It's a Vet's Life: (26 page)

‘I couldn’t have another bird,’ Peter says. ‘He’d be jealous.’

Before he goes, I talk to him about improving Cocky’s diet and environment, but I’m not sure he’s going to make the recommended changes. Like many of our clients, Peter is a law unto himself. He’ll do what he thinks is right, follow some tips he’s found on the Internet about parrots and extrapolate, and then complain that the bird is no better. We’ll see.

‘Maz, Cheryl’s here,’ Izzy says. She’s covering for Frances while she has her break. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she is on the phone to Lenny.

My heart sinks. ‘What can she want now? Can’t you send her away?’

‘I’d like to – with a flea in her ear, literally, but she seems contrite, for once. She says she can come back if it isn’t convenient.’

‘No, let’s get it over with,’ I sigh. ‘You’ll be present as witness again, Izzy?’

‘No problem. Come through,’ she calls. ‘Maz will see you now.’

Cheryl walks in, looking pale and anxious, more like a cat in a trap than one on the hunt this time.

‘Hi,’ I say, as she stands there, fiddling with the cat on her keyring. Her nails are painted with paw prints.

‘I wanted to ask how Cassie is, Edie’s cat?’

‘I can’t say. It’s confidential.’

‘Oh? Only I’ve tried contacting her and she won’t talk about it.’ Cheryl shakes her head. ‘I know I’ve treated her badly, but I still care for that cat. I care for all my babies. I cry every time I send one out into the big wide world.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t care enough about them to test their parents before you bred from them.’ I am in no mood to be conciliatory even if Cheryl is. I don’t trust her motives.

‘I’ve offered to refund the purchase price and pay half the vet’s bills, but Edie hasn’t come back to me yet.’ Cheryl purses her lips before going on, ‘I’m here to apologise to you too, Maz. I’m very sorry I misjudged you.’

I glance towards Izzy who rolls her eyes, unconvinced, as I am, of Cheryl’s change of heart.

‘I’m asking you to help me clear my colony of this hideous genetic disorder so I can start anew.’

I touch my throat. I’m not sure. It seems like I’d be walking into the lion’s den.

‘I’m not prepared to do that. You’ll have to deal with it with your current vet.’

‘I can’t. I’ve left the practice because they didn’t know anything about cats, let alone Persians.’ She pulls an envelope from her bag and pulls out a letter. ‘Here are the notes from my previous vet. As you can see, I’ve paid my bills.’

I read through reluctantly. There’s no statement saying that Cheryl’s been the client from hell, but reading between the lines, she’s been her usual demanding self, complaining that she had to drive thirty-five miles to their out-of-hours emergency service, and refusing to have a kitten tested for ringworm because she doesn’t have, has never had, and never will have ringworm in her breeding colony. Here, whoever typed the notes has inserted a grumpy-faced emoticon.

I gaze back at Cheryl. I want a peaceful life. I don’t want her back as a client at Otter House. I can’t forgive her for putting up posters of her cat Blueboy for all of Talyton to see after I gave him that close shave. Frankly, I don’t like her and I don’t trust her.

‘I promise I won’t cause any more trouble, Maz. I know I can be annoying and difficult, but I love my babies, and I want the best attention for them.’

‘You haven’t exactly been supportive of Clive and Edie. They’re very upset. Not only is their beloved cat dying of an avoidable genetic disease, you claimed it had nothing to do with you.’

‘I was frightened. Now this has got out, I’m persona non grata in the showing world. Everyone’s rather –’ Cheryl pauses – ‘well, catty. It’s supposed to be a hobby, and I like the social side and the buzz of the competition, but, having gone through something like this, well, you know who your friends are.’

I am aware how Izzy’s body stiffens. I’m sure she’s biting her tongue. I can imagine her comment. I can’t believe that woman has any friends.

‘Please, can I come back? I want the best for my cats. I don’t want to be seen as some monster selling sick kittens.’

I’m not sure what to do. If I don’t take her on, will she continue breeding from the same lines?

‘I can’t take you on at the moment. I’m going to meet with my partner and the staff here at Otter House and talk it through with them, to see if we can come to any kind of arrangement. I’m not promising anything though.’

‘Can I pop in tomorrow to find out what your decision is?’

‘I’ll call you,’ I say firmly. I will not be manipulated or coerced.

‘What did you do that for?’ Izzy says once she’s gone.

‘What else could I do? I had to find some way of getting rid of her.’

‘I suppose so. We’ll have to call a practice meeting. We haven’t had one for a while.’ Izzy cheers up. ‘Can we order sandwiches?’

‘It’s always a good incentive to make up for losing a lunch hour,’ I say. ‘You can draw up a list of what everyone wants.’

‘I thought lists were your thing,’ Izzy says, amused. ‘How are you getting on with the wedding plans?’

‘I’m getting there. I’d like to to get on with sending out the invitations, but I really want Alex to help, and he’s always too busy, or so he says.’

‘Oh, Chris was no use either. He couldn’t see the point of having invites when everyone knew when the wedding was anyway. He thought we could do it by text, until I reminded him that some of the maiden aunts hadn’t got mobiles. The funny thing was that, when they turned up at the wedding, most of them had.’

‘How many maiden aunts do you have between you?’

‘Nine,’ says Izzy. ‘I had a close shave.’

After Cheryl, I see one more, the Cave family of mum, dad, two teenage children and one of those late, last-minute babies. They are grockles – tourists – passing through on their way home from a camping holiday in Cornwall. They’re wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts and T-shirts.

They bring their dog, a giant mastiff, with a tan coat, wrinkled brow and saggy jowls. His head is tilted to one side.

‘This is Monty,’ says Mr Cave. ‘He’s got something down his ear. I’ve looked as far down as I can with a torch, but I can’t see anything much.’

‘That’s because he’s got no brain,’ says Mrs Cave and I wonder from her weary manner if she’s referring to the dog or her husband.

‘Does he mind people touching his ears?’ I ask.

‘He isn’t overly keen,’ says Mrs Cave.

I decide to slip a muzzle on anyway, the biggest one we have. I fasten it behind Monty’s head, my hands becoming laced with slobber, then take the otoscope and extra long forceps. I have a look down with the light while Mr Cave kneels on the floor, restraining him. As soon as I touch Monty’s ear, he shakes his head. He’s obviously very uncomfortable.

‘How long’s he been like this?’ I ask.

‘Since the beginning of the week,’ says Mrs Cave. ‘We stopped here because we didn’t want him to have to wait until we got to our vet at home. We rang them but they didn’t have an appointment until next Tuesday, whereas you fitted him in straight away.’

I can see clearly now. The dog keeps still. There’s a grass seed stuck down the ear canal close to his eardrum.

‘Hold on tight.’ I grab the end with the forceps and slowly pull it out.

‘Is that all it was?’ says Mr Cave, seeming disappointed as I check that the seed hasn’t damaged the eardrum itself. Luckily, it’s intact, so I send them on their way with ear drops to calm the inflammation down.

‘Thank you,’ says Mrs Cave. ‘We’ll go and have tea now. We love Talyton St George. It’s such a sleepy place.’

Sleepy? I smile to myself. If only they knew …

I get ready to leave work, planning to collect my engagement ring from the safe where I’ve left it for the day, having mislaid my necklace. On the way home, I notice the pale band of untanned skin around my ring finger, and realise I’ve forgotten to pick it up.

A Horse in the House

IT’S THE FIRST
weekend in September, I’m not on call, and the children – George, Lucie and Seb – are with Sophia and Old Fox-Gifford for a couple of hours. I confess I’m loving the peace and quiet. I stroll down the stairs in the Barn, my hair still damp from the shower. I hesitate partway down, aware of another presence in the house. Ginge? He’s lying in the sunshine that streaks in through the long windows at the back, stretched out. I pause, watching his chest from a distance, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s still with us.

‘No! Stand!’ Lucie’s voice makes me and the cat start. Ginge apparently decides there’s nothing to worry about and lowers his head once more. Relieved, I continue down the stairs to investigate, drawn by the odd shuffling noise and clatter of cutlery.

‘Lucie?’ All becomes clear. Lucie is in the kitchen area with the foal who is trying to make a grab for the apple she is chopping up on the worktop. ‘Lucie, what are you doing?’

She looks up. ‘It’s okay, Maz,’ she says, wide-eyed
and
innocent. ‘Shezza’s allowed to have a tiny bit of apple. Daddy wants to wean her soon.’

‘I don’t care about the apple. I mean, what is Shezza doing in here?’ Sophia, as I predicted, hates the pet name, but in spite of her attempts to change it, Shezza has stuck.

‘She wanted to come and have a look inside.’ Lucie and the foal gaze at me unabashed, partners in crime. ‘It’s important to de-spook her while she’s young so she’s used to absolutely everything she might find scary. She didn’t like the washing basket on the floor, but now I’ve let her snuffle at the clothes, she’s fine.’

‘Lucie, just because your grandparents think it’s acceptable to have a pony in the house doesn’t mean I do. In fact, I can’t think of anyone else who does.’

‘She isn’t a pony,’ Lucie says witheringly. ‘She’s a horse.’

‘She’ll make a mess indoors,’ I counter. ‘Lucie, you can’t housetrain a pony. Get her outside. Now!’

It’s difficult, disciplining other people’s children, especially your fiancé’s. I could shout, but I don’t want to spook the foal, as Lucie calls it, and have it careering around the Barn. Lucie stares at me, her mouth pursed mutinously, but I’m used to her black looks. I give her a look back.

‘When you’re older and you have your own house, you can keep as many animals indoors as you like. I really need you to take Shezza out of the kitchen, because I want to bake George a birthday cake.’ I take a quick maternal guilt trip around the kitchen to hold the back door open, wondering exactly how many horsey germs I’ll expose everyone to, as Lucie leads Shezza out past me. Shezza dances on her toes and
flicks
her tail. Liberty whinnies from the stable, calling for her, and I smile to myself because it reminds me of my anxieties whenever I let Lucie take charge of George.

I return to the kitchen to give the floor and worktop a few squirts of antibacterial cleaner and a wipe-down, before I turn to making George’s cake.

Frances has advised me to keep it simple, but I want George to have the best cake ever. I have a recipe, one she recommended, for a Victoria sponge mix. You can’t go wrong with that, Maz, she reassured me, after I’d convinced her not to make it for me. Anyway, this is not going to be any old cake. It’s going to be a tractor for George’s second birthday.

Five minutes later and I’m looking at the ingredients I’ve lined up on the kitchen worktop and at the book Frances lent me, with pencilled notes, an idiot’s guide. It’s supposed to be like surgery. You have a recipe to follow, the right instruments and there you go.

‘Why don’t you ask Humpy to bake it?’ Lucie says, flying in again without Shezza this time. ‘She’s good at cakes, except they sometimes come out a bit hairy.’

‘A side effect of having a pony and all those dogs in the house,’ I point out. ‘I don’t want to bother Humpy,’ I add, although this is more about not wanting Humpy to come and bother us.

‘Can I help you?’ Lucie asks.

I sigh inwardly. There I was looking forward to an hour with no children …

‘Haven’t you got homework to do, or something? Aren’t you going out riding with Lisa?’

‘I’ve been out already – Humpy says I’ll wear Tinky’s legs out. And I’ve done my maths and English. Maz, let me help you.’

‘Oh, all right then.’ Lucie can be good company, and I admit I’ve grown fond of her.

‘You need a bigger bowl,’ she says, taking over in a very Fox-Gifford-like way. Lucie will go far.

I weigh out butter and sugar on the scales. The recipe says to soften the butter by leaving it out of the fridge for a while, but I didn’t plan ahead and it’s solid. I try mixing it into the sugar, but it rolls around the bowl. I can’t even squash it with a spoon.

‘Humpy melts it in the Aga,’ says Lucie helpfully. ‘We could put it in the microwave.’

‘Are you sure?’ I’m not sure. ‘How long for?’

Lucie shrugs. I put the bowl in for a minute on high. The butter melts to a clear yellow soup and the sugar solidifies.

‘I don’t think I should have done that.’ I prod at the contents. ‘Should we start again?’

Lucie is frowning. ‘I don’t know.’