frances gaudiano

Anal Glands and Toe Nails

“Meg, you stink!” Beth exclaimed as Meg sank down next to her on the sofa in the staff room. Meg looked down and noticed the stain on her green tunic. She lifted the fabric to her face and took a quick sniff.

“Anal glands,” she replied. “I was holding a Springer for bloods and it got a bit nervous.” Beth wrinkled up her nose and tossed her pony tail, magenta in colour this week.

“You’re putting me off my lunch!”

Meg shrugged. “Well, deal with it. I’m too bloody tired to go outside and eat in my car.” Despite her protestations, Beth continued with the packet of crisps she was eating and took a large gulp of tea.

“Were you working with Sarah?” Meg nodded while taking a bite of her sandwich. “How is she today?” Beth queried. Sarah was their practice principal, a small, solid woman in her mid-40s with an enormous brain and almost no personality.

Delicately covering her still chewing mouth, Meg mumbled, “Same as always. A total bitch.” There was a pause while the two nurses continued to inhale their lunches. They technically had a 30-minute lunch break but it usually worked out to little more than 20 minutes. Meg continued, “I shouldn’t be so mean. Sarah works harder than all of us put together. She has no family to go home to. This practice is her whole life, but, God almighty, she is so picky and condescending.”

“Maybe she needs more sex in her life,” Beth inserted.

“Don’t we all,” Meg sighed. Sex was the last thing on her mind when she got home. All she ever wanted to do was take a hot shower and wash the day’s debris away from her, forget about being nice to people and curl up with a good book and a huge glass of wine. Luckily, her husband worked nights so she rarely had to gather the energy to interact with him. The dog and cat she could deal with but not people. At the end of the day, she was done with people. She had gone into veterinary nursing because she loved animals but it seemed she was constantly dealing with humans – impatient vets, clients angry about their bills and tearful nurses. It was just one drama after another. She could write a book about it.

“Did you hear about little Phoebe?” Beth asked.

Meg snapped to attention, “Phoebe? The doxie I sat up with all night on Saturday. What about her?”

“She died at home last night.”

“No way! She was doing so well when we sent her home on Tuesday.” Meg wanted to kick something. The dog had been an absolute sweetheart, never minding the repeated blood tests, the catheter being placed, the constant bathing of her bottom end. Phoebe had been suffering from a particularly nasty case of diarrhoea and sickness. The vet had established the cause as pancreatitis and had tried a vast pharmaceutical range to combat both the symptoms and the pain. Meg had sat with little Phoebe most of the night after the dog had been admitted because the diarrhoea had been so persistent that the poor dog needed to be bathed every few hours and placed in clean bedding. Being so low to the ground, the dachshund has seemed to get the diarrhoea all over her belly as well as her feet and elsewhere. Meg had grown quite attached to the little dog and had been thrilled when it was still alive on Monday morning and even more pleased when Phoebe had begun to eat boiled chicken Monday night. They thought she was over the worst of it and had sent her home to recover once she was eating enough to come off intravenous fluids. What the hell had been wrong that things could have turned around so quickly?

“Probably the pancreatitis started rotting her pancreas,” Beth concluded, standing up and brushing the crisp bits from her lap. “Well, I’m back on reception trying to get blood from stones,” she said, referring to the plethora of clients who complained about the ‘exorbitant’ vet bills. “I swear they think we pocket the cash and go out and party with it. I wish,” she huffed, leaving Meg to her thoughts. Megan ran her short-nailed fingers through the strands of her bleached blonde hair and picked out a toe nail that had somehow got lodged in her locks.

Phoebe had been owned by an elderly woman who had lived alone. The dog was her sole companion and Mrs. Kirkpatrick had doted on it - she would be destroyed. Meg had been to the house once to drop off some medication and had seen the luxurious dog bed, the blanket on the sofa for Phoebe and the handy step-stool next to the sofa so the dachshund wouldn’t hurt her back getting on and off the furniture. Meg would send Mrs. Kirkpatrick a sympathy card and maybe give her a telephone call. Not that that would help any. At least it would let the old lady know that it was ok to grieve for a dog. So many people felt embarrassed by their depth of feeling when they lost a pet. Why? A dog or cat, even a budgie or a rabbit was with you every day. They never argued with you, they were always glad to see you (well, maybe not always in the cat’s case) and they accepted you - regardless of wealth, appearance or intelligence. To be honest, there were a lot of pets more worthy of tears than some family members. Meg got to her feet, winced a moment as said feet complained about being put upon again and went to the office to collect a sympathy card. She better do it now before she forgot. God knows what the afternoon would bring.

After popping her card in the practice mail tray, Meg trotted down the stairs towards the main practice. The building consisted of a waiting room, two consult rooms, a prep room, a theatre, and a kennelling area. The upstairs included the main office, a staff room and a storage area. The practice was far from state of the art but Sarah owed it fully and was gradually increasing the technology as she became able to siphon more revenue into modern equipment. In the age of corporate veterinary medicine, it was a major achievement for Sarah to run her own business, however, the hours required took their toll on the vet and on her staff.

Meg was running her own consults this afternoon, helping clients with basic needs such as nail clipping, grooming, weight loss and good old anal glands. There was no escaping the magnificent odours of veterinary practice! As she headed towards the nurse consultation room, she heard a demanding knock on the door. “Your client!” Beth sang from behind the desk. Meg gave out one small whimper of pain. Not Mr. Deacon. None of them could bear Mr. Deacon but somehow, Meg always seemed to get scheduled to clip his dog’s toe nails. Meg suspected that the other nurses were too intimidated by him so they refused to see his Labrador. Meg wasn’t threatened by the officious twat, she just hated him. He hunted and was very proud of his working lab. Mr. Deacon was also very wealthy, dressed fully in tweed, stand of cigar smoke and expected people to jump to attention and serve his every need. On top of this, he was a sexist pig. Meg would spend the whole consult grinding her teeth in an effort not to tell him to take a flying leap. At least the dog was well behaved and would not scream and fly about when she tried to clip its nails, though Mr. Deacon would try to tell her how to do her job properly. Once she had nicked a nail and made it bleed and he had written a letter of complaint to the practice. Meg had had to endure a meeting with Sarah about customer care and how Meg was supposed to be a qualified nurse, not a cack-handed kennel assistant. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was so NOT in the mood for Mr. Deacon. If only pets came without their owners.

Meg ushered Mr. Deacon in as he was far to posh to open the door for himself. She smiled and greeted him with her best fake client care smile and then made a bit of a fuss over Trigger, the gleaming black Labrador in excellent condition. You could see his muscles and his ribs and definitely didn’t fit the average breed description of ‘flabaror.’ Trigger was a stupid name, but Trigger was not a stupid dog, the name was his owner’s fault. Trigger sat nicely for Meg and offered his paw. Mr. Deacon reminded her not to cut too short and also noted that last time she had barely taken anything off at all. “I will do my best,” Meg promised and she heard Mr. Deacon mutter ‘that’s not much,’ under his breath. She took a deep breath and concentrated on the dog. Poor Trigger having to live with such an oaf. And having to listen to the banging of guns every time they went hunting. Surely that sort of noise was painful to a dog’s ears. She wondered if working dogs had early onset deafness? Had anyone done a study on that? Probably not – no willing participants. Hunters would never believe that their animals disliked their duties. Well, she supposed, the running about in the fields must be fun for them. At least they got a lot of outdoor exercise. She finished her job and reached for the treat jar.

“Don’t give him a treat!” Mr. Deacon snapped. “He’s not a pet to be spoiled. He’s a working dog!”

“I understand,” agreed Meg, attempting to be polite. “And just now he has worked beautifully and deserves to be paid.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it but she had strong feelings about rewarding good behaviour.

“He doesn’t need a reward for doing what he is told to do.”

Meg had already crossed the line of good client care. She may as well go for it. “I don’t think most people would go to work if they weren’t paid. Dogs are no different. If they do something for us, we do owe them something in return.”

“Nonsense!”

“Actually, behaviour modification is a well-established science, that has been practiced for many decades. Hardly what one would call nonsense.”

Mr. Deacon actually shook his finger in her face, “Don’t you tell me how to train dogs young lady. I’ve been working dogs since before you were born. I didn’t ask for your opinion about something you know nothing about!”

As Meg had a certificate in companion animal behaviour and had trained her own dogs to compete in agility, so she actually knew a thing or two about behaviour. She was getting ready to tell Mr. Deacon this when he grabbed Trigger by the collar, yanked the innocent dog roughly and stomped out of the room. She could hear him shouting at Beth to ‘put it on his account,’ as he never paid for services when rendered, although there was a sign at the desk clearly asking for clients to pay at the time they were seen. Another letter of complaint then. Well, Sarah was welcome to fire her. She was a qualified nurse with two advanced certificates. She could find another job tomorrow and Sarah knew it. She would never sack Meg but there would be another unpleasant interview. Oh, fuck again.

Beth threw a smile at Meg, “Having fun darling?”

“Always,” Meg muttered and returned to the consult room to see who her next patient was.

Luckily, the rest of Meg’s nurse clinics were rather more pleasant. There was a weight check on a chihuahua. Meg carefully worked out how many calories a three-kilogram dog should be eating per day, (30 X 3 kilograms) + 70, which works out to 160 calories per day. She explained to the owner that Ariadne couldn’t really have a biscuit bone and a dental chew on top of her regular food or she would be chowing down nearer to 400 calories per day. The owner wasn’t convinced until Meg explained that 160 calories were less than the calories in two chocolate biscuits. Ariadne’s owner was appalled. She’s a very little dog, Meg reinforced. She actually does need to eat like a bird. Ariadne’s owner hugged the big-eyed, fawn creature to her double FF bosom and sighed theatrically and then kissed the dog with a loud smack. Meg thought she saw Ariadne’s lip curl. Hoping that a bit of her lecture had been absorbed, Meg sent them out with a diet sheet and a bag of low-calorie food. She would see Ariadne again in a month, hoping that the spherical chihuahua was slightly more svelte by then.

There were the usual nail clips. She had to call in Beth to help her with a boisterous, bouncing Labrador who thought the nail clippers were evil incarnate. One of the cats needing a nail clip required a muzzle, a sort of soft hood for cats, fastening at the back with Velcro™ . It wasn’t ideal but in short consult periods, she didn’t have time for the cat to get relaxed and trust her and cat bites were no fun. They always got infected and then you had to go on antibiotics and couldn’t drink wine. Meg didn’t think she could make it through a whole week without a glass of wine.

Finally, there were the very full anal glands of a poor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who had scooted till his bottom was raw. Meg emptied the odorous glands into some cotton wool and then cleaned the Cavy’s bottom with chlorhexidine, drying it and applying some nappy cream. The elderly owner thanked her profusely as Meg helped her and the dog out to her car. She liked clients like that – grateful.

It was the end of the shift. Meg dragged herself upstairs to her locker and emptied her pockets of her scissors, pens, nail clippers and calculator. She pulled her stethoscope off her neck and dumped the equipment in her locker, pulling out her hand bag and keys. Slipping into her practice emblazoned fleece, she headed for the back door.

“Meg, before you leave,” it was Derek, a new graduate who still had his training wheels on.

“What?” Meg asked flatly. She knew what he wanted but she was going to make him say it.

“Could you please look at this urine under the microscope? You’re the best at lab work and I just need to see if this cat has a UTI.”

“Is it a cysto or a free-catch?” Meg quizzed him.

“Well, the cat peed on the exam table so I sucked it up with a syringe….”

“Pointless,” Meg replied. If it’s free-catch it will be full of bacteria regardless.

“But could you just check and see if it’s hooching with bacteria?”

“So, I can tell you that the table wasn’t cleaned very well between patients? Please Derek, I’m tired. I want to go home and you can’t diagnose an UTI from a free-catch sample.”

“But maybe it’s about to get blocked. Can you check for crystals?” Derek pleaded, his dark brown eyes large and liquid, not unlike the Cavalier King Charles she had seen earlier for anal gland problems.

Meg put out her hand and took the urine sample. It would only take her another ten or fifteen minutes. It wasn’t enough to write down as overtime – they had to hit thirty minutes for that, but it was easier than arguing. And god forbid she send home a cat that was about to be blocked. It would only come back later tonight or be dead tomorrow.

When Meg finally got out the door, she waved good-bye to Beth, who was still on reception, covering the late appointments. “Pray for me,” Beth called out. Sarah was doing late appointments and she liked to make them very late indeed.

When Meg got home, the house was cold so she flipped on the heat. Her husband never turned the heat on before he left as he didn’t believe in wasting money. He worked as an emergency technician on the ambulance service and managed to arrange his rota so that he was mostly on nights, assuring that their dog wasn’t home alone during the day. Occasionally, Meg had to do night shifts as well, in which case Ian tried to get a day shift. Both of them had demanding jobs so didn’t mind having time alone. They got together on their days off and tried to make the best of it.

Meg greeted their dog Dylan with enthusiasm. Dylan was a lurcher with a rough grey coat and the most darling beard and eyebrows. Meg had nursed him as a parvo puppy brought in from a gypsy site. The owner’s had never come back for him after they had been rung three times about the bill. There was also the cat, a mackerel tabby that had turned up at the practice as a stray with a cat bite abscess. She had been treated and then needed a home so of course Megan took her, naming her Sasha.

Meg began making dinner for the Dylan and that prompted Sasha to enter through the flap and start begging for her meal. Sasha wound her way around Meg’s legs meowing vociferously. Meg didn’t like her animals to be exposed to her work uniform as it was probably full of germs from work so she kept side stepping Sasha, eventually losing her patience and begging the cat to ‘fuck off’ until she could get the meals ready. She asked Dylan to sit and then placed his interactive feeder on the floor for him to begin ferreting out his pieces of biscuits. She lifted Sasha onto the kitchen counter and threw a handful of cat biscuits into his bowl. Hopefully, the hot water was on by now and she could have a nice, long shower. Pulling off her uniform, she removed her nursing badge and fob watch and then threw the bottle green outfit into the washer, running upstairs in her underwear to wash away the day in a steaming hot shower.

While rushing through the bedroom she stepped in some cat sick on the bedroom carpet, swore and decided to clean it up later. It had been there all day after all and already stained the carpet. Ian never cleaned up cat sick, calling Meg ‘the professional,’ and always leaving any of the animals’ digressions for Meg to take care of. Fine, as long as he ironed his own uniform. Divesting herself of the last of her clothing, Meg stepped into the shower and let the hot water run down her, rubbing the soap into her sore back and then cleaning fastidiously under her nails. Once done, she wrapped herself in her robe and threw herself on the bed. She would make dinner in a little while. She just wanted to be still for a few minutes. Dylan jumped on the bed and lay down over her legs. She reached out and scratched the dog behind the ears. “I love you too old boy,” she muttered and fell asleep.

A snarling noise startled Meg awake, she panicked for a moment, thinking she was about to be attached by a Shar-pei, then realized it was her husband snoring. She reached over and looked at her alarm clock. 6.00. Shit, it was time to get up soon. She may as well get up now. How many hours had she slept? 10? Excellent. But she was starving. As she swung her legs off the side of the bed, the dog lifted his head. She reached out and scratched him behind the ear. “Yes, it is breakfast time,” she whispered. Then sliding her feet into her slippers, she descended the stairs to the small kitchen and flicked on the light. Immediately, Sasha appeared, meowing with starvation and winding her way around Meg’s legs. “Give us a minute Sash. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” After putting on the kettle, Meg reached for the pet’s bowls, pouring biscuits into Sasha’s and mixing meat and kibble into Dylan’s feeder. Dylan was always a bit put out when she used the divided bowl that slowed down his eating but she felt it was better for his digestion to take five minutes to eat instead of 0.5 seconds. She lifted Sasha up on the counter to eat her own food. Meg smiled to herself. Her mother-in-law would have a fit if she knew the cat ate on the kitchen surfaces. Next to where she placed Sasha was a note. ‘THERE IS STILL CAT VOMIT ON THE CARPET.’ Oh dear. Ian was cross. Well, she couldn’t clean it up now. It would wake him and then he would be even more annoyed. He was home early from his shift. He usually didn’t come home till 8.00. She wondered if he was feeling poorly to have left work early. Maybe she would ring him later in the day.

Moving quietly through the house, Meg managed to get herself ready without disturbing her somnolent husband. She found that she had thrown yesterday’s uniform into the dirty laundry basket with one of her badges still on, and uh oh, she had worn her radiation dosimeter home again. Naughty, naughty! Pulling a clean uniform out of the airing cupboard, she attached her nursing badge and name tag, stuffing the errant dosimeter in a pocket. Best if she not be seen wearing it into work. She couldn’t find any matching socks so wore two similar socks, hoping the Sarah wouldn’t notice. The woman was a stickler for uniform; however, Meg was working in the kennels today so she was less likely to be observed by the vet.

Kissing Dylan goodbye (on the top of the head, not the mouth) and giving Sasha a quick stroke, Meg picked up her keys and ran out the door. Her car started after only three attempts so it had to be a lucky day.

When she got to work, Meg dropped her handbag, keys and lunch into her locker, collecting her scissors and other necessary paraphernalia. Just as she was starting down the stairs to the wards, Helen, the head nurse/practice manager, stuck her head out of the office. “Meg, I need you to take over reception and dispensary today. Beth has called in sick.”

Meg sighed. She hated reception – too many annoying phone calls. “Ok,” she muttered, “But who’s going to do wards?”

“Jenny.”

“Seriously?” Meg asked. Jenny was a student nurse who hadn’t really made up her mind about nursing. She spent a lot of time looking at her phone (which she wasn’t supposed to carry at work) and playing with the animals. Cleaning wasn’t her strong point, neither was organization. She was also frighteningly bad at maths, making drug calculations a risky business. “Wouldn’t she be better on reception?” where she won’t kill anything Meg added to herself.

“Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?” She wasn’t confronting Meg, but sounded as if she might cry. Overweight, with mousy brown hair worn in a long braid down her back, Helen was the exact opposite of her maverick sister Sarah.

Meg bit her tongue very hard. “No, it’s just that Jenny is still a bit, um, well, let’s say she is a work in progress.”

“Then being responsible for wards will be a good learning experience for her,” Helen scuttled back into the office, pulling the door behind her, lest Meg question her further.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Meg muttered. She really needed to stop swearing so much. It was unimaginative. But not today. She walked into reception, turned the phones over from the night service and got ready for the onslaught.

There were the usual early phone calls. My dog has been sick all night. Can you see him first thing? Meg asked if they had called the night service. Some did, some didn’t want to bother the vet, but few people wanted to pay the emergency call out fees. Only clients with insurance could afford those costs. Meg tried to fit in all the more or less emergencies, assessing the severity over the phone. This was always a bit tricky – some owners exaggerated their pet’s condition while other played it down. Meg has seen a ‘collapsed’ Golden Retriever come bounding into reception while a cat that just ‘wasn’t himself,’ ended up dead on arrival. Asking the right questions was the key to telephone triage: How many times did he vomit? Was the pool of vomit the size of a dinner plate, bigger or smaller? Was there blood in the vomit? Often these questions sounded quite disgusting to clients, especially the faecal questions. Would you say the poo was more like a cow pat or more like Mr. Whippy? Meg tried to apologize if the questions got too graphic but having been a nurse for twenty years her concept of what was repulsive and a client’s concept could be a bit different.

Sarah came in at 8.45. She paused at the desk, looking at Meg.

“Ah, you’re out here today,” she remarked.

“Beth called in sick,” Meg replied without looking up from the computer screen.

“Well, I’m glad it’s you. Derek has a very full consult list today and he can use an experienced nurse like you to help him out.”

That did make Meg look up. A compliment from Sarah! “Sure, no problem Sarah. I’m happy to help him.” Sometimes Sarah could be really quite pleasant. You just couldn’t expect the mood to last. Meg tried to smile at her as Sarah nodded and continued up to the office, her dog trailing behind her. The black and white collie was Sarah’s lone companion and it spent nearly as much time at the practice as Sarah did. Its picture was on all the practice flyers and vaccine cards and all of the clients knew who Daisy the collie was.

Derek’s first consult was a cat with a cat bite abscess, better known as a CBA in the business. He got Jenny to come in from the kennel room to hold the cat while he clipped and cleaned the area around the abscess then he lanced the abscess, allowing the purulent material to ooze over the cat’s backside. “He must have been running away,” Derek explained to the owner, “That’s why he got bit in the back, instead of the face. It’s much easier to sort out from this end.” The lady owner cringed up against the wall, hand to her mouth to keep the vomit in. Sluicing the wound with sterile saline, he felt quite proud of the job he had done. He left Jenny with the cat and leaned out into reception to request meds from Meg. Meg looked up the cat’s weight on the chart and calculated the dose by multiplying the weight by the required milligrams per millilitre and then dividing by the concentration of the solution. She drew up the thick, white liquid into a 2millilitre syringe with a 21-gauge needle. She also made up five days of antibiotic tablets. As an afterthought she got a small bottle of chlorohexidine off the shelf. The owner probably wouldn’t be able to clean the wound daily but Meg could at least suggest it.

She carried the medications into the consult room and handed the injection to Derek. He looked at the needle. “A green needle? Isn’t that a bit cruel?”

Not in front of the client she thought. These baby vets had so much to learn! “You won’t get that stuff through a blue needle.”

“Really?” Derek asked in wonderment. “Oh yeah, it is really thick, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Meg agreed, gesturing with her head towards the client so that Derek stopped looking like such an idiot in front of a customer. He seemed to get the message and suddenly got all professional.

“Thank you, Meg and I see you’ve brought,” quick glance at the computer screen, “Ginger, here some antibiotics which can start tomorrow morning. Oh, and Hibiscrub™. Do you think you’ll be able to clean Ginger’s wound twice daily Mrs,” another glance at the screen, “Mrs. Whitelock?” The woman nodded with little conviction. “You’ll need to dilute this with warm water until the solution is pale pink and then clean away any pus that comes up out of the place that I have lanced. Do you have any questions?”

Mrs. Whitelock managed to whimper that she had no questions. Ginger gratefully sought refuge in his box and the cat carrier was handed to the owner, who lugged it to the front desk.

“Are you alright Mrs. Whitelock?” Meg asked with some concern. The woman was ashen. “Would you like a glass of water? Seeing an abscess burst is really pretty gross. They make me sick sometimes too, especially on a warm day.” Mrs. Whitelock’s face went from white to green.

“Can I just pay?” she begged.

There were a few booster vaccines after that. Meg kept her ears open in case Derek needed any help. She heard a greyhound scream bloody murder but they always did that. The owner would be used to the dramatics, even if Derek wasn’t. A Yorkie was in next and Meg hoped that Derek noted the little alligator on the chart indicating that the dog would bite. She listened, heard him yelp, and sighed. Nope, he hadn’t seen it. She would go in and point out where to find the warnings on the charts. There was even a little unhappy face for clients that made complaints and a big, red BD for bad debtors. Important one, that old BD; Sarah would have a cow if he dispensed meds to a bad debtor. Treatment was legally required but they couldn’t give drugs away.

Meg heard the door bang open and a young woman appeared before her with her cat in her arms. Both woman and cat were liberally decorated with blood. “My cat, got a cut on his leg,” the woman gasped but Meg was already around the counter taking the cat into her arms.

“Let me just pop her around the back and see what’s going on. I’ll be right back.” She hurried down the hall to the prep room and placed the black and white cat on the exam table. Sarah was operating that day and stuck her head of the theatre.

“What is it Meg?”

“Cat with a wound on its leg. Shall I do a straight admit? Usual £500 for assessment and emergency treatment?”

“Remind her that it’s just an estimate, the bill could come to more,” came the reply from theatre, where Sarah had returned to the dog castrate she was doing. Meg noticed that Sarah had roped Helen into monitoring anaesthetics. Helen’s hands were shaking and she took the vitals repeatedly. She hated hands on nursing and preferred to stick to the office. Or maybe she just hated working with her sister?

Meg carried the injured cat to the kennel area and placed it in cage. “Jenny, this cat is in for a stitch up. Can you TPR it and make it a nice, comfy bed? I’ll find out if Sarah wants to sedate it or GA and let you know.”

“I can’t take its temperature on my own,” Jenny wailed.

“Try,” Meg said, with little patience. She had to get back to the front desk. “If you can’t manage, I’ll come down and help you in a bit,” With that, she rushed back to the waiting owner.

Meg asked for the owner’s name and the cat’s name, looking them up on the computer system. She then printed out a consent form. She explained the fees and elaborated that it was just an estimate, if the wound was more complicated, there would be additional charges but a vet would let her know before proceeding. The woman took the form and looked at it, tears filling in her eyes.

“I’m on statutory sick pay at the moment. I’ve been in hospital,” the woman gulped, obviously not willing to give details. “I just can’t pay this right now.”

“Ok,” Meg said slowly. She didn’t have authority to make payment plans and they were hardly ever allowed anyway. Why, oh why, didn’t people get pet insurance. “You could try ringing a charity and see if they could assist you with funds.”

“How long would that take?” the owner queried.

“I don’t know, but it’s always worth a try. Generally, they can’t pay the whole bill but might give you £50 or so. You could try contacting a few different charities…” Meg trailed off, watching the woman’s stricken expression.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t have any savings left. I’m afraid I’m going to have to put her to sleep,” and then the owner broke off in sobs. Meg handed her a box of tissues. Ridiculous. You can’t put a cat to sleep because of a cut on its leg!!!

“Could you pay anything now? Or borrow from someone?” God, this was awful. She hated the money side of things. They had to charge. Otherwise, the practice would shut down but oh, how she wished, there were an NHS for pets.

With a struggle, the woman recovered her voice and said, “I can probably get £100 together.”

“That’s good!” Meg countered encouragingly. “Let me just go have a word with the practice principal about a payment plan. You’d have to pay the balance within three months though, we can’t extend credit beyond that because we aren’t allowed to legally.” The woman nodded and Meg took that as a yes so Meg bounded up the stairs, to present a dramatic appeal to the Helen, who should be out of theatre by now. Should she tell Helen that the woman was dying of cancer and the cat was her only companion? Sounded good. Yes, she’d add that in.

Helen had none of Sarah’s confidence and self-assurance and was easily coerced into setting up a payment plan, as the amount really wasn’t that much and the owner didn’t have a history of unpaid bills. Meg returned to the front desk, all smiles. “We’ve got a deal. We’d never let a poor kitty be put to sleep for a mere cut on her leg. No worries! Just leave her with us and we’ll give you a ring when she’s ready to go home. Can you sign the consent form before you go?

Satisfied with her humanitarian mission, Meg settled back to answering the phone, making up medication and taking payment from the clients that came for consultations. The morning flew by and she was getting ready to go to lunch when Sarah came into dispensary.

“Meg, I just had a look at that cat you admitted. It’s not a superficial wound at all. The tendons are cut and it’s going to need major surgery.”

“NO!!” Meg collapsed onto her chair. “The owner is skint and can barely afford the £500 quoted. Could you not just do an amputation? That would be a lot cheaper.”

“It would still be at least £1000.”

“Well, maybe she can do that. Do you want to call her or should I?” Meg offered.

“I will call her and make things perfectly clear,” Sarah warned.

That didn’t bode well at all.

Meg had her hurried lunch and then returned to reception, checking in on Jenny in kennels. It was a mess, but all the animals seemed well enough. Jenny claimed that she was so busy and that she really needed some help. Meg told her to ring up to Helen and let her know that things were getting overwhelming. Maybe Helen would come down and help. As if. Helen hadn’t done any ward nursing in years. She’d had a bad experience with a nervous German Shepherd and had become phobic of conscious animals.

Anal Glands and Toe Nails

“Meg, you stink!” Beth exclaimed as Meg sank down next to her on the sofa in the staff room. Meg looked down and noticed the stain on her green tunic. She lifted the fabric to her face and took a quick sniff.

“Anal glands,” she replied. “I was holding a Springer for bloods and it got a bit nervous.” Beth wrinkled up her nose and tossed her pony tail, magenta in colour this week.

“You’re putting me off my lunch!”

Meg shrugged. “Well, deal with it. I’m too bloody tired to go outside and eat in my car.” Despite her protestations, Beth continued with the packet of crisps she was eating and took a large gulp of tea.

“Were you working with Sarah?” Meg nodded while taking a bite of her sandwich. “How is she today?” Beth queried. Sarah was their practice principal, a small, solid woman in her mid-40s with an enormous brain and almost no personality.

Delicately covering her still chewing mouth, Meg mumbled, “Same as always. A total bitch.” There was a pause while the two nurses continued to inhale their lunches. They technically had a 30-minute lunch break but it usually worked out to little more than 20 minutes. Meg continued, “I shouldn’t be so mean. Sarah works harder than all of us put together. She has no family to go home to. This practice is her whole life, but, God almighty, she is so picky and condescending.”

“Maybe she needs more sex in her life,” Beth inserted.

“Don’t we all,” Meg sighed. Sex was the last thing on her mind when she got home. All she ever wanted to do was take a hot shower and wash the day’s debris away from her, forget about being nice to people and curl up with a good book and a huge glass of wine. Luckily, her husband worked nights so she rarely had to gather the energy to interact with him. The dog and cat she could deal with but not people. At the end of the day, she was done with people. She had gone into veterinary nursing because she loved animals but it seemed she was constantly dealing with humans – impatient vets, clients angry about their bills and tearful nurses. It was just one drama after another. She could write a book about it.

“Did you hear about little Phoebe?” Beth asked.

Meg snapped to attention, “Phoebe? The doxie I sat up with all night on Saturday. What about her?”

“She died at home last night.”

“No way! She was doing so well when we sent her home on Tuesday.” Meg wanted to kick something. The dog had been an absolute sweetheart, never minding the repeated blood tests, the catheter being placed, the constant bathing of her bottom end. Phoebe had been suffering from a particularly nasty case of diarrhoea and sickness. The vet had established the cause as pancreatitis and had tried a vast pharmaceutical range to combat both the symptoms and the pain. Meg had sat with little Phoebe most of the night after the dog had been admitted because the diarrhoea had been so persistent that the poor dog needed to be bathed every few hours and placed in clean bedding. Being so low to the ground, the dachshund has seemed to get the diarrhoea all over her belly as well as her feet and elsewhere. Meg had grown quite attached to the little dog and had been thrilled when it was still alive on Monday morning and even more pleased when Phoebe had begun to eat boiled chicken Monday night. They thought she was over the worst of it and had sent her home to recover once she was eating enough to come off intravenous fluids. What the hell had been wrong that things could have turned around so quickly?

“Probably the pancreatitis started rotting her pancreas,” Beth concluded, standing up and brushing the crisp bits from her lap. “Well, I’m back on reception trying to get blood from stones,” she said, referring to the plethora of clients who complained about the ‘exorbitant’ vet bills. “I swear they think we pocket the cash and go out and party with it. I wish,” she huffed, leaving Meg to her thoughts. Megan ran her short-nailed fingers through the strands of her bleached blonde hair and picked out a toe nail that had somehow got lodged in her locks.

Phoebe had been owned by an elderly woman who had lived alone. The dog was her sole companion and Mrs. Kirkpatrick had doted on it - she would be destroyed. Meg had been to the house once to drop off some medication and had seen the luxurious dog bed, the blanket on the sofa for Phoebe and the handy step-stool next to the sofa so the dachshund wouldn’t hurt her back getting on and off the furniture. Meg would send Mrs. Kirkpatrick a sympathy card and maybe give her a telephone call. Not that that would help any. At least it would let the old lady know that it was ok to grieve for a dog. So many people felt embarrassed by their depth of feeling when they lost a pet. Why? A dog or cat, even a budgie or a rabbit was with you every day. They never argued with you, they were always glad to see you (well, maybe not always in the cat’s case) and they accepted you - regardless of wealth, appearance or intelligence. To be honest, there were a lot of pets more worthy of tears than some family members. Meg got to her feet, winced a moment as said feet complained about being put upon again and went to the office to collect a sympathy card. She better do it now before she forgot. God knows what the afternoon would bring.

After popping her card in the practice mail tray, Meg trotted down the stairs towards the main practice. The building consisted of a waiting room, two consult rooms, a prep room, a theatre, and a kennelling area. The upstairs included the main office, a staff room and a storage area. The practice was far from state of the art but Sarah owed it fully and was gradually increasing the technology as she became able to siphon more revenue into modern equipment. In the age of corporate veterinary medicine, it was a major achievement for Sarah to run her own business, however, the hours required took their toll on the vet and on her staff.

Meg was running her own consults this afternoon, helping clients with basic needs such as nail clipping, grooming, weight loss and good old anal glands. There was no escaping the magnificent odours of veterinary practice! As she headed towards the nurse consultation room, she heard a demanding knock on the door. “Your client!” Beth sang from behind the desk. Meg gave out one small whimper of pain. Not Mr. Deacon. None of them could bear Mr. Deacon but somehow, Meg always seemed to get scheduled to clip his dog’s toe nails. Meg suspected that the other nurses were too intimidated by him so they refused to see his Labrador. Meg wasn’t threatened by the officious twat, she just hated him. He hunted and was very proud of his working lab. Mr. Deacon was also very wealthy, dressed fully in tweed, stand of cigar smoke and expected people to jump to attention and serve his every need. On top of this, he was a sexist pig. Meg would spend the whole consult grinding her teeth in an effort not to tell him to take a flying leap. At least the dog was well behaved and would not scream and fly about when she tried to clip its nails, though Mr. Deacon would try to tell her how to do her job properly. Once she had nicked a nail and made it bleed and he had written a letter of complaint to the practice. Meg had had to endure a meeting with Sarah about customer care and how Meg was supposed to be a qualified nurse, not a cack-handed kennel assistant. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was so NOT in the mood for Mr. Deacon. If only pets came without their owners.

Meg ushered Mr. Deacon in as he was far to posh to open the door for himself. She smiled and greeted him with her best fake client care smile and then made a bit of a fuss over Trigger, the gleaming black Labrador in excellent condition. You could see his muscles and his ribs and definitely didn’t fit the average breed description of ‘flabaror.’ Trigger was a stupid name, but Trigger was not a stupid dog, the name was his owner’s fault. Trigger sat nicely for Meg and offered his paw. Mr. Deacon reminded her not to cut too short and also noted that last time she had barely taken anything off at all. “I will do my best,” Meg promised and she heard Mr. Deacon mutter ‘that’s not much,’ under his breath. She took a deep breath and concentrated on the dog. Poor Trigger having to live with such an oaf. And having to listen to the banging of guns every time they went hunting. Surely that sort of noise was painful to a dog’s ears. She wondered if working dogs had early onset deafness? Had anyone done a study on that? Probably not – no willing participants. Hunters would never believe that their animals disliked their duties. Well, she supposed, the running about in the fields must be fun for them. At least they got a lot of outdoor exercise. She finished her job and reached for the treat jar.

“Don’t give him a treat!” Mr. Deacon snapped. “He’s not a pet to be spoiled. He’s a working dog!”

“I understand,” agreed Meg, attempting to be polite. “And just now he has worked beautifully and deserves to be paid.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it but she had strong feelings about rewarding good behaviour.

“He doesn’t need a reward for doing what he is told to do.”

Meg had already crossed the line of good client care. She may as well go for it. “I don’t think most people would go to work if they weren’t paid. Dogs are no different. If they do something for us, we do owe them something in return.”

“Nonsense!”

“Actually, behaviour modification is a well-established science, that has been practiced for many decades. Hardly what one would call nonsense.”

Mr. Deacon actually shook his finger in her face, “Don’t you tell me how to train dogs young lady. I’ve been working dogs since before you were born. I didn’t ask for your opinion about something you know nothing about!”

As Meg had a certificate in companion animal behaviour and had trained her own dogs to compete in agility, so she actually knew a thing or two about behaviour. She was getting ready to tell Mr. Deacon this when he grabbed Trigger by the collar, yanked the innocent dog roughly and stomped out of the room. She could hear him shouting at Beth to ‘put it on his account,’ as he never paid for services when rendered, although there was a sign at the desk clearly asking for clients to pay at the time they were seen. Another letter of complaint then. Well, Sarah was welcome to fire her. She was a qualified nurse with two advanced certificates. She could find another job tomorrow and Sarah knew it. She would never sack Meg but there would be another unpleasant interview. Oh, fuck again.

Beth threw a smile at Meg, “Having fun darling?”

“Always,” Meg muttered and returned to the consult room to see who her next patient was.

Luckily, the rest of Meg’s nurse clinics were rather more pleasant. There was a weight check on a chihuahua. Meg carefully worked out how many calories a three-kilogram dog should be eating per day, (30 X 3 kilograms) + 70, which works out to 160 calories per day. She explained to the owner that Ariadne couldn’t really have a biscuit bone and a dental chew on top of her regular food or she would be chowing down nearer to 400 calories per day. The owner wasn’t convinced until Meg explained that 160 calories were less than the calories in two chocolate biscuits. Ariadne’s owner was appalled. She’s a very little dog, Meg reinforced. She actually does need to eat like a bird. Ariadne’s owner hugged the big-eyed, fawn creature to her double FF bosom and sighed theatrically and then kissed the dog with a loud smack. Meg thought she saw Ariadne’s lip curl. Hoping that a bit of her lecture had been absorbed, Meg sent them out with a diet sheet and a bag of low-calorie food. She would see Ariadne again in a month, hoping that the spherical chihuahua was slightly more svelte by then.

There were the usual nail clips. She had to call in Beth to help her with a boisterous, bouncing Labrador who thought the nail clippers were evil incarnate. One of the cats needing a nail clip required a muzzle, a sort of soft hood for cats, fastening at the back with Velcro™ . It wasn’t ideal but in short consult periods, she didn’t have time for the cat to get relaxed and trust her and cat bites were no fun. They always got infected and then you had to go on antibiotics and couldn’t drink wine. Meg didn’t think she could make it through a whole week without a glass of wine.

Finally, there were the very full anal glands of a poor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who had scooted till his bottom was raw. Meg emptied the odorous glands into some cotton wool and then cleaned the Cavy’s bottom with chlorhexidine, drying it and applying some nappy cream. The elderly owner thanked her profusely as Meg helped her and the dog out to her car. She liked clients like that – grateful.

It was the end of the shift. Meg dragged herself upstairs to her locker and emptied her pockets of her scissors, pens, nail clippers and calculator. She pulled her stethoscope off her neck and dumped the equipment in her locker, pulling out her hand bag and keys. Slipping into her practice emblazoned fleece, she headed for the back door.

“Meg, before you leave,” it was Derek, a new graduate who still had his training wheels on.

“What?” Meg asked flatly. She knew what he wanted but she was going to make him say it.

“Could you please look at this urine under the microscope? You’re the best at lab work and I just need to see if this cat has a UTI.”

“Is it a cysto or a free-catch?” Meg quizzed him.

“Well, the cat peed on the exam table so I sucked it up with a syringe….”

“Pointless,” Meg replied. If it’s free-catch it will be full of bacteria regardless.

“But could you just check and see if it’s hooching with bacteria?”

“So, I can tell you that the table wasn’t cleaned very well between patients? Please Derek, I’m tired. I want to go home and you can’t diagnose an UTI from a free-catch sample.”

“But maybe it’s about to get blocked. Can you check for crystals?” Derek pleaded, his dark brown eyes large and liquid, not unlike the Cavalier King Charles she had seen earlier for anal gland problems.

Meg put out her hand and took the urine sample. It would only take her another ten or fifteen minutes. It wasn’t enough to write down as overtime – they had to hit thirty minutes for that, but it was easier than arguing. And god forbid she send home a cat that was about to be blocked. It would only come back later tonight or be dead tomorrow.

When Meg finally got out the door, she waved good-bye to Beth, who was still on reception, covering the late appointments. “Pray for me,” Beth called out. Sarah was doing late appointments and she liked to make them very late indeed.

When Meg got home, the house was cold so she flipped on the heat. Her husband never turned the heat on before he left as he didn’t believe in wasting money. He worked as an emergency technician on the ambulance service and managed to arrange his rota so that he was mostly on nights, assuring that their dog wasn’t home alone during the day. Occasionally, Meg had to do night shifts as well, in which case Ian tried to get a day shift. Both of them had demanding jobs so didn’t mind having time alone. They got together on their days off and tried to make the best of it.

Meg greeted their dog Dylan with enthusiasm. Dylan was a lurcher with a rough grey coat and the most darling beard and eyebrows. Meg had nursed him as a parvo puppy brought in from a gypsy site. The owner’s had never come back for him after they had been rung three times about the bill. There was also the cat, a mackerel tabby that had turned up at the practice as a stray with a cat bite abscess. She had been treated and then needed a home so of course Megan took her, naming her Sasha.

Meg began making dinner for the Dylan and that prompted Sasha to enter through the flap and start begging for her meal. Sasha wound her way around Meg’s legs meowing vociferously. Meg didn’t like her animals to be exposed to her work uniform as it was probably full of germs from work so she kept side stepping Sasha, eventually losing her patience and begging the cat to ‘fuck off’ until she could get the meals ready. She asked Dylan to sit and then placed his interactive feeder on the floor for him to begin ferreting out his pieces of biscuits. She lifted Sasha onto the kitchen counter and threw a handful of cat biscuits into his bowl. Hopefully, the hot water was on by now and she could have a nice, long shower. Pulling off her uniform, she removed her nursing badge and fob watch and then threw the bottle green outfit into the washer, running upstairs in her underwear to wash away the day in a steaming hot shower.

While rushing through the bedroom she stepped in some cat sick on the bedroom carpet, swore and decided to clean it up later. It had been there all day after all and already stained the carpet. Ian never cleaned up cat sick, calling Meg ‘the professional,’ and always leaving any of the animals’ digressions for Meg to take care of. Fine, as long as he ironed his own uniform. Divesting herself of the last of her clothing, Meg stepped into the shower and let the hot water run down her, rubbing the soap into her sore back and then cleaning fastidiously under her nails. Once done, she wrapped herself in her robe and threw herself on the bed. She would make dinner in a little while. She just wanted to be still for a few minutes. Dylan jumped on the bed and lay down over her legs. She reached out and scratched the dog behind the ears. “I love you too old boy,” she muttered and fell asleep.

A snarling noise startled Meg awake, she panicked for a moment, thinking she was about to be attached by a Shar-pei, then realized it was her husband snoring. She reached over and looked at her alarm clock. 6.00. Shit, it was time to get up soon. She may as well get up now. How many hours had she slept? 10? Excellent. But she was starving. As she swung her legs off the side of the bed, the dog lifted his head. She reached out and scratched him behind the ear. “Yes, it is breakfast time,” she whispered. Then sliding her feet into her slippers, she descended the stairs to the small kitchen and flicked on the light. Immediately, Sasha appeared, meowing with starvation and winding her way around Meg’s legs. “Give us a minute Sash. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” After putting on the kettle, Meg reached for the pet’s bowls, pouring biscuits into Sasha’s and mixing meat and kibble into Dylan’s feeder. Dylan was always a bit put out when she used the divided bowl that slowed down his eating but she felt it was better for his digestion to take five minutes to eat instead of 0.5 seconds. She lifted Sasha up on the counter to eat her own food. Meg smiled to herself. Her mother-in-law would have a fit if she knew the cat ate on the kitchen surfaces. Next to where she placed Sasha was a note. ‘THERE IS STILL CAT VOMIT ON THE CARPET.’ Oh dear. Ian was cross. Well, she couldn’t clean it up now. It would wake him and then he would be even more annoyed. He was home early from his shift. He usually didn’t come home till 8.00. She wondered if he was feeling poorly to have left work early. Maybe she would ring him later in the day.

Moving quietly through the house, Meg managed to get herself ready without disturbing her somnolent husband. She found that she had thrown yesterday’s uniform into the dirty laundry basket with one of her badges still on, and uh oh, she had worn her radiation dosimeter home again. Naughty, naughty! Pulling a clean uniform out of the airing cupboard, she attached her nursing badge and name tag, stuffing the errant dosimeter in a pocket. Best if she not be seen wearing it into work. She couldn’t find any matching socks so wore two similar socks, hoping the Sarah wouldn’t notice. The woman was a stickler for uniform; however, Meg was working in the kennels today so she was less likely to be observed by the vet.

Kissing Dylan goodbye (on the top of the head, not the mouth) and giving Sasha a quick stroke, Meg picked up her keys and ran out the door. Her car started after only three attempts so it had to be a lucky day.

When she got to work, Meg dropped her handbag, keys and lunch into her locker, collecting her scissors and other necessary paraphernalia. Just as she was starting down the stairs to the wards, Helen, the head nurse/practice manager, stuck her head out of the office. “Meg, I need you to take over reception and dispensary today. Beth has called in sick.”

Meg sighed. She hated reception – too many annoying phone calls. “Ok,” she muttered, “But who’s going to do wards?”

“Jenny.”

“Seriously?” Meg asked. Jenny was a student nurse who hadn’t really made up her mind about nursing. She spent a lot of time looking at her phone (which she wasn’t supposed to carry at work) and playing with the animals. Cleaning wasn’t her strong point, neither was organization. She was also frighteningly bad at maths, making drug calculations a risky business. “Wouldn’t she be better on reception?” where she won’t kill anything Meg added to herself.

“Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?” She wasn’t confronting Meg, but sounded as if she might cry. Overweight, with mousy brown hair worn in a long braid down her back, Helen was the exact opposite of her maverick sister Sarah.

Meg bit her tongue very hard. “No, it’s just that Jenny is still a bit, um, well, let’s say she is a work in progress.”

“Then being responsible for wards will be a good learning experience for her,” Helen scuttled back into the office, pulling the door behind her, lest Meg question her further.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Meg muttered. She really needed to stop swearing so much. It was unimaginative. But not today. She walked into reception, turned the phones over from the night service and got ready for the onslaught.

There were the usual early phone calls. My dog has been sick all night. Can you see him first thing? Meg asked if they had called the night service. Some did, some didn’t want to bother the vet, but few people wanted to pay the emergency call out fees. Only clients with insurance could afford those costs. Meg tried to fit in all the more or less emergencies, assessing the severity over the phone. This was always a bit tricky – some owners exaggerated their pet’s condition while other played it down. Meg has seen a ‘collapsed’ Golden Retriever come bounding into reception while a cat that just ‘wasn’t himself,’ ended up dead on arrival. Asking the right questions was the key to telephone triage: How many times did he vomit? Was the pool of vomit the size of a dinner plate, bigger or smaller? Was there blood in the vomit? Often these questions sounded quite disgusting to clients, especially the faecal questions. Would you say the poo was more like a cow pat or more like Mr. Whippy? Meg tried to apologize if the questions got too graphic but having been a nurse for twenty years her concept of what was repulsive and a client’s concept could be a bit different.

Sarah came in at 8.45. She paused at the desk, looking at Meg.

“Ah, you’re out here today,” she remarked.

“Beth called in sick,” Meg replied without looking up from the computer screen.

“Well, I’m glad it’s you. Derek has a very full consult list today and he can use an experienced nurse like you to help him out.”

That did make Meg look up. A compliment from Sarah! “Sure, no problem Sarah. I’m happy to help him.” Sometimes Sarah could be really quite pleasant. You just couldn’t expect the mood to last. Meg tried to smile at her as Sarah nodded and continued up to the office, her dog trailing behind her. The black and white collie was Sarah’s lone companion and it spent nearly as much time at the practice as Sarah did. Its picture was on all the practice flyers and vaccine cards and all of the clients knew who Daisy the collie was.

Derek’s first consult was a cat with a cat bite abscess, better known as a CBA in the business. He got Jenny to come in from the kennel room to hold the cat while he clipped and cleaned the area around the abscess then he lanced the abscess, allowing the purulent material to ooze over the cat’s backside. “He must have been running away,” Derek explained to the owner, “That’s why he got bit in the back, instead of the face. It’s much easier to sort out from this end.” The lady owner cringed up against the wall, hand to her mouth to keep the vomit in. Sluicing the wound with sterile saline, he felt quite proud of the job he had done. He left Jenny with the cat and leaned out into reception to request meds from Meg. Meg looked up the cat’s weight on the chart and calculated the dose by multiplying the weight by the required milligrams per millilitre and then dividing by the concentration of the solution. She drew up the thick, white liquid into a 2millilitre syringe with a 21-gauge needle. She also made up five days of antibiotic tablets. As an afterthought she got a small bottle of chlorohexidine off the shelf. The owner probably wouldn’t be able to clean the wound daily but Meg could at least suggest it.

She carried the medications into the consult room and handed the injection to Derek. He looked at the needle. “A green needle? Isn’t that a bit cruel?”

Not in front of the client she thought. These baby vets had so much to learn! “You won’t get that stuff through a blue needle.”

“Really?” Derek asked in wonderment. “Oh yeah, it is really thick, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Meg agreed, gesturing with her head towards the client so that Derek stopped looking like such an idiot in front of a customer. He seemed to get the message and suddenly got all professional.

“Thank you, Meg and I see you’ve brought,” quick glance at the computer screen, “Ginger, here some antibiotics which can start tomorrow morning. Oh, and Hibiscrub™. Do you think you’ll be able to clean Ginger’s wound twice daily Mrs,” another glance at the screen, “Mrs. Whitelock?” The woman nodded with little conviction. “You’ll need to dilute this with warm water until the solution is pale pink and then clean away any pus that comes up out of the place that I have lanced. Do you have any questions?”

Mrs. Whitelock managed to whimper that she had no questions. Ginger gratefully sought refuge in his box and the cat carrier was handed to the owner, who lugged it to the front desk.

“Are you alright Mrs. Whitelock?” Meg asked with some concern. The woman was ashen. “Would you like a glass of water? Seeing an abscess burst is really pretty gross. They make me sick sometimes too, especially on a warm day.” Mrs. Whitelock’s face went from white to green.

“Can I just pay?” she begged.

There were a few booster vaccines after that. Meg kept her ears open in case Derek needed any help. She heard a greyhound scream bloody murder but they always did that. The owner would be used to the dramatics, even if Derek wasn’t. A Yorkie was in next and Meg hoped that Derek noted the little alligator on the chart indicating that the dog would bite. She listened, heard him yelp, and sighed. Nope, he hadn’t seen it. She would go in and point out where to find the warnings on the charts. There was even a little unhappy face for clients that made complaints and a big, red BD for bad debtors. Important one, that old BD; Sarah would have a cow if he dispensed meds to a bad debtor. Treatment was legally required but they couldn’t give drugs away.

Meg heard the door bang open and a young woman appeared before her with her cat in her arms. Both woman and cat were liberally decorated with blood. “My cat, got a cut on his leg,” the woman gasped but Meg was already around the counter taking the cat into her arms.

“Let me just pop her around the back and see what’s going on. I’ll be right back.” She hurried down the hall to the prep room and placed the black and white cat on the exam table. Sarah was operating that day and stuck her head of the theatre.

“What is it Meg?”

“Cat with a wound on its leg. Shall I do a straight admit? Usual £500 for assessment and emergency treatment?”

“Remind her that it’s just an estimate, the bill could come to more,” came the reply from theatre, where Sarah had returned to the dog castrate she was doing. Meg noticed that Sarah had roped Helen into monitoring anaesthetics. Helen’s hands were shaking and she took the vitals repeatedly. She hated hands on nursing and preferred to stick to the office. Or maybe she just hated working with her sister?

Meg carried the injured cat to the kennel area and placed it in cage. “Jenny, this cat is in for a stitch up. Can you TPR it and make it a nice, comfy bed? I’ll find out if Sarah wants to sedate it or GA and let you know.”

“I can’t take its temperature on my own,” Jenny wailed.

“Try,” Meg said, with little patience. She had to get back to the front desk. “If you can’t manage, I’ll come down and help you in a bit,” With that, she rushed back to the waiting owner.

Meg asked for the owner’s name and the cat’s name, looking them up on the computer system. She then printed out a consent form. She explained the fees and elaborated that it was just an estimate, if the wound was more complicated, there would be additional charges but a vet would let her know before proceeding. The woman took the form and looked at it, tears filling in her eyes.

“I’m on statutory sick pay at the moment. I’ve been in hospital,” the woman gulped, obviously not willing to give details. “I just can’t pay this right now.”

“Ok,” Meg said slowly. She didn’t have authority to make payment plans and they were hardly ever allowed anyway. Why, oh why, didn’t people get pet insurance. “You could try ringing a charity and see if they could assist you with funds.”

“How long would that take?” the owner queried.

“I don’t know, but it’s always worth a try. Generally, they can’t pay the whole bill but might give you £50 or so. You could try contacting a few different charities…” Meg trailed off, watching the woman’s stricken expression.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t have any savings left. I’m afraid I’m going to have to put her to sleep,” and then the owner broke off in sobs. Meg handed her a box of tissues. Ridiculous. You can’t put a cat to sleep because of a cut on its leg!!!

“Could you pay anything now? Or borrow from someone?” God, this was awful. She hated the money side of things. They had to charge. Otherwise, the practice would shut down but oh, how she wished, there were an NHS for pets.

With a struggle, the woman recovered her voice and said, “I can probably get £100 together.”

“That’s good!” Meg countered encouragingly. “Let me just go have a word with the practice principal about a payment plan. You’d have to pay the balance within three months though, we can’t extend credit beyond that because we aren’t allowed to legally.” The woman nodded and Meg took that as a yes so Meg bounded up the stairs, to present a dramatic appeal to the Helen, who should be out of theatre by now. Should she tell Helen that the woman was dying of cancer and the cat was her only companion? Sounded good. Yes, she’d add that in.

Helen had none of Sarah’s confidence and self-assurance and was easily coerced into setting up a payment plan, as the amount really wasn’t that much and the owner didn’t have a history of unpaid bills. Meg returned to the front desk, all smiles. “We’ve got a deal. We’d never let a poor kitty be put to sleep for a mere cut on her leg. No worries! Just leave her with us and we’ll give you a ring when she’s ready to go home. Can you sign the consent form before you go?

Satisfied with her humanitarian mission, Meg settled back to answering the phone, making up medication and taking payment from the clients that came for consultations. The morning flew by and she was getting ready to go to lunch when Sarah came into dispensary.

“Meg, I just had a look at that cat you admitted. It’s not a superficial wound at all. The tendons are cut and it’s going to need major surgery.”

“NO!!” Meg collapsed onto her chair. “The owner is skint and can barely afford the £500 quoted. Could you not just do an amputation? That would be a lot cheaper.”

“It would still be at least £1000.”

“Well, maybe she can do that. Do you want to call her or should I?” Meg offered.

“I will call her and make things perfectly clear,” Sarah warned.

That didn’t bode well at all.

Meg had her hurried lunch and then returned to reception, checking in on Jenny in kennels. It was a mess, but all the animals seemed well enough. Jenny claimed that she was so busy and that she really needed some help. Meg told her to ring up to Helen and let her know that things were getting overwhelming. Maybe Helen would come down and help. As if. Helen hadn’t done any ward nursing in years. She’d had a bad experience with a nervous German Shepherd and had become phobic of conscious animals.