SOMETIMES you don’t know the value of a team until it has been put to the test.

The day was proceeding normally.

Afternoon consultations had finished and a number of personnel had gathered in the prep room, as I was about to anaesthetise Oscar.

This pleasant Lhasa Apso had been presented earlier because he was snorting and sneezing in a manner that was reminiscent of a cat that had a grass blade stuck up his nose.

I had rarely seen this before in a dog but his owner was content to go with my gut feeling, and so it came to pass that Oscar lay gently down on his side as the anaesthetic was administered.

I had just placed his endotracheal tube to allow him to be connected to oxygen when I heard a blood curling yell from the waiting room.

I made eye contact with the registered veterinary nurse, who acknowledged that she would continue to monitor Oscar’s wellbeing, and then bolted out to the source of the noise.

In the waiting area was a frantic lady who was holding a black Labrador in her arms. The poor dog was flaccid, his head hung lifelessly to the side, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, and his tongue was as black as his coat. ‘He has a ball stuck in the back of his throat!’ ‘I got here as quickly as I could!’

I grabbed him and ran to the prep room, regrettably closely followed by the panic stricken lady. As I lay him on the table, someone handed me a gag, so I could safely keep his mouth open (still the owner lingered close to me, obstructing my arm movement).

Another passed me a ball of paper towel; crucial to wipe away the inevitable thick, saliva, which prevents you gripping (the owner, meanwhile, was yelling in my ear in a most distracting manner).

A third person was at the dog’s chest, pushing down hard, much like the Heimlich manoeuvre, in an attempt to shift the ball, which remained wedged tightly, completely blocking his airways (the owner was breathing harshly down my neck now).

A fourth person appeared stage right, wheeling an oxygen trolley. A fifth grabbed the corkscrew, which can be used to screw into the ball (or chewed up raw hide) to pull it out (the owner was gurgling now, such was her frenzy).

A sixth member of staff was standing with an endotracheal tube, hopefully to be inserted when the ball was removed (the owner’s jostling at me really wasn’t helping now).

In desperation, I pushed the fingers of my right hand under the angle of his jaw and clawed at the ball with my left hand. It popped out. More saliva was aspirated and the tube placed. He breathed. Five minutes later he walked out. As did Oscar after a four inch grass blade was pulled out the back of his nose.

As for the owner? When I had grabbed her dog from her, I inadvertently caught the dog lead that was hanging around her neck. I had pulled her with me into the prep room and nearly strangled her as we were working.