Urghh! The horrors of a vet's life.

Urghh! The horrors of a vet's life: home visits.

(An extract from "The James Herriott Antidote: A hundred and one
reasons not to become a vet". Seeking a publisher!!!)

Things are tough at the surgery, but they're hugely worse in clients'
homes. The strength of insistence of a client on a home visit, the
pressure of work at the practice, the difficulty of locating the
client's residence, and the ultimate futility of the call are all
correlated. I keep thinking I've experienced all the horrors that
visits can offer, but I'm still surprised by novel ones. Visits are
very expensive for the client, and with good reason, so why, then, is
it often the poorest people in the worst areas who insist on them?
(Incidentally, this is one of the few advantages of working for the
RSPCA or the PDSA - these bodies recognise that it would be far too
dangerous to expect their vets to visit people's homes. See Charity
work.) When you've successfully negotiated the drunks in the
unsignposted backstreets, obtained directions from stray glue-sniffing
kids, and mounted the decaying steps in a urine-scented stairwell, you
are only standing on the threshold of a truly insalubrious
environment.

There is at first no answer when you knock on the door (the bell is
long defunct). You wonder if you've come to the right place. You knock
again, much louder. Still no reply. You are conscious of all the
operations waiting at the surgery, and of the diminishing chances of a
lunch break, and you're just about to give up when a weak old voice
says "Coming!" Several minutes of uninterrupted mumbling follow,
accompanied by a repeated clunking sound. Both noises increase in
intensity. There is a moment of silence, and you can feel an eye
inspecting you through the peephole. The door opens slowly. You are
almost knocked off your feet by the most foetid, pungent, gag-inducing
stench you've experienced since the last geriatric hamster. An ancient
and filthy hag stands there, propped on a walkiing stick. Over her
shoulder hell lies waiting.

You've seen those junk shops, full of ancient commemorative crockery,
hideous vases, brass bric-a-brac and mock grecian gimcracks? Take a few
shopfuls. Add the contents of a bookshop and of a newsagent from the
first half of the century. Add seventeen cats, preferably
faeco-urinally challenged, and reproductively intact. Close all windows
and doors, and turn up the heating. Mix well and leave to fester for at
least 40 years. If you can't cut the air with a knife, sprinkle
liberally with cat urine and milk, tread some miscellaneous faecal
material into the carpet, make the householder incontinent also, and
let a few forgotten kittens decompose behind the wardrobe. Now send in
a vet.

'Yes, it's Arthur. He's been losing weight. Arthur! Good boy, Arthur.
Let the vet look at you, now. He's come to help you. Still,
Arthur!'

Arthur, patchily both bald and matted, skeletal and pyorrhoeic
(drooling blood and pus) somehow manages to hiss and scuttle off into
the nether regions of the house. To your eyes, he might well be one of
the fittest cats here.

'Oh, dear. Would you like a cup of tea, dear? Poor dear, he's
terrified.'

You wonder if she's talking about you or the cat, as you decline the
tea, 'I'm afraid time is short, Mrs. X, I really must be getting back
to the surgery. Let's see if we can catch Arthur...'

'Eh? Oh, no, don't chase him. He'll be under the bed. Wait for him to
come out...'

But, driven by your desperation to get out as quickly as possible, you
go and grope around in the stinking Stygian netherworld. With your
fingertips, you can just reach the skulking seborrhoeic vestige of a
cat. By thrusting (your face comes into contact with the cat hair and
excreta-caked carpet) you manage to get a grip, and you haul out the
epitome of catabolic crisis, suffering only minor injuries because the
claws are all ingrown, and the mouth is too sore to be used for any
purpose other than spluttering exudate.

'Don't hurt him! He's not been eating well for the last few
weeks.'

'Has he been drinking a lot?' You have learnt to shout by this
stage.

'Eh? Drinking? Oh, yes, he's been drinking very well!'

'Well, I'm afraid, despite that, he's very dehydrated. I say he's very
dehydrated. His kidneys are tiny. I have to be honest with you. He's
suffering from severe kidney failure. His kidneys are not working! At
this stage there's no hope. I really think the kindest thing would be
to put him down! I say the kindest thing is to put him down!'

'Oh, don't do that. The last vet said that fish would be good for
him!'

'Yes, but you've just told me that he isn't eating, and he won't be
with a mouth like that. All the poisons that the kidneys should get rid
off are coming out in his saliva and rotting his mouth. If he's
drinking a lot then he's already helping his kidneys as much as he
can...'

'The other vet says I should give him fish. I've been heating it like
he said...'

'I've just told you that it's no wonder that he isn't eating...' At
this point you decide to cut your losses and leave, 'I tell you what
I'll do, I'll give him an injection to build his strength up, and some
vitamins, and some antibiotics for his mouth. I'll also give you some
powder to mix in his water...'

Self-extrication takes longer than you'd thought as there are more
ultra-decrepit animals to be seen (only one was mentioned when she
phoned for a visit). It's such a relief to get out that you don't even
notice which way you're driving and you end up going the wrong way on a
one-way system. You are already late for afternoon consultations, never
mind the morning's operations... and lunch?!

Variations on the above scenario are fairly common. So too are
variations on the small hours visit to a gloomy chamber in an obscure
and distant suburb where a huge and ancient dog lies dying surrounded
by mourning masses. It's too dark to see anything (one often has to ask
for someone to hold a torch), there's no room to work and the dog's
blood pressure is very low, so it's sweatful work trying to find a vein
in front of the huge keyed-up audience. If one's lucky enough to be
able to break away from post-euthanasia counselling (it's useful to
trigger one's pager!) the next task is to lug the massive hound out
with as much dignity as possible. It's always a quandary whether to bag
the dog [contact me via my website for the section on Corpses!] in
front of the owners or not, because there's no way to do this in a
manner which seems respectful. Usually one requests a blanket and carts
the carcass out wrapped in this. Of course this won't be sufficient to
prevent it leaking over one's clothes and in one's car. If one only has
a short journey it's sufficient to lay the dog on top of some plastic
bags, but if it's a long bumpy ride this won't prevent the car becoming
mucky and the smell permeating everything. In this case the best thing
to do is to drive around the corner, and attempt to bag the body
single-handed.

Have you ever been spotted by the police as you struggle to put an
enormous excrement-smeared rottweiler in a relatively small plastic bag
on the verge of a suburban road at 2.34 a.m.? 'Honestly, constable, I'm
just doing my job!'

[Publishers, please get in touch if you have the courage to print a
book telling the truth about a vet's life!]