Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (12 page)

‘No,’ I said, my voice much more manly. ‘We’ll do her ahead of the list.’

‘But …’ faltered Mandy, going bright red.

‘I’ll be right down when I’ve seen my last client,’ I growled deeply, interrupting her as I handed over the Schnauzer. Gosh, I sounded positively Neolithic. I adjusted my loincloth (lab coat), swung my cudgel (stethoscope) over my shoulder and pounded back up to my cave (consulting room).

Once I’d finished my appointments and snatched a quick cup of coffee, I was ready to start. Mandy had Lucy fetch the Schnauzer up from the ward kennels, instructing her to continue with their cleaning and to come up and assist should she be required. The abrupt schoolmarm tone of voice didn’t escape my notice and, from the look that Lucy gave Mandy, it didn’t escape hers, either.

But Mandy, as ever, swung into action and, in her typically efficient manner, ably assisted in the induction, intubation and preparation of Bo-Bo for her hysterectomy; and it only seemed minutes before I was in the operating theatre, peering into the Schnauzer’s open abdomen, beginning to panic when I saw the size of her uterus, as one horn of it bulged out of the incision I’d made.

Knowing the womb, in this dilated state, would be highly susceptible to rupture, I had to be extremely cautious as to how I handled it for fear of tearing open the uterine wall. I gingerly slid my hand in and under the one horn, levering it out; I then stretched my fingers back in and upwards to locate the left ovary and, clasping it between finger and thumb, gradually pulled it towards me, keeping the pressure up until the fat and ligament holding it in place parted, and I was able to access the arterial supply, buried in the fatty tissue, and clamp it. I then ligated the artery.

It was always an anxious moment when you released the forceps and watched the ligated artery sink back into the abdomen, praying that you weren’t then going to see a pool of blood well up, which would indicate a slipped ligature – since relocating the bleeding artery, especially in dogs with deep abdominal cavities, was a momentous task and fraught with difficulties.

And I should know; I’d had just such a slipped ligature during one of my early attempts at spaying a dog. The dog in question had been a large, adult Alsatian bitch. I knew from the outset it was going to be difficult. She was deep-chested and overweight so I predicted the ovaries would be buried in a huge wodge of fat way down inside her abdomen, difficult to find, difficult to extract, and difficult to tie off their supply of blood. I was right.

In the struggle to pull the first ovary out, my constant heaving and squeezing of the surrounding fat reduced it to the consistency of semi-liquid blancmange; greasy, slippery, almost impossible to grip, constantly slithering out of my fingers, so that by the time I’d secured what I hoped was a tight enough ligature round the ovarian artery, my fingers were feeling numb with fatigue. I tested the knot with artery forceps, pulling at its end. It seemed secure enough. I let go of the forceps clamped below the knot and watched the ligature in its liquid yellow mass of fat sink out of sight between loops of gut. There was a little blood in the abdominal cavity – inevitable as some had oozed in from the initial incision – and I reached over for a swab and dabbed it over the loops of intestines, mopping up the remnants of that blood. Only, as I did so, more blood seemed to seep up through the bowels. I tossed the first swab – now soaked – onto the instrument trolley and snatched up another, pushing it into the abdominal cavity, withdrawing it in less than a minute, bright red and sodden.

‘Christ,’ I muttered, a surge of panic welling up in me in much the same way blood was now surging up through the guts and lapping at the edges of the abdominal incision.

Mandy, sitting on a stool, monitoring the anaesthetic machine, looked across and stated the obvious. ‘You’ve got a bleed, Paul,’ adding, ‘I’ll get you some more swabs.’

Of course, that wasn’t the answer. I realised I now had a slipped ligature on my hands, the fact verified when the ligature itself floated out on a sea of blood. I think I actually squealed when I saw it, knowing that deep inside the Alsatian, a large artery was pumping out blood at high pressure, and unless I could track that artery down, isolate it and clamp it off, the dog would bleed to death. My hands started to tremble, my heart race. Sheer despair gripped me as I extended the abdominal incision forward in an attempt to access the point of bleeding more easily. I watched as blood poured over the edge and ran down onto the drapes, instantly soaking them.

‘I think I’d better get Crystal in,’ said Mandy quietly, and ran from the room.

Moments later, Crystal was there, a gown hastily donned, me stepping to one side, splattered in blood, as she snapped on some surgical gloves and plunged in, Mandy next to her, mopping up the constant stream of blood, some of which had trickled under the drapes and was now dripping onto the floor, being smeared into red, slippery puddles by our boots.

‘Paul, hold these back,’ said Crystal tersely, indicating the coils of intestine she’d heaved out of the wound to give her more space. ‘And use those tissue forceps to hold the wound open for me.’ She nodded at the trolley. I did as instructed. Crystal was now immersed up to her forearms inside the dog’s abdominal cavity. ‘Mandy, swab please.’

Mandy had already anticipated her request, having put surgical gloves on to pick up a swab, ready for Crystal’s need. It was snatched from her, and another requested almost immediately as Crystal peered up and under the Alsatian’s liver.

‘Right … forceps, Mandy.’ Crystal held out a hand and the forceps were placed in it. They disappeared into the wound. ‘Now let’s have some curved artery forceps, please.’ Crystal’s other hand extended out to one side and the forceps slid onto it without hesitation on Mandy’s part. These two clearly worked as a good team. There was the click of the forceps as they were clamped. Another two swabs offered by Mandy were used. The surge of blood stopped.

‘Right,’ declared Crystal, easing herself up. ‘Seems I’ve got the blighter. Just need to make sure it’s tied off more tightly next time, eh, Paul?’

I felt myself go crimson.

She noticed, adding a little more gently, ‘It happens to us all at some stage or other,’ and proceeded to ligate and release the artery with the skill and ease that comes with practice.

Thank God, no such problems occurred with Bo-Bo – at least with her left ovarian extraction; and so I turned my attention to the right horn of her womb, pulling it out as far as I could and ligating the ovarian artery on that side, breaking the ligaments and fat that were holding the ovary in place so that I could haul the distended two horns of the uterus out onto the drapes where they laid steaming and glistening. The body of the uterus now had to be tracked down to the cervix, and where, on each side, there were prominent arteries, which were engorged and throbbing. I first clamped the whole of the womb just at the entrance to the cervix and then I threaded a curved needle with catgut and carefully slipped a stitch round each artery, anchoring it with a small portion of the uterine wall. Clamping a second set of artery forceps above the others, I cut between the two, severing the whole of the womb to enable me to drag it out and lift it across to the stainless steel dish Mandy was holding out for me. Boy, was it heavy. I checked the interior of the abdominal cavity. There was a little bit of free blood. I dabbed it away with some swabs … none reappeared. Seems my sutures were secure. Breathing a sigh of relief, I rapidly stitched up the wound, two layers – inner connective tissue and skin. A few drops of blood oozed from the wound. Nothing significant. I stood back, feeling exhausted.

Mandy picked up a dry swab, ran it along my row of sutures then dusted them with antibiotic powder and covered them with a strip of gauze.

She looked across at me and actually smiled. ‘Well done, Paul,’ she murmured. Wow. Praise indeed.

Although not actually Superman, I was still flying high when, later, I had to turn my attention to Archie’s teeth. But tackling that canine grounded me in one fell swoop, as I was to find out after lunch.

As anticipated, with the operation on Bo-Bo taking precedence, the morning’s list had spilled over into the afternoon. A little bit tired and more edgy than I cared to admit, I was planning to take a curtailed lunch break when Eric bounced in, having returned from seeing to one of Alex and Jill Ryman’s motley assortment of pigs and goats – I knew the Rymans and their two children, Emily and Joshua; I’d attended to their Miss Piggy’s farrowing last year.

‘Phew,’ he exclaimed, standing in the middle of the office, bringing his hands together in a loud clap. ‘That goat of Alex’s is a right bugger to handle. Fair wore me out trimming his hooves.’ He looked over to where I was about to settle in one of the two office armchairs, cup of green tea on the small table beside it. ‘I’ll get you to do it next time,’ he grinned, his face splitting like two halves of a melon while he patted his jacket pockets. ‘Which reminds me …’ He pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Emily did this for you.’ He stepped over and handed it to me. ‘Seems you’re flavour of the month over there. Especially with their little girl.’

Unfolding the paper, I found myself looking at a coloured line drawing which could have done justice to a Lowry painting in that it showed a brown, stick-like figure, clasping in one hand the handle of a black box, which I guess was meant to be a black bag, while the other hand was stretched out holding some sort of stick or pencil drawn in red crayon. The figure had strokes of yellow and brown pencilled round his head (hair?) – and his stick legs were encased in blotches of green (wellingtons?). Next to him were two joined circles, the smaller having ears and large red dots for eyes and nose – the larger having four stick legs, a curly tail, and between them a row of orange marks which I took to be teats, as, although it was a crude representation, the drawing was clearly meant to show a pig – no doubt Miss Piggy.

‘Is that supposed to be me?’ I asked Eric.

‘Yes, of course. Although she forgot your studs.’ Eric glanced at my ears. ‘Just as well … you ponce.’ But it was said with a smile.

‘And what’s that in my hand?’

‘The thermometer you rammed up Miss Piggy’s arse. That made a lasting impression on both Emily and Joshua. Jill says they’ve never stopped talking about it since.’

I was quite touched that Emily should have bothered to do a drawing of me – even if it was rather anal in its orientation – and vowed to thank her next time I got called over to the Rymans’ smallholding.

Meanwhile, Eric was suggesting I joined him for a quick pint over at the Woolpack.

‘I really don’t think I should,’ I said. ‘I had quite a difficult pyo to deal with this morning and there’s a dental to do before I start my afternoon appointments.

‘Oh come on, Paul,’ cajoled Eric. ‘Just a quickie.’

‘Quickie what?’ said Beryl, walking stealthily into the office post fag-out-of-back-door. I suspected she’d been listening in at the door. She slid in with that funny way of walking she had – almost a glide – and with her slightly hunched back I often pictured her as a black slug, half expecting to see a trail of slime in her wake. ‘You’re not going over to the Woolpack, are you?’

Right … she had been eavesdropping. She gave both of us the benefit of her withering look, and even though it was with just the one eye, it was every bit as effective as if she’d lasered us with two. I certainly felt as if I were being blasted back against the office wall. But Eric seemed to stand his ground.

‘Erm … just for a quick jar, Beryl,’ said Eric, running a finger round the collar of his shirt, the top button of which was undone. ‘It’s been quite a fraught morning for both of us.’ He glanced in my direction, his eyebrows curled. ‘Hasn’t it, Paul?’

Before I could reply, Beryl had butted in. ‘It’ll be even more fraught this afternoon if you come back the worse for wear.’ The withering look remained undimmed. ‘Paul’s still got Mr Henderson’s dental to do … and he’s got a full appointments list later. You’re fairly quiet, though.’ She stared pointedly at Eric. ‘But I’m sure I’ll manage to rustle up a few more clients for your evening surgery. So I don’t think the Woolpack’s a good idea … do you?’

Eric looked decidedly uncomfortable. ‘Well, if you say so, Beryl.’

‘I do say so.’

‘Who says so?’ The question was from Crystal, who had just breezed in and the words hung in the air as did her delicate perfume. We all seemed dumbstruck as no one immediately replied; but then Beryl rallied to and said, ‘We were just discussing the workload for this afternoon. There’s quite a bit on. So I don’t think …’ Her voice trailed off as she realised she was perhaps overstepping the mark.

Crystal wrung her hands together and the bracelets on her wrists tinkled. As did my heart briefly, as I reminded myself of my fantasies about me and Crystal making the Downs alive with the sound of music.

‘That’s what I think as well,’ said Crystal, a lilt in her voice. Really, Crystal? I thought with a sudden jolt. Perhaps I wasn’t being a silly little goatherd after all – until I realised she was talking shop, not musicals. ‘All the more reason for us to keep a clear head.’ She turned and smiled at her husband.

‘Of course, dear,’ replied Eric, giving Beryl a murderous look before sallying out, only to appear in the archway behind Beryl’s desk, raise his arms and, with two fingers forming a V on each hand, viciously claw the air above the back of her head – an action I could see but one he made sure was out of Crystal’s view. Beryl swung round suspiciously, just as he ducked out of sight, and we heard him whistling his way down the corridor to the tune of
South Pacific
’s ‘Happy Talk’.

I only wished Superman’s little dog could have taken his cue from that song, but it wasn’t so much ‘happy’ as ‘snappy’ talk when the time came to bring him up from the kennels for his dental. A very harassed Lucy, red in the face, out of breath, rushed into the prep room where I was waiting to start – Mandy’s role that afternoon was to assist Crystal with her clients in what I termed the ‘executive consulting room’ – larger and lighter, overlooking the rose garden – whereas the one allocated to me was dingy, its window partially obscured by a rampant Virginia creeper, and overlooked the exercise yard from where the odour of what dogs did when they were exercised would drift in should I dare to open the top vent. Many a time an owner would enter the room and wrinkle his or her nose at me, wondering, no doubt, whether I’d had curry for lunch.