Peanut, unwell, goes to Lancashire

In the summer, Peanut waded into dry grass and a hayseed burrowed through her fur, then into muscle. We took her to the vet for an operation. It didn’t take long, but cost £1,800. Ouch.

That was just one item in an expensive year. By autumn we had worse to deal with: lumps on her tummy. Cancer? We paid for a biopsy, taking us past the limit of our pet insurance, but the results were inconclusive.

“Keep an eye on them,” said the vet.

For a while, I tried to pretend they were not getting bigger. But eventually we had to do something. Harriet made calls. One vet said that scanning, removing the lumps and sending off the tissue for analysis would cost between £5,000 and £8,000.

How to put a price on a pet? We didn’t try, but we agreed that we couldn’t afford that.

Peanut had joined our family in the pandemic, on the first day lockdown rules permitted us to leave London and fetch her. Harriet had done research, found reputable breeders (who also trained police dogs) in Lancashire. We drove north with our teenaged daughter, and when we met our prospective new pet – you won’t believe this – Peanut pulled up her lips to reveal her teeth in a smile.

We took the smiling dog for a walk, stared into her eyes and agreed among ourselves to take her home.

Peanut was five years old, had already produced 17 puppies. After three litters, she was ready to be neutered. Clare and Mark, the breeders, hadn’t been looking to let her go, but thought she’d get more attention living with us.

I’m not Peanut’s favourite person – that’s Harriet – but I have been around more than anyone else, because I’ve always worked from home. I’ve done most of the baths, grooming and lively walks over Hampstead Heath. And I’ve drawn tons of pictures of Peanut: asleep and awake, lying down, on my lap and running about, from the front, back and side, in sun, in rain and in the bath. I have darned her portrait over a hole on the sleeve of my jumper.

In short, I’m devoted to her. I know there are greater tragedies in the world than a dog, already 11 years old, developing lumps on her tummy, even cancerous lumps. But what can I tell you: we’re devoted.

Harriet phoned the breeder, Clare, who was amazed by the price that London vet quoted. “You should talk to my vet,” Clare said. “She’s no-nonsense. If she can’t help, she’ll tell you.”

We talked to Clare’s vet, Mariska. She sounded great, was happy to take a look, and indicated that her own fee for surgery along both sides of Peanut’s mammary glands would be less than we had paid to remove that grass seed.

The only tiny downside: Mariska’s vet practice is approximately 230 miles from our home in London.

Now, it does seem bonkers to contemplate seeing a vet so far away, but it just so happens that Mariska is based in a town, Garstang, where my grandparents lived. Taking Peanut to see her would give me a chance to see a cherished place again.

So I drove there: a 450-mile round-trip for a 30 minute assessment. Once inside, I put my phone on the table so that Harriet (in London) could join us on FaceTime – watch me hold up startled Peanut as Mariska shaved her tummy for closer inspection.

The lumps would need to be removed. If not, they’d ulcerate.

On the way back, I called in to see Clare and Mark, the breeders we had not seen since Covid, when we took delivery of Peanut. We were all curious to know if Peanut would recognise them.

To be honest, it’s hard to say.

In two weeks, I’m taking Peanut back north for surgery.

More soon.