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f4f3So, as I mentioned, I took Anna to the vet last night. I turned up 10 minutes early for my appointment, and was seen about half an hour late, which gave me 40 minutes to sit in the waiting room and go something approaching bug-fuck crazy.
Until I was almost 30, I'd been in a vets exactly once in my life. Then I married a vet, and that changed. I picked her up from the surgery, I served as the driver when she was wakened up in the middle of the night for emergencies, and I hung out there on weekends when she was working Saturday and Sunday. Now and then, I helped out by putting an extra finger on a particular spot, or towelling new born puppies while she closed up the mother. First time I walked into the surgery, it was all about the smell - shit, mostly, and urine, and under and over disinfectant and soap. I became desensitised to that, and, like someone who sells choc-ices at the theatre, I started to feel part of the company, not a civilian anymore. I got the same sort of back-stage feel when I was a cleaner in a hospital during my Uni vacations.
Since Susan and I split up, I've only been to the vet as a pet owner, but even then the feeling of it as somewhere familiar and even comforting persisted. The local vet I go to is a pretty modern practice in a handsome old sandstone building. Taking Merlin and Anna for check ups and vaccinations was always a pretty relaxed thing.
And then. last year, Merlin died, and the last time I saw him was when we left him, dead, at the surgery.
Last night, taking Anna in, I didn't feel relaxed or comfortable. From the moment I walked in, everything reminded me of Merlin. Most strongly, of course, when I saw the other two dogs in the waiting room. One was a collie, old but in good shape, and the other was a lurcher, obviously not in great shape. The reason I was kept late was that the lurcher was an emergency appointment, and went in before me. The nurse came out, and set up an emergency referral to the vet school, and told them it was pancreatitis. She didn't sound hopeful.
When I went in, the vet examined Anna and said all seemed well, gave her the booster shots she needed, and took some blood to be examined at the Vet School (Glasgow Vet School is located just a couple of miles from the surgery, and it has the reputation of being the most advanced place in the world for research into feline HIV, amongst other things. My ex trained there).
As I left, the owner of the lurcher was getting ready to take him for an overnight at the vet school, and I almost burst into tears when I saw her face. I knew how she was feeling.
I more or less pulled myself together in the car, took Anna home, went out and had a meal and a drink with my friend Paul.
This afternoon the vet called, and gave me Anna's blood test results. All is fine. She apologised for keeping me waiting, and I said it wasn't a problem, that I'd heard what was happening to the lurcher.
"Oh yes", she said, "He's doing much better today."
Which was the best news I heard all day.
Until I was almost 30, I'd been in a vets exactly once in my life. Then I married a vet, and that changed. I picked her up from the surgery, I served as the driver when she was wakened up in the middle of the night for emergencies, and I hung out there on weekends when she was working Saturday and Sunday. Now and then, I helped out by putting an extra finger on a particular spot, or towelling new born puppies while she closed up the mother. First time I walked into the surgery, it was all about the smell - shit, mostly, and urine, and under and over disinfectant and soap. I became desensitised to that, and, like someone who sells choc-ices at the theatre, I started to feel part of the company, not a civilian anymore. I got the same sort of back-stage feel when I was a cleaner in a hospital during my Uni vacations.
Since Susan and I split up, I've only been to the vet as a pet owner, but even then the feeling of it as somewhere familiar and even comforting persisted. The local vet I go to is a pretty modern practice in a handsome old sandstone building. Taking Merlin and Anna for check ups and vaccinations was always a pretty relaxed thing.
And then. last year, Merlin died, and the last time I saw him was when we left him, dead, at the surgery.
Last night, taking Anna in, I didn't feel relaxed or comfortable. From the moment I walked in, everything reminded me of Merlin. Most strongly, of course, when I saw the other two dogs in the waiting room. One was a collie, old but in good shape, and the other was a lurcher, obviously not in great shape. The reason I was kept late was that the lurcher was an emergency appointment, and went in before me. The nurse came out, and set up an emergency referral to the vet school, and told them it was pancreatitis. She didn't sound hopeful.
When I went in, the vet examined Anna and said all seemed well, gave her the booster shots she needed, and took some blood to be examined at the Vet School (Glasgow Vet School is located just a couple of miles from the surgery, and it has the reputation of being the most advanced place in the world for research into feline HIV, amongst other things. My ex trained there).
As I left, the owner of the lurcher was getting ready to take him for an overnight at the vet school, and I almost burst into tears when I saw her face. I knew how she was feeling.
I more or less pulled myself together in the car, took Anna home, went out and had a meal and a drink with my friend Paul.
This afternoon the vet called, and gave me Anna's blood test results. All is fine. She apologised for keeping me waiting, and I said it wasn't a problem, that I'd heard what was happening to the lurcher.
"Oh yes", she said, "He's doing much better today."
Which was the best news I heard all day.
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Date: 2012-09-16 04:55 pm (UTC)