slight catch in his voice this time, ‘he’s like a son to me …’ and the voice trailed off.
‘Ah Jaysus, would ye give us back de phone, Gerry, ye girl’s blouse ye! Will ye do it for us, Doc? Will ye do ’im in for us?’
‘You say he’s sixteen years old, but is he in a lot of pain or anything?’
‘Ah no, love, it’s just that the auld legs are goin’ on ’im and he’s pissin’ on ’imself an’ there isn’t a pick on ’im.’
‘Well, it certainly sounds like his quality of life is gone,’ I began, trying to sound sympathetic, ‘but I don’t really see that he needs to be put to sleep right now .’
‘Ah Jaysus, no love! Sure we don’t even know where de fecker is. Goes off wanderin’ after birds at night ’e does. Still a bit of a boyo – although I don’t think ’e could get de leg over now,’ he added with a bawdy laugh.
‘Naw, me and the lads was just ’aving a few joints and we got talkin’ and we just wanned to know if ye’d do de job for us. Shur, ye couldn’t come out now, luv – it’s after four in the morning, ye know,’ he added, sounding a bit concerned about my state of consciousness.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Donal blearily as I put the phone down. He looked at me disbelievingly as I filled him in. ‘You do have some strange clients!’ was his only comment before sinking back into the pillows.
The next morning, I had a vague recollection of the conversation, but as this was mixed together with my later dreams of aged Collies smoking joints while roaring round the local estates on motorbikes, I wasn’t quite sure what was fact and what was fiction.
‘Will ye come an’ have a look at Bruno? See what ye think?’
I followed the pair out to the back of the van and there, on a well-worn but comfortable blanket, lay your typical ‘street dog’. No fancy collars or name tags adorned the shaggy neck. He was a mongrel – a remote pure-blooded ancestor had doubtlessly had his wicked way with some unknown mate of indeterminate breed, probably late one night in a dark alleyway. His thick, matted coat had faded from what had once been a glossy black to a dull, reddish brown.
‘Come on, Bruno, let’s have a look at you,’ I coaxed.
He thumped his tail good-naturedly as I hoisted him up. He didn’t object as I ran my hands over him, noting the wasted muscles of his hind-quarters and the smelly, soiled coat – a sure sign of his incontinence. As I pulled out my stethoscope to listen to the rhythmic swishing of what had once been a healthy heart, he coughed deeply as though to confirm my diagnosis.
‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully, turning to face the two men. ‘He’s had a long life but he’s come to the end of the road now. Do you want to bring him on into the surgery?’
‘Ah no way. Shur, de lads would kill us if we didn’t bring ’im back. We just brought ’im out to see what ye thought. Will ye come back to the house with us and do it? All de lads are waiting.’
No amount of persuading would convince them it made much more sense for me to do the job there and then. Somehow, this old dog had gone from being a stray, surviving on the occasional scraps thrown out to him, to enjoying the status of a revered pet who had now come to the end of the line and required a home death and burial – and, by the sound of things, a wake.
Reluctantly, I gathered my clippers, syringes and a bottle of the pleasantly pink-tinted lethal injection.
It wasn’t until I was following them out across the city that my thoughts began to turn to the task ahead. Although at this stage I had amassed a vast sixteen weeks’ experience as a practising vet, I had never yet had to put an animal to sleep.
In college, we had often discussed how awful it must to have to do it with an owner present. ‘Relax,’ said one of the students dismissively. ‘Sure, how could it go wrong? It’s not as if you can make a balls of it. Aren’t we meant to be killing them?’
His
‘Ah Jaysus, would ye give us back de phone, Gerry, ye girl’s blouse ye! Will ye do it for us, Doc? Will ye do ’im in for us?’
‘You say he’s sixteen years old, but is he in a lot of pain or anything?’
‘Ah no, love, it’s just that the auld legs are goin’ on ’im and he’s pissin’ on ’imself an’ there isn’t a pick on ’im.’
‘Well, it certainly sounds like his quality of life is gone,’ I began, trying to sound sympathetic, ‘but I don’t really see that he needs to be put to sleep right now .’
‘Ah Jaysus, no love! Sure we don’t even know where de fecker is. Goes off wanderin’ after birds at night ’e does. Still a bit of a boyo – although I don’t think ’e could get de leg over now,’ he added with a bawdy laugh.
‘Naw, me and the lads was just ’aving a few joints and we got talkin’ and we just wanned to know if ye’d do de job for us. Shur, ye couldn’t come out now, luv – it’s after four in the morning, ye know,’ he added, sounding a bit concerned about my state of consciousness.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Donal blearily as I put the phone down. He looked at me disbelievingly as I filled him in. ‘You do have some strange clients!’ was his only comment before sinking back into the pillows.
The next morning, I had a vague recollection of the conversation, but as this was mixed together with my later dreams of aged Collies smoking joints while roaring round the local estates on motorbikes, I wasn’t quite sure what was fact and what was fiction.
‘Will ye come an’ have a look at Bruno? See what ye think?’
I followed the pair out to the back of the van and there, on a well-worn but comfortable blanket, lay your typical ‘street dog’. No fancy collars or name tags adorned the shaggy neck. He was a mongrel – a remote pure-blooded ancestor had doubtlessly had his wicked way with some unknown mate of indeterminate breed, probably late one night in a dark alleyway. His thick, matted coat had faded from what had once been a glossy black to a dull, reddish brown.
‘Come on, Bruno, let’s have a look at you,’ I coaxed.
He thumped his tail good-naturedly as I hoisted him up. He didn’t object as I ran my hands over him, noting the wasted muscles of his hind-quarters and the smelly, soiled coat – a sure sign of his incontinence. As I pulled out my stethoscope to listen to the rhythmic swishing of what had once been a healthy heart, he coughed deeply as though to confirm my diagnosis.
‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully, turning to face the two men. ‘He’s had a long life but he’s come to the end of the road now. Do you want to bring him on into the surgery?’
‘Ah no way. Shur, de lads would kill us if we didn’t bring ’im back. We just brought ’im out to see what ye thought. Will ye come back to the house with us and do it? All de lads are waiting.’
No amount of persuading would convince them it made much more sense for me to do the job there and then. Somehow, this old dog had gone from being a stray, surviving on the occasional scraps thrown out to him, to enjoying the status of a revered pet who had now come to the end of the line and required a home death and burial – and, by the sound of things, a wake.
Reluctantly, I gathered my clippers, syringes and a bottle of the pleasantly pink-tinted lethal injection.
It wasn’t until I was following them out across the city that my thoughts began to turn to the task ahead. Although at this stage I had amassed a vast sixteen weeks’ experience as a practising vet, I had never yet had to put an animal to sleep.
In college, we had often discussed how awful it must to have to do it with an owner present. ‘Relax,’ said one of the students dismissively. ‘Sure, how could it go wrong? It’s not as if you can make a balls of it. Aren’t we meant to be killing them?’
His
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