Vets of the Heart

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I smile as he takes my hand and squeezes it tight. ‘We can drop into the practice and pick up some sedation for him, and there’s food at home.’

  We carry on walking quietly, hand in hand, until Bart takes exception to Nobby Warwick, Talyton’s church organist, heavy drinker and opportunist, of whom some have said he would sell his own mother. The dog trots up with his hackles raised and a growl in his throat to where Nobby is fishing from under an umbrella.

  ‘Hey, stop that. I apologise.’ Ross pulls the dog away by the collar. ‘The weather’s unsettled him.’

  Only a dog owner could say that, I think. That excuse for canine misbehaviour is a new one on me.

  There’s a squawk and a duck splashes through the water. Both Bart and Seven deem that it’s necessary to run down the bank and plunge in to chase it off. Seven bobs up a little way upstream and swims against the current, getting nowhere close to it, while Bart utters a yelp and comes running straight out of the water, holding up one front paw. He comes limping over to us with blood dripping from his foot, staining the ground dark red.

  ‘That looks nasty,’ I say, as Ross takes a look.

  ‘He’s cut his pad. There must be some glass or something in there.’

  I dig around in my pockets, trying to find something to stem the bleeding while we transport him back to the practice, but all I can find are a couple of poo bags.

  ‘Shall I run back and bring the ambulance?’ I suggest as a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky.

  ‘I think it’ll be quicker to walk him back.’ Ross takes his shoe off and removes his sock, the one with the hole in it that he was wearing the day before. So much for maintaining asepsis to prevent infection, I smile to myself, as he wraps Bart’s paw with the sock and the bags. ‘That should do as a temporary measure.’ He looks down and pats the dog’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to walk.’

  I call Seven back. He comes flying out of the river and gives himself a good shake and, in spite of everything, Ross laughs. ‘I suppose it isn’t going to make much difference. You were right about the rain – it’s coming in with a vengeance.’

  We walk back slowly into town, with Seven mooching along and making the most of savouring every sniff, while poor Bart hops along on three legs as the rain falls in fat, heavy drops.

  ‘I wish I had the bike – I could have gone and fetched the ambulance,’ Ross observes. ‘Perhaps I should get a bike with a sidecar. I rather like the idea of Bart sitting beside me in goggles and a helmet.’

  ‘As long as you don’t expect me to ride in it.’

  ‘Oh no, I want you on the back. That would be much more fun.’ He turns as a heavy vehicle rumbles up alongside us, sending water splashing up from the gutter as it pulls in. A man with curly red hair opens the door of a shiny blue tractor and leans out. It’s Murray from Greenwood Farm – I only recognise him because of Sherbet, the sausage dog, sitting in the cab with him. Bart barks when he spots him.

  ‘It looks like you have a problem there. Can I give you a lift? You can hop in the trailer. It’s a bit grubby, but . . .’

  It’s a bit of an understatement – although empty now, the trailer is clearly used for transporting manure.

  ‘It’s good clean muck,’ he goes on. ‘It won’t hurt you.’

  ‘We’re all right, thanks,’ Ross says.

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Quite sure. We haven’t far to go.’

  Murray slams the cab door shut and drives on.

  Arriving at Otter House, drenched right through, Ross shuts Bart into a kennel. I put Seven in the one next door so I’m free to find a suturing kit and bandages while Ross fetches the drugs he needs from the DD cabinet, the cupboard where the controlled drugs are kept locked away. It takes two seconds but, by the time we’re ready, Bart’s dressing has slipped and there’s blood seeping through the sock.

  Ross’s forehead is lined with worry.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ I say, trying to reassure him. ‘He hasn’t lost that much. It always looks worse than it is.’

  ‘Heidi’s going to kill me – she probably won’t let me look after him again.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I give him short shrift.

  ‘I’m going to give him some sedation IV. That way, it’ll be nice and quick.’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ I offer, as he throws a gown on.

  ‘I’ll do it. He can be a bit touchy about being in a kennel.’ He brings him into the prep area on a lead. ‘I’m sorry about this, but every cloud has a silver lining. Once I’m happy with him, we can leave him here to sleep it off and pick him up on the way back from the pub.’

  I take the lead and Bart sits quietly at my feet, his body trembling.

  Ross draws up some of the sedative into a syringe.

  There’s a rumble of thunder and the rain starts to hammer down against the windows at the back of the practice. Tripod comes in leaving paw-prints across the floor, his coat spiked up like a punk’s hair.

  I find a kidney dish and some surgical scrub. ‘Do you want me to warm up a drip?’

  ‘No, we’ll make it quick. I’ll knock him out on the floor to save lifting him onto the bench. I’ll check for glass then a couple of sutures should do it, and a bandage – one of yours, not mine, because yours are far neater.’

  ‘And they stay on.’ I kneel at Bart’s shoulder with my plastic apron rustling over my T-shirt and jeans. He nudges me roughly with the end of his nose, as if to say, leave me alone. I wrap my left arm up around his neck and reach over to lift his right leg, flexing it at the elbow and placing my thumb across the vein at the front.

  ‘All right?’ Ross squirts a little surgical spirit onto the vein. The dog sneezes violently. I readjust my hold on him and let him settle down once more. I raise the vein by pressing my thumb across it so it fills with blood, and Ross takes hold of Bart’s leg so he can slip the needle under his skin.

  I don’t know what it is, the shock of his injury or the surprise at discovering that what he thought was a friendly cuddle has turned into something more sinister and scary, but Bart stiffens. I can feel his muscles tense and the low growl that vibrates in his throat.

  ‘Hey, that’s enough of that,’ I say sternly. ‘Do you want to pop a muzzle on him?’

  ‘He’s fine. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. His bark’s always been worse than his bite.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ I look straight into Ross’s eyes as I take a firmer grip.

  ‘Two seconds and you’ll be out of it,’ he goes on.

  ‘Is that me or the dog?’ I say lightly as Bart shifts his weight, straining against me.

  ‘Hang on there, Shannon.’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I mutter. ‘Get on with it.’ I glance down. The needle is in at last, through the skin with blood coming back into the syringe. I release the pressure on the vein and Ross starts to inject the drug, at which Bart struggles and wrenches himself from my grasp. He turns on me, pushing me back so my head hits the corner of the prep bench.

  ‘Get off!’ Ross yells as he tries to haul the dog off, but Bart’s on top of me, his weight squeezing the air from my chest and his mouth on my face. I can feel an agonising, crushing sensation as his teeth sink through my skin, and hear a terrible tearing sound, as if he’s ripping the muscle from my cheek. I don’t scream. I don’t make a sound. If I play dead, maybe he’ll stop playing with me.

  Get him off me. Please. Help me.

  The more Ross tries to drag the dog away, the more he hangs on, finding purchase on the flesh at the side of my mouth, and dropping all his weight onto my chest so I struggle to breathe. Through the pain, I can feel wetness across my face, tears of despair mingled with blood, and just when I think I’m about to die from lack of oxygen, I make one last-ditch effort to get rid of my attacker. I bend my knees and kick out as hard as I can, hitting the dog’s belly with a sickening thud. Momentarily winded, he loses his grip with his jaws. Ross
pulls him off and I hear the scrabbling of claws on the floor and the slam of the steel gate on the catch and a shoal of black circles swim across my vision and coalesce, and that’s the last thing I remember. . . Until I wake with a throbbing headache, lying on my side with a rolled-up vet bed under my head, and my hip digging against the floor. Ross is at my side, his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘What the . . . ? What happened?’

  ‘Hush,’ he says, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders and helping me to my feet. ‘You’ve bashed your head.’ He holds up his hand. ‘How many fingers?’

  ‘That depends on whether or not you count thumbs as fingers,’ I mumble.

  ‘This isn’t the time to be funny. How many?’

  ‘Four,’ I say, focusing on his hand. ‘Three now. That’s enough. I’m fine.’

  ‘You lost consciousness.’

  ‘I fainted. I wasn’t out for long.’

  ‘I’m worried you have concussion.’ He pauses. ‘Let me see your face.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I can’t stop shaking. I’m frozen to the bone, yet it’s a warm day, or it was when we were out walking by the river. My lungs bum and my face, the right side, feels numb. I reach out to touch my face, where my face should be. It’s wet and warm and I can taste the metallic tang of blood.

  Ross grasps my wrist. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Where’s Bart?’ My lips feel as if they’ve been disconnected from my brain.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he says curtly.

  ‘But his foot . . . ?’ It’s coming back to me now.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ross looks completely stressed out and I want to comfort him because it isn’t that bad.

  ‘He knocked me into the prep bench. I bumped my head.’

  ‘This is all my fault! I know him so well. I should have listened. I should have been more careful.’

  ‘He’s bleeding.’

  ‘Forget the dog – I’ll see to him later.’

  There’s something in the way he says ‘see to’ that makes my heart miss a beat.

  ‘He was on top of you. He was out of control.’

  ‘You aren’t going to . . .’ I start to cry.

  ‘It’s something I’ll have to think about,’ he says grimly. ‘In the meantime though, what about you?’

  I stumble and he catches me, holding me close against his body. ‘Let’s get you to the hospital.’

  ‘I’m all right. Really.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Trust me, I’m a vet.’ He tries to make light of it, but I can’t miss the tension in his voice. ‘Where are the keys to the ambulance?’

  ‘On the hook behind the desk at reception – at least, that’s where they should be, unless someone’s forgotten to put them back.’

  He grabs them on our way through to the car park, where he helps me into the passenger seat and sets off at considerable speed. The hospital is some miles away.

  ‘Have you got your mobile with you?’

  I shake my head then wish I hadn’t. It hurts.

  ‘You can use mine.’ He thrusts it into my hand. ‘Call your mum.’

  I think for a moment, trying to remember her mobile number. I dial the landline for the shop instead.

  ‘Mum, hi, it’s me.’

  ‘Hello, you,’ she says. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. Ross is driving me to hospital.’

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, he grabs the phone from me. ‘She’s been bitten and taken a knock on the head. Yes, I think she’d appreciate that. Yes, in about fifteen minutes. Yes, I’ll stay with her.’ He cuts the call and drops the phone into the well between us.

  ‘What did you have to go and do that for? The last thing I need is her fussing.’

  ‘I’m doing the right thing,’ he says, and I notice how the muscle in his cheek tightens and relaxes and tightens again. His eyes are dark with concern and his fingers blanch on the wheel as he travels along the dual carriageway, passing all the traffic.

  ‘Can’t you slow down a bit?’ I say, clinging to the seat as my life flashes past my eyes, but he ignores me. I’m pumping an imaginary footbrake as we speed into the city.

  ‘Didn’t you see the signs? The ones that say thirty?’

  He glances across to me. ‘Of course I did.’ And I’m just about to tell him to keep his eyes on the road, when he slows down to about forty-five.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about losing your licence?’ I ask crossly.

  ‘This is an emergency.’ He relaxes into a brief smile. ‘Do you really think the police will stop a veterinary ambulance?’

  ‘Yes, if it’s travelling at ninety miles an hour.’

  Ross falls silent until we arrive at the hospital and park in the drop-off zone outside A&E.

  ‘How do you feel now, Shannon?’ he says, killing the engine.

  ‘Relieved that we’re here in one piece. Actually, I feel a bit sick.’ I yawn, being careful not to open my mouth too wide because I’m scared it is going to hurt. ‘I’m really tired.’ My eyelids are heavy. I tip my head back.

  ‘Don’t go to sleep. Please don’t.’ Ross’s voice sounds desperate but distant. I’m drifting again. ‘Wake up.’

  I’m vaguely aware of being bundled onto a trolley, taken straight through to a cubicle and being set upon by a team of medical staff. A nurse finds a vein in my arm and sticks a great big cannula into it, making me flinch. I lie back, exploring the inside of my mouth with my tongue, while a doctor checks my neck for any swelling that might interfere with my breathing and studies my face. No one will meet my gaze, apart from my mum; in spite of having argued against Ross making a fuss, I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see her.

  ‘He told me what happened,’ she says. ‘Someone is going to pay for this.’

  ‘It was an accident.’ I try to make a joke of my situation, but it hurts to speak. ‘I thought you might have brought me flowers.’

  ‘Funnily enough, that wasn’t the first thing that came to mind when I got the phone call.’ She leans down and kisses my forehead.

  No one will talk to me, not properly. They walk into the cubicle, and tell me I’m being brave, but how can I be brave when I don’t know what’s wrong with me? I raise my hand to remove the bandage from across my face, but my fingers are wrapped together in another sheet of material.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ Mum warns. ‘Now, darling, the doctor wants to talk to you.’

  It’s the A&E doctor, a young guy who is about my age, maybe younger, who explains that I’m going to have a scan of my head to check for bleeding because I’ve lost consciousness a couple of times, not that I remember, and then I’m going to be assessed by a plastic surgeon to decide what surgery I will need to repair my face.

  I start to cry. I don’t understand.

  ‘How bad is it? Please tell me.’ I’m shivering now with shock and a growing sense of fear.

  Ross steps towards me. Mum frowns at him.

  ‘I’m grateful for the way you rushed her here, but Shannon wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for your dog. This is your fault. My daughter’s going to be scarred for life thanks to you.’

  I try to interject, but it’s too painful. I can’t shut my mouth properly. My lips are dry and crusty.

  ‘We don’t know that yet.’ His face is pale and drawn.’I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘Sorry isn’t going to cut it.’

  ‘I’d give anything for it not to have happened, and we can’t know what the outcome will be until she’s seen the plastic surgeon.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. You’re supposed to be a vet. Look at her – that dog of yours has taken off half her face,’ Mum goes on insensitively.

  ‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Not that.’ Even though I’m high as a kite on morphine, I am here.

  Her hand flies to her mouth, as if she’s just remembered my presence. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said. I didn’t mean it, darling. I overreacted. It’s the stress.’

  Ross
takes a second look at me, not looking at my eyes but towards my mouth, his expression etched with regret.

  ‘How bad is it?’ I say in desperation. ‘I need to know.’

  It’s hard to say before it’s cleaned up,’ he says. ‘You might need a skin graft which could leave you with a little mark.’

  ‘A scar,’ I correct him. ‘It’s called a scar.’ Tears spring to my eyes, singeing a track down my cheeks.

  ‘I’ll make damn sure you do the right thing with the dog,’ Mum says icily.

  Keeping his eyes on my mother, who looks as if she might punch him, Ross sits down on the chair beside my trolley. He’s a brave man!

  What I want to say is, Mum, please don’t interfere. Just leave it. This isn’t the time or the place, but all I can manage is, ‘I’m sorry, Ross—’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ Mum cuts in.

  I glare at her before turning back to him.

  ‘I think you should go now,’ I slur softly, my mouth not moving as it should. ‘Please can you walk Seven home?’

  ‘Godfrey will be there – just ring the bell,’ Mum adds.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do?’ he asks. ‘Can I fetch anything, a change of clothes, phone charger?’

  ‘I think you’ve done enough already. I’ll look after her now.’

  ‘Bye, Shannon. Please don’t worry. I’ll be back,’ he says, taking his leave. ‘Just let me know if you need anything – anything at all.’

  ‘Bye,’ I murmur. I close my eyes.

  ‘You can’t go to sleep yet, darling. They’re ready to take you for your scan.’

  I can hear the fear in my mother’s voice and I know she’s thinking of my dad. When she arrived at the hospital to see him, it was too late. She must be petrified that history is about to repeat itself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Out of Sight, out of Mind

  Mum has to wait for another couple of hours to find out that the scan of my head is clear. I’m admitted for surgery late the same afternoon, followed by transfer to a ward in the middle of the night. I drift in and out of a sickly post-anaesthetic sleep, having nightmares of big red dogs and losing track of time.