Free It's a Vet's Life: by Cathy Woodman

turns up with emergency supplies of vaccine while I am getting ready to operate with Shannon.
    ‘I’m going out with Emma to try on wedding dresses on Friday,’ I say, pulling on a rather fetching theatre cap before I scrub up and slip into a gown and gloves. A surgical mask completes the ensemble.
    ‘That’s cool,’ Shannon says.
    ‘How do I look?’ I say, giving a twirl. Shannon smiles. It’s a small smile, but a smile all the same. She’s seemed down recently. What I mean by that is that, although she hasn’t got the bubbliest personality, she’s usually quietly cheerful, or has been since Drew, the locum who broke her heart, left us.
    We continue with the job in hand, spaying Aurora’s dog, Saba. Saba, a black standard poodle, is one of our regulars. She had a litter of Labradoodle puppies eighteen months ago, and Aurora has decided that she can’t cope with any more litters. Shannon’s dog is one of Saba’s puppies. He’s called Seven because he was the seventh to be born. He has a harelip that meant he couldn’t feed from his mum, so Shannon took him on and hand reared him.
    ‘Did you manage to work out how much Daisy’s drinking?’ I ask Shannon while I start the surgery.
    ‘I did. I meant to let you know. It was …’ She frowns, then gives me the figure in total.
    ‘So, is that excessive?’ I ask. ‘Is it more than the average daily intake for a dog the size of Daisy?’
    ‘It seems quite a lot.’
    ‘Can you remember from your lectures at college what it should be per kilogram of dog?’
    Shannon sighs. ‘I can’t do calculations, Maz.’
    ‘Of course you can.’ Shannon had good grades in her exams at school. ‘I’m not doing it for you,’ I add. ‘Divide what you’ve measured by Daisy’s weight in kilos and what do you have?’
    She does some workings on the back of Saba’s anaesthetic record card, and announces the result.
    ‘So it’s way over,’ she says, sounding surprised. ‘Could it be the weather though? It’s been hot and Daisy’s always panting.’
    ‘I’d say it was more than that. We’ll have her back in for blood and urine tests.’
    ‘Shall I book her in for tomorrow?’
    ‘Make it today. The sooner we find out what’s wrong, the better.’
    ‘You don’t think she’s diabetic?’ Shannon asks.
    ‘There are lots of things it could be, but diabetes would be top of my list.’
    ‘You can treat it though?’
    ‘It’s quite a commitment, but we can get it under control.’ I continue operating. ‘Let’s not worry about that though until we’re sure of the diagnosis. Could you open a spare instrument pack and get me another set of Allis forceps, please? They seem to have gone AWOL.’
    Shannon fetches a pack of instruments and opens it onto the tray so the contents slide out with a clatter.
    ‘Shannon, I said Allis forceps. Those are mosquitoes.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, red-faced and flustered. She scurries away and returns with yet another pack. ‘Maz, I can’t do this.’
    ‘Of course you can.’ I’m sharp with her, but halfway through a bitch spay is not the time to suffer a crisis of confidence. ‘You’re doing really well.’ Shannon hasn’t fainted since the first time she watched a major op, but I don’t like to remind her of that.
    ‘I don’t mean this.’ Shannon checks Saba’s pulse and breathing, keeping half an eye on the watch attached to her scrub top before writing her observations onto the anaesthetic record. ‘I mean my exams. I’ve been trying to learn the instruments, but I keep getting them all mixed up. I don’t know anything. I’m going to fail.’
    ‘Shannon, you won’t fail. Why don’t we run through some of the stuff together?’
    ‘Because it won’t make any difference.’
    ‘You don’t know that. Come on, it’ll be good for me to exercise my brain.’
    ‘All right,’ she says reluctantly. ‘That would be good, Maz. If you have time …’
    ‘I can make time.’ Actually, I wish I could