The Night Vet – Part 1: Emergency Night

"There's a cat in a drainpipe," said Tom.

"Of course there is."

"And a man with a goat in a taxi."

"Obviously."

Maia sighed and reached for her stethoscope. It was one in the morning at the Wellington Animal Emergency Hospital, a low brightly lit building by the harbour, with a waiting room full of anxious faces and a smell of antiseptic and wet dog. She was thirty, the night vet, with a messy bun, a navy scrub top and a face fixed in permanent good humour. Tom was thirty-five, the senior night nurse, tall, calm, with kind grey eyes and an enormous capacity for chaos.

"Cat first," he said. "The goat can wait."

"The goat is on a taxi meter."

"He'll pay."

They got the cat out of the drainpipe with a long soft towel, a tin of sardines and half an hour of whispering. It emerged covered in rust, furious and unharmed. Maia examined it in a blanket, murmuring, while Tom held its paws.

"You're good at this," she said.

"You are."

"I mean, you have a way."

"I talk to them."

"What do you say?"

"That it's all right. That they're brave." He smiled, suddenly shy. "And that I'm here."

She stared at him for a moment, the cat purring in her arms. Then the door banged open.

"The goat!" cried a man. "He's eaten my hat!"

The goat was a large grey billy, with yellow eyes and the dignified expression of a diplomat. It walked into the waiting room, trailing a shred of felt, and surveyed the room with disdain.

Maia put her hand over her mouth. Tom began to shake. They both went into the supply cupboard and laughed silently, helplessly, until tears rolled down their faces.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tom, wiping his eyes.

"Yes."

"Is it always like this?"

"Always," said Maia. "That's why I love it."

"Green?" he said, a monitor light.

"Green," said Maia, grinning. "Very green. Pass me the hat."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Morning Shift.