Weeks 50 & 51: My name is Herriot. James Herriot.

“I don‘t think he’s right, Al. He’s panting like mad and looks like he’s had a fit or something”

Gin (so called because her love of the stuff runs so deep it must be genetic), is looking worried as she stands over Milo (the Spaniel-Kangaroo cross) who is laying on the hall floor.

“He came in from the garden where we’ve been playing, had a drink and then sort of collapsed on the floor”.

It’s at times like these that it’s just as well a trained (animal) medical professional is in the house. Calling on my vast knowledge from the first chapter of the Canine Health diploma I‘m doing (98% scored in the test. Yes it was that easy), I look at Milo and say “Nah, he’s alright. Just a bit puffed out”.

”But he’s been puffing like this for 15 minutes and he doesn’t look right. I think we should phone the vet”.

“What? And incur another bill? The dog’s slightly pink eyes have already cost us £60 this week!”

In a bid to keep a Vet’s Invoice at bay, I deploy my next bit of specialist knowledge and look at the colour of the inside of Milo’s cheek. Nice and pink.

“Well, he doesn‘t have an oxygen problem” I report.

”Of course he bloody doesn’t” says Gin, “He’s sucking in more air than a Blacksmith’s bellows on Hurricane setting”.

Alright, no need for that. I decide to take his pulse. First I try the femoral groove in his back leg, but that’s all a bit of a fiddle. So I go the easy route and feel his chest. Bleeding hell its like a machine gun firing.

”His heart rate is a bit quick” I say, “Hmmmm, maybe we should ... eh?”

Gin, never one blessed with deep reserves of patience, is on the phone. To the vet. Because she‘s given up waiting whilst I practice my Art. Bloody cheek, doesn’t she realise that she is the in the presence of Veterinary Greatness? The new James Herriot?

The Actual Vet asks a few questions and suggests that Milo may be a bit overheated from belting around in the garden, chasing a ball Gin has been throwing for him. He may also be dehydrated as he’s had a Bit Of A Dodgy Arse for a day or two. Nonetheless, if we would like, Milo can be checked over now to be on the safe side. Yes Gin would like, thank you very much.

And so dear reader, that is what happened. By the time they arrived at the vets, Milo was back to his normal, bouncy self, licked all the nurses and tied himself in knots around the vets legs. Still, the vet checked everything, even his brain function (surprisingly he has one), prescribed him some stomach settling medicine, and sent Gin on her way after relieving her of £80.

Tell you what, when I pass this diploma I’ll be loaded. Canine medical expertise costs a fortune.

Milo has had a bit of a fortnight one way or another. Aside from dodgy eyes, a dodgy bum and managing to overheat in the middle of winter, one of our dog owning chums used his face for football practice. Said friend (lets call her Cheryl; name changed so that she doesn’t get an unannounced visit from the RSPCA) is about as good at throwing a ball as Gin. When I say “good” I mean hopeless. And when I say “hopeless”, I mean Bob No-Arms could throw the ball further with his teeth. Which is why Cheryl and Gin, out walking the dogs, had taken to kicking a tennis ball into the long grass for Milo to go find. The thing is, when Milo rushes back having found the ball, he does this funny little drop it, pick it up, drop it thing. Which is OK if you are trying to pick the ball up by hand, but more of an issue if you are trying to leather the thing with your best right-foot pile driver. Inevitably, Milo put his head in at exactly the wrong moment and was instantly converted into a Pug. Just as well his head is the hardest thing known to man. Poor Cheryl though was still limping three days later.

Talking of medical matters, I’ve only gone and been Pfizered. Received a text out of the blue on Thursday and 24 hours later found myself at the Congregational Church hall waiting my turn to be jabbed. I’ve been pretty critical of our flip-flapping government’s handling of the pandemic, but in giving over the vaccination programme to people that know what they are doing (the NHS, silly, not one of Matt Hancock’s mates), it really is impressively managed. Within a few minutes of arriving, I was called into a room where six injection stations were set up. A few minutes later, it’s done. Didn’t feel the needle at all. Each injectee is asked to wait in an observation room for 15 minutes to make sure there is no adverse reaction, which of course you sit there imagining is happening. Is the right-hand side of my face drooping? Is the injection site swelling and going red? Am I growing extra limbs? Of course not. Just had a sore arm for a day, but I tell you it is worth it. I am so delighted to have been done. It’s almost enough to make me feel a Bit Optimistic.

As I write this, we’ve had a few Spring-like days; Snowdrops, the odd Crocus and a few brave Daffodils are in bloom (Canine Health Diploma note: crocus and daffs are poisonous to dogs. Stick with me kids, you’ll learn fings). And yet it was only a week earlier that me, GT (Girl Teenager) and BT (Boy Teenager) were three-up on our seldom-used sledge, hammering into the brambles at the bottom of the steepest hill we could access on the Downs. BT’s idea to pick that slope. To be fair to him, the first slope we went down was the one I’d suggested. You know, the one with the Badger Set entrances down the left. The ones I pointed out. The ones that BT rocketed into and was flipped into a couple of barrel rolls. Thought he was dead briefly. So we let him pick a different hill. And discovered very rapidly that Stopping Before The Brambles was a bit problematic. Despite the scratches and bruises, we had a brilliant couple of hours. So good to see the pair of them messing about together, outside. My God, what a difference to last winter where BT rarely felt well enough to go out at all. How things change in 12 months, eh?

Talking of 12 months, we are now entering week 52. A whole year since my City career was swapped for cleaning and caring. Can’t believe it. More on that next time I imagine.

Stay safe chums.

Love & elbow-grease,

Mr H

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