Call the Vet

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

FIRST EDITION

© Bruce Fogle 2020

Cover layout design Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover photographs © Author (man’s portrait), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Bruce Fogle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008424305

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008424336

Version: 2020-09-28

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Dedication

To the kind staff and volunteers at Hearing Dogs for Deaf People (www.hearingdogs.org.uk) who provide such incredible dog buddies for people, young and old, that find themselves isolated by impaired hearing. And to the diligent, dedicated people at Humane Society International, especially those in Canada (www.friendsofhsi.ca). You operate under the radar, sometimes in dreadful circumstances, but you do brilliant work defending animals worldwide.

Contents

1  Cover

2  Title Page

3  Copyright

4  Note to Readers

5  Dedication

6  Contents

7  Introduction

8  1

9 2

10 3

11 4

12 5

13 6

14 7

15 8

16 9

17 10

18 11

19 12

20 13

21 14

22 15

23 16

24 17

25  18

26  19

27  20

28  21

29  22

30  23

31  24

32  25

33  26

34  27

35  28

36  29

37  30

38  31

39  32

40  33

41  Postscript

42  Acknowledgements

43  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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Introduction

Another overcast, moody, gunmetal grey day. London, 1970. Drizzle. I am a 26-year-old Canadian, fresh out of the Ontario Veterinary College, working as an assistant in a veterinary practice in Knightsbridge in the heart of the city. I’m here because … well, I don’t actually know why I’m here.

It’s far from home. That’s exciting. I speak their language, so I can make my way around, get a job, have fun. I think of myself as British. At home in Toronto I grew up singing ‘God Save the Queen’ as often as ‘O Canada’. The Queen is on my Canadian money. I vote for Members of Parliament, not Congressmen. But three months in London has me questioning that assumption. What I’m learning is that although I share their language, I don’t share how they think.

A distinguished looking man in his sixties, in a tailored pinstripe suit, brings in his dog, a sad, grey-faced, female black Labrador, for me to put down. Not a twitch of emotion from him. His mother comes with him. Except it isn’t his mother. It’s his nanny. Not his children’s nanny. His nanny. The woman who looked after him when he was a child. Where is his wife? His grown children? Why is there no feeling, no passion?

I am already feeling a bit antsy today, a bit out of place.

‘Bruce, I’ve received a complaint about you,’ my boss Brian Singleton politely but firmly tells me when he arrives at his surgery. ‘Meet me in my office at 8.45.’

I can’t finish my coffee, can’t do anything but go over in my mind all the dogs and cats I have seen in the last few days, trying to work out where I’d made such a grievous diagnosis that the animal’s owner had gone out of their way to complain about me. I have limited clinical experience, so my confidence in my ability to diagnose and treat effectively is years away. At that time in my life, I still reacted to events. I didn’t yet have the ability, the maturity, to understand that life is more likely to go in the direction you want it to go in if you make things happen, not just respond to stuff.

That’s it, I think. I’ve killed someone’s pet, but if I go back to Canada now, I can start afresh and no one there will ever know what’s happened.

I meet Brian in his office.

‘Bruce, the lady who you saw yesterday, Mrs Pilkington, has complained about your attire.’

‘My clothes?’ I burst with relief.

Brian wears a dark suit and tie to work and expects me to as well. I do. I have no problem with that. The Beatles wear ties. My own father wears a tie when he crawls under our summer cottage each spring to turn the water supply back on.

‘She didn’t like my tie?’ I mock, and Brian replies, ‘You were wearing sandals. She doesn’t feel, nor do I, that sandals are appropriate footwear at a veterinary surgery.’

This is 1970. In Canada, I had flower decals on my car. My suits are velvet. My trousers have flares. My thick chestnut-coloured hair tumbles down my neck. Of course I wear sandals. How on earth could that be so reprehensible that someone would complain to my boss? And why would Brian agree?

I don’t get it. It is another seed in my mind that although we speak the same language, there really is a gulf between the English and me.

I come from a demonstrative family. The Fogles can be reserved but my personality comes from my mother’s side, the Breslins, and they don’t do reserve. They can be loud. They laugh outrageously. They question authority. They argue for the simple joy of words. They cry liberally. And when you need emotional support, they’re with you, like an infantry platoon of aunts, uncles and cousins.

So when it comes to putting down this Labrador, the dog’s sweet, gentle face looking up at me, at her owner and at her owner’s nanny, I feel just awful. Why doesn’t the owner feel as upset as I do? How can this man be so cold on such a poignant day, when his dog is to die? Why isn’t his family with him? What is it with you Brits?

I was in my twenties before Canada had her own red maple leaf flag. The schools my brother and I went to in Toronto, Allenby Public School and Earl Haig Collegiate, both named after World War I British field marshals, flew either the Union Flag or the Red Ensign, a flag with the Union Flag in the corner and Canada’s coat of arms on its red background. English-speaking Canadians of my era were raised more British than the British. The Queen was my queen. Britain’s Parliament was the mother of all parliaments. I read Rudyard Kipling and Thomas Hardy at school. I knew the names of every British prime minister of the twentieth century. That’s why when I arrived in Britain, I thought I understood the British.

But inside I really wasn’t British and part of me already knew that. My father was born in Glasgow, so I proudly claimed patriality (and I continue to feel a strong affiliation with Scotland). His family emigrated to Canada in 1907 when he was a year old, but enough of Scotland remained in him for him to name me Bruce, my brother Robert and our dog Angus. My father’s grandfather, a blacksmith, was born in a town with different names in German (Lasdein), Russian (Lozdzee), Polish (Lozdzeije), Lithuanian (Lazdijai) and Yiddish (Lazdei). The Fogles called the town Lazdei because they were part of the great Jewish emigration out of Eastern Europe that began in the 1870s. My mother’s family, the Breslins, were also part of that biblical exodus. They came to Canada from what they called in Yiddish Tolotshin, the Lithuanians called Talacynas, the Russians Tolochin. They too were part of the Great Other that arrived in Britain, the United States and Canada at the end of the nineteenth century. And as much as my parents’ families had become part of the weft of twentieth-century Canadian life, prominent in medicine and business, I knew I was an outsider, that I wasn’t part of Canada’s founding British or French heritage.

Seeing this man and his nanny, both seemingly emotionless, the nanny telling the man to go out in the hall while I give his dog a lethal injection, the man doing so without question, hits me like a bolt. I’m not part of them. I don’t want to be part of them.

Yet I think I also intuitively understood even then that what I was watching was a performance. An act. A veneer. Learned behaviour. British theatre. I didn’t yet fully understand how deep the relationship can be between us and other animals, but I instinctively knew it was impossible for this man not to feel some emotion at the end of his dog’s life, or for this woman not to feel deeply for a man she had known since his infancy. There is a common thread of compassion running through all cultures. It is part of all of us.

It would also be years before I understood that the people I was meeting in Knightsbridge were but a sliver of Britain’s then class-addled culture, a strand that, but for a few diehards (blowhards?), has now almost disappeared.

During the following decades, like some of Britain’s colonial administrators, inch by inch I went native. (I see the same happening today with many of my American clients, posted to London by their financial institutions, initially despairing that Britain isn’t America, then never wanting to leave.) It didn’t take long, certainly no more than a decade, for me to accept the weather. Accepting the Brits, going whole hog and becoming British, took longer. It was easiest with, I hate to use the term, ‘real people’. Almost the first Londoner to invite me out for a drink was Mick, one of the local dustmen. He was someone I could relax with. With other clients I saw at the clinic, it took longer for me to warm to them.

In my first years as a practising vet, I would discover that although I had a good grounding in the mechanics of medicine and how to sensibly diagnose and treat animals, l had no training at all in how to understand either my patients or the people who brought them to me. I didn’t yet realise how uplifting pets are, how they make us smile and feel good. This is a story of how someone who was trained that animals have no feelings or emotions, at one of the best veterinary schools in the world, came to understand how dreadfully wrong that part of my education was. This is a memoir of my first years as a vet in what was the most exciting time and place to be one, London in the early 1970s. It is an outsider’s view of the Britain that then existed, how that outsider went native and found a perfect home, and how caring for animals evolved from ‘make do and mend’ to the more sophisticated but not necessarily wholly better level it has reached today.

1

There is a rhythm to life that is greater than years. A natural order. We repeat our mistakes because evolution is too foolish to retain accumulated wisdom. But joyously we experience pleasures through ever-repeated personal discoveries: a dog’s head on your lap, a cat rubbing against your leg. Life is exciting when we are young because there is so much to find out about. Some of us are lucky enough to continue to feel that way even when we are no longer young.

At the end of my formal education I was in London, embarking on, although I didn’t understand it at the time, a transition in life. I could be doing what I ‘should’ be doing, what my family expected me to do, setting up life as a working vet in Toronto. But I wasn’t. I still don’t know whether I took the opportunity to come to London because it was an exciting prospect or because it was an opportunity to get away from my family, to be myself, whoever that was. A niggle in me says it was probably the latter.

Through a sequence of chances – a Canadian travel fellowship to work at Regent’s Park Zoo followed by an unplanned meeting with Brian Singleton, a vet with a practice in central London – I was now on a two-year contract working for Brian. His surgery, five minutes’ walk from Harrods, was from my Canadian perspective a tired, old shoebox, although I soon learned it was better equipped than most other London surgeries. On the corner of Pont Street and Cadogan Lane, the only indication that it was a veterinary surgery was a seven-by-nine-inch brass plaque with the words ‘Woodrow & Singleton Veterinary Surgeons’ on it. That was the maximum size allowed by the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons (RCVS), and as Brian was president of that organisation, he knew and respected the regulations. The RCVS was, in effect, the vet’s union. Only union members could practise veterinary medicine and I had become a member, an MRCVS. That was a wonderfully grand way to add five letters after my name by doing no more than pay my union fees.

The reception room’s two frontages of ceiling-to-floor shop windows were defended by always closed yellowing Venetian blinds. Marbled blue linoleum covered the floor. Four fluorescent strip lights clung to the ceiling. It never smelled of animals, only of cigarette smoke wafting from the bookkeeper’s office to the right of the reception area. Along each windowed wall were four grey plastic and metal chairs. By the back wall was the receptionist’s desk, with a passageway immediately to its right to the narrow stairs leading to the first floor ‘consultation’ rooms. I thought it endearing that we ‘consulted’ rather than ‘examined’. To the right of that passageway were even narrower stairs leading to the basement housing the kennels, treatment and operating rooms. X-ray developing was in a cupboard on a landing going downstairs. The X-ray machine itself was in the bookkeeper’s office. When I wanted to take an X-ray, she vacated and puffed in reception.

There is something inherently good about people who choose to spend their discretionary income caring for pets. That too was a discovery that would take time to make. You can rightfully argue that pets parasitise our hardwired, lifelong need to nurture. But if that’s your argument, then houseplants and gardens are parasites too. For whatever reason people kept pets, from my first experience in clinical practice I enjoyed meeting owners as much as I did their pets. That doesn’t mean I understood them or found everyone easy to deal with.

Appointments were scheduled at fifteen-minute intervals, with the nurse on reception buzzing me upstairs via the intercom phone with who was next. Pat House, Mr Singleton’s head nurse, buzzed me. Mrs Wax has arrived.

‘Oy vey, those stairs,’ Mrs Wax exclaims as she walks wearily into my consulting room, carrying her dogs’ medical files, given to her by Pat.

‘I’m only seeing you because Mr Singleton isn’t here,’ she says, handing me the files.

It’s true that some people look like their dogs. Dogs are extensions of our personalities, although occasionally they also fill gaps – they behave or look the way we would like to if we could. Mrs Wax is a woman with a shiny helmet of lacquered black hair, not one strand of which I bet is ever out of place. Her three black toy Poodles follow at her heels, keeping her between them and me. They have their hair cut for showing and look like canine topiary. Back then, I thought that a dog’s hair coiffed into pom poms and rosettes was no more than just stupid looking. It didn’t take much time before I realised those haircuts were demeaning to what is a dazzling breed of dog.

Another thing. Mrs Wax is Jewish. I know her, where she is from, how she behaves. I might not understand other people I meet but I understand her. Her home looks like Versailles, except all the furniture is covered in plastic. If she has a daughter, my parents will steer me elsewhere. With their ancestry in the Baltic States, my parents’ families pretentiously look down on ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ Jews, the ones with a passion for gold-plated water taps. They are ‘nouveau’. That was a way of thinking I hadn’t yet completely lost.

‘Mitzi has kennel cough,’ Mrs Wax tells me.

‘How do you know?’ I ask, trying to mask the superiority I feel. I am the professional she has come to for advice. She is simply Mitzi’s owner and I think she shouldn’t make her own diagnosis.

‘How do I know? Do you need a veterinary diploma to know when a dog has kennel cough? I showed her last week. There was a coughing dog. She’s coughing!’

‘Putz!’ I hear her mutter under her breath.

‘Are they all coughing?’ I ask.

‘No, young man, but they will be unless you do something.’

‘Let’s have a look and a listen,’ I say, and ask Mrs Wax to lift Mitzi onto the examination table. As she does so, Mitzi produces a soft, moist cough.

I look at Mitzi’s file and see she is eight years old and spayed. Her two younger canine companions, also females, are not spayed.

Mitzi’s eyes are bright, her teeth surprisingly clear of tartar and her ears devoid of the forest of hair I expect to see. The glands in her neck feel normal, but when I pinch her windpipe she gags and coughs, a cardinal sign of irritation typically caused by one of the bacteria or viruses that, lumped together, get called ‘kennel cough’.

I put my stethoscope in my ears and listen to her lungs. They sound moist and fruity. Then I concentrate on her heart, and the valve sounds are muffled and loud. I have a 33 rpm LP of canine heart sounds that I’d brought with me from Canada. This is my cutting-edge continuing education and according to that LP, Mitzi has a grade six out of six heart murmur. The maximum. She is in the earliest stage of heart failure.

‘Let’s have a listen to the others,’ I say, and when I examine them, their hearts and lungs sound normal and they just look at me querulously as I pinch their throats.

‘Mitzi may have picked up kennel cough at the show and the others might be incubating it, so >tetracycline antibiotics and honey in their water can help. You should keep them away from other dogs for the next three weeks. No dog shows. But Mitzi has a loud heart murmur. She’s coughing because she has heart disease and her heart’s not coping very well.’

Mrs Wax looks shocked.

‘That’s impossible. She just won the Veteran Class. Last week! The judge said she is in excellent condition. Where’s Mr Singleton? I want to see Mr Singleton.’

‘He’s working at the Royal College today, but he’s back tomorrow. I’d like to start Mitzi on digitalis and Lasix* now and you can see Mr Singleton tomorrow.’

‘Don’t you start any treatment until I know what’s wrong with my dog!’ she warns. ‘I want a real vet, not some apprentice who doesn’t know the difference between kennel cough and a heart attack.’ She lifts Mitzi from the floor and holds her tightly to her chest. I am about to tell her it is important we start treatment today, but when I look at Mrs Wax’s face, wet mascara is streaming from her eyes.

‘I’ll buzz Pat and arrange an appointment with Mr Singleton for tomorrow morning.’

When Brian offered me a job I asked my professor of surgery from Ontario, Jim Archibald, for his advice. Jim was on a year’s sabbatical at the Royal College of Surgeons. ‘Woodrow and Singleton is the best practice I know of,’ Jim explained. ‘It’s a good place to make your mistakes, four thousand miles from home.’ He added, ‘You’ll establish a good ethical basis for your future.’ Of course, I was too green to appreciate that Brian would have asked Jim about me.

Affable, angular Cuthbert Erskine ‘Woody’ Woodrow, then in his late sixties, godson of Lady Cadogan, was first president of the British Small Animal Veterinary Association, a relatively new organisation of companion animal vets that was less than fifteen years old. Its American equivalent, the American Animal Hospital Association, had been founded far earlier, in the 1930s. Woody had great presence but was also relaxed and approachable. He had just retired but still came in occasionally to do Saturday morning consults. Handsome, reserved Brian Singleton, in his late forties, was its third president, a world-respected orthopaedic surgeon and my boss. Vets in Canada wore white lab coats or green scrub tops when they examined pets. Woody and Brian consulted in dark Savile Row suits.

The following day, Mrs Wax returns and sees Brian, who admits Mitzi for more tests. After I finish my morning consultations, I go downstairs, where Mitzi is housed in one of the recently installed stainless steel kennels, not in isolation.

‘Bruce, the patient doesn’t have Battersea Cough.’†

Brian never calls pets by their names. They are always ‘patients’.

‘I’ve given her 20 milligrams of Lasix,’ he says. ‘Pat, please walk her in the mews every hour. Bruce, take lateral and VD X-rays of the chest.’ VD means ‘ventrodorsal’, with Mitzi on her back. He then goes back upstairs to attend to Royal College matters.

‘Did Mrs Wax give you a hard time yesterday?’ Pat asks as I carry Mitzi up from the basement to the X-ray room.

‘She didn’t believe my diagnosis,’ I answer.

‘That’s because you look like you’re fourteen,’ Pat giggles.

In 1970, the Royal College of Nursing refused to allow the word ‘nurse’ to be used by anyone other than a member of that association, so ever-smiling, over-permed Pat was a Registered Animal Nursing Auxiliary, or RANA, one of the first, the even-keeled mother-hen of Pont Street. Assisting Pat was Jane, a younger RANA, and Brenda, a trainee.

‘You’ll look old soon enough after dealing with the people you’ll meet here,’ she smiles, as we enter the accountant’s smoke-filled room to use the ex-hospital X-ray machine.

‘Gertrude, we’ll just be five minutes,’ Pat tells the surgery accountant, who picks up her pack of cigarettes and lighter and leaves to have another cigarette in the waiting room. Gertrude, in her late fifties with skin like cracked china, is also the receptionist when the RANAs are busy with pets. She reminds me of the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. Throughout my time at Pont Street, I simply avoid her.