Vet Among the Pigeons (19 page)

By the next morning, mother and kittens were making a remarkable recovery. Despite being so underweight, Sophie, freed of her damaged organ, exuded the vitality of a street cat.

By the weekend, her milk was beginning to return
significantly
and Molly was slightly put out as the kitten chose to return to its mother. It was only then, having spoken to Sandra over the phone, that the problem of returning the little family to their rightful owners arose. Sandra, living some forty miles away, had no form of transport and there was no public service of any sort that came near us. Molly was clearly pleased when we decided that the simplest thing would be for them to stay with us for the week, to be returned the following Wednesday at the next clinic.

Knowing well that the usual handful of Maltesers that I used to bribe Molly to let me go to Ballyfermot wouldn’t work this time, I made a quick detour by the toyshop on my way home from work on Tuesday. As though waiting for me, on the first shelf I saw a pink, glittering package, containing a mother cat and a kitten, complete with a tiny feeding bottle.

On the Wednesday evening, with the feline family packed to go, I handed Molly the parcel.

‘That’s a present from Sophie,’ I told her, ‘to thank you
for minding her so well.’

Sophie was soon returned to her rightful owners and I didn’t hear anything until the following week when she returned to have her stitches out. Her coat was noticeably sleeker and the two kittens were almost unrecognisable as they had developed from scrawny ‘rats’ to rounded
bundles
of chocolate-box fluff.

Along with the cats, Sandra had brought a photograph of the happy family for Molly, which Molly insisted on
putting
in the photograph album alongside Fiona’s
christening
photographs!

L
ife as a veterinary surgeon, or at least the way in which I practise it, seems, at times, to create a sense of a split personality. Within any single day, I can go from treating some valuable equine, worth (at least in their owner’s mind) a significant number of thousand euro, to a stray puppy with no pedigree to his name.
Likewise
, the owners can span from those with a mouthful of letters after their names to a welfare client that signed the consent form with an undistinguished X. The skill required in the morning might be nothing more than to vaccinate a fluffy kitten, while the afternoon could be spent wrestling with a few tonnes of hefty bovines. It often amuses me, having spent a morning wallowing in blood and muck among a bunch a fractious cattle, to step out of the overalls and into the car and drive away, humming along to some soothing melody on Lyric radio. 
In my pre-children days, the journey home might take in the gym for a quick swim and a sauna. The unfortunate fellow-sauna users would also be deceived by the split personality, imagining me as an office worker, grabbing a few moments’ peace on the way home, but it would take only a few minutes for the heat of the sauna to release the ingrained scent of bovine that would gradually begin to permeate the confined space. I would close my eyes and lie back so as not to laugh as everyone would start to look around at each other, wondering which of the usual
collection
of overweight males was the most likely offender!

Wednesday nights added that bit of variety to what was already a varied routine. Donal envied the unpredictability in comparison to his own work where a set job was done on a set day all year through.

‘Anything interesting tonight?’ he would ask as I arrived back after another busy Wednesday night clinic. The irony was that I often had to think hard to remember even one or two cases that had passed through, such was the
frenzied
speed of probably one of the busiest Blue Cross
clinics
in the county.

This particular night, however, I could well remember Derek, one of the regulars who had arrived with his
nondescript
‘pub terrier’. Monty was well used to the clinic and was usually totally unfazed by the roadside waiting room, crowded with a selection of terriers and mongrels and hissing, spitting felines, all jostling for space. I had often tended not only to his own cuts and bruises from his encounters with the local canines, but more commonly to those he inflicted on others. In general, Monty usually
came out best, partly but not solely due to his owner’s total refusal to even consider having him neutered. The first time I suggested it the look of shock, pain and disbelief in Monty’s owner’s eyes made me add, ‘It’s not you we want to neuter, just your dog!’

Tonight, however, as soon as I stepped down from the van, I noticed that Monty seemed a bit subdued. He stood, with all four legs well apart, back-arched, head down,
concentrating
hard as he carefully breathed slow, shallow breaths. I was concerned that he didn’t seem to be taking any notice of his comrades even when the black and white pit-bull beside him seemed to be shaping up for a fight. Monty just stood, with his tail down, staring intently at the ground.

Unfortunately, his place in the queue meant that it was almost eight-thirty before he was finally carried him up the steps to the van.

Monty gave a little groan as Derek let him down on the table.

‘What’s up with Monty?’ I asked, with genuine concern, as my hands gently probed his tense, enlarged abdomen.

‘Don’t know, luv,’ replied Derek, looking equally
concerned
. ‘Came home from work and me Missis says ’e was lied up in the corner of de box all day.’

The swollen abdomen was rock solid, so solid that I was initially unable to determine the cause.

‘Would you know if he passed any urine at all today?’ I asked.

‘Well, as I says, I wuz workin’ meself bu’ now dat ye sez it, ’e wasn’t peeing outside – ye know de way ’e always
does be pissing on ev’ry lamp post wit’ all dem udder dogs around.’

As though to confirm my suspicion, Monty stretched down and began to lick frantically at the inflamed penis that emerged from the swollen sheath.

Although the usual cause of blocked bladders are stones formed in the urine, the swelling in the soft tissue
suggested
a more traumatic cause.

‘Any chance he could have been hit by a car or
anything
?’ I asked before giving my worrying diagnosis.

‘No way, Doc,’ he confirmed. ‘The Missus does be dat terrified of de Mont chasing after another dog dat she won’t let ’im out.’

I always felt awkward with the next question but it had to be broached. ‘Any chance he could have got a kick?’ I asked, although knowing Derek and how much he cared for his dog, I wasn’t thinking of him.

The look of horror on his face was genuine. ‘Ah sure, Doc, who’d kick ’im? D’ye tink some un kicked ’im?’ he asked in fury, all in the same breath. ‘By God, I’ll kill the little bleedin’ bollix dat dit it. Who d’ye tink kicked ’im?’ he roared at me, getting more agitated as he spoke.

‘No. I didn’t say anyone kicked him at all, Derek,’ I said, trying to calm him and knowing that the conversation was leading us no nearer to treating the dog. Monty moaned softly again and I decided that relieving his discomfort was more important at the moment than worrying about the underlying cause.

By now, Eamon and Gordon were clearly intrigued, knowing well from their years of experience that
something unusual was going on.

‘The problem is,’ I explained to Derek, ‘that this
swelling
here has caused a blockage, so he can’t pee anymore.’

Derek looked stumped for a moment. ‘So ’ow does he get it out, den?’

‘If he can’t pass urine, it all stays in the bladder. You see the way he’s so swollen here,’ I said, indicating the turgid abdomen. ‘The bladder can hold a huge volume of water if it has to. In Monty’s case, I would guess that he probably hasn’t been able to pass water all day and it’s all building up inside him.’

‘So what do ye do den, Doc?’ he asked slowly, not
looking
too convinced.

‘Well, that’s the problem, Derek. It’s really an
emergency
that needs to be treated in a clinic. We only have the basics on board here,’ I told him, indicating our useful, but limited stock in the ambulance presses.

‘What ’as te be done?’ he asked, still looking slightly incredulous.

‘Well, what they need to do is to pass a catheter, a small plastic tube, into the bladder to try to relieve the blockage.’

‘Up ’is bleedin’ willy, like?’ he asked, subconsciously crossing his legs as though in sympathy with his luckless dog.

‘Yes, that right,’ I confirmed, stony-faced, fully aware of the renewed interest of the waiting crowd.

‘Ah no, Doc, dey couldn’t do dat to ’im. Nah, I couldn’t let dem,’ he added, shaking his head emphatically.

‘I’m afraid there’s no option, Derek,’ I explained. ‘You can see he’s in terrible pain. You can’t leave him like that.’

Derek thought for a moment and then, shaking his head again, replied, ‘Ah Jayney, no! No! He’d never be righ’ after dat.’

The conversation might have gone on all night if Monty hadn’t let out a particularly heart-rending moan,
convincing
everyone that something needed to be done – and quickly.

In one way I was glad to have the excuse to refer the dog on, as, judging by the tension of his bladder, he was in a bad way. It felt like a good-sized tennis ball in a small terrier’s body, bigger than any bladder I had ever felt. The stocks at the clinic didn’t stretch to urinary catheters. An emergency clinic would have all the necessary
medications
and equipment to do a good job on Monty. As always, though, in real life it was never that simple.

Derek’s face dropped as I gave him directions to the nearest emergency hospital and gave him a rough idea of the money he would need to bring with him. It was clearly a non-runner.

Time ticked by for poor old Monty as Derek went
outside
to ring a few of his mates to see if he could make up the money, but minutes later he was no better off. The best he could do was to try to get money from his boss at the weekend. Another feel of Monty’s abdomen was enough for me to be sure that the little dog couldn’t wait that long.

Rummaging through my bag, I pulled out a fine
twenty-one
gauge, one and a half-inch needle. I mixed up a
solution
of hibiscrub and carefully cleaned the hairless portion of the abdomen.

‘We have to empty the bladder – one way or another,’ I
told Derek. ‘This isn’t the ideal way of doing it but if we don’t release the pressure the bladder is going to burst.’

Derek started to go a bit green underneath his evening stubble when he realised that I was going to drain it through the side of Monty’s abdomen. Gordon was ready to take over and deftly restrained the little dog. Eamon stood by with a swab and a hush fell among the
expectant
onlookers. Having pulled on sterile gloves, I
withdrew
the needle from its pack and stabbed it through the body wall. Monty never flinched with such a minute pain compared to the intense discomfort that he had been experiencing over the past few hours. Instantly, a gush of deeply coloured urine shot out in a spray, ending on the far window. The onlookers jumped back in amazement as they watched the continuous flow from my needle. Monty appeared to be totally oblivious to the whole
procedure
and stood panting uncomfortably from the still considerable pressure. Eamon was quick to grab hold of a small dish and by angling my needle, I was able to direct the flow. The hissing of urine on stainless steel
continued
as everyone stood in amazement, watching the level of red-tinged fluid slowly creep up the container. The steady stream of urine seemed to go on and on. The crowd stood silently, in awe, watching the little dog, who was clearly starting to feel some relief from the slowly subsiding pressure. What had been regular panting broke down to intermittent bouts – the only sound that changed was the continuously deepening pitch of the urine hitting a slowly filling container. When it was almost
three-quarters
full, Monty, looking around for the first time as
though surprised to see a crowd, cautiously at first, wagged his stump of a tail.

Derek’s eyes grew wide in awe at the capacity of his beloved pet and eventually blurted out, ‘Jayney, de fecker musta been on de Guinness last nigh’!’

The crowd erupted, relieved by the break in tension, and even Monty seemed to join in the general feeling of light-heartedness, his tail now wagging frantically, undoubtedly induced more by the declining size of his rapidly shrinking bladder than from the aspirations
regarding
his drinking capacity.

As the flow of urine gradually lessened and reduced to a slow drip, I gently forced the bladder upwards to drain as much urine as possible before carefully withdrawing my needle.

‘Well, that’s the best we can do for him tonight,’ I told Derek. I then injected Monty with a suitable antibiotic, which would hopefully sort out any bacteria I might have introduced into the bladder and a strong
anti-inflammatory
, which I hoped would reduced the swelling in his penis enough to allow him to urinate normally. I poured some of the urine into a sample bottle for further testing at a clinic in the morning, advising Derek to label it carefully in his fridge overnight.

‘Keep a close eye on him tonight and ring your local vet first thing in the morning,’ I continued.

I sent him off with the appropriate referral letter,
wondering
what the vet on duty might think of my ‘
fire-brigade
’ tactics.

When I saw Derek throw a fiver into the voluntary
donation box on his way out, I wondered whether my basic, but nonetheless effective, intervention might not have been worth a little more.

The last I saw of Monty that night was as he hopped down the steps out of the clinic and immediately launched an attack on a waiting Yorkshire terrier. At least, for the moment, Monty was back to himself, although I knew my treatment was unlikely to be a longterm solution.

Although I remembered to tell Donal about the Monty episode that night, I had all but forgotten it the next Sunday morning when I was in the unusual position of doing a shift for the Dublin emergency clinic. A vet I went to college with worked for them on a regular basis, but due to a family event was unable to do so on that
particular
day. She rang to see if I would cover for her and I agreed to do it, knowing I was off that weekend myself.

For the first hour or two, I quite enjoyed myself in the purpose-built premises, so different from our own
consulting
room which served not only the small animal
population
, but also doubled up as a large-animal treatment room for lambing ewes, replacing prolapses or the odd calf with a fractured limb. I was quite enchanted by the idea of having two fully qualified nurses as my assistants instead of hollering out to Melissa on reception to give a hand whenever things got too chaotic. Eventually, I gave up trying to do anything as the nurses protested whenever I answered the phone or picked up a mop to wash the floors or do any of the hundred and one other mundane things that usually need doing in a veterinary practice. I was sitting back finishing a rare second cup of coffee
when the first client came in. I quickly identified the tooth abscess in the cat’s upper molar which was causing it such pain. I was delightfully amused to observe that before I had finished filling up the computer record (which
admittedly
took more time than looking at the cat) that one of the nurses had administered the pain relief and antibiotic injection that I had prescribed and the cat was comfortably set up in a unit and on a drip. Over the next few hours, the clients that trickled in every half hour or so were equally efficiently dealt with by our team. As the clients dwindled off well before lunchtime, I was beginning to appreciate the comfort of the job and wondering if I should go for an unprecedented early lunch.