a couple of months volunteering with the SPCA I was planning to fly to Uganda to work for a month with a charity called World in Need, helping villagers in a remote northern area of the country, where there was no vet, to look after their goats, pigs and cows. I would be living miles from the city in a small mud house with no running water or electricity and visiting far-flung homes on foot or by bicycle. I enjoyed my home comforts, so it was definitely going to be a challenge!
I would be back in England for a few more weeks of work after that, before heading off on another adventure, this time to Morocco to work with a charity caring for injured horses and donkeys.
With all that to come I felt both excited and nervous. But, meanwhile, I needed to get a bit of experience under my belt, and earn some money.
On my third morning at Braxton’s the sun was out, the birds were chirping as I walked to work and I felt sure the day was going to be a good one.
In reception I found Wanda and Karina waiting for the kettle to boil and laughing.
‘Morning!’ I said. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘This,’ Wanda said, pulling up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo that covered her entire arm.
I gasped. ‘Wow! When you said you were getting a tattoo I didn’t think you meant …’
‘Ha!’ laughed Wanda. ‘You thought I was going to go for some neat little bluebird tucked away by my shoulder? Nope, this is what’s known as a full-sleeve. And when it’s settled down,’ she regarded her swollen arm, with its crust of dried blood, ‘it’s going to look just beaut.’
‘I bet it is,’ I replied. ‘What’s the picture, exactly? It’s hard to tell.’
‘That,’ Wanda said proudly, ‘is known as The Tribal. It’s based on tribal Maori designs. Did I tell you I’ve got a bit of Maori heritage? This is my way of celebrating it.’
I had to laugh. Wanda was completely nuts but it was impossible not to like her.
The morning passed peacefully with a few routine cases and I felt I was just getting into my stride when Mr and Mrs Thomas appeared with a very subdued-looking Mickey. He hadn’t perked up at all. In fact, the poor little thing looked much worse.
He lay flat out on the examining table, showing no interest in anything at all. Mrs Thomas, her eyes red-rimmed, told me he hadn’t wanted to eat anything at all. He had stopped vomiting, but that was probably because he hadn’t eaten, as clearly he wasn’t on the mend.
I felt so sorry for him, and for the Thomases. He was their world and they were terrified of losing him. I promised I would give him anything I had that might possibly help.
I started with anti-emetics to help with his nausea and vomiting, gastro-protectants to help with any inflammation in his gastro-intestinal tract, and antibiotics in case he had a bacterial infection. As I watched his very downcast owners take him home again, I could only hope that one or all of these drugs would do the trick.
But the following day Mickey and his owners were back.
‘Nothing seems to be working,’ Mrs Thomas told me as she brought Mickey out from inside her jacket.
The little chap was weak and could barely lift his head. Something was clearly very wrong and I was running out of options.
I looked at Mr and Mrs Thomas, both of whom were on the verge of tears. ‘I think I’d better keep him here overnight,’ I said. ‘He’s dehydrated because he’s not eating or drinking much. I can put him on a drip and give him intravenous fluids and that should help.’
They agreed and, shoulders bowed, they left their precious little dog with me. I carried Mickey gently through to the little hospital room in the back and set him up on a drip. I tried to feed him some high-calorie paste from my finger. He ignored it, so I heated it up a little to make it warm and slightly smellier. He showed some mild interest and while he licked at it half-heartedly, I stroked him. ‘Come on, Mickey, you can do it. Please don’t give up,’ I whispered.
I checked on him every hour or so and that night he seemed settled. Wanda, who was staying in the flat over the surgery, promised to come down and check on him again before she went to bed.
That night I talked to my boyfriend, Jacques, on Skype. He was 6,000 miles away in South Africa and I missed him. He listened patiently to all my tales of woe and did his best to cheer me up when I told him about Mickey, but it wasn’t the same as having him there with me. I could have done with one of his warm hugs.
After a sleepless night I arrived at work early the next morning. Much to my delight, Mickey had picked up a little, so I phoned the Thomases and suggested they come and get him and carry on nursing him at home. They were delighted to find him a little brighter and they took him home, along with some of the high-calorie paste. The following day, though, Mrs Thomas rang to say that Mickey was still very ill.
It was Friday. I had thrown every treatment that they could afford at him. I explained to Mrs Thomas that of course it was up to her and her husband to decide what to do, but that if Mickey didn’t improve over the weekend it might mean that he wasn’t going to get better.
‘Does that mean we should have him put to sleep?’ Mrs Thomas asked, her voice shaky.
‘Well, we don’t want him to suffer, so in the end it might be the kindest thing,’ I answered.
That night I went back to my family home in Tunbridge Wells for the weekend. My parents had lived in the same house since I was a year old and it was always good to go home and see them and our dogs: springer spaniel Tosca, and Yorkshire terrier Paddy.
On Saturday I spent time with my horses, Elli and Tammy, riding and grooming them. I’d had horses ever since I was a little girl and I adored them. It was a beautiful summer weekend, the kind you seldom get in an English August, but Mickey was constantly in my thoughts. I knew his owners would be heartbroken if I had to put him to sleep and I wished there was something more I could do for him.
Monday morning arrived and I was back in East London. Mickey was booked in as the last of my consultations that day, and I was dreading it; I hate putting animals to sleep, although I’m always glad to be able to relieve suffering. But when I went out to the waiting room, much to my surprise, there, sitting between his owners, was a decidedly perkier Mickey. And what’s more, Mr and Mrs Thomas both had great big grins on their faces.
In the consulting room they explained that they’d brought Mickey in to show me how much he had improved – and I could see that he had. Relief flooded through me and I thanked goodness that the treatment had worked. As I stroked the rough fur on his small head it took all my willpower to stop myself from shedding a tear.
‘I’m so glad the treatment worked!’ I said.
Mrs Thomas patted my hand.
‘Oh no, dear, it wasn’t you,’ she said. ‘On Sunday one of our friends prayed for Mickey and he started to brighten up right away. It was a miracle.’
I said nothing and smiled. I was just delighted that he was looking so much better. In the end, did it really matter whether it was down to my treatments or a bit of divine intervention?
CHAPTER TWO
