The Yorkshire Vet: Pondering over his next calling in life...

At the show, they were classed and organised into smooth then rough dogs, followed by smooth then rough bitches. It had to be that way because the male dogs would never be able to concentrate on trotting around the ring if they had the scent of the beautiful females that had been there before them. Every dog was a star and it was fascinating to see so many of the same breed in the same place at the same time. Jack Russells are probably more varied than any other type of dog, with taller ones, shorter ones, squarer headed ones or others more pointy, with longer or shorter bodies. And the colours were pretty much any combination of white, black and tan: some almost all white, others much darker. In my head, I tried to predict the winners and felt pleased I had not entered my own dog, Emmy. Amazing as she is, she doesn’t really conform to any breed standard and would definitely not have troubled the competition for rosettes.

The overall best Jack Russell in the World prize was a close contest between two rough-coated bitches. Hilda was a well-deserved champion and the huge shield- which was so massive it would have performed a superb job of defending a knight in a medieval jousting competition- was just one of the prizes. The human winner needed all his hands to hold the shield, the tankard and the two enormous rosettes with which I presented him. But all the dogs were superb- if any of them had been looking for a new home, I’d have happily taken any of them.

By now- after my Cambridge trip and the GYS terriers- I was becoming an expert at handing out awards. This was a good thing, because I had more to distribute. I’d been asked to present King’s Medals to the long-serving volunteers of Cleveland Mountain Rescue Team. Ever since they came to my rescue in January, after a nasty mountain bike accident, I’ve tried to support this amazing team. They have received medals before, awarded to commemorate the Queen’s Jubilee, then, as now, incredibly well deserved. I was introduced as a former “rescuee”, which is something I’ve never been called before. I was pleased to have been invited and thanked the audience, before recollecting my experience and reiterating my thanks for being saved. There was a barbeque, a few drinks and lots of chat. I quizzed various people about the on-call responsibilities and what happened if people were on holiday. It seemed reasonably relaxed, but I recollected the many nights I have spent on-call as an emergency vet over my life, where stress and pressure are a constant companion. In some ways, I feel I’ve done my fair share of on-call duties, but I couldn’t help feeling that volunteering for the local mountain rescue team might be my next calling. Quite literally. Or maybe I should become a terrier judge?