Real life | 30 November 2017

After a week of cold hosing, I decided I would have to get the vet to the small swelling on Gracie’s leg.

‘Dear Lord, be merciful,’ I prayed. But I knew that the quantity of mercy I would be shown would very much depend on the vet who came.

My usual vet is the last good vet in the world — the only vet in the western hemisphere who will make a realistic appraisal of a horse’s condition and give a quote for what can be realistically mended at a morally defensible price, by which I mean a price that will fix the horse without breaking the human owner. Consequently, he is very busy.

I rang the practice and was assigned a member of the team who was at a call-out down the road. When she arrived, my heart sank as I saw how young she was. She looked horribly sweet and idealistic, a bit like she might just have got out of veterinary college with the lectures of the visiting animal-rights activists still burning her ears.