The Yorkshire Vet: Why you can't beat a real conversation with a real person...

Earlier in the day, I’d enjoyed two actual, real-life conversations, which had both been infinitely more productive than the remote “bot” chat. The first was with an old friend, a farmer- I’ll call him Michael- who I bump into every so often outside our practice in Thirsk. In the past, I’d looked after his small herd of interesting cows- uncommon if not exactly a rare breed. His passion and enthusiasm were infectious and I used to love my intermittent visits to pregnancy test his cows and to deal with miscellaneous minor problems.

“How are you getting on?” I asked. “Any news?”

The last time I’d met him, we caught up on the changes in both of our circumstances.

“It’s my brain. It’s not right,” Michael had said, obviously worried, but with his typical vigour and optimism. Apparently, years of playing rugby at an international level in his youth had played havoc with his cerebral health. Sadly, after today’s chat, there was no more progress. Yes, Michael had been through the MRI scanner, but the delay between the scan and the results being relayed to the doctor from the neurologist was months. He didn’t have final details of his neurovascular health, and the protracted process obfuscated the situation further.

“So, I’m still in no-man’s-land,” he said, as he scuttled off, quickly adding, “Thank you for asking, though.”

At lunch time, I was back at home and had the chance to take Emmy, my Jack Russell, out for a walk. When I worked in mixed practice, she came with me on my visits, looking out of the car window expectantly. On some days, she missed out on a proper walk, but other times a spare fifteen minutes on the moors or near the woods, lent itself to a lovely and varied life for a vet’s dog. Now, the walks are more predictable but less varied. But a quick blast towards the beck never fails to satiate her needs.

Mr Dawson was out, with his rickety spaniel. Both were old, stooped and slow and it was hard to fathom which of the two was ageing more rapidly. Mr Dawson let the dog off its lead even though it was too deaf to respond to a recall. Luckily, the spaniel was so slow there was no chance he would run off. He couldn’t run even if he wanted to.

“I’m pleased your friend did well in the local elections. I voted for him,” Mr Dawson said, by way of opening the conversation. I nodded and we briefly chatted about local politics, before, for some reason, moving onto religion. He told me about a former cricketing colleague who had to abdicate his catholic duties because he fell love with a lady.

“I wasn’t totally surprised because I’d seen him driving around with a woman in his car on several occasions, so I never thought his religious conviction was complete. Brilliant leg spinner though.”

Emmy had been pestering Mr Dawson to throw her ball, and I sensed he was getting frustrated at having to bend down so often. It was time to go.

“Anyway, it’s been nice chatting,” Mr Dawson nodded, “Thank you for stopping and taking the time to talk.”

Ambling back, I reflected on both interactions, which had clearly cheered everyone up. Long may real conversations continue!