There are six numbers saved as favourites in my phone: my partner, my parents, my sister, my best friend, and the after-hours emergency number for the local vet clinic. In the past three years I’ve called the latter more than a dozen times.
The most recent was at 2am one night in May. My horse Mickey, a thoroughbred who collects vet bills like it’s a competition and he’s winning, was showing signs of colic – the dreaded abdominal pain that is the leading cause of premature death in horses. The vet arrived by 3am, with frost crystallising on her breath, and cooed sweetly at Mickey while administering pain medication. She called again at 8am on Sunday and then again on Monday to make sure he was OK.
