The Yorkshire Vet: Tears when you can't make our faithful friends better...

By way of mutual consolation and to lift the gloomy mood, we all chatted later about how some patients find a special place in the hearts and memories of practice staff. Usually, this is because of a long-standing battle against illness, or a protracted recovery from difficult surgery, typically fought with a stoic cheerfulness and a wagging tail. Sometimes, it’s a rare condition that we’ve diagnosed when other practices had not managed. This makes the resolution all the more satisfying. Winston, the Bulldog had seen many vets by the time he got to us and he was in a pickle. He has a rare autoimmune disease called Pemphigus vulgaris, (which is as nasty as it sounds), but now we have sorted out his treatment and when he comes for his fortnightly check-ups, Winston’s presence in the waiting room cheers everyone up. His persistently wiggling body and snuffling happy face provide an infectious source of delight. Winston is a star.

Nurse Lucy told us about one of her favourite patients in a previous job. He had become the practice cat. A chronic skin condition led to the obvious moniker of “Scabby”, but a diagnosis of diabetes meant his owners couldn’t cope with the management and expense, so Scabby moved in to the vets. He lived in the cat kennels by night and frequented Pudsey bus station by day, scrounging morsels of fish from the chippy or attempting to grab a free bus ride.

“He was a lovely cat, and a real character,” remembered Lucy, “He used to sit by the PDQ machine and swipe his claws when clients tried to pay!”

One of my most memorable cases, and best canine friends, was a border collie called Bobby. It took me months to diagnose his rare illness, including several lengthy discussions to eminent pathologists, one of whom was in America. Bobby came in every week for treatment and for me to take blood samples which eventually confirmed the problem. Even though he invariably felt awful, and must have been sick of my needles, he would wag his tail and lift up his front leg for me to take yet another sample or instil another intravenous injection. His bone marrow failed in a cyclic pattern, so once every three weeks, Bobby’s white blood cells would drop dangerously low. This left him prone to bacterial sepsis, in the same way as a chemotherapy patient. On occasions, I’d visit Bobby at home and he’d always show off by charging round the garden at high speed. I tried a number of therapies, which worked for a time and up to a point but, in the end, the outcome was inevitable. Needless to say, when the final injection came and Bobby’s tail wagged for the last time, there were tears in abundance.