verge of quitting vet school because I’d got myself into financial difficulties.
Even holding down two part-time jobs and living on lentils and economy cornflakes I couldn’t pay my credit card bills or put a deposit down on accommodation for the following term. It was my fault. The dress which I bought for the May Ball, for example, was an extravagance, but how could I have let Ian down by turning up in front of his friends in jeans and a calving gown?
I paid Celia back though, every penny.
‘You were saying . . .’ Izzy prompts.
‘It was just after the funeral when Emma suggested I joined her as a partner in Otter House.’
‘So why didn’t you? I know,’ Izzy goes on, excitedly, ‘there was a man. There’s always a man.’
‘Mike, my boss at Crossways. It was very early days back then, but I always hoped things would go further, and they did . . .’ I’m not sure who sighs the deepest, me or Freddie. Each time I think of Mike, the wound I thought was healing weeps a little. I change the subject. ‘Isn’t there a local rescue centre who’ll take Freddie? What about the RSPCA?’
‘No way,’ Izzy says. ‘I can’t bear the thought of him being dragged from pillar to post, not after what he’s been through. Give me time – a week, maybe two – and I’ll find him a good home.’
‘Maz, you have one waiting,’ Frances calls through.
Consulting room, here I come . . .
Pippin. Shitzu. Grey and white. 4 years old. Neutered male. Problem: has the runs something chronic.
‘So,’ says the client, Mr Brown, ‘Alex suggested we come to see you.’
‘I thought you’d asked to swap practices.’ I’m confused. Alex seemed so genuine, leading me to believe it was Mr Brown’s idea to change from the Talyton Manor Vets to Otter House.
‘Oh no, not at all. In fact, it’s much easier to park up at the Manor than here.’ Mr Brown fidgets on the opposite side of the table. His shirt crackles with static, his trousers rustle and his shoes break wind. ‘Listen to me rambling on. You must have Pippin’s personal information already.’
It’s true. Every detail, apart from some attempts to blot out the most disrespectful comments in Talyton Manor Vets’ notes with Tippex: ‘Motionless for 24 hours. Hoorah! Much wind. Diarrhoea – esp. verbal.’
Where are Pippin’s test results? A plan of action for making a better diagnosis than ‘dodgy tummy’? I realise I’m sounding a bit prissy here, but if Alex couldn’t handle the case, he should have done a basic work-up, then sent it to one of the referral centres. I don’t think Alex’s motives for handing this case over to me were entirely altruistic.
‘Have you had a look at the notes from our previous vet?’ Mr Brown enquires.
‘Perhaps you’d like to explain the problems you’re having with Pippin yourself.’ The notes are thicker than a Jeffrey Archer novel – I’d need at least a week on a beach to get through them. ‘Briefly.’
‘Well, let me see . . . On some days, he passes three motions. Sometimes it’s two, sometimes six or seven.’
I try not to giggle in the face of such diligent explanation, a feat Pippin makes far more difficult, tipping his head from side to side and peering through his fringe like a Muppet.
‘Yesterday’ – Mr Brown rattles his keys in one of the many pockets on his outdoor trousers – ‘the first one was what I would describe as normal.’ He goes on like Gillian McKeith to describe the exact consistency and colour, from shades of umber to burnt sienna.
‘What do you feed him?’ I cut in eventually because, although I have plenty of time until my next appointment, I can see this consultation running on all day.
‘Whatever my wife and I are having – good quality meat and veg, lightly cooked without added salt. He doesn’t pick up rubbish outside,’ Mr Brown continues, ‘and he hasn’t got worms. I treated him last month with a multi-storey wormer from Mr
Even holding down two part-time jobs and living on lentils and economy cornflakes I couldn’t pay my credit card bills or put a deposit down on accommodation for the following term. It was my fault. The dress which I bought for the May Ball, for example, was an extravagance, but how could I have let Ian down by turning up in front of his friends in jeans and a calving gown?
I paid Celia back though, every penny.
‘You were saying . . .’ Izzy prompts.
‘It was just after the funeral when Emma suggested I joined her as a partner in Otter House.’
‘So why didn’t you? I know,’ Izzy goes on, excitedly, ‘there was a man. There’s always a man.’
‘Mike, my boss at Crossways. It was very early days back then, but I always hoped things would go further, and they did . . .’ I’m not sure who sighs the deepest, me or Freddie. Each time I think of Mike, the wound I thought was healing weeps a little. I change the subject. ‘Isn’t there a local rescue centre who’ll take Freddie? What about the RSPCA?’
‘No way,’ Izzy says. ‘I can’t bear the thought of him being dragged from pillar to post, not after what he’s been through. Give me time – a week, maybe two – and I’ll find him a good home.’
‘Maz, you have one waiting,’ Frances calls through.
Consulting room, here I come . . .
Pippin. Shitzu. Grey and white. 4 years old. Neutered male. Problem: has the runs something chronic.
‘So,’ says the client, Mr Brown, ‘Alex suggested we come to see you.’
‘I thought you’d asked to swap practices.’ I’m confused. Alex seemed so genuine, leading me to believe it was Mr Brown’s idea to change from the Talyton Manor Vets to Otter House.
‘Oh no, not at all. In fact, it’s much easier to park up at the Manor than here.’ Mr Brown fidgets on the opposite side of the table. His shirt crackles with static, his trousers rustle and his shoes break wind. ‘Listen to me rambling on. You must have Pippin’s personal information already.’
It’s true. Every detail, apart from some attempts to blot out the most disrespectful comments in Talyton Manor Vets’ notes with Tippex: ‘Motionless for 24 hours. Hoorah! Much wind. Diarrhoea – esp. verbal.’
Where are Pippin’s test results? A plan of action for making a better diagnosis than ‘dodgy tummy’? I realise I’m sounding a bit prissy here, but if Alex couldn’t handle the case, he should have done a basic work-up, then sent it to one of the referral centres. I don’t think Alex’s motives for handing this case over to me were entirely altruistic.
‘Have you had a look at the notes from our previous vet?’ Mr Brown enquires.
‘Perhaps you’d like to explain the problems you’re having with Pippin yourself.’ The notes are thicker than a Jeffrey Archer novel – I’d need at least a week on a beach to get through them. ‘Briefly.’
‘Well, let me see . . . On some days, he passes three motions. Sometimes it’s two, sometimes six or seven.’
I try not to giggle in the face of such diligent explanation, a feat Pippin makes far more difficult, tipping his head from side to side and peering through his fringe like a Muppet.
‘Yesterday’ – Mr Brown rattles his keys in one of the many pockets on his outdoor trousers – ‘the first one was what I would describe as normal.’ He goes on like Gillian McKeith to describe the exact consistency and colour, from shades of umber to burnt sienna.
‘What do you feed him?’ I cut in eventually because, although I have plenty of time until my next appointment, I can see this consultation running on all day.
‘Whatever my wife and I are having – good quality meat and veg, lightly cooked without added salt. He doesn’t pick up rubbish outside,’ Mr Brown continues, ‘and he hasn’t got worms. I treated him last month with a multi-storey wormer from Mr
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