.

‘How did you … how did you …’ I faltered, still fighting to keep my composure.

John Coles explained. He was a bit of an artist, dabbled in his spare time, especially animal portraits, and had seen me on occasion taking a terrier for a walk over in the bluebell wood. He’d then asked Lucy if there was a picture of the dog he could borrow, and she’d emailed him one of my digital snaps. This was the result. He hoped I didn’t mind.

I could only shake my head, biting my lower lip. How could I ever mind? There, sitting among the bluebells, one ear up, one ear down, looking at me questioningly, as if to say, ‘Are you coming, mate?’ was Nelson, my darling terrier, wearing that wonderful, lopsided grin of his.

I
n my walks over to the bluebell wood with Nelson, and the subsequent ones without him, I would often find evidence of creatures that had passed along the tracks winding through the trees: uprooted bulbs and small pits dug out with excrement in them indicated badgers; bark nibbled off the lower trunks, rabbits and squirrels; areas of bark worn away higher up and almost encircling the younger trees’ trunks, roe deer rubbing their antlers and ripping off strips of bark. And distinct among all those signs, there was a smell. A particularly pungent smell. The unforgettable smell of fox. A vixen or dog that had slipped through the brambles, maybe scenting their territory as they went, urinating or, more obviously, depositing black, pointed-ended faeces on the edges of the paths.