Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (22 page)

Oh boy. What a mess. I anticipated that a walk over into the bluebell woods with Nelson to discuss the matter was going to be an essential ingredient of my afternoon’s activities.

Still sitting on the lounger, I heard the slam of her car door, followed moments later by the rev of the Fiesta’s engine, and then a sound which will forever be seared in my memory – a long, heart-rending howl. Christ. What had happened?

I sprang up as the car engine died, a door opened and Lucy screamed, ‘Oh my God!’ Racing out of the gate and up the side of the cottage, I met Lucy staggering towards me, her face rigid with fear and, in her arms, the body of Nelson. Distraught, she held him out, howling, ‘I’ve run him over … but he’s still alive … please, dear God, say he is.’

I could feel the tears well up in me, my throat constricting, my body beginning to shake as Lucy pushed Nelson into my arms and we ran inside where I slid him onto the kitchen table. He lay there, his sides erratically heaving, eyes glazing over, blood trickling from one nostril. At the top of my voice, I yelled, ‘You’ve bloody well killed him …’ and pulled Nelson to me as he gave one last, long, shuddering gasp and died in my arms. I couldn’t stop the tears. They blurred my vision, streamed down my cheeks and coursed over Nelson’s face – a face that would no longer grin at me, the lips slowly setting in a mask of death.

And Lucy’s reaction? Stunned silence. There were no tears … just agony etched on her face. Only after minutes of watching my uncontrollable sobbing did she reach out, put a hand on my shoulder and hoarsely whisper, ‘I’m so, so sorry, Paul.’

Of course it was an accident – there was no way Lucy would have deliberately run Nelson over. He’d gone back to his patch by the front lawn but had moved across to the hard standing when the sun had edged round, and there had fallen asleep. Being deaf, he hadn’t heard Lucy get into the car. She, for her part, had been in such an agitated state that she hadn’t stopped to think that maybe Nelson was behind the car, and had reversed over him.

It was an event that marked a turning point in our relationship; and although we were to continue living together – and, indeed, Nelson’s death brought about a temporary reconciliation of sorts – it was as if Lucy was only doing that as atonement for what had occurred. The real passion and commitment in our relationship died with that little terrier.

T
he following Monday morning saw me driving over the Downs to Westcott with a heavy heart; the
rush-hour
traffic, with the bumper-to-bumper congestion between the two roundabouts on the outskirts of the town which I had to negotiate to get to Prospect House, did nothing to alleviate my mood.

Just why am I doing this? I thought, inching forward another couple of metres to brake and wait another few minutes. Well, I did know why; it was all to do with being a vet. I remember Cynthia Paget, the divorcee in whose house I had stayed when I first started at the practice, saying how she admired my dedication to the job and was ready to give a helping hand whenever I needed it. She’d been standing at the top of her stairs at the time, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, housecoat half open, staring down at me in the hallway as I answered a night-time call on her phone. My mobile wouldn’t pick up any signal in my bedroom (her front room converted into a bedsit), and I’d refused her offer to try it out in hers. I was just wearing boxer shorts and felt that the leery look on her face and the apparent lack of clothing beneath the housecoat suggested that, whatever the quality of the phone signal, I’d be guaranteed a warm reception.

Thinking of her reminded me of the savage little Chihuahua she owned – Chico. He was forever lunging at my toes and springing up to grab the bottom of my boxer shorts when I was trying to dash up to the bathroom first thing, making it imperative to wear footwear and ensure that a protective hand was over my crotch. That little blighter had been much loved by Mrs Paget. She would suddenly appear when Chico was making a beeline for my privates and rush to pick him up and clasp him to her bosom, admonishing him first, and then turning, with a questioning look, to ask if he’d got me anywhere and, if so, was there anything she could put on it for me? I swear the two of them were in cahoots – both wanting to rip my boxer shorts off and attack my genitals.

As I slowly approached the second roundabout, just off which was the entrance to the practice, I recalled that it was about here that Chico had been run over; he’d been rushed in by a panic-stricken Mrs Paget, and the little chap was taken into the operating theatre, still just alive, to be put on emergency oxygen, but he had died on the table. Mrs Paget had been distraught. I now knew exactly how she’d felt, and took a deep breath to prevent my emotions surfacing again at the thought of poor Nelson’s demise as I finally managed to leave the queue of traffic and turn into the drive of Prospect House.

Beryl looked up from her computer when I rushed into reception, late for my appointments. ‘Blimey, Paul. You look glum,’ she said. ‘Traffic bad?’

I just nodded. It wasn’t the time or place to explain. Besides, I could hear the shuffle of feet and paws in the waiting room and wanted to get cracking before too much of a backlog built up; and being a Monday morning, it was the sort of thing that was liable to happen – people leaving it till after the weekend before deciding their pets needed to be seen.

‘You are quite busy,’ warned Beryl as I made a dash for the consulting room, struggling into my white coat on the way. And so it proved, the first patient setting the scene for the whole morning – a corgi called Carl. In theory, it should have been a quick and simple appointment; the dog just needed his claws clipped. But the case notes on the computer screen were punctuated with typed warnings. ‘Take care’ when seen last year by Crystal and ‘Vicious bugger’ when seen by Eric just after Christmas, some three months back. Now it was my turn to assess the dog’s temperament.

I went through to the waiting room to find two people in there. There was a lady with a wicker cat basket on the chair next to her and, on the opposite side of the room, a gentleman with a corgi sitting placidly by his side. ‘Mr Holder?’ I enquired.

The man nodded and got to his feet, addressing the dog, ‘Your turn, Carl.’ His dog stood up and trotted into the consulting room at the side of Mr Holder without a murmur and, when picked up and put on the table by his owner, he sat there, panting slightly, but otherwise looking at me quite unperturbed, no shaking or quivering, very relaxed. Take care? Vicious bugger? Surely not. But to be on the safe side, I thought it best to make a few overtures of friendship to the corgi. Test the water, so to speak. I held out the back of my hand, ready to snatch it away if necessary, and said, ‘Hello, Carl. How are you then?’

His response was to look up at Mr Holder and give a little growl.

‘He says he’s fine,’ said Mr Holder. ‘Just wants to have his claws clipped. They’re getting a bit long. Aren’t they, matey?’ As if to prove the point, he held up one paw to show me. The claws were long – but looked as if they’d be easy to clip, with no danger of cutting the pink quick as it was clearly visible in each nail. It was just this temperament issue … according to his notes, that was.

Conscious of time ticking on, I reached round for the nail clippers, turning back to see Carl look at me and give another soft growl. I admit I was already in a foul mood from the weekend’s upsetting events, and didn’t want it made worse by being bitten, so I said, ‘Look, Mr Holder, I think I’d better muzzle Carl, just to be on the safe side.’

‘It really shouldn’t be necessary. Carl’s never bitten anyone,’ Mr Holder replied, looking aghast. The corgi swung his head up to stare at his owner and growled again. ‘This is just Carl’s way of talking.’ He ruffled the dog’s neck. ‘You’re not vicious are you, Carl?’

There was another rumble from the corgi’s throat. Hmm. I wasn’t convinced. And those notes did say … Yep. I made up my mind.

‘Sorry, but I’m going to muzzle him,’ I insisted.

‘He’s
never
had to be muzzled before,’ said Mr Holder emphatically. ‘It could really stress him.’ His podgy face was beginning to turn red with indignation.

Not half as much as it would stress me if I got bitten, I thought, and grabbed the length of bandage coiled on the glass trolley next to the boxes of needles and syringes, tied it in a loop, and advanced on Carl, having told Mr Holder to put his arm under the dog’s neck and hold him against his chest. Once he’d reluctantly done as instructed, I lassoed Carl’s snout and then quickly tightened the bandage, clamping his jaws together.

It was at that point all hell let loose. Carl started scrabbling with both front and back paws, wriggling in Mr Holder’s arms, gradually slipping from his grip, his head writhing from side to side, his front claws coming up to hook into the bandage, his eyes rolling upwards, the whites showing; and in this frenzy, saliva bubbled and foamed from between his clenched teeth, and he began to emit a high-pitched whine of savage fury.

‘My God, he’s having a fit,’ shouted Mr Holder, still hanging on to him.

‘No, no,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘It’s only Carl resisting. Just keep holding on. You’re doing a grand job.’ I grabbed the clippers, and tugged the dog’s left front paw free of the bandage, whereby his leg started to thrash around and I had to force it still by pinning it to the table before I could attempt to clip the first claw. I had done three, during which time Carl continued his frenzied snorting and snuffling, his whole body convulsing in his efforts to break free. I was just on his fourth, when his whole body suddenly went limp on me. There was a sickening rattle in his throat and his head lolled over Mr Holder’s arm.

‘My God, you’ve killed him,’ screamed Mr Holder, easing Carl down onto the table.

I, too, was screaming – internally, silently – his words reverberating through me. Outwardly, my feelings contracted into one word: ‘Shit!’ I snatched a pair of scissors off the trolley and cut the bandage off, yanking it away. I quickly prised his mouth open, a sticky stream of saliva pouring out as I did so. His tongue was flopped back, engorged and blue. I reached in and pulled it forward. Behind, there was a pool of mucus. Still holding the tongue, I stretched across to the adjacent trolley and jerked a wodge of cotton wool from its glass container, which, in my haste, caused it to tip over and be dragged to the edge of the trolley, toppling over to smash on the floor. I snapped at Mr Holder, ‘Here, hold the upper jaw,’ instructing him how to do it, while I pulled downwards on Carl’s tongue, forcing his mouth to open wider, thereby allowing me to reach into the back of the throat with the ball of cotton wool and scoop out the accumulated mucus that had been blocking his epiglottis, preventing him from breathing. I prayed there would be a sudden intake of breath. There wasn’t. Shit!

Quickly checking his airway was now clear, I let go of his tongue, told Mr Holder to still hang on to Carl’s muzzle to help keep his neck extended, and moved round to his chest. I executed a quick, firm push with both hands down on his chest. There was a gurgle as air and some fluid was forced out of his lungs. I hoped there would be a reflex intake of air. There wasn’t. Damn! Damn! Damn! I checked his tongue. It was getting bluer. Sod it! I slid a finger and thumb each side of his chest. No heartbeat. Bloody hell! I almost squealed with panic.

I shifted my finger and thumb back a little. Was that something? Yes … a heartbeat … feeble … but a heartbeat. Carl was still alive. Just. I picked him up in my arms. ‘I’m taking him down to the theatre,’ I gabbled, pushing past a distraught Mr Holder. ‘You wait here.’

‘Mandy,’ I cried out loud, leaping down the steps and tearing down the corridor. ‘Mandy, where are you? I need help.’ I elbowed my way into the prep room where she was setting up the instruments for the morning’s ops. ‘Mandy. Get me a tube. Quick.’

She dropped the pack of instruments she was holding, and ran round to pull open the drawer of endotracheal tubes, decisively picking out one and rapidly smearing it with grease. I snatched it out of her hand. She, without the need to be instructed, swiftly manoeuvred the corgi’s head round and opened his jaws to allow me to pull his tongue forward, expose the epiglottis and push the tube through it into the windpipe. Only it wouldn’t go. It slid over the top of the epiglottis and started to disappear down the corgi’s throat. I tried again. Same thing happened. Shit! Shit! Shit!

‘Paul,’ said Mandy quietly, ‘just take your time. You’re an expert at doing this.’

I drew a deep breath, controlled myself, and slipped the tube once more over Carl’s tongue. This time, it engaged with the top of his trachea and I was able to slide it down his windpipe. Mandy was ready with the blue plastic connector and fitted it without a word.

‘Right, into the theatre,’ I said. ‘Quick. Quick.’

Mandy ran ahead of me across to the anaesthetic machine and twisted the oxygen knob to ‘On’. I almost threw Carl’s inert body on the table. She connected him to the oxygen supply and I gave his chest a pump. We waited. Nothing. I gave his chest another pump. ‘Come on … come on … breathe, you bugger,’ I urged.

‘His colour’s getting better,’ said Mandy, rolling back his tongue.

But still nothing. I felt his chest. His heartbeat was stronger.

‘Come on, you sod, breathe,’ I repeated.

There was a slight movement of Carl’s chest. A twitch … a tremor of muscles. Suddenly, there was an almighty expansion of his ribcage as he took a large gulp of oxygen. There was another gulp. And another. Then, gradually, his breathing settled into a steady rhythm. ‘Thank God for that,’ I gasped.

Leaving him under the watchful eye of Mandy, with instructions to disconnect him from the anaesthetics machine and transfer him to a kennel for observation, I raced back up to the consulting room, my heart still thudding, my whole body still shaking, to inform an equally agitated Mr Holder that his corgi would be OK.