Veterinary medicine is all about listening.

You need to listen to us and we need to listen to you.

Because if you don’t listen to us or we don’t listen to you, then things are going to go badly wrong.

It’s pretty obvious why we need to pay attention to what you’re saying. Simply, you usually tell us the answer.

You often don’t know it and it’s not done on purpose but most of the time you tell us what is wrong with your pest before we have even touched them. Oh sure, it is nice to confirm what we think with a wee bit of examination or a few blood samples but owners, if they know their pet and are asked the right questions, generally provide us with all the information we need.

Take a recent situation at the surgery.

I was accompanied, during consultations, by a bright and articulate final year veterinary student. His technical knowledge was impressive. His attire was smart and professional. His ears were young and sharp. His demeanour was eager and enthusiastic.

Our first patient of the day was a middle-aged Labrador, Max, owned by a quaint elderly lady who, frankly, could talk for Britain, both in the marathon and in the speed events.

Furthermore, she would win the talking rubbish competition hands down. (Or more likely hands over ears.) As she launched into her rapid, monotonous monologue about her dear pet, with meanderings and irrelevancies about her great aunt Betty, how she once water skied naked around Singapore Harbour and her recipe for strawberry jam, I could see our young vet student’s eyes glaze over.

But I had been there many times before. In between much nonsense about how many steps there were on their walk, gibberish about how she felt her Labrador was agoraphobic and baloney about aliens stealing all her money, my purple-rinsed owner said some very important words.

Slow. Lazy. Gaining weight. Sitting in front of fire. Hungry. Dry skin. In about 12 minutes of some of the most boring twaddle and hot air I have ever listened to, the dear lady presented us with all the classic clinical signs of hypothyroidism, an under active thyroid.

Our vet student, when questioned, had heard none of it and was about to embark on a plethora of expensive diagnostic tests, when a simple thyroid level provided us with the answer.

But of course, you need to listen to us too.

A veterinary expert in diabetes told me recently that he was struggling to control an unstable diabetic dog. Eventually, frustrated at his inability to determine the problem, he called the owner in to the surgery to assess his injection technique.

With some relish, the owner produced, from his pocket, the orange that is often used to practice injections upon.

He carefully drew up his insulin. He injected the orange with aplomb.

And then he peeled the orange and fed it to the dog. Ah…