Behaving Badly (2 page)

Of course it was wonderful to make a sick animal well. To see a cat arrive in a bad way, its family in floods, and to be able to put that cat right. But too often it wasn’t like that at all. The way people expected me to produce miracles,
the hysterical late-night phone calls—I couldn’t sleep. The way some people—especially the rich ones—would complain about the costs. But worst of all, I couldn’t stand it when I had to put an animal to sleep. Not so much the very old ones, or the terminal cases—my training had prepared me for that. No, it was when people asked me to put down young, healthy animals—that’s what I couldn’t take. That’s how I got Herman.

I was working in East Ham as a locum, and one morning a permatanned-looking woman of about forty came in with this miniature dachshund—a smooth-haired black and tan male, about a year old. It looked worried, but then dachshunds always do look worried—it’s their natural expression—as though there’s just been a stock-market crash. But this particular dachshund looked as though the world was about to end, which, in fact, it was. Because when I lifted it onto the table and asked what the problem seemed to be, the woman said that it had just ‘savaged’ her child and that she wanted it to be put down. I remember looking at her, shocked, and asking what exactly had taken place, and she explained that her five-year-old daughter had been playing with it ‘very nicely’ when it had suddenly given her a ‘nasty nip’ on the hand. When I asked her whether the child had needed stitches, she admitted that she hadn’t, but said that the ‘vicious little bugger’ had ‘drawn blood’.

‘Has he ever done such a thing before?’ I enquired, as the dog stood on the table, radiating—appropriately, as it happened—an air of tragedy.

‘No,’ she conceded. ‘It’s the first time.’

‘And you want me to destroy it?’

‘I do. Otherwise it could happen again, couldn’t it, and it could be worse next time. I mean, you can’t keep a mad dog,
can you?’ she sniffed. ‘Not with kids about. And if it isn’t my kid, it could be someone else’s, and then I’ll end up in court.’

‘I do understand your anxiety, but did you see what happened?’

‘Well, no. I mean, not as such. I heard Leah scream, then she comes running into the kitchen, crying her little eyes out, saying the dog had bitten her hand. It just turned on her,’ she added vehemently—‘like
that
!’—she clicked her taloned fingers by way of demonstration. ‘It’s probably got some bad strain. I never wanted a dog in the first place, but my husband got it off a friend of a friend. He paid four hundred quid for it,’ she muttered bitterly. ‘And they swore that dachshunds are good with kids.’

‘Well, they usually
are
good with children. They’re very sweet-natured.’

‘Look, I’m not taking no chances, and that’s that. It’s not biting any child of mine and getting away with it,’ she added indignantly.

‘But there are rescue homes, I feel it’s unfair—’

‘But who’d want a dodgy dachshund? My mind’s made up,’ she said, as she snapped open her handbag. ‘You just tell me how much.’ And I was just about to go and consult the Principal Vet because I really didn’t want to do it, when I noticed that the dog was whining quietly and shaking its head. I lifted up its ear flaps and looked inside. Embedded in its left ear was the broken-off end of a child’s knitting needle.

‘
Jesus
,’ I breathed. Holding the dog firmly, I gingerly removed it, then held it up. ‘This is why he bit your daughter.’

The woman stared at it, mutely. ‘Oh. Well…as I say, she was playing with the dog, wasn’t she? She was just playing. She’s only five.’

‘But can you imagine how much that must have hurt?’

‘He still shouldn’t have bitten her though, should he?’

I felt my jaw slacken. ‘What
else
was he supposed to do? Write her a solicitor’s letter? Ring the RSPCA? He’s a
dog
. He did what any dog would do.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘There
isn’t
a but! That’s dog behaviour. If we annoy them enough, they’ll probably bite. What would you do if someone stabbed
you
in the ear? I imagine you might react!’

‘I want it put down,’ she insisted, jabbing a bejewelled finger at me. ‘It’s my dachshund and I want it put down.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I won’t. I refuse to murder your dog,’ I added politely. She looked extremely offended at that; and she said in that case she’d take it to another vet’s. But I was one step ahead. I calmly pointed out that there was absolutely no need to ‘try her luck elsewhere’, because I’d be more than happy to keep it myself. She hesitated, then, giving me a look which combined hostility with shame—an unusual mixture—she left. She’d never even told me the dog’s name. So I called him Herman. Herman the German. That was four years ago.

The saddest thing of all was Herman’s distress at her departure—he whimpered inconsolably after she’d left. He might not have felt quite so upset if I’d been able to apprise him of the awful truth.

‘Don’t waste your tears,’ I told him. ‘She didn’t deserve you. You’re going to be a lot better off with me.’ Within a week Herman seemed to think so too, for he seemed grateful for my care and we’d started to bond, and we’ve been pretty inseparable ever since. But it was saving him from a premature end which got me thinking seriously about changing career. I’d already noticed how, in most cases, it isn’t the animal which has the ‘problem’, it’s the
humans
—and I realized how interesting it could be working with that. A week later I went to a lecture given by a vet who’d retrained as
a behaviourist, and I decided that that was what I would do too. I’d still be working with animals, just as I’d always wanted, but without the relentless pressure and stress.

I had no serious financial commitments then, so I used my savings to go back to school. I went to Edinburgh for a year—with Herman—to do an MSc in Animal Behaviour, and I had a fascinating time. We didn’t study only companion animals, although that’s a large part of it, we studied many other species as well. We learned about primate behaviour, about farm animals, and birds, and deer; and there were lectures on marine animals and zoo animals too. I’ll never forget the things we learned. That polar bears are always left-handed, for example, and that chickens prefer pop music to rock. That if you chat pleasantly to a cow it will yield more milk, and that when a cat hisses it’s imitating a snake; that ants practise a form of agriculture, and that ravens are as clever as chimpanzees.

When I left I came back to London and began running a behaviour clinic three times a week from a vet’s practice in Highgate where I’d once worked. I was amazed at how quickly word got round, and I soon had a steady stream of dysfunctional Dobermans and stressed-out Siamese. I began to get good results. I did home visits too, and I set up a website where people could ask for my advice, free of charge. Then, just over a year ago, I got this big break.

I was contacted by a TV researcher who asked me whether I’d be interested in being an expert on a new series called
Animal Crackers
; so I was screen tested, and got the job. They’d been looking for someone young, knowledgeable, female, and tele-genic, which people kindly say I am. Not that I’m glamorous; I’m much too short for a start, I rarely wear make-up, and I keep my fair hair in a boyish crop. But I think I came across well because I felt confident—I knew
what I was talking about. I’d do two sections in each programme, in which I’d analyse the problem then return ten days later to see whether my advice had worked. There were some very interesting cases—a police dog that was terrified of thunder, and a cat that went berserk when the TV was on. There was an irritable iguana—it was having romantic problems—and a pony which refused to be caught.

To my surprise, there was quite a buzz about the series. Someone wrote an article about me in the
Mail
, describing me as ‘Miss Dolittle’, which was just plain silly. I do not talk ‘to’ animals—I merely think
like
them—and there was a similar piece in
The Times
. But the exposure brought in new clients, so I decided I ought to have my own premises—which is how I found St Michael’s Mews…

From outside I heard the crunch of tyres on the cobbles as a car pulled up. There was the soprano beep of central locking, then rapid tapping.

‘Mir-an-da! It’s only me-ee.’ I slid back the chain and opened the door.

‘Wow!’ Daisy’s large brown eyes were shining with enthusiasm. ‘What a great place!’ I’ve known Daisy for fifteen years—we shared a flat at Bristol—and what I love about her is that she’s always upbeat.

‘This looks
so
great!’ she repeated as she came inside, cradling Herman over her left shoulder like a baby. ‘It’s spacious, isn’t it? And so light! Your builder’s done a fantastic job.’

‘He has.’

‘And the Mews is gorgeous.’

‘It is.’

‘It looks rather friendly.’

‘It seems to be. The aromatherapist and the osteopath have already introduced themselves, and the others all smile.’

‘I’ve always wanted to live in a mews—lucky you. You’ll
feel safe here,’ she added, tucking a hank of glossy dark hair behind one ear. I nodded. ‘And is that Herman on the plaque?’

‘Of course.’

‘He’s been dying to see you again—haven’t you, Herman? Say hello to your mummy, poppet.’ Herman gave me a baleful stare.

‘Hello, Herman,’ I said, as Daisy put him in my arms. ‘Have you missed me?’ The two tan points above his eyes twitched and pleated into a deep frown, then he emitted a grumbly sigh. ‘He’s cross with me,’ I said as I cuddled him. ‘It’s all the disruption. He’ll come round in a bit. I’m sorry I neglected you, Herman,’ I added quietly. ‘But, you see…the thing is,’ I felt my voice catch, ‘…things have been a bit tough.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked Daisy softly. I nodded, but Herman’s foxy little face had blurred. ‘Now don’t worry, Miranda,’ I heard Daisy murmur as I sank onto a chair. She unzipped her bag. ‘You mustn’t worry because even though it’s all been horrible and you’ve had this awful,
awful
shock, I just know you’re going to be fine. Isn’t she, Herman?’ she added brightly, as she pushed a tissue into my hand. I pressed it to my eyes, breathed deeply a few times, then felt my panic subside. On Herman’s face was his habitual expression of exaggerated anxiety. It made me suddenly smile.

‘Thanks, Daisy.’ I blew my nose. ‘And thanks for taking care of him,’ I added, as I put Herman down and he began to sniff the new floor.

‘Oh, he was no trouble at all. He came to work with me most days.’ Daisy works for ‘The Aid of the Party’, an event and wedding planners based in Bloomsbury. ‘The clients
loved
him—and when I couldn’t look after him I took him
round to my mum. She adored having him, and she was really sorry about… Well, she was really sorry.’

‘You didn’t
tell
her, did you?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good. What did you say?’

‘I just told her that you’d broken up with Alexander, that you were camping here while the work was being done, and that it was a…difficult time.’

‘That’s fine. You’re the only person who knows,’ I added quietly, as she put down her bags.

‘Don’t worry—my lips are sealed. But didn’t you even tell
your
mother?’ she asked as she sat down. I shook my head. There are so many things—huge things—that I’ve never told her. I’m too ashamed, so I’ve bottled them up. ‘But why not?’ Daisy asked, looking puzzled.

‘Well, because she’s rather jaundiced about marriage, so I knew what she’d say. I just told her the engagement was off. She mostly seemed relieved that she wouldn’t have to see my dad again.’

‘But didn’t she want to know
why
it had ended?’

‘She didn’t, actually. But then she’s always so busy—you know how it is. What with three teenage girls to look after, not to mention the boys.’

Daisy nodded diplomatically. ‘Of course…the boys…’

‘Anyway, the fewer people who know, the better I like it.’

‘But it’s not as though
you
did anything wrong.’

‘No, but…’

‘But what?’

I stared at a rhombus of sunlight on the wall. ‘The whole thing makes me feel somehow…ashamed. The thought that I could have made such a mistake.’

‘But you couldn’t have
known
. You couldn’t have known
that Alexander was like…that,’ she said delicately. ‘He seemed so, well…’ she gave a helpless shrug. ‘
Perfect
.’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘He did.’

‘So not a whisper from him then?’ she asked as she took off her cardigan.

‘No,’ I said bitterly. ‘But as we both know it’s over, what’s the point?’

‘I don’t blame you,’ she agreed. ‘Some things one can get over,’ she said carefully. ‘But I really
don’t
see how you could have got over that. Anyway—today’s the summer solstice,’ she went on purposefully, ‘which is a turning point—and this is a turning point for you too. You’re about to start a new, busy,
happy
phase of your life, Miranda, and I know it’s going to be
good
. Now, will you give me the guided tour?’

I stood up. ‘It won’t take long—it’s a good job Herman and I are both small.’ I’m five foot one and a half (at that height, the half matters) and my frame is slight. People often say I’m ‘petite’ or ‘gamine’. Daisy, on the other hand, is five foot eight and rather curvy. At Bristol we were called Little and Large.

Daisy admired the consulting room with its pale beech flooring, and yes, psychiatrist’s couch—in a practical beige—then we went into the tiny galley kitchen at the back.

‘Sweet garden,’ she remarked, as we looked out of the window into the minuscule courtyard. ‘It’ll look great when you fill it with pots.’ Then we went up the narrow stairs. I carried Herman because dachshunds get back problems. ‘I like the skylight over the bed,’ she remarked. ‘Very romantic. You can lie there and look at the stars.’

‘I’m not feeling romantic,’ I pointed out matter-of-factly.

‘Not now. But you will be. One day.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘You will get over this, Miranda. You’re only thirty-two.’