LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I have a painful flashback
On Monday, I had to travel abroad for work. I didn’t want to leave Mini Puppy, but had no choice. I felt as I did when I had to fly to Canada to learn to be a trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil, and my horse Lizzie had only just had surgery for colic.
While I was away, Nic texted me: ‘Oh god, she’s looking round at her tummy again, keeps going down. I am trying to get a horsebox to drive her back to the hospital.’
There was nothing I could do. Nic, again: ‘We are at the clinic now. She is in the stocks, being examined.’
Me: ‘Don’t let them hurt her.’
She died later that same day. Back home, even driving across the North York Moors to collect her ashes, I was interrupted by work: a call from my managing editor, telling me a charity had complained about a column, where I had written my collies are ‘hearing’ dogs.
I was interrupted by work: a call from my managing editor, telling me a charity had complained about a column, where I had written my collies are ‘hearing’ dogs
This time I get to the Premier Inn at Heathrow, the sort of place where soap is nailed to the wall, and a sign says ‘Danger: hot water’.
Nic texts to say she has taken Mini to the referral clinic, where she has had a battery of tests.
‘The tumour on her spleen is really big. She isn’t allowed to jump up, or climb stairs, or be knocked, as the tumour might burst. She is booked to have surgery on Friday.’
I’d already asked a local lad to sleep with the dogs overnight*, but with this latest crisis, Nic’s mum is drafted in as Mini can’t be left for a second. I have no idea how people work in an office when they have children, or a dog. I suppose that’s what husbands are for.
David 1.0 did offer to dog-sit but, to be honest, he’s so laid-back and slow on his feet (remember the mobility scooter request?) that he can’t be trusted. While I was abroad, I sent him a photo of a classic E-Type Jag I’d been ferried around in.
‘Isn’t that the most beautiful, sexy, exciting car ever made. Is that my birthday present?’
Oh god. I forgot his birthday.
Mini has made it through surgery and today, Monday, I’m going to pick her up. Nic elects to drive me. The nurse sits me down to go through her medication. Painkiller, something to encourage her appetite, and she is to have Vagisil, which will mean a trip to Boots wearing dark glasses. She then goes to collect Mini.
Jones Moans… What Liz loathes this week
- Airports. Why do people dress as if they’re already by the pool?
- The security man who confiscated my mouthwash. ‘How would that bring down a plane? It’s not a bomb.’ ‘Don’t say that word in an airport.’ I’ve turned into Ben Stiller
- I’m the same age as Frasier’s dad!
As soon as Mini realises it’s me, her eyes light up. It’s as though she can’t believe I’m here. She looks like Edward Scissorhands: a livid scar from her throat to her tummy. Fur missing from all her arms, plus a big square of fur has been cut from her back.
Mini mustn’t jump, or go up stairs. She can only potter in my garden for two weeks under supervision. And, of course, there’s a two-week wait for the results of the biopsy on the tumour on her spleen.
The bill so far is approaching £7,000. They removed the thyroid tumour, and think they have it all. ‘Although there could be something microscopic,’ the nurse said. If the spleen is cancer, we are looking at possibly ten months.
Mini is so relieved to be leaving the clinic, she practically sprints. We lift her gingerly into the boot. On the drive home, there is suddenly a loud bang. Nic’s exhaust has almost fallen off. It is dragging along, causing sparks.
So here we are, Mini possibly facing a death sentence, and the car is behaving like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. There is smoke. ‘But Mini isn’t allowed to walk!’ I wail.
‘I am aware of that,’ Nic says.
If anyone could have seen us.
I think back to the week before, ferried around in a miracle of British engineering. On landing in Switzerland, I was whisked off the plane, straight into a limousine: ah, so this is what it must be like to be Meghan Markle. Life is so much easier when you’re rich. But I’d trade millions for a few more months with Mini. She has to be OK.
*£300
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