Tales from a Young Vet Read online

  Which was how, a few minutes later, the two of us came to be wheeling a dead alpaca across a field in a bright orange wheelbarrow when a police car, blue lights flashing, pulled up in front of us.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said an officer, climbing out of the car. ‘We’ve had a 999 call reporting a rather strange situation. Could you explain what’s going on here?’

  Niall looked at me.

  ‘It’s never a boring day when you’re a vet, Jo.’

  That evening I managed a quick ride on Tammy before rushing home to celebrate Dad’s birthday with the family. His parents had come over from their home in Crowborough, East Sussex. Grandma and Grandpa Hardy are lovely, always interested in everything that’s going on in my life and ready with a thousand questions. We can’t see them as often as my other grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Nevison, who live next door, so when we do it’s a real treat.

  Grandma and Grandpa Hardy are famous for their Sunday afternoon teas. We used to go over to them when I was little and they would give us the most enormous tea ever, with toast loaded with jam and honey, Scotch pancakes with maple syrup, saffron cake and Grandma’s famous trifle, known in the family as the Hardy Substantial. The only savoury thing was Marmite, and we’d each have a piece of toast and Marmite to start with, before overloading on sugar. I used to absolutely love it, but I would eat so much I’d be groaning all the way home.

  By the end of the week I was ready for the Christmas holidays. I’d baked muffins to take in, to say thank you to everyone, and towards the end of the afternoon several of the nursing and reception staff began getting into the Christmas spirit, putting on paper hats, swapping cracker presents and reading out cringe-making jokes.

  Vicky, one of the vets, came in for a muffin and a cup of tea. ‘You lot might be getting excited,’ she said, taking a large bite, ‘but for us vets Christmas can be hard work. We get inundated with phone calls from people whose dogs have overloaded on chocolate, swallowed cracker toys or eaten turkey bones.’

  ‘Do you often end up having to come in?’ I asked.

  ‘Every year,’ she said. ‘Last year I had to come in on Christmas Day for a spaniel that had eaten a whole box of chocolates. The owner kept saying, “But my aunt always gave her dog chocolate and he lived to fifteen with no problems.” And I had to explain that her aunt’s dog was exceptionally lucky, because chocolate is toxic for dogs and leads to vomiting and diarrhoea and even seizures. Her spaniel was very unwell and had to be made to throw up with an injection of apomorphine.

  ‘What gets me,’ she added, waving the remains of her muffin in the air, ‘is that people just don’t stop to think that we vets might actually like to have Christmas with our families, instead of rushing to the surgery because they’ve been thoughtless or careless with their dog.’

  Niall came into the room in time to catch the end of this little diatribe. ‘Too true,’ he said. ‘Every vet knows they’ll probably spend Christmas dealing with some emergency or other. A couple of years back I had a retriever that had gobbled down the Christmas pudding, and the raisins gave it kidney failure. The poor thing ended up in intensive care. Better make the most of this one, Jo. It might be the last peaceful Christmas you get for a while.’

  He downed a gulp of tea. ‘Ready to hit the road? We’ve got to go and see to a goose with a damaged wing.’

  I’d been hoping to sneak off early, but no such luck. The goose had not been keen to cooperate and it had taken a near-military operation to pin it down. Two hours later it had its wing strapped and we’d dropped our kit back at the surgery, which by that time was deserted. Longing to get home to a warm fire and supper, I thanked Niall for being a great mentor and reached for my coat. He patted me on the back. ‘Lots of luck, Jo,’ he said, with a rare smile. As he walked away he called over his shoulder, ‘Do you know, Jo, I think you may just have the makings of a decent vet.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Happy Christmas, Clunky’

  Home for Christmas, and I couldn’t wait. A whole two weeks off, without having to think about textbooks, diagnoses and beady-eyed clinicians. Time to relax with the family, which meant food, games, walks and riding my horses. And best of all, Jacques was coming over from South Africa to spend the holiday with us.

  He was due in a couple of days, but before that the film crew had decided they wanted to come and film me and Ross decorating our Christmas tree. Only one small problem there – we didn’t have a tree yet. Ross and I rushed out to get one, but it was the Saturday before Christmas and all the trees had gone except for the ones nobody wanted, with crooked trunks, spindly branches and a bare stalk sticking up at the top. We picked the least sad of the bunch, were still charged an extortionate amount, and loaded it into the back of the car. Once we got it home we spent a hilarious hour trying to get it to stand upright. It had a distinct tilt, so Ross spun it round and propped things under the side of the tree-holder while I stood across the room, hands on hips, saying, ‘No, up a bit, down a bit, to the right, round that way,’ until he threw a cushion at me and said, ‘That’s it, I give up.’ Tosca was excited by all the commotion and the smell of something different in the house, but moving the furniture to fit in the tree didn’t do her any favours. Trying to get to grips with the new layout of the room she ended up knocking the tree so that it tilted again, at which point we realised we were fighting a losing battle trying to keep it upright.

  When Amy and Ash arrived they stared at the tree aghast, but there wasn’t much choice at that point. Ross and I set to, chattering happily and covering its spindly little branches with shiny baubles as they tried to film us from clever angles to make it look less unfortunate. In the Hardy household we had a wonderful box of Christmas decorations, which, the minute it emerged each year, reduced me and Ross to eight-year-olds again. It was full of red wooden characters and trains, tinsel, beautiful shiny baubles in all sorts of shapes, and a long coil of red fairy lights, half of which now didn’t work. We had to try to wind the lights round the tree so that all the broken ones were at the back, a feat that took time and advanced contortion skills.

  Once we’d done our best with the tree and had propped a drunken-looking fairy at a precarious angle on the top, Amy and Ash, hoping for something a little more impressive, decided to come with me to see the horses. I was delighted, as it was a chance to show off Tammy and Elli and put them through their paces for the cameras. But predictably, Tammy, who can be a darling or a devil, chose to be the latter. With the camera trained on her she played up in every way she knew, jumping around with her ears back and stubbornly refusing to do anything I asked. Half of the footage involved her prancing on the spot with me saying ‘Calm down, calm down’ in my most patient voice, despite wanting to bawl at her. The rest of the footage was of us jumping a line of big jumps, mostly at breakneck speed.

  Thankfully Elli was far better behaved, but by the time I rode her the light was fading, so although she strutted her stuff, let me ride her bareback and generally showed Tammy how it should be done, the crew said it was probably too dark for the footage to be used. Guess which footage made it into the programme!

  After that, Amy and Ash took off, waving goodbye and saying they’d see me in the New Year. I’d got used to having them tailing me and at times it was quite comforting to have a little gang alongside me but, in the nicest possible way, it was good to see the back of them for a couple of weeks.

  The following day was Sunday and time for our church nativity play. We’re members of our local church; Ross and I both play in the band, Dad is a church Elder, and Mum is deputy washer of the communion glasses. The family nativity is always a highlight; children and adults all get involved and the traditional story is given a modern twist. This year they were adding in a journalist who would report the story, popping up every now and then with ‘Now let’s flash forward and see how Mary and Joseph are feeling.’

  Dad inevitably plays a shepherd because of the very convincing West Country accent he likes to put
on. Embarrassingly, imitating accents is a Hardy male trait, Ross and Dad won’t stop once they start, especially when they’re together, and between them they can pretty much replicate any accent across the world. Dad’s speciality is Cornish and Ross loves to mimic Russian, probably because he plays Call of Duty on his Xbox so often, although all he can actually say is ‘Cover me, I’m reloading.’

  For the nativity Dad had to provide his own costume and he’d left it to the last minute. Searching around for inspiration he picked up the living room sheepskin rug and tied it round himself with some baling twine we had lying around, from the hay bales at the yard. After topping the outfit off with a tea-towel on his head he looked completely ridiculous, strutting around talking like Ted from The Fast Show. Ross and I were both cringing, but in the end the nativity was brilliant and Dad had everyone in stitches.

  That evening we went out to supper with some family friends at a pub out in the country and there was a tempestuous storm. The rain was so torrential that by the time we set off for home the roads were flooded. Luckily we’d taken our Land Rover Defender or we certainly wouldn’t have made it back.

  The storm was so severe that large parts of Kent were flooded and dozens of properties damaged after the River Medway burst its banks. We were very lucky that we weren’t in a flooded area, but later we learned that four of our livery yard’s stables had collapsed, though luckily none of the horses were hurt. The buildings had literally been lifted off their footings, over the heads of their occupants, and blown across the yard owner’s garden. Thankfully Tammy and Elli’s stables were still standing, although theirs were partially flooded. Tammy was left standing in two inches of water and was pretty unsettled because the horses that lost their stables had escaped and were galloping wildly around.

  Jacques was due to arrive at Heathrow early the next morning. I set off in plenty of time, but the traffic was so heavy that I ended up getting there forty-five minutes after his plane had landed. I managed to sprint across the airport to the arrival gate and got there, madly out of breath, just before he appeared. Minutes later I leaped into his arms, thrilled to see him, and he picked me up and spun me around.

  ‘What took you so long? I’ve been here for ages,’ I joked.

  ‘Mmm, sure you have. When are you ever early?’ he said, putting me back down on the floor.

  ‘OK, you rumbled me, I’ve just got here. But pretty good timing all the same, right?’

  But Jacques was too distracted for jokes. He had made it to England – but his suitcase hadn’t. We spent another hour in the airport while he spoke to various staff and they searched for his case, but it appeared to have vanished and in the end we had to leave without it.

  Jacques was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. His coat, along with everything else, was in his luggage. He did have a jumper with him but he insisted that he wasn’t worried about the cold – unlike most people who grow up in hot countries, he doesn’t seem to feel it. If anything it’s the heat he minds.

  We went out later that day to get him a change of clothes and a toothbrush. He was still in his T-shirt and I kept telling him to please for goodness sake put on the jumper because it was late December and freezing. But he just didn’t seem to feel it.

  ‘I’m really not cold at all,’ he insisted, while shoppers in coats and scarves turned to look at him.

  ‘Well, please put a jumper on for me then. You’re embarrassing!’

  His tolerance of the cold was well and truly tested that afternoon when I took him down to the stables with me to muck out the horses and check on the flooding. He got stuck in without a word of complaint, which earned him a fair few Brownie points.

  That evening the staff at Heathrow called to say they had found his case, which probably came in on a later flight, and would send it down to us with a driver that evening. He was relieved to have his clothes but I teased him: ‘Never mind your clothes; I’m just glad my Christmas present is here.’

  We were all at breakfast the next morning when the phone went. It was a friend of Mum’s who worked for a local animal rescue charity. They had a dog, a Staffie, which was in a local pound and was due to be put down that evening. Pounds can only keep dogs for a relatively short time, and if they’re not claimed or homed they have to be put to sleep as they just don’t have space to keep them. The friend asked Mum whether she would go and pick him up and keep him overnight. A foster home was being arranged, but they wouldn’t be able to take him until the next day – Christmas Eve.

  Mum asked if we would mind. Of course we all said we’d love to have him and Mum said good, because she’d already agreed. She’s a dog-lover, and at the thought of a dog needlessly losing its life, especially at Christmas, she was ready to drop everything and go to its rescue. The pound was a thirty-minute drive away, so, calling out that she would be back in just over an hour, she shot out of the door, still shrugging on her coat.

  She arrived back leading a black Staffie with a comical white patch over one eye. His name was Chunky. He was young, perhaps only three or four, and he was almost blind. He charged into the house and banged into everything and everyone, jumping all over the furniture and all of us so that we re-named him Clunky.

  The Staffordshire bull terrier is a medium-sized, very popular English breed, squat, muscular and not the prettiest of dogs. A lot of people think they’re aggressive and mean – probably because that’s how they look – but Staffies are actually much softer in nature than they appear; they can be reliable, intelligent, affectionate and very good with children.

  Clunky, however, was not yet ready to be an ambassador for his breed. After half an hour of manically racing round the house knocking everything over, including Tosca, we decided we’d better keep him in the conservatory at the back. Two blind dogs together was just not a good combination. I took him out there with a bowl of food, water and a bed, and spent a bit of time calming him down. Poor Clunky was clearly very unsettled; he’d gone from one place to another and didn’t know where he lived or who owned him. Any dog finds this disconcerting, and for a dog that is also blind it’s especially hard. Clunky probably hadn’t had much human contact in recent weeks and he was desperate for attention.

  Throughout the rest of the day all five of us took turns taking him out to the garden and then taking him into the conservatory and doing our best to settle him. But he remained jumpy and edgy, and it was hard work to get him to sleep. Jacques, who has a soft spot for Staffies, spent a lot of time with him and seemed to have a natural touch; he soothed Clunky and eventually got him settled down on his bed.

  That night Mum and Dad took Tosca and Paddy upstairs with them, and I decided to sleep downstairs with Clunky. I didn’t want to leave him alone all night – he didn’t know what to do with himself and might well bark, cry, chew the furniture or hurl himself around. Jacques offered to do it, but I said no, he was still tired from travelling and he needed to sleep. I made up a bed for myself on the living room floor and took Clunky in there with me, putting his bed next to mine.

  Despite my ministrations it took him a few hours to settle down, during which he paced restlessly, jumping on me every time I was in danger of falling asleep. Eventually, however, he fell asleep next to me and we all had a few hours of peace.

  Mum’s friend rang back after breakfast. A foster home had been found for Clunky in Cornwall, and to get him there would involve a relay of drivers. Mum was asked to do the first leg of the journey and take him to the M25, where the next driver would meet her. He would be at his new foster home in time for Christmas Day. From there he would have treatment for his eyes, and some training, before being advertised for adoption into a permanent home. ‘Happy Christmas, Clunky,’ I said, giving him a last cuddle. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be all right, there’s a good home waiting for you.’

  I waved goodbye as his milky eyes peered out of the back of Mum’s car, and I felt sad to see him go. We’d bonded during our night on the living room floor and although I was tired, I felt in
credibly happy that he was going to have a fresh chance at life. It would be desperately sad to put a young dog like that to sleep, just because no one wanted him. Clunky deserved a loving family and a warm, safe home.

  On Christmas Day we had a full house, with both sets of grandparents and plenty of other family and friends. After endless opening of presents and an enormous lunch, rounded off with one of Grandma Hardy’s Substantials – a mammoth trifle that would probably feed us all for a month – we set out for a walk. After that, Jacques and I went to the yard to visit the horses and feed them, before collapsing back at home in a warm, over-fed, happy daze.

  Whenever Jacques comes to visit, Grandma and Grandpa Hardy like to recall the story of when they were in South Africa and they saw a lion kill a warthog. They always start with, ‘When I was in South Africa … have you heard this story?’ When we murmur, ‘Yes, actually we have,’ they carry on with, ‘Well, let me tell it to you again …’ and off they go. Their trip to South Africa a few years earlier was a present from Dad, my uncle and my twin aunts, and it was such a highlight for them that no one really minds hearing the stories again, even if it is for the umpteenth time.

  Jacques and I decided to go up to London after Christmas to visit the Natural History Museum for the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition, and then go on to see The Lion King, a musical that’s close to both our hearts.

  Jacques is a very accomplished wildlife photographer himself, and he loved walking around the exhibition, viewing incredible photos, many by photographers he knew. I told him he should enter some of his own photographs the following year. I was sure his work was good enough.

  We managed to get standing tickets for The Lion King, after running around Leicester Square ticket offices and the theatre’s booking office. I loved it, although Jacques insisted on pointing out the flaws in the animal combinations and the costumes.

  That night, after a really happy day together, we got on the train home and I took it as an opportunity to bring up a deeper conversation.