Penny Jordan Collection(81)

                ‘I wasn’t doing anything special,’ she responded, ignoring the accusing mental image she had of her half-painted flat walls—a task she had willingly abandoned when she had received the telephone call from the surgery’s receptionist asking if she could come in.

                ‘What’s—?’

                Pre-empting her question, Philip Ross told her quickly, ‘It’s the mare out at Barton Farm; she’s foaling and there are complications. Gary is with her but I suspect we may have to operate. I’m on my way over to join him now. Jenny will take over my morning’s ops and Helen will take Gary’s surgery, which will leave you as our emergency on-call vet, and if you could take the morning’s dog-training class as well...’

                As he spoke Philip was on his way out of the room, and, aware of the seriousness of the situation, Georgia made no attempt to delay him.

                Once he had gone she walked into the main office and reception area of the practice.

                Although all the small pets due to have operations had already been delivered by their owners, the main clinic of the day hadn’t started as yet and Georgia was free to make herself a cup of coffee and check to see if she had any post, whilst discussing what had happened with the other two more senior vets she worked alongside.

                ‘I hope we don’t get any emergencies,’ she confided to Jenny. ‘I’m not sure...’

                ‘If I were you I’d worry more about the dog-training class than any emergencies,’ Jenny advised her wryly. ‘Ben will be there...’

                ‘Ben? Mrs Latham’s Ben?’ Georgia questioned, groaning when Jenny nodded.

                ‘Oh, no!’

                Mrs Latham’s Ben was an English setter. A beautiful dog without an ounce of aggression in him, but unfortunately with more than his share of scattiness. To make matters worse Ben was a rescue dog, with Mrs Latham his second owner. Ben had been rescued from ending up in a dog’s home thanks to her decision to give him a place to stay with her, and Georgia could well remember the first time she had seen him.

                She had been working at the surgery for less than a month when a harassed young woman had turned up with Ben, who was just over a year old then and physically fully grown. He was a handsome, lovable, charming and completely dizzy dog, and Ben’s then owner had complained to Georgia, who had been the vet on duty when she had brought him in, that with an elderly father to care for, a husband whose work took him away for days at a time and two young children she simply could not cope with a boisterous, energetic large dog.

                As she’d looked from the woman’s anxious eyes to the dog’s trusting ones Georgia’s heart had sunk. Ben was a beautiful dog, healthy, young, and as a fully bred pedigree had no doubt cost his owner an awful lot of money, but here she was telling Georgia defensively that there was simply no way she could keep him.

                It had been at that moment that Mrs Latham had walked in, and Georgia’s heart had sunk even further.

                Mrs Latham was the owner of a raffish ginger tom cat who had adopted her when his previous owners had moved house. Ginger had cynically pounced on Mrs Latham’s tender heart and the equally tender choice cuts of fish and meat she supplied him with and had moved himself in to Number One Ormond Gardens. But Ginger was, at heart, an independent warrior, and his night-time clashes with other cats in the neighbourhood meant that he was a regular visitor at the surgery.

                Having reassured Mrs Latham that Ginger was recovering very well from the small operation he had had to repair a tear in his ear, Georgia had left Mrs Latham in the waiting room with Ben’s owner whilst she went to collect Ginger from the cattery.