Tales from a Wild Vet: Paws, claws and furry encounters. Jo Hardy

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

       Hedgehogs, Doves and a Very Cross Pheasant

      Two beady eyes regarded me intently from a bed of straw inside the cardboard box, and a small, pointed snout twitched curiously.

      ‘Can you help?’ the little girl asked over the top of the reception desk at Folly Wildlife Rescue, where I was volunteering. ‘It came out of the bonfire Dad lit in the garden. We didn’t know it was in there, we’re so sorry.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

      ‘We’ll do our best,’ I said. ‘Let me take him from you and we’ll have a look.’

      Very carefully I lifted the hedgehog out of the box and onto the table. Some spines were missing on his back and there was a nasty wound on his side, clearly a burn. Heather, one of the animal care assistants at the centre, got to work cleaning the wound with antiseptic.

      ‘I don’t think he’s going to die, but we need to treat him and keep him here for a little while. The spines he’s lost won’t grow back – they can’t grow through scar tissue – but he can survive without them and the wound should heal. Give us a call in a few weeks and if he’s recovered you can take him home and release him back into your garden.’

      The little girl – she couldn’t have been more than eight – wiped away her tears and smiled. ‘Really? Can we come back, Daddy?’ She turned to her father, who was standing behind her.

      ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We’ll come and see how he’s doing, and when he’s ready we’ll take him back and let him go. And next time I light a fire at the bottom of the garden I’ll check first.’

      As father and daughter left, hand in hand, after generously giving a small donation to the charity, I took the hedgehog through to where an empty cage was waiting for him and laid him gently inside. I had applied antibiotic cream to his wound and would keep a close eye on him to make sure he was healing. I filled in the chart on the front of his cage and a few moments later, Julie, one of the volunteers, came through with a little dish of scrambled eggs.

      ‘Here’s a treat for him. This should perk him up a bit.’

      In between locum jobs I was spending several mornings working as a volunteer at a rescue charity for injured and orphaned wild animals. Folly Wildlife Rescue is an amazing place, home to dozens of hedgehogs, as well