Tales from a Wild Vet

by Jo Hardy

  Copyright

  This book is based on real-life experiences. However, many details of the scenarios, and names of the animals and owners, have been changed to protect client confidentiality.

  HarperElement

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published by HarperElement 2016

  FIRST EDITION

  © Jo Hardy and Caro Handley 2016

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

  Cover illustrations © Sarah Tanat-Jones

  A catalogue record of this book is

  available from the British Library

  Jo Hardy and Caro Handley asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the authors of this work

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  Source ISBN: 9780008142506

  Ebook Edition © April 2016 ISBN: 9780008142513

  Version: 2016-02-29

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Mickey and the Miracle

  Chapter Two: Hedgehogs, Doves and a Very Cross Pheasant

  Chapter Three: Tosca

  Chapter Four: South Africa

  Chapter Five: First-time Surgery

  Chapter Six: Monday Morning

  Chapter Seven: People and their Pets

  Chapter Eight: Hoping to Help

  Chapter Nine: On the Side of the Animals

  Chapter Ten: The Handprint

  Chapter Eleven: The Thank-you Chicken

  Chapter Twelve: Margaret the Pig

  Chapter Thirteen: A Better Future

  Chapter Fourteen: Just Like Us

  Chapter Fifteen: The Trouble with Cats

  Chapter Sixteen: A Cheeky Chicken, a Daft Duck and Piles of Puppies

  Chapter Seventeen: Morocco

  Chapter Eighteen: Wedding Plans and Lucy’s Surprise

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mickey and the Miracle

  ‘There’s something wrong with Mickey. Can you help?’

  The elderly couple standing in front of me were visibly upset. She had tears in her eyes, and his lower jaw was trembling.

  ‘He’s off his food. He’s normally so full of life, but for the last couple of days he’s been so quiet. And this morning he was sick and there was … blood,’ they told me.

  I looked at the small brown-and-white mutt sitting on the examining table, looking up at me solemnly with big, trusting brown eyes.

  ‘Hello, Mickey,’ I said. ‘What’s up with you then?’

  He was a mixed-breed terrier; there was probably a bit of Westie and a bit of Yorkie mixed in with some Cairn in his background. His eyes peered out through a fringe of white hair and his small silky ears flopped over at a perky angle.

  I looked at his worried owners. ‘Let me take a look at him while you tell me a bit more about what’s been going on. How old is Mickey?’

  His owners, Mr and Mrs Thomas, told me that he was seven, which is still fairly young for a small dog. He was a rescue dog, they explained. They’d found him at a dog pound when he was just a puppy and they’d been devoted to him ever since.

  As I went through a basic examination, which Mickey tolerated patiently, I rattled through a mental index of possible causes for a dog vomiting blood. The trouble was, it could mean so many things. Had he swallowed a foreign body? Did he have a tumour? Did he have gastritis? Did he have stomach ulcers? Did he have worms? Or might it be an infection?

  This was my very first case as a fully qualified vet, and it had to be a complicated one. I had been hoping for something simple; a dose of worms, perhaps, or a vaccination and a bit of flea advice. Instead, here was Mickey, with his mystery condition.

  It was early August 2014 and I had been a vet for all of three weeks. After graduating from the Royal Veterinary College (RVC) I’d signed on with an agency as a locum and here I was, on my first day at Braxton’s, a small practice in East London, filling in for two weeks while the regular vets were on holiday.

  After five long years of study and training, I could still hardly believe that I’d actually made it. We’d been pushed to the limit – and never more so than in our final year, when we’d worked on rotation in every kind of practice, from small animal to stable, to farm and even the zoo. It was non-stop; sometimes terrifying and constantly demanding. But no matter how tough the challenges, there had always been a qualified vet supervising everything I did. Now I suddenly felt as if I’d had the safety net whisked out from under me. For the first time, I was on my own.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I think we need to give Mickey an X-ray to see what’s going on in his stomach. There are a number of things that could be wrong and hopefully that will give us a much better idea of what it is and whether he might need surgery.’

  Mickey’s owners looked at me, white-faced. ‘Will it cost much?’ said Mrs Thomas. ‘Because we don’t have pet insurance and we haven’t got a lot of money.’

  My heart sank. The sum they mentioned wouldn’t cover the X-ray, let alone surgery, which could potentially run into hundreds of pounds. At college they’d taught us to diagnose and treat, but they’d given us very little advice about what to do in financially restricted situations.

  In an ideal world, you would want to get a specific diagnosis and treat it directly, but I was becoming increasingly aware that the situation with Mickey was far from ideal. At this stage, Mickey didn’t seem like he was critically ill, and it also didn’t seem like he had an obstruction, since he was passing stools, so I felt confident that we could trial some treatments and come back to talk about further diagnostics if he didn’t improve, maybe with some financial help from a charity. So for now all I could do was give Mickey the medication that his owners could afford and hope it would be enough. I stroked him gently while I attempted a confident smile. ‘Don’t worry, there are a few things we can do that will hopefully help Mickey.’

  I gave him a shot of steroids to bring down the inflammation in his stomach, plus a wormer and a rehydration electrolyte solution to drink and told them not to feed him for 24 hours to allow his stomach to settle, and then to give him a bland diet of boiled rice and chicken.

  ‘Keep a close eye on him,’ I said. ‘And if he isn’t improving in two days, bring him back in.’

  ‘Thank you so much. We will. Come on, Mickey,’ they murmured, tucking him into Mrs Thomas’s jacket. They left looking a little happier and I crossed my fingers and hoped they wouldn’t need to return.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ Karina, the practice nurse, asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said gratefully. ‘And any chance of a biscuit?’

  That morning, at the small hotel where I was staying, I’d been too nervous to eat breakfast. I normally love breakfast, but the prospect of starting my first real job had my stomach doing flips.

  I had arrived at the practice bright and early and Karina had greeted me warmly.

  ‘Are any of the regular vets here?’ I had
asked.

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘All three of them have gone away at the same time. It’s just you and another locum.’

  I had tried not to look as alarmed as I felt. I had been hoping for a bit of hand-holding as I eased my way in, but there was clearly no chance of that. The other locum, Wanda, came in a couple of minutes later. She was from New Zealand and after we’d said hello she told me she had qualified 18 months earlier. At least she had a bit more experience than I did, but there was no getting round the fact that the place had been left to two vets who were unfamiliar with the practice.

  Luckily we had Karina to help us. She was bubbly and smiley and knew her way around, which was a relief, because when we peered around the waiting-room door on that Monday morning we saw that it was already packed with animals and their owners. Karina offered to come into the consulting room with me to help me find my feet and I accepted gratefully. Just having her there, chattering away, made me feel much happier.

  ‘You only get 10 minutes per consultation here,’ she had announced cheerfully. I looked at her, feeling daunted. As vet students at the Royal Veterinary College’s state-of-the-art Queen Mother Hospital (known as the QMH) we’d had a whole 40 minutes in which to take the animal’s history in minute detail and perform the initial examination, before referring our suggested course of treatment to a senior clinician. Most practices allow 15 minutes, but some busy ones across the country have shorter consults, so 10 was going to be high pressure.

  At least I had only agreed to do consultations. I didn’t feel ready to perform surgery on my own yet, without a more senior vet around. Wanda had agreed to do any surgery that cropped up, and thankfully she seemed fine about it.

  After Mickey had disappeared with his owners, he remained on my mind. He was such a sweet little dog, I just hoped that whatever was wrong with him wouldn’t turn out to be serious and that the treatments I’d given him would sort out the problem.

  The rest of the morning flew by and over a sandwich lunch Wanda and I compared notes. I told her about Mickey and she said she’d been bitten by an angry cat and had to put a very sick hamster to sleep.

  Wanda was one of those people with a totally upbeat nature. She spoke with an accent so heavy that I had to concentrate to follow what she was saying. So I wondered if I’d heard her right when she announced that she was off to get a tattoo that night.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘A tattoo? I’d never be able to decide what to have. Plus they really hurt, right?’

  ‘Ah, won’t bother me,’ Wanda said. ‘I’ll just put a stick between my teeth and bite hard.’ She laughed as she got to her feet. ‘Better go, I’ve got a cat to spay and a pregnant guinea pig to look at.’

  After a long afternoon, most of which seemed to be filled with overweight dogs, I began to feel as though the day would never end. When the final patient had left, I said goodnight to Karina and Wanda and gratefully went back to my hotel. Too tired to eat a proper meal, I bought some Pot Noodles on the way and ate them in my room where, thankfully, there was a kettle.

  Locum work is tough for a vet straight out of college, but I’d chosen to do it rather than take a full-time job in a practice because I was planning to spend much of the next year travelling. I wanted to see some of the wilder parts of the world and to work in areas where people had no access to a vet.

  My first stop would be South Africa in a few months’ time, where I was going to work with the SPCA – the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

  After a couple of months volunteering with the SPCA I was planning to fly to Uganda to work for a month with a charity called World in Need, helping villagers in a remote northern area of the country, where there was no vet, to look after their goats, pigs and cows. I would be living miles from the city in a small mud house with no running water or electricity and visiting far-flung homes on foot or by bicycle. I enjoyed my home comforts, so it was definitely going to be a challenge!

  I would be back in England for a few more weeks of work after that, before heading off on another adventure, this time to Morocco to work with a charity caring for injured horses and donkeys.

  With all that to come I felt both excited and nervous. But, meanwhile, I needed to get a bit of experience under my belt, and earn some money.

  On my third morning at Braxton’s the sun was out, the birds were chirping as I walked to work and I felt sure the day was going to be a good one.

  In reception I found Wanda and Karina waiting for the kettle to boil and laughing.

  ‘Morning!’ I said. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘This,’ Wanda said, pulling up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo that covered her entire arm.

  I gasped. ‘Wow! When you said you were getting a tattoo I didn’t think you meant …’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Wanda. ‘You thought I was going to go for some neat little bluebird tucked away by my shoulder? Nope, this is what’s known as a full-sleeve. And when it’s settled down,’ she regarded her swollen arm, with its crust of dried blood, ‘it’s going to look just beaut.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ I replied. ‘What’s the picture, exactly? It’s hard to tell.’

  ‘That,’ Wanda said proudly, ‘is known as The Tribal. It’s based on tribal Maori designs. Did I tell you I’ve got a bit of Maori heritage? This is my way of celebrating it.’

  I had to laugh. Wanda was completely nuts but it was impossible not to like her.

  The morning passed peacefully with a few routine cases and I felt I was just getting into my stride when Mr and Mrs Thomas appeared with a very subdued-looking Mickey. He hadn’t perked up at all. In fact, the poor little thing looked much worse.

  He lay flat out on the examining table, showing no interest in anything at all. Mrs Thomas, her eyes red-rimmed, told me he hadn’t wanted to eat anything at all. He had stopped vomiting, but that was probably because he hadn’t eaten, as clearly he wasn’t on the mend.

  I felt so sorry for him, and for the Thomases. He was their world and they were terrified of losing him. I promised I would give him anything I had that might possibly help.

  I started with anti-emetics to help with his nausea and vomiting, gastro-protectants to help with any inflammation in his gastro-intestinal tract, and antibiotics in case he had a bacterial infection. As I watched his very downcast owners take him home again, I could only hope that one or all of these drugs would do the trick.

  But the following day Mickey and his owners were back.

  ‘Nothing seems to be working,’ Mrs Thomas told me as she brought Mickey out from inside her jacket.

  The little chap was weak and could barely lift his head. Something was clearly very wrong and I was running out of options.

  I looked at Mr and Mrs Thomas, both of whom were on the verge of tears. ‘I think I’d better keep him here overnight,’ I said. ‘He’s dehydrated because he’s not eating or drinking much. I can put him on a drip and give him intravenous fluids and that should help.’

  They agreed and, shoulders bowed, they left their precious little dog with me. I carried Mickey gently through to the little hospital room in the back and set him up on a drip. I tried to feed him some high-calorie paste from my finger. He ignored it, so I heated it up a little to make it warm and slightly smellier. He showed some mild interest and while he licked at it half-heartedly, I stroked him. ‘Come on, Mickey, you can do it. Please don’t give up,’ I whispered.

  I checked on him every hour or so and that night he seemed settled. Wanda, who was staying in the flat over the surgery, promised to come down and check on him again before she went to bed.

  That night I talked to my boyfriend, Jacques, on Skype. He was 6,000 miles away in South Africa and I missed him. He listened patiently to all my tales of woe and did his best to cheer me up when I told him about Mickey, but it wasn’t the same as having him there with me. I could have done with one of his warm hugs.

  After a sleepless night I arrived at work early the next morning. Much to my delight, Mickey had
picked up a little, so I phoned the Thomases and suggested they come and get him and carry on nursing him at home. They were delighted to find him a little brighter and they took him home, along with some of the high-calorie paste. The following day, though, Mrs Thomas rang to say that Mickey was still very ill.

  It was Friday. I had thrown every treatment that they could afford at him. I explained to Mrs Thomas that of course it was up to her and her husband to decide what to do, but that if Mickey didn’t improve over the weekend it might mean that he wasn’t going to get better.

  ‘Does that mean we should have him put to sleep?’ Mrs Thomas asked, her voice shaky.

  ‘Well, we don’t want him to suffer, so in the end it might be the kindest thing,’ I answered.

  That night I went back to my family home in Tunbridge Wells for the weekend. My parents had lived in the same house since I was a year old and it was always good to go home and see them and our dogs: springer spaniel Tosca, and Yorkshire terrier Paddy.

  On Saturday I spent time with my horses, Elli and Tammy, riding and grooming them. I’d had horses ever since I was a little girl and I adored them. It was a beautiful summer weekend, the kind you seldom get in an English August, but Mickey was constantly in my thoughts. I knew his owners would be heartbroken if I had to put him to sleep and I wished there was something more I could do for him.

  Monday morning arrived and I was back in East London. Mickey was booked in as the last of my consultations that day, and I was dreading it; I hate putting animals to sleep, although I’m always glad to be able to relieve suffering. But when I went out to the waiting room, much to my surprise, there, sitting between his owners, was a decidedly perkier Mickey. And what’s more, Mr and Mrs Thomas both had great big grins on their faces.

  In the consulting room they explained that they’d brought Mickey in to show me how much he had improved – and I could see that he had. Relief flooded through me and I thanked goodness that the treatment had worked. As I stroked the rough fur on his small head it took all my willpower to stop myself from shedding a tear.