Vet on the Loose (4 page)

‘Girl. You. Stop idling in the corner and get a box ready for the horse. Chop, chop!’ she said, clapping her hands at me.

Suddenly, the long hours of standing around being ignored got to me, as did the ongoing pangs of hunger, and the looks of contempt that the vets threw at me every time I was lucky enough for one of them to notice me. The temper I had been keeping in check all week began to boil over.

‘Chop, chop, I said!’ she commanded imperiously.

The temper erupted. ‘I have a name, and for your information it’s Gillian. I’m not an employee of the hospital and, thankfully, I’m not an employee of yours either, so why don’t you go get one of your own slaves to do it for you?’ I said in as cool and collected a voice as I could muster. I then calmly walked out of the place, desperately conscious of the stunned silence from her yard lads who had probably never before seen her gaping like a wounded goldfish.

Needless to say, I didn’t come back the next week, or ever again for that matter. My only reminder of that long, miserable week now is on the odd occasion when that trainer appears on some racing programme or other and I point her out to Donal as my only connection to the racing world!

It was a bit awkward back in college after the holiday when my lecturer asked me how I had got on, but when I gave him a slightly edited account of the events he just laughed and said that I must have been spoiled by the other vets I saw practice with. He was probably right, but I wasn’t complaining. At least it did one thing for me: when we finally qualified, I steered well clear of the jobs with the glossy brochures.

I discovered, on comparing notes with my classmates, that most of them had experienced nothing but genuine hospitality at the other English equine hospitals and there was even a story of one of the lads being allowed to do half a colic surgery, although we never quite believed that one. I felt that I had indeed been unlucky and hard done by. For all the effort and expense of going there I had acquired practically no valuable experience of any kind.

It was unfortunate that my stint in that yard was my last experience of seeing practice because, up until then, I had thoroughly enjoyed the life as a carefree observer. It definitely steered me away from the ‘posher’ jobs when, three months later, I went looking for my first job, although as I soon discovered, animals in all walks of life have one thing in common – their total unpredictability. And that is matched only by the unpredictability of their owners, no matter what their accent.

What lay ahead when I left the protective cocoon of the veterinary college on graduation day, clutching an innocuous-looking scroll of paper, was a steep learning curve as a veterinary surgeon. Soon I would have to contend, on my own, with animals who refused to read the textbooks, and with owners who ranged from the saintly to the bizarre. A whole new life was about to begin.

T
he Monday morning after graduation day saw me making my way over the toll-bridge and around Dublin’s inner city, to begin my first job. I had spent the previous months, while supposedly busy studying for finals, scanning the college noticeboard for job ads. In anticipation of a nice job and a new life, Donal and I had spent many hours driving around looking at houses. As he had long since had his own butcher’s shop in Dalkey, we were confined to Wicklow in our search, but that was no disadvantage. I sort of fancied myself in a nice mixed-animal practice, with lots of experienced vets on hand, some qualified nurses and all the paraphernalia of X-ray machines, scanners and blood-testing machines, the likes of which would be found in any modern, progressive practice.

While waiting for ‘the perfect job’, I got a call from a friend who had once worked in a practice with two other vets, Michael, the boss, and Justin, now two years out of college. Seemingly, Michael had broken his leg while out testing cattle and was going to be out of action for the next few months.

‘They’re really stuck,’ pleaded my friend, ‘and Justin is a dead sound guy.’

It turned out that the practice covered mainly the companion animals of the inner city, along with whatever horses were still around, and also included occasional forays outside the city. At least the job would allow me to work from home, although it would involve a lot of driving,

‘Well, does he want me to go out for an interview or something?’ I asked, playing for time.

‘No!’ my friend was emphatic. ‘Just turn up on Monday morning.’

I pulled into the little yard at the side of the surgery, with a grimy Barna shed behind it. It wasn’t really what I had expected.

It didn’t take long for Justin to give me a guided tour of the premises. I couldn’t help noticing that the floor of the tiny waiting-room, with its half-dozen chairs, was strewn with assorted animal hair. The consulting room, which doubled as a theatre, wasn’t much bigger and it led on out to a series of metal cages, in need of a fresh coat of paint, which served as a kennelling area.

Justin’s companions in the practice consisted of Liz, a pleasant sixteen-year-old who had progressed from working on Saturday mornings to leaving school and coming to work full time, and Popeye, an ancient looking, one-eyed cat who apparently had come with the premises when the practice had opened some twelve years previously.

‘Listen, sorry to leave you like this,’ began Justin, as Liz pushed a mug of lukewarm coffee into my hand, ‘but I have to go out on a call – there’s a foal caught up in wire in one of the old dumps. God knows how long it’s been there. Are you okay on your own?’

I nodded bravely, despite my feeling of trepidation at being abandoned, but as the only consultation booked in so far was a routine kitten vaccination, I could hardly object.

Although it took me almost twenty minutes, I was delighted with myself when the kitten went off, duly vaccinated with the correct vaccination, which I had found after a bit of rummaging through the tiny fridge that held the supplies.

Liz was on the phone as I came back in after seeing the client out.

‘There’s a Mr Molloy on his way in with a sick dog,’ she said to me as she hung up. ‘Says she’s in a bad way.’

‘Oh right,’ I replied, trying to sound casual. ‘Did he say what was wrong with her?’

‘Just that she’s been vomiting for a while and now she won’t get up.’

I mentally ran through a haphazard list of diagnoses of vomiting, collapsed dogs. ‘Did Justin say what time he’d be back at?’

‘No. I’d say he’ll be a while, though. It’ll take him an age to get across the city.’

I didn’t have much more time to worry about it before the tinkling bell announced the client and Liz ushered him into the consulting room with his dog. l couldn’t help thinking what an ugly little dog it was. The short, twisted legs, each one pointing in a different direction, were barely able to support the long, broad body. It was impossible to make out what the original colour of the coat had been but it was now a dirty grey and stuck in long, tangled mats to the animal’s emaciated frame. Two ears were plastered to her neck and the oddly-shaped tail drooped between her hind legs. Her eyes were glazed as she lay there, resigned to her fate. I was so shocked by the condition of the dog that I instantly forgot my own apprehension. My initial impression was that this dog was dying, beyond any help that the intervention of a novice vet could provide.

‘She’s in a really bad way, Mr Molloy,’ I said coldly to the owner.

He became instantly defensive. ‘Well, I can tell ye this now, Doctor,’ he began. ‘She was right as rain up until this morning. Ye wouldn’t believe how quickly she went down.’

Despite my inexperience, I didn’t.

As I stretched out my hand and rubbed along the collapsed body on the consulting table, I couldn’t help noticing the numerous scars hidden in the ragged coat. The dog warningly bared her teeth at me, although somehow I felt that she was not an aggressive type.

Ignoring my silence, Mr Molloy continued: ‘When I got up this morning she’d been sick all over the box. She won’t eat for me now and there’s an awful stink off her.’

My worst fears were confirmed as a putrid discharge dripped from the little dog’s vagina onto the stainless steel surface of the table. I didn’t need much experience to make my diagnosis.

‘Has she been drinking much lately?’ I enquired.

‘Well, I gave her a drink yesterday morning and she drank that all right.’

‘But surely she’s had water since then?’

‘Ah well, now, I can’t leave the water in with her. She’d only knock it over on herself.’

‘Is she not out at all during the day?’

‘Well, she was mated last week and I don’t want another dog to get in at her, but she’s in a fine big box,’ he said indicating a space approximately two foot by three, barely big enough for the dog to fit into.

As I examined the deep purple mucous membranes of her gums, I noticed that all her front teeth had been worn away, presumably from trying to gnaw her way out of her container. I suspected it might have been her home for a lot longer than two weeks. A warning bell began to ring in my mind.

‘Have you ever bred from her before?’

‘I have indeed. Sure, she’s never missed a heat since she was six months old. I normally cross her with a Glen of Imaal like herself, but this time I decided to try her with a Kerry Blue. She took a good covering so I hope the pups will be okay.’

Everything fell into place. The Glen of Imaal was an uncommon but highly-valued breed – easy to sell for good cash. It was not unusual for them to be crossed with a Kerry Blue, which yielded a tough, aggressive dog, perfect for the illegal sport of dog-fighting. I wasn’t surprised by her reaction to me now. I suspected that this dog had endured a life of intensive puppy-breeding and dog fights.

‘Did she have many pups in her previous litters?’ I asked, barely able to control my rising temper although I knew I had to. If this man thought for one minute that I would go against him, the little bitch would be taken away and I would never see her again. Looking at her present condition, I reckoned she would be dead by that evening without treatment. I had come across a few cases of pyometra when seeing practice and understood the pathology of the condition: the infection that builds up in the uterus, resulting in a life-threatening septicaemia. But I had never seen an affected animal as sick as this dog.

‘Well, she had a good few pups before but the last two litters died. I had to go away for the weekend but I left her a good sup of water an’ all and some food in the box. I’ll tell ye, though, she’s not a great mother ’cos when I came back each time, they were all dead. But I’ll watch her like a hawk this time. I have a few orders for those pups already. D’ye think she has many in her?’

‘She’s not in pup, Mr Molloy. She has an infection in her womb. Just look at the discharge from her. We’ll be very lucky to save her.’

‘Damn!’ he said shaking his head in despair. ‘I’ve had nothing but bad luck with this bitch. I don’t know if she’s worth going on with. Is it going to cost me much? I’m not a wealthy man, ye know.’

Looking down at the panting dog on the table, I wondered if it would be kinder to end it all for her, here and now, and yet she had the look of a tough dog about her. I just didn’t have enough experience to know if she could pull through or not. Anyway, it seemed a shame to give up on her now. I vowed there and then that she would not be going back to her owner no matter what happened, but I would have to play it carefully. Animal welfare issues in this country are still very poorly defined and it’s notoriously difficult to get a prosecution of any sort. The law was not on my side and Mr Molloy looked to be every bit as tough as his dog.

‘The cost will depend on what we have to do with her. We’ll have to keep her in overnight at least. She needs to go on a drip and she also needs some intensive antibiotic therapy. We’ll have a better idea by tomorrow.’

‘Well, I don’t want to end up with a big bill for a useless bitch. Ye won’t go too hard on me, will ye?’ he said, winking at me slyly.

I ignored his question and called for Liz to take the little dog to the treatment area.

‘If you’ll just fill in an admission form, please, then we can get to work on her.’

In rough letters, he filled in the section for name and address without hesitation. He left a blank for the dog’s details and vaccination history.

‘All my dogs are good an’ healthy,’ he said, indicating the blank space. ‘They don’t need any of that rubbish.’ He signed the consent form and without a backward glance, made for the door.

‘Excuse me, Mr Molloy. What’s her name?’ I called after him.

‘Em … ’ He turned back for a moment. ‘Jess.’

More like Brood Bitch Number Six, I thought to myself.

I tried ringing Justin on his mobile but he must have been out of cover and I knew we had no time to waste. With the help of Liz, I set up a drip to rehydrate our new patient and flush out the toxins that had built up in her system. I added in some intravenous antibiotics and the strongest possible drug I could find to reduce her raging temperature. I also injected her with an anti-emetic to stop the continuous vomiting. Having looked through the cupboards at the limited assortment of drugs, I made up a solution of antiseptic and antibiotic, which I flushed into her womb, by means of a long catheter.

‘Might be worth giving the welfare group a call to see if they can trace yer man,’ suggested Liz, as I adjusted the drip to what I hoped would be the correct flow rate of fluids.

She dialled the number for me and, having introduced myself to the inspector, I told him the story. I read out the address on the form which my client had filled in.

‘Well, we’ll certainly follow it up,’ he replied, ‘but chances are it’s a false address. We may never be able to trace him.’

By the time Justin had returned, my first in-patient seemed to be a little brighter, but he was doubtful.

‘Did you get any money from him?’ he asked me. I had to admit that it hadn’t even occurred to me to try.

The rest of the day passed with what, in time, would become routine consultations for me, but the thrill of being let loose on the surgery was dimmed slightly by my anxiety about the fate of the helpless dog.

As I was new to the job, Justin told me that Michael, the boss who was out sick, had asked him to cover nights for the first week to give me a chance to break myself in gently.

‘What are we going to do with the dog?’ he asked me once the afternoon rush was over. ‘I wonder should we hand her over to the welfare group?’ he continued without waiting for me to reply. ‘I doubt if that Molloy fellow will come back for her and, even if he does, if we find out that he has given us a false address, he won’t have a leg to stand on.’

‘What will happen her then?’ I asked.

‘Well, to be honest, they’ll probably put her to sleep. She’s so sick that her chances of making it are slim and if she has been used as a fighting dog, well, she’s not going to have the temperament to be re-homed, even if she does make it.’

I was in a quandary. The thought of abandoning the dog, who had already been through so much, seemed terrible but, equally, it was Justin’s time, as he was the one who would have to tend to her through the night, and the practice’s money that I would be wasting.

‘Well, what about if I take her home with me and see how she is in the morning?’ I asked, thinking aloud.

Justin shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fine by me. Just don’t get your hopes up.’

Back home, I had to leave all the car doors open to get rid of the stench that still lingered even after I had taken the little dog out. Donal, having arrived home long before me, had prepared a celebratory dinner for my first working day.

‘Who’s the dog?’ he asked, looking slightly surprised as I carried in the lifeless form.

‘It’s a long story!’ I said, and then explained the day’s events.

He didn’t seem too put out but casually asked, ‘And is it normal to have to take a patient home?’

‘Oh God no!’ I replied confidently. ‘It’ll probably never happen again … and it’s only for tonight.’

He said nothing, in his wisdom, realising, more than I, that this would be the first of many.

I settled the little dog down on an old duvet in the small utility room, with her drip suspended from a hook on the window ledge. Our two dogs, Spook, a black Labrador, and Judy, a yellow one, seemed quite pleased by the new addition to the family and sniffed her over inquisitively even though the dog seemed oblivious to their presence.

Throughout the night, I constantly adjusted her fluids and repeated her injections, and the next morning I flushed her uterus again. By then, she was at least making an effort to move. I noticed that her joints seemed to be painful and that she made no attempt to rise but dragged herself around on her belly, struggling to pull herself along with her two front legs while her two hind legs stretched out behind. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked just like a giant slug.