Vets of the Heart

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘I’m not a baby any more,’ George says.

  ‘We know – it’s a figure of speech,’ Maz explains. ‘I’m such an idiot – I had the letter stuck on the board at home and I still missed the fact it’s an inset day for teacher training. Sophia’s going to come and pick George up for me as soon as she’s back from her ride. Humpy says she’ll take you to buy a new hat at Tack ‘n’ Hack, George,’ she adds but, as is the way with children, he’s already onto another topic of conversation.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ He points at my scar and my hand flies up automatically to cover it.

  ‘What did we talk about on the way to school?’ Maz says quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Shannon.’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he says.

  ‘It must nm in the family,’ Izzy observes.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He isn’t being rude, just curious, but it confirms my fears that everyone will be looking at me. ‘Ross’s dog bit me and I had to go to hospital to have stitches.’

  ‘Was it bleeding?’ he asks. ‘Why didn’t Mummy stitch it up? Does it hurt?’

  ‘That’s enough of the questions.’ Maz takes his hand. ‘You know what happened, and Shannon has work to do.’

  ‘I wanna help.’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘I wanna help,’ George repeats, making to stamp his foot.

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ Maz says wearily. I think she’s a lovely mum, but sometimes juggling her job and children, and probably her husband, seems all too much. ‘Unless –’ she looks at me as her son’s foot continues to hover in mid-air – ‘Shannon’s willing to show you how to feed Tilly and Tripod before Humpy turns up.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, glancing towards Izzy, who rolls her eyes because she had other plans for me.

  George has a wonderful time, squishing the sticky jelly from the sachets of cat food onto his fingers while he feeds the kitten; she mews and winds around his legs as if she’s been starved, while Tripod sits patiently waiting for his special diet.

  Ross puts his head around the door.

  ‘Having fun?’ he asks.

  George responds with a grin as he wipes his hands on his polo shirt.

  Ross’s eyes lock onto mine. ‘It’s great to see you back.’ The warmth of his smile makes me feel more apprehensive than ever. ‘Nothing much has changed. Celine is still here, making long-term plans to become a vet nurse like you, and Frances drops by at least once a week for coffee and a natter.’

  However, things have changed, I think sadly, when I find myself panicking at the thought of handling a dog – any dog – and struggling with the way some of our clients look at me when they catch sight of my face. For the first couple of days, my colleagues treat me differently too, metaphorically wrapping me in cotton wool. Maz will only let me handle the cats, a rabbit, and a tortoise called Charlie who comes in with rattling breathing and a sore mouth.

  It isn’t until after the weekend that I return to fulltime work, feeling more confident. On the Monday morning, I’m with Ross in the consulting room. We’ve already seen a couple of cats for vaccination when the next client turns up with a dog. Emily has one of her children, a girl of about five years old, tagging along behind her in a dress and red wellies, hugging a black and white toy cat to her chest. Celine is about to start booking them in, but Ross calls them straight into the consulting room where I’m disinfecting the rubber mat on the table.

  He looks at me. ‘Why don’t you swap with Izzy? She’s clearing up after the dental.’

  ‘I’m fine here.’

  ‘But . . .’ He frowns. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s Sherbet. I’ve met him before and he’s only a little dog . . . And you don’t have to keep protecting me. I’ll have to do this eventually. I can’t be a cat nurse for the rest of my life.’ It’s thoughtful of him and I’m grateful that he’s looking out for me, especially after the way I’ve treated him but, really, as I’ve said before, I’ve been doing my job for longer than he’s been qualified to do his.

  ‘So what has happened to Sherbet?’ he asks as Emily lowers him down awkwardly onto the table. He yelps and then sits there, his hind legs limp and his tail still.

  ‘He hurt himself,’ pipes up the little girl, who has big blue eyes and strawberry-blonde ringlets of hair that tumble down over her shoulders. I can’t help wondering how many sets of straighteners she’ll get through when she’s older. ‘He fell off the bed. What happened to that lady’s face?’ she says, looking at me.

  ‘Poppy, don’t stare. It’s rude.’

  ‘Did you fall off your bed?’ she goes on, oblivious to her mum’s embarrassment.

  ‘That’s enough. You promised you’d behave if I let you come with me and Sherbet to the vet’s.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘Really.’ Like George, Poppy is naturally curious.

  ‘I’m afraid you might report us to the social services, or whatever the pet equivalent is. Poppy put him in her bed, and when he got up, he slipped off the edge. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her he isn’t a doll.’

  He’s quite cute though, I think. I remember them bringing him for a booster jab soon after they picked him up from the Sanctuary, having offered him a new home. He’s middle-aged, and his breath’s a bit smelly, but they seem to love him all the same. I glance towards Ross.

  ‘He’s in a lot of pain,’ he says. ‘Let’s pop a muzzle on to be on the safe side.’

  I fish around in the drawer, take out a muzzle to fit his nose and slip it on, fastening it behind his balding ears. He looks surprised, and Emily even more so.

  ‘He’d never hurt anyone,’ she says, slightly affronted.

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Shannon, hold on to him for me.’

  I hesitate. It’s all right. I managed to work with Trevor, although I didn’t have to restrain him for an examination or injection. Sherbet’s only a small dog, and he’s wearing a muzzle. He can’t do anything except fidget, but an irrational fear takes hold of me as I take hold of him. He senses my state of mind, growling as he wrenches his head away and wriggles out from under my arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ross asks gently.

  ‘Give me a minute.’ My heart is racing and my palms sweating. I’m shaking and hardly able to breathe. I can do it. I will do it. I have to do it.

  ‘I can ask Izzy,’ he persists.

  ‘No,’ I say sharply and I try again, aware that Emily is frowning disapprovingly. ‘Come on, Sherbet, there’s a good boy.’

  I keep him still while Ross is examining him from one end to the other. When he touches the dog’s back, just behind where his ribs stop, he yelps and tries to turn round, snarling and snapping through the muzzle.

  ‘Mummy!’ Poppy yelps too. ‘The vet’s hurting Sherbet.’

  ‘He has to find out what’s wrong, darling.’ Emily has tears in her eyes as she takes a firm grip on her daughter’s hand to restrain her.

  ‘He’s cruel.’ Poppy glares at Ross. If looks could kill . . . ‘Let go of my dog. He’s my pet.’

  ‘The vet is going to make him better. It’s like when you went to the hospital to mend your head: it hurts at first and then it gets better. He is going to get better, isn’t he?’

  ‘I can’t give you an answer yet,’ Ross says calmly. ‘I need to admit him and take some X-rays, or we can refer him immediately to the nearest specialist. Is he insured?’

  Emily shakes her head. ‘I kind of thought we’d risk it. I mean, you can’t pay out on everything . . . Oh dear, Poppy, what’s Daddy going to say? Sherbet needs to go to hospital.’ I wait while she and Ross talk about the potential costs of investigations and treatment with no guarantee of a happy ending.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ll have to speak to Murray.’

  ‘He’s my pet,’ Poppy repeats earnestly. ‘I can pay with the pounds in my money-box.’

  ‘I think Daddy’s already borrowed them for the last bag of dog food. It wouldn’t be
enough anyway. What do you think?’ Emily turns to Ross. ‘What would you do if he was yours?’

  I notice how a shadow crosses his face at the memory of Bart.

  ‘I would suggest that we keep him in and get the X-rays done, then you can let us know what you want to do next.’

  ‘What happens if we don’t do anything?’

  I gaze down at the dog, unhappy that Emily’s even contemplating that possibility. I thought she was one of our more sensible clients, as in, willing to do anything within reason for her dog, not simply cast him away when he presents a problem.

  ‘We can do the minimum, put him on cage rest and give him tablets or injections and wait to see if time heals.’

  ‘I haven’t got time to look after him.’ She sounds desperate. ‘I’ve got the girls, three little ones under six, and the farm. I can’t nurse the dog as well. Murray’s going to go ballistic. He thought I was mad letting Poppy have a pet in the first place.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee that if you decide to go to referral he’ll get better anyway.’ I know what Ross is saying. He’s trying to make her feel better, less guilty if they genuinely can’t afford to have Sherbet referred.

  ‘You mean he could be permanently paralysed?’

  He nods and hands her the tissues, and I find myself, not for the first time, surprised by the miracle of love. Sherbet is a funny old thing, a middle-aged dachshund with balding ears and a whip of a tail, yet Emily, in spite of what she’s said before, clearly adores him.

  ‘He’s a poor old sausage, isn’t he?’ Poppy says, looking worriedly at her mum.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘I’ll admit him and give him some strong painkillers,’ Ross says. ‘You can let me know your decision – it needs to be ASAP if you want to go ahead with surgery.’

  Emily is in tears and Poppy cries as well, until I suggest that she leaves her toy cat here too.

  ‘They can go in the same kennel,’ I say gently. ‘I’ll look after them both.’

  She seems to think this is a good idea and, with much kissing of Sherbet – I leave the muzzle on for that, just in case – and the toy cat, she leaves, holding her mum’s hand.

  ‘I hate these cases,’ Ross sighs as he carries Sherbet carefully into the prep room. I bring the painkillers and set up a comfortable bed, clipping the inpatient record card to the front of the cage. ‘Let’s get on with the X-rays. We can’t afford to hang around. It isn’t fair to continue if he’s broken his back, and if he’s slipped a disc, the sooner we can treat it, the better chance he has of being able to walk again.’

  It isn’t long before Sherbet is under sedation and Ross is looking at the pictures of his spine.

  ‘In a perfect world, I’d do more tests to make sure it is that disc that’s gone, but it looks pretty conclusive to me. If they have no money, we could have a go at surgery here.’

  ‘Have you done a slipped disc before, or is this like Seven’s tracheostomy, a stab in the dark?’ I ask.

  ‘I knew how to do it in principle. No, I’ve done this kind of op twice, although I’m no expert. I’m going to call Emily to chase her up. If she wants him referred, he needs to go now.’

  ‘Do you want me to let him come round?’

  ‘Good question. Yes, if she chooses to have the op done here, I’ll do it after the evening consults.’

  I keep my attention on the dog while Ross makes the phone call.

  ‘Have you any plans tonight?’ he asks me on his return.

  I smile. ‘I have actually.’

  I notice how his face falls.

  ‘I have a hot date as theatre nurse, I believe.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re a star.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, and later I realise I haven’t thought about my scar since Poppy raised the topic. I’ve been too busy.

  During the surgery, I monitor the patient under the drapes while Ross works on Sherbet’s spine, the surgical site illuminated by the theatre light.

  ‘Is everything all right your end?’ I ask partway through. ‘Ross?’

  He glances up briefly. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ He looks back at the surgery, completely focused on the task in front of him. Beads of sweat start to roll down his forehead into his mask. I take a piece of damp paper towel and offer to mop his brow.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says, relaxing for a moment. ‘You couldn’t do the rest of me, could you?’

  He’s teasing. I can tell from the sound of his voice and the twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Keep your mind on the job,’ I say lightly.

  ‘I’ve missed you bossing me about.’

  I make a note of Sherbet’s pulse rate on the anaesthetic chart. It’s gone up a little, but nothing compared with mine. I’ve missed Ross more than I can say.

  He swabs at the incision. ‘Suction, please.’

  I press the button on the machine and listen to the sound, like someone sucking on a straw in an empty glass. As the op drags on, I fantasise not so much about the hot vet, but more of cold squash or cola with ice. I recheck Sherbet’s vital signs and record them on his sheet. He’s perfectly stable. Good shot, I tell myself.

  Eventually, Ross pronounces the surgery over: he’s released the pressure on the nerves in Sherbet’s spinal cord. The dog is slowly coming round and I stroke his smooth, shiny coat. Returning him to Kennels, where the air is cooler, I wrap him in a blanket.

  ‘Do you think he’ll walk again?’

  Ross shrugs as he removes his gown, mask and gloves, snapping them off his fingers and tossing them in the general direction of the bin.

  ‘Hey, just because you’re Supervet doesn’t mean you can leave the place untidy,’ I say, and he picks them up and puts them in the rubbish.

  ‘I thought I was Speedivet.’

  ‘I’ve given you a promotion. What you’ve just done is pretty amazing,’ I call back as I flush the catheter on the patient’s drip. ‘I assume that Sherbet’s staying with us for a while.’

  ‘I don’t want the little girl – what’s she called?’

  ‘Poppy.’

  ‘Yes, Poppy. She means well, but I don’t want to risk leaving him to her ministrations. He’ll be better off having a holiday with us – three weeks’ cage rest as a minimum – than falling off any more beds.’ He yawns and his shoulders slump. He looks dead on his feet.

  ‘It’s gone eleven and you’ve been here all day. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on Sherbet and call you back if necessary.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He yawns again.

  ‘I’m sorry for boring you,’ I say lightly.

  ‘You could never bore me.’ He gazes at me, his eyes soft and yearning. ‘Goodnight.’ And then he’s gone, the sound of his motorbike fading into the night. Although he’s no longer in the practice, I can feel his presence everywhere. I can’t stop thinking about him.

  I snooze for a while on the sofa in the staff room, where Tilly finds me, jumping up and lying across my shoulder, kneading with her unsheathed claws and dribbling. When I open my eyes, she arches her back and creeps away, as if terrified. For part of the night I sit up beside Sherbet, listening to him snoring, and looking at my reflection in the silvered back of the cage. My face looks distorted and indistinct; the surface isn’t perfectly smooth like a mirror. I can’t see my scar, but I can feel the pins-and-needles sensation pricking out its physical boundaries. Its psychological effects run much wider and deeper; sometimes when I’m alone, like now, I find myself consumed by it.

  My patients seem not to care how I look, though, and my colleagues appear to have grown accustomed to my changed appearance in the few days since I returned to work. Apart from Ross: sometimes I catch him looking at my face, his eyes dwelling on my mouth, his expression one of sadness, quickly veiled when he realises I’m aware of what he’s doing. I don’t need his sympathy, but I need him. Having been apart for those few weeks, I’ve found out how much I’ve missed him as a fr
iend, colleague and housemate. We’ve had our differences and I’m not stupid – things will never be the same between us because of what happened with Bart – but I could see us growing close again, not as lovers, but as friends.

  At six in the morning, I give up on trying to sleep and make a start on the chores in Kennels. Ross returns at seven thirty, bringing coffee and croissants.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ he asks, joining me.

  ‘He’s comfortable.’ That’s about all I can say.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I bite my lip, suppress the urge to add, ‘Better for seeing you,’ because his presence makes me feel more cheerful and less alone. He cares for me, I know he does.

  ‘You need to say something to Maz and Emma about your pay with doing these extra hours. They take advantage.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s deliberate,’ I say in their defence.

  ‘How much do you think they earn? And they both have wealthy husbands. You should say something or put in an invoice for last night.’ He pauses. ‘You won’t, will you, because you’re too nice.’

  ‘It’s awkward because, if I ask for more money, it puts Sherbet’s recovery in jeopardy’

  ‘But you’re entitled to it.’ He opens the cage door and squeezes one of Sherbet’s paws to check for a reaction, but the dog is so desperate to escape that he doesn’t give any indication as to whether he can feel anything, or not. ‘Let’s get him out of there.’

  ‘I’ll let you do it,’ I say, not wanting to cause any damage. Sherbet has a large shaved area across his back and a long wound, neatly stitched and covered by a temporary dressing. He cries as Ross carries him to the bench. I place a towel on it to give him a more secure footing.

  ‘You’re a wuss. You’ve had enough painkillers to knock out an elephant. I think you’re crying because you’re afraid it’s going to hurt.’ Ross checks him over. He can support some weight on his back legs, he can feel him touching his hind paws, and he can wag his tail, but he can’t stand on his own. Ross frowns and shakes his head. He looks utterly miserable.

  I reach out and stroke his arm.

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ I say quietly. ‘You’ve done the best you could, considering the circumstances. Others might have been quicker to give up on him.’