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I made a fatal error the other night involving hot chocolate. My four-year-old daughter gave me the big puppy-dog eyes, just as the clock showed that it was time for bed. “Can I pleeeeeease have a hot chocolate Dad?” she asked, batting her eyelashes with a pout on her face.
The farmer gave a wry smile and a wink to his son when he asked me, “What new disease are ye going to go after when ye have this one sorted?”. He was referring to TB, as the last of his cows ambled out of the crush, giving him the all-clear for this herd test.
Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink. This summed up my day last week when I arrived back at the clinic after a couple of hours’ work.
I made a trip to our local co-op last week with my eldest lad to get a few bits and bobs for the ‘ranch’.
A vet’s job is to make sick animals better. That’s a very simplistic view, but as a rule of thumb, that’s how it’s supposed to go. When you have an animal that is unwell, you ring the vet with the hope that, armed with the knowledge, the expertise and the meds, they will make the animal well again.