YOU have to laugh.

Or you would cry. Or maybe scream. Or run to a darkened room and curl up into a ball.

It had been a long, long day. Morning consultations had dragged way past 10.30am, making the scheduled surgical operations fill my lunch hour, leaving my tummy empty and my energy levels low, but we proceeded to afternoon consultations in one hungry fell swoop.

Anticipating sustenance, tummies rumbled further when a whelping bitch meant all hands on deck for a Caesarean section. Rewarding though producing puppies is, it does nothing for the plummeting glucose levels.

Thus it was that the evening surgery began at 5pm, by which time we were positively wilting. But chin up! Soon it was 6.30pm, the end of the working day, the waiting room magically emptied and thoughts turned again to food.

Then, hearts sank as the front door opened. Why it is that some people are five minutes late for everything is beyond me but it always seems churlish to turn them away.

The receptionist forced a smile, I turned my computer back on and the client said, with no hint of an apology for their tardiness, "I want to see the practice parrot expert."

My fellow vet, a new graduate of only a few weeks, relaxed visibly. Given that I was the only vet present to have seen a parrot before, I was the Practice Parrot Expert (PPE). Some people erroneously believe that ‘PPE’ stands for ‘Personal Protective Equipment’. Silly, silly people.

My first important job as PPE was to point out to the owner that the cage in which he had brought his magnificent Amazon parrot to the surgery was, in fact, too big to fit in the door, despite his protracted attempts at extreme contortionism.

Next, I discovered that, even though an ordinary vet was apparently of no use to him, he was quite unable to catch said parrot in said cage. Enter to the fray the PPC (Practice Parrot Catcher), sometimes colloquially referred to as a ‘towel’. Parrots are great at recognising hands as offensive weapons, so hiding them behind a towel is ideal. The cage is then slowly turned, causing the parrot to concentrate on righting itself on the perch, thereby allowing the PPE to use the PPC to grasp it.

Wrapped comfortably in the PPC, the parrot can now be examined by the PPE. Presuming it required complicated surgery, I asked what the problem was. "He needs his beak and nails trimmed!" he said. "Can you manage to do that?"

Sometimes it is hard not to say, "Oh for goodness sake!" But you don't.

With the owner's assurance that he knew how to safely hold his bird, indeed he raised his eyes when I asked the question, the PPE proceeded to clip nails expertly. The parrot bit his owner. With empty tummy rumbling again, the PPE finally helped them out to the vehicle and ensured the parrot was released back into the cavernous cage. "Blast!" said the owner, still bleeding. "I forgot to get you to clip his wings as well..."