Trust Me, I'm a Vet (16 page)

I wave at her urgently, mouthing no. She puts the call on hold.

‘Maz, it’s a farm animal, a sick chicken that’s gone off lay,’ she says, looking at me over the rim of her glasses. ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to deal with it.’

‘I can cope with a chicken. Please don’t send potential clients off to Talyton Manor Vets without talking to me first.’ I have a feeling I’m going to need all the patients I can get. ‘Here, let me speak to the owner.’

The chicken turns out to be a pet – Duffy. I can hear her clucking in the background. She sounds like she’s trying to lay a football. According to her owner, Duffy stays indoors to watch the soaps every evening, and eats chips and ice cream. A picture of a chicken lounging on a sofa with a tub of Häagen-Dazs comes to mind as the chicken’s frantic clucking subsides.

‘She’s done it,’ says the owner with obvious relief. ‘I don’t need to bring her after all . . . Sorry for bothering you.’

All’s well that ends well, I think, except – I hate to sound mercenary – it didn’t bring in a fee.

‘It’s going to be rather busier than of late, Maz,’ Frances says. I notice she’s pinned her red rosette up on the noticeboard. ‘I’ve booked Gloria in to see you, and there are three – no, four ops.’ As I congratulate myself on the fact that I must be winning some of Talyton’s pet-owners over, she goes on, ‘Oh, the clippers you ordered have turned up – Izzy’s got them out the back. And there’s a letter for you.’ She hands over an envelope.

‘You’ve opened it,’ I say.

‘I always open the post for Emma.’

‘I’d prefer you not to open mine in future, thank you.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ she says. ‘It saves so much time – and you vets are always so busy. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.’

‘I won’t,’ I say sharply. I don’t want anyone reading my personal stuff, and given I recognise the handwriting on the front of the envelope, I know this is personal. In spite of everything that’s happened, my heart leaps into my throat and my knees turn to jelly as I pull out the letter. He’s realised how much I meant to him, he can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t live without me . . . and it serves him bloody well right!

I escape into the consulting room where I scan the letter in private – it doesn’t take long because it’s just a compliments slip headed with the Crossways logo.

Maz, you left some books. Let Carol know if you want them sent on. Mike.

I feel slightly sick as I picture Mike scribbling that note, making it clear I’m to contact one of the receptionists, not him, if I want my kit back. Scolding myself for my moment of weakness, I screw the paper up and aim it at the bin behind the desk.

‘News from your old practice?’ Frances enquires from where she’s crept up to the consulting-room door, her expression one of deep concern.

‘Just some junk mail,’ I say, knowing that she knows that I know that she knows very well what it says.

Frances’s lips form a silent O, and I wonder if she’s miffed because I haven’t chosen to confide in her. Well, there’s no way. I’ve seen how gossip spreads in this town – it’s faster than an outbreak of foot and mouth. I think of the woman at the checkout at the garden centre and talk of Emma’s ‘pregnancy’ – it’s like foot in mouth as well.

Frances looks past me. ‘Leave it outside, Gloria.’

Gloria struggles to push an old sit-up-and-beg bicycle with a wicker basket balanced on the handlebars through the double doors into Reception.

‘I’d rather you kept an eye on it.’ Catching her breath, Gloria props it against the desk. I notice how her clothes are hanging off her bones, as if there’s no flesh between. She isn’t wearing her black pearls today, but a piece of amber on a silver chain.

‘Maz, you’re going to need gauntlets,’ she says with glee. ‘Ginge is in one of his moods.’ She lifts the wicker basket all tied up with string and the bottom falls out, along with a streak of ginger tabby, which springs over the reception desk before disappearing beneath the shelves of pet food.

Now what? The general rule in the event of emergency is keep calm, but the idea of chasing a wild cat through town makes the adrenaline kick in.

‘Lock the doors!’ I slip the top bolt on the doors on the way in. ‘Patient on the loose!’

‘I thought he was supposed to be sick,’ Frances observes. ‘I’ll call Izzy through to help you catch him.’

I squat down beside the units. ‘Come here, little cat.’

He answers me with a furious hiss and a gusty aroma of rotten fish. I put my hand out just in front of the gap between the bottom shelf and the floor, wondering how on earth he squeezed himself in there. A pink nose and a fine set of whiskers emerge very slowly, followed by the strike of a paw.

‘Ow, ow, ow.’ Unsheathed claws snag on my skin as I pull my hand away.

‘He got you then. I knew he would.’ I breathe through the pain, watching the bobbles of blood well up and coalesce on the back of my hand, as Gloria goes on, ‘Emma always has the gauntlets ready.’

I fetch them, a pair of leather gloves which reach up to my elbows, and a thick towel, and then I do an
Ultimate Force
-style commando crawl along the floor, trying to wheedle and coax Ginge out. Eventually, he darts out to make his escape towards the window, which is firmly closed. I make a tackle Jonny Wilkinson would be proud of, grab him and take him, growling and wriggling inside the towel, into the consulting room.

Izzy joins me and Gloria, shutting the door firmly behind us.

‘My Ginge is a little on the skinny side,’ Gloria says.

That’s an understatement. If Ginge was a supermodel, he’d be a size zero, a bit like Gloria in fact. He’s so thin that I can see the apex of his heart beating against his chest as he sits hunched on the table like a stroppy stegosaur, but there’s something about him, something which tugs on my heartstrings. He’s feisty, bright and independent, and in spite of the fact that Gloria’s supposed to be looking after him, he appears in need of some TLC.

‘I can’t understand it,’ says Gloria. ‘He eats like a horse.’

It doesn’t take long to discover Ginge’s problem: he’s hyperthyroid. His metabolism is in overdrive, making him restless and wild-eyed. I explain the tests I need to run before I can advise on the best option for treatment: tablets to reduce the levels of thyroid hormone in his blood, surgery, or radiation therapy at a specialist centre.

‘That all sounds terribly expensive.’ Gloria fingers the piece of amber around her neck with fingers like Twiglets, knobbly and marked with liver spots. I notice that there’s an insect trapped inside, some prehistoric bug, which seems an odd choice of material for jewellery. ‘What happens if I let nature run its course?’

‘He’ll die.’

‘You’re very blunt, young woman.’ Her teeth slip about on her gums. ‘Emma wouldn’t have put it like that. I think I’ll wait till she’s back and have a chat with her. I’ve known Emma since she was a baby. I trust her to tell me what’s what.’

‘I trained at vet school with her. We learned exactly the same stuff.’ I do have my pride. ‘Emma won’t tell you anything different and I’m guessing if Ginge carries on without treatment, he’ll be long gone by the time she returns.’

‘Well, I really don’t know what to do for the best.’

‘Do you care about what happens to Ginge?’ I’m beginning to lose my patience with Gloria. She’s come here for my advice, yet she won’t take it. ‘If you’re unable or unwilling to commit to looking after Ginge properly, maybe it’s fairer to put him down sooner rather than later, so he doesn’t have to suffer.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly . . .’ Gloria’s icy expression starts to defrost, and a tear trickles across her cheek, streaking through the powder. ‘How much will it cost for the tests you mentioned?’

I soften a little towards her. She isn’t completely heartless, after all. I suspect that her reluctance to make an appointment, defensive attitude and desire to delay Ginge’s treatment is all down to money, or the lack of it.

‘I want to do what’s best for all my animals.’ She reaches out to touch Ginge’s head, but thinks better of it when he opens his mouth to hiss at her too.

‘How many do you have now?’ I ask, at which Gloria seems to shrink back into her protective shell.

‘More than most people,’ she says. ‘Mainly cats and a few dogs.’

‘OK, why don’t I take the blood today anyway?’ I say, deciding not to push her. ‘We can worry about the bill later.’ I think of Nigel’s cash flow and Emma’s profits. I look at Ginge. I look at Gloria’s frayed cardigan, the ladders in her double-layered tights and the holes in her shoes. What else can I do?

It’s a challenge taking blood from a cat so on edge, but Izzy and I manage at the third attempt to get a reasonable volume for the lab. I send Ginge home in a loaned wire basket with an appointment to return before his course of tablets runs out. When Gloria has finally left I check through the computer records, and ask Izzy to dig out the old notes that came from Talyton Manor Vets to see if I can find out how many animals she’s responsible for. I’m not sure about her. If you care for your pets as much as Gloria makes out, why do you wait so long before you bring one as sick as Ginge in to see a vet? His weight loss didn’t happen overnight.

‘The records aren’t terribly informative, I’m afraid,’ Izzy says, handing them over to me in Kennels. Gloria’s animals are listed under the general headings of ‘dog’ and ‘cat’ so you can’t count them up, and, unsurprisingly, the notes are covered with red ‘Not Paid’ stamps. ‘There was a time when she was caring for forty or fifty animals over at Buttercross Cottage.’ Izzy looks at me. ‘Not all in the cottage at once. Talyton Animal Rescue raised funds to build a cattery and kennel block in the garden. They called it the Sanctuary and ran it with Gloria and Fifi Green’s band of volunteers.’

‘Gloria was arguing with Fifi at the show,’ I tell Izzy, pleased that she seems to have warmed to me a little more over our shared desire to do what’s best for Ginge. ‘Talyton Animal Rescue have withdrawn their support – I assume that much of that was financial, as well as practical.’

‘Those two have never really got on,’ Izzy says. ‘Fifi had a fling with Gloria’s husband – it was some years ago, and she was much younger than him. It was the talk of Talyton for a while.’

‘I didn’t realise Gloria had been married.’

‘She’s a widow. He died from a stroke, I think. He was some big-shot lawyer in the city. Gloria might look as if she hasn’t got two pennies to rub together, but she’s loaded.’

It’s certainly possible. Once, I offered to take an elderly woman with her Peke from a charity clinic to the main hospital, before discovering that her chauffeur had parked the Bentley around the back. However, I still feel uneasy. Even if Gloria is coping with looking after herself and her pets, can she really get tablets down a semi-wild cat if required? I make a mental note to keep a close eye on Ginge’s progress.

‘If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to give Freddie a bath,’ Izzy says. ‘I’m taking him up to the farm tonight. I haven’t told you yet, have I? Chris has agreed to give him a home. And a job,’ she adds, chuckling. ‘He’s going to be a sheepdog.’ Her expression grows sad.

‘That’s brilliant news, but you’re going to miss him, aren’t you?’ I say.

‘Yes, but Chris has said I can visit him any time I like,’ Izzy says as she takes Freddie out from his kennel and hugs him to her chest. He licks her nose and wags his tail.

‘I think he likes you.’

Izzy grimaces, holds Freddie away from her and gazes down at the dark trails forming on her scrubs. ‘He has a funny way of showing it – he’s just weed on me.’

‘You know very well that I’m talking about Chris.’ Izzy’s complexion pinks up. ‘I saw the way he looked at you on Saturday.’

‘No. No way.’ She hugs Freddie close again.

‘You do like him, don’t you? I mean, I can see the attractions – those sheep-shearer’s muscles, and a hefty acreage, I should imagine.’

Izzy giggles, then her expression grows serious. ‘Do you really think he likes me? I mean, I’ve always thought . . . well, I don’t get to see him very often. He’s busy on the farm, and I’m always here, at Otter House.’

I look at Freddie, his head pressed to Izzy’s chest and one ear being caressed by her thumb. I can hear him almost purring, like a cat. I hope – for Izzy’s sake – that there’s truth in the idea that animals can bring people together.

I head back to Reception and call my next client through to the consulting room, noting that there are three more waiting and I’m running about twenty minutes behind, thanks to Gloria and Ginge.

Harriet. Small furry. Brownish. Reason for consultation: Lump.

Harriet’s owner introduces herself as Ally Jackson, roving reporter for the
Talyton Chronicle
– yes, the one who created the ‘Muck Sticks’ headline. Her suit is cut too small, the jacket creasing up into her armpits, the trousers ending an inch above her ankles, and it seems to have absorbed several aeons of body odour, which it’s re-emitting into the tight confines of the consulting room. Ally hands me a shoebox, skewered with holes and stuck down with Sellotape.

‘We should have called her Houdini – my husband had to take the kitchen units apart to find her the other day.’ Ally’s eyes start to fill with tears. ‘I don’t know what I shall tell the children if it’s cancer.’