It's a Vet's Life: (17 page)

I wash my hands, slip on a pair of gloves and have a quick feel to check.

‘We’ll go with the Caesar,’ I decide. Shannon picks
up
a consent form – Izzy’s trained her well – and Clive signs Cassie’s life temporarily into my hands.

‘Would you and Edie like to make yourselves a drink in the staffroom?’ I ask Clive. Edie looks as if she could do with a strong coffee.

‘What about George?’ says Shannon. ‘I can’t look after him and the anaesthetic at the same time.’

‘I’ll look after him,’ Edie offers.

‘I’ll be there, Maz,’ Clive says, his expression one of reassurance. He’s aware, as we all are, that Edie’s under the influence, but he’ll supervise, making sure that George comes to no harm.

‘I wish he was as happy to go to nursery,’ I say, smiling as George toddles off with Clive and Edie without protest.

‘Is that normal, letting clients loose in the practice?’ asks Will. ‘I mean, is that wise?’

‘They’re lovely people, and I know them pretty well.’ I change the subject. ‘Now, do you want to operate or assist?’

‘Um –’ Will pushes his glasses up his nose – ‘I’ll assist.’

‘In that case, you can do the next one.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you out, only I wasn’t sure …’

‘It’s fine. It’s better to be safe than sorry.’ I smile encouragingly. Will needs to work on his confidence. ‘I can remember what it’s like. You think you’ve got it, that you understand the rules you learned at vet school, but then the patients come along, real patients, and they don’t behave as they do in the textbooks.’

‘I didn’t like to call Emma.’

‘No, always call me first,’ I say. ‘Come on then, let’s get this party started.’

Will and I anaesthetise the cat. Shannon monitors Cassie’s pulse and breathing, while I shave the cat’s belly, sending clusters of fluff floating off into the air. Will cleans Cassie’s skin, and I scrub up at the sink and slip into a gown and gloves.

‘Is she asleep?’ I ask, having arranged the drapes to isolate the surgical site under the cool gleam of the theatre light.

Shannon pinches Cassie’s paw. There’s no response.

‘Ready to go,’ she says, waiting for me to make the first cut through the skin and muscle into Cassie’s swollen belly, before she disappears briefly to return with a white wire cage containing a heated pad and towels, ready for the kittens.

I hope they’re okay and we haven’t left it too late, what with Clive and Edie in no great hurry to get down here, having to lock up the pub first, and Will dithering about what to do.

‘How many are we expecting?’ Shannon unfolds a towel and places beside it a dropper bottle of a drug to stimulate breathing if necessary.

‘Two or three.’ I thought I could feel three. As I cut through into the cat’s womb, I mop up the fluid that comes flooding out and make a grab for the first kitten. I hand it to Will, who hands it to Shannon. It’s a dark, wet, seemingly lifeless mass, like a toy that’s been left out in the rain.

‘Go ahead.’ I remove a second kitten and hand it to Will. ‘Clear the mouth and nostrils and give it a rub.’ I check the rest of the womb. There are no more kittens. If there was a third, it’s been re-absorbed and disappeared without trace. ‘How are we doing?’

‘Mum’s fine. This one isn’t breathing.’ Shannon
raises
the kitten to her eye level and peers at its chest. ‘Oh? Cool. It is.’

The kitten gasps, mews and twitches. It doesn’t look very strong, but I heave a sigh of relief. It is alive.

‘It’s a little boy,’ Shannon coos, before putting it very gently into the cage, with a drape over the top to keep it snug while we’re bringing Cassie round.

‘This one’s alive,’ says Will, ‘but it has a hernia. Look.’

I can only glance briefly away from my task of closing up the womb and the body wall, but it is enough. Where the kitten’s umbilical cord should have been, there is a tear, and I can see the kitten’s insides.

‘Will, you’ll have to mask it down on the other machine and see if you can close it up.’ Is it worth it? I decide we have to try. It would be a shame to give up now.

‘Shannon, can you grab Will a spay kit? Thanks. I’m almost done here.’

While Will is operating to repair the kitten’s hernia, very slowly but surely, Shannon watches over Cassie who’s coming round, and I keep a close eye on the kitten’s anaesthetic. Shannon asks me to help her revise for her exams that are coming up in a couple of days’ time.

‘Maz, what’s the difference between smooth, skeletal and heart muscle?’ she says.

‘Now you’re asking.’ It’s been a long time since I studied muscles, apart from Alex’s … ‘Skeletal muscle is voluntary and looks stripy under the microscope.’

‘So does heart muscle, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, but heart muscle is involuntary. It beats spontaneously, the rate and strength of the beat controlled by the nervous system.’ I don’t like splitting
everything
into chunks. It’s all part of the whole, like the team at Otter House.

‘MNEC,’ sighs Shannon. ‘Mum Never Eats Cake.’

I’d be surprised, I muse, considering Bridget’s physique, although I suspect she won’t be eating as much as she used to now she’s been diagnosed with diabetes.

‘Muscle, Nervous, Epithelial and Connective. I spent three hours trying to make sense of my notes and only got as far as muscle. I’m never going to get through it all.’ Shannon shakes her head mournfully. She looks tired, her eyes shadowed.

‘You aren’t overdoing the revision, are you? Remember, you have a full-time job as well. It isn’t like you’re at school and have all the time in the world.’ I wonder if she’s out partying too. She used to be a party animal.

‘I’ll be fine as soon as I’ve got the exams over and done with.’

‘Do you remember your first Caesar?’ I say, smiling.

‘How could I ever forget? That’s how I ended up with Seven.’

Soon, Cassie and her kittens are awake and back in their carrier, and we are standing around the prep bench.

‘How are my babies?’ slurs Edie.

‘And Cassie too, love,’ Clive adds. He’s holding on to George who is tipping forwards trying to poke his fingers into the carrier.

‘Cat,’ he says.

‘No, George,’ I say.

‘Cat!’ he exclaims.

‘You’re right, it is a cat. I mean, no, don’t put your fingers in there. Cats can bite. Ouch!’

‘Bad cat,’ says George happily.

He’s wrong. They’re lovely cats. Cassie is more relaxed now, making noises in her throat as her kittens burrow underneath her.

‘She’s going to be a great mum,’ I say.

‘Thank you for looking after her,’ says Clive. ‘We’re very grateful.’

‘What colour are they?’ Edie asks. ‘It was difficult to see.’

‘There’s a black and white boy, and a cream girl,’ says Shannon.

‘That’s a strange combination,’ Clive observes.

‘Who’s the dad?’ I say. ‘I reckon Cassie entertained two visiting tomcats.’

‘Really?’ says Edie.

‘That’s what cats do. They put themselves about a bit.’

‘There, I thought you were such a nice girl, Cassie.’ Edie smiles.

Once Clive and Edie have headed for home, Shannon cleans up with Will helping, or getting in the way, and I write up the case notes. Cassie is on the slim side, unusual for our patients nowadays with all the quality pet food available, and I make a comment on her record to check this out when she returns for a check-up. After that, I have a chat with Will.

‘Do you feel happy about doing the next one?’ I ask.

‘I think so. Thank you, Maz.’

‘What for?’

‘For being so bloody nice about it, and not making me feel like a complete idiot.’

‘I can tell you, I’d much prefer you to ask when you aren’t sure than blunder on regardless as our locum did.’

‘I heard about your troubles – Frances told me.’

‘Drew was hopeless. Selfish. He didn’t care about the patients at all.’ I pause. ‘Will, don’t worry. You’re doing really well.’

‘Thanks again,’ he says.

‘You’d better go and have a break.’ I check the clock on the wall. ‘We have less than six hours until it’s time to do the ward round.’

Will groans. ‘It’s much harder than I thought it would be.’

‘You’ll feel better after some sleep.’ I watch him go out through the door into the corridor, hands in his pockets and head bowed, and I wonder if he would have managed without me, if I hadn’t been available. Would I trust him with sole charge? I don’t think he’s ready for that, and I can’t help questioning if he ever will be.

I realise as I’m driving home with George now fast asleep in the back, that my work–life balance is precariously balanced, and it would not take much to tip me over the edge, one way or the other. I’m lucky. I have it all; child, fiancé, career, money. I am loved and cherished, but I have no time to myself. There is no slack and it makes me wonder how I’m going to find the opportunity to plan this wedding. It’s been a month or so since Alex and I set the date, and apart from the dress, photographer and flowers, preparations have not really advanced any further. I begin to panic. What I thought was a long time, is not very long at all.

Something New

IT’S GOING TO
be one of those days. It’s eight thirty in the morning a few days later, and I’m standing in the tiny play area outside nursery with Flick, the nursery manager who’s dressed in a white blouse, black trousers and an apron covered with brightly coloured butterflies. She’s about the same age as me, in her early thirties, petite, blonde and determined. For once, it isn’t George who is saying no to nursery. It is nursery saying no to George.

I should have anticipated this problem. I remember how Frances had to look after her granddaughter at the practice when she had a rash that turned out to be flea bites from the pet cat. These aren’t flea bites.

‘I have to be at work –’ I check my watch to prove a point – ‘now.’

‘You’ll have to find someone else to look after him today. You must understand, as someone with a medical qualification, that we can’t have him here unless you can prove he isn’t infectious to the other children.’

‘I can’t do that. I have to go to work. I’m fully booked all day.’

Flick draws herself up to her full five feet, and a little more, tall.

‘Take some time off. It would be irresponsible of me to accept him.’

I show her the rash on George’s arm. It isn’t much, and I’m desperately hoping she’ll make an exception.

‘They not fleas,’ George pipes up cheerfully, and I wish he was a little behind rather than ahead with his talking. ‘Not fleas, Mummy.’ I can see the other mums recoiling in horror as if they think I’ve coached him in what to say.

‘All right,’ I say, backing down. Outside, at the nursery gates, I call Alex on my mobile. He’s unobtainable. I might have guessed. Who else can I try?

‘Who would like to have a spotty boy all day, George?’ I say with a sigh. He smiles up at me from the buggy. ‘I can’t ask Emma because she’s working too. It’s Will’s day off and I can’t see him being all that keen on babysitting. There’s Lynsey – she’s offered before, but if that rash is infectious, she won’t thank me if any of her brood go down with it. There’s only one thing for it, George. You’ll have to come to work with me.’

When I reach Otter House, I have a word with Frances.

‘It’s a complete disaster,’ I say. ‘Sophia and Old Fox-Gifford have gone to London for a couple of days to visit some old friends – Alex says it’s to relive their lost youth – so I can’t ask them to have George. Flick at the nursery won’t have him because of this rash on his arm.’ I had wondered about covering it up, but they would have found out when he washed his hands before healthy snack time.

‘I’ll have him, Maz,’ says Frances. ‘Bring him around here. Oh, doesn’t he look like his daddy now.’

I push the buggy behind the desk, but George isn’t keen on not being able to see what’s going on at the other side. He stretches and leans against the straps of the harness, squealing to get out. The patient who’s waiting, an ancient basset hound, looks even more mournful than before.

‘Is it serious?’ Frances says. ‘It isn’t meningitis? I saw a programme about how you check the rash by pressing a glass against the spots.’

‘Thank you, Frances. I am a vet.’

‘And better than any doctor, so you know what I’m talking about.’

‘I’ll take him in to Kennels. George, come and see the animals.’

I know George isn’t unwell, but I check with a glass in the staffroom en route to Kennels anyway. The spots disappear with pressure from the glass which means they’re superficial not deep, as I knew anyway. It’s fine. I rub my temple. Sometimes, I think I’m going mad.

George isn’t impressed by the sight of the inpatients. There’s a sick, fluffed-up pigeon that’s due to meet its maker. It’s been in for three days, showing no sign of improvement. There’s also a black cat with a collar injury that hisses at us when we approach.