Trust Me, I'm a Vet (8 page)

In a blur of tears, I go out to fetch a bag so I can put him in the freezer. Poor little guy. A life over almost before it began.

When I return, I slide the catch on the door, at which Freddie’s body twitches, making me leap out of my skin.

‘Freddie?’ I lean over him, holding my breath. One of his eyes swivels in its socket. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack,’ I chide him softly. ‘That’s a very risky game to play.’ I restart his drip and cover him with a blanket, feeling very alone in the harsh glare of the light in Isolation. Only five months and twenty-eight days to go.

Chapter Five

Handle with Care

There’s a push-button bell at Reception for clients to use if there’s no one behind the desk. Some give it the slightest touch, so all you hear is a faint ‘ting’ if you’re out the back. Others are less restrained.

Izzy rolls her eyes at me as the bell rings out loud and clear, and keeps on ringing.

‘We’ve got our hands full here,’ she grumbles as Freddie makes an attempt to leap out of her arms, while I untangle his drip. ‘Where’s Frances?’

‘Perhaps it’s the Mosses.’ We haven’t been able to contact Freddie’s owners since they left him with us three days ago, and they haven’t contacted us. The phone numbers they left turned out to be false and the address they gave was for a plot on the new housing estate on the edge of Talyton St George, as yet unsold. I reckon they’ve dumped him on us. Let’s face it, his chances aren’t great, and who wants to pay for a dead dog when they could put the money towards a new one? All right, call me a cynic, but I’ve learned that people aren’t always what they seem.

‘I’ll go,’ I say. ‘I’ve finished here. If he hasn’t been sick again by coffee time you can try him with some fluid by mouth.’

It isn’t the Mosses. It’s Cheryl – I might have known from the way she was pressing that bell – and she’s carrying a cat carrier.

‘I didn’t think you’d mind me popping in like this, seeing as you did the surgery the other night. Call me a fussy mummy if you like, but I’m worried about Saffy.’

I don’t mind at all. I’m always happy to help and it isn’t as if I’m rushed off my feet.

‘Is she well in herself?’ I ask as, once in the consulting room, Cheryl extracts a reluctant Saffy from the carrier and turns her on her back so I can examine her.

‘Yes, but I was wondering about the wound.’ There is a note of complaint in Cheryl’s voice. ‘It’s much longer than Alex would have made it.’

The wound looks fine to me. It’s healing nicely, and it’s no longer than average. What did she want me to do? I wonder. Cut the kitten into pieces to get it out of a smaller hole?

‘Everything’s as I’d expect at this stage,’ I say calmly.

‘Are you sure?’ She twists up her necklace of oversized beads the same colour as her red shift dress.

‘Absolutely.’ It’s obvious that Cheryl adores her cats, but her concern seems a little over the top to me. ‘Why don’t you make an appointment with Talyton Manor Vets for five days’ time – they’ll be able to take Saffy’s stitches out then.’

‘You can’t whip them out now, while I’m here?’

‘No, definitely not.’ I hesitate. ‘Does Alex —?’

Cheryl shakes her head. ‘He says it’s too risky. “Cheryl,” he says, “taking stitches out too early is like playing Russian Roulette with your cat’s life.”’

I’d love to be able to put one over on the Fox-Giffords by saying he’s wrong, but I have to tell Cheryl that he’s quite right.

‘In that case, I’ll wait. Vet’s orders.’ Cheryl points back into the carrier where a scrap of blue-cream fluff lies curled up, half covered with a piece of purple fleece. ‘By the way, we’ve decided to call Saffy’s baby after you because you saved her and her mummy’s life. She’s called Cheriam Maz.’

‘I’m – er, flattered.’ I stumble over my words, trying to accept this honour gracefully and without an attack of giggles. I’ve never had a cat named after me.

‘Oh, I almost forgot – I’ve left you some Belgian buns at Reception.’

‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you.’

I open the door on the carrier to let Saffy back in with her kitten as Cheryl goes on, ‘Miriam and I always want the best for our babies. The Fox-Giffords are jacks-of-all-trades, but you are a specialist.’

I can guess what’s coming . . . ‘Are you sure?’ I say, pre-empting her. Although I admit it would be great to win over a few more clients for Emma’s business, I have a suspicion that Cheryl, with her particular brand of fussiness, could end up as the Client from Hell.

‘I’ve never been more sure about anything,’ she says dramatically.

‘If you want to register with us, I’ll have to contact Talyton Manor Vets for your records.’

That stops her in her tracks, but not for long.

‘Do you have to? Only, we’ve had our babies with the Fox-Giffords for a long time and I’m a bit embarrassed about leaving them.’

‘It’s important we have the records for your cats’ safety, as well as being a professional courtesy,’ I point out as I open the door into Reception to make it clear the consultation is over. It’ll also give me the opportunity to introduce myself, which won’t be a bad thing. If I’m going to be here for six months, I’m bound to run into one or other of the Fox-Giffords at some time.

However, when I ring the Talyton Manor practice to clear it with the Fox-Giffords personally, the person at the end of the line is far from courteous when I explain who I am and what I’m after.

‘Maz! What kind of name is that?’ Snort. ‘Bloody hell! I knew this was going to happen, but would anyone listen to me?’

Izzy looks on, eyebrows raised, as I hold the handset away from my ear. I can still hear old Mr Fox-Gifford’s deep and angry breathing as I continue, ‘It’s Cheryl’s prerogative. It’s up to her.’

‘The middle of town’s no place for a vet practice. Problems with parking, barking and dog shit everywhere. It’s a complete menace, and I’ve said so all along.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ I’m not sure what he’s ranting on about.

‘You gave our receptionist delusions of grandeur and lured her away, and now you’re poaching our clients.’

‘It’s nothing of the sort,’ I protest. (I always find it easier to argue when I’m not personally responsible.)

‘What did you say to her, eh? Eh? Did you make out you were better than us because you specialise in small animals? Did you offer her free samples of that dried-out, processed crap that passes as pet food?’

‘It is pet food,’ I say.

‘Our cats and dogs should be eating what nature intended.’

‘Which is, in your not so humble opinion?’

‘Raw meat and bones!’

‘This is the twenty-first century, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ I’m not sure why I’m wasting my breath, because old Mr Fox-Gifford isn’t listening to me.

‘I don’t know what the profession’s coming to, but make no mistake about it, I’ll be dealing with this. In my own way.’

‘Which is?’ I say, realising I’d be in a better position to cope if I knew what he was proposing, but he doesn’t enlighten me. There’s a loud bang as if he’s thrown the handset to the floor, and a humming tone before it cuts out altogether. I doubt very much that I’m ever going to see any sign of those records. I doubt very much that his phone will ever work again either.

I guess they’re empty threats. I mean, there isn’t anything he can do, is there? I’ve come across plenty of grumpy old men like him, and their barks usually turn out to be worse than their bites. No, Old Fox-Gifford doesn’t scare me.

Frances doesn’t scare me either when, during my lunch break, she calls me downstairs to see another client who’s dropped by without an appointment.

‘It’s Mr Gilbert with a dog called Arnie. I took the liberty of sending him to wait in the consulting room while Izzy finds the dog-catcher in the storeroom.’

Dog-catcher? I can’t imagine that Izzy resorts to that too often.

‘Are you sure you aren’t winding me up, Frances?’ I say lightly as I approach the consulting-room door, at which a low, visceral growl stops me in my tracks, providing me with the definitive answer. I push the door open and walk in, my heart beating faster.

Arnie is a black and tan mixed-breed dog, a bit of Dobermann, a bit of Rottie, maybe some pit bull terrier and mastiff thrown in too. He must weigh in at well over fifty kilos. He staggers away from me like a drunk, bumping into the leg of the table, his eyes glazed over and froth dripping from his mouth. I back off, pressing my palms against the door behind me.

‘He’s gone mad, like,’ says a man’s voice.

I don’t dare take my eyes off the dog, but I’m vaguely aware that there’s a man on the table, squatting on his heels. I’m guessing that it’s Mr Gilbert.

‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ he goes on. ‘Normally he’s a complete pussycat.’

Arnie turns, sways from side to side, stares at me for a moment, then gathers himself together and throws himself towards me. As I dodge to one side, he keeps going, crashing headfirst into the door. Within a heartbeat, he regains his feet, blood pouring from his nose, and staggers back in my direction.

There’s only one thing for it. I make a flying jump for the table and join Arnie’s owner. He’s bald, tattooed with a spider’s web on the side of his neck, and built like a boxer – that’s the profession, not the dog – and I don’t think he’s taken refuge here in expectation of receiving a full clinical exam.

We cling together like the last two survivors on the
Titanic
, and watch Arnie flounder. His muscles start to twitch, he growls, and then he goes berserk, running up the wall before throwing himself backwards onto the floor with a hideous crash. He remains where he landed, lying flat out on his side, his legs paddling full pelt.

Mr Gilbert is close to tears. ‘What the hell’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s having a fit, but don’t think about that right now. We have to get you out of here before he gets up again.’ The last thing I want is anyone getting hurt. Imagine the headline in the
Chronicle
: ‘Killer Dog Massacre’. I grab at Mr Gilbert’s arm, help him down from the table and, steering well clear of Arnie, lead him out to Reception, closing the door firmly behind me.

‘Take a seat,’ I tell him, but he declines. He must be in his late twenties, fond of the gym, and I’d guess a family man, going by the white, malodorous stains on his black vest which could be baby sick.

‘My wife called me at work, told me to come straight home because the dog’d gone mad and she was afraid for the kids.’ He worries at his lip. ‘He’s only a puppy himself. Eleven months old.’ He pauses. ‘Do you think it’s something he’s eaten?’

‘I don’t know what’s going on just yet,’ I say, ‘and I won’t until I’ve had the chance to examine him.’

‘He’ll rip your throat out,’ Mr Gilbert says apprehensively.

‘I’ll be fine.’ I’m used to handling difficult and aggressive dogs, but even so I suppress a quiver of fear at the thought of what lies behind that consulting-room door. ‘Frances will get you a cup of tea.’ I give her a hard stare. ‘Won’t you, Frances?’

‘Leave it to me. I like a good crisis.’ She looks past my shoulder as I hear the door open. ‘Here comes the cavalry. It’s young Mr Fox-Gifford. What a stroke of luck, him turning up out of the blue like this just when we need him. Maz, help is at hand.’

I turn to find myself face to face (well, almost, considering he’s a few inches taller than me) with the man I met down by the river. This time, he isn’t riding his horse. He has his keys in one hand and a bundle of notes in the other.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Er, hi,’ I stammer, ducking the gaze of his fiercely blue eyes and focusing instead on the way his hair, dark and curling at the ends, is ruffled and adorned with strands of hay. It actually looks as if he’s just tumbled out of a haystack.

‘Oh Alex, I’m so relieved,’ Frances begins, touching her chest as if she’s about to swoon.

Not half so relieved as I am that he shows no sign of recognising me. I suspect he’s already marked me down as a fool by my mere presence here, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of man to suffer fools gladly.

Frances fills him in on Arnie, twittering on like an awestruck fan. ‘It’s just chased poor Maz and Mr Gilbert out of the consulting room. It’s foaming at the mouth. There you go,’ she’s glowing with triumph all of a sudden, ‘I’ve made the diagnosis for you – it’s got rabies.’

‘Thanks for that, Frances,’ I say crossly, trying to regain some control of the situation. There are two kinds of rabies – dumb and furious – and at this precise moment, I’m pretty furious with Frances. ‘It isn’t rabies. Arnie’s having an epileptic fit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.’

Frances merely looks at me as if I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’ll have to have another word with her later about the dangers of making her own diagnoses and giving out advice.

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Alex says, making to step past me.

‘Excuse me,’ I cut in. ‘You can’t do that,’ and he stares at me with an expression which reads, ‘I can do anything I like’, and I can feel myself growing hot and angry with him for striding in and attempting to take over. Alex hesitates, stopping to listen as Arnie starts yelping and scrabbling as if he’s trying to dig himself out. It doesn’t last long and in the ensuing silence Alex heads for the door and pushes it open.