City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  “You’ve opened it,” I say.

  “I always open the post for Emma.”

  “I’d prefer you not to open mine in future, thank you.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity,” she says. “It saves so much time—and you vets are always so busy. Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” I say sharply. I don’t want anyone reading my personal stuff, and from the handwriting on the envelope, I know this is personal. In spite of everything that’s happened, my heart leaps into my throat and my knees turn to jelly as I pull out the letter. He’s realized how much I meant to him, he can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t live without me … and it serves him bloody well right!

  I escape into the consulting room, where I scan the letter in private—it doesn’t take long because it’s just a compliments slip headed with the Crossways logo.

  Maz, you left some books. Let Carol know if you want them sent on. Mike.

  I feel slightly sick as I picture Mike scribbling that note, making it clear I’m to contact one of the receptionists, not him, if I want my kit back. Scolding myself for my moment of weakness, I screw the paper up and aim it at the bin behind the desk.

  “News from your old practice?” Frances inquires from where she’s crept up to the consulting room door, her expression one of deep concern.

  “Just some junk mail,” I say, knowing that she knows that I know that she knows very well what it says.

  Frances’s lips form a silent O, and I wonder if she’s miffed because I haven’t chosen to confide in her. Well, there’s no way. I’ve seen how gossip spreads in this town—it’s faster than an outbreak of foot-and-mouth. I think of the woman at the checkout at the garden center and talk of Emma’s “pregnancy”—it’s like foot-in-mouth as well.

  Frances looks past me. “Leave it outside, Gloria.”

  Gloria struggles to push an old sit-up-and-beg bicycle, one with high handlebars that you can ride with your back straight, through the double doors into Reception. It has a wicker basket balanced on the handlebars.

  “I’d rather you kept an eye on it.” Catching her breath, Gloria props it against the desk. I notice how her clothes are hanging off her bones, as if there’s no flesh between. She isn’t wearing her black pearls today; instead she has on a piece of amber on a silver chain.

  “Maz, you’re going to need gauntlets,” she says with glee. “Ginge is in one of his moods.” She lifts the wicker basket all tied up with string, and the bottom falls out, along with a streak of ginger tabby, which springs over the reception desk before disappearing beneath the shelves of pet food.

  Now what? The general rule in the event of emergency is keep calm, but the idea of chasing a wild cat through town makes the adrenaline kick in.

  “Lock the doors!” I order and slip the top bolt on the doors on the way in. “Patient on the loose!”

  “I thought he was supposed to be sick,” Frances observes. “I’ll call Izzy through to help you catch him.”

  I squat down beside the units. “Come here, little cat,” I coax.

  He answers me with a furious hiss and a gusty aroma of rotten fish. I put my hand out just in front of the gap between the bottom shelf and the floor, wondering how on earth he squeezed himself in there. A pink nose and a fine set of whiskers emerge very slowly, followed by the strike of a paw.

  “Ow, ow, ow.” Unsheathed claws snag on my skin as I pull my hand away.

  “He got you then. I knew he would.” I breathe through the pain, watching the bobbles of blood well up and coalesce on the back of my hand, as Gloria goes on. “Emma always has the gauntlets ready.”

  I fetch them, a pair of leather gloves that reach up to my elbows, and a thick towel, and then I do a commando crawl along the floor, trying to wheedle Ginge out. Eventually, he darts out toward the window, which is firmly closed. I make a tackle Jonny Wilkinson would be proud of, grab the cat, and take him, growling and wriggling inside the towel, into the consulting room.

  Izzy joins me and Gloria, shutting the door firmly behind us.

  “My Ginge is a little on the skinny side,” Gloria says.

  That’s an understatement. If Ginge was a supermodel, he’d be a size zero, a bit like Gloria in fact. He’s so thin that I can see the apex of his heart beating against his chest as he sits hunched on the table like a stroppy stegosaur, but there’s something about him that tugs on my heartstrings. He’s feisty, bright, and independent, and in spite of the fact that Gloria’s supposed to be looking after him, he appears in need of some TLC.

  “I can’t understand it,” says Gloria. “He eats like a horse.”

  It doesn’t take long to discover Ginge’s problem: he’s hyperthyroid. His metabolism is in overdrive, making him restless and wild-eyed. I explain the tests I need to run before I can advise on the best option for treatment: tablets to reduce the level of thyroid hormone in his blood, surgery, or radiation therapy at a specialist center.

  “That all sounds terribly expensive.” Gloria fingers the piece of amber around her neck with knobbly fingers marked with liver spots. I notice that there’s an insect trapped inside, some prehistoric bug, which seems an odd choice of material for jewelry. “What happens if I let nature run its course?”

  “He’ll die.”

  “You’re very blunt, young woman.” Her teeth slip about on her gums. “Emma wouldn’t have put it like that. I think I’ll wait till she’s back and have a chat with her. I’ve known Emma since she was a baby. I trust her to tell me what’s what.”

  “I trained at vet school with her. We learned exactly the same stuff,” I say. I do have my pride. “Emma won’t tell you anything different, and I’m guessing if Ginge carries on without treatment, he’ll be long gone by the time she returns.”

  “Well, I really don’t know what to do for the best.”

  “Do you care about what happens to Ginge?” I’m beginning to lose my patience with Gloria. She’s come here for my advice, yet she won’t take it. “If you’re unable or unwilling to commit to looking after Ginge properly, maybe it’s fairer to put him down sooner rather than later, so he doesn’t have to suffer.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly …” Gloria’s icy expression starts to defrost, and a tear trickles across her cheek, streaking through the powder. “How much will it cost for the tests you mentioned?”

  I soften a little. She isn’t completely heartless after all. I suspect that her reluctance to make an appointment, her defensive attitude, and her desire to delay Ginge’s treatment are all down to money, or the lack of it.

  “I want to do what’s best for all my animals.” She reaches out to touch Ginge’s head but thinks better of it when he opens his mouth to hiss at her too.

  “How many do you have now?” I ask, at which Gloria seems to shrink back into her protective shell.

  “More than most people,” she says. “Mainly cats and a few dogs.”

  “Okay, why don’t I take the blood today anyway?” I say, deciding not to push her. “We can worry about the bill later.” I think of Nigel’s cash flow and Emma’s profits. I look at Ginge. I look at Gloria’s frayed cardigan, the runs in her double-layered tights, and the holes in her shoes. What else can I do?

  It’s a challenge taking blood from a cat so on edge, but Izzy and I manage at the third attempt to get a reasonable volume for the lab. I send Ginge home in a loaned wire basket with an appointment to return before his course of tablets runs out. When Gloria has finally left, I check through the computer records and ask Izzy to dig out the notes that came from Talyton Manor Vets to see if I can find out how many animals she’s responsible for. I’m not sure about her. If you care for your pets as much as Gloria makes out, why do you wait so long before you bring one as sick as Ginge in to see a vet? His weight loss didn’t happen overnight.

  “The records aren’t terribly informative, I’m afraid,” Izzy says, handing them over to me in Kennels. Gloria’s animals are listed under the general headings of “dog” and �
��cat” so you can’t count them up, and, unsurprisingly, the notes are covered with red NOT PAID stamps. “There was a time when she was caring for forty or fifty animals over at Buttercross Cottage.” Izzy looks at me. “Not all in the cottage at once. Talyton Animal Rescue raised funds to build a cattery and kennel block in the garden. They called it the Sanctuary and ran it with Gloria and Fifi Green’s band of volunteers.”

  “Gloria was arguing with Fifi at the show,” I tell Izzy, pleased that she seems to have warmed to me a little more over our shared desire to do what’s best for Ginge. “Talyton Animal Rescue have withdrawn their support—I assume that much of that was financial, as well as practical.”

  “Those two have never really got on,” Izzy says. “Fifi had a fling with Gloria’s husband—it was some years ago, and she was much younger than him. It was the talk of Talyton for a while.”

  “I didn’t realize Gloria had been married.”

  “She’s a widow. He died from a stroke, I think. He was some big-shot lawyer in the city. Gloria might look as if she hasn’t got two pennies to rub together, but she’s loaded.”

  It’s certainly possible. Once, I offered to take an elderly woman with her Peke from a charity clinic to the main hospital before discovering that her chauffeur had parked the Bentley around the back. However, I still feel uneasy. Even if Gloria is coping with looking after herself and her pets, can she really get tablets down a semi-wild cat if required? I make a mental note to keep a close eye on Ginge’s progress.

  “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going to give Freddie a bath,” Izzy says. “I’m taking him up to the farm tonight. I haven’t told you yet, have I? Chris has agreed to give him a home. And a job,” she adds, chuckling. “He’s going to be a sheepdog.” Her expression grows sad.

  “That’s brilliant news, but you’re going to miss him, aren’t you?” I say.

  “Yes, but Chris has said I can visit him anytime I like,” Izzy says as she takes Freddie from his kennel and hugs him to her chest. He licks her nose and wags his tail.

  “I think he likes you.”

  Izzy grimaces, holds Freddie away from her, and gazes down at the dark trails forming on her scrubs. “He has a funny way of showing it—he’s just weed on me.”

  “You know very well that I’m talking about Chris.” Izzy’s complexion pinks up. “I saw the way he looked at you on Saturday.”

  “No. No way.” She hugs Freddie close again.

  “You do like him, don’t you? I mean, I can see the attractions—those sheepshearer’s muscles, and a hefty acreage, I should imagine.”

  Izzy giggles, then her expression grows serious. “Do you really think he likes me? I mean, I’ve always thought … Well, I don’t get to see him very often. He’s busy on the farm, and I’m always here, at Otter House.”

  I look at Freddie, his head pressed to Izzy’s chest and one ear being caressed by her thumb. I can hear him almost purring, like a cat. I hope—for Izzy’s sake—that there’s truth in the idea that animals can bring people together.

  I head back to Reception and call my next client through to the consulting room, noting that there are three more waiting and I’m running about twenty minutes behind, thanks to Gloria and Ginge.

  Harriet. Small furry. Brownish. Reason for consultation: Lump.

  Harriet’s owner introduces herself as Ally Jackson, roving reporter for the Talyton Chronicle—yes, the one who created the MUCK STICKS headline. Her suit is cut too small, the jacket creasing up into her armpits, the trousers ending an inch above her ankles, and it seems to have absorbed several eons of body odor, which it’s reemitting into the tight confines of the consulting room. Ally hands me a shoe box, skewered with holes and stuck down with Scotch tape.

  “We should have called her Houdini—my husband had to take the kitchen units apart to find her the other day.” Ally’s eyes start to fill with tears. “I don’t know what I shall tell the children if it’s cancer.”

  I offer her a tissue from the box I keep handy on top of the computer monitor. She takes several and blows her nose.

  “I never thought I’d get so fond of a hamster.”

  It is indeed difficult to comprehend, I think, looking into the box. A pair of eyes like black pinheads stare back. An impressive set of whiskers twitch in a highly threatening manner.

  “She’s very friendly,” Ally goes on.

  Almost reassured, I reach out to pick her up, making sure I’ve scruffed up all the loose skin at her neck, so she can’t twist round and clamp her jaws around my finger.

  “She’s only drawn blood once,” Ally adds as I lift Harriet onto the palm of my hand. “Can you see the lump? It’s under her tail. Is it …?”

  I can see two lumps, not one.

  “It isn’t cancer. Harriet’s having a problem with her gender identity. Those lumps are supposed to be there. She’s a boy.”

  “A boy?” Ally blushes. “You’d have thought I’d have known the difference by now—I’ve had three children.”

  I lower the hamster into the box, release it, and put the lid back on very quickly.

  “I’ll settle up at Reception, shall I?” Ally says.

  “There’s no charge.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Really.”

  “Thank you. You’re all so very kind here.”

  “That’s the second consultation you haven’t taken any money for,” Frances says in a low voice, once Ally has gone. “Emma would have charged for it.”

  “All I did was sex a hamster. It took two seconds.”

  “We’ll have every Tom, Dick, and Harry coming in, expecting a freebie.”

  “We’ll only have Tom and Dick,” I say lightly. “I’ve just seen Harry,” and try as I might, I couldn’t justify charging a fee for what I did. However, I realize Frances has a point. I’m running Emma’s business, not a charity. I turn to the waiting clients and call in the next one, a middle-aged woman who’s red-faced with embarrassment because her spaniel has just cocked his leg against one of the chairs.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “These things happen. We’re used to it.”

  “I’ll fetch Izzy,” Frances says.

  “She’ll be in the middle of bathing Freddie,” I say. “I don’t mind clearing up. It’ll only take me two minutes.”

  On balance, it’s been a pretty good day, I think when I’ve seen my last appointment and dealt with the last message in the daybook. I reckon Emma would be proud of me.

  “Good night, Maz,” Izzy says on her way out. Frances has already left. “I hope it’s a quiet one.”

  It is quiet. The phone remains silent for the rest of the evening, giving me the chance to eat dinner uninterrupted, watch a bit of television, and skim through Vet News before I shower, change, and fall into bed at eleven.

  An hour or so later, I’m woken by a thumping sound and shouting from outside. Wrapped in my duvet, I crawl out of bed and peer out the side window. There’s a four-by-four in the car park and a figure standing in the shadows at the entrance. Yawning, and slightly annoyed at someone turning up without phoning first, I pull a sweatshirt over my pajamas and head downstairs, switching all the lights on as I go.

  When I reach Reception, I can see a man standing on the porch with a jacket or something similar bundled up against his chest. As I move closer, I can make out his features and the color of his hair. It’s Alex Fox-Gifford. All I can think is, What the hell is he doing here?

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Maz,” he says as I hurry him straight through to the consulting room, having ascertained from the tail that sticks out from the bundle in his arms that he’s bringing a potential patient with him. Blood trickles down Alex’s wrists from scratches on his hands, and his face is pale beneath the bright artificial light as he places the bundle ever so gently on the table.

  “Don’t you have your own practice to go to?” I ask flippantly, then wish I hadn’t. This isn’t the time.

  “I hit the poor sod
in Market Square.” Alex unwraps the rest of what turns out to be a black-and-white jigsaw puzzle of a cat. Its ears are flattened against its skull. Its mouth is wide open as it struggles to breathe. “It shot out in front of my car, and I’m not carrying any drugs,” he continues. “Otherwise I’d have finished it off myself.”

  “Hang on a mo.” Did I hear him right? “What did you say? Finish him off?” The cat gazes up at me, helpless yet trusting, and my hackles rise with resentment at Alex’s lack of initiative. If I’d run the cat over, I’d be doing my utmost to restore him to health. “Let’s not be too hasty.”

  “I had a quick look before I wrapped him up. He’s lost most of one leg and he’s in a lot of pain. I thought it would be quicker to stop by here than drive up to the manor …” Alex looks up, his lips curving into a weak smile. “I did say I hoped to see you again soon.”

  “You could have just rung me, you know—you didn’t have to half kill a cat,” I say, feeling sorry now for Alex as well as the cat. They both appear to be in shock.

  I touch the cat’s head—his chunky cheeks are scarred, and he stinks of pee, confirming that he’s an entire tom. “He looks a bit scruffy and unloved.”

  “Like me,” Alex says, but he isn’t smiling any longer.

  I take a couple of quick chest X-rays—the machine’s new, all-singing, all-dancing, and it’s taken me a while to learn how to use it—and check with the scanner for a microchip. As I suspected, there isn’t one. There’s nothing to identify the poor cat’s owner, if he even has one. I check the X-rays once Alex has put the films through the automatic processor—there’s no evidence of a chest injury at least.

  “Good news.” I show Alex the cat’s jaw. “I can wire that, and I’ll amputate what’s left of the leg.”