Vet's View

First, we are all getting older. I remember the day, now over a decade ago, that Scud arrived at the house to great joy from my children, who were hardly able to toddle at the time.

Now, the toddle has turned into trouble, as they are all grown up into big, bad teenagers, but they love her just as much.

And no wonder because Scud has been brilliant.

She has been a constant, patient companion who has played and guarded and been a loyal consistent friend – even though this has included consistently trying to steal food, despite considerable remedial training.

She will remain forever as the dog of my children’s youth, immortalised forever in their memories (and by her utter, complete and totally annoying, inability to strike a suitable pose in any photograph).

Second, Scud’s recent ailment brought home to me, once again, that when you experience something yourself, it prompts you to empathise with those who suffer similarly.

I have always, for example, felt for patients with eye ulcers after once wiping some irritant milky plant sap in my own eye. Man did it burn. I just wanted to keep my eyes shut forever.

And when the entire family contracted norovirus and turned vomiting into an Olympic sport…(Gold for Ellie, Silver for Bill) … let’s just say I use anti-emetics by injection whenever I think a patient might feel nauseous.

It was when I arrived home after a few days away at a conference that the trouble began.

Hugging the children hello, I turned to pat Scud, who, as usual, was patiently waiting her turn, when there it was.

Sitting ugly and proud on her still lithe and muscular shoulder was a lump; a big, horrible, golf ball sized, definitely wasn’t-there-three-days-ago lump.

Trying to hide my alarm, I palpated it carefully and cautiously and confirmed my suspicion It was indeed, as I originally suspected, a lump; an abnormal mass of unknown origin.

Shaking off my owner’s hat, I donned a veterinary attitude and calmly announced that Scud was not to be fed, as she was, forthwith, booked in for minor surgery the next day.

After the clambering and the questions stopped, I felt the initial guilt that all owners do when they have to refuse food to a mystified pet the night before an operation.

It was the same the next morning, as her bowl remained empty and her wee face glum.

Surgery, carried out by myself (you operate on everyone’s animal as if they were your own, so nothing was different), revealed the presence of a rapidly growing tumour, which was duly excised.

Scud’s recovery was uneventful but days were spent, waiting with bated breath, for the laboratory result that would decide her future.

I know now what that period is like for worried owners.

Eventually, the news was mixed.

The tumour had been completely removed but it had the potential to spread and recur.

In the meantime, the children are happy Scud has beaten her cancer and I have learnt some more.