It's a Vet's Life: (42 page)

‘I don’t know, Maz. I told you I was bloody useless.’

‘Hey, stop that. Did you have a bad night?’

‘I was called out four times, and then I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying about this little chap.’ Will hangs his stethoscope around his neck. ‘I admitted him because he had tummy ache. He’s been vomiting blood, he’s restless, and now he’s started panting and his muscles are twitching. His heart rate is so fast, I can barely count it.

‘He’s dehydrated, but why? It’s a mystery to me. He’s been vaccinated – it’s in his notes that you did it.’ Will scratches his head like a dog with lice. ‘He was a healthy young dog. I don’t understand it. Is it a virus, something he’s eaten or some obscure metabolic disorder?’

‘I wouldn’t jump straight for the metabolic thingy,’ I say. ‘Let’s go with first principles. What do you suggest you do next?’

‘I’ve taken some blood – Izzy’s putting it through the machine right now. I’ve got him on a second drip,
given
him some antibiotics as cover in case there’s an infection there, drugs to stop him throwing up and I’m debating giving him something to slow his heart. What do you think?’

‘I think you can forget about possible side effects and go ahead. If we don’t know what’s going on, we’ll have to treat the symptoms as they arise. Will, that’s all we can do. Let me know as soon as the bloods come through. I can call Lynsey if you like – she’s a good friend of mine.’

‘No pressure then,’ Will says, anguished.

‘You’ve done a good job so far. I wouldn’t have done anything differently.’

Will is frustrated because he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Raffles, but he’s going to have to learn to accept that you can’t know everything.

‘Lynsey won’t think any less of you. We treat lots of patients that get better without us ever having a clue why they were sick in the first place. It’s life, Will. It’s a vet’s life.’

As soon as the results of the bloods come through, I call Lynsey and ask her to come and see Raffles. There’s usually a recognisable pattern of changes in the blood that suggests one condition over another, but Raffles’s results are baffling. What’s more, his health is declining, and I would hate for Lynsey and her family not to have the chance to say goodbye …

Raffles is very quiet – in human terms he looks as if he has a headache. He has a long body, short bowed legs, a curly tail and a wavy strawberry blond coat, an altogether comical appearance, as if he’s several different dogs put together. I remember him with a smile on his face, muscular and energetic, but not now.

Lynsey comes in with Sam, her oldest boy who’s
about
twelve now. He’s wearing a hoodie, jeans and wellies. Blond-haired and tall for his age, he walks in holding a squeaky ball.

‘It’s Raffles’s favourite toy.’ He hands it to me. ‘Can he have it in hospital to remind him of home?’

‘Of course.’ I show them through to Isolation where Will and Izzy are changing the bag on the drip.

‘I’ve given him some diazepam,’ says Will.

I don’t have to ask what it was for. Raffles must have had a fit, not a good sign. I decide to go into that with Lynsey later. First of all, we need to try to find out why Raffles is sick so we can target his treatment.

I start at the beginning, following the maxim that common things occur commonly.

‘Does he eat out?’ I ask.

‘He is a bit of a scavenger. He’ll eat anything.’

‘He stole the butter off of the table.’

‘Does Stewart put rat poison down on the farm?’

‘No, we don’t. Not with the other animals, and the children. Do you think he’s been poisoned?’

‘It’s a strong possibility.’ It would help to know what he’s eaten, then we could give him the antidote, if there is one, but it isn’t going to be that easy.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Will, joining in, ‘what about chocolate toxicity? Could Raffles have had access to chocolate?’

‘We do have chocolate at home, but I can’t imagine Raffles could have got hold of it,’ Lynsey says, half smiling. ‘The kids wouldn’t have let him, would you, Sam?’

Sam looks down at his wellies.

‘Sam?’

‘Mum, I didn’t mean to,’ he mumbles.

‘Sam, look at me.’ Lynsey lifts his chin. ‘Please tell us
what
Raffles ate. Maz and Will won’t be able to save him otherwise.’

‘You know the tree chocolates you bought …’ Sam’s eyes are filled with tears.

‘The ones I hid on top of the dresser for Christmas?’

Sam nods.

‘I took them, Mum,’ he confesses miserably. ‘I left them on the floor and Raffles snaffled them up.’

‘Oh, Sam,’ Lynsey wails. ‘How could you?’

‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would hurt him, did I?’ He looks towards Raffles. ‘He’s very still – is he dead already?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s on some medicine to keep him asleep.’

‘He’s going to die, isn’t he, and it’s all my fault?’

‘Sh,’ says Lynsey, putting her arms around Sam’s shoulders. ‘Let’s not go blaming anyone. It’s one of those things. C’est la vie.’

‘Can we bury him next to Cads?’

‘Sam, that’s enough. I can’t bear to see him like this, but Raffles isn’t going to give up yet. Do what you can for him,’ Lynsey says, choking up.

‘We’ll do our best,’ I say, trying not to choke up myself.

The Pitts lost a dog, Cadbury, a chocolate Lab, ironically enough, and I can’t blame them for being afraid they’re about to lose another one.

Suddenly, Will sees that having the precise diagnosis isn’t the holy grail of veterinary medicine, because, although there’s the personal satisfaction of making the link between the dog’s symptoms and him snaffling the tree chocolates in advance of Christmas, it isn’t going to make any difference to Raffles. It’s too late to flush out his stomach, there’s no antidote, and
judging
by the amount he’s eaten, it’s still touch and go. Some of them make it. Some don’t.

Towards the end of the week, I’m first in to the practice – because I’ve left George with Sophia for the day. I switch on the lights and monitors on my way through the practice, grabbing a clean scrub top from the pile in the laundry, on my way into Kennels.

As I round the corner past the prep bench, I catch sight of a pair of bare feet sticking out across the floor in front of the bank of cages.

‘Will?’ I dart across to where our assistant is lying down, his head on a rolled-up Vetbed and his torso wrapped in a duvet. ‘Will, are you all right?’

He groans and rolls over, sending an empty mug clattering across the floor. Raffles, who’s in the cage above him, having been moved out of Isolation, whines. I notice that he’s thrown up again, not a good sign.

‘Will?’ I lean down and give him a gentle shake. ‘It’s eight o’clock.’

He utters another groan and opens his eyes, squinting in the daylight. Suddenly, he sits up.

‘What the –’ he mutters thickly. ‘I came down to sit with the dog. I must have fallen asleep. What a prat!’ He staggers up, keeping the duvet tight around his body, and failing to conceal his knobbly knees and skinny calves. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot. You won’t mention this to the others, will you?’

‘No one will know if you hurry up and get yourself upstairs. Izzy will be here any minute.’

‘Thanks, Maz.’

‘If you want to know what I think,’ I call after him as he makes a quick exit, ‘it shows great devotion to duty,
Will
. I’m impressed.’ I lean down and pick up the paperwork he’s left – he’s made a graph of Raffles’s heart rate over time, and notes for a case report of theobromine toxicity. I smile to myself. I used to consider myself completely devoted to my work, but Will has taken it one stage further.

I read through Will’s notes and look at Raffles, who is about the same.

‘Oh, Raffles.’ I ruffle his coat. He groans and rolls his uppermost eye. ‘Stupid dog,’ I tell him fondly. ‘You’ve been through enough. Don’t give up.’

I call Lynsey.

‘How is he now?’ she asks.

‘About the same, I’m afraid.’ I give Lynsey time for the implication of that statement to sink in.

‘How long do we let him go on suffering?’ Her voice sounds unusually small.

‘I don’t like the idea of giving up just yet. Why don’t we reassess the situation at the end of the day? I’ll take some more blood. If there’s no improvement, then …’

‘I’ll have him put down,’ Lynsey says. ‘There’s nothing else you can do, is there?’

‘All we can do is continue giving him supportive treatment. It’s up to Raffles now.’

‘Thanks, Maz. I’ll call later.’

I cut the call and give Raffles another dose of antibiotic before I join Izzy and Frances in Reception. Frances is reorganising the display of dog and cat toys to incorporate the Christmas range. I notice how she makes herself start every now and then, squeezing the squeaky plastic crackers and puddings by mistake. Izzy is on a chair, putting up loops of tinsel and foil bells. The Christmas tree, a real one from the farm she shares with Chris, lies on its side on top of the scales.

‘Um, health and safety, Izzy,’ I observe. ‘Emma will have a fit if she sees you on that chair.’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ve done this for years, before I came here. I’ve always been in charge of decorating the practice.’ She grins down at me. ‘I love Christmas.’

‘Could you at least move the tree before one of our clients falls over it?’

‘Give me five minutes. Maz, look in the box. There’s a snowman.’

I peer into the cardboard box that’s overflowing with beads and baubles. There’s the ugliest snowman I’ve ever seen with blue eyes and red lips, about as tall as Daisy the Bulldog, and much broader.

‘It sings and dances on the spot,’ Izzy says happily.

‘Where did you get that from?’ I ask.

‘The garden centre. Fifi gave me a discount.’

‘I’m not surprised. It’s hideous.’

‘I’m going to put it on the top of the filing cabinet. Frances, you’ll have to find another home for some of the cards. Alternatively, I can string them up and hang them down the wall.’

I leave Izzy to it. She wants to put the decorations up earlier every year, and at this rate, it won’t be long before she’s putting them up in June.

At the end of the day, filled with trepidation, I take another look at Raffles. Will is there with him, adding notes to the draft of his case report.

‘How is he?’ I ask.

‘There are definite signs of improvement.’ Will hugs his paperwork to his chest. ‘It’s all good.’

‘Why are you so intent on writing this up when you’re planning to leave the profession?’ I challenge him. He’s been very quiet about his intentions since our chat about his frustrations with the job.

‘Ah, I’ve had time to think,’ he says, smiling wryly. ‘You were right – I was tired and at a low point, but Raffles has shown me that I’m not completely useless and that I can make a difference.’

‘That’s fantastic, Will. I thought you might be about to quit without giving yourself a chance.’ To be honest, in spite of his assurance that he’d give us notice, I was afraid he might crack up and walk out on us before the wedding. ‘You know, I wouldn’t want anyone else as our assistant. You’re an asset to the practice.’

Blushing, Will thanks me. ‘I’ll go and type this up – unless you need me for anything else.’

‘No, I can finish off here. You go.’ I’m confident now that he’ll cope with running the practice single-handed while Emma and I are off work; I decide this while watching him stride out through the double doors into the corridor before I turn my attention back to Raffles.

Izzy has left the radio on in Kennels. Slade is playing ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’, and as Raffles lies there, wagging the tip of his tail, I think, just maybe, it will be a very merry Christmas, after all.

Something Blue

‘IT’S TO THANK
you and the team at Otter House for saving Raffles’s life,’ says Lynsey, when she drops in with fruit cake on the Friday afternoon before the wedding. Raffles went home on Monday. In the end, he was in with us for two weeks. ‘We didn’t think chocolate would be appropriate. What are you doing at work anyway, Maz? It’s your wedding day tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got some last-minute sorting out to do.’

‘When I got married, I was panicking right up to the last moment.’

‘I am panicking – inwardly – but I figure that if I’ve missed anything, it’s too late to do anything about it now.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re all so dedicated. We’re over the moon that Raffles is home. I didn’t realise how much I’d miss him.’ Lynsey touches the corner of her eye. ‘I love him like he’s one of the children. Silly, isn’t it? Stewart thinks I’m soft in the head.’

Stewart’s wrong, I think. Lynsey is one of those
people
who’s soft in the heart, friendly and generous to a fault.

‘I hope Will’s staying,’ she goes on. ‘He’s a gem.’

‘We’re very lucky to have him,’ I agree.