‘If I’m not there, Izzy will have to look after two vets on her own.’ Emma doesn’t work on a Monday, so it’s just Maz and Ross. ‘They’ll have to cancel some of the ops.’
‘What’s going on? You’ve been very quiet.’ Mum picks up a tea towel and wipes the dishes. ‘Is it what we talked about the other day? I’m sorry if bringing up the subject of your dad brought back memories.’
‘It isn’t that.’ I think of my father often and visit his grave at least once every couple of weeks. I just don’t talk about it.
‘Are you missing Will and Jess? You used to see quite a lot of them.’ She smiles as I shake my head.
‘We’re still in touch. I’d like to go and see them, but they’re busy settling into their new house and planning their wedding.’ Jess and I met when we were doing the vet nursing course at the local college. I introduced her to Will and the rest is history, as they say.
‘Are you worried about Tripod? I wish you didn’t get so attached to your patients.’
‘His blood-test results should be back today.’ I let the water out of the sink, watching it whirl down the plughole. ‘It isn’t about Tripod either, although I’ll be devastated if anything happens to him. It’s about having to spend all day with Ross. I just can’t work with him, and Izzy won’t rearrange the rota because she says we have to learn to get along.’
‘It’s easier said than done, but you shouldn’t let people get to you.’
‘I know. There’s Mrs Wall, Trevor, the way he puts me under pressure and patients at risk when he rushes the ops, and on top of that he made me feel really bad about knocking the kit off the stand in theatre the other day when it was an accident. I’m going to have to have it out with him today, whether he likes it or not,’ I tell her.
A loud ping from Mum’s tabard pocket diverts her. She takes her mobile out and checks her texts. ‘It’s Godfrey.’ Blushing, she turns away and starts typing a text back. ‘He’s planning to drop by for lunch. I don’t suppose you could spare an hour to mind the shop?’
‘You know I can’t. I can’t even guarantee I’ll have a lunch break.’
Mum sighs. ‘Never mind. Another time.’ Her mobile pings again, once, twice and three times, and I have to smile. It comes as a bit of a shock to find that your mother receives more texts in a day than you do.
I leave her to it and head out for work, arriving at about eight to find a grubby white truck parked across the entrance to reception. A long-haired black dog leans out of the window, sniffing at the air. Maz’s car is here too, and the practice is open. I step past a stack of timber, boxes of tiles and tubs of adhesive into the waiting area, where Maz and a squat man in dirty overalls and a cap are staring at a pot of paint that has disgorged its contents across the floor.
‘I hope you’re going to clear up after yourselves,’ Maz says, acknowledging me with a glance. ‘Stay there, Shannon. I don’t want anyone walking paint through the practice.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The man I recognise as DJ, the boss, removes his cap and screws it up in his hand. ‘I’ll be onto it straight away, as soon as humanly possible.’ He turns to me. ‘Good morning, my lover.’
‘Hi,’ I respond, as the sound of banging comes from above our heads. I hope it isn’t going to be like this all day – the cats will go ballistic.
‘You need to get on with it,’ Maz says. ‘We have clients turning up in the next hour.’
‘Don’t fret. We’ll be out of your hair by then,’ DJ says confidently, giving Maz a wink as he reaches out and leaves a dusty handprint on her sleeve. With a sigh she rubs it off. ‘You know us.’ He winks again. ‘Satisfaction guaranteed.’
I go around the side of the practice to the back door to avoid the paint and find Tripod waiting for me in the corridor outside Kennels. He mews and I mew back. He turns his nose up at his usual food, so I cook him some chicken, recalling with a rueful smile how I cremated a whole carcase, wrecking the microwave soon after I started work at Otter House.
‘There you are.’ I place his bowl on the floor. ‘Chicken for breakfast.’
Tripod laps at the juice, leaving the pieces of meat in the bottom of the dish. I shake my head, hoping it’s just a tummy bug, as he ambles away. I throw a load of laundry into the machine and return to reception to answer the phone until Frances arrives. The paint has been cleared to an extent – there’s a cream stain across the floor and some spatters across the bags of pet food on the shelves.
‘I think the next couple of weeks are going to be interesting’. Maz says, joining me. ‘I asked DJ and his boys to take their gear around the back, but did they listen?’ There’s another series of crashes, as if someone is throwing an elephant down the stairs. Maz rolls her eyes and turns to her emails to look for Tripod’s lab results in her inbox.
‘So his kidneys are packing up,’ she says matter-of-factly.
‘Oh no, I told you he was ill’. I say sadly as we compare the figures with those for a healthy cat. ‘How long do you think?’
‘Who knows? Weeks, maybe. Months, I hope.’ She instructs me to put some medication ready for him and order some prescription diet to support his failing organs.
‘I don’t think he’ll eat it,’ point out. ‘He wouldn’t eat fresh chicken this morning. Shouldn’t he go on a drip for a day to flush the toxins out of his system?’
‘I suppose so, but I don’t like to put him through too much stress.’
‘It’s what we’d do for some of our other patients.’ I can’t understand why she isn’t desperate to give him a chance, and I wonder if she’s in denial about how sick Tripod is, even though the blood results are there in black and white in front of her.
‘Okay, Shannon, if you get everything together, I’ll come and set it up, but I’m only going to do this once to give him time for the medication to work.’
Result, I think. I’m surprised how cool she’s being about it, but I reckon she’s putting on a front to hide the fact that, like me, she’s gutted.
‘Lucky’s coming in at ten thirty to start on some chemo,’ she continues. ‘Izzy’s going to phone Jennie to confirm that the drug order’s turned up before then.’
‘So it is cancer?’ This isn’t a good start to the day.
‘The prognosis isn’t great, although there’s a small chance of remission with treatment.’ She changes the subject. ‘How are things with Ross now?’
She looks frazzled – she hasn’t brushed her hair and there’s a stray Rice Krispie stuck to her top – and I can’t bring myself to start whinging about how we don’t get on and everything else.
‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ she says with a wry smile. ‘I’ll catch you shortly.’
However, it’s Izzy who sets up Tripod’s drip with her because I’m needed in the consulting room where I call the first client in from reception.
‘Mrs Dyer, you can bring Nero through now.’
‘Or he’ll bring me,’ she chuckles as she gets up from her seat, tucking the ends of her polka-dot scarf inside her mac.
I smile to myself as the Great Dane tows her out through the double doors into the glazed porch. She grabs the doorframe and hangs on in desperation.
‘Can I help?’ I say, walking up to her.
‘Oh no, he’ll have you over. You’re such a slip of a thing.’ She yells at the dog. ‘Nero, you are a very naughty boy!’ She lets go of the doorframe and hauls him back with two hands on the lead, like she’s in a tug-o’-war, bringing him into the consulting room where I shut the door before he can shoot back out.
She removes her mac and scarf and puts them on the table. She slips out of her cardigan and places it on top of the mac. I catch Ross’s eye. He raises one eyebrow. Is she trying to impress him with her physique or preparing to do battle?
‘Hello,’ she says eventually, when she’s caught her breath. ‘I’d like you to check his ears.’
Great, I think. I open the drawer and discreetly pull out a consent form, assuming that Ross will want t
o admit Nero for the morning. He starts chatting to Mrs Dyer, focusing on the dog’s general health first.
‘He looks well,’ he begins.
‘He’s a butcher’s dog,’ she beams. ‘What do you expect when he lives on tripe and marrow-bones?’
‘He’s been having too many pies. Have we weighed him recently?’
‘Maz said not to bother any more – she had difficulty fitting him on the scales the last time she tried.’
‘We’ll have another go. He hasn’t got a waist . . .’
‘I can feel his ribs under the muscle,’ she says defensively.
‘Show me,’ Ross says.
‘Here, and here.’ She waves vaguely in the direction of the dog’s chest. Ross prods and pokes.
‘I can’t feel any ribs or muscle,’ he proclaims as he straightens up. ‘It’s all fat.’
I cringe. Why can’t he be more tactful? It’s embarrassing.
‘I like to see a bit of weight on a dog,’ Mrs Dyer says. ‘Anyway, he’s very fit. He has regular walks – on the lead because he will knock people over, not in a nasty way, but when he’s pleased to see them. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Look at me, I’m perfectly healthy and you’d have a hard job finding my ribs.’ She prods her fingers into her side. ‘Here, have a feel.’
‘Er, that’s some offer, but . . .’ Ross takes a step back behind the table.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She smiles and her cheeks turn a darker shade of scarlet. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t giving you the eye or anything. I’ll have you know I’m a married woman.’
I notice how Ross’s eyebrows shoot up behind his fringe of curls. He pushes his hair back from his face.
‘Let’s get him on the scales,’ he says.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ I say, not waiting for his response because I’m going to make it anyway. ‘It would be better to look at him first and weigh him on the way out to avoid another fight to get him back in here.’
‘He’ll be fine.’ Ross gives me one of his ‘don’t interfere’ looks. ‘I’ve handled racehorses before.’
‘Are you sure? He’s a real handful.’ I wouldn’t normally say anything in front of a client, but . . . ‘What’s the point of me being here for my experience when you don’t take any notice? I know Nero.’
‘He’s a lovely boy, a friendly giant. He doesn’t know his own strength, but you’re a strong-looking lad.’ Mrs Dyer hands Ross the lead. I open the door, and as I predicted, Nero takes advantage and bounds out into reception with Ross hanging on for dear life behind him.
‘You see, he’s quite an athlete,’ Mrs Dyer says with pride.
‘He’s hardly Usain Bolt,’ Ross observes, determined to squeeze the enormous dog onto the scales, which are more suitable for a Labrador than a Great Dane. He has the front end and I have the back, while Mrs Dyer stands in the middle giving orders.
‘Back a bit. That’s right. Oh no, his paw’s come off. He can’t do it. He’s too long in the body.’
Two more clients look on, one with a puppy on their lap and one with a cat hiding beneath a towel in its carrier. Ross looks at me, his face flushed and hot, and I find that I have absolutely no sympathy. When we do get the dog onto the scales, I have to reset them by which time, dopy Nero has reversed a step so that his hind paws are back on the floor and we have to start all over again.
Eventually, to the sound of cheers, we obtain a figure for Nero’s weight. Mrs Dyer covers his ears, making him yelp.
‘That hurts,’ Ross observes. ‘Let’s get him back and have a look.’
It takes the three of us to persuade a reluctant Nero into the consulting room for a second time. I find the extra-large attachment for the otoscope, the instrument with a light at one end that’s designed for looking down ears.
‘Thank you.’ Ross takes it from me. ‘Now, if we reverse him into the corner, you can hold onto his head for me.’ I look at the dog. I look at Ross.
‘You are kidding me? Tell me you’re going to admit him so he can be sedated for this.’
‘Are you questioning my judgement?’ he says, staring at me. I keep my eyes fixed on his and his expression starts to soften, as if he’s decided to back down. ‘I was brought up by two vets, I had a real stethoscope for my sixth birthday and I trained for five years to do this job.’
‘It’s just that he’s a big dog and Maz—’
‘I am not Maz,’ he says sternly. ‘I’m sure Mrs Dyer would prefer to take her dog straight home rather than leave him with us all day.’
‘Yes, I’d much rather that. Everyone knows how protective I am when it comes to my Danes.’
Giving in, I take Nero’s neck and head in a canine cuddle to restrain him while Ross shines the light right down into the depths of his ear. Nero tenses and I tighten my grip. If he goes, I won’t be able to hold him. It’s like asking me to wrestle with a fully grown man. I don’t know why, but the thought of wrestling with Ross crosses my mind. I suppress it quickly.
‘Hold on,’ Ross warns as Nero wriggles.
‘I am holding on,’ I say curtly, but the more he faffs around, the more Nero feels like a coiled spring.
‘He has a lot of wax down the left ear and a little down the right one,’ Ross explains.
‘It’s no wonder he takes no notice of me,’ Mrs Dyer says, amused.
‘I’m going to pop some ear cleaner into each ear and show you how to clean them. We’ll give it a week or so and check to see if it’s cleared up or whether he needs further treatment.’
‘I used to use olive oil with my other dogs,’ Mrs Dyer says doubtfully. ‘Old Fox-Gifford – he was my vet before Emma set up the practice here – used to swear by it.’
‘I’ve heard he used to swear by many lotions and potions, but this is the twenty-first century.’
‘I could try olive oil, couldn’t I? It’s natural,’ she says, with a Devon accent, pronouncing it ‘n’art’ral’.
‘I’d keep the olive oil for salad. I would choose this product myself because it’s hypoallergenic and quick-acting.’
I clear my throat. I wish Ross was quick-acting. I can’t hold on to Nero for much longer.
‘Well, if you’d use it on your own dog . . .’
‘I have done.’
‘You have a dog? What kind?’ Mrs Dyer says, suddenly impressed.
‘He’s a bitser – bits of this and bits of that.’ His tone brightens as he talks about his pet. ‘He’s a big dog – not as big as your fella here, though.’
Mrs Dyer gives him the go-ahead and he squirts the bottle into Nero’s ear. The contact with the cold solution sends the dog into a spasm. He starts to scratch my arm with his back leg.
‘Hold on,’ Ross says.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ My arms are killing me. ‘Good boy. Stay still. It won’t be for much longer.’
Ross massages Nero’s ear, then starts hunting for something to wipe away the excess solution and loosened wax. Typical, I think, no forward planning. As he turns away, Nero can no longer restrain his urge to shake his head and scratch. He wrenches himself from my grasp, pushing me back so I end up on my bottom on the floor.
‘No!’ I get back onto my knees and tackle him, throwing my arms around his neck. Almost . . . Nero strains and breaks free . . . No, not that . . . He shakes his massive head, spattering brown gunk everywhere, up the walls, over me, Ross and Mrs Dyer.
‘For goodness sake, Shannon!’ Ross exclaims, exasperated.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I throw my hands in the air. ‘I couldn’t hold onto him any longer.’
I can feel drops of ear wax mixed with cleaning solution on my cheek and in my hair. How can such a small volume of liquid spread so far? Nero gives himself another shake while Ross offers Mrs Dyer some paper towel. She rubs it against a brown blob on her blouse.
‘It’s no good. That won’t come out, not in a month of Sundays. Oh dear, oh dear, we are in a pickle.’ She starts to laugh while Nero stands at the door,
pushing at it with his nose. ‘It always happens to me. My last dog had a problem with his eye, and I ended up with a yellow stain that ruined my top.’
Ross runs his fingers through his fringe and holds up a nugget of black ear wax. He looks at it and looks at me and, just as I’m expecting him to have a complete sense-of-humour failure, his lips curve into a smile.
‘I’ve never seen so much ear wax in my life. I think this consultation had better be on the house – Otter House. I’m sorry.’ He’s choking with laughter now and, in spite of everything, I can’t help smiling too. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he adds, ducking out into the corridor as he lets loose an unrestrained guffaw.
‘Do you think that’s it?’ Mrs Dyer says as we stand there, listening to his hearty belly laughs on the other side of the door. ‘Has he finished?’
I don’t think so, I muse as the laughter continues.
‘He’s done with Nero for now,’ I say, showing her out to reception. ‘If you’d like to make an appointment for next week . . .’
I clean up the consulting room as best I can, but the scent of dog’s ear remains. When I put the spray back beside the sink, a red-faced Ross intercepts me.
‘You’ve got some . . .’ His hand hovers at his cheek ‘. . . just there.’
‘Ugh.’ I grab a tissue and wipe my skin. ‘Has it gone?’
‘Here. Allow me.’ He reaches towards me and touches my face. I freeze at the contact. ‘Got it,’ he says, turning and flicking a piece of gunk into the bin.
I don’t thank him.
‘Are you mad at me?’ he asks quietly.
‘I’m not happy about this,’ I say, standing my ground.
‘You did find it funny though.’
‘In the end,’ admit.
‘I owe you an apology if I’ve made life difficult for you.’
‘There are no “ifs” about it. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed working with you so far. I hope you can see it from my point of view when I say that we need to find some kind of compromise. You can’t expect me to carry out my nursing duties properly when you’re rushing the clients and patients through like you do. It isn’t a conveyor belt. You can’t treat everyone as if they’re the same.’
Vets of the Heart Page 6
