by Gillian Hick
I flashed a grateful look of thanks at him. It would have helped too if I had been a bit more experienced at the job!
Claire was staring at me with a puzzled look on her face. ‘I know you from somewhere, don’t I?’ Before I could deny it, it came to her with a sense of total shock and outrage. ‘You’re the vet who gave the talk on animal welfare this morning, aren’t you?’
I just couldn’t believe my luck.
‘You’d think you’d practise what you preach!’ she admonished me, with a look of scorn that only a teenager could muster.
My explanations about the local anaesthetic and how hill cattle roar with the upset of being handled were wasted as she glared disbelievingly at me. In fairness to Joe, he tried to back me up but, naturally, Claire knew more than her father.
Oh well, I thought, it really was one of those days. I sighed at my shattered reputation as I went on to do the last bullock. The procedure went a little more smoothly than the last two but Claire was clearly not at all impressed.
Once out of the crush, the cattle grazed contentedly as though the whole ordeal had been forgotten. I looked wistfully at the bleeding welts on my hands and I knew there was no point in explaining that I was probably in more pain than they were. Nobody cares about vet welfare!
I washed the instruments off before bringing them back to the car. Slug was delighted by the smell of fresh hot blood and did her best to lick it off from anywhere she could reach. It was on days like these that she really loved her job.
As I packed away the gear, Claire gleefully dropped the final bombshell. ‘Do you know you used the F-word twice during your talk?’
I had a habit of cursing during moments of stress. In fact, with hindsight, I was surprised I had only used it twice. I thanked God that my rising colour would be hidden by the blood stains on my face. I pitied Joe and his wife living with a little horror like that.
‘I think you could do with a cup of tea and a wash,’ Joe said, grinning sympathetically at me.
In fairness to Paula, Joe’s wife, she did her best to contain her shock as what must have looked like a blood-spattered extra from a Dracula film appeared at her kitchen door. However, the toddler playing away contentedly on the floor took one look at me before disappearing with a high-pitched wail into the next room.
Throughout my first summer of work, I often had to wash down with the power hose in the yard, but after a particularly dirty job I had become accustomed to being invited into the dairy or even the kitchen. This time was the worst yet. I cringed with embarrassment as Paula enquired kindly, ‘Would you like to take a bath while I boil the kettle for a cup of tea?’
CHAPTER TEN
THE CAT-HUNT
Late nights and Sunday afternoons were the usual times for calls from the various animal sanctuaries. All vets do a certain amount of animal welfare work but the times when the general public suddenly chose to take an interest in such issues always amused me. It was amazing how, on the way into the pub, people would happily walk past an innocent night-time rambler but, after closing time, they would feel morally obliged to rescue him and save him from his fate. In their well lubricated sense of conscientiousness, somebody would always feel the need to ensure prompt veterinary attention for the animal who, in reality, was probably not lost at all. Of course, when it came to footing the bill, these kindhearted souls would magically disappear, satisfied that they had adequately fulfilled their obligation to society.
Equally, on Sunday afternoons, especially on rainy ones, it was not uncommon to get a call from one of the sanctuaries with a request to attend a call from a member of the public – presumably someone for whom getting a vet out would break the monotony of an otherwise dull day.
This Sunday was to be no different. I had just returned home from treating a pedigree calf with a broken leg when the phone rang.
‘Hi, Gillian. Sorry to bother you but I’ve just had a frantic call from an estate on the northside. They say there’s a cat after getting badly mauled by a collie in one of the gardens.’
Rita was a full-time employee at one of the local sanctuaries and we had been involved in a few hairy cases together. She was well used to these Sunday-afternoon call-outs and had often sympathised with me when, having driven twenty or so miles to an ‘urgent’ case, I would arrive to find the weather had cleared up and the person who had reported the case had headed off to the beach – the animal forgotten under the changed circumstances.
‘It’s no problem, Rita. Do you have an owner?’
‘I’m afraid not. Apparently it’s been straying in the area for quite a while and it’s fairly wild. Of course nobody bothered about it before now. I would imagine it’s a case for euthanasia.’
In many of these cases euthanasia was the unfortunate but also the only realistic option for the animal. Where literally dozens of healthy cats and kittens are put to sleep every week, it is hopeless to try re-homing the really wild ones that take weeks or even months to tame. The best we can offer in a situation where an animal can’t fend for itself is a dignified and painless death.
I scribbled down the address and grabbed a cat-cage before making my way back down the road in the direction of Buttercup Valley. I often wondered which inspired planner had chosen the names for some of Dublin’s less salubrious housing estates. Titles such as Primrose Lawns or Heatherview Gardens seemed incongruous in the miniature concrete jungles where not so much as a blade of grass was visible. I could never decide if it was a subconscious effort to make up for the lack of green spaces or just a slightly dubious attempt at black humour.
I had a rough idea where Buttercup Valley was to be found along with an assortment of Buttercup Lawns, Rises, Views, Drives, Groves and many others. I could never figure out if these estates had had any signposts in the first place and if they had all been removed by vandals. I knew from past experience that stopping to ask for directions in such places was a bad idea as you were likely to get mobbed by a group of kids or, at the very worst, have a few weapons hurled through your windscreen.
I kept my eyes down and drove at speed past the gangs of curious kids gathered on each corner, swerving to avoid the burnt-out car in the middle of the road and narrowly avoiding a collision with a piebald galloping down the street, spurred on by his two juvenile riders.
Eventually, having driven up and down most of the minor roadways, I came across an excited group of youngsters congregated in the tiny front garden of a rundown house. As they saw the car approaching, they jumped out in front of me to wave me down. I decided this must be the right place. Battling through the crowd of excited onlookers, I made my way around to the boot to get the cat-cage.
‘Missus, can I hold yer bag for ye?’
‘Auld Rover had a bleedin’ great time. He hasn’t run as fast in years!’
‘Ye’ll have some job catching Tiger – ’e’s a mad bastard.’
Oh great, I thought, they hadn’t even caught the cat. I had the distinct feeling that this whole journey was going to be yet another waste of time.
I tried to adopt an orderly approach to what seemed like an increasingly chaotic situation.
‘I don’t have a bag, thanks, but you can bring in the cage if you like.’ I made a habit of not carrying any drugs on these calls. In the past I had learned, much to my amazement, of the street value of some of our sedatives, anaesthetic agents and other medicines. I once heard of a friend whose car was robbed of a large quantity of small white worm tablets. The perpetrator was found selling them for twenty euro apiece in town that night!
Rover, I assumed, was the elderly, tired but contented-looking collie-type dog flopped out on the grass. So he was the culprit. Clearly, the exertion of a live chase had brought him to the point of exhaustion.
The kids became increasingly noisy as I approached the front door and when their clamour reached loudspeaker level, I took a deep breath and roared at the top of my voice: ‘WILL YOU ALL BE QUIET, PLEASE!’
For about two seconds ther
e was relative peace and then it started again as they outdid each other yelling.
‘Yeah, did yez hear what she said? Just shut the fuck up!’
‘Chris, if ye don’t shut yer bleedin’ trap, I’ll box ye.’
‘Would yez just let yer wan talk?’
‘QUIET!’ I bellowed again, as two of the lads started a free-for-all brawl in the background. The ferocity of my voice obviously had some effect as a subdued silence fell on the onlookers. Seizing my opportunity, I marched up to the dazed-looking woman in the doorway, who was dragging on what I first presumed to be a cigarette but which closer inspection revealed to be a joint of some kind. She glared at me suspiciously as though I posed a threat to her hash-induced state of tranquillity.
‘You must be Mrs Mullan,’ I began hesitantly. ‘I believe you have an injured cat.’
I never found out if indeed she was Mrs Mullan, as she gazed through me with expressionless eyes. One of the younger kids pushed his way forward through the crowd with a great air of self-importance.
‘Don’t mind me Ma, Missus. She’s spaced oura her trolley. Come on into the back garden. Rover ran de cat into de shed. He’s still in it.’
I followed the spiky-haired youngster past Mrs Mullan who eyed me warily without saying a word. I was beginning to wonder if I was forming an hallucination in her fuzzy brain.
She didn’t appear to either care or notice as literally dozens of kids trooped past her through the house.
‘Here, Spike, we’ll give yez a hand catchin’ the moggy.’
Whatever about the kids, I shut the door firmly on the disappointed-looking Rover. I think he was ready for round two. Mind you, I thought he was probably the one with the best chance of catching the cat.
Spike brought me up to a battered-looking shed at the end of the garden and flung open the door. ‘He’s in dere!’ he informed me triumphantly.
I stared in dismay at the tiny shed, packed to the ceiling with various bits and pieces of broken furniture, old bikes and bulging rubbish bins. There was no sign of my patient.
As I became accustomed to the dim light, however, I was able to pick out a pair of furious green eyes watching me from the darkest corner. I could just about make out the outline of a vividly-striped, orange feline crouching behind a broken chair. This was not going to be easy.
‘Okay, everyone out!’ I ordered, pulling on a pair of long, protective gloves, in what seemed like a vain precaution to prevent my arms from being shredded. I shut the door firmly behind me and gingerly approached the hissing cat.
‘Here, puss, puss, puss,’ I coaxed encouragingly.
Tiger eyeballed me warningly from his safe haven as I slowly extended my hand towards him. Just as I was about to grab the scruffy coat, he darted past me, bringing with him half a dozen old paint cans. It was at this stage that Spike could obviously contain himself no longer and opened the door. An orange bolt of lightning shot out past him.
A cheer erupted from the crowd gathered outside. Obviously this was high entertainment on a boring Sunday afternoon.
In the confusion that followed, nobody seemed to notice that the cat had made his way off to the far corner of the garden and perched himself on top of the boundary wall. As far as you could see, rows of similar breezeblock walls interrupted the narrow strips of garden. A few heads, both human and canine, began appearing over the wall-tops as the cat sat glaring indignantly at the scene. I could see a graze on the end of his tail, obviously inflicted by the gallant Rover, but, judging by the speed with which he had reached safety on top of the wall, I wasn’t particularly worried about him. Cats have great healing powers and one that couldn’t be caught generally wasn’t in too much danger.
I was just about to call a halt to the whole proceedings when a stringy little terrier caught sight of the cat and set up a lusty baying as though his life depended on it. Within seconds, dogs appeared out of nowhere and joined in the bloodcurdling cry. No pack of hunting hounds could have been more enthusiastic.
‘Listen, lads,’ I roared, ‘the cat’s okay. Leave him alone until the dogs settle down again. He’ll only get hurt if he comes down off the wall.’ But it was too late. Before I could stop him, one of the kids had got the bright idea of grabbing a sweeping brush to evict the cat from his safe haven in a vain attempt to catch him. Flailing claws flew in all directions as the cat spat vehemently at his assailant before being knocked off his perch in a clean sweep into the next garden.
A joyous baying rang out anew as the cat, followed by a pack of dogs, followed by a horde of children, followed lastly, and at a good distance behind, by myself, raced from garden to garden over the series of natural hurdles formed by the walls.
I don’t know how many gardens we crossed, our numbers increasing at every one, before the unfortunate Tiger eventually found safety on top of a garden shed. A few of the more athletic dogs made several attempts to join him but couldn’t quite manage it. From his new-found sanctuary, he glowered down furiously at his tormentors.
‘Now leave the cat alone,’ I panted between gasping breaths. Whoever said small-animal practice was easy? ‘He’ll make his way down when the dogs are gone.’
It took some time to convince the rebel hunters to disperse – the last few hung on for quite a while until it became obvious that the fun really was over. I hastily explained to the owner of the house whose garden we had ended up in why a pack of excited dogs and children had been charging around her garden. She didn’t seem remotely put out.
‘Ye look shagged, Missus, if ye don’t mind me saying. Will ye have a cup o’ tea?’ she offered kindly.
I was so frazzled by the events of the last half hour that I was tempted to accept her kind offer, but decided against it in favour of a quick get-away. She accompanied me out to the front door and I was at least saved the indignity of having to scramble back over the walls.
‘And don’t you be worryin’ about de cat. I’ll look after de poor little bugger,’ she assured me as I began the traipse back to my car, which, by now, was quite some distance away.
I sank back into the seat, having returned the empty cat-cage to the boot, just as the phone rang. I swore silently under my breath. I’d had enough for one day.
‘Gillian?’ Rita’s voice rang out on the other end. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no more calls for you. I just rang to see how you got on with the cat.’
‘Rita, you’ll never believe what happened!’
* * *
It was unfortunate that that Sunday was to be my last one working in the area as Michael was due back to work the next morning. I found it hard to believe that five months had passed since graduation day and I felt a little bit older but not much wiser than the day I had started.
Donal and I had gone out for a few drinks the night before with Liz, Justin and Michael, and their respective partners.
‘We’d be delighted to have you back any time,’ laughed Michael. ‘That is, if you’d want to come back!’
I had no more calls for the day so I headed back to the surgery for the last time and I packed up the few belongings of mine that had accumulated over the few months. With Slug curled up in the seat beside me, we headed for home, not knowing what adventures lay in store for us next.
LOCUM
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CHRISTMAS CAT
Job interviews in veterinary weren’t quite like those for any normal job. The usual procedures of advertising the job, with applicants sending CVs, followed up by at least one interview, were often dispensed with. In a profession where only fifty or so graduates qualified in Ireland each year, the veterinary community was intimate and tight-knit. Everyone knew everyone, or at least everyone knew someone who knew everyone. The fact that students spent most of their holidays seeing practice with the same vets, often the ones they would later look for work from, ensured that the formalities were usually ignored.
Most jobs were filled without ever having been advertised, to the extent that if you saw a job in the pa
pers, it was often an indication that there was something distinctly dodgy about it. At least in that situation, you were always able to log on to the graduate gossip-line and find out exactly what the problem was. Vets who got themselves a bad name as an employer ran into serious problems. Unfortunately, it worked the other way around as well. If you messed up in one job, you might find yourself having trouble finding another placement.
Several practices had a name for being good places to start off. They had had so many new graduates go through them that you were likely to be quickly forgotten. This made an excellent base from which to make all your early mistakes.
A fortnight before Michael was due to return, I met an elderly vet for an interview. This did not take place in his office, but in the local pub. Once we got chatting, we realised that the job wouldn’t suit for various reasons, but that was no excuse to miss out on a social occasion. We stayed until closing time.
Shortly afterwards at a wedding, I met a vet to whom I’d been half-thinking of applying for a job. It was the perfect chance to become acquainted. And that we did. By last orders we were in rare old form and having great craic discussing God knows what. I’m sure we were talking great sense too. The only problem arose the next morning – I had absolutely no recollection of whether we had discussed a job at all, or if indeed he might have offered me one. If he did, had I accepted? When I met him it was clear that he had even less recollection of what had been said than I had.
I began putting out feelers by ringing around a few friends to see what was on the market. Not a lot. The few vacant jobs were vacant for a reason. I decided to hold on until something a bit more promising came up.
As a trickle of jobs appeared in the Irish Veterinary Journal, I rang around a few practices.
‘Send me a CV and I’ll get back to you,’ said one.
