Free Trust Me, I'm a Vet by Cathy Woodman Page A

adjustable wire noose on the end of a metal pole. ‘It was tucked behind the bins. I can’t remember when we last used it.’ She stops short. ‘What’s up? Am I too late?’
    ‘Sadly, you’re not,’ I say sarcastically, my voice drowned out by the sound of shouting. Suddenly, Alex Fox-Gifford comes flying out of the consulting room, slamming the door behind him. He clutches his thigh where a triangle of material has come away from his trousers, then looks up, his cheeks pale and damp.
    ‘He got me,’ he says, eyes wide with astonishment.
    ‘Serves you right,’ I say without sympathy, but he looks past me, towards Izzy.
    ‘I’ll have that.’ He snatches the dog-catcher and heads back in.
    Izzy turns to me.
    ‘Don’t ask.’
    ‘You might need this.’ Izzy hands me three small syringes of anaesthetic. ‘I’m sorry – I couldn’t find any bigger ones. We must’ve run out.’
    ‘I’ll manage,’ I say. ‘Would you bring a couple of extra vials through, please.’ I’m pretty sure I’m going to need them.
    ‘I can’t, Maz,’ Izzy says. ‘This is all we’ve got and the new order still isn’t in yet.’
    I gingerly open the consulting-room door, hoping that I can make do with what we’ve got. Arnie is lying on his side in the far corner, thrashing all four legs around as if he’s running for his life. The air is hot with his breath.
    ‘I’ll have the dog-catcher,’ I say quietly. ‘You look after the anaesthetic.’ As Alex opens his mouth to protest, I shut him up with a glare.
    ‘Arnie’s my patient. I’m in charge,’ I say, and Alex hands me the dog-catcher in exchange for the syringes, not meekly but with a snatch of resentment that I’m not going to let him do the heroics.
    ‘Thank you.’ I approach Arnie, one slow step at a time, aware of my heart knocking against my ribs. I keep the dog-catcher in front of me, just in case. ‘There’s a good boy,’ I murmur, but Arnie doesn’t give any indication that he can hear me.
    Standing well back behind him, I reach out with the noose, letting it touch his nose before I slip it over his muzzle and tug it back over his ears where I secure it tight around his neck. I hang on to the pole, so that Alex can move safely round beside me. He squats down, steadies one of Arnie’s back legs and shoots a dose of anaesthetic straight into a vein.
    Gradually, Arnie stops paddling. I loosen the noose and take a couple of steps closer so I can check on his airway and reflexes. There are three stages of anaesthesia – awake, asleep and dead – and I’m praying for the second one. It looks promising: Arnie’s uppermost eye is half-closed and his tongue is slack. I bend down and . . . snap! His head flies up and he’s grabbing for me, for the pole, for anything within his reach.
    I yank at the wire, tightening the noose down hard until it’s choking him. Alex injects more anaesthetic and Arnie begins to relax again. I loosen the noose once more and gradually his tongue turns from deep purple back to pink. We watch him for a minute, maybe two, then Arnie raises his lip and his throat vibrates with a warning growl.
    ‘I’ll make damn certain he’s out for the count this time,’ Alex says, topping up the anaesthetic again.
    I really hope so, I think, counting the syringes sticking out of Alex’s back pocket, because there isn’t any more . . .
    ‘I’ll have a chat with Mr Gilbert,’ I say. ‘Send him in, will you?’
    Alex looks up at me, his eyes wide with concern. I’m not sure whether he’s being chivalrous or he thinks I’m incapable of dealing with the situation. ‘I think I should stay . . .’
    ‘I didn’t ask for your help in the first place, and I don’t need it now. Please leave.’ Alex doesn’t move and I’ve got a dog coming round on the floor, and no more anaesthetic . . . What language does he understand, I wonder? I’m obviously being far too polite. ‘Just go!’ I say in desperation. ‘Get the hell