After rushing our little spaniel to the veterinary hospital on the usual bank holiday emergency basis upon which all animals seem to get sick, we were held up by the most extraordinary fracas.
The builder boyfriend carried her in, wrapped in a blanket, and we sat ourselves down anxiously to wait.
But in the reception area of this smart animal hospital in Surbiton was a family who were engaged in a dispute with a desperate-looking young vet about the bill they had just run up for their fitting poodle.
The scrappy white pooch stood on the floor heaving quietly as they shouted that there was no way they were paying for the lengthy consultation they had just had as they were on benefits. Suddenly, the poodle began drooling saliva on to the floor and the young vet, a bearded hipster type, snatched the dog up and rushed him back into the consulting room shouting: ‘He’s fitting again!’
As the vet clattered about trying to save the poodle, its owner, a woman so scary-looking I confess I would not have admitted her to the building, carried on ranting about the ‘blasted cheek of these people’ presenting her with a bill.
‘What’s the matter with ’em, eh?’ she shouted in our direction, as we sat frozen in our seats, little Cydney curled up on the BB’s lap and me stroking her head as she whimpered in pain.
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