Free Vet on the Loose by Gillian Hick

Drug-dealing was commonplace in this particular estate but only the guards would be seen as a threat. A thought occurred to me …
    ‘You said he was okay when the guards arrived out on the Avenue and when someone tried to climb the wall, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yeah, there wasn’t a bother on ’im. He let a woof out of ’im and nearly caught yer man by the bollix when ’e tried to hop over. Ye could hear ’im roaring all the way down the street.’
    I tried to suppress the laughter that was threatening to erupt. ‘Is there any way the man could have dumped anything into the yard when he tried to climb over?’
    ‘Jaysus, Doc, you’re probably right. I know yer man and ’is brudder’s been done before for dealing.’
    A quick search around the yard revealed two torn plastic bags. Traces of a fine, white powdery substance adhered to the plastic with big drools of saliva.
    Once again, I was hindered by my ignorance. Normally, the staff at the Beaumont Poison Centre provide excellent information on the treatment of any form of poisoning. I think it amuses them to deal with a veterinary surgeon instead of a doctor. But you have to know what substance you’re dealing with. I could imagine their reaction if I rang wondering what to do with a very chilled-out looking dog, surrounded by a quantity of empty plastic bags.
    ‘Do you know what he deals in, Deco?’
    ‘I haven’t a bleedin’ clue. He’s a bad fucker ’e is. I’d ’ave nothing to do with him.’
    I wasn’t brave enough or foolish enough to try to find out myself. In the greater scheme of things, my life was worth more to me than Rambo’s.
    As so often happens in veterinary, I resorted to what is officially termed as ‘symptomatic therapy’ which, roughly translated, means you don’t know what else to do. The only vaguely useful thing that I did was to administer an emetic to force Rambo to vomit what was left of the substance in his stomach.
    By the time I had left, Rambo was snoring peacefully. I hoped he would be okay. Occasionally he would yelp and his legs would paddle frantically as though he were hallucinating.
    ‘Let me know how he gets on, anyway,’ I called out to Deco as I drove off.
    I didn’t hear any more for a couple of weeks until one evening when Deco’s brother arrived at the surgery looking for some worm doses for the horse. Apparently Rambo had slept for most of the day and then had made an uneventful recovery.
    Sometimes the best learning is done on the job.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     

A HELPING HAND
     
     
    I groaned inwardly when I saw my clients in the waiting-room. Two girls – probably sisters by the look of them – clutching a small box, containing God only knew what. Both were dressed in identical shiny tracksuits and brand-name runners. They had the hardened look of kids that hadn’t had it easy growing up.
    I didn’t like the idea of treating any animal with only children present but I knew I would be wasting my time asking these girls to come back with their parents. The only way I would see them was if something went wrong and then, not only would I meet the parents, but also a variety of brothers or cousins or neighbours, who would join in the fight. Equally, I knew that whatever was in the cardboard box was probably all that those girls had.
    Reluctantly, I sighed and waved them in. At least, I thought, the parents would hardly be the litigious type – much more likely to slash my tyres or something. The taller of the two plonked the box on the consulting table.
    ‘His name’s Geronimo,’ she muttered, staring sullenly at the floor. Mistaking my hesitation, she proceeded to pull a plastic bag out of her back pocket, containing an assortment of loose change, probably about five euro or so.
    ‘I have money.’
    I carefully put my hand in through a crack in the top of the box and groped around until I felt a furry creature wriggling about inside. Something felt wrong. I firmly grabbed hold of the little animal but my