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Confessions of an inner-city vet
Complete with budgie chases, dogs in disguise, and furry friends fed on KFC. By Charlotte Rea
FOR THE PAST 10 YEARS, Charlotte Rea, 35, has worked as a vet at a charity animal hospital in central London. The hours are gruelling, the patients aren’t exactly grateful, and yet she couldn’t imagine doing anything else – as her heart-warming, and at times hilarious, diary shows…
2 SEPT Bert the budgie had been brought in with a sore wing. Avians were allotted only one day of lectures during my five years of training. (I’m pretty sure I bunked these as I was on a second date with James, who’s now my husband.) And so began a frantic Google search of possible causes of budgie-wing issues.
*Bert was cute. He had a tiny wound on one wing, which I suspected he had caught in the cage bars. Unfortunately, he had speed as well as looks on his side. He bit my hand and swiftly flew past me at the moment my colleague was assessing a three-legged cat in the adjoining room. And so began ‘the chase’. Like a less funny version of Tweety Pie and the Puddy-tat, I frantically stumbled around trying to grab the budgie as my colleague held on to the cat.
After what felt like an eternity, the three-legged cat was pinned down, while Bert settled on the door frame. I sprang to the door and locked it. As I did, the words of my university professor sprung to mind: ‘Even if you feel things are spiralling wildly out of your control, always act with poise and confidence.’
11 SEPT Saw Mr Koleki with his eight-year-old unneutered staffie Freddy.
Me: We recommend castrating Freddy. He has a hip condition and could pass that on to puppies. Mr Koleki: No way am I getting his balls chopped off. I wouldn’t do it to myself, so why would I do it to him? [He cups his own anatomy with his hand, crosses his legs and grimaces.] Me: I understand, but Freddy is crippled by arthritis caused by his hip dysplasia. At the very least, you shouldn’t be using him for breeding. Mr Koleki: With all due respect, love, you’re a woman. You don’t understand the needs of men.
19 SEPT I’m shattered after being up half the night looking after my cat Bea, who had vomited all over the flat. She looked rough as I left for work and I knew I’d worry about her all day. I adopted Bea in 2011, when she came into the hospital as a skinny stray with a fractured leg.
I thought I’d be a sensible, pragmatic cat owner. But from the moment this little ball of fluff arrived, my brittle exterior crumbled.
I returned home to a hungry, brighter-looking moggie tonight. She raised a ginger eyebrow as I unpacked supplies I’d brought home to care for her: intravenous fluids, painkillers, dehydration electrolyte sachets, anti-vomiting drugs... Turns out I didn’t need any of it as she scoffed her usual food then pottered into the garden to hiss at the neighbour’s dog.
25 SEPT Performed my first solo airway surgery on a French bulldog called Frenchie, and finished feeling utterly depressed. Like many brachycephalics (a group of conditions resulting from the body conformation of dogs with short noses), Frenchie can’t really breathe. For years he has struggled to walk more than a few metres without his tongue and mucous membranes ( gums) turning slightly blue.
When Frenchie arrived I could hear him coming a mile off. He had to be placed into an oxygen-supplemented kennel because the stress and excitement of sitting in a waiting room full of other dogs had made his breathing deteriorate. I discussed the risks of surgery with his owner and explained that I would be widening his nostrils and trimming his overly long, soft palate. Best-case scenario, we would improve his ability to run around and live like
a normal dog. Worst-case scenario, he would continue to struggle to breathe or he could die suddenly from his condition.
In theatre, there was so much excessive tissue at the back of his throat that I had to use a catappropriate tube, less than half the diameter of the usual tube used for a dog his size. I started to supplement oxygen. Thankfully, he quickly went from a greyish colour to a healthy pink. It is fiddly trying to operate at the back of a dark hole, but the surgery went smoothly. We carried Frenchie from theatre to the dog kennels and placed him back into an oxygen cage.
Afterwards, I stood watching him. How could we, as a society so concerned with animal welfare, let this happen? Appearance is being wrongly considered as the number one priority over health.
25 NOV I saw a puppy, for his vaccinations, that was registered as a Dalmatian. When the owner brought him in, it quickly became clear that he was a staffie with white-and-black spots. ‘Where did you get Max, Mr Perkins?’ ‘From an online breeder.’ Oh dear. People buying dogs online has become a pet hate of mine. Every vet knows the story about the client who brought their new Rottweiler puppy to be seen, only to be told it was actually a black-and-tan guinea pig.
I finished examining Max, who was gorgeous regardless of breed. I also ascertained he was younger than the breeder had said. ‘And I’m afraid to say he has fleas. I suspect worms too.’ Mr Perkins was seriously fed up.
After a chat about puppy care, diet and the perils of purchasing pets online, we developed a rapport and repaired some of the damage done by my multiple revelations.
He was just about to leave when I noticed something else... ‘One more thing, Mr Perkins... How do you feel about the name Maxine?’
27 NOV Me: How can I help you?
Owner: I’m so worried about Diana, she’s got a big lump on her back. The kids will be devastated if anything happens to her. Please tell me there’s something you can do for her.
Me: [Examines Diana, a lop-eared rabbit. Removes the ‘lump’, aka boiled sweet stuck to the fur on her back.]
I saw a homeless man, Mr Edwards, with his 10-year-old staffie, Jill. He’s a gentle man who adores his dog. Unfortunately, Jill has a large lump on her teat, which I suspect is breast cancer. We discussed the options for treatment, including surgery and scans, or referral to a cancer specialist, which for Mr Edwards would be prohibitively expensive.
It is 3C outside today, and Mr Edwards had waited in the long queue of clients for nearly two hours to see me. He explained that he had been sleeping in a cardboard box for the past few months, and had been homeless on and off for five years. He’d had plenty of opportunities to take sheltered accommodation, on the condition that he gave up his dog, but he was not willing to part with her. There was little else in his life that provided him with comfort, or a sense of ‘family’.
Sometimes I wish that people who don’t have pets and don’t understand their importance could step into my job for a day. Pets are a lifeline to a great number of people. There was a sparkle in Mr Edwards’s eyes when he was talking to Jill. She lifted him. She gave his life meaning and purpose.
The date for surgery was set, but the question of aftercare still hung in the air. She trotted out after him like his shadow, and I wondered how he would cope when the time came for her to leave his side for ever.
23 DEC Saw a lady whose Jack Russell terrier, Casanova, had paraphimosis, which meant his penis was stuck out and he was unable to retract it. In Casanova’s case, it was most likely caused by excessive humping of his teddy bears. If left untreated, the penis becomes swollen and engorged, which is as painful as it sounds. I suggested to his owner that she gets Casanova castrated and in the meantime buys some KY jelly from the pharmacy to pop his penis back into its sheath herself, as time is of the essence when this condition occurs. She replied that I was a pervert.
28 DEC Just finished a busy 24-hour on-call shift. After a full day of consulting, I was thrown into an evening of blocked bladders, a turkey bone stuck in an English bulldog’s intestine, a cat that had fallen from a fourth-storey window and shattered its pelvis. And then, just when I got to bed, a 16-year-old collie called Sam was brought in at 4.30am. He wasn’t acutely unwell, but he had end-stage arthritis and Mrs Jackson had decided, after weeks of deliberating and spending ‘one last Christmas together’, to have him put to sleep. Technically, I don’t need to see any non-life-threatening cases during emergency hours, but it had clearly taken great courage for Mrs Jackson to bring Sam in, so mustered my last iota of energy.
I asked what exactly he had fed his dog. He said they’d shared a Mighty Bucket from KFC
30 DEC Miss Hammond arrives with her miniature schnauzer for the results of a biopsy.
Me: The results have sadly confirmed that Lilly has a type of cancer on her face.
Miss Hammond: But you’ve hacked her hair off! What about her television career?
Me: We had to cut the fur for the biopsy to prevent infection, but it’ll regrow.
Miss Hammond: But she won’t get any more auditions with this haircut. We were at a studio last week for a special Christmas show and they won’t want her back now.
Me: Miss Hammond, do you understand what I’m saying about Lilly’s cancer?
Miss Hammond: Yes. I get it. She won’t need chemo, will she? Then all her hair will fall out. And she has such lovely hair.
1 APRIL I anaesthetised a chicken from our local city farm that was possibly egg-bound. This means a chicken has an egg stuck somewhere inside her, usually between her womb and cloaca, the exit hole in birds for basically everything. It is an emergency condition and can cause birds to die unless the egg can be removed.
I had just set up the X-ray machine when she suddenly coughed up the tube that had been inserted down her airway to anaesthetise her. With one loud squawk, she bounced up on to her feet in the middle of the anaesthetic. Having never attempted an anaesthetic on a chicken before, I was at a loss. But I had a look down below and I could see the egg. Her enthusiastic squawk and the anaesthetic must have helped things to move a bit and the egg was now stuck just beyond her cloaca. The nurse held her wing while the chicken pecked me in the face, but with a bit of finger assistance and a vat of lubrication, out it popped. Eureka! I haven’t had that sense of achievement since I removed grass seed from a springer spaniel’s vagina a few months ago.
28 APRIL Saw a staffie back for his recheck appointment whom I had seen the day before with vomiting and diarrhoea. I had made the standard recommendation of feeding small, bland meals of chicken and rice.
Me: Did you try the chicken and rice?
Owner: Yes, but it hasn’t worked.
Me: What exactly did you feed him?
Owner: We shared a Mighty Bucket from KFC.
2 JULY It was 3am and the phone rang loudly in my ear. ‘Charlotte, it’s Sophie. I’ve got a cat here. He’s not breathing well.’ I threw on scrubs over my pyjamas. As soon as I got to the emergency room I could see that we were dealing with a very sick cat; a Siamese, Mr Bojangles, two years old and extremely skinny. His breathing was dramatically laboured and his mucous membranes blue-tinged. He was panting, which is a terrible sign.
I was still trying to switch my brain back on as I went into the clinic to talk to the owner, Mr Pattison, a small bald man. He looked drawn and exhausted. ‘He’s been unwell the past week or so, picky with his food. I thought it was just because my wife was away in Spain and they are so bonded… Please fix him. My wife and son won’t cope without him.’
I explained that we would try our best to stabilise Mr Bojangles, but the truth was there was every chance he could die.
I called Mrs Pattison at her husband’s request. She sounded hysterical. ‘Please, please. He’s my baby. He can’t die without me there. Just make him last until tomorrow so I can get back. If I’m there with him he would fight.’
I went up to the cat kennels as soon as Mr Pattison had left. Mr Bojangles’ breathing had improved very slightly in the oxygen kennel. X-rays confirmed there was fluid surrounding his lungs. I removed some of it from his chest, then inserted a drain and sucked out as much as I could. His breathing improved considerably. I felt an incredible relief mixed with the familiar adrenalin high.
10 JULY I discharged Mr Bojangles today. Mrs Pattison was overjoyed. He climbed up her chest and nestled into her. In the eight days since he had arrived I had grown fond of him. ‘We are so grateful for everything you’ve done for him,’ she said, and produced a laminated photograph of herself with Mr Bojangles sitting on her shoulder like a parrot. Owners like Mrs Pattinson make the bad days tolerable and soften the blow of sadness when cases don’t turn out how you’d hoped. On the days when I want to give up and think I can’t cope with any more sleepless nights or tragedy, these owners and their pets keep me going.
Abridged and extracted from Animal Matters: Diary of an Inner City Vet, by Charlotte Rea, which is published on 21 February (Coronet, £17.99). To pre-order a copy for 15.99, plus p&p, contact the Telegraph Bookshop on 0844 -8711514 or visit books.telegraph.co.uk
*Names of pets and owners have been changed
Having never attempted an anaesthetic on a chicken before, I was at a loss