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not even sausage; she wouldn’t even drink water, so the next morning we took her back and she was put on a drip for 24 hours to rehydrate her.

      That helped, but when we took her home again she was still very weak. At worst she simply lay flat; at best she managed a small wag of her tail. We took it in turns to check on her and sit with her. None of us wanted to say it, but we were very afraid that we were losing her.

      The following day Dad suggested we take her to the beach. It was her favourite place and Dad reasoned that we would either be taking her for one last visit, if she really was reaching the end, or it would give her a boost and she just might perk up. It was kill or cure time.

      We all agreed it was a good idea, and once again we lifted her gently into the car before heading down the road to the sea. When we arrived Jacques carried her from the car to the beach where – to all of our delight and amazement – she lifted her head, sniffed the salt air and immediately launched into a shaky jog towards the sea.

      We stood, grinning. It was clear that, weak as she was, she was back with us and ready to fight. I hugged Jacques. ‘She’s tough as old boots,’ I said, wiping away a tear. ‘She’s not ready to go yet.’

      ‘You’re right, she’s some dog,’ he said, watching her with a look of slight incredulity on his face.

      After that Tosca gradually regained some of her energy and vitality. She was still weak, but we could all see that her spirit was undimmed. We took her to the beach every day, where she dug a huge number of holes in the sand and continually tried to scamper off towards the sea, bumping into people on the beach that she couldn’t see.

      At the end of the week Jacques had to go back to South Africa. I drove him to Heathrow where for once I didn’t dissolve into tears because I knew that we were only facing a short parting this time; I was going to be joining him for two weeks at the end of August, only a month away.

      After seeing Jacques off, I drove to Kent to collect Mum’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Nevison, who lived next door to us. I’m lucky in having my grandparents so close by. Dad’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Hardy, only live half an hour from us, so I’ve got all four around me and they’re all absolutely lovely.

      Our second holiday week was deliciously peaceful. Tosca was doing well, the sun shone and we enjoyed long walks and plenty of cream teas. I also managed to pop over to visit my old friend Tom, who runs a dairy farm close to where we were staying. A few years older than me, Tom is a quiet country farmer who took over the farm from his parents. Happy to stay settled in one place, Tom loves his farm, his animals and meeting his friends for a pint down at the pub in the evenings. We are very different, but we get on well. We’ve known each other for almost 10 years, ever since I spent a few weeks doing work experience on the farm when I was 16, and it’s always good to catch up.

      Tom asked me to give him a hand with diagnosing his cows’ pregnancy, as he had a few he wasn’t sure about. Tom had a really old-school diagnosis method called ‘ballottement of the abdomen’, which is seldom used nowadays because it’s so inaccurate. It consists of pushing your hand against the side of the cow and wobbling the tummy around to see if you come up against something – like a calf. The trouble is, it only really works if the foetus is big enough, so the cow has to be at least halfway through a pregnancy for you to be able to pick up her condition.

      There was one cow in particular that Tom was very fond of, a pretty black-and-white Holstein. She produced excellent milk yields and had had several calves in the previous few years, but for some reason she hadn’t become pregnant for quite a while. With dairy farming these days you can’t afford to lose any time. There is a voluntary waiting period of about 40 to 60 days after a cow gives birth when you give her a rest. After that you put her with the bull again, or artificially inseminate her, in the hope that she will fall pregnant within two reproductive cycles of 21 days each. If a cow is not pregnant six months or so after a birth then she becomes expensive to maintain and it’s time to think about slaughter or selling on at market.

      Tom thought he felt something bumping against his hand and was hoping that this particular cow was pregnant. I checked her rectally, a technique I had had plenty of practice with thanks to my old friend Thys, an eccentric Afrikaner vet I had worked with on my frequent trips to South Africa while I was training. Thys had taught me always to insert my left hand into the cow, so that I could properly feel the uterus from inside.

      ‘Clarrie’s been one of my best cows,’ he said, ‘and I think I felt something when I checked her, so I’m hoping she’s in the family way again now.’

      ‘Clarrie?’ I said, eyebrows raised.

      Tom looked sheepish. ‘I know it’s not the wisest thing to do to name them, but she’s a lovely cow, and she reminds me of Clarrie in The Archers – long-suffering and good-hearted.’

      I laughed. ‘OK, Tom, let’s hope Clarrie is going to make you a happy dad again.’

      I inserted my arm and felt her uterus. There was nothing there.

      ‘I’m so sorry, Tom, she’s not pregnant.’

      His face fell. ‘Really? I could have sworn she was. Could you be wrong?’

      I turned to him and said, ‘Well, I know I’m still freshly graduated, but I’m certain I can’t feel anything.’

      His face fell. ‘I don’t believe you.’

      ‘I’ll give it a second go, just to make sure,’ I said.

      Clarrie was none too happy by this time. She’d had enough of my arm up her rump and was trying to shake me off.

      ‘Hang onto her, will you, Tom? She’s getting frisky and I’d rather not be trampled on my first outing as a fully-fledged vet, thanks.’

      After a second check I pulled off my gloves and turned to Tom.

      ‘I promise you, there’s no obvious foetus in there, Tom, unless she’s in the early stages, which I can’t tell without a scanner. Could that be possible?’

      ‘No, she should be well on by now. Let me feel.’ He inserted his hand into the cow. He wasn’t happy. ‘Oh, Jo, what a shame. This girl is one of my best yielders.’

      His shoulders drooped. He knew it was time to send Clarrie to market. For Tom, as for all dairy farmers, with milk prices at an all-time low, hard-headed decisions had to be made.

      He looked at me, his expression defiant.

      ‘I know I should let her go,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going to. Not yet. Clarrie has more than earned her keep until now. I’m going to put her out to pasture and give her a bit longer. She may fall pregnant next time round. She deserves another chance.’

      I hesitated. He was making the decision with his heart, not his head. But sometimes we all need to do that.

      I smiled. ‘OK, Tom, good call. Let’s hope she’s in calf again in a few months.’

      He smiled, relieved. ‘Come on then, I think you’ve earned a slice of Mum’s apple pie.’

      The following day my phone rang. It was one of the publicity crew from ITN Productions, asking whether I would be willing to do a few interviews to publicise Young Vets. This was a television series that had been made in my last year at vet college and it was about to air. Along with nine other student vets from my academic year at the Royal Veterinary College, I had been followed around on most of my work placements by a camera crew. Nerve-wracking at first (who wants to have their mistakes filmed?), within a couple of weeks the crew and I became friends and I barely noticed the cameras. In fact, it felt a bit odd, and even lonely, when they weren’t trailing me through every muddy farmyard, stable, operating suite and consulting room. When the series was completed the final shots were of our graduation, the 10 of us leaping in the air with joy.

      I said I would be happy to give interviews. We’d been warned that this would be a necessary part of the process when we had first signed up for the series, but I couldn’t help feeling horribly nervous. What if

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