Vet Among the Pigeons (16 page)

I
t seemed that fate was against me in my resistance to investing in a tax-efficient jeep. My well used, or more likely, abused, car was delivered to the garage not long after my meeting with the accountant for a much overdue service. I always hated anyone other than myself having anything to do with the car as it meant emptying everything out of it. This process started with the front seat, removing Slug’s blanket and making a futile attempt to hoover out the coarse grey hair that seemed to have stitched itself into the material. Then on to the back, removing Molly and Fiona’s car-seats, along with a
selection
of toys, soothers, bottles, nappy bags, changes of clothes, squashed crisps and other often unidentifiable objects. Once the main part of the car was emptied, it was on to the boot, which had to be relieved of a wide variety of drugs, equipment, needles, syringes, wellies, overalls 
and all the paraphernalia of veterinary life.

The ominous phone call came a few hours later.

‘Do you really drive that thing?’ an amazed voice came over the phone. ‘It’s a bloody death trap!’ Apparently, the intermittent wobbles and squeaks and shudders that accompanied our daily voyaging indicated that the
suspension
in the car was pretty much non-existent. But our last journey had passed – the local mechanic, who was a friend of the family, insisted that I hold on to the car he had lent me until I got something else.

Squashing everything into the borrowed car was a bit of a challenge, especially while trying to keep the mashed crisps and Slug’s hair out of the unfortunate vehicle which, judging by its pristine condition, was used to a more
glorious
vocation.

On the third day, Donal rang me with the details of a few cars he thought might be worth a look, including an ex-demo model jeep. Little did I know how much I would come to hate that jeep!

I took an afternoon off work to go around the garages. Piling everything in and out of the car further emphasised how time was not on my side. I quickly passed over the first two cars – one was so outrageously expensive that it would have written off my annual wages along with my tax bill, while the other had a boot that the calving jack could only fit in at an angle. Arriving into the showrooms of the third garage, I was greeted by a small, besuited man, who promptly proffered the proverbial wet fish handshake and told me that my husband was happy with the jeep so I needn’t be too worried about it. Having inspected the size
of the boot to ensue it was big enough to fit all I required, I asked if we could take it for a test drive. The salesman looked decidedly uncomfortable as I began to load Molly and Fiona, complete with car-seats, into the back. It was only as I called Slug out of the front seat of the car that he really started to perspire.

‘The dog can stay in your car until we get back,’ he
hurriedly
told me as I called her around to the passenger seat. Slug snuffled around the gleaming tyres with nonchalant interest.

‘If you don’t mind,’ I told him, ‘I’d rather bring her with us. She’ll be spending as much time in the car as I will.’

‘But this is a relatively new vehicle, with fully
upholstered
seats, alloy wheels, the lot. You surely aren’t going to let your dog into it?’

‘Look,’ I said, turning to him, ‘it’s very simple. My dog is part of my job. If she can’t climb into the jeep without me lifting her in, I won’t buy it. She might not look big, but she weighs over twenty kilos and I can’t spend the day lifting her in and out after each call. If she can’t come with us then there’s no point in me looking at it. I won’t waste your time any further.’

He continued to stare incredulously at me until I turned and began to undo Molly’s straps.

‘Okay then,’ he burst out. ‘But if she dirties it or
something
, I’ll have to charge you a soiling fee.’

‘Does that apply to the dog and the children or just the dog?’ I asked sweetly before turning to open the door for her. ‘Come on, Slug,’ I encouraged.

Despite the cushiness of her current job, Slug’s dubious
past was inclined to catch up on her when it came to any form of athletics. Her early days of neglect and
malnutrition
meant that it was only with difficulty that she could jump any height at all, unless there was a feathered, warm-blooded object in view. Cautiously, she surveyed the step into the back seat.

‘Sluggy! Sluggy!’ called Molly from the heights of her car seat, enthusiastically banging her opened palms on her knees. Twice Slug made to jump, but chickened out. The salesman continued to stare in disbelief as Molly and I encouraged Slug to climb up the step. Even Fiona broke into shrieks of excited laughter when Slug finally hunched down on her bum and made the leap, quivering with as much concentration as it might take to face the highest jump in the RDS.

With Slug safely inside, I strapped myself in the driver’s seat while the pale-faced salesman got in the other door.

‘I’ll just show you how to use the gear box, then,’ he began breathlessly, clearly not enjoying the trip.

‘No need, thanks,’ I told him. Having spent a few
winters
in the heights of Glencree, I had become fairly adept at fitting snow chains and altering gear boxes when the need arose.

To me, not being a car freak, the jeep was just like any other to drive, apart from being nice and clean at the moment – but that, I knew, wouldn’t be for long.

After a few minutes, I got bored with the stony presence beside me and swung up by the Greenhills road to return to the garage. It was only as we pressed our way through the steady traffic that I noticed a familiar odour emanating
from behind us. Obviously Slug was passing off the
gaseous
remains of the chicken curry we had shared for supper the previous evening on the way home. I glanced subtly sideways to see if my passenger had noticed and by the contortions in his face was left in no doubt that he had.

‘I think one of the girls needs a nappy change,’ I said casually, smiling encouragingly at him, mentally
apologising
to both Molly and Fiona for the subterfuge.

By the time we got back to the garage, the smell was more or less gone. Nonetheless, the salesman was out the door like a shot, without a word.

Despite his lack of sales skills, I decided that I would have to buy the jeep, and I rang the garage the next
morning
to ask them when it would be ready.

‘Well, we will have to valet the jeep before it can go so I suppose you can pick it up tomorrow,’ the girl on the desk informed me.

‘I suppose I might as well let them hoover Slug’s hairs out for the last time,’ I told Donal later that evening, with a laugh.

Unfortunately, for me, it was the last laugh I was to have with that jeep.

I should have suspected on the night we collected it that the jeep was not going to be lucky for me. On that very first evening as we drove over the mountains through a heavily wooded area, a figure dived off the bank out of nowhere, catching the front light and bumper. Thankfully, with the weight of the jeep, the impact was not what it might have been, but it took a few seconds before I
figured
out what had happened. In the light from the
headlamps, one of which was now smashed, I could see a six-pointer stag looking slightly dazed in front of us. As it was not even the rutting season, when hormonal males are prone to doing unusual things, I could see no logical reason as to why the stag had chosen to jump down the bank just at that very moment or whether he had
intentionally
planned to head-butt the jeep. In the few seconds that it took us to gather ourselves, the stag regained his
composure
and with a shake of his head, pranced off over the opposite ditch.

Naturally, the acquisition of the jeep led to much
slagging
from the farmers.

‘Thought the bills had gone up a bit, all right!’ said one.

‘No wonder you want us to vaccinate the cows – sure, you need something to pay for that yoke,’ said another.

Definitely, it was handy being able to drive across the field to the cow that was down, having calved in the far ditch, and when it came to being able to use the
headlights
as the sole source of illumination for a caesarean on a heifer on the side of a mountain one evening, I was grateful.

On the other hand, however, it seemed that I had been landed with a jeep that was downright unreliable. It started with the electrics. When I turned on the windscreen wipers, the headlights went off – not ideal when heading at speed up a twisty mountain road. When I opened the electric window, the alarm went on – and wouldn’t go off again for the next hour and a half while I completed two calls and made my way, ears ringing, to the nearest garage.

Then I started having problems with the fuel tank.
Alarmed by the increase in my diesel bills, I started to record the fuel output. It seemed that every other day I was filling up the tank, which despite my heavy mileage seemed excessive. It wasn’t until I noticed the telltale smell and the dark spot on recently vacated ground that I
realised
there was a problem. The garage from which I had bought the jeep was at best unsympathetic, at worst
downright
negligent. Being on call meant that it wasn’t easy to get the jeep back to their garage, some seventy miles from the practice and they refused to let it be repaired anywhere else as it was still under warranty.

It was at least a week, and many tanks of diesel later that I finally headed back out there. Going around a
roundabout
, the jeep took a slide, which resulted in me doing a one hundred and eighty degree turn, ending up on the roundabout facing back the way I had come. Slug glared at me from where she had landed on the floor below the
passenger
seat.

The problem was finally revealed to be a leaking fuel pump that was allowing diesel to drip down over the back wheel, explaining my acrobatics on the road. The warranty covered the repairs, but not the fuel that I had lost or the two days it took to be repaired.

For the next three weekends that I was on call, the jeep broke down, leaving me stranded. By the end of spring, I was on familiar terms with every AA mechanic in Wicklow. Two more fuel tanks were replaced and a few more repairs, the explanations for which were lost on me. On one occasion (it happened to be Christmas) when I tried to make contact with the garage where I had the warranty,
the recorded message stated that the garage would remain closed until the eighth of January, some twelve days away – so the local garage made a temporary repair. But then, when I brought the jeep back to the original garage, they claimed that the warranty was no longer valid as another garage had caused the faults. After that I gave up ringing them and rang the solicitors instead. A lengthy discussion followed involving many whithertos and wheretofores, leaving me with the impression that the solicitors were going to make a lot of money out of this and I was still going to be the loser. Before I had decided where to go with it all, the final straw came.

Des Leadon was not a farmer whose company I
relished
. On the first day I had set foot in his yard, he had looked me up and down and pulled the old pipe out long enough to utter, ‘Ye’r from Dublin, are ye?’ with a look of utter contempt. I knew, from that moment, that trying to create any sort of an impression was futile. In a way, it was just as well that I had abandoned my high hopes of impressing all my clients equally because over the months that followed, I became to Des what my jeep was to me. From that day on, everything I touched in Des’s yard turned to disaster.

While I was handling some cows to see if they were pregnant or not, his best heifer took fright and reared up and out over the crush gate. She might have made it had she not caught her hind leg on the top rail, which snapped with the impact and stabbed into her abdomen. Luckily for her, she landed head first on the rocky surface and died with a few open-mouthed gasps, thankfully oblivious to
the splintered plank impaled in her side. Although the fault was with Des’s crush, he, of course, blamed me and was none too concerned that the heifer had managed to kick me on the way over, leaving a cloven-shaped hoof mark on my chest which passed through a variety of
interesting
shades before it eventually disappeared a good while later.

On the next visit, I had to carry out a caesarian section on an old cow. Despite my relief that the surgery had gone in textbook fashion, Des rang a week later, mumbling down the phone to Seamus that the cow had not only gone down that night and not got up since, but in going down, had sat on and killed the calf.

‘Sure, maybe,’ muttered Des to Seamus at the end of a litany of woes, ‘if ye send that young wan out to put the cow out of her misery, the auld bitch might get up and walk – everythin’ else that wan does goes arse-ways up.’

On my last visit, the task had seemed idiot-proof. A heifer calf had been delivered out of a good cow the
previous
week, but it was unclear from Des’s dates whether he was the progeny of an expensive AI bull, which would have left the heifer potentially worth a lot of money, or if she was by the sweeper bull and therefore would be let off for whatever she would fetch at the local mart. To
determine
her parentage, my task was to pluck some hairs from her tail, seal the sample in a container and send it off to a lab, which, by means of DNA testing, would reveal the heifer’s true value. Seamus admitted that when Des had rung to book the test he wasn’t overjoyed to have me come out, but as the other vets were tied up with calls and
he wanted to get the sample to the labs urgently, he
reluctantly
agreed.

On the way out to the calf pens, I noticed a large, rangy bullock isolated in a pen and thought that he was blowing a bit. Hoping, in some way, to redeem myself, I casually mentioned to Des that the bullock didn’t look too good and asked if he would like me to take a look at him.