‘Hi! I’m Jonathan the vet. I’ve come to see a lame goat I believe?’ She studied me for a moment. The initial and familiar facial expression of a client grateful at a vet’s arrival to sort out their ailing animal quickly turned to confusion as she tried to process the figure before her: a supposedly respectable professional with a very peculiar dress sense.
‘Are you … wearing a wetsuit underneath your waterproofs?’ she enquired after a moment. I couldn’t believe it. My attempt to disguise it hadn’t even survived ten seconds. Maybe in Camden it could have passed as a type of self-expression, but in Devon it was just pure weird.
‘It’s a long story,’ I began.
‘Interrupting your afternoon surfing?’ she guessed.
‘Not exactly.’ I could see I wasn’t going to get away with this lightly. ‘I got a bit wet from my last visit and this was all I had to wear …’
She laughed. ‘Well, I suppose I have to admire your dedication to the cause, but it wasn’t an urgent call. It could have waited till tomorrow.’
I was an idiot. Why hadn’t I asked Hazel to postpone the visit till tomorrow?
‘Well we can’t let pride get in the way of doing our job,’ I said, rather primly, as much to convince her of my professionalism as to justify the humiliation I felt.
‘Very admirable,’ she said, moving away from the door and beckoning me in. ‘I suppose you’d best come this way.’
‘Er … my boots are very wet. Could I go around the side of the house?’
‘Sure. Just head round there,’ she said, pointing. ‘I’ll just put on my boots and meet you around the back.’
As I sashayed round the side of the house, the constricting wetsuit lending my movements an oddly stilted gait, I was grateful for the few seconds to myself. There was a large garden behind the house, littered with children’s toys and paraphernalia, and beyond that was a small paddock containing three goats. Mrs Parker joined me, toddler still on her arm; in addition a little boy of around five was now accompanying her, wearing bright blue wellies and an oversized coat. He eyed me suspiciously.
‘Mummy, who’s that?’ he asked, pointing at me.
‘That’s the vet, Jamie. He’s come to look at Bertie. Remember I said Bertie had a sore leg? The vet has come to make him better.’ The answer seemed to satisfy him, but he continued to assess me warily.
‘They’re over this way, in the paddock,’ Mrs Parker said leading the way. ‘We have three. Two girls and a boy.’
The little boy followed close behind, and then, tugging on his mother’s jacket, piped up again.
‘Mummy, Mummy! Why is he wearing a wetsuit?’
Mrs Parker burst out laughing. Then, in a brave attempt to salvage my dignity from her five-year-old son, said, ‘Sometimes vets do jobs where they get wet or mucky so it’s useful to have something to stop their clothes getting wet.’ It was an admirable effort and I was grateful, but Jamie wasn’t so easily bought.
‘But a wetsuit is for going in the water and we are on land. It seems silly to me.’
‘You’re right, darling,’ Mrs Parker conceded, and with this confirmation that his logic had been faultless, Jamie proceeded to start repeatedly chanting, ‘Silly wetsuit man, silly wetsuit man, silly, silly wetsuit man!’ all the while oblivious to his mother’s whispered commands of ‘Jamie that’s enough.’
‘Bertie is that one over there,’ she said, pointing at the obvious male of the group as we reached the gate. ‘I put him on his chain earlier so he’d be easier to catch, but I’m afraid I can’t really hold him for you with this one on my arm –’ gesturing at the baby she was holding. ‘Can you manage on your own? They’re pretty tame, but you could always wait for my husband to get back if not.’
It wasn’t ideal, but I was keen to get the visit over and done with as quickly as possible, and with Jamie insisting on being such an angelic child, I preferred not to have the humiliation of meeting Mr Parker as well.
‘No problem,’ I said, and opened the gate to head into the paddock. Mrs Parker and Jamie stayed in the garden, Mrs Parker leaning against the fence, Jamie peering through it.
‘Don’t worry, Bertie,’ he shouted. ‘Silly wetsuit man is going to make you better.’
Wetsuits and vets would probably now be synonymous for Jamie, seared into his consciousness forever.
The paddock was about an acre. An open-fronted shed was situated in the corner to the left of the gate, straw-bedding spilling out onto the grass. To the right of that, a large metal peg, connected to a 5-metre chain, was imbedded in the ground. At the end of the chain was a large white billy-goat, who after grazing contentedly moments before, now eyed me balefully as I approached. I could immediately see from his tentative movements that the problem was located in his left hind leg. Bertie’s initial suspicion did not develop into attempted flight. Instead he clearly assumed that my vet’s box bore some delicious delicacy, and he limped over to greet me. His interest in the box, which swiftly became an obsession, meant it would be impossible to put it down without him attempting to devour its contents. But it gave me an idea.
‘Do you have any feed you give them that I could use as a distraction?’ I asked Mrs Parker
‘I’ve got some hay, but otherwise they just graze the grass.’
‘Hay will do. Could you put some in a bucket?’
‘Sure.’ She disappeared off to the garden shed, returning moments later with a bucket of hay, full to overflowing.
‘Perfect, thanks,’ I said, taking it off her. Bertie was still intrigued by my box, and followed it as far as his chain would allow. I carefully left it by the fence, extracting a hoof knife, and returned to Bertie with the bucket of hay. He immediately descended on it, tucking into the hay with gusto. The distraction allowed me the chance to examine his foot. I bent down to pick it up – and immediately felt the embarrassing restriction of my ridiculous attire. I had voluntarily decided to wear this? I thought. What was I thinking? Examining Bertie’s foot, it was quite clear what the problem was (and I was grateful for the distraction). There was an ulcerated sore in between its two claws. I examined the rest of the leg, but there were no other problems, so some painkillers and a burst of Terramycin spray should do the trick. I put the foot down and wandered back to my box, Bertie remaining engrossed in his bucket of hay.
‘What do you think the problem is?’ Mrs Parker asked.
‘He’s got scald,’ I told her. ‘It’s very common, don’t worry. It’s an ulcerative sore between the claws caused by environmental bacteria. Very easy to treat …’
Back at my box, I drew up some Finadyne, an anti-inflammatory, grabbed the Terramycin spray, and returned to the goat.
‘I’ll give him some pain relief as well,’ I said, injecting into his muscle. Bertie didn’t flinch, his head still in the bucket. Goats really are food-obsessed, I thought. I picked up his foot and sprayed between the claws.
‘That should do it,’ I said, releasing his foot to the ground and heading back to my box.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘He’ll be happy finishing off his bucket of hay. You must be a little hot in your outfit,’ she added with a chuckle. I became conscious of the beads of sweat now dripping from my forehead.
Then Jamie joined in. ‘Did you make Bertie better, Mr Silly Wetsuit Man?’
‘I hope so,’ I said, making my way through the gate back into the garden.
‘Poor Bertie,’ he sighed.
‘He’s your favourite, isn’t he, Jamie?’ said Mrs Parker as we headed back to the house. Then, turning to me, she added, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I completely understand if you want to just get home, but the offer’s there.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but … yes, I think I will just head off.’
‘I thought you might.’