by Gillian Hick
I did and he didn’t.
‘Come down some evening for a few drinks,’ said another.
I rang to arrange it the next week but he’d already taken someone on.
‘Sorry, I hope you don’t mind,’ he said.
I did, but what could I say?
Initially, I wasn’t keen on doing locum work as I felt too inexperienced to work on my own, but time was passing by with no sign of a job. Joyce, a friend of mine from school days, rang me one morning to say that she had mentioned to her own vet, Bill, in Drogheda, that I was looking for work. He was planning to go away for Christmas and as yet had no locum booked. Although I didn’t want to be away from home at Christmas, I thought it was too good an opportunity to miss as he had a busy cattle practice. Being a butcher, Christmas was a busy time for Donal and I knew that he would be working solidly until late on Christmas Eve anyway. We arranged that he would drive to Joyce’s for dinner on Christmas Day and then stay on with me for the remainder of the week in Bill’s house.
The first few days were remarkably quiet as most people who rang, once they heard that Bill was away, decided to hold on until he got back. I decided not to take it too personally. By Christmas morning I was feeling nice and relaxed, and confident that I would be able to manage whatever trivial cases might come in. I was looking forward to Donal coming down as we had only managed a few brief phone calls in the preceding days.
It was not the classic picture-postcard Christmas weather, but dull and miserable; not cold enough to feel Christmassy but damp and dark enough to make you want to stay indoors.
By midday, I had gone to Mass in the local church, and I was on my way over to Joyce’s house for dinner where I had arranged to meet Donal. Well and all as we got on, Joyce certainly wasn’t used to veterinary life and I hoped that I wouldn’t get a call while I was with her. In her regular nine-to-five job the idea of setting aside the wine-glasses on Christmas day to go off on a call to attend a sick animal was just not an option.
‘We’ve planned dinner for one o’clock, so it might be ready for two if we’re lucky,’ she had laughed the week before.
‘Perfect!’ I replied, adding on a cautionary note, ‘if I get called out, I’ll let you know and you just go ahead without me.’
‘Called out at dinner-time on Christmas day?’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘Who’d be mad enough to do that?’
So far so good, I thought, as I took the exit off the roundabout which would bring me to the housing estate where Joyce and her partner, Greg, lived. I was nice and early and I knew they would both be ready and waiting, in festive mood. There had not been so much as a squeak out of the phones since ten o’clock the previous evening, when a highly indignant – and slightly slurred – lady rang to tell me that one of her husband’s friends had thought it would be a good joke to let her prize tropical fish join in the festive spirit and had generously lashed in a good helping of Southern Comfort to their aquarium.
‘What,’ she enquired forlornly, ‘should I do?’
Good question, I thought to myself. I tentatively volunteered the suggestion that she should try changing the water gradually and adding a bit of Stress Coat – the multipurpose supplement for aquarium water.
Great, I thought. So much for a busy cattle practice. I consoled myself that, judging from the sound of her, if the fish were all belly-up in the morning, she probably wouldn’t remember who had given her the advice anyway. In fact, it was quite possible that she wasn’t even a bona fide client and had simply picked the practice number at random out of the local business directory, as was all too common at holiday periods.
Bill had advised me of this and left me with a warning to do emergency calls for clients only.
‘If we’re not good enough for them during the rest of the year, then we’re not good enough for them during the holidays,’ he added gruffly, obviously having suffered much from these situations before.
It was almost half-past twelve when I pulled into the corner house, with its coloured fairy lights festooned over the porch and the welcoming glow of lamps in the windows. As yet, there was no sign of Donal’s car in the driveway but I knew he wasn’t far away.
As I raised my hand to the doorbell, the mobile rang. Surely, I thought, just a well-wisher replying to one of the many early text messages that I had sent that morning.
The breathless woman’s voice at the other end soon told me otherwise.
‘Is that the vet’s?’ she enquired hurriedly. ‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed when I explained that Bill was on holidays but that I was covering for him. ‘I knew Mr Ryan had gone away but I didn’t know if there would be anyone there in his place.’
‘What can I do for you?’ I asked patiently.
‘Well, I’ve just come out of a friend’s house and as I pulled out, I thought I saw something dart out in front of me. I felt the bump. I got out and couldn’t see a thing, but just as I was about to go again, I caught a glimpse of something in the bushes. It’s a little cat and I must have run over it.
‘Oh, I feel so awful!’ she went on. ‘I couldn’t avoid it, really I couldn’t.’
‘These things can happen in an instant,’ I consoled her. ‘The cat may even have been up under your car looking for heat. You had no way of knowing. Does she seem to be badly hurt?’ I questioned, all too keenly aware of the delicious cooking smells wafting out from the front porch.
‘Oh yes, she’s in a terrible state,’ the lady continued, her voice quavering. ‘She’s just lying there and there’s blood coming out of her nose. She doesn’t seem to be moving at all but I’m afraid to touch her.’
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’ I enquired delicately, not wanting to further upset the obviously distraught woman.
‘Oh yes, she is, I can see her little chest moving, all right. Please, can you come out? I know it’s Christmas day and you’re probably just about to start your dinner,’ she said as though reading my thoughts, ‘but I feel so awful. She looks well cared for and some poor child is going to be brokenhearted if you don’t do something. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll pay for it myself.’
My only dilemma was how to explain to my host that, having arrived for dinner, I was now leaving again. Peeping through the front window, I couldn’t see anyone and quickly decided that if they didn’t know I had arrived yet, I could probably get away and be back again before I was any more than fashionably late.
The little cat lay crumpled in the ditch. A few people had gathered around with the usual morbid fascination. I could immediately see that it was hopeless. Her rapid, shallow breathing was almost imperceptible. I gently checked her gums and the blanched colour, in stark contrast to the deep red blood pooled in front of her, confirmed that the tiny creature was not far from death. A shocked gasp arose from those close enough to see, as, having quickly checked for fractures, I rolled her over to see an eye protruding from its socket. This, and the awkward angle of the fractured leg drew the attention of the onlookers but, although they did not necessarily worry me unduly, the faint heartbeat and the unresponsive pupils made my mind up. There was no option but to put the little cat to sleep.
As yet, no owner had been found and while I went through the motions of further examining the shattered little body, I was trying to work out the best way of doing it. Looking up at the hopeful young faces of the children all dressed up in their Christmas best, I quickly made up my mind. Gently wrapping the cat in the blanket that one thoughtful onlooker had brought out, I turned to the lady who had phoned and told her that it would be best if I brought the cat back to the surgery. I assured her that I would let her know later how we had got on. She hurriedly scribbled down her name and number. I felt slightly guilty about the deception, even more so when I noticed one small girl clutching her big sister’s hand with tears in her eyes. ‘Please make her better,’ she whispered as I turned away.
What a start to the day! I thought to myself, as I headed back to the surgery, in a direction that was taking me still further f
rom my Christmas dinner. At least if I had been able to do something I wouldn’t have minded, but looking at the motionless body beside me, I was quite sure that there was nothing I could do to save the animal.
The spirit of peace and goodwill evoked by the Christmas Mass had entirely evaporated as I dejectedly opened the surgery door, knowing that some child was going to have a very unhappy Christmas. I felt such a failure that I could do nothing for the little black cat on this of all days in the year.
I rang Donal to let him know I was delayed, but wouldn’t be much longer.
‘Oh well,’ he sighed philosophically, ‘why would today be any different to any other day?’
The surgery was eerily still and quiet. I carried the little bundle to the consulting table and went into the back room to fill a syringe full of the lethal agent. Gently, I unwrapped the blanket, half expecting to find the cat dead already. She was still breathing, although only just. I ran my hand down along the sleek coat, noticing the velvety red collar which, judging by its newness, might only have been put on that very morning. For a second time I took it off and examined it, hoping against hope that I might have missed a name or phone number. I don’t know why I decided to put it back on her again – somehow it just seemed right. For the last time, I stroked the sleek body as I reached to pick up the syringe. I paused for a moment. And looked again. I gently laid my hand back on her chest. No! I must be imagining it. For a moment, I thought I had felt a purr from deep within. I waited for the next faint breath but there it was again. A deep rumble. Again, I ran my hand along her body and with each exhalation came the purr, growing ever so slightly louder with each breath. Quickly, I racked my brains to see was there some innate physiological reflex that caused purring with imminent death – a sort of a feline swan song – but it didn’t make sense to me. I pulled out a stethoscope and placed it over the ribcage and listened intently to the faint but regular heartbeat, and, in between, the deep, throbbing rumble. As it was by now well after one o’clock, I reckoned I was most unfashionably late for dinner anyway and, somehow, I just couldn’t give up on this little creature now.
It was worth a try, I decided.
I moistened a gauze swab with saline and placed it carefully over the prolapsed eyeball, having lubricated it with a viscous eye ointment. After a quick root in the surgery drawers, I pulled out the narrowest intravenous cannula I could find and clipped up the forearm. This cat desperately needed fluids – and probably lots, lots more, too, than I with my scant six months’ experience could offer. Holding my breath, I clamped the leg with one hand and rapidly pumped the paw. I poked hopelessly at the shaved limb, waiting to find even a hint of a vein. Nothing. I inserted the point of the cannula, eyes fixed on the hub, hoping to see a drop of blood. Still nothing. Again, I redirected the needle. Still no blood. The little cat lay motionless. The purring had stopped now. Repeated attempts failed to locate anything that might in any way resemble a vein through which to administer the fluids which now lay heating in a sink full of hot tap water. With renewed enthusiasm, I tried the other leg. Still nothing. I tried to convince myself that it was due to the state of shock the cat was in, and that her delicate little veins had totally collapsed, but I still wondered if it was just me.
Had I not been too far away I might have taken up Paddy, from my first attempt at euthanising a dog, on his offer. Being so laid back, they might not have minded a Christmas callout.
In desperation, I removed the red collar yet again. This time I clipped some hair from the neck, hoping to find a jugular vein. So engrossed was I in the procedure, that I jumped guiltily when the phone rang, as though someone had caught me in the act of doing such a feeble job. Joyce’s voice brought me back to reality with a start. I glanced at my watch and realised it was after two o’clock.
‘Gillian, where are you? We’re here waiting for you. Donal’s been here for ages. What on earth are you doing?’
Apologising as humbly as I could, I filled her in and asked her to go ahead without me. Judging by the merry sounds in the background, I wouldn’t be missed too much anyway.
‘I just hope the owners appreciate what you are doing for them,’ Joyce finished, clearly indignant about the whole business. I didn’t bother to fill her in on the details of the cat’s present unclaimed status.
By now, the bag of fluids heating in the sink was practically boiling, so I emptied the sink and filled it with cold water, feeling slightly as though I were setting out on a merry-go-round. After a last failed stab at the elusive jugular, I decided on a new approach. Trying to recall our fluid therapy lectures in college, I could picture the page of options in the typed notes: subcutaneous (too slow), intravenous (if only), intraperitoneal – too slow as well but, at this stage, probably better than nothing.
While not an ideal option for a cat suffering from shock, I had no alternative now, so I clipped a small amount of hair from the abdomen and, having swabbed it with disinfectant, gently inserted a needle through the body wall. I hoped I had hit the right spot as I injected first one, and then a second syringe full of the now suitably cooled fluids.
The cat was still motionless. Now, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t elicit the purr. I was beginning to wonder had I imagined it all.
Feeling disheartened, I rechecked the tiny body but, other than the eye and the broken leg, I could find no other obvious injuries – well, not obvious to me anyway. I didn’t know if there was any internal bleeding or not but decided to bandage the abdomen anyway – it could do no harm.
I filled another syringe full of fluids, gently flushed out the prolapsed eye and with a fresh piece of saline-soaked gauze, I managed to clean off the pieces of dirt that had adhered to the drying organ. I placed a suture in both eyelids, wishing it was not Christmas Day and that I could call on an extra pair of hands to help. Although under normal circumstances, this procedure would be carried out under general anaesthetic, with the cat unconscious, there was no need. Using one hand to pull the eyelids apart, I used my other hand to try to ease the lubricated eye back into the empty socket with the moistened gauze swab. It took far more pressure than I had anticipated as it stubbornly slithered out first one side and then the other, obstinately refusing to go in the direction I required. I was beginning to reconsider that syringe of lethal injection when suddenly, as if by magic, the eye slotted back into the socket and, for the first time, I felt that maybe there was hope. The eye looked relatively okay but I decided to suture the lids together anyway, having applied a generous squirt of antibiotic eye ointment.
Next, I examined the leg which dangled helplessly off the blanket. After a quick examination, I thanked God that at least it was a pretty clean break and that no sharp edges had gone through the skin. However, trying to straighten the leg required a bit of effort. Slowly and carefully, I pulled the fractured end from the body, while trying with my other hand to realign the sharp edges. As I did so, a sudden deep yowl came from the cat and she pulled her leg against me. Despite her obvious pain, I was delighted to get some reaction. Initially, I had been afraid to give her any further medication but now I injected more painkillers, frustrated that I didn’t have access to a vein to allow them to work more rapidly. Another rummage through the presses revealed an assortment of bandages and some plaster of Paris that would do to cast the leg. Having soaked the casting material in some warm water, I applied it as best I could, hoping that the realigned ends of the fractured radius would stay in place until it set. After a few minutes, the cast was nice and hard and I started the laborious task of cleaning up the mess.
The cat was now quiet again, and her breathing seemed easier than before. Her pale membranes still scared me though.
By this stage, I decided that I was so late anyway I might as well have a last try for the elusive vein.
Pulling out yet another cannula from its sterile sheath, I stretched out the cat’s neck and placed my finger deep into the groove where the vein should have been. But to no avail – try as I might,
I couldn’t feel anything. Hopelessly, I poked the point of the cannula into the general area of the vein, redirecting it again and again. Just as I was about to give up again, a little bubble of blood appeared in the hub and I held my breath, afraid to move in case the sharp tip of the stylet would pierce through the fragile, collapsing vein. Ever so slowly, I advanced the plastic cannula, gradually withdrawing the metal stylet, and, still holding my breath, watched as the drop of blood on the hub slowly enlarged and finally dropped on to the cat’s neck. I felt like dancing for joy but contained myself in case it all fell out. Then I realised that the giving set – the plastic tubing that connects the bag of fluids to the intravenous cannula – which I had left ready to hand, had by now made its way over to the far side of the table. This meant that I had to balance precariously on one leg still holding the line in place, while stretching over with the other hand, to retrieve the errant giving set with the tip of my finger. Having finally attached it to the bag of fluids, I released the valve and then cursed as nothing happened – until I saw the kink in the tubing. Once readjusted, the fluids ran in freely.
Happy at last, I sutured the cannula in place, determined that it wouldn’t come out again. Drawing from the depths of my memory of six months previously in college, I tried to recall the formula for the shock rate of fluids for a cat. Having hooked the fluid bag off a conveniently located press handle, I again began to stroke the black fur. And there it was – the deep-throated purr. Time blurred as I stood there, stroking the cat’s body in time with the purr, almost hypnotising myself, whatever about the cat.
Eventually, I dragged myself away. There was nothing more I could do. Although I doubted it, the colour of the cat’s gums did seem to be improving and, as I checked the reflexes in her unsutured eye, she started to paddle her paws.
Having done what I could, I suddenly remembered my neglected stomach and the smell of roast turkey that had been wafting out from Joyce’s porch. With the cat tucked up in a small cage, I fished in my pocket for the torn piece of paper and dialled the number of the lady who had rung me in the first place.
