Tales from a Wild Vet

by Jo Hardy

  As well as being cousins, Kate and I had another connection – her parents had moved out to Cape Town, which meant I actually had relatives in South Africa. Before that they had lived all over the world; Kate had been born in Bahrain and they had followed her dad as a family, going wherever his work took them, before finally settling in England for the best part of 20 years. However, her parents had decided that South Africa was where they wanted to retire.

  Kate told me that she and her husband Matt had gone to visit her parents and had taken one of the cheap but notoriously dangerous local taxis that pile in about a dozen people along a set route. An argument had developed and one of the passengers had got out a knife and threatened one of the other passengers. The driver had screeched to a halt and yelled to everybody, ‘Pile out, pile out!’ So they did, in the middle of nowhere, and Kate and Matt had to walk miles to find their way home. I made a mental note never to take one of the local taxis, not that Jacques would ever let me!

  I did the neatest job I could on Sammy, but even so, when I’d finished the poor girl resembled a patchwork quilt. She was a young dog, though, and with a little rest and care she would soon heal. Lizzie had taken over some of the afternoon consults that I was meant to do, which gave me some relief and a chance to grab something to eat.

  That evening I was exhausted – it had been quite an eventful day – so after a quick supper at Kate and Matt’s house, which was so much better than the Pot Noodle I had originally planned to have, I went back to my hotel room and fell gratefully into bed, wondering what might arrive through the door tomorrow. A day or two of routine health checks and vaccinations was beginning to seem quite appealing.

  The following morning, as I opened the consulting-room door to usher in the first patient, I was greeted by the shrill screams – there’s no other word for it – of a guinea pig. They make great pets because, unlike other small furries, they rarely bite. But, oh boy, do they make a noise when they’re excited, nervous, frightened or, I suspect, just for the hell of it. They also hate change, so anything out of their routine will provoke shrieks of protest.

  This particular guinea pig, Cuddles, arrived with her small owner, a little girl of about six, and the little girl’s mother, who smiled apologetically.

  ‘Sorry about the noise,’ she said. ‘Cuddles has had on-going problems with mites. She’s already had one injection and we’ve been told we need to repeat them a few times. I don’t want Hayley or her friends to get them from Cuddles.’

  I looked at Hayley, who had her arm inside the cage and was tickling a slightly patchy Cuddles.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Mites can be a real problem. A bad infestation of mites can drive guinea pigs wild – they lose hair, scratch until they bleed and they can forget to eat and drink.’

  We’d learned during our training that mites are transmittable to people. There’s one mite in particular, called Cheyletiella, which gives an obvious sign when you’ve got them: three bites very close together – we used to joke that it was breakfast, lunch and dinner for the mites. But there are many types of mite out there, and they all present in different ways, with different levels of itching, of baldness and of contagion to people. It’s one of the reasons we were told always to keep our arms bare, as mites can lodge in a sleeve or even a band around your wrist. And the last thing you’d want to do is have a hairband around your wrist and then tie it in your hair, covered in mites.

  Next in was a large white tomcat, and this poor chap looked as if he was in a lot of pain. His owner, a worried-looking man in his seventies who seemed none-too-well himself, told me that the cat, Charlie, had appeared that morning limping badly and clearly in distress.

  ‘What could have happened?’ he asked me. ‘Do you think he got into a fight?’

  I examined Charlie carefully. As soon as I touched his right leg he yowled and by the way his leg moved around, I could see that his hip was clearly dislocated. It’s known as a hip luxation and could only be caused by major force. I needed to do an X-ray to assess the extent of the luxation, and check for internal injuries, too.

  ‘I think he’s probably been hit by a car. He has had some sort of impact, and a car is my guess, given that his claws are badly scuffed,’ I told his owner, Mr Tindell. ‘Either that or he’s had a fall. But the car accident is far more likely. We’ll X-ray him and see what’s going on. Leave him with us and we’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Poor Charlie,’ murmured Mr Tindell, looking at him fondly. ‘He does get in the wars. He’s already had most of his nine lives.’

  An X-ray confirmed that Charlie’s hip was dislocated. The good news was that he didn’t appear to have any other serious injuries.

  I phoned Mr Tindell. ‘We can sort him out,’ I said. ‘The hip needs putting back but it’s not life-threatening and he should be fine. I’ll call you as soon as he’s ready to be collected.’

  I put the phone down and looked at a sedated Charlie, who was being monitored by Olivia, one of the nurses.

  ‘I’m up to my neck in it again, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I need to put your hip back but I’ve never done it before. Let’s hope someone can help.’

  While Olivia continued to monitor Charlie, I went to see if I could find any help. I bumped into Lizzie in the next room. ‘Any idea how to deal with a hip luxation?’

  ‘Goodness, no, I’ve never done one,’ she said apologetically. ‘You do seem to be pulling in all the tough cases.’

  ‘Mmm. And I thought this would be an easy week. That’s what comes of associating Cornwall with holidays.’

  ‘Kate’s in a consult at the moment, but when she finishes, I’ll take over from her so she can come and help you,’ she offered.

  ‘Thanks, Lizzie.’

  There was nothing else for it; I’d have to count on Fossum to get me started so that at least I could make an attempt at relocating the hip while I waited for Kate. Thankfully Fossum came through again. There was the description of exactly what to do; you put your hands in this position and then you lift the leg up and push it in, at this angle, with this much weight, so that you can feel it suction into the socket. It looked pretty straightforward. I followed the instructions and got the hip in, only for it to pop out again when we tried to move Charlie back to the X-ray machine to double check that it was definitely in place. At that moment Kate appeared to help. She repeated the relocation steps and when the hip was back she taught me how to do a sling bandage for a back leg so that it would stay in place and stop the cat using the leg while it was healing.

  I called Mr Tindell. ‘Charlie’s hip is back in place, you can collect him in a couple of hours. He’s going to feel a bit sore for a while and he won’t be able to walk for a couple of weeks, but after that he should be fine.’

  Mr Tindell was delighted and two hours later he arrived, cat carrier in hand. ‘Bring him back in a few days, just for a check-up, and we’ll redo the bandage,’ I said as I settled a sleepy Charlie, his rear end swaddled in bandages, into the box.

  I wasn’t sure whether to feel smug or relieved. I’d pulled off two firsts, with the invaluable help of Fossum and a bit of rounding off from Kate, and so far both animals were not only still alive but doing well.

  That evening I drove down to the sea and went for a long walk along the beach. It had been a warm day for October, and watching the sun set over the sea I felt happy. It had its trials and tribulations, but I really was starting to enjoy being a vet.

  Grabbing a quick tea break I checked my phone. There had been a couple of missed calls from Betty, whose 12-year-old son Samuel, a very talented and fearless rider, was exercising my horse Tammy for me while I was away. He adored Tammy and I was concerned his mum wouldn’t be calling unless there was a problem. I called her back.

  ‘Jo, I’m so sorry, Sam was riding Tammy this morning and she fell. We think she stepped into a hole. She got up again and cantered back to the stables. She seems all right, but we’re worried that her leg may be injured. What do you wan
t us to do?’

  ‘Is Sam all right?’

  ‘She fell on his hand. He’s got a small fracture but they think it will heal without surgery.’

  ‘Poor Sam, I’m so sorry. And poor old Tammy, too. Don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll go and see her.’

  My last day in Cornwall was non-stop. Eight dogs, five cats, several guinea pigs, hamsters and rabbits later, in came Tito the Patterdale terrier.

  A beautiful, wiry little black dog, Tito was gorgeous. But his owner, Mr Hill, looked fed up. ‘Tito was chasing a squirrel,’ he said. ‘He actually caught it, but the squirrel had other ideas about being lunch so it bit his lip. Tito dropped the squirrel, leaped in the air, yelped and came back to me, tail between his legs. There isn’t much that stops him in his tracks, but that squirrel managed it.’

  ‘Oh Tito,’ I said, stroking his silky head. ‘Sounds as though you’ve been getting into trouble.’

  Extremely active and generally fearless, terriers are often terrors. I started cleaning and clipping round Tito’s lip, but he wriggled and squirmed so much that it took 20 minutes.

  As I worked on him Mr Hill told me he was at his wits end.

  ‘We moved down here from London a few weeks ago,’ he said. ‘Thought it would be a lovely place to retire, and it is, but Tito keeps escaping out of our garden and worrying the cows on the farm next door. He can get over the wall and I just don’t know how to stop him. The farmer’s already shouted at him several times.’

  ‘I know what a handful terriers can be,’ I said. ‘They can be a nightmare to train. But you do need to stop him. The farmer is actually entitled to shoot him if he’s worrying livestock. It might be worth putting up a mildly electrified boundary fence around your garden, so that Tito will get a small shock if he touches it. Better that than the farmer shoots him.’

  Mr Hill looked alarmed. ‘I didn’t realise that. You’re right, we’ll have to do something.’

  Tito’s wound wasn’t too deep and didn’t need stitching. I gave him pain relief and antibiotics.

  ‘Come on, Tito,’ Mr Hill said, taking his lead. ‘And thanks for the warning.’

  ‘No problem.’ I closed the door behind them and smiled. Tito was such a typical terrier, lovable but an absolute scamp.

  The day – and the week – had come to an end. I packed up, said goodbye to Lizzie, Kate, Olivia and the other staff members and climbed into my little car for the long drive back home. Six hours later I let myself into the house. Mum and Dad were on their way to bed and Ross was out. I managed a cup of soup and a cuddle with Roxy and Paddy and then called it a day.

  Early the next morning I headed for the stables to see Tammy. The yard manager said that she certainly hadn’t noticed Tammy favouring one leg over the other as she mooched around the field, and as I walked her into her stable she seemed fine, so I hoped she’d got away without any damage. But once in her stable I checked over her legs and I came across a problem. Just above her front right fetlock, the back of her leg felt swollen and warm. I knew that wouldn’t be good news, as several tendons run past that point within a sheath filled with synovial fluid. Swelling meant increased fluid, which meant inflammation and therefore damage. I took her across the yard to a flat piece of concrete to trot her up in a straight line. She was about two-tenths lame; only mild damage, but given the structures in the area of swelling, it was a cause for concern. I phoned the local equine practice who knew me and were happy to lend me their ultrasound scanner for the afternoon.

  I wasn’t an expert at scanning, and I knew I wouldn’t pick up on subtle injuries, but even I could tell that a tendon in her leg was torn. She was going to need rest and plenty of pain relief. I put an ice-boot on her leg, above the fetlock, chilling it in the freezer and then wrapping it around the leg and sealing the Velcro fastening. I was going to be away for several months over the winter, so instead of finding someone to ride her, I would let her rest in the field and hope that by spring the injury was healed.

  I stood stroking her nose. Poor Tammy, it must hurt. I loved her dearly, but she could be such a frustrating horse. I had first got her 10 years earlier, when I was 15 and she was a pretty four-year-old. Tammy was a bay. Her flanks glowed almost orange in the sun and I loved her from the moment she arrived. My other horse, Elli, had been injured at the time and needed to rest for a year or two before I would be able to ride her again.

  Elli had been with me for two years by then and she was so comfortable with me and so safe and dependable that I could ride her without any tack at all, but Tammy was much more highly strung. Nervous around other horses, she would bite the air as a warning if she got scared, and she was so unpredictable that in competitions she would either come first or be disqualified after terrifying the audience by rearing or trashing the jumps.

  I always had a bum like glue and I’d been riding since I was five, so I wasn’t scared of riding Tammy, and she was bold and learned new tricks really fast, which I loved. But I could never be sure how she would react.

  Luckily, despite her wariness towards other horses, Tammy came to trust Elli and by the time I left for veterinary college the two of them were sharing a field at the stables up the road from us and were happy in one another’s company.

  Despite their size horses are delicate creatures, surprisingly easily injured. With rest and care, Elli had recovered from her injury. Now it was Tammy’s turn. I stroked her nose. It might be months before her leg healed fully, but we would just wait, patiently.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday Morning

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Stevens, what seems to be the problem?’

  Mrs Stevens, who couldn’t have been a day under 80, had come into the consulting room wearing a bright pink mac and carrying a cat cage. She put it down on the table and gave me a wary look.

  ‘It sounds as though you’re the one with the problem,’ she said.

  ‘Er, yes, I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my voice,’ I croaked.

  It was horribly embarrassing. My first day in a new veterinary practice, when I was keen to appear totally professional and to make a good impression, and what happens? I turn up croaking like something out of a low-budget horror film. A bad case of laryngitis had left me barely able to make myself understood, to the obvious consternation of practice staff and clients alike. The only ones who didn’t seem to mind, thankfully, were the animals.

  It all began when I was asked to do a public appearance for the Young Vets series, which by this time had been airing for several weeks. My old university, the Royal Veterinary College, asked me, two of the other vets in the show and several of the production team to speak during their open evening. We all agreed and they put us in an auditorium that could hold 300 people. By the time we began it was packed, with people standing at the back and down the steps. The programme had been one of the most popular that ITN Productions had made that year, with great viewing figures.

  That evening gave me a little glimpse of fame. We talked about our experiences of making the programme and what we had learned and at the end of our talk we were swamped by teenage girls taking selfies with us and asking for autographs. The first time someone came up to me with an autograph book I was so surprised I had no idea what to write.

  It was all good fun, but by the end of the evening I felt hot and feverish and I knew I was coming down with a virus. I was due to begin work at the Dacre House practice the next day – they had hired me as a locum for five weeks, which was a real bonus as they were a lovely, friendly practice very near to home. I couldn’t possibly let them down on my first morning. That night I dosed myself up with every cold and flu remedy I could think of, but by the next morning my voice had dwindled to a husky growl.

  I turned up for work at 8.30am with my new green scrub top and my sandwiches in my bag, and smiled brightly at Bev, the receptionist.

  ‘Hi, Jo, welcome,’ she said. ‘Glad you’re here, we’ve got loads of clients booked in and we’re really short-staffed today.�
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  ‘Hi, Bev,’ I rasped. ‘I’ll just go and make myself a hot drink if that’s OK.’

  Bev looked at me aghast. ‘Oh dear. Have you been on some kind of wild celebration?’

  ‘No, really, I haven’t, it just sounds that way. I’ll be fine, honestly.’

  I’d been to Dacre House before, as a student. I’d had several work placements there in my third year and the practice staff had always kept in touch and told me I was welcome to come back. So I was delighted when the locum position came up.

  Based in Tunbridge Wells, Dacre House is a family-owned small-animal practice with a generous and inclusive attitude towards the local community. They believe veterinary service should be affordable for everyone, so their prices are low and if someone can’t afford to pay they will accept RSPCA vouchers or find them help from a charity. They work closely with animal charities, too, charging low rates to treat rescued animals. As a result they are very popular and are always absolutely packed with clients and their animal patients. And unlike many practices, which use an out-of-hours service for evenings and weekends, the Dacre House vets will see their patients even if it’s the middle of the night, believing that it is important to provide a 24/7 service.

  The practice was set up about 30 years ago by husband-and-wife team Chris and Sue Murray. Chris, a hugely knowledgeable vet and a skilled surgeon, had just retired, but Sue was still there, though by that time she was concentrating on operating rather than consultations. Sue was chatty, warm and very supportive and encouraging. She told me that when she and Chris first set up the practice they had to sit and wait for patients to arrive. Now it’s so full that you can hardly get through the door.