It's a Vet's Life: (6 page)

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ I say, noting Bridget’s frizzy blonde hair and tatty green sweatshirt with the Petals logo on it. ‘I hope you’ve got someone to mind the shop.’ She owns the florist’s in Market Square, just up the road from Otter House.

‘I’ve put a note on the door.’ Bridget drags a reluctant Daisy behind her. Daisy doesn’t walk. She waddles, panting and stopping for breath every couple of strides. She reminds me of a table with a leg at each corner, not some delicate Chippendale design, but a solid farmhouse affair.

‘Come on through.’ I close the consulting room door behind her. ‘What can I do for Daisy?’

‘She’s become so lazy,’ Bridget says. ‘I have to take her down to the Green in the car to get her out for a walk, and when it’s hot like this, all she does is sit down. I told Shannon I was worried about her heart, and she suggested I made the appointment.’

I remember Shannon mentioning it – she said she was ashamed of the state Daisy was in.

‘Is she better when the weather’s cooler?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know, to be honest. I haven’t taken her out at all for a few days now – I didn’t think it was fair to keep making her go for walks. She has an allergy to exercise, like me.’ Bridget smiles weakly, as if trying to make light of the situation. ‘That’s my excuse anyway.’

‘Let’s get her weighed first, then I’ll check her over.’ It’s a struggle, because it means going back out into the waiting area and persuading Daisy to stand on the scales. Her weight flashes up on the display.

‘That can’t be right,’ Bridget says, frowning, and to prove that it is, I move Daisy off and reset the scales, before weighing her again.

‘It is right,’ I say. ‘Look at that.’

I let the figure sink in. Bridget appears shocked. I run my finger down the laminated chart displayed on the wall, and read out what a Bulldog bitch should weigh.

‘So Shannon was right,’ Bridget says.

‘You don’t have to weigh her to see she’s overweight. In fact, she’s more than that. She’s obese,’ I point out.

‘She can’t be …’ Bridget hesitates. ‘She’s big-boned.’

‘Trust me, her bones aren’t exceptional. She has a pretty average frame.’

Bridget glares at me, radiating scepticism, disbelief and denial.

‘I can’t feel her ribs, let alone see them, and look at these rolls of fat,’ I exclaim.

‘They’re folds of skin,’ Bridget insists. ‘All Bulldogs have them.’

My heart sinks. This isn’t going too well. Obesity in dogs is a growing problem for us vets, even in a country practice, and it’s difficult to do anything about it when the client is overweight too. It’s a sensitive subject, and I can only guess how Bridget is feeling: guilty for letting her dog get into such a state, embarrassed and painfully aware of her own weight problem.

‘Let’s check her over,’ I say, and, between us, Bridget and I lift her onto the table where I listen to her chest and examine her joints. Her lungs sound crackly – as if
someone’s
inside her chest popping packing bubbles – and I wonder if she has some fluid in there. She growls when I move her left elbow and both hips. She also has a skin infection.

I hang my stethoscope around my neck, and go through Daisy’s problems with Bridget.

‘There’s no point in merely treating the symptoms. We have to address the root cause which is Daisy’s weight problem. It’s up to you,’ I go on. ‘I can advise you. I can’t make you do anything about it, but, if Daisy carries on as she is, she’ll end up crippled with arthritis and hardly able to breathe. It’ll shorten her life.’

‘You mean, she could die from it?’

‘Yes, she could.’ We stand in silence for a moment, listening to Daisy’s harsh panting as she sits slumped on her haunches, on the table. I would kiss her, but, unlike most of my patients, she’s rather offputting with all the scabs around her face and ears.

‘Do you do gastric bands for dogs,’ Bridget asks eventually, ‘or liposuction?’

‘It’s much simpler than that. Daisy needs fewer calories and more exercise. If the energy going in as food is less than the energy going out through moving around, she’ll lose weight. She doesn’t need a treadmill, or hydrotherapy pool, or a doggy gym. All she needs is more walking. Doesn’t she go out with Seven?’ Seven, Shannon’s dog, isn’t overweight.

‘She can’t keep up with him,’ Bridget says. ‘I told Shannon not to bother to take her.’

‘Well, I don’t want Daisy to overdo it at first. She should have two fifteen-minute walks a day to begin with. We’ll put her on a strict regime of a measured amount of diet food twice a day, nothing else.’

‘No gravy?’

‘No gravy,’ I confirm.

‘What about her biscuits at bedtime?’ Bridget answers the question herself. ‘No … What about Seven? Can he have the diet food?’

‘It would be better to feed them separately.’

‘What about carrots? I read somewhere that you can give carrots as treats to dogs.’

‘No carrots,’ I say firmly, although I’m rapidly losing the will to live. ‘Carrots equal extra calories, not as many as a cream cake, but enough.’

‘I’ll start her on the diet on Monday then, and give her the weekend to get used to the idea.’

You mean, to let you get used to the idea, I muse.

‘She can have all her favourite things before she ends up on rabbit food,’ Bridget continues.

‘It is dog food, I can assure you,’ I say. ‘Now, is it possible for you to leave Daisy here for a few hours, so I can get an X-ray of her chest, and Shannon can give her a bath?’

‘Yes. I don’t see why not.’

‘Shannon can take her home at the end of her shift.’

‘Thanks, Maz. I’m glad I brought her along.’

‘No problem,’ I say. ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

‘Absolutely no extras?’ Bridget checks on the way out, having handed Daisy over to me. ‘It’s all right for her to have her breakfast milk?’

‘No extras. No milk. Just the diet, and water to drink. Nothing else is to pass her lips.’ I smile. ‘Remember, I’ll know about it when we weigh her next time. I’d like to see her in a week.’ Izzy runs a slimming clinic for our fatties – dogs and cats – every fortnight, but I prefer to monitor Daisy myself until I’m happy that she’s on the right track.

I coax Daisy slowly along the corridor to Kennels where I find her a bed for the day, and ask Emma to stick her on the end of the list for X-rays and a bath. Will takes over the consulting room once more, and I find myself at a loose end. I suppose I should make the most of it because it won’t last. I end up in the office, searching the Internet for tips on how to plan a wedding and set a budget. As well as the dress, flowers and the reception, there are apparently other essentials to consider: underwear that works with the dress, and possibly the hire of a calligrapher to write the names of your guests on the invitations, and favours for the tables. I hadn’t realised how much was involved, or how much it was all going to cost.

As I sit there, wondering how Alex and I are going to fund it, I overhear voices in the staffroom, Frances and a person of the opposite sex. It takes me a moment to realise who it is. It’s Lenny, the delivery driver, who brings supplies from the wholesaler to the practice at least once a week, often more. Izzy and, increasingly, Shannon deal with the order, checking it as they unpack. Frances is the member of staff who deals with Lenny himself, inviting him in for coffee or tea before he drives on to the next practice on his round, Talyton Manor. Lenny hasn’t been delivering here for long – the last driver was sacked for selling the goods he was supposed to be supplying on eBay.

I confess that in order to hear what they’re saying, I abandon the computer and wander into the staffroom on the pretence of grabbing a biscuit from the tin.

‘Hello, Lenny,’ I say, taking a chocolate biscuit that’s already out on a plate on the worktop. ‘How’s it going?’

He’s sixty-four – I know because he told us that his
granddaughter
made him a cake with sixty-four on it – but he looks younger.

‘Not bad,’ he says, glancing towards Frances who is perched on the opposite end of the sofa from him. Like Will, she’s wearing new clothes: new shoes, to be precise, red ones with a kitten heel. ‘I must be on my way.’ He stands up, brushing crumbs from his trousers.

He’s well-groomed, like a recently trimmed schnauzer, with black eyebrows, lots of white hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He always wears grey trousers, a white short-sleeved shirt embroidered with the wholesaler’s logo, and a tie. Best of all, he’s constantly cheerful, but now I think about it, that could have something to do with Frances …

‘Thanks for the biscuits,’ he says as he heads out through the practice, Frances and I following close behind. We wait in Reception, watching Lenny go, heading back across the car park with his trolley to his van.

‘Why do we always have chocolate Hobnobs or Bourbon creams on delivery days?’ I ask Frances.

‘Lenny has such an early start and a long drive to get here.’

‘And?’ I smile. ‘Doesn’t he have breakfast like everyone else before he sets out?’

‘Well, yes, I imagine so. It turns out that it’s convenient for him to stop here for a tea break.’

‘Are you sure that’s all he stops for?’ I tease. ‘I think you’re blushing.’

‘Me?’ Frances touches her throat. ‘Oh no, it’s high blood pressure – Dr Mackie’s given me some pills for it.’

‘Well, I hope they start working soon.’

‘Who’s going to start working soon?’ says Izzy, emerging from the consulting room.

‘The tablets,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, Izz. What have you done with Will?’

‘I told him, he’s going to have to work on his stamina. He’s having a lie-down.’ Her mouth curves with amusement. ‘He’s gone up to the flat for a break. He needs it after the incident with the bird.’

‘What went wrong?’ I ask her. ‘Why didn’t you catch it for him?’

‘Will wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want to embarrass him any further in front of Peter. He had everything ready, gloves, swabs, and silver nitrate stick.’

Cocky’s well-known to us. He comes in regularly to have his beak trimmed. If left, it grows crooked and curls at the end so Cocky can’t eat.

Izzy continues, ‘If Will hadn’t pussyfooted around, he would have got Cocky back within minutes. I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much time.’

‘It’ll get better. We’re bound to have a few teething problems.’

‘He isn’t a baby, Maz. He’s a grown man with professional qualifications, but it’s like he’s one of those people who’s incredibly clever in theory, but practically useless.’

‘Oh, I hope not,’ I sigh. ‘Izzy, let’s not rush into making judgements just yet. Let’s give him a chance.’

‘How long for? Remember the trouble we had with Drew?’

How can I forget? Drew was our locum a couple of summers ago now and he really messed up, amputating the wrong leg – one of the healthy ones, not the one with cancer in the bone – which meant the dog, a Great Dane called Harley, had no chance of survival. I
could
have forgiven him if he’d faced up to what he’d done, but he disappeared, flying off back to Australia where he came from.

‘Drew was a one-off. He didn’t care. Will does.’

‘How do you know that?’ Izzy says sceptically.

‘He likes the animals. You should have seen him with Tripod earlier on.’ I pause. ‘Izzy, it’s the poor guy’s first day …’

‘Well, I’ll be watching him,’ she says, and I smile to myself. Everyone will be to start with. Frances has already reported a couple of requests coming from clients asking to see the new assistant with their pets. They want to check him out. In fact, I’m surprised that a representative of Talyton’s Meet and Greet Committee hasn’t made an appearance yet. Fifi Green, Chair of Talyton Animal Rescue, local councillor, and well-meaning busybody, takes her role very seriously.

I go and help Emma in Kennels. We X-ray Daisy’s chest before Shannon bathes her, and soon, the room is steaming up with the scent of medicated shampoo and wet dog. The smell clings to my clothes, and is still there when I get home at the end of a long day.

I pick George up from the Manor where Sophia is trying to unblock a pipe at the base of the washing machine. George is ‘helping’.

‘This happens every time I put the horses’ numnahs in,’ she grumbles, referring to the cloths that go under their saddles. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Maz?’

‘No, thank you. I’d better go and put dinner on.’

‘George has had a huge helping of cottage pie for lunch.’

I thank Sophia again. ‘I’ll see you later,’ I add before making my escape, holding on to George’s hand so he can’t rush back to continue sticking his fingers in the
slow
flow of grey water that’s coming out of the machine.

When we go inside the Barn, George wanders off to find his favourite car to play with. I find Ginge lying crashed out in the sun. I touch him, he lifts his head and hisses before realising it’s me. He blinks and stretches out one paw in apology, claws sheathed now.

‘If I were you I’d go and sleep upstairs on the bed, if you don’t want your tail pulled,’ I whisper to him. I’m proud of Ginge’s restraint. In spite of starting out half wild, he’s settled down, and it seems as if he knows how precious George is to me, because, when George did pull his tail the other day – not out of malice, but more as an experiment to see what would happen – Ginge leapt up, yowling. He didn’t lash out or bite. I felt really guilty because I hadn’t been there to protect him. He’s an old boy now. He doesn’t deserve any hassle at his age.