Trust Me, I'm a Vet (29 page)

How many are there? Five? Ten? I lose count.

‘Take a pew if you can find one.’ Gloria clicks her tongue and mews, shooing the silver tabby off the sofa, and moving the papers and rubbish along to make me a space. When I don’t move, she says, ‘Sit!’ sharply, as if she’s talking to a dog.

I sit down carefully and wait for Gloria to fetch the coffee, a little unnerved by the number of pairs of reflective eyes staring at me. The possessor of a particularly striking green pair, a black cat, moves closer and jumps lightly onto my lap. I tickle its chin and run my hand along its back. It’s quite skinny and scabby, but I couldn’t honestly say that it was a welfare case. I lean down and scratch my ankle. How do you define suffering anyway?

‘I forgot to ask how you take your coffee,’ Gloria says, returning with a tray of cups and saucers and silver spoons.

‘Black’s fine. Black, no sugar.’ It doesn’t really matter. I have no desire to drink it. I dread to imagine what state the kitchen is in.

Gloria puts the tray on the pile of old newspapers closest to me, hands me a cup and takes the other for herself. She tips another two cats off the armchair nearest the fireplace and sits down.

I scratch my ankle again.

While Gloria concentrates on eating the biscuits, I take a surreptitious look at the carpet – it’s literally jumping with fleas, and I’m being eaten alive, yet Gloria is oblivious.

I don’t know where she puts the biscuits, but within minutes they’ve disappeared. She creases the packet, making careful folds as if she’s doing origami, then, appearing to lose patience, crumples it up into a ball, which she drops onto the floor at her feet. The black cat with the bright eyes pounces on it, picks it up and carries it away, tail held high.

I feel as though I should start a conversation but I don’t know what to say. I can hardly say, ‘Nice place you have here’, can I?

‘That’s Tom.’ Gloria nods towards a photograph on top of the mantelpiece, which is cluttered with ornaments. ‘That was taken on our wedding day. And these’ – she pulls herself out of the chair and points to some urns – ‘these are the dogs we had together.’ She picks one up, rubs it on her sleeve and peers at the plaque at the front. ‘I can’t read it.’ She holds it in front of me. ‘What does that say?’

‘Julius.’

‘Dear Julius. He was Tom’s favourite, a handsome springer spaniel who had a penchant for chewing Tom’s slippers.’ She puts Julius back and picks up another urn, but I’m more concerned with the living than the dead. The more I see here, the more I want to see Ginge.

Without a by-your-leave, I collect up the cups and take them through to the kitchen. It looks like a scene from
How Clean Is Your House?
before Kim and Aggie get their rubber gloves on. There are cats on the hob, the worktops and the windowsill. One licks at the fat congealed in a frying pan and another investigates the fridge, the door of which is propped open by a dish that seethes with flies.

‘How many cats do you have altogether, Gloria?’

She’s right behind me and not looking too happy at my intrusion.

‘Twenty-seven, not including the kittens,’ she says eventually. ‘That’s just the house cats. There’s a small cattery out the back. I have another eleven out there. And then there are the ferals – I’ve lost count of them.’

‘I’d like to see the cattery.’

‘There’s no need for you to waste your time.’ Gloria’s neck stiffens. ‘Why exactly are you here?’

‘I told you – I’ve brought Ginge’s tablets. I thought I’d save you a trip,’ I say lamely. I edge around the kitchen, wondering how I can get out through the back door to see what horrors lie behind it. It’s very noble of Gloria to have rescued all these animals, but it’s beginning to look as if they now need to be rescued from Gloria.

She blocks my way.

‘Go back to your surgery, young woman!’ Her voice rises to a plaintive wail like a cat in distress. ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘Not a good idea, Gloria. The first thing they’ll do when they see the state of this place is call the RSPCA.’ It occurs to me that is exactly what I should do, but something in Gloria’s eyes holds me back. It’s heartbreaking, like the gaze of an animal caught in a snare. I notice that she’s powdered not only her face and her hair, but her earrings too. ‘I want to help you.’

I push past her and open the back door, ignoring her appeals to leave her alone. Two terriers, a white Westie and a black Scottie, come flying at me from the other side of a small concrete yard, jumping up and barking. They’re over the moon to see me, as if they know I hold the key to their escape.

‘You’re all mouth and no trousers, aren’t you?’ I squat down beside them. ‘Who are they?’

‘Mac and Tosh.’ Gloria’s voice is thick with resentment. ‘Boys, go to bed.’ Wagging the stumps of their tails, they retreat to a cardboard box filled with skanky newspaper. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Gloria goes on. ‘I haven’t had time to clean up after them yet today.’

Not just today, I suspect, observing the dirty water bowl and heaps of dog-dirt, skidded through here and there with paw prints. It’s disgusting. Squalid.

‘They’ve been here with me for about eighteen months. They came from a broken home. Terribly sad.’

‘You couldn’t find new homes for them?’ I say, my throat tightening with a different kind of sadness. The yard is like a prison. Their only contact with the outside world is Gloria, an old woman who can’t possibly give them all the attention and walks they need. I’ve no doubt she loves them, but . . .

‘Fifi – ugh, I can’t stand that woman – she wanted to split them up, but I couldn’t bear it. It would have broken their little hearts to be separated. You may mock, but they’ve been together since they were eight weeks old.’

‘I’m not mocking.’ I stand up again. ‘Now, where’s the cattery?’

‘That’s it.’ Gloria waves her hand dismissively towards the wall of concrete blocks straight ahead of us. ‘There, you’ve got what you wanted. You’ve seen it.’

‘Gloria, I’m not stupid.’

‘I would show you around, but I seem to have mislaid the key’ – she pats the pockets on her housecoat – ‘and you must be needed back at the surgery by now.’

‘You’d better un-mislay it,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to fetch the visit case from the car. If nothing else, the little black cat needs treatment for its skin, Mac’s claws could do with a trim and we need to think of the best way to wipe out all those fleas.’

‘Fleas? I don’t have fleas.’

‘You don’t, but your carpets are alive with them. I’ve seen kittens die from anaemia with that level of infestation.’

Alternately I bully and cajole her, and ten minutes later, after I’ve fetched the visit case, the key miraculously appears from the depths of her pocket. Gloria fiddles with the padlock on the bolt of the door into a long, low building behind the yard. The sound of howling crescendos. I try to look through the tiny window to the side, but the view’s blocked by a bag of animal feed.

‘I have to keep the dogs and cats in the same building at the moment because the roof of the old kennels leaks.’ Finally, the padlock comes away and Gloria pushes the door open. ‘Good morning, my darlings,’ she coos, and the dogs go quiet.

It’s afternoon, I want to say and it’s a bit late for breakfast.

‘How often do you feed them?’

‘Every day. I go without so that my animals are fed.’ Gloria fumbles at the wall and a light comes on. ‘Come on inside, if you must.’

‘I must.’ If the smell inside the house was bad, this is ten times worse. I run straight back outside and throw up in the grass by the door. Trying to hide my embarrassment and find a way to breathe through the stench, I tuck my nose into my top and head back in. Gloria seems oblivious to my struggle and the smell.

She shows me into the first small room off the main corridor.

‘This is where I wash up and prepare the dinners.’ She waves vaguely at the sink which is stacked up with bowls, a sack of rubbish which spews its foul contents across the floor, and a workbench crowded with tanks and cages, some on top of each other like slum tenements. Something inside one of the cages starts to rattle: a gerbil on a wheel. When I look closer, I discover that Gloria’s retreat for small furries is running at 100 per cent occupancy.

‘You see,’ says Gloria. ‘They all have food and water.’

It’s true, although the water in the various bottles and dishes doesn’t look too clean and there seem to be more husks than seeds in the various receptacles that she’s using as food containers.

‘I clean every one out at least once a week, unless I’m not feeling up to it,’ Gloria goes on. ‘I haven’t been so good recently.’

‘Don’t you have help?’

‘I don’t need help. Fifi said I’d never manage without her and Talyton Animal Rescue, but I manage perfectly well – better, in fact, without her constant interference. And I can manage without your help too. I haven’t asked for it.’

‘Let’s take a look at the rest now,’ I say, ignoring her protests. Somewhat subdued, Gloria leads me back into the corridor, which is lined with walk-in cages on either side. The building is well constructed, each cage having access to an outside run, but it’s showing signs of neglect.

The occupant of the first cage stands on its hind legs and starts mewing and batting at the wire in the door. There’s a bowl of water and a litter tray overflowing with wet clay. There’s an empty washing-up bowl on the stage above its head, which I assume is where it sleeps.

The occupant of the next cage is less fortunate. It’s a scrawny tortoiseshell cat lying flat out on her side, hardly breathing, her eyes staring into the corner where a shaft of sunlight enters the building through a gap between the walls and the roof. As I unbolt the door and enter, it utters the low howl of distress of an animal that’s too far gone.

What a miserable way to end your life, I think as I turn to Gloria, my voice grating in my throat. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘That’s my Molly.’ Her voice quavers. ‘She’s been sick for a while, but she seemed so peaceful that I didn’t want to disturb her. I knew what you’d say if I brought her to the surgery . . .’

‘I think it’s time to let Molly go, don’t you?’ I open the visit case. ‘Have you got a blanket or towel handy, Gloria?’

She fetches a rather grubby towel and I pick Molly up and wrap her in it, leaving her head and front legs exposed. I hand her over to Gloria, who holds her while I give her the final injection and a merciful release.

‘I wish they’d close their little eyes.’ Gloria tries to hold the cat’s eyelids closed, but they won’t stay.

‘I’ll take her back to the surgery with me.’

‘Not straight away.’ Gloria nuzzles the dead cat, staring up at me as if I’m the madwoman around here. ‘I like to spend some time saying goodbye first. When I had help, I used to bury them in the garden.’ She covers the body with the towel and leaves it beside the cage, by which time I’ve ascertained that there are another fourteen cats imprisoned in the cattery, and beyond that, seven dogs. At least the rest are on all four paws, so to speak.

Five of the dogs come trotting up to the barriers to sniff me, wagging their tails. Two hang back, a beautiful white German shepherd and a big bully-boy of a boxer, who starts to move towards me then stops, slumps onto his bottom and scratches furiously at his ear, crying out at the same time.

‘Who’s that, Gloria?’

‘The boxer? Ugli-dog, I call him. I’ve had him here so long he’s almost part of the furniture. He’s on a herbal tincture for his skin condition – Mrs Wall prescribes it.’

I stare through the chicken wire. Ugli-dog is a mess. His skin is scarred and angry, and he’s so thin you can make out the detail of his skeleton.

‘Old Mr Fox-Gifford said, “Gloria, that dog’s a hopeless case”,’ she says, steadying herself against the cage. I realise Gloria looks as forlorn and underfed as Ugli-dog.

‘The injections he gave him made him ill, so we stopped them altogether,’ Gloria goes on.

‘Doesn’t Fox-Gifford ever ask how he is?’ I put my fingers up to the wire. Ugli-dog sniffs at them, then gives them a friendly lick.

‘I wouldn’t expect anyone to remember to ask after all my animals,’ Gloria says. ‘Would you?’

‘I would if he’d been in this state when I last saw him.’ As a vet, I’d feel some responsibility for his welfare.

‘I don’t recall him ever being quite as bad as this . . . Still, you can’t put an animal down because they have bad skin, can you?’

‘Gloria, we must have a proper talk – this situation can’t go on. I’m going to take Ugli-dog back to the surgery so I can have a good look at him and treat him accordingly. He needs a bath and some food, if nothing else.’

‘You can’t do that.’ She blinks back tears, and whereas, when I first met her I found her a small but forbidding figure, she strikes me now as rather pathetic as she whines, ‘You can’t take him away from me.’

‘I have no choice.’ I harden my heart. I can imagine what it’s like to have your pets taken away – to many people they’re family. To some it would be like giving up their children, and I suspect that is how it seems to Gloria, who appears to have few friends.

‘Maz, I thought you of all people would understand. I thought you were an animal lover.’