Archive for October, 2007

Pet insurance provided by reputable companies should cover pet owners for both accidents and illness. Many owners have visions of traumatic events resulting from dramatic situations. As pet insurance providers are only too well aware, the reality can be mundane and preventable.

Recent figures published by US pet insurance company VPI show common household objects can be hazardous to a curious pet. The report revealed the most frequently removed items under surgery were socks, underwear and tights.

Young dogs in particular are prone to chewing almost anything they can get their mouths around. Excessive chewing can also be the result of anxiety and stress caused by spending too much time alone. Owners should therefore try to ensure their pet has regular company and keep the floor area clear of likely targets – putting household cleaners and other dangerous material well out of reach.

Vomiting, dry heaving and coughing are symptoms of possible ingestion of unsuitable objects. At the first sign of any of any of these an examination by the vet is a sensible precaution.

Pet insurance is a simple way of budgeting for vet bills. With one in two insured dogs and cats needing veterinary treatment each year, a vet bill it is an inevitable fact of life for many owners.

Now research by Direct Line confirms what some have suspected – a sizeable number of owners struggle to pay their pet’s medical bills. According to the survey, 22 per cent of uninsured dog owners have problems meeting vet bills. While 18 per cent were forced to resort to personal savings, another eight per cent borrowed the money from friends and family. Nine per cent even postponed paying household bills.

However, the most distressing news from the survey was that 17 per cent of owners delayed treating their dog because they could not afford a visit to the vet.

Once upon a time, many years ago, the village boasted its own café. A small, crowded place in its heyday, it was owned by a Frenchman who fought in the Second World War, married a local girl and settled down in our village.

We dogs were welcomed there – as long as we were accompanied by a human - and the owner always had something tasty for us while the humans indulged in his real coffee, made in the French way and quite famous for miles around.

The fact that we dogs were allowed inside and could even sit on laps was a source of consternation to many of the other customers. It was explained to them by the owner that this was a common practice in France – and some other Continental countries - and he was determined to carry on with it in his own place.

Of course this was revealed in a strange mixture of two languages and did not help matters as most customers could not understand a word he said. But the thrust of his remarks was quite plain: if you did not like the way he ran his business, find another café.

One incensed lady said she would call in the local council but in those days there were no rules about pets in eating houses and she was forced to leave “never to come back”. The owner made a gesture not often seen in this country but which the Vet said was quite rude.

It was the Vet’s habit to visit daily usually before surgery opened and relax with his drink and read the morning paper. Occasionally he would indulge in a croissant and try to engage the owner in conversation.

The Vet was quite proud of his French, but unfortunately it was not the same language as that spoken by the proprietor, who originated from an obscure corner of France which the Vet was unable to find on the map. The Vet would launch in what he thought was a perfect description of the day’s weather, only to be greeted by blank stares and a torrent of French, not a word of which he managed to grasp.

This developed into a regular and amusing play which both actors seemed to enjoy. We dogs secretly believed that the café owner was word perfect in English but kept it a secret just to annoy people like the Vet whom he regarded as “roast beef snobs”, apparently another one of the many insults at his disposal.

The English wife stayed in the kitchen and rarely ventured into the café, but as she delivered such delicious pastries and cakes her presence was not missed. What language was used between the two of them the Vet never discovered as no words were used in his hearing. The sound of smashing plates, however, followed by the husband’s scream of pain, was a frequent occurrence.

Customers carried on drinking their coffee and never inquired why he came out of the kitchen stuffing his blood-stained handkerchief back in his pocket.

As I overheard the Vet mention to one of his clients, the situation at the café seemed unsustainable – the owner was losing too much blood.

A few weeks later the Vet was taking me for the usual walk to the café and found it locked and dark. A notice on the door said the café was closed “for personal reasons” and the owner would let the village know if he opened up elsewhere.

The Vet later heard he had gone back to France with his wife and they opened a bread and cake shop. No coffee was served.

I was forced to call an urgent meeting of the gang because of the need to discuss the repercussions of November 5, the time when we dogs in particular suffer agonies of apprehension, fear and downright terror. That goes for other pets too as our resident cat, Biggins, demonstrates annually.

 It all starts when we are young pups. There is nothing to prepare us for the bangs, explosions and screams (of joy I realise from humans) as they dance round the bonfire and let off those infernal explosions.

I used to spend the evening hiding under the couch until finally being coached out by the Vet with a morsel or two. It took several hours to stop my shivering, although to be fair to the Vet he did his best to comfort me.

Each year I vowed the next would be the one I disappeared into the woods for some peace and quiet, but I never did get round to it. Just the eternal suffering.

 The gang suffered too. One of our new members, Aaron the Airedale Terrier, told us a harrowing story of his unsuccessful attempts to hide and Charlie, the Basset Hound, said it took him days to recover.

Gus, the Alsatian, and my number two, is older and wiser that most members, except for myself, and claims that he has gradually become used the disruption and can now sleep through all except the loudest of the bangs. He has a steadfast character and I believe his words – although certain other members of the gang, including Candy, the Jack Russell, and Jock, the Sky Terrier, looked rather sceptical.

Spot the Cairn terrier belonging to police inspector Frank Ash had some interesting news that cheered us all up. This year, he said, bonfires in back gardens were banned and fireworks would be allowed only on the green at a party being organised by some of the village mothers.

The fireworks, he added were being stored in a shed in the inspector’s garden which was unlocked and easy to enter.

Then came my brainwave – one of a number I have had in the past weeks. Why don’t we steal the boxes and throw them in the stream running through the wood? I looked around and saw amazement on their faces. Whether this was due to the brilliant idea or the fact that they thought it wouldn’t work, I am not sure. Anyway I made the executive decision to give it a try.

Planning was to take place in the few days available before the dreaded night and the deed itself would take place the previous evening, November 4, so there was no chance of the loss being discovered earlier and new fireworks obtained.

Tasks were allotted under my overall supervision and we waited eagerly for the appointed night.

We gained entry as Spot had promised through a loose wall panel. Enough light shone though the only window to see clearly that no boxes were there.

We all turned to Spot who looked crestfallen. The inspector must have moved them out of the damp and stored them in the house, he said.

We trudged home like fans of a losing football side. Another year of crashes and bangs awaited us. Perhaps we could do something better next time?

When the Vet gets a cold everyone in the house suffers. For he does not have the sniffles, he has an illness which he considers life-threatening and in need of the attention of the best medical advice within a 50-mile radius.

At the first signs of a sore throat, he takes to his bed and orders Mary, the housekeeper, to phone the usual locum - inefficient but cheap – to come immediately. He then tells her which medicines to fetch from the massive cupboard in the bathroom which contains only his potions, lotions and pills.

All his orders to her are pretty muffled and scarcely understandable as he has wound a long scarf round his throat so many times that he almost chokes in the process. He refuses to let Mary loosen it as it would then admit a whole array of germs to his mouth that he is convinced would certainly kill him.

He orders hot drinks, a bottle of medicinal brandy, a bag full of lemons, a thermometer, gloves and a woolly hat – mainly by hand movements as his voice has all but disappeared.

Mary is used to these antics – they happen about twice a year – and has all his needs ready in the pantry to be brought up the stairs at a run.

Finally he wants the morning paper, his reading glasses and separate plate for his false teeth.

When all these arrive he sends for me. Not that I can hear his strangled words, but I too know the routine well. He sits up in bed and points to the bedroom door before lying back exhausted from the exertion. Mary, who was waiting for the signal, shouts down to me and I bound up the stairs to sit by his bed.

Once the Vet sees I am there he lets out a long gurgling sigh and puts out his hand to stroke my head. I am expected to remain in that position for as long as it takes the Vet to fall asleep, which, luckily, is no more than four minutes. Then both Mary and I can creep out the room and carry on with our own arrangements.

Unfortunately the Vet has become wise to our, what he calls, desertion and has had a bell installed by his reading light. This is no ordinary summons. It is emits a noise so loud that neighbours who live hundreds of yards away have complained.

Clients downstairs with their sick animals have been known to leave the surgery suddenly and refuse to make new appointments until they are informed the Vet has recovered and no longer needs to use the infernal thing.

All pretty much routine so far and the disturbance to our lives is expected to last about three days, when the Vet declares a miracle has occurred and he is feeling able to go downstairs and watch television. A number of his acquaintances have advised that a TV in the bedroom might be a good idea for such illnesses but the Vet has declared that to be “decadent”. He listens to his radio using an ancient pair of headphones which he snatches off if anyone enters the room, fearing they may think his health is improving.

Both Mary and I are exhausted after so many trips up the stairs – but the Vet recovers nicely.

About once every five years the Vet returns to his home town for a reunion with friends from childhood and youth and on a number of occasions I have gone with him. His home town is a miserable, windswept cluster of houses and shops on the north coast where nothing has changed for at least 100 years and the people all look like their own cousins – in-breeding on a massive scale. Just the sort of place the Vet would feel entirely at home.

On this occasion, the guests all met up at a hotel on the seafront not used before for these reunions where warmth was induced by a small fire in what was laughingly called the lounge. Central heating had not yet arrived in this outlandish spot and there was much pushing and shoving to get a place near the weak flames.

Of course I was in a much better position to work my way near the fireplace and soon found a spot where the incessant draughts were less of a problem. The crowd of some 30 people were milling around, drinks in hand catching up on events.

The main topic appeared to be who had died since the last meeting and there were tributes led by the Vet who adopted a sombre tone and mournful face which did not fool me, but seemed to take in the other guests.

Many toasts were drunk in their memory and while the Vet does not drink – one of the few vices he did not enjoy – the assembly grew more raucous as the evening wore on and the wine flowed from the small bar in the corner. Each visit I had attended followed a similar pattern. Subdued beginning, shouting and even some laughter as they all imbibed and a staggering to the door just before some barmaid shouted time.

 It had always been a mystery who paid for the drinks until a couple of years ago I learned that it was a “free” bar organised by the Vet. That concept seemed so alien, that I had the gang in specially one morning to unravel the mystery.

And it was one of our oldest members who came up with the most likely explanation. Tiger, the Rottweiler owned by the postmistress, happened to overhear her telling one of the villagers that by mistake she opened a letter addressed to the Vet. We dogs understood this was her normal practice and she was inclined to read much of the mail that passed through her hands. Steamed open the envelopes, Tiger revealed.

The postmistress said the letter was from the hotel where the reunion was held. It contained a cheque for a substantial amount and the accompanying note thanked the Vet for his custom and said his share of the profits was attached – and his room for the night was at no charge. Naturally his dog came free as well.

Of course he had later billed everyone there for their drinks and at a hefty premium already agreed with the hotel. All paid up as few could remember exactly what they had consumed.

Meanwhile, the Vet had already announced that they would be returning to the same hotel for future reunions which he suggested might be held more frequently.